#pressed trousers white shirt tie jacket. a whole SUIT. and he’s like ‘oh did you bring the Jack Daniels’ and I was like bitch NO GET IN THE

[vcrnons]

man. why was yuta in my dream again

[babbushka]

hey sweetie! Happy new year! yayyy im so excited for the new writings coming up! i've got a request that i think it will be pretty funny with biker kylo! ''its a fancy dress new years party, and person a is shook seeing peson b all dressed up for once''. i feel like they wouldnt go to a party with a lot of people but maybe she could ask him to dress nice? just for the two of them? like a date? smutty-ish? pretty please?

A/N: Hello my dear! Thank you so much for this request, I think it's so sweet and though it started out funny it turned sappy, lol. I hope you enjoy the little ficlet I've come up with. Wishing you a very sweet new year!!

1.2k, warnings for descriptions of food, mostly fluff!

You had said to get there at sundown, and to dress nicely. Kylo didn’t know what the fuck that meant, dress nicely. He spends most of his days in stained and torn t-shirts and faded black jeans, what was nice? He couldn’t ride his bike in nice clothes, he’d burn the shit out of his legs right through any trousers he might have stored in the back of his closet -- all of this internal monologuing is why he’s late.

He’s not that late, not really, the sun only went down twenty minutes ago, but Kylo had had damn near a nervous fucking breakdown throwing his clothes everywhere, trying to figure out what he could wear that would be nice.

It’s the first Rosh Hashanah that you’re spending together, and he doesn’t want to blow it. You’re the woman he would take home to Ma, if he still spoke to his mother, he doesn’t want you to think he ain’t serious about this relationship that you’ve built together. He is serious, and that’s why he’s late.

He’s late, but he thinks he looks nice. He’s praying that he does, anyway.

To try and soothe some of your potential anger, he stops by the florist on his way to your apartment and picks up a big bouquet of your favorite flowers, and tries not to crush them on the drive over. Parking his motorcycle in the dedicated spot, he climbs the four story walk-up, and runs his free hand through his hair, before ringing your doorbell.

Not even a full second goes by, before you’re yanking the door open, and Kylo is about to brace himself for being yelled at, but when he sees your big grin, he lets out a sigh of relief.

“You made it!” Throwing your arms around his huge frame, you hug him tightly. If Kylo had been a smaller man, he would have been knocked backwards from the force of your embrace.

“Of course I made it, why the hell wouldn’t I? You told me to be here, so I’m here.” Kylo hugs you back, holds you tight and walks you backwards into your apartment enough that he can shut the door behind you.

Kylo doesn’t spend a lot of time at your apartment. It’s not because he doesn’t want to or anything, it’s just a little further out of his way than his own place. You both work close together, and his apartment is closer to work, so it always tends to just be the meeting place.

He likes your apartment though, it’s nice, cozy. It’s very you, which sounds stupid, but is something that always makes Kylo feel at ease. He likes the way you decorate, the way you so clearly have put your touch on everything -- it’s so different from his own approach that he has half a mind to be embarrassed. Maybe he should give you his keys and let you make that damn apartment feel more like a home, but then that would mean you’d never be allowed to leave.

“I thought maybe you couldn’t get the time off work.” You grin at him when he finally releases you.

“I’m my own boss, sweets, I make the schedule.” Lighting up a cigarette and puffing on it for a few seconds, Kylo winks at you, “Whole shop’s closed for the holidays.”

Crossing your arms in front of your chest and cocking your hip, you look him up and down, licking your lips and smirking, “That’s very impressive, you know Just like your outfit. I didn’t know you owned a suit.”

Kylo gives a sarcastic little spin on the heel of his boot, showing off the black ensemble that he had managed to dig out of his closet. It was just a jacket and trousers, with a tie that he had actually tied himself, not one of those bullshit clip ons. He’s got a white button down underneath, and he’s grateful for the way his hair covers the tips of his ears because you can’t stop lookin’ at him.

“Just the one.” Kylo blushes despite himself, still not used to the pleased scrutiny you often subject him to, he mutters, “Surprised it still fuckin’ fits.”

“It’s a little tight.” You whisper playfully, pinching at the shoulder seam where the fabric is struggling to contain him. He only huffs out a laugh, a big plume of smoke going with it.

“Alright alright. Where am I takin’ you?” He offers you the flowers, which you happily accept.

“Nowhere, come in.” Throwing the invitation over your shoulder, you walk into the kitchen to find a vase for the flowers.

Confused, Kylo frowns and follows you like the duckling he is, “What do you mean nowhere -- oh.”

In the formal dining room, Kylo is confronted with a long table completely covered in food. There’s so much food that he actually can’t see the tablecloth underneath all the serving platters -- gefilte fish, potato latkes, matzo ball soup, fennel and apple salad, roasted cauliflower and pomegranates, kugel, the biggest fucking brisket that Kylo has ever seen, and of course, an even bigger round braided challah taking center stage.

“Do you like it?” Nervously, you look at him from the kitchen, and Kylo snaps out of his reverie to make his way to you.

“Goddamn you are divine.” Kylo picks you up, kisses you all over your neck and cheeks, “It smells fuckin’ delicious, this can’t be all for me. It’s way too fuckin’ nice for me.”

He doesn’t put you down yet, not yet, wanting to keep you in his tattooed arms forever and ever.

“Now you know why I told you to wear the suit.” You laugh, feeling silly that it’s just the two of you, but, “It’s a special occasion, I wanted to do it up right.”

“You did good, sweets.” Kylo nods, trying not to get too emotional. “Come sit real close to me and tell me all about it.”

The last time he had a big spread like this for a holiday was...damn, he can’t actually remember. When he was a kid, before he fucked off and ran away from home at fifteen. No one’s cooked for him in general in just as long, probably.

Kylo takes his suit jacket off because it really is too tight around the shoulders, and sits down at the head of the table, pulling you directly onto his lap, your pretty self snuggling right up against him even though there’s a perfectly good chair next to him. Kylo starts kissing your neck again, making you squirm and laugh from the way his teeth scrapes against your skin, but then Kylo pulls away abruptly.

“Wait -- there ain’t any fuckin’ fish heads, are there?” He asks, surveying the table for the traditional dish.

“No, those always creep me out.” You scrunch up your nose, and Kylo lets out a sigh of relief.

“Me too, I don’t like shit that’s still got its eyeballs in it.” He shudders dramatically, “Makes me feel bad.”

“I know what you mean, but rest assured this dinner is head-free.” You pat his cheek lovingly.

Kylo catches the hand and pulls it to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to your palm.

“Well... maybe for dessert?” He looks at you expectantly, and it takes you a second to pick up what he’s saying, but when you do, you roll your eyes and groan.

“You’re so annoying.” You say, really meaning I love you.

“Yeah.” He replies with a toothy grin, really replying I love you more.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

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Tagging some Kylo lovin' friends!

@mochabucky @sacklerscumrag @artsymaddie @bitchydecisions @direnightshade @thembohux @kylorenswhxre @sunflowersinthesnow @babayagakeanu @safarigirlsp @steeevienicks @materialisthicc @hswritingrecs @rosi3ba3z @chapterhappygirl @schopenhauerdeathsquad @loverofallthings @groovetoob @bxnnywriting @angel-bxby3 @smallgirlbigpersonality @lovelyyy-luna @2000andwhat @raddo1975 @cornmousequeen @metsienmenninkainen @caillea @painttheskylineforme @holding-on-to-starwars @caitlin-was-here @icarusinthesea @princessflip @goddessofsprings @mrs-gucci @baubub @bucky-j-barnes @mindyoshiii @beachwoodmonet @darkhairedmenrule @eagerforhoney @nekonaomitard @einmal-im-traum @justlenastuff @0nihiime @ohsolonelyghosts

[hopelessromanticspoonie]

Make Believe

Masterlist here

This is for @peterman-spideyparker‘s writing challenge! My prompt was: “Who said we were pretending?” I’m still super rusty, but I’m decently happy with this. I hope y’all enjoy!

Warnings: Kissing. A bit of purple prose.

“Friday, go ahead and send out for double everything of my last order. Chips, sugar, flour, all of it. I greatly underestimated the Asgardian appetite.”

“We are quite demanding and insatiable. Do you think yourself up to the task?”

Your head shot up and whipped around at the rich, silken voice directed from over your shoulder. Loki grinned down at you, entirely too close so that you could smell the cedar and cinnamon of his cologne, before stepping to your side to eye the tray of chocolate chip cookies you had just taken out of the oven.

His hand reached out to the nab a steaming cookie. With a forceful shake of your head, you reached out and smacked it lightly. “They aren’t ready yet.”

If you had thought that the menacing, intimidating, badass God of Mischief and Looking-Fierce-While-Throwing-Daggers couldn’t pout, well, he proved you wrong. The god had puppy dog eyes like you wouldn’t believe, and he directed them toward you with his lips curling in just the tiniest hint of wickedness.

Damn, he was dangerous.

“You did promise as many cookies as I could consume in the span of one month. It is still within that timeframe, and I require what was promised. Unless you would prefer to attend the wedding alone...”

You immediately stepped away from the tray, holding your hands up in surrender. “Fine. Take them, Mischief.”

The thought of attending your cousin’s wedding alone was threat enough. The constant hounding from your family about your perpetual bare finger was enough to make you turn to your Avenger coworkers begging for someone to get the heat off of your back. Everyone else was already taken or busy, which left the Prince currently eyeing your cookies like he had terrible things planned for them.

And you had to admit, he was the perfect choice to accompany you, mischief or not. From his smooth manners, to his delicious voice that secretly made you weak at the knees, to his impeccable fashion sense, he was going to make your family shut the hell up. At least for one day. And then when they were sufficiently charmed he was going to disappear from their lives and leave with you with more questions that you couldn’t answer. Only about him, this time, and not some random stranger who picked you up over thumping bass music or in the morning line for coffee.

“Tomorrow at two in the afternoon, correct?”

His question, asked just before he popped an entire cookie into his mouth, pulled you from your thoughts. You blinked and looked up at him, processing for a moment, before nodding. “Yup. Black tie.”

He pulled a plate out of thin air and dumped all the cookies onto it, nodding at you and walking away with a quick, “Until then.”

You groaned, scrubbing your hands over your face. “Friday, make that triple.”

~

“Bethany is going to be so pissed at me.”

“Whatever for?”

You propped your hands up on your hips, dragging your eyes over his lean form by way of explanation. Where the Asgardian Prince put all of those cookies you’d churned out for him, you hadn’t a clue, but it certainly wasn’t in the long legs artfully encased in perfectly fitted black trousers, or the hint of rigid muscles of his torso that teased you when he twisted to stand in front of you, stepping close so each breath brushed the soft fabric of your dress against his shirt. Your eyes landed on arms so strong they filled out the sleeves of his tuxedo jacket wonderfully, as if the jacket were made for him. Which, knowing how much Stark paid him for cleaning up the team’s messes, it probably was.

When he simply quirked an elegant brow down at you and slowly wrapped his arms around your back, as if not to startle you, you sighed and shook your head. Like he didn’t know that he was sex on two legs in that tuxedo. The man owned a mirror.

“Because you’re definitely going to upstage the groom in that suit.”

His quiet laughter was low and dark in your ear, just before he clutched you tightly and the telltale rush of frigid air over your bare arms told of his taking you to the venue.

You had been right, of course. Loki was earning jealous stares from both men and women, none moreso than the green-laced glare from the bride during the reception. It had you grinning at Loki a bit wider, holding onto his arm a little bit tighter, and your heart beating just a bit faster in your chest whenever he would direct his full, rapt attention to you for a side bit of conversation.

“I was promised cake, as well. When is that part of the festivities?”

You nudged his leg underneath the table, hidden by the white tablecloth, and rolled your eyes. “I swear you have a one-track mind.”

The look he directed into your eyes, flaring with heat behind a piercing emerald gaze, sucked all of the moisture from your throat. His smirk spoke of sins you’d willingly commit if it meant learning the reason for the sparkle in his stare. “Oh, darling, I assure you that there is much more sweetness to be had tonight besides the cake.”

Clearing your throat, you ran your hands overtop your hair, smoothing away imaginary flyaways, and pointed at the newlywed couple walking over the dessert table. “They’re cutting it now.”

After he was sated with sweets, shooting the occasional question about Midgardian wedding traditions your way - Why did they do something so humiliating as the garter toss - you watched the couples dancing to thumping house music on the dance floor. It wasn’t to your taste, especially not in the daylight where everyone could see you flailing wildly in an attempt at dancing.

But when a slower number came on, an old crooner that reached into your heart with his lyrics and plucked the strings there expertly, a long, large hand appeared in front of your face.

“I grow bored. Dance with me.”

It was a demand, not a question. But the tilt of his brow and the small smile on his lips quieted any outrage that was about to rise within you at being ordered around. Your hand fit into his well, large and calloused around small and soft, and you followed him into the center of the dance floor as gracefully as you could manage.

“I’m not the best dancer…”

His hand slipped underneath your arm to splay across your back just beneath your shoulder blade, and the other held yours delicately. Holding your gaze, he led you into a graceful dance that you wouldn’t even know the name of, spinning you both around the dance floor on a veritable cloud. You lost yourself in the moment, matching his pleased smile as you fell into the temporary fantasy of dancing with the handsome Prince, decked out to the nines, for a reason other than to assuage his boredom and sell a ruse that was hurting your heart more than helping.

It was the curse of attending a wedding without a romantic partner. The happiness that radiated from the couple turned sour as soon as it reached you, irritating and cold as it settled over your skin in a thin film you couldn’t shake. Envy pulsed through your veins like a poison, and the excellent acting skills of Loki didn’t help matters. The press of his lips to your forehead when you were talking with some friends, the touch of his hand over the small of your back, the warmth in his eyes and smile as he brushed a bit of hair behind your ear and allowed his hand to linger on the soft skin of your neck.

It was the taste of forbidden fruit that would linger on your tongue for far too long after the night was over.

Eventually, the song switched to a faster number, something definitely not his style, and you stilled on the edge of the writhing and jumping crowd. The tension between you was agony, the look in his eyes undecipherable, and you squeezed his hand gently.

“Thanks, for this. For pretending so I could have one night in peace.”

It wasn’t peace. It was hell masquerading as a good time with soft midnight hair and a knowing smile. But he didn’t need to know that.

His eyes searched yours for a moment that lasted an eternity. You couldn’t have moved from the spot if the world fell apart around you, for his arresting gaze. Slowly, Loki’s hands came up to cup the sides of your neck and his thumbs dragged along the edge of your jaw to tilt your chin up to him. Yours fell to your sides, digging into the dress around your thighs for any sense of reality you could grasp. Just the faintest hint of his racing pulse was visible over the collar of his crisp white shirt., matching yours as your breath panted out into the chilled air between you.

The champagne you had both sipped throughout the evening was sweet on his surprisingly soft mouth as it pressed into yours. Seeking, questioning, the kiss lingered as you learned the pliant give and take of his lips to the tune of your heart roaring in your ears. Every hope you had of maintaining a professional relationship with the god clattered to the ground and shattered at your feet with the tease of his tongue on your bottom lip before he pulled away, looking down at you with a touch of anxiety tightening the skin between his brows after your eyes had blinked open.

“Who said we were pretending?”

~~~

Little Bit o’ Loki taglist: @myownviperroom @darealbellabelleoftheball @boubouinscarlet @iamverity @rt8815 @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore @ms-cellanies @rosierossette @thathedonistgirl @lokixme @hellethil @myraiswack @birdgirl90

Whole Shebang taglist: @just-the-hiddles @yespolkadotkitty @nonsensicalobsessions @vodka-and-some-sass @he-is-chaotic-she-is-psychotic @myoxisbroken @brokenthelovely @polireader @wiczer @littleredstarfish @the-broken-angel-13 @arch-venus25 @xxloki81xx @jessiejunebug @tinchentitri @sllooney @devilbat @vikkleinpaul @bouquet-o-undercaffeinated-roses @angelus80 @wolfsmom1 @kthemarsian @toozmanykids @princerowanwhitethorngalathynius @sabine-leo @lovesmesomehiddles @peterman-spideyparker @wegingerangelica @bluefrenchfries604 @catsladen @snoopy3000 @silverswordthekilljoy​ @villainousshakespeare​ @kitkatd7​ @nonbinarylowkey​ @lots-of-loki​

[heath-ur]

00Q Kinktober - Day 3

Prompt List ; Ao3 Pairing: Bond x Q  Prompt: First Time (between characters)  Warnings: Smut, No Beta

One of these days, I will write smut without fluffy filler. Today is not that day. Have a cat.

Q shouldn’t be surprised and he shouldn't be flattered. But he can admit to himself that he’s a bit of both when Bond comes to Q branch after a mission - all swagger and class - and invites Q to dinner. His minions are all aflutter - of course they are - and are quick to point out that he hasn’t seen the sun in 12 hours. Q checks his watch. It’s 21:00. He wouldn’t see the sun even if he did leave now. He gives R a look.

R just nods very seriously and ushers him out the door. He spends a moment thinking if he should give her a raise or threaten to fire her.

The dinner goes well. Bond takes him to a quiet family restaurant and the first thing he does is pull a piece of folder paper from his suit jacket pocket and place it on the table. “As I remember from last time, you’re a fan of full-disclosure.”

Q takes the paper and opens it, a line of medical tests and results listed down the length. All negative. Q smirks and hands the paper back, “Well, I suppose I have time after dinner.”

The air is charged but they don’t rush. They talk about poetry, weapons, and cats. Q admits to having 2 cats of his own. Bond looks unfathomably pleased. Bond has been keeping his glass will-provided; he isn’t drunk but he is considerably looser than he was only an hour ago. He thinks, fuck it, and asks, “Woud you like to meet them?”

Bond legitimately freezes for a moment. “Are you sure that’s wise? I was going to offer a nice night at The Savoy.”

Q hums. “That does sound nice. However, I haven’t seen my cats in 14 hours and I can’t think of a single reason to hide my apartment from you.” He starts ticking off his fingers. “You’re one of my agents, I’m tempted enough to say I hope this is not the last time we…” He rolls his wrist looking for the word before giving up and continuing the list, “my only living attachments are cats, chances are you’ve already followed me home at least once, so you have at least an idea of where I live, and I do consider myself good enough at both my job and my pleasures to consider myself safe from any animosity. Add that to the fact that if you do injure me, M will reign the entirety of MI6 upon you.” Q shrugs. “I’m not that concerned about you knowing where I live.”

~*~

They crash through the door to Q’s apartment, lips locked and wrapped up in each other, Q clawing at the back of Bond’s suit as he leads them through the door and living room, attempting through sheer will to get them to the bedroom.

Of course, he’s tripped up by Gambit, enough that he should have been sent sprawling except for the quick reflexes of the Double-Oh. Q curses and with Bonds help, rights himself. Q glaces quickly around for Zugzwang, but he must be hiding from the commotion.

“Well hullo,” Bond goes to his knees. For Q’s cat. Q needs a moment to recalibrate his life as Bond eagerly scratches along the black beast’s back and that one white spot above his tail.

Q does not pout. “You have 2 minutes to cuddle the little monster before you start fucking me.” He crosses through the living room and into the bedroom, shedding clothes as he goes, unashamed.

“You’re just the most dashing little fellow, aren’t you? Yes you are.” Q can hear Bond fawn over Gambit. “But I’ve to seduce your papa so he can allow me back. Yes I do. Mmm-hmm,” he cooes.

Q does not melt. He doesn’t. You’re melting. Q crawls onto the bed and flops onto his back, watching the doorway. When Bond walks through and sees him naked, his eyes heat and he closes the door against Gambit. Good instincts. Otherwise the heathen would stare unnervingly from the dresser. Q wiggles against his pillows. “You’re supposed to be seducing me.”

Bond gins. “So I am.” He slowly removes his suit jacket, folding it precisely before draping it across the dresser at the foot of the bed. Next goes his tie. Then his cufflinks, which are stashed into his pants pockets. Q makes a noise in the back of his throat and reaches down to palm his cock.

“You’re convincing me. Keep going.”

Bond chuckles and begins unbuttoning his shirt, slinking it off. Then his trousers and pants are shucked off at the same time, folded loosely and placed atop his suit. Q abscently wonders where his shoes went, but that doesn’t matter as Bond prowls closer to the bed, standing close enough to touch the duvet with his thighs as he looks upon Q.

Q gets that look at his cock that he didn’t get to have the first time. Bond must be a grower and not a shower, because as he watches, the cock in front of him is still filling out. Proportionately girthier than long, but still long enough to get the job done quite nicely.

Q reaches out for him, and Bond starts the short crawl to rest above him, palms sliding across his pale skin, his valleys and swells. Q quivers, and smiles. “Fuck me.”

Bond’s laugh sounds more like a growl as he drops to his elbows and nips at Q’s lips. “With pleasure.” They lose themselves in kissing for a while before Q gets impatient and begins wiggling away, reaching out to his nightstand to pull a bottle of lube and a condom from the top drawer and slaps both against Bond’s chest.

Bond gets back to his knees and pops open the lube to spill it across his fingers, watching Q’s reactions the whole time. Q spreads his legs wider, opening himself up to the scrutiny. He reaches his hands up to his pillow to twist and pull on his own hair, excited and expectant.

The first finger is questing; it circles and pushes gently at his entrance. At Q’s fussy sound, Bond presses it in fully and Q sighs in answer. “More,” Q demands.

Bond responds with a short laugh and another finger, pushing and gliding and perfect. Q rolls his hips and bares down to feel the fingers twitch and scissor before crooking just there and …. Q moans, his heels planting themselves to keep him suspended just there, with the fingers pressing perfect against his prostate. “Yess…”

Bond begins withdrawing his fingers and Q tenses, ready to argue to get those fingers back. But Bond is just removing them to add a third in a smooth slide all the way to the webbing.

Q rolls his hips twice more, drilling the fingers into himself instead of waiting for Bond to do the moving. “Yes, yes. I’m ready. Come on.”

Bond chuckles and bites into Q’s collarbone chidingly, but removes his fingers to get the condom on. Some additional lube, and he’s propping Q’s arse onto his own knees and situating his cock against Q’s entrance. Q stops rolling to make the aiming easier, and sighs in contentment as Bond slides in as one smooth glide.

Bond settles himself more fully against Q’s body, his elbows propped by Q’s head as they share kisses and breath, waiting for Q to adjust. It doesn’t take long; Q wraps his legs around Bond’s hips, heels digging into Bonds thighs as he prompts Bond to thrust.

And, oh, does Bond deliver. He pushes himself back onto his knees and grips Q’s hips. He uses full, rough thrusts that hit just where Q needs them. The noises he lets out are accidental and primal; little uh-uh-uhs that break into whines when Bond switches his rhythm to something just a little faster.

Q can’t think; he’s getting to that space of need-need-need that feels overwhelming but also welcomed. He writhes and clutches onto Bond’s hips more fully with his legs. His hands are gripping, scraping, pulling - at his own scalp, at Bond’s arms and shoulders, at the bedding below him. He doesn’t… can he come like this, without Bond touching his cock? Does he want to try? He just wants to come.

He wants to come. He doesn’t recognize the ragged sob that comes out of his mouth or the babbling that follows. “Let me come. Let me come.”

Bond just shakes his head and states, “Not yet.” Q smacks a hand against Bond’s shoulder and reaches for his own cock.

Quick as a snake, Bond takes the offending hand and pins it next to Q’s head with his own bodyweight. “Patience,” he demands, pressing his face into the hollow of Q’s neck to nibble at the skin there. Worse, he slows his rhythm to a gentle roll; still hitting Q’s prostate, but with hardly any power.

Q cries in frustration and struggles some more, getting his other hand captured. He drums his heels into the bedding on either side of Bond’s calves and writhes to no relief before he goes limp. He’s suddenly so damn tired and he’s sweating and the sheets itch beneath him and he just wants to come.

Bond smiles gently, so gently, something that transforms his entire face and deepens all of those laugh lines around his eyes. It punches the breath out of Q. And only then does Bond pick up his pace, firm and steady and Q feels so damn full. Every so often, Bond will hitch his hips just to grind his cock just right against Q’s prostate and Q can hear the filthy squelch of the lube now that he is no longer fighting.

Q rolls his head back and forth across his pillow and tries to catch his breath through the hitching in his chest; through the feeling of his cock sliding through the hot and humid tunnel they’ve made of their bodies, the bump of Bond’s abs and navel; through the feeling of Bond’s cock sliding against his inner walls in a way he can’t quite predict, tapping and touching his prostate.

“Oh... oh… oh,” He sighs out softly and closes his eyes to feel everything. He feels, rather than hears, the rumble coming from Bond’s chest.

“That’s it, Q. Come for me.” He grinds just there, both his cock and abs rubbing just right and oh…

Q moans through his orgasm, fingers and muscles twitching gently but none holding tension for long. Bond stays still long enough for the flashes to clear from Q’s vision before he pushes up to see Q more fully, grinding his still-hard cock, question in his eyes. Q groans and throws his arm over his eyes but nods. “Yeah, yeah. Come on. Come on.” He rolls his hips in encouragement but otherwise keeps himself pliant.

“That was lovely, wonderful. Thank you,” Q clenches around Bond’s cock purposefully despite the lingering oversensitivity. Bond's breath becomes harder and hitches. Q clenches gently again and removes his arms from his eyes to watch Bond’s face. Their eyes meet and Q flutters his eyes closed again at a particularly rough thrust as Bond slips back on his elbows. “Yeah, can’t you feel it? I’m so fucked out, so..,” his voice croaks, “so loose. So good,” he croons in Bond’s ear, sliding his teeth across the lobe.

Bond groans and his cock pulses, the last few pushes erratic and sloppy. Q finds the strength to card his hands into Bond’s hair and hums. A few silent moments later and Bond slips out of Q’s hole to the accompaniment of Gambit’s meow at the closed door.

Q watches the fond grin spread across Bond’s face as he stands up and steps to the bathroom, cleaning himself and bringing a rag over to assist cleaning Q. Then Bond goes over, still completely naked, and opens the door for Gambit.

[fox-guardian]

"You want to meet... my parents?" Asked Jekyll, turning to face his friends.

The three young gentlemen were gathered in Jekyll's dorm room, sitting on the floor in a clear spot amongst scattered clothes and papers. Lanyon and Utterson glanced at each other before turning back to face him. Lanyon sort of shrugged, "Yeah, why not? I've heard they're lovely people."

Jekyll stayed mostly still, only his eyes shifting and his mouth speaking, "Well, yes, sure, but... why? Why do you want to meet them?"

"They must be wonderful people if they've raised a young man like you," said Utterson, smiling.

Jekyll softened up for a moment, taking the compliment, before stiffening up again, "Y-You don't need to meet them though, it would be so boring-"

"And so what if it is?" asked Lanyon, his voice starting to boom as it often did, "We just want to meet them! Our parents have all met them at least once, and we only know of them, why don't we pay them a visit? I'm sure they'd love to meet their son's new friends!"

"Of course," Utterson chimed in, "I'm sure you've told them about us," he looked at Jekyll, half-expectantly, Jekyll looking a tad guilty, "...haven't you?"

Jekyll sputtered a bit, "Well uh, I... Th-They don't really check up on me very often, an-an-and I'm... not really the type to send letters as often as you do."

"Well, of course not," he replied, "I know you're probably too busy to tell them everything, but... you haven't told them you made friends here?"

Lanyon put on a sad face, "Are we not that important to you?" he inhaled dramatically, an exaggerated expression of hurt on his face, "ARE WE NOTHING TO YOU?!" He then held his wrist over his forehead and fell over, wailing, prompting the others to laugh.

Jekyll slowly composed himself, as if he didn't want to come back to the subject, "... I suppose you could meet them... If you really wanted to."

Lanyon sat back up immediately, lifting his arms in triumph, "YAYYY!! We're going to Henry's house!"

...

A couple of days had passed since they agreed to pay the Jekylls a visit. Henry had notified his parents of their plans and the three gentlemen were now sitting comfortably in a luxurious carriage on their way to Henry's childhood home. Well, two of them were comfortable. Lanyon was fidgeting excitedly, looking around the inside of the carriage at all the neat little decorations. The curtains over the windows, the cushioned seats, the extra pillows; everything was just so exceedingly fancy, even for an upper-class fellow like himself. Utterson had already taken in the somewhat intimidatingly lavish carriage and was now taking in the young man seated across from him. 

Henry sat in his usual dress; a golden vest, white shirt, black jacket and trousers, black shoes and bowtie, with an added black cape and hat. He noticed something slightly different about his friend's outfit, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Henry sat with his knees pressed together, his hands folded on his lap. He stared at the floor, but repeatedly sat up and adjusted his posture, and adjusted his clothes. That was it! He looked much more meticulously put together today. His tie was perfectly even, his vest was crisp with wrinkles pushed flat, even his hair was combed to perfection. Or at least, as perfect as his curls would allow. He kept looking at the floor, out the window, up in this corner, that corner, fidgeting and then stopping abruptly only to fidget more a few seconds later. He lifted his hands as if to scratch his head and then stopped himself, he seemed to fight himself over where to put his hands before folding them again and planting them in his lap. 

Utterson looked at his dear friend confused, and a bit concerned. They were on their way to meet the esteemed and well-respected Jekyll family, why would their own son be the most anxious out of the three of them? 

The carriage came to a halt, and Henry's head shot up suddenly. He lifted his hands and pointed to his friends. 

"I... forgot to mention..." he started slowly, "I may be acting a little bit... differently around them."

Lanyon let out a hearty laugh, "Of course! We all put on a bit of a filter around our family, don't we?" Utterson shrugged. He never really "put on a filter" around his own parents, but he knew what he meant.

Henry laughed, "Yes, of course... I hope we don't intimidate you all..."

The carriage door opened, and they all filed out. Before them stood a large, exuberant house. The pristine outside covered in windows decorated with gold and the front yard lined with servants decorated with smiles. Utterson watched as Henry seemed to glide across the yard and up to the house, he followed as the many servants greeted him and Lanyon as they went by. Two manservants opened the front doors as they approached and a man stood inside the doorway. Utterson peeked from behind Henry to see him.

He wasn't really a small man, smaller than Henry but taller than Utterson. His hair shined like silver and was groomed back perfectly. His mustache and beard were also perfect, each trimmed so finely they looked as though they could shave themselves. He stood with perfect posture, holding a cane in front of him. He smiled, a perfect smile that conveyed love and warmth. And yet...

"My son," he began, and spread out his arms, "Welcome home."

"Father," Henry returned, holding his arms out as well, "Oh, how I've missed you!"

Utterson and Lanyon glanced at each other for a moment. His voice seemed so... sweet? Like honey, but...

Henry floated towards his father, lowering his arms as his father lowered his, gesturing with one hand for him to turn around to face their guests. I thought they were going to hug for a moment there, thought Utterson, and he left it at that. 

"I'm sure you've been well, son," Mr. Jekyll said, his hand returning to his cane, "Why don't you introduce me to your friends, hm?" 

Henry lit up, smiling. The way he did that didn't really... suit him. "Oh, of course!" He gestured to Utterson, "This is Gabriel John Utterson, we have classes together for law." 

Mr. Jekyll reached out a gloved hand, "Ah, 'Utterson', eh? I do believe I've met your father! Looks just like you except for his mustache. A real charming fellow." Utterson shook his hand, a firm grip. He felt like his own grip was inferior. 

"Yes, I think you've done business with him at some point in the past," he took off his hat, "It's an honour to meet you, sir." Mr. Jekyll smiled at the remark.

Henry gestured to Lanyon, "This is Doctor-to-be Hastie Lanyon! I know him from, well, medical school," he laughed. It wasn't his normal laugh.

Lanyon reached out and shook Mr. Jekyll's hand, or rather his entire upper body, "Pleasure to meet you, sir!"

Mr. Jekyll laughed awkwardly as he was released, and composed himself, "And a pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. uh... Lanyon." 

Henry seemed hesitant before clearing his throat and speaking, "Where's Mother? Is she meant to be here?"

His father looked at him. Lanyon and Utterson couldn't see his expression, but Henry's shifted just the tiniest bit when he saw it.

"She'll be here in a moment, the carriage arrived just a tad sooner than expected so she may not be ready." He turned back to the other two as a distant clacking of heels came down a large staircase, "In fact, I believe that's her just now." He stretched out a hand, gesturing to the woman descending the stairs.

She was tall, with dark hair and eyes to match. She swayed down the staircase with a wine glass in one hand and a folding fan in the other. She held it between her fingers as she took her husband's hand, "So sorry I'm late dear, the maid was being awfully slow."

He kissed her hand sweetly, "Not at all, my dear," he gestured to the young gents, "Look! Our son has arrived and brought his friends! This is Gabriel John Utterson and Hastie Lanyon."

She took her hand back and held it out to them, smiling, "How do you do?" 

They each took her hand and greeted her. Utterson glanced over at Henry to see his face seeming to... not quite "relax" but shift out of that smile he's had on this whole time. His father reached up and adjusted his son's bowtie that didn't need adjusting. Henry's face snapped back into that perfect smile immediately.  

Utterson stared for an extra moment at that smile, it was... perfect. He looked relaxed, calm, content, confident... but it just wasn't his usual smile. His usual smile was tame and free and sweet, and when it was toothy it was just that, toothy. But every time he smiled now, it was just... off. He seemed to be smiling in such a way that it hid his buck teeth, and his smile seemed to fit his face without suiting him, at least as Utterson knew him. It was like his face was suddenly sculpted into something that was just not right... He glanced at the Jekylls, they were smiling just like that, but theirs seemed more natural, or at least, more practiced. 

He glanced at Lanyon, he didn't seem to notice any of this.

A servant took their coats and Mr. Jekyll led them on a house tour. Each room was lavishly decorated and furnished. Everything was comfortable and beautiful and amazing. It was almost dizzying looking at everything, like it was all a dream. 

Lanyon tapped Utterson on the shoulder and pointed to the several paintings that lined the halls. All were portraits of the Jekylls. Some were of the father, some were of the mother, and one at the end of a hallway was a family portrait. Mr. Jekyll stood with his cane, posed just as he was at the door and Mrs. Jekyll stood next to him, just behind Henry. He was stood with his hair combed back out of his face, smooth and perfect, much like his father's. Utterson looked at the finer details of it. Their faces were all perfect, moreso than what they were in reality. Despite Henry himself not looking much younger than he is now, his parents' faces were much smoother than they actually were. He looked closely at the cane in the picture, it looked sort of like a snake. He turned around to check the actual cane only to find it five inches from his face, pointing at the picture. 

"Ah yes, this was from only last year, I believe," said Mr. Jekyll, "Lovely painter, really captured our likenesses," he looked at Utterson, "wouldn't you say so?"

Utterson glanced at the cane, so it was a snake. An odd choice, but that sort of taste would explain some of Henry's eccentricities, wouldn't it? The handle was so clean.

"Oh, yes sir, very accurate," he laughed nervously. 

Mr. Jekyll smiled, "I suppose you're all hungry, eh? Dinner should be ready soon. Why don't I show you the dining area?" He turned and walked away, supporting himself on the cane. So it wasn't just for show. Perhaps that's why the base looks so worn?

...

Dinner was served. A lavish feast served on silver platters and glasses filled with the finest wine. Henry was seated between his parents, forming a line of Jekylls on one side of the table, while Utterson and Lanyon sat across from them. How intimidating...

The meal went smoothly, they talked about school and grades and the like. Lanyon started to tell a funny story about some silly thing Henry had done, Utterson looked at Henry and he seemed... disengaged? He still had that smile on but his body seemed tense. The table was shaking. Mr. Jekyll tapped the butt of his knife on the table twice and it stopped, Henry straightened in his seat. Oh, he had been bouncing his leg. 

Utterson glanced over at the Jekylls as Lanyon told his little anecdote. They laughed along, but kept glancing at Henry whenever Lanyon mentioned... well, anything, it seemed. As if they disapproved of whatever he had just described. It wasn't anything awful, just a silly story about Henry trying to climb a tree to get a very interesting looking leaf and how silly he looked doing it. 

When he finally finished his tale, Henry piped up, still smiling, "Alright, well I think that's enough silly stories for now-"

"Nonsense," interrupted Mr. Jekyll, smiling, "Tell us all you'd like."

Henry shushed up and took another bite of food.

"No, I've taken enough time already," said Lanyon, "Utterson, perhaps you've got a story to tell?"

Wow, Hastie, thanks for putting me on the spot, he thought. He figured he'd tell a less embarrassing story for Henry's sake, but he couldn't for the life of him think of one as entertaining as Henry climbing a tree to steal a leaf. So rather than telling a story, he told them about how passionate Henry was about science, how he loved hearing him rant on and on about his projects and experiments despite being completely illiterate on the subject... but even that didn't seem to impress them. 

The meal ended with a strange tension in the air. Something was definitely off, but Utterson couldn't put his finger on it. After a short goodbye, the three gentlemen collected their things and returned to the carriage outside.

...

It wasn't until they returned to Jekyll's dorm room that he seemed to relax. He sat down at his desk and started making faces, stretching the muscles as if smiling like that for so long was straining to them. He turned away when he noticed Utterson staring.

"Well that went alright, I think," said Lanyon, breaking the silence.

"Sure..." replied Jekyll.

"They seemed... nice," added Utterson, trying to break the tension.

"Sure..." replied Jekyll, more quietly this time. He sighed, "I'm sorry, I'm just... exhausted from today. I'd like to get some rest now, if you wouldn't mind."

"Exhausted?" Lanyon asked, "How? We didn't exactly do mu-"

"If you wouldn't mind," said Jekyll, raising his voice. It wasn't a polite request anymore.

They turned to leave. Lanyon exited the room, annoyed and huffy. Utterson turned back to Jekyll. He went up to him and gave him a gentle hug around his shoulders.

"...Goodnight, Henry. Sleep well."

He swallowed as Utterson let go, "...Goodnight, Gabriel. A-And you as well."

((That took about 3 hours WHEW))

[eveningstarcatcher]

Ineffable Valentines Day 14: Be My Valentine

When Aziraphale woke the next morning Crowley was still asleep, arms wound around his plump middle, chin resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder. The angel snuggled back against the demon’s chest, placing his hand over Crowley’s and breathed in the scent of him, deep and earthy, smokey and spiced. He closed his eyes and basked in the warmth of the sun spilling in through the  split in the curtain. His heart felt full in a way he never knew was possible.

Of course he was a being of love, as angels were intended to be, but this was so different. To be able to wake up next to Crowley, to confess his love, to reach out and touch, to be filled with love from another being as much as he was giving, it was intoxicating, addicting. He would never tire of it, never get enough of it. He would remind Crowley of his love at every opportunity, would tell him and show him and reassure him every minute of every day.

He drifted off to sleep again, dreaming of all the ways he would demonstrate his love.

Crowley woke around late morning. His angel’s back was pressed against his chest and Crowley had an arm around his waist, holding him close. Aziraphale was still asleep, breathing deep and steady, a soft smile playing at his lips.

“What’re you dreaming about, angel? I hope it’s me,” Crowley whispered. The sun was peeking in through the curtain panels that hung over the window. A shaft of warm, golden light lay across Aziraphale’s soft features, framing his head in a heavenly halo of pale curls. The soft roses on his cheeks all but sparkled in the light, like he had been dusted in flakes of pure gold.

Crowley nuzzled against Aziraphale’s neck and placed three sweet kisses there.

After 6,000 years of breaking rules, of being a demon who loved, his angel was here, in his arms, asleep and vulnerable and knowing he was safe in this demon’s embrace. Aziraphale, who had tried to stay loyal to Heaven for so long, who had bitten back the questions that lay heavy on his tongue, who had defied heaven’s orders from a place of good intentions and angelic love, trusted him, loved him. It was almost more than he could bear. He had fallen in love with Aziraphale completely in Eden and had had countless fantasies of confessing his feelings, touching the angel, kissing him, but all of that paled in comparison to this simple domesticity they had found together.

He kissed the angel’s cheek and wriggled out of the sheets, shivering as his bare feet hit the cold wood of the floor. He suck away, knowing Azirpahale wouldn’t be asleep long without him. He had found that he enjoyed sleep, but wouldn’t do it on his own, only with Crowley. The demon wasn’t sure he was even aware of it, but he wasn’t going to complain. He treasured every moment he was able to spend with Aziraphale, especially when he could get lost in the feel, the warmth, the scent of the one he loved.

When Aziraphale woke again it was nearly noon. Crowley was gone, but had left a note on the side table. Aziraphale rolled onto his back and reached for it, smiling at the familiar scrawling handwriting that danced across the page.

Happy Valentine’s Day, my angel

-C

Aziraphale pressed the note against his heart, which had fluttered in his chest. Oh, to be loved was a glorious thing indeed.

He replaced the note on the side table and swung his legs out of bed. He stood and ran a hand through his hair, then froze. There was a line of rose petals leading from the bed to the door. Azirphale grinned and followed it from the bedroom to the living room, down the stairs, and into the bookshop.

He hardly recognized it. The room seemed to be caught in a haze of romance, vines cling to bookshelves, potted trees stood tall and proud, and flowers were everywhere, creating the most enchanting forest in the middle of his shop.

Crowley was seated at the piano, dressed a suit that Aziraphale was sure must be new. A sleek black coat lay over a pressed white shirt and white trousers. Around his neck was a thin tie of gold and silver that disappeared behind a crimson vest. From his skillful hands flowed a romantic tune that must have been Debussy, but Aziraphale’s focus could not be pulled away from the sight before him long enough to remember its name. He softly padded over to the piano and leaned his elbow on it, supporting his chin as he admired the man before him, long red curls falling over his shoulders, his face soft, eyes closed, glasses nowhere in sight.

He was a heavenly vision and Aziraphale’s  heart fluttered again, beating against his chest and causing a breath to escape from his lips.

Crowley opened his eyes, but kept playing, steady and gentle. His eyes didn’t look at the keys, but focused on the tartan pajama clad angel before him.

“I got your note,” Azirpahale said gently after the last note had rung and faded out. “This is beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful,” Crowley was still staring at Aziraphale, unhindered adoration in his eyes.

“Oh, that would be  you, my dear. You are very striking in that suit. I’m still in my pajamas!” Azirpahale laughed, gesturing to himself for emphasis.

“You in pajamas is one of my favorite things, dove. I’m the only one who gets to see you like this and I can’t get enough of it.” Crowley pulled Aziraphale onto his lap. “I’m glad you like the suit. Picked it out just for you, for today. Have something else for you, too.” Crowley reached behind his back and pulled a out bouquet of flowers. They were lovely, fragrant and bright, a rainbow of colors in different varieties.

“Flowers!” Aziraphales gasped, a hand flying to cover his mouth, the other placed over his heart. “You are a true romantic Anthony J. Crowley!” He took the flowers reverently and inhaled the sweet scent, eyes fluttering closed.

“Only when it comes to you, my angel.” Crowley waved his hand and the flowers were in a vase on the piano, sitting next to the sheet music open on the stand.

“Rose petals, music, flowers, a brand new suit, I think you’re spoiling me!” Aziraphale teased.

“I’ve been spoiling you for thousands of years, but I’m glad you’ve finally noticed,” Crowley shot back with a warm smile.

“My dearest, darling, I love you.” Aziraphale pressed his palm to Crowley’s cheek, running a thumb over his sharp cheekbone.

“I love you so damn much, angel.” He brushed a chaste kiss against Aziraphale’s lips. “Better get dressed, we’ve got reservations.

“Reservations?! I thought you didn’t want to go out for Valentine’s day!” Aziraphale’s  jaw had dropped, his eyes sparkling.

“I don’t think I’d mind the whole universe seeing you on my arm, knowing that you’re mine.” Crowley pulled the angel against his chest tightly for a few long moments, then released him. “Now, get dressed.”

Azirpahale nodded and flew up the stairs, pulling his new suit out of his wardrobe. They would make a handsome pair, Crowley wearing dark over light and Azirpahale wearing the opposite.

He pulled on the dark trousers, swiftly buttoned the pale blue shirt and cream vest. He carefully tied the sleek black bow tie around his neck and shrugged on the cream jacket, smoothing it down over the thin black lines that made up the wide tartan pattern.

He brushed his hair and made final adjustments in the mirror before returning to the bookshop.

Crowley stood in the center of the room, waiting for him.

“So handsome,” he complimented when Aziraphale reentered the room. “Here,”

He held a box out to the angel, wrapped in red and gold.

“More chocolates?” Aziraphale was glowing.

“Yeah. You liked the other ones so much I had to get you more,” Crowley shrugged.

“Thank you, my dear.”

“And one more thing,” Crowley snapped and waved his hand in the air in a quick flick, producing a single red rose. “I promised you I’d get you a fresh one.”

“That you did,” Aziraphale concurred as Crowley pinned it to his lapel.

When the task was complete, Crowley stepped back and took Aziraphal'es soft, sturdy hands in his.

“Aziraphale, I fell in love with you thousands of years ago and I will love you until long after this world has turned into a puddle of burning goo. I know that you love me, too, which is so much more than I could have ever expected or asked for and not a day will go by that I’m not in awe of that fact. My angel, my dove, my Aziraphale, will you be my Valentine?”

“Yes! For today and for eternity!” Azirpahale whispered through the tears that trickled down his cheeks.

Crowley swept him up in his arms and kissed him.

After all, isn’t that what Valentines are for?

For @mielpetite‘s @ineffable-valentines Also on A03

[jovialyouthmusic]

Bastien disrobes

Pernicious Passion 

Thanks to the lovely @stopforamoment for inspiring the following tribute from Bastien to the fanfic writers who keep his character alive...

Word count 1225

A/N Kind of self explanatory if you read Pernicious Passion

Tribute

Bastien set up the camera in his bedroom, checking to make sure his every movement would be caught in High Definition. He had fans he didn’t want to disappoint, and he was so grateful for the lady writers of the Choices Royal Romance fanfiction for rescuing him from digital oblivion. He knew he would live on for as long as anyone read their work. He was a minor character in the story, and others such as Drake and Liam had a head start on him thanks to all the other writers out there who had them as their Love Interests.

He stood in his trademark grey suit, sharp and well groomed. Being a digital construct he didn’t have to visit the hairdressers or shave every morning – either he could rely on the templates given him by his original creators, or change things slightly with a little mental effort. Having become self aware, he could be whatever he - or his lady admirers - wanted him to be.

He pressed record and got into position, looking straight into the camera

‘Ladies, I owe you all a huge debt of gratitude. Without you I’d be nothing – quite literally nothing at all. But you fought for me, and here I am, for as long as you all remember me. This is for all of you – you know who you are’ He reached over to start up a slow sultry tune on his MP3 player and took out his earpiece. The deep voice of Barry White echoed through the air (please if anyone has any ideas for an alternative track for Bas to strip to let me know)

He bent to untie his shoes and put them neatly on a rack in his wardrobe, slipping off his socks and tossing them into the laundry basket. He unbuttoned his jacket one button at a time, swaying to the music, just the hint of a wiggle in his hips. He turned his back to the camera and looked over his shoulder as he slowly shrugged it off, deftly spinning and catching it on one finger before fluidly picking up a hanger and sashaying over to the wardrobe to put it away.

He advanced on the camera, a swagger in his walk and stared right into the lens as he unbuckled his belt and smoothly drew it out of the loops, taking a hold of both ends in one hand and halfway along with the other, pulling it so that it made a snapping sound before rolling it up neatly to put it in his dressing table drawer. Nobody could see the rows of belts all neatly coiled inside, waiting for him to select one.

Next came the button of his waistband, smoothly unfastened before he put his knuckle to his mouth and bit it, giving a sultry look straight to the camera again. He had studied films of his face claim Fabricio Zunini and how well the model worked the camera, hoping that he could pull it off half as well.

Still gazing into the lens, he unzipped his pants (trousers, to those in the UK, he told himself) and turned his back to slide them down over his hips, fluidly stepping out of them. That part had taken a lot of practice and he had gotten tangled up and fallen over more than once so he was pleased with that – so far, so good. The pants/trousers neatly folded, he turned to camera to give a smouldering look before intently and moodily gazing at his cufflinks as he took them off and placed them on his dressing table – neatly in line with the mirror of course, he wasn’t a slob. He rolled his sleeves up.

He tossed his head and ran his fingers through his hair, hoping that the glance he gave to camera was hot and sultry and not just cross eyed and goofy. He took hold of the knot in his tie before drawing the loose end through smoothly, flicking so the tie was straight, again folding and snapping it like he had his belt. The sound was softer, but he grinned seductively as he did so. The tie went onto his rotary tie rack, and he looked over his shoulder as he hung it neatly.

He stood square on to the camera, legs wide in a strong dominant stance as he unbuttoned his shirt, his gaze deadly serious as he revealed his broad lightly haired chest and impossibly toned abdomen – he’d been sure to conjure up a good twelve pack before he started. He turned in time to the music to shrug the shirt off, but this item was not folded – no, he felt a thrill of rebellion as he scrunched it up into a ball – and threw it into the laundry hamper.

He stood just in his briefs, staring into the lens yet again, psyching himself up for the final phase. He wanted to go through the whole sequence in one, one fluid and flawless performance for the wonderful and loyal @bobasheebaby, the sweet @stopforamoment, the mature but horny @jovialyouthmusic. He remembered the brilliant @sirbeepsalot helpful @emceesynonymroll, devoted @lolablackwrites, and the determined but shy @mfackenthal. He wasn’t going to forget the  generous @tornbetween2loves or the lovely @strangerofbraidwood or @endlessflame who had set the ball rolling in the fandom. The gorgeous ladies from Cordonians Gone Wild had a special place in his heart too, as they had been the ones to track him down when Kara had effectively kidnapped and held him ransom.

Facing the camera with a broody expression, he pouted and hooked his thumbs into the elastic of his briefs. This was not going to be a fast reveal – oh no, he was going to have all who watched drooling in anticipation – they might sweat and beg and faint, but he was going to work them, work them for all they were…

‘Hey Bas – welcome back man, I heard all about – WHAT THE FUCK?’ A look of shock crossed Bastien’s face as he whirled round to see Drake Walker enter the room, bottle of whiskey in hand – but now he had his other hand over his eyes and he staggered against the wall unsteadily.

‘Walker! For the love of – do you NEVER knock before entering a room?’ Bastien growled, rapidly turning off the camera and exasperatedly realising he was going to have to do it all over again. He turned the music off. ‘Okay son, I have my briefs on, you don’t have to be so dramatic’ he said gruffly

‘What on earth are you doing Bas?’ Drake asked, peeking through his fingers first before taking his hand away from his face. Bastien shrugged his red silk paisley dressing gown on.

‘If you must know, it’s a thankyou to the ladies of the fandom who rescued me’ he said ‘I promised to repay them, it’s the least I can do’

‘Well I sure as hell wished I hadn’t walked in on you’ Drake replied ‘That image, along with the one of Lucy using a strap on with Brad in ‘Two’s Company’ will stay in my pixelated head for a long, long time.’ Bastien sighed heavily.

‘I’m going to have to do the whole thing all over again – unless you know someone who’s good at video editing. Pass the bottle son, I need a good stiff drink’

Bastien Disrobes - take 23

[bee-kathony]

Love Like This | Ch. 4 “you’ll be gone from my life” 

- Sam & Cait AU

Ch. 1 “silver in the sunlight” | Ch. 2 “you light up my whole heart” | Ch. 3 “nothing else could matter in our life” 

Scotland 2015

A lot can happen in the space of a year…

A child can be conceived and born nine months later, a couple can get engaged and married, and distance can grow between hearts that were meant to be bonded for life.

The beginning of 2015 for Sam and Caitriona started out well and went along much like the previous year had. The second half of season one was airing in a few months and towards the end of the May they would start filming season two.

As any couple, they went through ups and downs as they tried to navigate their relationship. Being in the spotlight wasn’t a helpful factor either. But they made it work the best they knew how. They decided to try and be as professional as possible when they were attending work events.

However, sometimes it was hard for them. It seemed to be harder for Sam to control himself around Cait when all he wanted to do was tell the world she was his — to claim her.

He especially felt this way on the night of their mid-season premiere in New York.

The purple dress. That damn purple dress.

It would be Sam’s undoing. The way it curved Caitriona’s body in all the right places, with a small slit at the bottom. And the top, Christ, the top barely covered her breasts. The black lace with thin black lines covering her chest left nothing to the imagination. As if Sam needed an excuse to imagine Cait without any clothes on.

Cait had walked out of the bathroom, her hair and makeup done, in only black panties and one of his white shirts. The mid-season premiere was tonight and they needed to leave in twenty minutes.

“Have you seen my shoes, babe?”

Sam blinked several times, his gaze never leaving Cait’s mile long legs. “Um, no I havena seen them.”

“You havena,” Cait mocked him with a snort. Sam’s accent grew thicker the longer he spent in Scotland and even thicker when he was turned on — all control of his tongue was lost.

Laughing, Sam cast his gaze towards the hotel closet, “They’re over there, Balfe.”

She flashed her teeth at him and walked over to the closet, bending at the waist to pick up her shoes.

“Don’t move,” Sam said quickly from his seat in the corner of the room where he had been waiting for her to finish getting ready.

Cait turned her head, looking back at him over her shoulder. Her arse was in the air and with her legs spread just slightly, he could almost see her pink lips that he knew would be wet for him if he touched her there.

“I’m going to get a crick in my back if I stay in this position,” she laughed and Sam felt his stomach twist at the sound. Screw the premiere, all he wanted was time alone with her, time to just be.

With a mischievous look in his eyes, Sam rose from his chair and came to stand directly behind Cait, moving his hands on either side of her waist. Slowly he pushed up the white shirt until her breasts were exposed and he cupped them gently.

“The things I could do to ye, Cait.”

“Jesus,” she shuddered underneath his touch as his rough hands moved over her breasts, and her nipples stood at attention. “We don’t have time,” she started to stand back up, but he kept his hand on her lower back and pressed himself against her. He was hard and it was all because of her. Sam was wearing a light grey suit and if he wasn’t careful he would end up staining it.

Just as Cait let out a deep moan and Sam slid his hand over her arse, a knock came from the door and they both jumped apart, breath ragged.

“Shit,” Sam cursed under his breath and walked quickly to the bathroom, shutting himself in while Cait answered the door.

Quickly pulling her shirt down, Cait looked through the peep hole before answering, letting her stylist come in.

“Hi love,” she smiled.

“Ready to get all dressed up?” Her stylist walked in with the dress bag and set it down on the bed. Inside was a beautiful long sleeved purple dress and the front was a bit see through — not that Cait minded.

Once she was all zipped up, she took a final look in the mirror and her stylist deemed her practically perfect, leaving for the night.

Caitriona slipped one high heel on at a time and then knocked on the bathroom door.

“Is she gone?” Sam said quietly through the door.

Cait tried to jiggle the handle but he had locked himself in. “Yes, she bloody is. Will you come out now?” She couldn’t help but laugh.

Sam opened the door, a bashful grin on his face that changed to a look of complete desire when his eyes trailed down her body.

“Fuck me,” he muttered and immediately picked up her hand and twirled her around. “When we get back after the premiere…” he lowered his gaze to the front of the dress — the see through bit and bit his bottom lip. “That dress isna stayin’ on verra long, Balfe.”

“Oh is it not?” Cait smirked and before Sam’s hands could pull her against him, she picked up her purse from the front table and opened the door. “We better get this night over with as quick as possible then.”

Groaning, Sam followed after her, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as they met the rest of the group downstairs in the lobby. How was he ever supposed to control himself around her tonight when she looked like that?!

++++++

The night had been fun, more than fun actually, but Cait kept thinking about Sam’s promise. The promise to take off her dress when they got back to the hotel and she blushed as she remembered Sam having a hard time walking on the red carpet tonight.

She knew that when she chose this dress to wear tonight, it would drive him wild. And that was exactly what she wanted.

For the past few months, things had been going great, more than great with Sam. Caitriona had been filming on the movie Money Monster and had just wrapped after they did the paleyfest in LA. That night had been another spectacular evening when Cait couldn’t stop giggling like a schoolgirl with a crush.

She had never felt like this with anyone. Giddy. Bubbly. In love.

The way Sam looked at her, or smiled at her when she caught him staring made every cell in her body come alive in a way she had never experienced.

Now they had just said goodbye to the rest of the cast and were on the way back to their room and Sam was looking at her from across the elevator. Even though they were alone, he stood facing her, his eyes watchful. Caitriona could see his jaw tensing as his eyes flicked over her chest yet again.

Cait couldn’t help but let out a small whimper as she looked down and saw his cock straining against his trousers.

They remained silent as they walked down the hall to their room and Sam still didn’t touch her. All she wanted was his hands on her body, everywhere and nowhere all at once. She wanted his tongue on her… in her, covering her with his mouth in all the right spots that made her tick.

With the final latch of the door, Caitriona turned around to face him in the middle of the room.

“Well?”

Sam smirked, clicking his tongue and then his hands were at his tie, undoing it and pulling it free from around his neck.

“Ye tortured me tonight Cait,” he said and he walked behind her, one hand trailing down her arm, taking it in his large hand. “I could barely think straight with ye lookin’ like ye did.” She shivered as his breath tickled the back of her neck.

“I wanted to take ye right there, I didna ken about all those people,” he whispered in her ear and then took her other hand and she felt what must have been his tie around both of her wrists — fuck, he was tying her up.

“I’m goin’ to have ye beggin’, Cait.” Sam moved her hair off of her neck and placed a soft, wet kiss to her skin, making every hair raise on her body.

She nearly squealed when she suddenly felt his hands at her ankles and then she realized he wanted her to take off her shoes. Stepping out of them, she breathed a sigh of relief and flexed her toes instinctively.

“Sam,” Cait tried to reach for him as he came to stand before her, but his tie on her wrists was strong.

“Och, be patient, Caitriona.” He almost purred with joy he was getting out of this, seeing her struggle with being bound. It wasn’t the first time he had tied her up, but she had been thinking about this moment all night — how long could she wait until she burst into flames?

Sam held her gaze as he took a step back from her and slid out of his jacket, followed by his shoes and trousers. Then he folded them neatly on the chair near the tv and came to stand before her in only his boxers and button down.

“Please kiss me,” she whispered as he took a slow step forward and she let out a sigh of relief as his hand settled on her waist.

“I’m no goin’ to kiss ye until the very end,” he said this with his lips just inches away from hers and as she leaned forward, he pulled back with a deep chuckle.

She stood there, barefoot, hands tied behind her back, still wearing that purple dress and Sam couldn’t decide where to start. Her breathing was coming up short from her arousal and Sam watched her chest heave. Moving his hand slowly up her small waist, he cupped her breast.

The weight of it rested in his hand and he squeezed it firmly, feeling how hard her nipple was through the material. The dress gave anyone who was looking a perfect view of the teacup of her breasts and Sam had been staring at them all night long.

Pushing her so that her legs hit the back of the bed, he kept one arm around her waist and held her up against him.

“Yer all mine, Cait,” he smirked before leaning down and pressing his lips against the thin lace of her dress. It felt rough on his skin, but the soft velvet of the thin strips contrasted nicely and he opened his mouth, flicking his tongue against the hard bud through the material.

“Oh God,” Cait let out a shaky breath and Sam looked up to see her staring down at him with a look almost akin to pain. He knew he was driving her crazy with not being able to touch him back.

Sliding his hand along her back, Sam’s fingers found the zipper and he slid it down inch by inch, listening to the metal sound of the teeth coming apart. As he unzipped it, he continued to suck on her breasts through the dress, taking each in turn.

Needing to taste her properly, he pulled back and then felt his cock harden at the sight of her.

“Jesus, Cait.” Sam ran his fingers around the wet spot he had created with his spit on her dress. “It looks like your tits have leaked.”

She laughed then, her shoulders shaking and looked down at herself. He was right, however foolish he sounded. Caitriona felt her stomach tighten at the thought of one day carrying his child and her laughter died on her lips, her eyes once again meeting his.

“Take this damn dress off of me, Sam.”

His hands were at her wrists, tugging quickly at the material and once it was off she went about shrugging her shoulders and arms out of the sleeves. Finally feeling free, her arms wrapped around Sam’s neck and she fell backwards onto the bed, bringing him down with her.

“One day,” Sam kissed her neck, his fingers at the buttons of his shirt, pulling it off. “Yer belly will be filled with my child, Cait.” He straddled her hips, leaning up to tug the dress from around her arse and cursed when he saw she wasn’t wearing any panties.

Giggling, Cait hooked her thumbs into his boxers and pulled on the material and his cock sprang free, pressing against his belly — that one maddening vein making Cait’s legs go numb.

“And I’ll slide my hand over the curve of your stomach while we make love,” Sam threw the clothes off the bed, then took both her ankles in his hands, spreading her open. His eyes looked at her face for a long while, simply mesmerized at her beauty. How he had won her heart he would never understand.

“How many children?” Caitriona laughed as Sam’s hands tickled behind her knees.

His head lowered to kiss each breast, taking the nipple into his mouth. “As many as possible,” he smirked. Caitriona reached in between their bodies, taking his cock into her hand and rubbing her thumb on the head, feeling his pre-cum. Sam groaned, pressing his face into the crook of her neck and his hips held her down on the bed.

“Please be rough, Sam,” Cait moved his length to her entrance, lining it up and pressed it against her clit. “I can take it… I need it.”

“Fuck, Balfe.” Sam kissed her then, not being able to resist her lips that spoke such things to him and he rolled his hips forward. Pushing as deep as he could, once he felt the back of her walls, he pulled almost all the way out before pushing hard into her.

Caitriona held his body to hers, crying out with every thrust and ache in her body. She had never felt anything like this — this overpowering feeling of love that overtook her body when she was with Sam. He came to her so deeply and from the inside out she was his in every way.

Not caring about her red lipstick, she urgently pressed her lips against his, desperate to taste his tongue on hers. Sam’s hand slid up and down her body, digging into her flesh and she arched her back off the bed, keening with every touch.

“Oh God,” she panted, hooking her arm around his neck.

“Caitriona,” Sam said against her lips, his body possessing her and she felt it. The feeling that no matter what happened with them, they would always find their way to each other. As Sam slid in and out of her agonizingly slowly, she felt how perfectly they fit and gave over to the sensations, calling out his name over and over on her lips.

++++++

Time continued to pass by and as each day ended and a new one began, their love grew stronger. So strong that Sam wanted to do something about it. He wanted to show Cait just how much she meant to him — how much he believed in the future of them.

On one of their rare days off, he drove them both out of the city.

“Where are you taking me?”

“It’s a surprise,” Sam smiled and placed his hand on Cait’s thigh, squeezing gently. He’d been planning this for months and was proud of himself for not spoiling it sooner.

When they arrived at their destination, Cait climbed out of the car, a bit confused as to why they were in an open field.

“Have you brought me here to murder me?” She laughed and looked over at Sam.

“No,” Sam smiled, walking over to her and kissing her. “I’ve brought ye here because this place is the surprise. This land. I bought it.”

“You bought all this land?” Cait asked, smiling as she looked out at the acres of empty land before her. They were standing along a wire fence, enjoying the breeze and the fresh air.

“Aye, I did. One day, I’ll have a house over there,” Sam pointed over to the left where the perfect spot for a house was. “And maybe stables so we can have horses out here,” he added.

“We?” Cait turned her head to look over at Sam.

Scratching his neck, Sam’s ears turned pink, “Well, of course, Cait. I bought this place for us. Did you no’ know that?”

Her cheeks turned red and she buried her face into his chest. “I never thought…”

“You’d have roots anywhere? I ken you’re a bit of a gypsy Cait, but you’re stuck with me.”

She pulled back and looked out at the land again, smiling. “It’s so beautiful, Sam. I can picture it. Our life here one day. When it’s just us and the world doesn’t exist.” Cait then pulled out her phone and took a picture of what would one day be their home — she wanted to remember this moment forever.

“Good idea, Balfe,” Sam grinned and took a nearly identical picture, immediately posting it to Instagram. “We don’t have to build a house now or anything, but the land is ours to do with as we please.”

Wrapping her arms around his waist, Cait leaned against him and took a deep breath. For so long she had moved around from place to place, country to country, never really feeling like she had a proper home. Standing here with Sam, she found it. Her home. In his arms, she was just where she needed to be.

“How about we grab some celebratory macarons on the way back?”

Sam raised his eyebrows, sticking it tongue out between his lips. “Mmm, I like the sound of that. And some celebratory champagne?”

“God yes,” Cait smiled and leaned up to kiss him, her fingers pulling at the hair on the nape of his neck. “Thank you… for this. It’s a lovely surprise.”

“I hope you don’t think it’s too much or too soon?”

She shook her head, “No, it’s just right. It feels right.”

Kissing her again, he lingered for a moment, just breathing in the air, pausing in that moment. Things were never simple for them, but he knew through all the pain and secrets that it was worth it — she was worth it.

As they drove back home, stopping for macarons on the way, neither one of them could have imagined that after that blissful afternoon, heartache was just around the corner.

[spartanguard]

(no) bigger on the inside

Summary: When there's only two Whovians in the bar on Halloween, it's inevitable that they'll meet. And flirt. And have sex in a closet. Unlike the TARDIS, it's actually not any bigger on the inside.

A/N: Just some Whovian fun in honor of @cscocktoberfest. And because I love Thirteen even if I’m way behind on watching. Lots of Doctor Who references lay ahead but It should be enjoyable even if you’re not a fan. Allons-y!

rated M | 4.4k words | AO3

Emma hadn’t planned for her night to go this way. It wasn’t at all what she thought would happen when she agreed to go out for Halloween, and honestly, she might not have if she’d known it would happen.

What was that saying, though? “We’re all stories in the end; just make it a good one.”

Well, this one—and the man she was presently making out with in a lonely hallway at the Rabbit’s Hole—was shaping up to be a great one.

She’d noticed him right away from across the bar. It was hard not to, really, when they both stood out from a crowd that was filled with bro-dudes being bro-dudes and girls dressed as all manner of sexy somethings. Even Emma’s friends fit the mold—Mary Margaret and David were a sexy Snow White and her equally attractive (and scantily clad) Prince Charming, and Elsa was a sexy...well, Elsa.

So the fact that he wasn’t topless, or dressed as something idiotic or offensive (like Skeleboner, ugh—she had to fend off one of those just to get a drink) stood out like a beacon. She hadn’t even seen his face, but she could already tell he wasn’t one of those guys.

And that was partly because she’d recognize his costume anywhere. While there were a lot of costumes that mandated a suit, there weren’t a whole lot of brown pinstriped ones in pop culture.

Then her friends called her back, and their drinks were up, and she lost sight of the man in the throngs of people. Damn.

She tried to cast aside her disappointment as she dodged the douchebags through the crowd. That wasn’t why she was here—she was just having some fun with her friends while her son was out trick-or-treating with his. (And maybe attempting to reclaim some of her lost youth, after spending the bulk of hers raising Henry, who had looked way too grown in his Ghostbusters getup tonight.)

But, damn, did his shoulders fill out that jacket well, and it hugged his trim form perfectly. And what she could tell from the back of his head, his hair looked like it would feel great between her fingers. Granted, she was still imagining his front as David Tennant, so he might be letdown there—few guys stood a chance next to him.

Still, she was curious. And, glancing down at her own trench coat, they kind of went together.

Once she got back to her friends, Mary Margaret and Elsa decided that they really just wanted to dance, so the dance floor it was; she and Elsa danced together to avoid having to look at the sloppy makeouts from Mary Margaret and David. Her eyes scanned the crowd to see if she catch a glimpse of that suit, or even a man with dark hair and the glasses she noticed propped on his ears, but her search came up empty.

At some point, the True Love couple headed home to get some “privacy”, but Emma and Elsa weren’t quite ready yet. Call her obsessed, but Emma really wanted to find this guy. They both needed some water first, so Elsa headed back to their table while Emma went to the bar.

Though it was later in the evening, the place was still packed, so she squeezed into an empty spot and waited for the overworked barkeep to make his way over. She cast a few glances around to see if her mystery man was nearby, but still no luck. So she pulled her lone prop out of her pocket and fiddled with it while she waited.

Another person came up to the bar and took the empty space next to her, but she was too busy playing with the sound effects on her toy to really notice—at least, not until he spoke.

“Well, it looks like I’m not the only 10 in the room.”

She rolled her eyes at the dumb pickup line, even if his British accent was a bit enticing. “Please,” she started. “I’m a 13,” she threw back as she turned to face him—but then anything else she could have said got caught in her throat.

It was him. Ten. And oh god, he was even more attractive than she could have imagined. Someone extend her apologies to David Tennant—she might have a new favorite Doctor. (Well, aside from her other new favorite Doctor.)

Her assessment of the fit of his suit had been spot on: it hugged him in all the right spots, but still left a fair bit to the imagination. His tie and collar, however, had been loosened, teasing at the bit of chest hair that lay underneath. There was a mechanical hook in place of his left hand, but hey, even the Doctor lost his hand at one point.

And his face—holy hell, his face: the thick-rimmed glasses did nothing to hide the sparkle of his bright blue-gray eyes, even in the dim light. His sharp jaw was a little scruffy—very un-Doctor in that regard—but damn did he rock it. And his hair was indeed the perfect amount of mussed; she could easily see him at the TARDIS’s helm, running his hands through it frustratedly, and she was suddenly aching to do the same.

“I can see that,” he said with a smirk.

Wait, what? Could he hear her thoughts? Oh, no—that would be mortifying. “See what?” she blurted, almost panicking.

“That you’re a Thirteen,” he said matter-of-factly as he nodded at her own costume.

Oh, duh—right; she was the Thirteenth Doctor. It was kind of thrown together at the last minute, but she had on the new Doctor’s trademark shirt under a borrowed pair of suspenders, David’s too-large trousers, and her own tan trenchcoat. Henry had bought her the Sonic Screwdriver she’d been fiddling with as a birthday present.

“Yeah, right; sorry. It’s just—you look—” she stammered, tripping over her words.

“I know,” he smirked.

What even was going on? Thankfully, she had a decent excuse. “Well, maybe I’m nervous, or just socially awkward. I’m still figuring myself out,” she offered, quoting Thirteen.

His smirk became a full-on grin as he recognized the line. “In that case, I have something to divulge,” he said, leaning against the worn wood of the bar and leaning in closer. His breath was hot on her ear and she had to suppress a shiver. He said, in a low voice, “You make both of my hearts skip a beat.”

She couldn’t help it: she snorted. “Has that worked yet, or had you been you saving it for the right moment?”

Adorably, he scratched behind his ear. “Uh, yeah; I’d been sitting on that one for a while,” he admitted, glancing away. But then he looked up through his (ridiculously long) eyelashes. “Did it work?”

“Maybe,” she answered, giggling.

He smirked again, and she noticed the dimple it cut into his beard. She didn’t even know this guy’s name but she could tell this was headed to crush territory very fast—possibly more. “Can I try another one?” he proposed.

She shrugged. “Give it a go.”

“Are you a Weeping Angel?” His face softened and his eyes bored into hers, nearly overwhelming in their sincerity. “Because I can’t take my eyes off of you.”

It was so effing cheesy, but she just let out a sigh; she was being swept right off of her nerdy butt. “Yeah, it worked,” she finally breathed.

“Would it be too forthright of me to tell you that I meant it?” His intense gaze hadn’t let up, and she could tell he was telling the truth; she could spot a lie a mile away, and this Doctor was being completely honest.

“Only if I can confess that I’ve been watching for you all night.” She wasn’t usually that forward, either, but something about him was bringing out that side of her. Maybe it was because they were the only Whovians here, but a gut feeling told her it was deeper than that (and had nothing to do with them technically being dressed as the same person).

He gave a small smile back that crinkled the corner of his eyes. “I’ve got one more line, but it doesn’t seem quite appropriate for this conversation.”

“Oh? What is it?” She was curious.

“You’ll really laugh at this one,” he prefaced. “Do you have any Gallifreyan in you?” Then, leaning in closer again, “Want some?”

“Mm, nope, doesn’t work here,” she decided, even if the low timbre of his voice was doing things to certain parts of her body. “Can I try one, though?”

“Of course.”

She shifted herself into his space as much as she dared. Then, standing on tiptoe and lightly placing her hands on his firm chest, she murmured into his ear, “Is that a Sonic screwdriver in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

He threw his head back, a genuine laugh bursting forth—but she got distracted by the cords of his neck on full display. And the little constellation of freckles on the side that she wanted to trace (though with her fingers or tongue, she couldn’t decide). And the fact that he smelled divine.

His eyes were back on her a moment later. “Yes,” he quipped.

“Which one?”

“Both.”

She studied his face for another moment, seeing the challenge written all over it, and then did what was possibly the boldest—or dumbest—thing she’d ever done: she fisted her hands in the lapels of his jacket and hauled his lips to hers.

He froze at first, making her immediately doubt her actions, but a second later, he pulled her tight to him and responded just as fervently. The music and chatter from the bar around them disappeared as she got lost in the kiss; he tasted like rum and she wanted to get drunk on him—which wouldn’t take long with her already being tipsy. The buzz from her previous drinks sped up to a full-on vibrate as his lips and tongue pressed against hers, sparking through her body and settling deep within, making her a different kind of warm.

And, judging by the way things felt when he rutted into her, he was feeling the same.

“Oy! Not out here! I don’t want to see that!” The jarring, angry voice of the bartender made them jump apart, though Emma was still holding onto him—she couldn’t make herself let go that easily. The curly-haired man was staring at them with arms crossed and a disapproving glare, mainly aimed at the other Doctor (she should probably figure out his name at some point here).

He just sighed, threw a withering look at the bartender, and then faced her again. After taking another deep breath, he looked at her almost imploringly and asked, “Do you wanna come with me?”

She was taken aback a bit, and tempted to ask what he meant by “come,” but he continued.

“'Cos if you do, then I should warn you—you're gonna see all sorts of things. Ghosts from the past. Aliens from the future. The day the Earth died in a ball of flame.”

Now she was grinning as she recognized the quote; god, he was such a perfect nerd.

“It won't be quiet,” he assured her, “it won't be safe, and it won't be calm. But I'll tell you what it will be.” He leaned into her ear again and she did nothing to hide her shiver this time. “...The trip of a lifetime!”

How on earth—or space or time—could she say no to that?

“Well?” He had an eyebrow quirked in question and expectation.

“That was a Nine quote,” she tossed back.

“And?”

“You’re full of it.”

“Sort of, yeah.”

She just grinned and took his hand. “Lead the way.”

He beamed back, tossed a (frankly terrible) wink toward the bartender, and pulled her away from the bar towards the back hallway of the place. It looked like it led to the kitchens or an office—not the restrooms, thankfully—but she hardly got a decent look before he was pressing her against a door and picking up where they’d left off.

So, like she said: not where she planned tonight going at all. But who was she to complain? (“Who” indeed, if you pardon the pun.)

Interrupting her train of thought, his left arm wrapped around her while the right braced on the wood behind her. Her hands gripped his waist as he gently leaned his body against hers and found her lips again. There was no holding back this time, though—between the rum and the way he kissed, she wondered why he wasn’t dressed like a pirate. They wouldn’t be here right now if he had, though, would they?

Her hands drifted to the button on his coat and undid it, then worked their way to his tie to do to the same, untying the knot just enough to pull the thing apart and toss it aside. She pulled him closer, noting how much warmer he felt under her palms with fewer layers in the way.

“Does the lady get to have all the fun?” he grumbled playfully, pulling off his fogged-up glasses and sticking them in his coat pocket, then resting his forehead against hers as they took a moment to catch their breaths. If he hadn’t said anything, she might have asphyxiated—and unlike the actual Doctor, Emma had no regenerations.

“Nothing’s stopping you,” she panted back.

He replied with another kiss, but then his lips traveled down her chin to her neck, and his hand and hook slid into her jacket and up her sides, tracing the curve of her breasts as they went. When they found the collar, they started to slide the coat down her shoulders as he sucked a mark into her neck, making her arch away from the door and into him while also making it easier to get the coat off her body altogether.

She felt a small bit of relief at shedding the extra layer, but whatever coolness she felt quickly went away when she brushed against the bulge in his pants, drawing a stuttered groan from him. There was only one way for tonight to end, and she was starting to get anxious for it.

“What do you say, darling?” he breathed, then nodded at the door behind her. “Shall we see if this thing is bigger on the inside?”

She giggled and felt behind her for the knob, twisting it open when she found it. Thank god it wasn’t locked, but she did have to push herself into her Doctor again to step forward and open the door. He didn’t seem to protest the further closeness.

Quickly, he slipped through the doorway and she followed, closing it behind her. Of course, it was pitch dark in there and she felt immediately claustrophobic. So she pulled her Sonic Screwdriver out and turned it on; it cast a dim light over what was quite clearly a storage closet.

She was facing away from her Doctor and turned around to find him again—only to be met with the light from his own Sonic Screwdriver. “I guess it’s not,” he said, shrugging, but he didn’t sound upset at all; even in the dim light, she could see his smile.

“You’ve redecorated; I like it,” she glanced around and assessed in-character, drawing a snort from him. Then, wordlessly, he took both Screwdrivers and set them on a shelf, leaving them on to give some light—but otherwise, the tiny space was still pretty dark. At least they didn’t have to worry about any carnivorous shadows.

“Now where were we?” he wondered, but Emma knew they were both keenly aware of where they’d hit pause and promptly jumped right back in. Her fingers started to work on the buttons of his shirt, unfastening them one by one and trying not to rip any off while he kissed her senseless once more, hand buried in her hair.

She managed to get it undone somehow and tugged it out of his trousers, then threw it open. His chest and abs were just as she’d expected based on touch: firm yet soft, covered in the perfect amount of body hair that dusted his pecs and drew a line down his stomach. Damn, he was gorgeous all over.

He wasted no time following that up by reaching for her waist, she thought to bring her close again, but instead his digits went right for the clasps of her suspenders. She wasn’t sure how he unclipped it with his hook but she wasn’t going to ask questions—and didn’t have a chance to when her pants were suddenly falling down to her ankles. Guess that was an unseen perk to wearing too-large men’s pants. (That and they were super comfy.)

He really did grab her this time, hand sliding up her side and bunching her shirt with it, his palm leaving a path of heat on her already flushed skin. He stopped when he got to her bra and she almost whined. “Are you sure about this, love?” he asked, suddenly sounding unsure. But she adored that he cared enough to ask.

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Okay.” That was all he needed to hear to continue, thankfully, and she helped him make quick work of her top—actually noting where this garment landed, though, because that was totally her favorite shirt. (And probably her lucky shirt now.)

She stepped out of the pants as much as she could, not bothering to remove her ankle boots, and then gripped his shoulders and pressed him against the opposite wall. As much as she could, she straddled him, pressing her overheated core against his erection and drawing a gasp from both of them.

Then she reapplied her lips to his and borrowed a move from his book: she worked her way down his chin, enjoying the scratch of his scruff against her lips, until she found the soft skin of his neck. For a hot second, she just breathed him in; his scent was just as intoxicating as the rest of him. And in the dim light, she found that little line of freckles from earlier, and proceeded to suck and lick her way down it, one spot at a time. More than once, he shifted up into her as she worked, and she could feel the muscles of his sides as they moved under his warm skin. He tasted salty and sweet under her tongue and was just as delicious as she expected.

His grip on her tightened when at last, she nipped at the juncture of his neck and shoulder before coming up for air. “Bloody hell,” he mumbled. “You’re incredible.”

“So’re you,” she said quietly as she nuzzled the crook of his neck. His hand was gently brushing up and down her bare side, continuing to stoke her arousal, to the point that she found herself starting to grind against him, needing some sort of friction against the center of her arousal. His breath hitched with every press.

“I—are you—fuck,” he stuttered and cursed, but she knew what he was saying and moved to take off his pants. He didn’t protest, but did say, “I know I said earlier this wouldn’t be safe, but—“

“We’re good,” she told him, “assuming you’re clean.”

He nodded, then sighed as she unzipped his pants. She tucked her thumbs into both his pants and underwear and shoved them down, freeing his erection from its confines. She couldn’t help it—she reached out and carefully gripped his cock, stroking his generous velvety length until his breaths were staggered and her panties were soaked.

Enough was enough. She needed him inside her.

She released him and stepped back to tug her undies off, but he must not have been able to see what she was doing in the faint light. “I didn’t take you for a tease, darling,” he called out; she could hear his smirk in his voice.

She responded by shoving her panties in his hand. “I’m not.” And then she pressed herself against him once more. “There’s just one thing I need.”

“What’s that?”

She hitched her leg around his thigh, pressing her folds against his erection. “I need to know your name.” She could tell right away that this wasn’t going to be a one-time thing, like her lovers usually were; if they were gonna do this, they were gonna do it right.

“I’m the Doctor,” he answered cheekily, and she wanted to kiss that stupid adorable grin off his face.

“Really though.”

His smile softened. “I’m Killian.”

“I’m Emma.”

“Well, allons-y, Emma.” He grabbed her ass to pick her up and press her against the opposite wall, making her squeal in surprise, then grabbed his cock and stroked. “Forgive me, love, but I can’t see—“

“I’ve got it,” she cut in, then gently took his hand and lined his tip up with her entrance, circling it a few times in the evidence of her arousal. And he pressed in.

Oh god, he felt amazing, stretching and filling her so fully. “Brilliant,” she gasped.

“Darling, you’ve seen nothing yet.” He sounded just as wrecked as she was; how could things possibly get more intense?

And then he moved. Oh, that was how. Slowly, he pulled back and then pushed back in, dragging his cock against her inner walls so carefully that she felt every inch. “Lord,” she breathed, laying her head back on the wall.

“Aye—Time Lord,” he quipped as he did it again.

“Nerd,” she threw back; it was the only thing she had the mental coherence to come up with.

“Yeah,” he agreed, breathlessly. He didn’t say anything else then, focusing only on her, finding her lips again as he thrust in and out. She gripped his back tight for purchase, probably scratching him even though his shirt but he didn’t seem to mind. The leg she wrapped around him was digging into his firm ass for the same reason, and the other barely touched the ground, but she felt secure in his hold and matched him thrust for thrust as much as she could.

The familiar tingle of coming release started, low on her spine and spreading with every move. She ached to stroke her nipples, even if they were still encased in her lacy bra, but was afraid they’d fall if she tried it. So she pulled his chest to hers as tight as she could, gasping when they made contact and at the delicious extra friction his chest hair added to the whole thing.

Despite the change in angle, he didn’t slow his increasing pace and it was all she could do to keep up. Her lips found his constellation again as he rapidly shifted in and out, until she was teetering on the edge and it was all she could do to just breathe, pleasure threatening to take her away.

“I’m—I’m—” she stuttered, but couldn’t come up with any other words.

“Me too,” he breathed back. “Come for me, love; come—Emma—”

And with a shout, she did, throwing her head back as her orgasm peaked, all of time and space flying past behind her closed eyelids as it felt like stars exploding all over her body. (Appropriately, the strains of “Toxic” were coming through from the bar.) She was gripping his firm biceps for dear life, it felt like, but if he noticed, he didn’t say.

He followed quickly, his own loud moan accompanying his stuttered release; he had promised her it wouldn’t be quiet, after all.

Maybe this thing was actually a TARDIS, because she completely lost track of time as they stayed there, coming down from their shared high. It was probably only minutes, but could have been eons as she continued to breath him in, only moving so he could pull out of her.

Eventually, though, her legs began to shake from the strain of the awkward semi-stance she’d been in, so he gently helped her get steady on her feet, but stayed close.

“You’re amazing,” he whispered. “Bloody fantastic.”

“You too,” she replied, and placed a kiss on his defined collarbone. Whatever this was—or was turning out to be—she wanted more. And if the grin he gave her, and accompanying peck on the lips, said anything, it was that he did, too.

They cleaned up with some paper towel they found in there—not the softest thing in the universe but it would do—and redressed as best they could in the minimal light from their Screwdrivers. Once they were mostly decent again, Emma peeked her head out of the door; the coast was clear, so they slipped out and picked up their jackets from where they’d piled on the floor.

“I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to make love to myself,” Killian said, far too casually as he put his blazer back on.

“Oh my god, don’t be weird.”

“I’ve been called far worse.”

“What, like ‘nerd’?” she teased.

“Actually, I quite like that one,” he tossed back, wrapping his arms around her from behind. “Particularly when you say it.”

She turned in his arms to give him another kiss, then lamented. “I should probably get back to my friend; so much for getting her water.”

“Aye, I suppose I should do the same. And apologize to my brother.”

She tilted her head. “Apologize? Why?”

“Well, he’s the bartender, and this is his bar. It’s probably bad form for the younger brother to desecrate the storage closet.”

She chuckled. “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Shall we?”

She tried to pull him towards the bar, but he didn’t move. “I don’t want to go.”

Oh, he didn’t. “No. You do not get to make me cry tonight!”

He smirked. “So, no burning up of suns, either?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Alright then. How about...to a new adventure?”

She smiled. “Sounds perfect.”

And arm-in-arm, they headed back out into whatever lay ahead.

(The first thing they saw was Elsa flirting with Killian’s brother. She’d gone up to find Emma when she hadn’t returned, and instead found Liam, and apparently they hit it off.)

(The next year, Killian repeated his Ten costume while Emma dressed as Rose Tyler. The year after that, they switched it up as Han and Leia—with Henry as Chewbacca—and Westley and Buttercup the next. Eventually, their daughter joined in on the cosplay fun, too.)

(One part of their tradition always stayed the same, though: finding their way into that closet at some point, because even if it wasn’t a TARDIS, it was still the start of their greatest adventure.)

thanks for reading! tagging some friends (but feel free to ignore)! @kat2609 @thesschesthair @optomisticgirl @fergus80 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @selfie-wench @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @wingedlioness @fairytalesandtimetravel @word-bug @pirateherokillian @bleebug @its-imperator-furiosa @queen-mabs-revenge @initiala @distant-rose @flipperbrain @sherlockianwhovian @laschatzi @ive-always-been-a-pirate @jscoutfinch @nfbagelperson @stubble-sandwich​ @killian-whump​ @lenfaz @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @jackieorioncat

[sheriartybabes]

Sheriarty

*warnings: smut*

(basically just skype sex™ i'm not gonna lie to u, enjoyy x)

It was late evening, and Sherlock was working on a case. He was seated at the desk in the living room, laptop open in front of him, thin, long-fingered hands tapping methodically across the keys.

It was late evening, and Sherlock would have been in bed about an hour ago if he was to get the exact amount of sleep necessary for his body to function effectively the following morning. But he was busy, and busy was good because it distracted his brain from the things it would think about when he wasn't busy. Things like Jim Moriarty, and the way he stood when he was irritated, and the lie of his hair against the nape of his neck, and the way he smirked when he wanted something, and the fact that he wasn't there and Sherlock didn't know where in the world he was or what he was doing or whether he missed Sherlock like Sherlock missed him.

In any case, this particular case was actually going rather well, and Sherlock wasn't in a hurry to stop having fun and go to bed. There was something endlessly satisfying about getting his teeth into a complicated case. John had cursed him for it when he disappeared bedwards several hours previously, muttering something about how he wasn't going to be the one to bring Sherlock coffee the next morning and deal with his sleep-deprived mood.

Sherlock was remembering this and chuckling to himself, thinking about the untouched tin of freshly-made cookies Mrs Hudson had deposited in the kitchen earlier in the day and wondering if he should pack it in for the night and retire to bed when he saw a familiar symbol blinking in the corner of his screen, making his heart leap and sink and turn sickening cartwheels in the pit of his stomach all at once. He accepted the call with a certain degree of apprehension, not before he'd checked his hair in the mirror by his desk and straightened the collar of his shirt. "Hello, Jim," he said.

Jim smiled, his gaze dropping to his clasped hands as he did so, dark lashes fanning his cheeks.

"You're about to ask me if i missed you," Sherlock said, preemptively.

"Well, did you?"

"Don't. I'm not in the mood."

Jim leaned back in his seat, stretching like a cat and yawning widely. "Well, aren't you in a charming mood. I thought you'd be in bed, anyway. Isn't it 1am where you are?"

Sherlock glanced at the little white numbers in the corner of his screen. "2am, actually."

"Naughty," Jim said, and Sherlock heard a hint of something that made him wish that Jim was a little closer than wherever he was.

"Where are you?" He asked.

"I can't tell you that." Jim stretched again, bones in his neck and back cracking obnoxiously. "Partly because I would have to kill you if i did, and that would be a bit of a shame, but also because i have no idea, and frankly i don't care."

Sherlock recognised this tone. It was cocky and arrogant, but also a bit lonely, a bit untethered. It worried him, just a little, a tiny, niggling doubt that reminded him that he wasn't sure he could trust jim to look after himself. "Come home," he said. "You've been away too long."

Jim rolled his eyes, chewing provocatively on a piece of gum. "Nahh. Home's boring. Not that you aren't fascinating, darling, but at the moment i'm in the middle of a delightfully complex and dangerous operation, and i wouldn't miss it for the world." He stretched again, this time cracking his wrists and fingers, slowly, deliberately, the ghost of a smile hovering around his lips.

"Please stop that," Sherlock said, his fingertips drumming the desk in front of him in irritation.

"Make me," Jim said, the smile morphing into a smirk, falling back against his seat, and all at once the air around Sherlock was fizzing with sparks, and his head was spinning slowly, heat flooding through his veins and pooling between his thighs.

"Jim," he said, his fingers clenching in the fabric of his trousers. "What are you doing?"

"You know what i'm doing, darling."

"But we can't.. not over this. You-"

"Oh really?" Jim pulled a gun from the inside pocket of his jacket, inspecting it thoughtfully, and Sherlock knew what he was going to do the moment before he opened his mouth, tongue sliding over the cold metal of the gun, his eyes closing momentarily with a low moan. He raised them to meet Sherlock's, before taking the whole of the barrel of the gun into his mouth, and Sherlock gritted his teeth, already painfully hard, his cock pressing up against the constricting material of his trousers. "Stop it," he said, half commanding, half pleading, but Jim only took the gun further into his mouth, gagging as it hit the back of his throat. A moan escaped Sherlock's lips, and he pressed them tightly together. "Take your shirt off."

Jim pulled the gun out of his mouth with a wet, slick noise that made Sherlock's dick twitch, grinning, shrugging off his suit jacket and tugging off his tie. Sherlock watched with eyes glued to the screen, expressionless, his mind churning, as Jim took hold of the bottom of his shirt with both hands and pulled it up over his head, exposing his stomach and then his chest, and then his face, confident, sexy and a little amused, his hair tousled, one eyebrow quirked upwards. "Happy?" He said.

Sherlock wasn't really sure what happened next; he'd never attempted anything remotely sexual over skype before. He wanted Jim with him now, solid and present and warm, so he could press his body hard against the nearest available surface and cover him with hot touches and kisses and do all the things he had learned to do so well. He wasn't sure what to do with a grainy image of Jim on his laptop screen small enough to cover with one hand.

Jim was unbuckling the clasp on his belt, leaving it to dangle down on either side of his chair, reaching into his boxers and pulling out his dick with a long, low sigh of satisfaction. "You can touch yourself," he said. "That's how this works."

Sherlock let out a breath, hands automatically reaching into his trousers, gasping as he pressed the heel of his hand to his bulge through his boxers. He looked back to Jim on the screen. Jim was sliding an elegant, long-fingered hand slickly up and down his length, twisting every so often around the head and sliding his thumb through the slit. He was trying to be quiet, suppressed moans spilling through the laptop speakers and fogging Sherlock's head. He knew that Jim wouldn't be quiet for long. He never could be.

"Make as much noise as you want," he said, catching Jim by surprise. "I like to hear you moan." At this Jim let out a low whine, his dick jerking in his hand. "Keep talking," he panted, breathless, cheeks tingeing with pink.

Sherlock reached into his boxers and took his own cock into his hand, burning, aching, lying red and hot in his palm. He began to move his hand along it, slowly at first. "I want you to tease yourself," he said, slowly, his voice sounding strange to his ears, low and gravelly and thick with desire. Jim moaned, slackening his pace with an effort, thighs shaking. "Mm-why?"

Sherlock ignored him. "I want you to stroke yourself slowly, yes, just like that, ugh, tease at your slit, fuck, you look so pretty like this-"

"Mmh," Jim moaned again, doing as Sherlock said without question to his surprise, his eyes heavy lidded and dark, his cock swollen and red in his hand.

"Go faster for me now," Sherlock said, growing in confidence, speeding up himself, feeling warmth flood the pit of his stomach, clouding his thoughts. "Does that feel good?"

"Y-ye-ugh! Yes it does," Jim managed, squinting at him through a haze, "feels so good, I- ugh-"

The sight and sound of Jim like this was unexpected, not something Sherlock had experienced before, and it made him want to take him apart slowly with his mouth. "I want to touch you," he said, "rub your cock hard and fast, fuck you so hard you can't stand. Would you like that?"

Jim nodded wordlessly, sweat dripping down his forehead, dick leaking precum, whimpers pouring from his mouth with every breath.

Sherlock was so close, teetering on the edge, losing his ability to form coherent sentences.

"Ugh- so good.. feels so good.. can you come for me baby?"

"Aaahh.. ugh.. fuck-" Jim jerked his hand a few more times and then came suddenly and violently with a desperate moan, shooting white stripes across his fist, tipping Sherlock over the edge with a deep groan. His body arched off the seat, knuckles whitening as he gripped the armrests, jaw clenching. "Fuck," he said, breathless, as it began to fade away to a pleasant hum of endorphins in his veins, and he opened his eyes to see Jim sprawled back in his chair, chest heaving, his hair a sweaty chaotic tumble, smirking up at him. "That was.. that was good."

Jim grinned, a lazy, satiated, genuine thing that lit up his face in a way that was unfamiliar but welcome. But then all too soon he was springing into action again, tension coiling it's way tightly back into his arms, his neck, his spine. "Anyway, i have a meeting to get to. Business; isn't it exhausting?" He was buckling up his trousers, straightening his tie, once again oozing Jim Moriarty-ness from every inch of his body.

"Wait," Sherlock said, emotions pushing through the fog in brain and demanding recognition.

Jim paused, raised one elegant eyebrow. "Yes, dearest?"

Sherlock sighed. "Maybe I did miss you. Just a little bit."

"That's good to know." Jim's tone was light, flippant, unconcerned, but Sherlock knew he wasn't; he rarely was. "Maybe see you around?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Bye Jim."

"Bye, darling!" A wink, a cheeky wave, and then the webcam blinked out, silence settling heavily, comfortably over the room. Sherlock thought about the cookies again. He thought about tomorrow, already arriving in thick streaks of pink, painting the dimness of the dawn sky with a hazy glow, and about John, asleep in the room down the hall, who would wake up in a few hours to put the kettle on and heat up some porridge in the microwave and complain to Sherlock about whatever nonsense he found in the paper that morning. He thought about Jim, wherever he was, another land, another time, sitting down to his meeting at that very moment, exuding a calm sort of energy, hair still slightly ruffled, head probably full of a thousand things entirely unrelated to the meeting. He closed his laptop. He slept.

[titriwrites]

Scoop! - Chapter 13

A/N: Okay, I’m not entirely sure how soon the next chapter will be out, so enjoy this one while it lasts :D Honestly, thank you so much for the reblogs and likes and comments on the last one. It meant the world to me that you’re still reading. We slowly get to the emotional and towards the revealing chapters. It’s all (still) fine in this one, though. Have fun!

Saint Joan

Joan, it's true I only wanna to know you Joan, it's true it's true, I only wanna to know you But Joan I only wanna to know you

Joan of Arc by Arcade Fire

It’d been busy few days for Jo. And now it was the 19th December and she simply wanted to go home. Not home to her flat but home to Germany to finally celebrate Christmas. Yes, she’d miss her friends, Sam and Nicholas and even Mary. And yes, she’d also miss Tom.

But damn it, she didn’t even have the time to buy Christmas presents for her nephews, well, her whole family really. She just wanted to see them, but her plane was booked for the 24th. That was alright, if you celebrated in London, but was pretty shitty, if you were from Germany, where gifts were actually exchanged on Christmas Eve. Christmas season often was theatre season though, which meant lots and lots of press nights, and lots and lots of articles to cover.

On this particular occasion however, press night for Saint Joan also meant seeing Tom before they both went home to their families. Him earlier than her, but they’d agreed that it would be silly for Tom to stay in London especially for her, when Jo was busy anyway.

She had a surprise for him, though, since Tom didn’t know she would be there that night. Jo couldn’t wait to see the look on Tom’s face when he’d arrive at the after party just to see Jo amongst the journalists covering the play and being invited to the event that followed as well.

He’d done many nice things for her, and Jo somehow felt the need to do something surprising for him as well as they were in this…companionship. Not because they’d spent the night together – again – but because it simply was a nice thing to do. Yeah, right.

Jo looked up from the program she’d been reading while waiting in the foyer of the Donmar theatre before the show. She heard giggling and whispers behind her, clearly also making out Tom’s name among the words.

“I really saw him with his bike just yet,” a blonde woman said to her companion, a middle-aged woman with brown hair. “With a helmet and a safety jacket. And a suit.”

No. No, that couldn’t be, right? Then again, as Jo had learned in the past two months, it was an absolutely Tom-thing to do. Arriving to a press night – with important people from the industry – by bike, wearing a suit, and since it was safer also a helmet and a safety jacket.

Before Jo could start asking questions, she shot a glance outside. And indeed, there he was. Stuffing the aforementioned jacket inside a pannier, putting the helmet away with the bike lock, there stood Tom Hiddleston. His hair was a little dishevelled, while he also wore a coat over his suit – Jo could only see the trousers – and his cheeks were a little rosy due to the cold wind that was blowing outside.

Jo couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight. He could have honestly just take a black cab or even the tube like any normal Londoner did. Hell, he was Tom Hiddleston, he could have just asked for a driver probably. But he didn’t, and Jo liked him even more for that. Unfortunately, her discovery also kind of destroyed her plan of surprising him at the after party.

She just couldn’t wait until the play was over to talk to him. Just for teasing purposes of course. Though, she had to admit, now that Tom took off coat, and Jo could get a look at the blue suit, chequered shirt, and tie, she had to work hard on keeping her composure. It was even worse, now that she’d also seen him naked. More than once. Maybe, just maybe, Jo should also get a glass of water as she walked over to him.

Tom hadn’t seen her yet, at least it didn’t seem so. He got his program and was just studying it, as Jo came to a stop next to him. “Could have simply asked me to share a cab,” she whispered right next to him, the heels and her height making it possible for her to just lean up the tiniest bit to have her lips close to Tom’s ear.

Her, well, friend – probably – jumped startled, and Jo had to hold back an amused, but definitely unattractive, snort.

“Jesus, Jo!” he finally exclaimed as he turned around and looked at her with wide eyes, taking her in and pressing a hand to his heart. “You just scared the shit out of me, you should be happy I’m not on the floor dying from a heart attack.”

Jo raised an amused brow. “You’re a tad dramatic now, Tom.”

“You say that now, but wait until you’ll find me lying on the floor in a few minutes.” He still took her in, and Jo didn’t know if she should squirm or maybe blush or maybe even press her arms to her side to make her boobs look bigger. All options were possible at this point.

They didn’t stand together close enough for a proper greeting, now that Tom had basically jumped away from her, and maybe it was better that way. Due to the occasion, the place was swamped with journalists after all. No need to bring any attention to the two of them.

“Hi, Tom,” Jo whispered, trying to move her mouth as little as possible, glancing around like they were just casually standing next to each other. When her eyes fell on the actor again though, he had a smirk on his lips. “What?”

“You really should not be an actor, Jo,” he whispered back. “You’re doing a shit job at it. Better not try to act around anyone.”

She had to swallow. Really swallow. Oh god, why would he mention something like that? Jo hoped she was doing a better job than Tom gave her credit for. So she plastered a grin on her face that hopefully was convincing enough.

“I’ll stick to writing reviews then. Which is why I’m here actually.”

Tom smiled. “Ah, see, that’s a good reason.” Then he held out his hand. What was he doing? He didn’t honestly think they would hold hands in here, did he? Well, she would certainly not do it, not in a room filled with journalists. She must have looked a bit panicky, because Tom grinned at her and shook his head slightly. “I want you to grab my hand, Jo. Shake it like we’ve just introduced ourselves.”

She raised a brow. She seemed to do that a lot with Tom around. “Now, why would I do that?”

“Because,” Tom started and met her challenging gaze with one of his own, “we look way more suspicious standing just a few feet away from each other without introducing ourselves.”

Well, he did have a point. So, with a grin Jo took the offered hand. “Hi,” she giggled, and she actually wanted the ground to swallow her the next moment. She’d never giggled so stupidly around Tom before. “I’m Jo.”

“Hello, Jo,” Tom answered. “It’s very nice to make your acquaintance. I’m Tom.”

They stood a little closer together now, as they’ve officially met. “So,” Jo started quietly, “you came by bike? Really now, Hiddleston?”

He smirked at that, and Jo possibly, maybe forgot how to breathe for a second. What was wrong with her? That wasn’t normal. That didn’t happen before. Well, not as often at least. She really shouldn’t have had sex with him, right? Right.

“What? It’s a great way of transportation. And it’s only a twenty minute ride.”

“Arriving for a press night by bike,” Jo mumbled, shaking her head. “Oh, what am I going to do with you.”

“Well, I don’t know about right now, but I do know what you could, we could, do later.” His voice was low as Tom leaned closer, whispering those words into her ear, and Jo could feel the goosebumps all over her body already. Damn him.

She shook her head some more. “Tom, stop it.”

Jo could feel his stupid grin without looking at him. “You sure about that?”

She was not.

“Tom? To-hom?”

“Hm?” He turned to the direction of the voice and smiled sheepishly when the face of Gemma Arterton, who looked at him a little – well, very much – exasperated, appeared in his line of sight.

“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

“I…well.” No, he didn’t. And Tom also knew the reason. In addition to that he was very sure Gemma knew the reason as well. He’d been staring at Jo from across the room during the entire evening. And when he said the entire evening, he meant it. Not just now at the after party, but during the play as well.

Tom assumed it was a great play. From what he heard, it was put together really well, and Gemma – his dear friend Gemma – was doing a terrific job. He just would have to go again on a later date, and probably when Jo wouldn’t attend. Because honestly, while he’d known he should watch that stupid stage his eyes travelled the room in search for his…well, friend he supposed. Or rather, the woman he dated.

And when Tom found her, all thoughts of watching the play flew straight out of the window, and he watched Jo instead. Jo, who listened closely, working her lower lip while taking notes, scribbling them down on her notepad. She should not nibble on her lower lip, Tom had decided when he’d felt his trousers tighten. He could make that observation even in the barely lit room.

He should also not be looking at her now, with her hair in waves, and wearing a white chiffon blouse along with grey trousers and, as she often did, high-heels. She had a glass of champagne in one hand, gesticulating with her other. She looked beautiful. He really wanted to take her home.

The sound of Gemma clearing her throat made Tom jerk his head in the direction of the actress. “Who’s that?” she asked, a certain glimmer in her eyes and a smirk on her lips. She pointed at Jo.

“What? I…no. I mean, I don’t…who?” Wow. Now, that was kind of scary, even for Tom. What the hell was wrong with him? When he’d introduced Jo to Ken and all the others at the Standard Awards, he’d been all calm and collected. But then again, they hadn’t even kissed then. This was the first time Jo could potentially meet one of Tom’s friends, and he felt a strange sense of nervousness creeping up.

“Jesus, Hiddleston. You got it bad, didn’t you? You’re blushing like mad. So, who is she? I hope you do know her.” She made wide eyes. “Or else it really would be creepy as hell.”

Tom rolled his eyes at Gemma. “I do know her. I know her…quite well.”

“’Quite well’ in the biblical sense?” she snickered, and Tom had to stifle a groan.

“Maybe.”

“Ooooh, tell me!”

And so he did. Not everything, of course, but he spoke about how they’d met, how they’d spent time together and how he felt. That there maybe – definitely – was more than dating, for him at least. That he would still have to talk to Jo about that and that he just didn’t know how, yet.

“So, she’s a journalist, huh?” Tom didn’t appreciate the tone in Gemma’s voice but answered anyway.

“That’s honestly all you’ve got from that? Yes, she’s a journalist. She’s here now, isn’t she?”

“I just want you to be careful.”

“Gemma, I know. But you should also know that not all journalists are out for our blood, right?”

“Right.”

With those words they parted, Tom seeking out Jo. He didn’t care much for other people seeing them, it almost felt like he had to reassure himself. When he got nearer, he could smell the scent that always reminded him of her, invading his senses, and he had to make fists in order not to touch her in front of the guys she was talking to.

“Ms Kramer,” he started, when he was next to her. He nodded towards the other men and women, before he looked at Jo and touched her elbow lightly. “Jo. Excuse me, but could I drag you away for a moment?”

She blushed slightly and cleared her throat, but nodded his way. They went towards the bathrooms, before making a sharp turn to one of the floors that were empty at this time of the night and for this event. Before Jo could make a noise, Tom had her pressed against the door and her lips sealed with his. He didn’t know why, but somehow Gemma’s questions made him long to kiss Jo, if only for confirmation that this was real. That he knew her.

His hands roamed along her body, making Jo moan into his mouth while their tongues danced, almost fighting for dominance.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Jo looked up at him, her eyes searching his. “What was that for?”

“Haven’t done that today,” Tom said. “Thought I’d get to know you again.”

She looked at him a little strangely, before a smirk appeared on her lips. “Get to know me, huh?”

Tom wiggled his brows. “Yes.”

“Want to get to know me better?”

His brain, his heart, and yes, his groin as well shouted “Damn yes!” at him at the same time. He knew what she meant, though. “Want me to take you home with me? Are there things I don’t know yet?”

He felt like Jo’s playful mood was gone for a split second, before she chuckled at him. “Oh, you’ll find that out when you’ve got me naked, I suppose.”

And with that, it was decided. He’d leave his bike where it was, and definitely take a black cab home tonight.

Tagging: @devikafernando @itsliterallythis @justthelosersblog @avenger-nerd-mom @archy3001 @nuggsmum @majk78

[axelsagewrites]

Dad!Magnus Bane*Daddy

Requested by anonymous:

Can you do a Magnus x child!Reader and it's the first time they call him 'Daddy' and he just melts?

Readers age is 8 also this contains slight Malec.

Also theirs pic’s of roughly what the parties based off of.

Masterlist HERE

Wattpad HERE

Prompt List HERE

Magnus Bane’s life was lavish and carefree…until he adopted (Y/N). It's not that he didn’t love them, he does with his whole heart, but adopting a young warlock who doesn’t understand the shadow world and went through a traumatic past is hard. He had adopted (Y/N) almost a year ago so to celebrate they were having a small party. Ever since (Y/N) was adopted they always called Magnus, Magnus. They actually used to call him Mr Bane but that didn’t stick. Magnus didn’t mind being called that, in fact, he hardly thought about it. He didn’t want to pressure (Y/N) into calling him ‘Dad’ or ‘Daddy’. At first, he actually dreaded the idea of (Y/N) calling him Daddy. Some downworlders who knew Magnus when he first adopted (Y/N) would joke and mock him by calling him, Daddy. He didn’t like the idea of being called Daddy because of these jokes. He thought he would have all respect taken from him in the eyes of clients and downworlders alike. Magnus had gotten (Y/N) to have a sleepover with auntie Tessa so he could set up the party. When he woke he got straight to work knowing they’d be back at noon. Magnus thought back to the first night (Y/N) spent in his flat. They were scared understandable and to calm your nerves he put on some movies. Who doesn’t like movies? It was his first happy memory with (Y/N) and kind of a tradition to have a movie marathon once a week. Because of this memory, Magnus knew how to decorate the party. He set up the living room to look like an award ceremony and the entrance to a theatre which was actually a guest room he had set up. There was a red rug going from the door to a part of the wall he had decorated with velvet curtains and a black background where you would take pictures as if you were attending an award ceremony. The main part of the living room was left kind of the same but not. He had moved the couches back a bit to allow for a bit more space and hate hung some fairy lights and some black and gold stars. There was already a disco ball for a light, (A/N:I mean it is Magnus’s flat) so that was no issue. The closer you got to the guest room where the movie was set up there was a popcorn machine and refreshment tables. The tables had red and white striped tablecloths on them. The refreshments consisted of 4 types of popcorn (Sweet, Salty, Plain and Chocolate) and normal movie food like sweets and hotdogs. He had also gotten a bartender to serve drinks at the bar which he had also decorated in red and white strips.

(Also theirs pic’s of roughly what the parties based off of.)

Once inside the guest room you would see what he hoped to be (Y/N)’s favourite part. The movie. There was a queen bed that he had put black and gold sheets on. On the wall across from the bed was the TV. He had spread some bean bags, blankets and pillows around the room for the rest of the guests who didn’t get into the VIP section aka the bed. He had hung blackout curtains in front of the windows and the room had a dimmer switch. The TV was set up so (Y/N) could play their favourite movies.

Magnus had invited a decent amount of guests. Since there was not many downworlders around (Y/N)’s age most were older which honestly didn’t matter as they all loved (Y/N). Some of the guest’s included: Raphael (who surprisingly is really good with kids), Tessa, Jem, Maia (Your babysitter during the day because of Raph’s vampirism), his boyfriend Alec, Jace, Clary, Izzy and some other downworlders he knew and kind of you. When he was making up the guest list he realised something; most of (Y/N)’s company is a lot older. It made sense in a way. Not many children were turned to vamps or werewolves and warlocks were less common than ever before. Sure there were young shadowhunters but they didn’t want to associate with downworlders. It was part of the reason Alec had suggested bring Max because they were close in age as he was 11 and (Y/N) was 8. Magnus didn’t have time to think of that though as guests started arriving. By half 11 nearly everyone was there. “Wow Mags. This is amazing.” Alec complemented when he saw his warlock boyfriend. They had only been going out for a couple months but Magnus appearance still took his breath away. He had told everyone the theme and to ‘dress appropriately’. He was in black slacks, a black glittery shirt, a red bow tie and of course gold accessories and his signature spiky sparkly hair with red highlights.  Most people did fit the dress code in Magnus’s opinion. Most of the girls wore dresses and skirts while some, like Maia, opted for a nice top and skinny jeans. You could tell who would be up for what awards if it was real. In Magnus’s opinion, Alec would be the front-runner for best dressed in his blue shirt and black slacks that looked perfect on him and that Izzy had clearly picked as there were no holes in his shirt. Izzy would be up for most dangerous in her tight black glitter dress. Raphael would be up for best suit in his velvet red suit jacket, black trousers and shirt. It was quite amusing to him as the party favours were awards and he thought they matched well. The bartender was behind the bar and Magnus was pretty sure everyone was there apart from (Y/N), Tessa and Jem but that was intentional. Tessa texted Magnus saying they were coming up the stairs so Magnus told everyone to hide. The lights were off and everyone was in position when (Y/N) opened the door. “Surprise!” “Oh my goodness! This is awesome!” (Y/N) squealed. “Glad you like it,” (Y/N) turned to Magnus. “I figured we should celebrate a full year of having you here.” “Magnus,” (Y/N) said with a pointed look. “you just wanted to have another party, didn’t you?” Magnus sent a wink their way and (Y/N) broke into a smile. “Well, I’m glad you did.” After a quick glance around the room (Y/N) noticed something. “I'm not dressed right.” They whined which earned a chuckle. “And neither are auntie Tess and uncle Jem.” “Definitely Magnus’s kid,” Jace whispered to Alec while laughing. “Don’t worry about us,” Jem started. “we brought our clothes in aunt Tess’s bag.” “What about me?” (Y/N) turned to their aunt. “It's your house, isn’t it? Go find something.” Tessa prompted which sent (Y/N) running to their room. People laughed and said how Magnus had rubbed off on the child. Tessa and Jem went to get changed in the bathroom while Magnus finally opened the bar.

The party went down well with all the guest and most importantly (Y/N). Max and (Y/N) got on surprisingly well and were running around the apartment after they got their hands on some cake.

After about an hour and a half in the living room, they went into the guest room which was definitely (Y/N)’s favourite part. Magnus got (Y/N) to go in first to see and they loved it. (Y/N) got to pick who went on the bed which ended up being themselves, Max, Magnus, Jem and Tessa. (Y/N) took a few minutes to decide though. Everyone else claimed a bean bag or spot on the floor with pillows and blankets. Magnus sat on the bed with his back against the headboard and legs stretched out under the covers on one half of the bed. Tessa and Jem sat next to each other on the other half and Max lay on his stomach with his legs going in between Tessa and Magnus, which was sort of a halfway line of the bed, while (Y/N) picked the movie and pressed play. Once the movie began (Y/N) carefully walked from one side of the room to the bed, making sure not to crush anyone or their snacks. Once they got to the side of the bed were Magnus sat they pulled back the covers and climbed in. (Y/N) put Magnus’s arm around their shoulder and snuggled into him. Magnus grinned down at the site of his child nuzzling into him. He gave (Y/N) a squeeze with his arm and they smiled up at him. “Thanks, daddy. This is the best party ever.” (Y/N) said kind of quietly although close by guest’s heard and smiled at their adorableness. Magnus’s heart melted when (Y/N) said that. Never before had he been called dad or daddy. He never thought he’d want to be called that but hearing (Y/N) say it as if it was the most natural thing in the world was amazing. “It's not problem sweetpea.” “Can we do this every year?” “Whatever you want.” Magnus smiled down at his child while they turned their attention back to the movie. After the movie (Y/N) got up to change it and when they got back sat on Magnus’s lap which he was more than happy to allow. He wrapped his arms around them, hugging them while they leaned back into his chest. Some people left after the first movie so they went from 15 to 10. It was mainly Magnus’s friends aka (Y/N) aunts and uncles. After the second movie ended a third was put on and this time they lost even more people. Raphael, Lillian (a vamp (Y/N) befriended while at the Dumort {Also the one from the books if you’ve read them}), Maia, Clary and Jace. Raphael and Lillian had gotten Magnus to make a portal to get there and back home because of the sun. Maia had to go and study and Clary and Jace had dinner reservations. When (Y/N) put on the next movie they sat on the bean bags near the front and Max joined them. At some point during the third movie, Max and (Y/N) fell asleep. No one noticed until after the movie finished. Izzy decided to take Max back to the institute since Alec was going to sleep over. Magnus offered to make a portal for her and Max then one for Tessa and Jem. They accepted and by half 9 everyone was gone. It was a good day although some people had been there for 9 hours. (Y/N) was carried to bed by Magnus who hadn’t stopped smiling since (Y/N) called him daddy. They had called him dad during the movies sometimes and he loved it. Alec noticed so when Magnus got into the living room after putting (Y/N) to bed he brought it up. “So, is (Y/N) going to call you dad from now on?” “Alexander you needn’t clean this mess,” Magnus snapped his fingers and cleaned the food away but left most of the décor up. “and I hope so. I'm actually kind of hoping for daddy. It just makes my heart melt.” Alec nodded and stayed silent for a moment but he couldn’t hold back. He’d known Jace too long. “So is (Y/N) the only one who can call you daddy?” “Oh shut up!” Magnus made a pillow fly into Alec’s face which he swatted away with a mischevious grin. “Just asking.” Magnus sighed. “I never thought I would have this. I would have a child who I loved and a man I truly love. It's more magical than I thought possible.” The pair didn’t even hear the footsteps of (Y/N) as they walked sleepily down the hallway. “Why are you two still up?” (Y/N) rubbed their eyes. “We were just talking darling. Go back to bed.” Magnus stoked (Y/N)’s hair while he said it. “Ok,”  they muttered sleepily and began to go back down the hallway. Alec walked over to Magnus and hugged him from behind. “Night daddy,” (Y/N) said when they were just in earshot. “Night other daddy.” Alec froze and Magnus held back a laugh as (Y/N) continued down the hall to their room. “Don’t even Magnus,” Alec warned. “Daddy,” Magnus whispered before bursting out laughing. “Be quiet. (Y/N)'s going to bed!” Alec warned even though his cheeks were red. “I can't wait till I tell Jace,” Magnus said while sitting on the couch. Alec groaned then sighed gently. “At least they like me I guess.” He mumbled with a slight smile. “It's not too bad to be called other daddy. Well, when it's from (Y/N).” Magnus hummed in agreement. It melted his heart, he had his perfect family and he now considered himself a proper ‘dad’.

The pictures I mentioned (not mine, obviously. I wish tbh):

[bby-calum]

We’ll Try Again - Tom Holland Imagine

request: could you do a tom imagine where you have a miscarriage

a/n: this is sad guys i’m sorry

word count: 1725

masterlist: (x)

“I thought women weren’t supposed to get their periods when they were pregnant,” Harry whispered into Sam’s ear as they sat around the dining table, noting the blood stain on the back of your light wash jeans as you stood peeling carrots with Paddy at the kitchen counter, your backs turned towards them. Sam shook his head, leaning away from Harry and towards his mother. He nudged her with his elbow, disrupting her conversation with his father.

“Mum, she’s bleeding,” Sam said quietly, nodding his head in your direction. Her eyes widened as she acknowledged the bleeding and stood up quickly, the wooden chair scraping along the kitchen tiles, waking Tessa from her nap on the floor. She shrugged her cardigan off as she came up behind you and wrapped it around your waist. “Sweetheart,” she whispered calmly in your ear. “Come upstairs, love.” You dropped the half-peeled carrot onto the chopping board, Sam standing up to take over the task as Nikki took you into her bedroom, still confused as to why you now had her cardigan around you, the knot she tied resting just below your swollen belly. “Honey, you’re bleeding, did you know you were bleeding?” She asked. The panic in your eyes told her you didn’t. “Don’t panic, love, don’t panic.” She sat you down on her bed as she fumbled in her drawers for some spare trousers for you to wear. “Put these on sweetheart, I’ve got sanitary towels in the cupboard under the sink, okay?” You nodded. “Are you feeling any pain, sweetie?” She asked. Her voice was gentle, reassuring you with her soothing tone, like your own mother’s had sounded when you were a child.

Ever since Tom had brought you home all those years ago, Nikki had warmed to you immediately, treating you as her own daughter, finally having some female company. You were grateful, since your own mother had passed away years before you’d met Tom. She filled a mother shaped space in your life, and even though she could never compare to your own sweet mother, Nikki was the next best thing.  

“No, no,” you half stuttered. “I didn’t even know I was bleeding.” Your voice was shaky and your throat was dry. You could almost hear your heart pounding through your chest. “Alright, listen,” she sat down next to you. “I’m going to drive you to the hospital okay? I’m sure it’s going to be nothing, some women bleed sometimes during pregnancy but we’ll just get you checked out okay. You haven’t had a bleed before since you found out you were pregnant?” You shook your head, biting down on your lip to try and stop the tears. Nikki smiled at you, some sadness in her eyes, as she pulled you into a hug. “It’s alright.” “You should phone Tom,” you said, your voice coming out as a whisper. “I will do, poppet. Go and get changed, I’ll try and get hold of him.”

Tom was currently on the last day of the promo tour for his latest film, and right now he was on the other side of London, filming for a chat show. You’d planned a family dinner with his parents and brothers as a treat for when he got home this evening. This would be the last time he would have to work before the baby arrived. You were almost eight months pregnant, finally expecting after almost two years of trying. Tom was ecstatic, he’d been longing for a baby ever since Harrison’s wife gave birth four years ago. You were a little less keen to begin with, but the heartbreak of months and months of negative pregnancy tests hit you all the same. When you finally had one positive test, you cried for almost three hours, Tom sobbing, equally as happy beside you in bed. Your pregnancy had been easy, and although the doctors had noticed you were carrying on the small side, they hadn't had any major concerns. Until now.

They rushed you to the maternity ward almost as soon as Nikki had told them the situation. They ran tests and performed scans and talked in hushed tones across the room as you lay in an uncomfortable bed, still bleeding.

“I can’t reach him, or his manager,” Nikki said, smoothing out your messy hair. “There mustn’t be any service in the studio.” You felt a small pain in your lower stomach, your hand moving to the spot instantly. Nikki’s hand held your own as the doctor came closer to you. “Mrs Holland,” he said. Both of you looked towards him. “There’s no easy way to say this,” he continued. Your hand squeezed Nikki’s a little tighter. You knew what was coming. He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid you’ve suffered a miscarriage.” You hadn’t heard what he said after that. His medical babble became white noise as you felt your heart shatter. The tears that had been threatening you finally spilled and you longed for Tom by your side.

You hadn’t noticed the doctor leave but you were brought back from your daze by the sound of Nikki’s phone ringing from her coat pocket. She fumbled with the buttons, answering her son’s call.

“Mum?” You heard Tom’s muffled voice through the phone. “I’ve got twelve missed calls, is everything alright?” Your heart ached. He had no idea what was about to hit him. “Tom,” Nikki said quietly. “You need to get to the hospital as soon as you can, love.” “W-why what’s going on? Is it Nan again? Oh God, Mum-” “Tom, Nan’s fine. It’s- it’s the baby,” you could tell it hurt her to say it. “It’s gone, Tom.” “Gone? Gone? What do you mean gone?” He said, the panic rising in his voice. “Y/N had a miscarriage.” “No.”


“Tom just get to the hospital.” “Is she okay? Mum, is Y/N okay?” “She’s fine, sweetheart, she’s right next to me in bed. They’re going to take her into surgery soon. Just hurry, love.” She sighed sadly. “She needs you, Tom.”

When you woke from your surgery, Tom was by your side, still wearing the suit his stylist had chosen for his chat show appearance. His tie was off, the jacket had been thrown onto the empty chair beside him and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. His hair was messy from where his fingers had ran through it. His head rested in his hands. “Tom,” you croaked. “Sweetheart,” he said, almost jumping out of his seat to be closer to you. He held your hand, stroking it with his thumb. “I’m so sorry,” you sobbed, unable to control the fresh tears. He hugged you gently, kissing your hair as he soothed you. “It’s okay, darling. It’s not your fault.” “I- I just- I don’t know what happened. It was all fine, and, and then, and then it wasn’t,” you cried into his chest. “Mum explained everything, love. It’s okay.” You shook your head, leaning back into the bed. Tom was trying not to cry, he wanted to be strong for you. “It’s not okay, Tom. Our baby is dead!” You cried some more. He tried to quieten you. “We were gonna be so happy. And I ruined everything.” “It’s not your fault, babe. Please don’t blame yourself. They said there was nothing you did wrong. Absolutely nothing. Alright?” He kissed your forehead. “You’re okay, sweetheart, that’s all that matters right now, okay?”

The truth was, Tom was cut up inside. He had been desperate for a baby, and now his hopes of holding his newborn babe in his arms were dashed. He’d watched from the surgery theatre, dressed in blues over his suit, as they pulled the lifeless baby from you. 

He had dreamed for months of the birth of his first child, how happy you two would be as you held your baby in your arms for the first time. Both of you would be crying as your baby entered the world, screaming loudly and kicking its fat pink legs around as soon as they took their first breath of air. He’d help the midwives dress your child in the tiny baby-grow the two of you had picked out months ago, and he’d watch protectively as you fixed the carseat in the back of his car, ready to bring your new family member home. He’d had the whole thing planned in his head. But life rarely ever went to plan.

“It was a girl,” he said after a while. “She- she was a girl.” The two of you sat in silence for a while, until a nurse came in, interrupting the quiet. She was cheery, doing her best to lighten a damp mood. After checking you over, you were allowed home.

The drive home felt long. Every speed bump and pot hole Tom’s car hit made you wince with pain. Tom guided you into the silent house, hurrying to shut the nursery door before you walked past. He helped you into bed, climbing in next to you so you could cuddle into him.

“We’ll try again,” he said quietly, kissing your forehead. “We can try again.”

“Tom!” You squealed, hurrying into the kitchen where Tom was making a coffee, almost skidding on the slippy tiles in your socks. You handed him the pee stick, pushing it into his hands. “Oh my god,” he said, shocked, almost in disbelief as he saw the plus sign on the small screen of the stick. “You’re-” “Yep!” You smiled. “Tom, we’re having a baby.” He hugged you tightly. “We’re having another baby.” You corrected yourself, a flash of worry present in your voice. “Hey,” he said, stroking the side of your face with his thumb. “It’s gonna be okay.” You nodded. “Everything is gonna be fine.” He pressed his forehead against yours, both of you thinking back to the heartbreak you had suffered earlier in the year. “We’re having a baby,” he said, almost reassuring himself. You nodded again. He smiled. “I love you, darlin’, and our little bean,” he pressed his hand to your flat stomach. “I love you so much,” he said more quietly. You kissed him softly. “Come on,” he said, pulling you into the hallway, reaching into his pocket for his car keys. “Put your shoes on, we’re gonna tell mum and dad.”

[sinfully-romione]

Can I Get That With

Rated: T/15

Sins: Gluttony

Summary: Ron and Hermione, who are normally very careful with their galleons, go out to an expensive restaurant on a date. There’s more going on that just date night.

No one saw the couple apparate into an alley behind a block of buildings in the heart of London. Muggles mistook the buildings surrounding them for being derelict but St. Mungo’s wasn’t ever busy on a Tuesday night. For the couple, it was also the only night their schedules meshed in the last 10 days and were both free for the next four.

Ron stepped out first, wand carefully concealed in his hand under his jacket while Hermione stood behind him, peering around him to appear like they were a loving couple walking to dinner in London. They took off, walking with a purpose, with Ron easily keeping up with Hermione’s pace.

“So where are we going?”

“I wanted to take you out on a real date. You’ve been waiting on me patiently for the last six weeks, considering how busy I’ve been. So, I thought we’d go out for dinner. I asked and one of the other directors mentioned this restaurant and said they have really good food. Besides,” she walked hand in hand with him, setting a pace he wasn’t uncomfortable with, “the kids are back in school so we don’t have to hurry home so your Mum can go to bed.”

Ron stopped. “You don’t like my cooking anymore?”

Hermione stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “Oh Ron, I love your cooking, but I wanted us to have a proper date out.”

He pulled her close, kissing her head. “You mean one where we actually have clothes on, surrounded by other adults and having meaningful discussions involving your work or mine? That sounds like a load of bunk.”

Hermione squeezed his hand. “Not like I don’t like our arrangements at home, when I am home,” she kept her eyes forward but a grin on her face, considering their Friday night date night at home, when they kids were off at school, involved plenty of wine and no clothes and anything that happened, happened, “but I thought you’d enjoy a night out of the kitchen.”

“But I like cooking for us, Hermione. And I do miss the kids when they are away at school.”

“I do too but I also know that you like going out on dates, where we dress up some and have fun.”

“So we’re out on a date because – “

“I wanted us to have dinner and maybe dancing and who knows what else?” She glanced at her husband of 20 years and smirked. “I wholly intend the night to end with us being shed of clothes doing things that we both enjoy.”

“Now that’s a plan I can get behind. Now where are we going?”

“It’s a really nice restaurant that serves steaks and has decadent desserts.”

“And dancing?”

“There’s the club on Diagon Alley. Tonight they have some jazz music you like so much.”

“Is that why you asked me to wear my nicer shirt and trousers?”

“Well, if we are going to be out,” she smiled, “I do want my husband to look fit, to make the other birds jealous of us.”

“Hermione, that broom flew away years ago. No one’s hit on me in years, not since the kids were shorter than you. The last one that hit on me was at that Ministry party years ago and she somehow ended up with a roaring case of the giggles, laughing for five minutes because no one could correctly do the counter-curse.”

“Well, she shouldn’t have been so inebriated that she kissed you without asking,” she said sternly.

“But she did ask?”

Hermione stopped short. “She walked up to you, said you were the finest bloke at the party, full-on snogged  you, right in front of me, then had the audacity to fondle your bits. She’s fortunate that I only did a non-verbal giggle jinx on her rather than put her in Azkaban for sexual assault on you.”

“She was drunk and did it for a laugh,” he retorted.

Hermione stepped in close, pressing him into the lamppost behind him. She smiled and it was the one that betrayed the frightening side of her that she kept well-guarded and under control, and secretly enhanced his bits. “I’m the only one,” she surreptitiously fondled his bits and he gulped, “who gets to touch these. I’m the only one who can truly appreciate the power this wand holds. I’m the only one who can control the power of this wand.” She squeezed for half a second and he yelped. She smirked. “And I’m the only one who is allowed to touch you that way.”

“Sorted,” he shook his head. She stepped back and he adjusted his trousers. “You know, you can still be quite frightening; incredibly sexy and fucking frightening.”

“I’m glad you agree. Now let’s get to dinner. I’m peckish.” Hermione took off and he was left standing dumbfounded.

“You?” He walked fast to catch up with his wife and saw the restaurant entrance just ahead. “Did you forget to eat breakfast and lunch again today?”

“I was in meetings most of the day, with the other directors, and got called away for another when the rest went off for lunch.”

“Hermione, you know better.”

“I know. That’s why I’d asked Miranda to make reservations and owled you at 4.”

He stepped up to the door and let Hermione in, following her to the hostess station.

A young man walked up to the hostess station, wearing a smile that didn’t fit his eyes. He was dressed in a properly cut muggle suit, with bright red tie. “May I help you?”

“You have reservations for Granger, party of two. My assistant called earlier.”

The sullen host looked in the reservations book. “Yes, we do. Please follow me.”

They trailed through the restaurant, garnering some looks from other patrons passing. Hermione, before leaving her office at the Ministry, removed her over-cloak and boots and put on a sharp navy suit and heels, adding 2 precious inches to her height, to match Ron slightly. Hermione found a shop that routinely carried his size clothing and he benefitted from looking sharp when he wasn’t working for George. His navy blazer and trousers fit well, unlike what he had growing up.

“Here we are:  a table for two away from the bar, like your assistant requested. Is there anything else for the moment?”

“Would you send the sommelier over? We would like recommendations to accompany our dinner this evening.”

“Of course,” he smiled again, showing teeth that her parents would be proud of, before they sat down.

“Wine? Are you thinking of ordering a whole bottle of wine with our dinner?”

“Actually, I’m thinking of two. We’re celebrating in addition to having a date, so I want us to have a nice evening.”

“Blimey! We’ve not done this in ages, not since the kids were born and you signed the contract as a department solicitor in the Magical Law office.” He looked around and saw no one bothering to look their way. “Do we have the galleons for it?”

“Yes, love, we do, and you can speak normally. I’ve already created a privacy bubble for our table. We can hear everything around us, but nothing flowing out.”

“You mean like the ones we used on our bedroom at home?” She winked with a sinful smile on her face. She looked over his shoulder and Ron turned his head to see their waiter.

“Good evening, my name is Alistair, and I will be your server this evening,” he said at a fast clip.  “Would you like some starters before your meal this evening?”

Hermione picked up the single sheet laminated menu, scanning it. “Yes,” Hermione looked up from the menu. “Could we order chicken drumsticks, French onion soup, and calamari, to start.” She looked up and saw Ron looking gobsmacked. “I mentioned I was peckish.” She turned her attention to the waiter. “And I’d also like a glass of mineral water, for now. And could you also bring some garlic bread, for my French onion soup?”

“Might I suggest drawn butter for the calamari? It is fresh today.”

“That sounds good.”

“Excellent.  And for you, sir?”

“That is for both of us,” He cheeked. “But I’d like a beer with my appetizers.”

The waiter mentioned a particular brand and Ron agreed.

“Very good, sir. I will return with your starters and inquire about your meal.”

The waiter wandered off and Ron scowled. “The bloody hell, Hermione! You never eat that much, like ever. Not even when we were starving.”

“I did when I was pregnant with Hugo, if I might remind you,” she bit back. “Calamari with the French onion soup is delicious. And I did order the chicken drumsticks for you, dear.”

He scowled. “I can order my own, you know?”

“Sorry,” she lowered her eyes. “I guess I was still in work mode, having to dictate to other people who aren’t you or your level of competence, on what to do.”

“Sorted.” He took a deep breath, “’cause I wanted an order of dipping skins.”

“Sorry,” she shrunk a little. “We can order that when the waiter gets back.”

“The maître’d asked for me to speak with you?” another waiter stood at their table. “I am the restaurant sommelier.”

“What do you recommend, in white and red this evening?”

“Well, the Yealands Sauvignon Blanc is excellent, and the Argentinian Malbec is excellent with steak.”

“Then a bottle of the Blanc with our starters, and the Malbec with dinner, please.”

“Those are excellent choices this evening. I will return shortly with them.”

The sommelier left and Hermione saw Ron sitting there across from her, speechless. “You’re touched. You ordered two bottles of wine with dinner? Are you even my wife? This is mental.”

“I am, dear.” She winked. “You had me for lunch yesterday in my office while three junior solicitors were in the next room doing researching for my current case.”

“Hermione!” Ron turned an amazing shade of aubergine. “They were not! And if they were, you let them stay there! They’d heard everything!”

“I’m kidding, Ron. They went down to the ministry canteen for lunch when you walked in to shag me on my desk.”

“And about this meal! We’ve not even ordered our meal yet, much less pudding, and it must be a hundred pounds, at least!”

“I told you, we’re celebrating.” She bit off the rest when the waiter returned with their appetizers and her mineral water. “Now, for your meal, sir, ma’am?”

Ron checked the menu for his dinner entrée, to make sure he ordered right. “I’ll have the ten ounce sliced steak and a jacketed potato, with bacon and butter.”

“Excellent choices, sir. And for you?”

Hermione handed over her menu to the waiter. “I will have the peppered steak and seasoned vegetables. I’d like the steak medium, along with red wine sauce, a side of garlic butter, as well as a goat’s cheese salad, with the dressing on the side and absolutely no mushrooms.”

“Is there anything else, madam?”

Hermione squinted and the waiter smiled weakly.

“I will have those orders in for you shortly.”

The waiter departed and before Ron could open his mouth, the wine steward arrived. “Here is your bottle of Blanc, madame.” He uncorked it and presented it to Hermione. She sniffed it carefully before nodding in approval. “Want to smell the cork?”

Ron grunted. “Your nose is better than mine when it comes to those things.”

The waiter poured a glass of both, waiting with some trepidation. Hermione took a careful sip before smiling. “This is excellent. Thank you.”

“Then I will return when your meal arrives. If you need anything else, please let me know.” The wine waiter left.

“Merlin’s saggy y-fronts, is anyone else going to come to our table to natter about stuff?” Ron took a sip of wine while Hermione smirked slightly. He took a deep breath, seeing that no one else was going to intrude for at least a minute. “Now that we’ll be left alone a bloody moment, what are we celebrating?”

Hermione dipped her spoon into the French onion soup and took a bite. She groaned in appreciation. “Well, you know how the Director was talking retirement about six months ago? How he was sick of playing the politics game between the Purebloods, complaining they’d been maligned long enough, and the younger Directors, who are mostly half? And that he was going to retire to a beach where no one existed except for him?”

“Yeah, sure, and when I asked, you said that you weren’t up for consideration because they normally pick crusty pureblood dodgers who are so grey-headed and blind that they must have been tutors when Dumbledore was a lad. Scrimgour was an outlier, being he was only 75 when he was named Director of MLS.”

“Well, yeah. You said you’d probably have to be a great-grandmother with steel grey hair and slightly touched before they’d even consider you for a Director’s position, especially since your brand of Ministry politics involves perfect logic they can’t refute and a beater’s bat when they try to stand against you.”

“The Ministers decided on who was to be promoted to Director of MLS.” She took a bite of calamari and groaned again. She swallowed that bite and smiled. “I accepted their recommendation and accepted the promotion to Director earlier today.”

“You what!” Ron yelled. He looked around and no one had noticed his exclamation which should have been heard at the Burrow. “Director? My wife! And not even 40 yet!”

“Now you see why we are celebrating. I was in meetings all day, between accepting it, signing the contract for the position, and also speaking with the retiring Director about taking over duties over the next six months.  That’s why I’ve been so incredibly busy the last six weeks, because they were going over every single thing I’ve performed in MLS, from the after-case reports, caseloads, docket dictations – everything. They shoved me through the ringer, raked me over the coals, and tossed me into the fire, trying everything to see that I was the right candidate for the position.”

“But you didn’t say anything!” He picked up a chicken leg and ripped a portion off. “Me, Ron, the love of your life. You could have told me!”

“I didn’t want to get your hopes up, especially in light of how you were treated there, and the Muggleborn bias the ministry still has on the executive level positions. Yes, Kingsley and I have worked tirelessly the last five years slowly changing the hearts and minds in the Ministry but some of the grumpy goats in the Wizengamot still seem to think that only Purebloods of good standing are worthy of being in the highest echelons at the Ministry.” Hermione took a drink of her wine. “Would it be in poor taste if I said I’m waiting for the day when they are replaced permanently?”

“They put you through hell, didn’t they, and you never said a word.”

“Yes they did and no, I didn’t, but I didn’t need to speak about it, did I? I could have sworn you’d figure it out since you’re completely brilliant.”

“I guess I missed the clues for this one.” Ron shook his head. “I wasn’t complaining that we were shagging like rabbits for a month. I should have known something was going on and you needed me for stress relief.” He looked down and saw her soup was gone, and so was the calamari. Her wine glass was also drained. “Please tell me you’re not using a time-turner to eat tonight. I swear a second ago your plates were full.”

“I thought you’d have finished mine by now, frankly.” She reached for the bottle of wine and poured herself a second glass.

“Normally yes, but I’m still shocked at the news. I mean, I know you’re incredible at your job, and your conviction rate is close to perfect – “

“So I lost one case on a technicality. I don’t count that.”

“Yeah, well, but being Director is different, if I understand it. It’s more managing people and the direction of the department, not trying cases as often and having to politic with Kingsley for budget funding and networking and – “

“You’re saying I might not be able to do it,” she asked before taking a sip of her white wine.

“I’m not saying that,” he replied back, almost as rote, “but it’s more politics and budgets and headaches than chasing your passions for equality for non-humans and tearing down the obsolete Pureblood laws on the books. It’s like you’re going into the belly of the beast and wrestling the basilisk from the inside-out. I worry that the stress and pressure from the social requirements will open you up to someone trying to betray you and the work you’re doing.”

“I – “

The sommelier approached the table with the bottle of red wine, presenting the cork to Ron this time. He took it and mimicked what Hermione did with the other one. “Thanks but I have no nose for wine. I leave that to my wife to decide.” Ron handed it over to Hermione and she took a long sniff, smiling. “This will be excellent with dinner.”

The waiter lifted the wineglasses and poured for both, smiling at Ron before departing. “I think he fancies you, dear.”

“Who, the wine waiter? Bloke must know I’m completely taken with you.”

Another waiter arrived to remove the other dishes from the table and a third server brought out their meals and sides.  Ron waited for the servers to dispense their dishes and meals before looking at Hermione. She had cut her portion of steak and tucked in, relishing the first savory bite.

“This must be a dream, because you’re eating like I normally do.”

“I’m sure I won’t be able to finish everything, Ron. You’re the one with the appetite.”

“So tell me how they will transition you into the role. And is this it for you? Or do you want to eventually stand for the Minister’s position.”

“Kingsley is doing a fine job and I still have much to learn from him. But I also have the energy and the passion still for the job I accepted today. It will be an excellent learning experience, how to deal with others in the political realm,” she took a bite of courgette, “and how to deal with people who would smile while they committed treason to see me hang.” Her smile turned vicious. “I have to learn to smile and cut a wizard who won’t support me.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“There are seven members of the Wizengamot who had the bollocks to tell me that if I disappeared tomorrow, they would lift a glass of Odgen’s Reserve to celebrate – and they said that to me in front of Kingsley. Another twelve said that they hope to outlive me so they can pass water on my gravestone.”

“Who are they?” his voice grumbled and Hermione smiled. “I will deal with them myself.”

“No you won’t. Besides, your brother Bill heard them when they said the second. It seems that his standing in the Wizengamot has some benefits. He said something I deigned to not hear and they scrambled away so fast I’d swear they’d embarrassed themselves.”

“Did it help, what he said?”

Hermione put her knife and fork down, her meal barely touched. “I’m not worried about the ones who talk bluster and then don’t do a thing about it. If I didn’t have any enemies in the Wizengamot, I’d be concerned.” She took a sip of red wine and picked up the linen napkin to wipe her lips. “No, I’m more concerned about the ones who work for me, like that sod Michael Selwyn. He’s the golden boy of the Magical Law Service and tapped to take my associate’s position. He has no qualms kissing my ass, or trying to, but I also hear that his entire career goal is to nullify and reverse every single thing I’ve done since I stepped into the Ministry. I never thought I’d say this but this tosser makes Malfoy look like a Muggle lover.”

“Wow. For you to say that is something.”

“I deal with Malfoy, from time to time, in my job and while he’s not my favorite person to deal with, he is still friends with our daughter. I rather deal with Astoria and I do correspond with her about twice a week regarding the children. But he’s miles more civil than Selwyn is.”

“Is Malfoy still a bottom feeding twat?”

Hermione sat back with her glass of wine, sitting quietly while thinking.  “You could say so. He’s more civil now, but you can tell he’s dying to say something cheeky to me. Astoria is lovely but she must be daft because I can’t see what she sees in that git. Maybe he learned to treat people decently and I can’t see it. I have to remember that he’s a grown man, with a family, and earned his place at St. Mungo’s. No one gave him a thing after the war so I have to respect it, at least professionally. All of that makes him considerably better than that twit Selwyn.”

“Hermione, not to interrupt, but are you done eating?”

She looked down at her plate arrangement and then looked up at Ron.  She had maybe four bites of her steak, only a small amount of her vegetables, and had ignored the garlic bread still left on the table. “I think I am,” she swirled her wineglass.

Ron grinned and pulled her plate over, switching it for his empty one. “It must be the wine talking. I don’t get how you are still such a lightweight.” He tucked into another piece of steak, groaning in appreciation. “I thought you’d be able to drink like a fish now.”

“Maybe my eyes were bigger than my stomach? I could have sworn I’d be able to finish it all. I certainly was hungry enough earlier to eat a hippogriff.”

“Or maybe it’s the wine,” he cheeked back. “And you did mention going out dancing after dinner. I’m sure we can get you more wine there, or something stronger.” He waggled his eyebrows and she drank down the rest of her wine, a small amount sloshing over her lips. She licked them and he felt the first tightness in his trousers.

“Will you be sober enough to get us home if I do,” she pulled her purse from her other hip and opened it, showing a small vial of pink potion, “because if you’re going to get inebriated at the club, I need to take this now.”

“I’ll be sober enough for us to get to the club. You deserve a night of celebrating and being slightly pissed.” He plunked another bite of steak into his mouth. “Well, as Director, why don’t you have an Auror on duty shadowing us?”

“I am not officially Director for six months. There’s the transition time to it.”

“So we’re going out for dinner and dancing to celebrate something six months from now? I get that.”

“Love, I signed the magical contract. I’m getting my new pay scale starting today.”

Ron picked up his glass and drained the rest of the wine in one gulp. “You’re full of shit.”

She shook her head. “Far from it, love. That’s why it took so long. I knew how much Cavendish was making, down to the knut. They tried to browbeat me into taking 500 galleons a month less than Cavendish. I told them they could find someone else for that bullshit, since I was already making that amount as assistant director. Why would I take a Director’s position for no pay increase?” She reached for the wine bottle and poured another glass. “I had one who was quite passive-aggressive, while not actually saying it directly, that I might be overpaid since I wasn’t worth warm piss in a grotty book. I ignored him since he’s a pain in the arse anyway. But the rest? I think they were gobsmacked that I was already making so much. When I brought up my credentials, my court record, my legislative record, and all the work I have done the last 15 years in the department and in the Ministry, they backed off quite a bit. But the one git in particular got my temper up, with his insult, that I refused the amount they were paying Cavendish.”

“You what!”

She winked.  “Yeah. I told them that since they lowballed me, I told them I wanted 15% more than Cavendish was paid. Eventually, they gave in.”

“How the bloody fuck did you manage that?”

Hermione smiled, the one that promised a passionate fuck later that night.  Ron shifted in his seat while trying to take the pressure off of his now constricted bits. “I mentioned to them that I was the only one in the room, besides the retiring Director, who had never been brought before the Wizengamot on corruption charges. It seems that was an excellent leverage point with them.”

“Bloody fuck! Did it work?”

“It did, especially when I mentioned the Lestrange case and the Malfoy case.”

“Oh fuck,” Ron drank the last of his wine and reached for the bottle to pour a second glass. Unlike Hermione, Ron could hold his weight in alcohol and rarely had a hangover now. “That was cruel and manipulative and fucking brilliant.” He held his glass out to his wife and they clinked glasses.

“They deserved to be called out for trying to insult me. Nonetheless, I am sure that word will spread that I did that today and there will be plenty trying to sabotage my efforts.”

“What do you have in mind to do, love?”

Hermione looked up at the waiter standing at the table, smiling once again. “Would either of you care for dessert, perhaps a slice of cheesecake to share or an after-dinner aperitif from the bar, perhaps?”

“Ron, a dessert for you, perhaps?”

Ron smiled. “A piece of chocolate orange indulgence cake, please.”

“I think I will finish the wine as my dessert tonight.”

“Excellent,” the waiter took three plates from the table and departed.

“Now back to what we were saying, love.”

“Kingsley and I have done plenty of work the last ten years but there is still plenty we need to do.”

“Such as?”

“Well, I want to look at how the Wizengamot allots their seats. I’m not blind. I see that the bulk of the seats are held by Pureblood families or wealthy ones. It reminds me of the Muggle House of Lords, where there is a peerage is granted by who is in power, and that they hold onto it for as long as they want, unlike the jostling in the Muggle side.”

“You think it’s dominated by Purebloods, even if it’s been 20 years now?”

“I do. I wrote a white paper on it a year ago, for Director Cavendish, which was signed off on by Justin Finch-Fletchley for the Wizengamot, over how the bulk of those in the Wizengamot hold onto their seats by political donations, and keep their places even if they are convicted of abuse, corruption, fraud – whatever. That needs to change. Justin already said he would stand for the new legislation once I present it before the Wizengamot.”

“Bill would support you. I know he will.”

“Yes, but Bill is only one of fifty one. There’s at least a third of them who, if they could get away with it, would execute me and be celebrated that night for disposing of me.”

“You keep bringing that up.” Ron stopped when he saw the waiter walking towards their table with the pudding on the tray.

“Here you are, sir: chocolate orange indulgence cake.” Ron watched the waiter scowling slightly before departing.

“What’s that bloke’s problem?” Ron pulled the fork off of the plate and tore into his cake.

“I’m not worried about him, Ron. I’m worried about how much the Ministry will push back against the reforms I want to enact and present in the next five years. It’s better than it was when we were just starting but it has a long way to go. I don’t want the recalcitrant purebloods stopping the reforms because they feel threatened, when the proposals I have will help them, long-term.”

“And Kingsley? Will he be supportive of your efforts?” Ron said through a mouthful of cake, savoring the taste.

“Absolutely! While he is a Pureblood, Andromeda has quietly swayed him to these reforms, especially the ones benefiting those who are anything but Pureblood. Teddy seems to have made an impact in the Ministry, especially the year he served in the Wizengamot after being named Head Boy at Hogwarts. His lineage helped, but since he’s also a cousin of Draco, that helped, too.

“You really should try a bite. It’s excellent, better than Mum’s chocolate cake.”

“And I will,” she mentioned when he waved a spoonful of pudding her way. She took it, licking the delicacy and moaning. “Oh this is decadent. It tastes like they put expensive orange liqueur in the sauce.”

“I plan on making it this week for us, if you can make it home after work one night.”

“I’m not that busy,” She saw him giving her a dirty look, “or maybe I am. How about if I adjust my schedule so I’m home two nights at the normal time this week?”

“Two nights?” Ron offered a predatory smile over his wineglass. “I really need to discuss with you the establishment of work and personal boundaries when it comes to work. If you recall, Kingsley had to send you home for a fortnight many times, because you threw yourself into work when I was off on missions. He told me there are half a dozen times he forced you on leave when you were working too much while I was gone.”

“That was in the first years, Ron, before we married and had children.”

“And now that our kids are off at Hogwarts,” He looked around and saw no one snooping close enough to potentially over-hear them, he continued, “you are going to throw yourself back into work. But what if I want some time home with my wife, wearing nothing and drinking wine and laughing at something completely barmy?”

“How about this, then: three nights a week, and at least 2 Friday nights a month? You know the Ministry Law Service is on duty at all hours, just like Aurors are. There’s been plenty of months where Harry has been at work for 120 hours a week, only going home for a shower and a change of clothes.”

“Does that mean going into work at six am and working 12 hour days, and also putting in appearances at Ministry affairs when Kingsley needs you?” The look he gave her made her realize he knew what her life was about to turn into.

“I don’t plan on appearing at all of them,” she whigned before reaching for the wine bottle, pouring the last of the bottle in the glass. Between the two of them, they’d consumed both bottles. “That’s why I have assistants, who can go put in appearances, with one or two who will report back to me what that sniveling git Selwyn says.”

“You think he’ll try to sabotage you within the first year?”

She finished the last bit of wine and put the glass down before picking up the napkin to wipe her mouth. “Actually, I will be disappointed if he’s not tried it within the first six months. I look forward to making him redundant, no matter how much the family will protest. At least I know he will try. I don’t know who else will, though. That’s a problem.”

“Will there be anything else, ma’am?”

Hermione looked up at the sullen waiter. “No, thank you. Dinner was excellent and so was the service.” He handed over a leather bill holder to Hermione and she saw Ron staring at the departing waiter’s back. “He could smile a little more,” he grumped.

“Maybe he’s being a git because you didn’t flirt with him.”

“Sorry, but he’s so not my type. I have one. It’s you. Everyone else pales in comparison.”

Hermione scanned the bill twice before reaching for her billfold and pulled out a sparkling credit card. Ron recognized it as the Weasley Wizarding Wheeze’s personal credit line account.  “Do I even want to know what the bill came out to?” Ron asked while finishing off his glass of wine and the last bite of pudding.

“It rang up about what I expected, for a celebratory dinner: about two hundred pounds or so, not counting gratuity for the waiter and the sommelier.”

“You mean we have to pay the wine guy too? That’s a load of rubbish.”

“Oh, no, no dear. His pay is a percentage of every bottle of wine sold. He made his night from us and the couple at the next table. Theirs was considerably more expensive wine and champagne.”

“So why didn’t we order that for us?” The waiter came over at her eye-contact with him and he departed to process their check. “Didn’t you tell me champagne was for celebrations?”

“Well, yes, but I had Miranda send a bottle back to our residence for when we get home. We will properly celebrate there, after we go dancing.”

“You still want to go dancing, after this meal we had? Merlin, I’m ready for a kip.”

Hermione reached into her purse and pulled out a different vial. It glowed florescent pink, in a virulent shade. “You recognize this, right?”

He grinned. “I do.”

“Once we’re outside, after I’ve signed for the meal, we’ll injest this. We’ll go to the club and have maybe two or three hours dancing before we take it home for even more fun.”

“When was the last time you took that potion, Hermione? You know those are addictive, just like I do.”

The waiter returned with her card and the receipts. He scowled again before leaving. “I’ve not had a vial of pepper up potion in six weeks. The only reason I’m considering it for tonight is due to the fact that I’ve been awake since 5am and I don’t plan on falling asleep completely until 5 am tomorrow morning.” Hermione finished her signature with a flourish on the receipt before pocketing the other one. She stood with Ron coming up behind her. She leaned into his chest, looking like she was slightly off-balance. “It won’t seem real until I celebrate with you, at home, with you fucking my brains out.” She leaned back from him, smiling demurely. “Ready?”

They departed the restaurant, intent on swinging around a wooden dance floor to some special kind of magic before retiring for the night.

[divagonzo]

Can I get that with?

Ao3 // FF.net // Sinfully-Romione

A/N: Now that Author reveals have happened, I can post this. Rated T/15 and for my Aces, cavet emptor. My lovely thanks to @coyotelaughingsoftly for hosting the fest and to the winners. Read-More to the links because it’s over 6K. My apologies to anyone on Mobile. - DG

No one saw the couple apparate into an alley behind a block of buildings in the heart of London. Muggles mistook the buildings surrounding them for being derelict but St. Mungo’s wasn’t ever busy on a Tuesday night. For the couple, it was also the only night their schedules meshed in the last 10 days and were both free for the next four.

Ron stepped out first, wand carefully concealed in his hand under his jacket while Hermione stood behind him, peering around him to appear like they were a loving couple walking to dinner in London. They took off, walking with a purpose, with Ron easily keeping up with Hermione’s pace.

“So where are we going?”

“I wanted to take you out on a real date. You’ve been waiting on me patiently for the last six weeks, considering how busy I’ve been. So, I thought we’d go out for dinner. I asked and one of the other directors mentioned this restaurant and said they have really good food. Besides,” she walked hand in hand with him, setting a pace he wasn’t uncomfortable with, “the kids are back in school so we don’t have to hurry home so your Mum can go to bed.”

Ron stopped. “You don’t like my cooking anymore?”

Hermione stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “Oh Ron, I love your cooking, but I wanted us to have a proper date out.”

He pulled her close, kissing her head. “You mean one where we actually have clothes on, surrounded by other adults and having meaningful discussions involving your work or mine? That sounds like a load of bunk.”

Hermione squeezed his hand. “Not like I don’t like our arrangements at home, when I am home,” she kept her eyes forward but a grin on her face, considering their Friday night date night at home, when they kids were off at school, involved plenty of wine and no clothes and anything that happened, happened, “but I thought you’d enjoy a night out of the kitchen.”

“But I like cooking for us, Hermione. And I do miss the kids when they are away at school.”

“I do too but I also know that you like going out on dates, where we dress up some and have fun.”

“So we’re out on a date because – “

“I wanted us to have dinner and maybe dancing and who knows what else?” She glanced at her husband of 20 years and smirked. “I wholly intend the night to end with us being shed of clothes doing things that we both enjoy.”

“Now that’s a plan I can get behind. Now where are we going?”

“It’s a really nice restaurant that serves steaks and has decadent desserts.”

“And dancing?”

“There’s the club on Diagon Alley. Tonight they have some jazz music you like so much.”

“Is that why you asked me to wear my nicer shirt and trousers?”

“Well, if we are going to be out,” she smiled, “I do want my husband to look fit, to make the other birds jealous of us.”

“Hermione, that broom flew away years ago. No one’s hit on me in years, not since the kids were shorter than you. The last one that hit on me was at that Ministry party years ago and she somehow ended up with a roaring case of the giggles, laughing for five minutes because no one could correctly do the counter-curse.”

“Well, she shouldn’t have been so inebriated that she kissed you without asking,” she said sternly.

“But she did ask?”

Hermione stopped short. “She walked up to you, said you were the finest bloke at the party, full-on snogged  you, right in front of me, then had the audacity to fondle your bits. She’s fortunate that I only did a non-verbal giggle jinx on her rather than put her in Azkaban for sexual assault on you.”

“She was drunk and did it for a laugh,” he retorted.

Hermione stepped in close, pressing him into the lamppost behind him. She smiled and it was the one that betrayed the frightening side of her that she kept well-guarded and under control, and secretly enhanced his bits. “I’m the only one,” she surreptitiously fondled his bits and he gulped, “who gets to touch these. I’m the only one who can truly appreciate the power this wand holds. I’m the only one who can control the power of this wand.” She squeezed for half a second and he yelped. She smirked. “And I’m the only one who is allowed to touch you that way.”

“Sorted,” he shook his head. She stepped back and he adjusted his trousers. “You know, you can still be quite frightening; incredibly sexy and fucking frightening.”

“I’m glad you agree. Now let’s get to dinner. I’m peckish.” Hermione took off and he was left standing dumbfounded.

“You?” He walked fast to catch up with his wife and saw the restaurant entrance just ahead. “Did you forget to eat breakfast and lunch again today?”

“I was in meetings most of the day, with the other directors, and got called away for another when the rest went off for lunch.”

“Hermione, you know better.”

“I know. That’s why I’d asked Miranda to make reservations and owled you at 4.”

He stepped up to the door and let Hermione in, following her to the hostess station.

A young man walked up to the hostess station, wearing a smile that didn’t fit his eyes. He was dressed in a properly cut muggle suit, with bright red tie. “May I help you?”

“You have reservations for Granger, party of two. My assistant called earlier.”

The sullen host looked in the reservations book. “Yes, we do. Please follow me.”

They trailed through the restaurant, garnering some looks from other patrons passing. Hermione, before leaving her office at the Ministry, removed her over-cloak and boots and put on a sharp navy suit and heels, adding 2 precious inches to her height, to match Ron slightly. Hermione found a shop that routinely carried his size clothing and he benefited from looking sharp when he wasn’t working for George. His navy blazer and trousers fit well, unlike what he had growing up.

“Here we are:  a table for two away from the bar, like your assistant requested. Is there anything else for the moment?”

“Would you send the sommelier over? We would like recommendations to accompany our dinner this evening.”

“Of course,” he smiled again, showing teeth that her parents would be proud of, before they sat down.

“Wine? Are you thinking of ordering a whole bottle of wine with our dinner?”

“Actually, I’m thinking of two. We’re celebrating in addition to having a date, so I want us to have a nice evening.”

“Blimey! We’ve not done this in ages, not since the kids were born and you signed the contract as a department solicitor in the Magical Law office.” He looked around and saw no one bothering to look their way. “Do we have the galleons for it?”

“Yes, love, we do, and you can speak normally. I’ve already created a privacy bubble for our table. We can hear everything around us, but nothing flowing out.”

“You mean like the ones we used on our bedroom at home?” She winked with a sinful smile on her face. She looked over his shoulder and Ron turned his head to see their waiter.

“Good evening, my name is Alistair, and I will be your server this evening,” he said at a fast clip.  “Would you like some starters before your meal this evening?”

Hermione picked up the single sheet laminated menu, scanning it. “Yes,” Hermione looked up from the menu. “Could we order chicken drumsticks, French onion soup, and calamari, to start.” She looked up and saw Ron looking gobsmacked. “I mentioned I was peckish.” She turned her attention to the waiter. “And I’d also like a glass of mineral water, for now. And could you also bring some garlic bread, for my French onion soup?”

“Might I suggest drawn butter for the calamari? It is fresh today.”

“That sounds good.”

“Excellent.  And for you, sir?”

“That is for both of us,” He cheeked. “But I’d like a beer with my appetizers.”

The waiter mentioned a particular brand and Ron agreed.

“Very good, sir. I will return with your starters and inquire about your meal.”

The waiter wandered off and Ron scowled. “The bloody hell, Hermione! You never eat that much, like ever. Not even when we were starving.”

“I did when I was pregnant with Hugo, if I might remind you,” she bit back. “Calamari with the French onion soup is delicious. And I did order the chicken drumsticks for you, dear.”

He scowled. “I can order my own, you know?”

“Sorry,” she lowered her eyes. “I guess I was still in work mode, having to dictate to other people who aren’t you or your level of competence, on what to do.”

“Sorted.” He took a deep breath, “’cause I wanted an order of dipping skins.”

“Sorry,” she shrunk a little. “We can order that when the waiter gets back.”

“The maître’d asked for me to speak with you?” another waiter stood at their table. “I am the restaurant sommelier.”

“What do you recommend, in white and red this evening?”

“Well, the Yealands Sauvignon Blanc is excellent, and the Argentinian Malbec is excellent with steak.”

“Then a bottle of the Blanc with our starters, and the Malbec with dinner, please.”

“Those are excellent choices this evening. I will return shortly with them.”

The sommelier left and Hermione saw Ron sitting there across from her, speechless. “You’re touched. You ordered two bottles of wine with dinner? Are you even my wife? This is mental.”

“I am, dear.” She winked. “You had me for lunch yesterday in my office while three junior solicitors were in the next room doing researching for my current case.”

“Hermione!” Ron turned an amazing shade of aubergine. “They were not! And if they were, you let them stay there! They’d heard everything!”

“I’m kidding, Ron. They went down to the ministry canteen for lunch when you walked in to shag me on my desk.”

“And about this meal! We’ve not even ordered our meal yet, much less pudding, and it must be a hundred pounds, at least!”

“I told you, we’re celebrating.” She bit off the rest when the waiter returned with their appetizers and her mineral water. “Now, for your meal, sir, ma’am?”

Ron checked the menu for his dinner entrée, to make sure he ordered right. “I’ll have the ten ounce sliced steak and a jacketed potato, with bacon and butter.”

“Excellent choices, sir. And for you?”

Hermione handed over her menu to the waiter. “I will have the peppered steak and seasoned vegetables. I’d like the steak medium, along with red wine sauce, a side of garlic butter, as well as a goat’s cheese salad, with the dressing on the side and absolutely no mushrooms.”

“Is there anything else, madam?”

Hermione squinted and the waiter smiled weakly.

“I will have those orders in for you shortly.”

The waiter departed and before Ron could open his mouth, the wine steward arrived. “Here is your bottle of Blanc, madame.” He uncorked it and presented it to Hermione. She sniffed it carefully before nodding in approval. “Want to smell the cork?”

Ron grunted. “Your nose is better than mine when it comes to those things.”

The waiter poured a glass of both, waiting with some trepidation. Hermione took a careful sip before smiling. “This is excellent. Thank you.”

“Then I will return when your meal arrives. If you need anything else, please let me know.” The wine waiter left.

“Merlin’s saggy y-fronts, is anyone else going to come to our table to natter about stuff?” Ron took a sip of wine while Hermione smirked slightly. He took a deep breath, seeing that no one else was going to intrude for at least a minute. “Now that we’ll be left alone a bloody moment, what are we celebrating?”

Hermione dipped her spoon into the French onion soup and took a bite. She groaned in appreciation. “Well, you know how the Director was talking retirement about six months ago? How he was sick of playing the politics game between the Purebloods, complaining they’d been maligned long enough, and the younger Directors, who are mostly half? And that he was going to retire to a beach where no one existed except for him?”

“Yeah, sure, and when I asked, you said that you weren’t up for consideration because they normally pick crusty pureblood dodgers who are so grey-headed and blind that they must have been tutors when Dumbledore was a lad. Scrimgour was an outlier, being he was only 75 when he was named Director of MLS.”

“Well, yeah. You said you’d probably have to be a great-grandmother with steel grey hair and slightly touched before they’d even consider you for a Director’s position, especially since your brand of Ministry politics involves perfect logic they can’t refute and a beater’s bat when they try to stand against you.”

“The Ministers decided on who was to be promoted to Director of MLS.” She took a bite of calamari and groaned again. She swallowed that bite and smiled. “I accepted their recommendation and accepted the promotion to Director earlier today.”

“You what!” Ron yelled. He looked around and no one had noticed his exclamation which should have been heard at the Burrow. “Director? My wife! And not even 40 yet!”

“Now you see why we are celebrating. I was in meetings all day, between accepting it, signing the contract for the position, and also speaking with the retiring Director about taking over duties over the next six months.  That’s why I’ve been so incredibly busy the last six weeks, because they were going over every single thing I’ve performed in MLS, from the after-case reports, caseloads, docket dictations – everything. They shoved me through the ringer, raked me over the coals, and tossed me into the fire, trying everything to see that I was the right candidate for the position.”

“But you didn’t say anything!” He picked up a chicken leg and ripped a portion off. “Me, Ron, the love of your life. You could have told me!”

“I didn’t want to get your hopes up, especially in light of how you were treated there, and the Muggleborn bias the ministry still has on the executive level positions. Yes, Kingsley and I have worked tirelessly the last five years slowly changing the hearts and minds in the Ministry but some of the grumpy goats in the Wizengamot still seem to think that only Purebloods of good standing are worthy of being in the highest echelons at the Ministry.” Hermione took a drink of her wine. “Would it be in poor taste if I said I’m waiting for the day when they are replaced permanently?”

“They put you through hell, didn’t they, and you never said a word.”

“Yes they did and no, I didn’t, but I didn’t need to speak about it, did I? I could have sworn you’d figure it out since you’re completely brilliant.”

“I guess I missed the clues for this one.” Ron shook his head. “I wasn’t complaining that we were shagging like rabbits for a month. I should have known something was going on and you needed me for stress relief.” He looked down and saw her soup was gone, and so was the calamari. Her wine glass was also drained. “Please tell me you’re not using a time-turner to eat tonight. I swear a second ago your plates were full.”

“I thought you’d have finished mine by now, frankly.” She reached for the bottle of wine and poured herself a second glass.

“Normally yes, but I’m still shocked at the news. I mean, I know you’re incredible at your job, and your conviction rate is close to perfect – “

“So I lost one case on a technicality. I don’t count that.”

“Yeah, well, but being Director is different, if I understand it. It’s more managing people and the direction of the department, not trying cases as often and having to politic with Kingsley for budget funding and networking and – “

“You’re saying I might not be able to do it,” she asked before taking a sip of her white wine.

“I’m not saying that,” he replied back, almost as rote, “but it’s more politics and budgets and headaches than chasing your passions for equality for non-humans and tearing down the obsolete Pureblood laws on the books. It’s like you’re going into the belly of the beast and wrestling the basilisk from the inside-out. I worry that the stress and pressure from the social requirements will open you up to someone trying to betray you and the work you’re doing.”

“I – “

The sommelier approached the table with the bottle of red wine, presenting the cork to Ron this time. He took it and mimicked what Hermione did with the other one. “Thanks but I have no nose for wine. I leave that to my wife to decide.” Ron handed it over to Hermione and she took a long sniff, smiling. “This will be excellent with dinner.”

The waiter lifted the wineglasses and poured for both, smiling at Ron before departing. “I think he fancies you, dear.”

“Who, the wine waiter? Bloke must know I’m completely taken with you.”

Another waiter arrived to remove the other dishes from the table and a third server brought out their meals and sides.  Ron waited for the servers to dispense their dishes and meals before looking at Hermione. She had cut her portion of steak and tucked in, relishing the first savory bite.

“This must be a dream, because you’re eating like I normally do.”

“I’m sure I won’t be able to finish everything, Ron. You’re the one with the appetite.”

“So tell me how they will transition you into the role. And is this it for you? Or do you want to eventually stand for the Minister’s position.”

“Kingsley is doing a fine job and I still have much to learn from him. But I also have the energy and the passion still for the job I accepted today. It will be an excellent learning experience, how to deal with others in the political realm,” she took a bite of courgette, “and how to deal with people who would smile while they committed treason to see me hang.” Her smile turned vicious. “I have to learn to smile and cut a wizard who won’t support me.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“There are seven members of the Wizengamot who had the bollocks to tell me that if I disappeared tomorrow, they would lift a glass of Odgen’s Reserve to celebrate – and they said that to me in front of Kingsley. Another twelve said that they hope to outlive me so they can pass water on my gravestone.”

“Who are they?” his voice grumbled and Hermione smiled. “I will deal with them myself.”

“No you won’t. Besides, your brother Bill heard them when they said the second. It seems that his standing in the Wizengamot has some benefits. He said something I deigned to not hear and they scrambled away so fast I’d swear they’d embarrassed themselves.”

“Did it help, what he said?”

Hermione put her knife and fork down, her meal barely touched. “I’m not worried about the ones who talk bluster and then don’t do a thing about it. If I didn’t have any enemies in the Wizengamot, I’d be concerned.” She took a sip of red wine and picked up the linen napkin to wipe her lips. “No, I’m more concerned about the ones who work for me, like that sod Michael Selwyn. He’s the golden boy of the Magical Law Service and tapped to take my associate’s position. He has no qualms kissing my ass, or trying to, but I also hear that his entire career goal is to nullify and reverse every single thing I’ve done since I stepped into the Ministry. I never thought I’d say this but this tosser makes Malfoy look like a Muggle lover.”

“Wow. For you to say that is something.”

“I deal with Malfoy, from time to time, in my job and while he’s not my favorite person to deal with, he is still friends with our daughter. I rather deal with Astoria and I do correspond with her about twice a week regarding the children. But he’s miles more civil than Selwyn is.”

“Is Malfoy still a bottom feeding twat?”

Hermione sat back with her glass of wine, sitting quietly while thinking.  “You could say so. He’s more civil now, but you can tell he’s dying to say something cheeky to me. Astoria is lovely but she must be daft because I can’t see what she sees in that git. Maybe he learned to treat people decently and I can’t see it. I have to remember that he’s a grown man, with a family, and earned his place at St. Mungo’s. No one gave him a thing after the war so I have to respect it, at least professionally. All of that makes him considerably better than that twit Selwyn.”

“Hermione, not to interrupt, but are you done eating?”

She looked down at her plate arrangement and then looked up at Ron.  She had maybe four bites of her steak, only a small amount of her vegetables, and had ignored the garlic bread still left on the table. “I think I am,” she swirled her wineglass.

Ron grinned and pulled her plate over, switching it for his empty one. “It must be the wine talking. I don’t get how you are still such a lightweight.” He tucked into another piece of steak, groaning in appreciation. “I thought you’d be able to drink like a fish now.”

“Maybe my eyes were bigger than my stomach? I could have sworn I’d be able to finish it all. I certainly was hungry enough earlier to eat a hippogriff.”

“Or maybe it’s the wine,” he cheeked back. “And you did mention going out dancing after dinner. I’m sure we can get you more wine there, or something stronger.” He waggled his eyebrows and she drank down the rest of her wine, a small amount sloshing over her lips. She licked them and he felt the first tightness in his trousers.

“Will you be sober enough to get us home if I do,” she pulled her purse from her other hip and opened it, showing a small vial of pink potion, “because if you’re going to get inebriated at the club, I need to take this now.”

“I’ll be sober enough for us to get to the club. You deserve a night of celebrating and being slightly pissed.” He plunked another bite of steak into his mouth. “Well, as Director, why don’t you have an Auror on duty shadowing us?”

“I am not officially Director for six months. There’s the transition time to it.”

“So we’re going out for dinner and dancing to celebrate something six months from now? I get that.”

“Love, I signed the magical contract. I’m getting my new pay scale starting today.”

Ron picked up his glass and drained the rest of the wine in one gulp. “You’re full of shit.”

She shook her head. “Far from it, love. That’s why it took so long. I knew how much Cavendish was making, down to the knut. They tried to browbeat me into taking 500 galleons a month less than Cavendish. I told them they could find someone else for that bullshit, since I was already making that amount as assistant director. Why would I take a Director’s position for no pay increase?” She reached for the wine bottle and poured another glass. “I had one who was quite passive-aggressive, while not actually saying it directly, that I might be overpaid since I wasn’t worth warm piss in a grotty book. I ignored him since he’s a pain in the arse anyway. But the rest? I think they were gobsmacked that I was already making so much. When I brought up my credentials, my court record, my legislative record, and all the work I have done the last 15 years in the department and in the Ministry, they backed off quite a bit. But the one git in particular got my temper up, with his insult, that I refused the amount they were paying Cavendish.”

“You what!”

She winked.  “Yeah. I told them that since they lowballed me, I told them I wanted 15% more than Cavendish was paid. Eventually, they gave in.”

“How the bloody fuck did you manage that?”

Hermione smiled, the one that promised a passionate fuck later that night.  Ron shifted in his seat while trying to take the pressure off of his now constricted bits. “I mentioned to them that I was the only one in the room, besides the retiring Director, who had never been brought before the Wizengamot on corruption charges. It seems that was an excellent leverage point with them.”

“Bloody fuck! Did it work?”

“It did, especially when I mentioned the Lestrange case and the Malfoy case.”

“Oh fuck,” Ron drank the last of his wine and reached for the bottle to pour a second glass. Unlike Hermione, Ron could hold his weight in alcohol and rarely had a hangover now. “That was cruel and manipulative and fucking brilliant.” He held his glass out to his wife and they clinked glasses.

“They deserved to be called out for trying to insult me. Nonetheless, I am sure that word will spread that I did that today and there will be plenty trying to sabotage my efforts.”

“What do you have in mind to do, love?”

Hermione looked up at the waiter standing at the table, smiling once again. “Would either of you care for dessert, perhaps a slice of cheesecake to share or an after-dinner aperitif from the bar, perhaps?”

“Ron, a dessert for you, perhaps?”

Ron smiled. “A piece of chocolate orange indulgence cake, please.”

“I think I will finish the wine as my dessert tonight.”

“Excellent,” the waiter took three plates from the table and departed.

“Now back to what we were saying, love.”

“Kingsley and I have done plenty of work the last ten years but there is still plenty we need to do.”

“Such as?”

“Well, I want to look at how the Wizengamot allots their seats. I’m not blind. I see that the bulk of the seats are held by Pureblood families or wealthy ones. It reminds me of the Muggle House of Lords, where there is a peerage is granted by who is in power, and that they hold onto it for as long as they want, unlike the jostling in the Muggle side.”

“You think it’s dominated by Purebloods, even if it’s been 20 years now?”

“I do. I wrote a white paper on it a year ago, for Director Cavendish, which was signed off on by Justin Finch-Fletchley for the Wizengamot, over how the bulk of those in the Wizengamot hold onto their seats by political donations, and keep their places even if they are convicted of abuse, corruption, fraud – whatever. That needs to change. Justin already said he would stand for the new legislation once I present it before the Wizengamot.”

“Bill would support you. I know he will.”

“Yes, but Bill is only one of fifty one. There’s at least a third of them who, if they could get away with it, would execute me and be celebrated that night for disposing of me.”

“You keep bringing that up.” Ron stopped when he saw the waiter walking towards their table with the pudding on the tray.

“Here you are, sir: chocolate orange indulgence cake.” Ron watched the waiter scowling slightly before departing.

“What’s that bloke’s problem?” Ron pulled the fork off of the plate and tore into his cake.

“I’m not worried about him, Ron. I’m worried about how much the Ministry will push back against the reforms I want to enact and present in the next five years. It’s better than it was when we were just starting but it has a long way to go. I don’t want the recalcitrant purebloods stopping the reforms because they feel threatened, when the proposals I have will help them, long-term.”

“And Kingsley? Will he be supportive of your efforts?” Ron said through a mouthful of cake, savoring the taste.

“Absolutely! While he is a Pureblood, Andromeda has quietly swayed him to these reforms, especially the ones benefiting those who are anything but Pureblood. Teddy seems to have made an impact in the Ministry, especially the year he served in the Wizengamot after being named Head Boy at Hogwarts. His lineage helped, but since he’s also a cousin of Draco, that helped, too.

“You really should try a bite. It’s excellent, better than Mum’s chocolate cake.”

“And I will,” she mentioned when he waved a spoonful of pudding her way. She took it, licking the delicacy and moaning. “Oh this is decadent. It tastes like they put expensive orange liqueur in the sauce.”

“I plan on making it this week for us, if you can make it home after work one night.”

“I’m not that busy,” She saw him giving her a dirty look, “or maybe I am. How about if I adjust my schedule so I’m home two nights at the normal time this week?”

“Two nights?” Ron offered a predatory smile over his wineglass. “I really need to discuss with you the establishment of work and personal boundaries when it comes to work. If you recall, Kingsley had to send you home for a fortnight many times, because you threw yourself into work when I was off on missions. He told me there are half a dozen times he forced you on leave when you were working too much while I was gone.”

“That was in the first years, Ron, before we married and had children.”

“And now that our kids are off at Hogwarts,” He looked around and saw no one snooping close enough to potentially over-hear them, he continued, “you are going to throw yourself back into work. But what if I want some time home with my wife, wearing nothing and drinking wine and laughing at something completely barmy?”

“How about this, then: three nights a week, and at least 2 Friday nights a month? You know the Ministry Law Service is on duty at all hours, just like Aurors are. There’s been plenty of months where Harry has been at work for 120 hours a week, only going home for a shower and a change of clothes.”

“Does that mean going into work at six am and working 12 hour days, and also putting in appearances at Ministry affairs when Kingsley needs you?” The look he gave her made her realize he knew what her life was about to turn into.

“I don’t plan on appearing at all of them,” she whigned before reaching for the wine bottle, pouring the last of the bottle in the glass. Between the two of them, they’d consumed both bottles. “That’s why I have assistants, who can go put in appearances, with one or two who will report back to me what that sniveling git Selwyn says.”

“You think he’ll try to sabotage you within the first year?”

She finished the last bit of wine and put the glass down before picking up the napkin to wipe her mouth. “Actually, I will be disappointed if he’s not tried it within the first six months. I look forward to making him redundant, no matter how much the family will protest. At least I know he will try. I don’t know who else will, though. That’s a problem.”

“Will there be anything else, ma’am?”

Hermione looked up at the sullen waiter. “No, thank you. Dinner was excellent and so was the service.” He handed over a leather bill holder to Hermione and she saw Ron staring at the departing waiter’s back. “He could smile a little more,” he grumped.

“Maybe he’s being a git because you didn’t flirt with him.”

“Sorry, but he’s so not my type. I have one. It’s you. Everyone else pales in comparison.”

Hermione scanned the bill twice before reaching for her billfold and pulled out a sparkling credit card. Ron recognized it as the Weasley Wizarding Wheeze’s personal credit line account.  “Do I even want to know what the bill came out to?” Ron asked while finishing off his glass of wine and the last bite of pudding.

“It rang up about what I expected, for a celebratory dinner: about two hundred pounds or so, not counting gratuity for the waiter and the sommelier.”

“You mean we have to pay the wine guy too? That’s a load of rubbish.”

“Oh, no, no dear. His pay is a percentage of every bottle of wine sold. He made his night from us and the couple at the next table. Theirs was considerably more expensive wine and champagne.”

“So why didn’t we order that for us?” The waiter came over at her eye-contact with him and he departed to process their check. “Didn’t you tell me champagne was for celebrations?”

“Well, yes, but I had Miranda send a bottle back to our residence for when we get home. We will properly celebrate there, after we go dancing.”

“You still want to go dancing, after this meal we had? Merlin, I’m ready for a kip.”

Hermione reached into her purse and pulled out a different vial. It glowed florescent pink, in a virulent shade. “You recognize this, right?”

He grinned. “I do.”

“Once we’re outside, after I’ve signed for the meal, we’ll injest this. We’ll go to the club and have maybe two or three hours dancing before we take it home for even more fun.”

“When was the last time you took that potion, Hermione? You know those are addictive, just like I do.”

The waiter returned with her card and the receipts. He scowled again before leaving. “I’ve not had a vial of pepper up potion in six weeks. The only reason I’m considering it for tonight is due to the fact that I’ve been awake since 5am and I don’t plan on falling asleep completely until 5 am tomorrow morning.” Hermione finished her signature with a flourish on the receipt before pocketing the other one. She stood with Ron coming up behind her. She leaned into his chest, looking like she was slightly off-balance. “It won’t seem real until I celebrate with you, at home, with you fucking my brains out.” She leaned back from him, smiling demurely. “Ready?”

They departed the restaurant, intent on swinging around a wooden dance floor to some special kind of magic before retiring for the night.

[alchemyphan-blog]

I’ve Got a Thing For Suits

word count: 1.8k

style: smut

desc: dan and phil get invited to a fancy premiere, but seeing phil in a suit just becomes too much for dan to handle.

It wasn’t very often Dan would get to see Phil in particularly spiffing clothes. It always sparked his imagination to think of him all dressed, suit and tie, pulling at the lapels of a jacket. He’d seen one in his closet for so long, and couldn’t imagine what it’d be like to actually see him with one on. It was fair to say that suits were a bit turn on for Dan, almost a kink.

So when Phil walked into the lounge tonight wearing that suit, it’s fair to say it took Dan off guard. His hair had been pushed back, and his tie was thin and showed off his chest through his white dress shirt underneath. His belt held up the trousers sitting perfect on his legs, tugging in the perfect places and tightening around his crotch, silhouetting his cock. Dan knew he’d have to get up as they were to leave soon, but couldn’t bring himself to get off the couch from his view at Phil. He was tightening his collar, looking out the window and turned back to Dan. He saw his jaw half opened and his eyes wide, and suddenly he backed away.

“What’s wrong, Dan?” Phil asked.

His breath was caught somewhere in his throat, and the only thing he could do was wander his eyes over him. He coughed.

“Y-You look…” he tried to say. He never thought it would turn him on this much to see Phil in a suit. Phil looked down at him, waiting for Dan to make out what he wanted to say.

“I-” Dan stuttered, standing up quickly. He placed his hands on Phil’s shoulders, feeling the soft fabric beneath his fingers. He smashed his lips to Phil’s, backing him against the wall and letting his hands feel all over his body. Phil let a sound somewhere between a shriek and a deep moan. He kissed Dan back, clasping his hands around the back of Dan’s neck. He drew back for a long breath, finally able to make coherent sentences.

“I’m not gonna make it through the night if you’re gonna wear that suit.”

“What, you’ve got a suit fetish or something?” he asked jokingly.

“Yeah, I do,” he answered in a deep tone. Phil looked down, and around his feet. He lifted his head up, eyebrows flicking.

“Oh really?” he teased.

Dan’s hands grasped at Phil’s tie, stroking along the silky fabric. He looked to Phil with hungry eyes. “I’ve got a, uh, thing I guess, for suits.”

Phil leaned down close to his ear, and licked the shell. “Well I’m going to make you want it so bad you’ll come just looking at this suit. I’m not going to make it easy for you tonight,” he whispered inside his ear. Dan let out an exasperated breath, unable to control himself. He was aching so hard in his suit trousers he practically grabbed his own cock. Phil took Dan’s hand, and they walked out of the apartment and to the tube.

They were invited to attend a red carpet movie premiere and dinner party, which they kindly accepted. The tube was packed full of people, and very possible someone there that knew them or of them. They knew in public they couldn’t act like a couple, only under extremely rare circumstances in which it was only people they knew well that knew, no cameras, and no one knew where they were. As thousands of fans, photographers, and other strangers would be attending, they knew they’d have to act as friends. While it was a huge struggle and weight on their lives to not be themselves in public, it was almost fun kind of being this huge secret.

Phil’s hand ran from Dan’s knee up into his thigh, and as their sides pressed together he could hear Dan’s breath hitching at the sensation. He looked around quickly, scoping to see if anyone was watching them extensively. Phil could feel Dan getting achingly harder throughout the entire ride to the premiere.

“Jesus Phil,” Dan whispered close to Phil’s ear.

“Please, this is only the beginning. Theaters are dark, you know.”

As soon as they were seen, cameras and other forms of flashing lights swarmed them. After signing things, speaking to cameras and taking photos, they were escorted down the main red carpet, where a friendly face greeted them.

“Oh hey, PJ!” Phil shouted over the noise, acting as though there was no sexual tension between him and Dan.

“Hey you guys!” PJ jogged over to Dan and Phil, taking a photo and walking the rest of the carpet with them.

“Great turnout this year, eh?” he asked.

“Yeah, I never expected something as big as this,” Dan said. By now the hard-on had declined a slight bit, but every now and then Phil would shoot him a look that made it grow.

The red carpet came to an end, and a thinner one ran through the doors to the theater and they followed it to their seats. They watched as the stragglers filed in around them, and Phil went in front of Dan, taking his hand to lead him to the top back corner. Phil sat him down, sitting on the left of Dan. There were few people surrounding them, if any in a radius. The lights were on as the film hadn’t started, but dim. Popcorn scattered onto the ground, whispered were exchanged, and the last photos for a few hours were taken.

“And now you’ve gotta stay up in this corner for the entire movie with nothing to do but sit here,” he whispered, leaning in close and placing his hand to trail his fingers across Dan’s neck. “Don’t forget to be quiet. We’re in a theater.”

Dan shuddered, and felt his pants getting tighter.

“How about this, Dan? What are you gonna do knowing you can’t yell or say a thing at all? Knowing I can do all I want and you just have to sit there and let it happen?”

Dan swallowed hard, trying to contain his sweat bullets and the hardness in his pants. Phil continued to tease Dan through the entire movie, both of them not paying any attention and waiting for the credits to roll around so Dan can give him payback for making him wait and hunger for him.

As the music died and the credits began, people rose from their seats, stretching their backs and exiting the theater.

“I’ve gotta go to the bathroom. Come with me,” Phil ordered. Dad nodded quickly, standing up and walking swiftly behind him out of the theater and to the bathroom.

Phil looked around in case someone was watching him before grabbing Dan’s wrist to pull him into the bathroom. He stood with his back pressed onto the door, and Dan shifted awkwardly in the middle of the bathroom. Phil began to walk closer and closer to Dan, enough to touch him and make Dan voice the noise of a horny teenager.

“Phil…” his voice trailed. “S-suit, on you-”

“What’s that? The suit?” Phil teased, standing back to spin once and tug on the lapels of his jacket.

“Phil, stop, I...can’t…” he breathed. Dan was a hot mess.

“Is it my suit, Dan?” Phil teased. “I told you I wouldn’t be making it easy for you tonight, maybe you should’ve listened.” He popped the collar of his shirt and cuffed his sleeves for his own amusement. Dan was flustered - his hair was curling at the edges and sweat bulleted its way down his face.

“God Phil, just fuck me already,” Dan pleaded. He was tired of waiting for him.

Phil walked across the floor to meet Dan. He looked to the side of them, landing over the three cubicles in front of them. One was significantly larger than the others, which may be helpful. He looked back to Dan, his expression begging Phil to do anything. In a split second, Phil grabbed his wrist violently, throwing him into the cubicle and locking the door. He threw Dan up against the wall nearest to them and kissed him, already flicking his tongue down along Dan’s lower lip. He backed farther into the wall, arching his back and bucking his hips forward into Phil.

Keeping their lips connected, Phil’s hands wandered down Dan’s chest and to the buckle of his belt. It was unusually tight around his waist, and he unbuckled it to relieve the pressure around his crotch. Dan let out a moan as his trousers fell from his legs and rested around his ankles. Phil dropped to his knees, lifting up Dan’s feet to toss his pants to side so he was left with just his thin boxers and jacket. While still on his knees, Phil took the waistband of Dan’s boxers into his fingers. He pulled them down, leaving Dan exposed. For a moment Phil just set his gaze on what was directly in front of him before taking it into his mouth without warning or caution. Dan’s hands grabbed against the wall, violently trying to find something to grasp onto when he found Phil’s hair and latched on.

“Phil, Phil-” he mused. He slammed himself into the wall every few seconds when Phil would start as his base again, another pound of pleasure surging through him. His mouth circled around his cock, and Phil pursed his lips at the tip. Dan threw his head back and felt his legs tremble. He was almost completely fucked out. Phil swirled his tongue around once and pulled away. It only took Phil to graze his fingers along Dan’s cock for him to come into his hands, sighing loudly with his head against the wall, Phil’s hands still on Dan’s thighs.

“What, I make you wait this whole time and you’re already braindead? I must’ve done a good job,” Phil said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

Dan caught his breath, drawing in an excessive amount of air each time to nourish his lungs.

“You,” he breathed, “are a dickhead.”

“You’re welcome.” Phil slowly pulled his boxers back onto his waist, followed by his trousers. He did up his belt, tucking in his shirt and buttoning it back up. He rose back up to his height, ruffling Dan’s hair before adjusting it to make it look like they didn’t just fuck in a bathroom.

“I love you,” Dan told him before resting his head on Phil’s shoulder, still in front of him with his back to the bathroom wall. “But I can’t move at all. Yet.”

“You are always gonna remember this, you know that?”

“Who wouldn’t remember this? I just can’t believe we didn’t get caught,” Dan joked.

Phil nodded, locking his fingers into Dan’s. “Our dirty little secret.”

Ten minutes later they hadn’t moved, and figured most people had forgotten about them by now, hopefully. It was Phil who decided to make the move and unlocked the door to the cubicle and pulled Dan to the exit of the bathroom. His hand was on the handle.

“If you tell anyone about this I will make it my personal duty to have your dick cut off,” Dan said.