#russian lip course london

[faces0faces]

Russian Lip Course London: Everything You Need to Know

If you're in the beauty industry, you've likely heard of the Russian Lip Technique. It's a trending cosmetic procedure that has taken the world by storm, especially in the heart of London. But what exactly is this technique, and why is it so popular? If you're considering enhancing your skills with a Russian Lip Course in London, this article is for you.

Whether you're a seasoned professional or just starting out, this guide will walk you through everything you need to know about Russian Lip Courses, from what the technique involves to where you can train, and why London is the best place for it.

What is the Russian Lip Technique?

The Russian Lip Technique is a specialized method of lip augmentation that focuses on creating a naturally enhanced look. Unlike traditional lip fillers, which often add volume across the entire lip, the Russian Lip Technique lifts the lip and accentuates the cupid's bow, giving a more heart-shaped, defined appearance. Think of it as the difference between painting a flat image and sculpting a 3D model—the Russian Lip Technique is all about adding dimension and structure.

Why is the Russian Lip Technique So Popular?

So, why has this technique become the go-to for lip enhancements? The answer lies in its ability to create a natural look. Many people desire fuller lips but are wary of an overly plump or artificial appearance. The Russian Lip Technique provides the perfect balance by enhancing the lips in a way that looks natural yet striking. Plus, with celebrities and influencers opting for this method, it's no wonder the demand has skyrocketed.

Why Train in London?

London is not just the capital of the UK; it's a global hub for fashion, beauty, and innovation. Training in London offers you access to world-class facilities, renowned instructors, and a diverse clientele. The city’s dynamic beauty scene ensures that you’ll be at the forefront of the latest trends and techniques. Plus, with London's rich history and culture, you'll have plenty to explore when you're not in training.

What to Expect from a Russian Lip Course in London

When you sign up for a Russian Lip Course in London, you can expect a comprehensive training experience. Courses typically cover:

Anatomy and Physiology of the Lips: Understanding the structure of the lips is crucial for performing the Russian Lip Technique effectively.

Injection Techniques: You'll learn the specific injection methods that create the desired lift and shape.

Safety and Hygiene: Proper sanitation practices are essential, especially when dealing with injectables.

Client Consultation and Assessment: Learn how to evaluate a client’s lips and discuss their goals to ensure satisfactory results.

Practical Hands-On Training: Most courses include live models, allowing you to practice under the supervision of experienced trainers.

Top Institutes Offering Russian Lip Courses in London

There are several reputable institutes in London where you can learn the Russian Lip Technique. Some of the top choices include:

London Academy of Aesthetic Medicine: Known for its comprehensive courses and experienced instructors.

The Harley Street Academy: Offers specialized training in the Russian Lip Technique with a focus on hands-on experience.

Beauty Aesthetics Academy: Provides a range of aesthetic courses, including the Russian Lip Technique, with flexible scheduling options.

How to Choose the Right Russian Lip Course

Choosing the right course can be a bit overwhelming, especially with so many options available. Here are a few tips to help you make the right choice:

Accreditation: Ensure the course is accredited by a recognized body. This guarantees that the training meets industry standards.

Trainer Experience: Look for courses taught by experienced practitioners who have a proven track record with the Russian Lip Technique.

Course Content: Review the course syllabus to make sure it covers all the necessary topics, including anatomy, injection techniques, and safety practices.

Student Reviews: Check testimonials and reviews from previous students to gauge the course quality.

Cost: While it’s important to invest in quality training, make sure the course fees are within your budget.

The Benefits of Learning the Russian Lip Technique

Mastering the Russian Lip Technique can set you apart from other practitioners in the beauty industry. Here are some benefits:

Increased Client Satisfaction: Offering a technique that enhances the natural beauty of the lips can lead to higher client satisfaction and repeat business.

Broadened Skill Set: Adding this specialized technique to your repertoire makes you a more versatile practitioner.

Higher Earnings Potential: With the popularity of the Russian Lip Technique, you can charge premium rates for this service.

Professional Growth: Continuous learning and skill development are crucial for staying competitive in the beauty industry.

Career Opportunities After Completing the Course

Once you've completed your Russian Lip Course in London, a world of opportunities opens up. You can:

Start Your Own Practice: With certification in hand, you can open your own clinic specializing in lip enhancements.

Work in High-End Salons: Many luxury salons and beauty clinics seek practitioners skilled in the Russian Lip Technique.

Collaborate with Plastic Surgeons: Offer your services as a specialist in lip augmentation, working alongside plastic surgeons.

Teach and Train Others: With experience, you could even become a trainer, teaching the next generation of beauty professionals.

Common Misconceptions About the Russian Lip Technique

Despite its popularity, there are several misconceptions about the Russian Lip Technique. Let’s clear them up:

“Russian Lips Look Artificial”: Some people think this technique results in an unnatural look. In reality, when done correctly, it enhances the lips’ natural shape.

“It’s Only for Certain Lip Shapes”: This technique can be customized for different lip shapes, making it a versatile option for many clients.

“The Procedure is Painful”: While any injectable can cause discomfort, the Russian Lip Technique is not inherently more painful than other methods. With proper technique and numbing agents, discomfort is minimal.

How to Market Your Russian Lip Services

Once you’ve mastered the technique, the next step is to market your services effectively:

Social Media: Showcase your work on platforms like Instagram and TikTok. Before-and-after photos can attract new clients.

Client Testimonials: Encourage satisfied clients to leave reviews. Word of mouth is powerful in the beauty industry.

Collaborate with Influencers: Partner with local influencers to reach a broader audience.

Host Workshops: Offer workshops or free consultations to introduce potential clients to the Russian Lip Technique.

Future Trends in Lip Augmentation

The beauty industry is always evolving, and lip augmentation is no exception. Here are some trends to watch out for:

Natural Enhancements: As more people seek subtle, natural-looking enhancements, techniques like the Russian Lip Technique will continue to rise in popularity.

Sustainable Beauty: With the growing demand for eco-friendly and sustainable beauty products, expect to see more innovations in this area.

Advanced Techniques: As technology advances, new methods for lip augmentation will emerge, offering even more precision and customization.

Conclusion

The Russian Lip Technique is a game-changer in the world of lip augmentation, offering a natural and elegant alternative to traditional methods. By enrolling in a Russian Lip Course in London, you’re not just learning a new skill—you’re investing in your future as a beauty professional. Whether you’re looking to start your own practice, enhance your existing services, or simply stay ahead of the trends, mastering this technique will undoubtedly set you apart.

FAQs

How long does it take to complete a Russian Lip Course in London?

Most courses can be completed in one to two days, depending on the institute and the level of training offered.

Do I need prior experience to take a Russian Lip Course?

While some courses require basic knowledge of lip augmentation, many are designed for beginners as well.

Is the Russian Lip Technique suitable for everyone?

The technique can be customized for different lip shapes, but a consultation is essential to determine suitability.

What is the cost of a Russian Lip Course in London?

Prices vary, but you can expect to pay between £500 and £1,500 depending on the course provider and the level of training.

Will I receive a certification after completing the course?

Yes, most courses offer a certificate upon successful completion, which can enhance your credibility as a practitioner.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

hello !! if it’s not too much of a bother can you write another piece featuring Lion 🫶 maybe another angsty piece, maybe a lil lion + farah combo or something else like lion and gaz getting separated from the 141 during a mission and having to fight their way back to the extraction point (?). totally up to you !!! also thank u for keeping us well fed 🙇‍♀️

Lions and Ibexes

PAIRING: John Price x Wife!Reader 'Codename Lion'

SYNOPSIS: Impulsive was what John always called you - affectionately, of course. But he sure does worry when you disappear without him.

WORDCOUNT: 4.0k

WARNINGS: Blood, death, canon typical violence, a tiny bit of angst, fluff, banter, no connection to 'I'll Take the Night Shift' except codenames, protective!Price, suggestive jokes, etc.

A/N: I wanna give Farah a big smooch on her forehead.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

“So this is the woman that the Captain won’t keep quiet about,” you smirk and place your hand into Farah Karim’s, eyes shimmering as you both share a tight grip. 

“Commander,” greeting the black-haired woman, your light gear hangs off of you easily and efficiently; clean and well-taken care of. 

“Lion,” she nods, smirking back. “A pleasure.”

“Please,” you huff a laugh, “I wish it could be.” Expressions dim as you instantly get to work, the hot sun and dry air sticking to your flesh like a second skin of humidity. Releasing Farah’s hand you sigh and look around the old town, skimming over the forms of other Urzikstan Liberation Force soldiers. 

Farah does the same, breathing lowly. 

“On that, I believe you’d be right.” Brown eyes flick to yours, looking you over before the woman nods. “Come, we have much to discuss.”

“Lead the way,” your feet push you onward, following behind the Commander as your wedding band clinks against your chest. Held on that long chain, a hand comes up to brush it carefully, letting the man who wears the mirrored piece bring you comfort even from so far away. 

John was set to ship out in two days—there were some other important operations that had taken precedence. While you could have stayed behind with him, as you had wanted to do, a plea from one of the far-distant operators of One-Four-One had caught your ear. The name Farah Karim was known. 

If you didn’t offer assistance, you’d never feel right with yourself. One call to Laswell and it was all set up. 

“I’ll be there in two days,” John had muttered into your scalp as you both lay in bed, tight to one another; lashes fluttering. “Wait for me, yeah? No running off.” 

Your smirk had made him sigh a chuckle. “No stunts of heroics, my Love? Please, do you know who you’re speaking to?”

“You’ll be the fuckin’ death of me, y’know?”

“Well,” the words are uttered into his neck and John pulls you tighter into him. “I think that’s just about the most romantic thing to happen to someone.” 

Smiling to yourself, you bring the ring to your lips and kiss it lightly before letting it drop. In your head, John is still in your shared flat in London, and you’ll be back by the hour. If only. 

“You contacted Laswell and said you had encountered more of Barkov's remaining cells?” Your voice carries easy authority; ingrained confidence. 

Farah looks back and nods firmly. 

“They’ve taken over a town in the mountains, my forces can’t break the line.” She sighs aggressively and you stare with a sliding frown. “Even dead, Barkov cannot leave my people alone.”

In the back of your throat, you hum, “Well, parasites tend to be resilient.” Farah leads you into a home with maps on the tables and low talking of strategies from others. They pause when you enter and you nod politely. Many here knew your husband as the Commander did—all those years back when he was still only a Lieutenant and had broken Farah and her brother Hadir out from the Russian’s jail; labeled as prisoners of war. 

John had told you about it during one of the many late nights in your joint offices. Eyes tired and his hands playing with your hair.

“What do you need me to do?” You ask genially, standing near the table and placing your hands down on it—standard M4A1 resting over your chest and your secondary weapon strapped to your thigh. Unlike most, you’d opted for lighter gear to allow you to move faster. 

Fewer packs sit on your vest, and the gleam of the knife on your shoulder was a testament to your preference to close, silent, encounters. Though you liked to use your silver tongue to get out of situations, unfortunately, that wouldn’t work in this instance. 

“Captain Price told me you’re one of the best undercover agents he’s seen.” You perk at this, looking over with raised brows.

“Hell,” your chuckle echoes, “when you said he couldn’t keep quiet I thought you were exaggerating.” 

Farah smiles cheekily at you before pointing to the map of a mountain town surrounded by red Xs.

“My soldiers have marked off choke points all around the area. They’re the only pathways to the town, but heavily guarded.” She glances around the room and you hear her sigh heavily. “I wouldn’t have asked for assistance unless I knew I needed it. I’d prefer to leave foreign fighters out of this conflict, unlike my enemy.” 

“I understand,” your head shakes. “It’s your home—I’ll go where you need me to. John should be here in two days to assist.”

Farah’s face flashes with surprise, her full brows rising on her head. “Price is coming?”

You shrug and laugh, “he’s stubborn.” 

The woman chuffs before moving to fold her arms over her chest. “I think perhaps he’s more of a smitten husband, hm?” At the sheepish expression on your face and dipping eyes, Farah barks a laugh.

The band around your neck clinks into the stock of your gun as you stand to your full height. 

“Is it that obvious,” you tease, tilting your head to her. You knew it was.

“I believe the simple action of asking is proof enough, Lion.” The commander looks at her work on the table, smiling easily but focusing still on her plan of attack. “But, regardless, I give my thanks for flying out on such short notice.”

“We help our own.” Resting your hands on the body of your weapon, you smile fondly. “Now, who do I need to kill?” 

—

As it turns out, killing was the very baseline of what you needed to do. 

Shuffling into the dark armor of the dead Russian soldier at your feet, you grunt at the slick spread of blood on the ground as you strap arm braces to your limbs. 

“Heavy as all hell,” you grumble under your breath, picking up the large helmet and shoving it over your head with a puff of air. 

Farah was going to lead a distraction on the far side of the western choke point while you slipped into the ranks, placing packs of C4 in some of the large-stocked weapons buildings. Easy enough for you, you admitted. You’d done things like this a million times over. 

When all was said and done, slipping your knife into the new belt at your waist, you gaze down at the dead man with a huff of air; seeing the blood still pooling from the very obvious signs of a slit up the left armpit. You blink and stuff your wedding band down your shirt. 

“Bad day, buddy,” grabbing his legs, you bare your heels and drag the body behind a large outcropping of rocks—long streaks of crimson left behind. “I’d hate to be you right now.” 

Grunting, you drop the limp flesh with a thump like a paper-towel roll meeting the counter. 

Shuffling back into the open, your feet make tracks to get you closer toward your targets. You hike the small pouch Farah gave you farther up your back without a word more. 

John had always said you were quick-witted, but when he got here he’d lose that hat of his in disbelief. The truth was that you had forgotten what little of the Russian language you’d initially known, and the situation you found yourself in now was frankly not ideal.

C’mon Lion, you think to yourself, just pick up social cues and you’ll be good. 

Oh, your husband was going to lose his shit.

—

“Come again?” The Captain barks. “What do you fuckin’ mean she’s in the base?!”

“I just explained it,” Farah levels, raising a brow. Blue eyes narrow with a growl until the Commander's lips flicker in a smirk. “We just had word three minutes ago. She’s fine, Captain.” Fingers find John’s nose bridge, digging deep into the flesh in large exasperation and worry.

He had caught a C17 and came here a day early after he’d gotten a bad feeling—internal wife radar going off as it usually did when you placed yourself in danger without him. Which was more often than not.  

I told her not to be impulsive. 

John sighs long and low, shaking his head. “Farah…you sent her in alone?” 

“She is quite capable, Price.”

“I fucking…” He stops himself and puts his hands on the table in the center of the building. Men and women were snickering from the corners, sending amused glances. “I know.”

Farah sends a glance to her soldiers and they turn away to cover their smiling mouths. Enjoyment was in her tone as she grabs the walkie-talkie from the table top and clips it to her vest. 

“There were more men than we anticipated—she had to be more careful when placing the charges. Captain,” John glares up at her when his eyes leave the maps. The Commander teases, “She is fine.”

As if on cue, the radio fizzles with your voice. Farah looks down with surprise and the Brit's eyes snap to it immediately; body tense. 

There’s a moment of garbled static where the Captain feels his heart beating out of his chest. The panic that had snapped through him when you hadn’t come out to greet him when he’d landed was primal; genuine fear stuck in his bones like spiky grass. The bond the two of you had was closer than anything on this plane of existence. It was rare to not see one without the other.

Your voice cuts through and John’s shoulders sag under a non-existent weight.

“You should tell your men to move unless they want to be scorched, Farah!” The woman in the room smiles ferally and raises a smug brow as she looks at John. 

“Copy, Lion. You have my thanks.” 

“I didn’t know you could improvise Russian—it’s like the Slavic blood just entered my body!” The Brit covers his eyes with his hand and groans at the base of his throat. 

“Tell her to get her arse back here before she gets bloody shot.” John takes off his bucket hat and tosses it to the table with a gloved hand, punching his hair back from his forehead. “Giving me gray hairs,” he grunts. 

Farah laughs and says eagerly into the walkie, “Someone’s here to say hello.”

“...Oh, fuck.” Your panting breath clears and after a long glare at the device, John hears you say in a slow and awkward tone, “Hello, my Love!”

Farah tilts the radio closer to him and looks highly pleased. 

“Get back here. Now.” John grunts out, fingers digging into his arms as he crosses them. “I told you to wait for me.”

You laugh nervously, deflecting, “...did you, Dear? I guess I misheard you.” The Brit’s jaw clenches but Farah can speak before he can.

“Lion, are all the charges set, then?” You seem thankful for the distraction, sighing over the line.

“All good over here! I just need the O.K from your men and then it’s about to get a whole lot brighter.” 

“I’ll relay the news—get away, as far as you can.”

“Already on it,” your breathy chuckle exits and you pause before saying. “See you soon, Love!” 

Tiny blue eyes bug, “Wait–!” The line clicks off and Farah is already tapping into the frequency for her soldiers, turning slightly away to converse in quick Arabic. 

—

Evening rolls around and you jog back into the Liberation Force’s base, greeting the guards stationed with a breathless sigh; utterly sweaty but happy you’d gotten half a ride back from some locals. You’re back in your original gear, sear marks on your cheeks and hair slightly burned, but nonetheless unharmed. 

Everyone welcomes you back with handshakes and pats on your shoulders—brushes to your arm as people pass. You guide yourself back to the main building with chuckles and deep smiles of achievement. 

“Someone’s happy.” John’s voice freezes you halfway into the home and you cringe like a leaf. After a moment your eyebrows slide up with a cheeky smile.

“John,” you draw out his name and turn, seeing him leaning against the house with his arms crossed and legs stiff. He looks unimpressed in all of his handsome glory. “Well, don’t you look nice—did you trim your beard before coming out?” 

Walking slowly towards him, you loop your hands around his waist and press kisses into his neck sweetly. The man sighs long and you feel his large palms rest on your hips heavily. You blink innocently into his orbs. 

“Your silver tongue won’t work on me, Love.” The glint in his expression eggs you on as his nose tints down to touch yours. You smile brightly, seeing the wrinkles on his forehead dim as he melts into you easily. 

Whispering, you utter to the air, “I’d say you like my tongue, you brute. Tell me often enough.” Not a beat is missed, but you feel his cheeks go slightly red.

“Keep it on a leash and maybe I’d like it more, yeah?” You snort loudly, head dipping only to feel his lips press into your scalp; his smile is teasing as his beard drags against you. 

John breathes you in along with the scent of sand. One of his hands travels up to lock into the back of your neck, playing with the chain of your necklace. The one that mirrors his own down to the very dents and scratches. 

“You alright?” The words are a murmur into your flesh. You let him play with your wedding band as your smile softens to the same sensation of warm pelts on a wooden floor. 

There was no use telling you to stop your crusades, the Brit knew that. You did what you wanted and damn the consequences; John was stuck with damage control but knew you had the skills and know-how to break all odds. You still held that same fire that the woman he married wore like a crown of fangs without fail.  

“Always,” you reassure him, hugging his waist tighter and staring into his eyes.

The both of you lapse into a delicate hold. John’s arms cage you in and you’d have it no other way as fingers drag over warm flesh, never mind the brutal dig of gear or the stain of blood. Neither could keep you away from the other. 

“When will you stop making my heart rip out of my chest, Sweetheart?” John asks, smirking down at you. “Trying to give me a heart attack before forty, eh?”

“Oh, please,” you whisper against his lips, eyes alight with mischief as he watches you closely—pulse pounding against yours. He could never be angry at you. “We both know that if you have one, I’ll be having one too. We’ll end up being brain-dead at the same damn time, no doubt.” 

He laughs against you lowly, having to pull back to shake his head at your bland confession. “You’re fuckin’ mental, Love.” He breathes in soft puffs of breath. You gaze up at him, laced with affection and care, as he rests his forehead on yours. “Ah, but that’s alright, isn’t it? We’re all a bit crazy.” 

“You might be a little bit higher on the metaphorical scale,” you tease, face serious but eyes betraying you. They always would when it came to John; the only person to break through that ‘cunning nuisance’ that everyone always mentioned in your file. 

“Really, now?” He blinks, smirking and rubbing at your hip absentmindedly and leaning closer—pushing your neck to the side. 

“Just a bit,” you huff, not even realizing. 

Before you can utter another word, firm lips capture you like a beast in iron bars, bulky forearms stuck at the curve of your spine. You chirp into John’s mouth in surprise but melt into him as his large purr resonates into your bloodstream. Singing, you bring your hands to his cheeks, digging through those bristles to feel the burn on your hands. 

Humming, your husband nuzzles his nose into your cheek like a dog would, letting him take in your scent as you feel your legs go weak. You enjoy the worship he gives you; always would. Your body is tightly held against his own and you gladly would have shown him how much you enjoyed him being here if only for the small fact you needed to talk to Farah. 

With one last pass of his reddened lips, you slip back and kiss his bristly cheek with a chuckle. 

“Later.” 

He groans into you. “Tease.” 

“I didn’t even do anything!” You laugh loudly, moving out of his hold to walk into the house as he follows at your heels. John’s hands go to the top of his vest collar to rest. 

He leans down and whispers, “Don’t need to, Love.” 

Your face burns for him and only him as he grumbles out chuckles at your blown pupils. Huffing, you turn and roll your eyes, trying to dispel your flaming blood. Farah waits for you and with a happy glance up she comes from around the table and claps you on both shoulders. You grunt in surprise but grip her elbows with a laugh. 

“Barkov’s remaining cell was wiped out—my soldiers are hunting down the remnants as we speak.” She squeezes your gear and you sigh in relief. “Thank you, Lion, for coming out when you did. The Captain was not wrong in his assessment.” 

You turn your head to the side and glance back at John. “Hear that my Love, I’ve heard you talk about me. That’s so precious.” 

His face goes red under his beard, and his feet shuffle as you and Farah share a joking glance. John releases under-the-breath grumbles before the Commander addresses him. The woman releases you but speaks past your person.

“Some of my younger soldiers wanted you to mentor them with the use of their weapons, do you plan on staying the night?” You and John share a look, a seeming telepathic communication going on. 

He nods at you and you smile. “Only tonight, we ship out at first light. I’ll do what I’m able.”

“Then you also have my thanks. They’ll learn much, I’m sure. Lion,” John comes and gives you a kiss on the cheek before leaving. You watch him go for a moment before rubbing at your dirty neck while you listen to Farah. “Come with me, there’s fresh water on the roof.” 

“Oh,” you perk, suddenly realizing the fatigue in your bones and the dryness of your throat. “Thank you, that’d be great.”

As you both ascend the stairs to the roof, there’s a still silence that falls, a calm nothingness. When you finally stand on the flat roof, you look over the vast land as Farah hands you a chilled water bottle from a mini-fridge. You take it with a small nod in thanks. 

“Nice view,” you motion with the bottle before taking a long sip—downing half of it in one go. 

Farah smiles and hums. “Urzikatan is a beautiful place,” you listen and wipe at your mouth; seeing people walk the streets below as the red sun grows even lower. In the wind, your nose twitches to sand and dust, with some hint of floral notes and arid cleanliness. Farah’s face seeps with a low sadness when she looks out to the land and you pause your drinking. Brows pulling in, you watch her. 

“Farah?” You ask, carefully. It’s a moment before she responds.

“I…” She crosses her arms and sets her feet. “I wonder if this place will ever see its freedom. We’ve been fighting for so long already. My family has known war more than anything else.” Brown eyes drift to you from the side of her eye. 

There’s a tightness in your chest. You can’t imagine what Farah feels right now, what she has felt. Years of this…and still her home is under foreign subjugation. A frown grows on your face and you put the half-full bottle to the small wooden table near the roof’s corner. 

“You’ll get your sovereignty, Farah.” You try your best to speak your mind to the woman but remain truthful to your belief. Farah stares out as you sigh lowly. “Maybe not now—maybe not in this generation—but someday the sun is going to set on a free Urzikatan. You’re plenty strong enough to assure that and you’ve done a proper job so far. The frames are already set.” 

The Commander hums and gazes at her soldiers below as they mull about, laughing with each other and enjoying the company of their fellow countrymen.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like?” Farah asks you, and you study her genuine interest in her own thoughts. “Who we would be if nothing ever happened to us.” 

You stare for a moment, skull tilting down to gaze at the top of the roof. It’s not an easy question to answer. 

“Sometimes,” your lips admit. Farch eagerly pivots to your form like you hold the greatest answer imaginable. She’s been through so much—losing her family, and her home. Humming, your eyes shift to the setting sun; blinking at it. Against all of this, your lips flinch up into a smile. “But not often.” 

Farah’s eager gaze turns confused, her brows furrowing deeply with a scrunched face. 

“Because right here, right now,” John walks down the street below, and your eyes fall to him as easily as a leaf dances to the ground. The expression on your face eases. “It couldn’t have happened if there were never bad days.” Your husband looks up, and you see him pause among the ranks of other fighters. You chuckle softly, head tilting to the side. 

John stares at you as if you’re the only person to exist, moving one hand from his vest to jerk two fingers in a subtle greeting. Farsh watches the interaction closely, tension loosening from her body. Your head nods slowly to your husband and you say to the woman, absent-minded, “I’m right where I need to be…And the sun has never looked brighter.”

Farah huffs a laugh, eyes running back and forth between the two of you. 

“He loves you,” she says, “deeply.” 

“God,” your laugh echoes, “I sure hope so.” The both of you laugh. 

It felt easy to speak to the Commander, truthfully. Being surrounded by four men all of the time can get catty even with such a strong bond as you had with One-Four-One. 

You dare to share more.

"In my mind, John and I are still in Hertfordshire for our wedding,” The words come out of you slowly, unwrapping emotions one layer at a time as if swaddled in a dark veil of internal nostalgia. You watch John as he walks along, oddly sad but filled with something that makes you want to take him up into your arms with a wet laugh. “Sitting back on the grassy hills outside of town in my gown and him in his tux. The wind is cold…but neither of us can find it in ourselves to shiver. The sun's setting on our heads and making everything glow gold. His fingers are running through my hair…” You pause and hear Farah’s soft breath in the air, but you don’t look at her. Your eyes stay stuck on one person only. “When I die,” your words continue, “I can't ask for anything more than just a glimpse of that again. Just a flicker of that hill. Of those blue eyes looking into mine. I don't think it would be all that bad if I could live in that moment for senseless eternity. If I could live in it for only one second." 

John looks back at you from over his shoulder, your form shrouded in the setting sun as he slowly walks away from you. You gaze with melted eyes, the ring around your neck shining all the brighter. 

“I’m right where I need to be,” finishing, you turn your glossy eyes to Farah, who stares with a wide pull to her lids. “And you need to believe that even if you never get to see that freedom—that hill—you’ll make sure someone else can climb it just an inch farther.” 

It’s a long moment before Farah answers.

“The both of you will do this until one of you dies, hm?” You blink before you shrug. 

“Not one.” Your tone is easy, and John’s shadow turns a corner; out of sight. “I’d never let him go without me.”

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@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

[heavencanbeaprisontoo]

The Other Shelby Girl

Platonic!Shelby Siblings x reader

Headcanon/Imagine for a second Shelby Sister. Explores dynamics with each sibling based on of the reader were their older or younger sibling.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, mentions of war, violence, period-typical sexism, over-protective sibling drama.

Arthur

Older Sister:

You are the third most respected woman in Arthur’s life, which is greater than it sounds. First was Mum, then Polly. To be succeeded only by Polly in Arthur Shelby’s eyes is precious. He’s always looked up to you, but didn’t always show it. After the war, Arthur would come to rely on you heavily for emotional support. There were nights he would come to your home and no be able to speak. Where he would seem to turn back into a little boy, crying into your shoulder as he begs you not to speak of this to the others. When Arthur met Linda, you were one of the few to be supportive. You are Arthur’s greatest advocate, but his pride and Tommy’s influence make it hard to help him. When you have a family of your own, it’ll only make things harder. You often feel like you have to take sides. Still, you do what you think is best.

Younger Sister:

Depending on just how young you are, Arthur might try to put on like he’s your Dad. Arthur doesn’t always know how to talk to you. You’re just a young woman, he doesn’t feel like he can talk to you the way he does with John or Tommy. He wants to tease you and pick on you as he would with Finn, but he can’t. The moment you hit out your bottom lip and look like your feelings got hurt, Arthur is a flustered mess of a guilty brother. You might resist his attempts at being fatherly, or welcome them. Regardless, you can see that Arthur just wants you to know he’s a safe space for you. Maybe if you ask him nice enough, he’ll teach you how to draw horses like he used to. No matter how old you get, Arthur is the brother that still sees you as a little girl.

Thomas

Older Sister:

Before the war, Tommy only saw you as someone who nagged at him. The meddling older sister warning him away from throwing curses at people and fighting with the cops. After the war, you became something far more delicate than that. You became something like his conscience. That pleading voice that begged for peace and forgiveness that grows fainter every year. As adults, you swear sometimes he hates you. The way he disregards you and keeps you at arm’s length. In actuality, he’s only trying to avoid the shame your hopeful gaze gives him. It was you who tried to get the brothers to hide from the draft. It was you who told him getting involved in London affairs would be dangerous. You who told him not to accept anything from the Russians. You were always right. Always good. He also feels he must protect you because you know him when he was soft and weak. Aside from Polly, you’re the last person who ever heard him laugh.

Younger Sister:

He lumps you in with Ada without really meaning to. You and Ada are both younger, and are both girls. As such, you both have similar problems that have his head aching and his trigger finger itching. Two pretty girls tend to attract a lot of scummy men. You’re both so stubborn about not needing anything from him, which is bloody absurd. Of course you need his help. Whatever money you’re making doing legitimate work isn’t going to be enough to keep you safe. You have never gone on a single date without someone Peaky Blinder watching you. Arthur tries to give advice like he’s your dad, and Tommy drops rules on you like he’s your dad. He has absolutely said the phrase, “And where are you going dressed like that?” Tommy will kill your ex-boyfriends if asked, he already knows why you want them dead and he agrees. The only thing he likes more than you accepting his help is hearing you admit he was right.

John

Older Sister:

He is the little brother who reads your diary and eats your food after being told not to. As a kid, John was Hell on legs. As an adult, John is still Hell on legs but with children. Growing up, you spent a lot of time picking John up from police stations and headmaster offices. John stresses you out like he’s being bloody paid for it. But, he loves you dearly and you forgive him more often than you should. John has called you “Mum,” as a joke many times but it’s not quite a lie. As an adult, he is far more respectful towards you. He is one to bow his head when you lecture him about fatherhood and how his drinking is going to harm his children. John respects you enough to take his cap off when he enters your home. However, he’ll still gobble down any treats you’ve left out in the kitchen and have the audacity to say, “What?!” When you shout at him for it.

Younger Sister:

John will not only read your diary and eat your snacks, but he will loudly announce your crush the moment he finds out. Any reluctance Arthur has about picking on you is nonexistent in John. He is a fully grown man who is unafraid to tease you with schoolyard chants in public spaces. Has walked into your room while you were reading just to slap something off of your desk and run. John has spent so long as the younger brother, he has to get his kicks where he can. That said, nobody better say anything rude to you. Ever. One time, a mate of his simply repeated a mean name he had called you and John slugged him for it. Nobody is allowed to annoy you but him. John is obnoxious in an almost biblical sense, but he is the one to see you cry and ask: “Who did that to you.”

Ada

Older Sister:

Yet another sibling to boss her around. Excellent! Ada is one who would resist you trying to take care of her. She doesn’t want to hear your advice! She doesn’t need it! Until her first heartbreak and then she’s sobbing on your bed waiting for you to come home. Ada hates to feel dependent on others, but she does trust you. There’s something special about having a sister. You understand each other in a way your brothers never will. The fear that builds as a man walks a few yards behind you out in the streets at night. How every romance has that bitter taste as you think about all that you’ll lose if you were to get married. Ada gets her best advice from you, but you’re also her security. You were probably the one to start taking her to the movie theater. It’s likely that Ada imitates you subconsciously. When you got your hair bobbed, so did Ada. When you started wearing heels, so did Ada. She denies it, but it’s obvious that she follows your lead.

Younger Sister:

Might be a sad thing to say, but Ada didn’t think much of you until she had Karl. You were just this clinging little sister that everyone thought she was supposed to take care of. All you did was follow her about town and put your nose where it didn’t belong. Tommy probably found out about her and Freddie through you. You don’t mean to be annoying, you’re just lonely. Ada couldn’t see that until she had a child and a home away from Small Heath. The dynamic flips hard when Ada comes back to Small Heath. Ada is all about leading you in “the right direction,” and is very serious about your education. She essentially begs Tommy to set aside money for you to go to university when you express interest. You want to be in with the Peaky Blinders, though. Oh, God. You’re in your rebellious phase and Ada wants to shake you till you forget all about jazz and pretty boys with guns. You both adore each other, but you butt heads over where your life is going and who should have a say in what direction it goes.

Finn

Older Sister:

Between you, Polly and Ada, he’s almost got a mother. As a young boy, Finn has actually called for you as his mother by accident. It makes sense. You were often left in charge of him. To Finn, you are all that he knows. It’s often left to you to make sure he goes to school and stays out of trouble. You’ve spent many afternoons arguing with his teachers to give him a second chance. Finn needs that, someone to stick up for him. That doesn’t mean he always likes it though. Finn wants to be a gangster, like his older brothers. You want him to do literally anything but that. When Tommy, Arthur, and John, pick on him too much you are the one to back Finn up. He used to like it… until he was roughly twelve. What used to be you coming to his rescue has become you inadvertently humiliating him. You try to back off, but Finn makes poor choices for himself which require you to come save him. Therefore, the cycle continues.

Younger Sister:

You are the only one beneath him in the Shelby Family Pecking Order, and he lives for it. When Finn has a bad day, he takes it out on you. Why not? It isn’t like he had anyone else he can push around and be the boss of. So, he’ll cut your dolls’ hair, call you names, and make fun of the things you like. But only if there’s other boys who can see him do it. When he goes too far and you cry, he has to answer to all of your siblings and Polly. Finn picks on you to soothe his own ego. When it’s just you and Finn, he’s very quiet. You two can spend hours not talking but be perfectly happy. Finn likes to turn on the radio and just sit, listening to music or the results of a boxing match. Sometimes, he vents to you about how Tommy wouldn’t let him do this or do that. You always listen to him. Finn usually takes these quiet times to apologize for past pranks or insults. You always forgive him. It’s odd to you how your accepting of his apology seldom puts him in a better mood. Truth is, he’s very jealous of you.

[giordirossi]

FUCK AROUND AND FIND OUT

When: After Party, post-plot drop TW: Violence, a lot of it. Choose your kidnapees more wisely.

Hadn't enough stress been added to her evening without the untimely release of footage that would send the Russian piranhas into a feeding frenzy?

Not waiting for the grand finale, because she already knew how this video ended, Giordana slipped from the horrified throngs of spectators through the darkness and began seeking out inevitable targets. Protection amidst the impending chaos would be crucial if the Sovrani and their affiliates wanted to leave relatively unscathed.

Like hell did she come all the way to London just to relive the losses of Launceston.

Vincenzo and Giorgio would be exceptional fish in this pond, perhaps too great for a snatch and grab. The others, though... Frankie, Olivia, Patrizia, maybe even Gianna, dangled on the line. Unfortunate that the French were caught in the crossfire of this alliance, but most were none of her concern save for one who could handle himself better than anyone she knew.

Lights flickered on and panicked voices began their crescendo when she descended into a corridor in pursuit of the last place her brother ventured with his wife. Instead, at the very end, she spotted a familiar silhouette that gave her a modicum of relief.

She exhaled. At least one had been located.

The other woman turned and their eyes locked right as Giordana spoke loud enough to be heard across the distance,

"Olivia, you need to––"

Large fingers grabbed the assassin roughly by her hair, knotting through intricately woven curls as they forced her from a standing position into something bent and compliant. The stranger took advantage of her momentary surprise by dragging them into an adjoining room, all the while nails clawed into the back of his hand attempting to find purchase. The wrist alone would allow for position reversal and the opportunity to break free. Yet as soon as she took hold, the man flung Giordana face first into a nearby armoire.

Fucking really.

Impact was negated by adrenaline and she recovered just in time to turn and duck below a fist when it collided against the wood where her now bruised cheekbone might've been. The curse that flew from his lips sounded Russian, but the grunt made when she sucker punched him in the gut and kicked his knee out was universal.

So absorbed in the mission to corral those who mattered most to Giorgio and Vincenzo, it dawned on Giordana a bit too late that she hadn't considered herself in that count.

This was a message for the Sovrani. Leaving her battered yet alive enough to pack up like a damn birthday gift for the Vorshevsky ilk. Someone must have foolishly believed that a lack of weapons made her less dangerous; easy pickings for a hand delivery. Mistake number one, they should've killed her.

The next swing met air yet again as the assailant failed to bring her down to his level. His frame might have been larger and come with a strength she couldn't fathom, but years of will-power fueled training made Giordana exceptionally nimble and agile. It kept her out of reach long enough to whip the heavy armoire door into his face when he lunged for a third time.

Now who was caught off guard?

Using his temporary imbalance against him, one heel struck his sternum and sent the Russian careening into a transparent coffee table which shattered almost immediately beneath his weight.

Sincerest apology to the Berkeleys.

And to the solid mahogany frame of the paired sofa, which subsequently cushioned the blow of his giant fucking head with its base. Lucky break. Not taking any chances, she pulled a tea tray off of the vanity and bestowed three hard dings, the unrestrained force reverberating up her arms.

Glass shards decorated the rug like a shimmering prism and she considered picking up a larger piece to finish the job when her gaze swept towards sudden movement in the wall mirror. Of course this wouldn't be a one man operation.

Said reinforcement barreled at her from behind, tackling the brunette to the floor. With high ground advantage lost, it became the equivalent of a knife fight in the dirt as they landed significant blows on each other. The upperhand position gained and lost as they wrestled for two starkly contrasting motives. Until he found her neck. His fist pressed down with every attempt to cut oxygen at the source so they could cease this fight and she might come a bit more quietly.

Or maybe he'd finally wisened up enough to realize this only ended one way.

A palm splayed out at her side, reaching across the ornate rug for something... anything... only to find a now overturned coffee table book and–– metal. Weighted, solid metal.

A goddamn candlestick.

Fingertips brushed against the cool edge as she squirmed just enough beneath his suffocating grasp to roll it into her hand. The base swung upward and collided into her attacker's skull with a sickening thud. Startling enough to release his hold, which coincidentally gave Giordana the perfect leverage to propel him sideways until she straddled his chest.

Hesitation during this part had never been her forte.

Another blow. Then a third, a fourth, she stopped counting at seven. From there it was only mottled splatter and gurgling, his hands limp with disuse after they failed to defend against her relentless violence. More machine than woman, a shark-eyed creature bound for this singular objective.

When she finally stood and allowed the makeshift weapon to dangle loosely at her side, the metallic scent of blood hung thick in the air. Crimson peppered the expensive flooring around them and any furniture within range; it stained her once gloriously white party dress and dribbled down from her split lower lip and a cut above her brow.

From this vantage point, she couldn't tell if either of the men were still breathing. Nor did she care. Adjusting the one good strap left on her dress and pivoting towards the door, Giordana practically sensed the third body before she saw him. Was it possible to actually leave this God forsaken room?

Whirling with the candlestick poised to strike, a hand wrapped around her wrist before she could leave a pretty dent in his skull, too. For a moment they said nothing, his face speaking volumes more than words could ever convey about the state of her appearance.

The darkened shade over her eyes lifted somewhat as she registered his face. Never fully, never enough to allow complete weakness. He'd taught her that a long time ago.

After a beat of silence, she dropped her arm of her own volition and metal clanged lowly as it hit the floor. Standing in front of him like this, she felt twenty years old again. Messy, violent, and unrefined, having allowed someone to get the better of her because she'd been personally concerned about other people.

And there was Varden, the immovable pillar of exactly what she could be.

His hand moved from wrist to chin, turning over the damage back and forth with a different expression. This one Giordana can't read.

"I'm fine." No quips, no sly remarks. Her chest still heaving a little from the previous events, she didn't have any good natured taunting left in her tonight.

"I know you are." The Frenchman's grasp fell away yet again and his attention turned to the spectacular display she'd left behind. "You should leave here while you still can. I'll take care of this."

[freddiemercurydaily]

5th of November 1985 - Freddie Mercury in another show-stealing moment with the lovely Jane Seymour during Fashion Aid

Freddie looked very dapper. I had the most amazing hair and makeup, of course in those days, the whole idea of very frizzy, full hair was in.

The headdress I was wearing weighed a ton, it was all real flowers. I remember it sticking in my head and I couldn’t wait to get it off, it was so heavy. The flowers I was carrying were very heavy too. It was a magical moment!

Freddie is not only incredibly talented but a very lovely man.

My favorite song by Queen is Bohemian Rhapsody.”

Fashion Aid - 5th November 1985, bringing top artistic talent from the fashion world and the world of music to raise funds for Ethiopia. The event featured 35 hairdressers, 60 makeup artists, 120 dressers, 125 models and celebrities from the entertainment world. The spectacular staged wedding took place at the Albert Royal Hall in London. Jane Seymour sauntered out in a white lace wedding gown tied up with bows designed by the Emanuels. Accessorised with a flower crown made of daisies and lilies, She made her way down the runway and planted a theatrical kiss on the lips of Freddie Mercury in front of 5,500 guests. Their vows were sealed and Mercury then took off down the catwalk with the massive bridal bouquet, throwing blossoms to the delighted crowd. It was all fun and for a good cause as well (organized by Bob Geldof to fight famine in Ethiopia).

Freddie, a fashion icon of unparalleled status, was dressed in the same Emanuel-designed Latin American-cum Russian Imperialist military dictator’s jacket that he’d unveiled at his 39th birthday party, a black and white drag ball in Munich exactly two months earlier. He looked incredible. Freddie was no stranger to fashion and this was one of his biggest scene-stealing fashion moments in history.

At the end of the evening, Freddie and Jane Seymour made their way to the hotel where the reception was being held, still dressed as the bride and groom.

Another Show-Stealing moment by Freddie Mercury himself!

So many gorgeous photos

[runnning-outof-time]

For your 1k celebration!!! (Have I mentioned yet how happy I am for you?)

Can't wait to see what you do with this prompt! ❤️

I hope you don’t mind that I went all angsty with this...idk why I did...it was my first thought upon seeing the gif and I just ran with it. I hope you enjoy and thanks so much for all of the love!! 🥰❤️

Nothing Left to Say

Warnings: language, smoking

Tommy and (Y/N) are in the stables. Tensions are high.

“Are you even fucking listening to what I’m saying, Thomas?!” (Y/N) seethes, her anger boiling with each silent second that passes. She’s glaring at Tommy, who’s preoccupying himself with brushing his hands along the nose of one of their horses.

“Of course I’m listening,” he mutters as he continues his movements, his voice soft but she hears the words loud and clear.

“Then please tell me why...why did you have to go ahead and move forward with your dealings with that crazy fucking Russian family when your entire family is telling you that you’re going to get burned?” she rants, her arms now flailing around as she uses them to accentuate her point.

“Because they just don’t see things the way I fucking do,” he answers her, the cigarette that’s perched between his lips bouncing as he speaks. His eyes are still on the fucking horse as he looks it up and down, and it’s just about making (Y/N) see red.

“Do you hear how childish you sould right now?” (Y/N) quips, her eyebrows raised as her hands fall onto her hips.

Tommy stops his movements, and for a second, (Y/N) thinks that he’ll finally look over at her. Silence is held as he stares forward at the horse who is waiting for him to continue with the love he was showing it.

“You too now, eh?” he asks, his voice void of any discernable emotion.

(Y/N) looks at him with furrowed eyebrows. “Excuse me?” she asks for him to explain.

“First my family doubts me and now me fuckin’ wife is too? The same fucking thing happened when we wanted to take London. John had his doubts, Polly wanted me to hold back, but it went forward anyway, and what happened? We fuckin’ won it. There’s a lot of fucking money to be had within this ‘crazy fucking Russian family’ that will be ours after this is all over. I’m pushing forward with this because I know that’s a gaurentee,” Tommy goes on a monologue of the company’s past, and the promised wealth of the future, “I do not need you to be coming down on me now, too.”

(Y/N)’s shocked by the brashness of his words. She didn’t expect him to point an accusing finger at her so quickly. “Well I’m sorry that I’d like my husband to be alive after all of this is over,” she shoots back at him, her words holding anger within them.

Tommy sighs at her statement, “I’m not going to die, love.” His words were his attempt to get her to clear her mind of that possibility, but they only serve to piss her off further.

“You can’t guarentee that, Tommy! This family is fucking insane! There will always be the chance that things go sideways and you lose your life because of it, and I don’t think that I can cope with that happening. So can you please, please reconsider this deal that you’ve made,” (Y/N)’s sentence starts off strong, but she’s on the verge of pleading come the end of it.

Tommy looks over at her finally, and he sees her desperation the second his eyes lock onto hers. Silence grows between them as (Y/N) waits on baited breath for what he’ll say next. She’s said her piece, now it’s his turn. “You’re just going to have to trust me,” is what he comes out with moments after they silently held each others’ stare. (Y/N) exhales and lets her shoulders slump in defeat after hearing what he has to say. She then closes her eyes tight in hopes that that’ll keep the tears from eacaping. “Yeah?” Tommy checks with her after a pause, which makes her realize that she hadn’t responded to him.

“I have nothing left to say, Tommy,” her voice comes out in a whisper, as it’s all she’s able to do without breaking down. “You’ll just do what you want to do anyway.”

Without letting him get a chance to respond, (Y/N) turns and leaves the stables. She makes the walk back to their house and Tommy doesn’t follow her. It’s only when she’s locked in her private study that she lets her tears finally fall. For the first time, she’s not sure if she can continue and face these events with her trust in Tommy alone.

———

I, once again, have no clue on how this came out of this gif lol .... maybe it’s because I can imagine someone flipping out on him while he’s petting a horse and he’s just kind of zoned in on the horse and speaking back to the other person like it’s any other conversation, and that in turn is making the other person much more angry with him. Idk 🤷🏻‍♀️ ... let me know what you think.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

We Were Something, Don’t You Think So? [Chapter 8: The Baltic Sea]

You are a Russian grand duchess in a time of revolution. Ben Hardy is a British government official tasked with smuggling you across Europe. You (don’t actually) hate each other.

This is a work of fiction loosely inspired by the events of the Russian Revolution and the downfall of the Romanov family. Many creative liberties were taken. No offense is meant to any actual people. Thank you for reading! :)

Song inspiration: “the 1” by Taylor Swift.

Chapter warnings: Language, creepiness, grief, mentions of historical violence, sexual references (not graphic), angst but honestly have I ever written a fic without an exorbitant amount of angst? No, I have not. You signed up for this.

Word count: 5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @okilover02​ @adrenaline-roulette​ @youngpastafanmug​ @m-1234​ @tensecondvacation​ @deacyblues​ @haileymorelikestupid​ @rogerfuckintaylor​ @yourlocalmusicalprostitute​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @someforeigntragedy​ @mo-whore​ @mellowfellowyellow​ @peculiareunoia​ @mischiefmanaged71​ @fancybenjamin​ @anne-white-star​ @theonlyone-meeeee​ @witchlyboo​ @demo-wise​ ​

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

“There is a man coming for you,” Mother says as she drags the brush through my hair with her gnarled, arthritic hands. We’re back in the former governor’s mansion in Tobolsk, our voices hushed, the wind a shrill whistle through the floorboards and eaves, the lamplight weak and golden on our faces like a dying sun.

“I know,” I reply, because this has all happened already. “His name is Ben, and he might seem rather heartless at first but he’s not. He’s fearless and watchful and forgiving. He has one of the best hearts I’ve ever known.”

“It’s best not to get too attached.” Mother’s face is strained, aloof; her jaw is rigid with disapproval. “His task is to take you to London. But it is also to leave you there.”

“Of course,” I agree, hoping I sound more convinced than I feel.

“Uncle George will welcome you with open arms. He will get to be the hero, your gallant rescuer, all the royals of the world will reach out their hands to you, their hearts will bleed for you. And you will have the honor of marrying the very best of them. The Prince of Wales will inherit the largest empire in human history. And—one day, undoubtedly, although I suppose it seems awfully far from now—so will the child you will have together. A child with Russian blood and Romanov bones.”

I cannot summon a response to give her; I can only stare at my own shadowy reflection and imagine the weight of some other queen’s tiara on my head: Queen Victoria’s, perhaps, or Queen Adelaide’s, or King George’s wife Queen Mary’s, or another impeccably-bred woman whose name time has lost entirely. I wonder who will remember my name when my duty is accomplished and my body has returned to the earth for a year, a decade, a century, an eon. There is one comfort that I find in this imminent future: while Russian law prohibits a woman from succeeding to the throne, the British royal family has no such exclusions. I will not be resigned to Mother’s fate of birthing daughter after extraneous daughter in a torrent of wasted blood. A daughter of mine could be beloved by the public, could inherit the British throne. Maybe my future husband would even allow me to name her Tatiana.

“I hope it will not take you long to produce a suitable heir,” Mother says. Now her eyes are distant, hollow. And there’s something else I notice that I don’t like at all: they’re solid black, huge and glassy, without any irises. “The people may grow impatient. The people may begin to hate you. I know what that’s like, and it isn’t easy. I felt it for years before Alexei was born. It was like blades behind my eyes, screws turning in my bones. It hurt worse than when they killed me.”

“I’m afraid, Mama,” I whisper, a child’s words on my trembling lips.

“Oh, my love, don’t be afraid.” She smiles tenderly, but her teeth are fangs. When she touches my cheek, her hands are only bones. “In London, you will be protected. You will be safe. You will continue the bloodline, and you will make us so very proud. And when you are finished, you will join us in the grave.”

I try to scream, but I can’t; I can’t move, I can’t breathe. I watch our sickly yellow reflections in the mirror in horror as the rest of Mother’s flesh falls away like a snake’s skin, ribbons peeling off to reveal the ivory-colored bones beneath: her clavicles, her carpals, her skull. As tendons and ligaments disintegrate, her fingerbones rattle against the floor. The hairbrush drops with a bang. And something in me snaps and now I do scream: I scream so loudly and so mindlessly that I wonder if I’ll ever be able to stop.

“Hey,” someone says through the screams and clattering bones and jaundiced light. And then again, as they nudge my shoulder: “Hey, wake up, wake up—”

I jolt upright in bed, gasping, and the scream cuts off in my throat. Ben is standing beside me in perfectly transparent light; he must have turned on the bedroom lamp.

“You were having a nightmare,” he says in that deep, subterranean voice, his eyes troubled.

I nod, still catching my breath. There’s a cold sweat slick on my ribs, my spine. When I lay my palm against my chest, I can feel my heart hammering there. “Yeah, I’m aware.”

“Are you alright now?”

I gaze up at him blearily without knowing how to answer. No. I don’t think so. Not at all. Never will be. Nice of you to ask.

“Do you need anything?” Ben says. “Want me to bring you anything?”

“Can you…can you just…stay?”

Ben’s eyes go wide, although he shakes that off with a consciously flippant toss of his head. His cheeks flush a startlingly deep shade of pink. His blond hair is wild and wavy and falls down over his forehead. It’s getting long, I realize. He hasn’t gotten it trimmed since I met him. “Uh, yeah, sure, okay, do you mean…like…on the other side of a wall of pillows, or…?”

In reply, I reach for him, my face crumbling.

“Okay, okay,” Ben says quickly, climbing into the bed and catching me as I fold into him. I clutch his nightshirt and sob against his chest like the archetypal damsel in distress that everyone imagines me to be, like a child. “You’re alright,” he soothes, somewhat awkwardly at first, as if he’s afraid to touch me in the wrong way, as if I’m all glass inside and one careless move will shatter me. But then Ben’s resistance evaporates and he pulls me in closer, one hand on the small of my back, one hand on my face, whispering like we’re the only two people left in the world. “You’re alright. You’re okay. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Shh, shh, I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But you’re going to be okay.”

I don’t really believe him. But I like the sound of his promises.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Are…those…trousers?”

I look up from Tarzan of the Apes to see a girl of nine or ten years old. She’s blue-eyed, curly-haired, presumably British based upon her accent, dressed the same way I always used to be in a corseted gown that stops at her ankles and not a centimeter higher. She’s gawping at me with a blend of fascination and disgust. “Yes indeed,” I reply with a smile, kicking one leg up for emphasis. I fold the corner of a page to mark my place in my book. Ben and Joe are engrossed in a tennis match a few meters away, alternately grunting and cursing and cheering depending on how it’s going.

The little girl is still thoroughly befuddled. “But…but…why?”

“Because they’re comfortable. And easy to travel in. And they don’t blow around in the wind. And to tell you the truth, I don’t really think much about them at all anymore. They’re just clothes.”

“But…trousers on a lady are…rather indecent, aren’t they?” the little girl ventures, scrutinizing me. Her face is pinched with lines of mistrust. I catch a glimpse of what she will look like in ten years when she is finished with her studies and fit to be married off to some moneyed gentleman whom she may or may not happen to harbor any measurable affection for.

“Some people think so,” I reply conciliatorily. “I used to think that myself. But I’ve reconsidered that particular attitude. Sometimes attitudes require revisiting, isn’t that right?”

“Sure,” the girl mutters, still ogling my trousers, not sounding very confident.

“Florence!” the girl’s mother scolds as she swoops in and snatches up one of her daughter’s small, soft, unharmed hands. “Come along now.” The mother casts me a fearsome glare, as if I’d been caught trying to teach her child how to load a rifle or set stray cats on fire. I stare coolly back. I am overcome with a sudden compulsion to scream at her: What’s wrong with you? Don’t you know who I am? I’m the closest you will ever get to the royalty you idolize so goddamn much. You should be bending over backwards to make a good impression. You should be bending until your spine snaps in two.

But of course this woman—perhaps the wife of a British diplomat or baron or viscount or shipping tycoon—has no idea who I really am. And I don’t say anything as she leads her daughter away to continue their stroll along the promenades and discuss more appropriate matters, more meaningless ones. I recall how Mother was always prattling on about the vital importance of proper posture, etiquette, language, modesty, prayer, obedience. None of that had saved her. None of that had saved any of them.

“What was that about?” Ben asks me, stepping over the low net that surrounds the tennis court. He had evidently lost interest with the sport after suffering his third loss in thirty minutes. Fortunately, Joe was already ensnaring a new opponent: a Frenchman with black hair and a matching mustache and a penchant for talking as loudly and as dramatically as Joe, which I had not thought was possible. Ben sits down on the deck chair next to me and slides on a pair of sunglasses. It’s too chilly for short sleeves but mild enough for a light sweater or jacket to suffice. Ben’s jacket is black, his pants khaki-colored corduroy. I can’t see his eyes anymore, but I can still read him; the set of his mouth and brow and shoulders can say quite a lot, I’ve learned.

“Rich people business. You wouldn’t understand.”

Ben points to Tarzan of the Apes. “How on earth is that still keeping you occupied? You must have read it fifty times by now.”

“Only ten,” I say. “And there are still parts I don’t understand.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” I flip through the rumpled, dogeared pages to find the words I’ve circled with a pen or pencil or whatever else I could find within arm’s reach when the need arose. “What’s a constellation?”

“Stars,” Ben replies with a smile, one of his kind, gentle smiles that I hadn’t known he was capable of until our night on the Trans-Siberian Railroad. “It’s a group of stars that form an image in the night sky, like the Big Dipper or Orion. What are some of the other ones? Pegasus, I think. Perseus.”

“Ah, I understand now. Sozvezdiye.”

“That’s the Russian word for constellation?”

“Yes indeed.”

“See? We’re both learning.”

“Except that you don’t have any need to improve upon your Russian since you’re leaving your employment with Sir Buchanan and starting a new life across the ocean.”

“There are plenty of Russians in New York City,” Ben objects. “I might still have some use for the language.”

I leaf briskly through Tarzan of the Apes. “What about quixotic?”

“Quixotic,” Ben repeats, pondering it. Joe and the Frenchman are now arguing emphatically about whether a serve was good or a fault. They shout back and forth across the tennis court in Italian, the only language they have in common. “That’s a difficult one to explain. A quixotic person is very idealistic and impractical. Unrealistic. Overly-romantic, maybe.” Then his eyebrows rise; he is amused, playful. “A bit like you were when we first met, actually.”

“Not anymore?”

“No,” he replies, more seriously. “Not so much anymore.”

“Quixotic,” I say, mostly to myself, committing it to memory. “Donkikhotskiy.”

“Quite the mouthful, isn’t it? Your language is ridiculous.”

“My language is older than yours by several thousand years.”

“I thought we’d already established that one’s age is not always a reliable indicator of their worth.”

“Cartography,” I ask next. “What does that mean? Something involving science? The study of mountains, maybe? Or volcanoes?”

“Close,” Ben says encouragingly. “It’s making and using maps.”

“Huh. I’m not sure we even have a word for that.”

“You do. It’s kartografiya.”

“Oh,” I laugh. “How original. I suppose my education was incomplete. There’s a big hole in the middle called ‘Anything Useful.’ It’s a graveyard where knowledge inessential for attracting a husband or birthing children goes to die.”

I’m joking, but at the same time I’m not. My words come out more bitterly than I mean for them to be, than I expect them to be. Ben doesn’t know what to say. He just watches me with his brow knit and his hair whipping in the wind. Below us the sea is murky and calm and sparking, the sun glinting off the crests of waves, gulls and scoters whirling and squawking in mid-autumn air.

“I’m sorry.” I use my scarf—the forest-green one we found in Moscow, the one with the bear stitched into it with silver thread, the very first thing I ever bought—to dab at my watering eyes. “I’ve been so…I don’t know. I don’t know how to describe it. Raw, I guess. I feel all these different things so suddenly and so strongly, and I have no idea where they’re coming from. And then they’re gone and I feel something else. I’m immeasurable sad, and then I’m angry, and then I’m dedicated, and then I’m hopeful, and then I’m broken all over again.”

“I don’t know how the hell you’re up and walking around,” Ben says. “I was in pieces for a long time after Willis and Cecil died. And Louise, she was…you know, she was my favorite. She was the closest thing I had to a soulmate. But even then I had people to live for. If it had been all of them, if it had been my whole family…Frankie, Luther, Leo, Opal, Kathryn, August, Mum…” He swallows noisily and shakes his head. “I’d be lying on the floor of a padded room in a straitjacket somewhere.”

“I still have people to live for. A whole country full of them.”

“You are the single most indomitable person I’ve ever known,” Ben says, with something quiet and awed shimmering in his green eyes.

“Maybe you’ll find a few nice things to write about me in that internationally acclaimed article after all,” I tell him with a drawn smile.

“Maybe,” Ben replies warily.

On the tennis court, Joe is sweating hard and still losing. “Did you hear about what happened?” the Frenchman calls over to him in Italian as he serves. “To the former tsar’s family. To the Romanovs.”

“Of course,” Joe yells back, diving for the ball. He’s deliberately short, as if he’s hoping the subject will dissipate on its own like smoke if he doesn’t pay too much attention to it. “Horrible.”

“So horrible!” the Frenchman agrees with no indication of waning interest. The neon green tennis ball ping-pongs around the court. “I mean, Nicholas I can understand. Even the wife I can understand. They probably would have been tried and executed anyway, and they had plenty of opportunities to save their own skins if they hadn’t been so goddamn proud. But the kids? You can’t butcher a bunch of kids! Jesus Christ. What kind of world are we living in?”

Joe casts me a cautious glance. “Yes, it’s truly appalling…”

I don’t really hear his response; or I suppose I do hear it, I hear the sounds anyway, the shapes and slopes and shadows of Italian words, but I can’t process them. Ben looks at the tennis court and then back to me. My face must read like an open book, like a crisp white page with all manner of outbursts scribbled jaggedly in the margins. “I really need to learn Italian,” Ben says softly. And then he stands up and takes my hand. “Time for a walk.”

We roam the decks—first-class, second-class, third-class, making no distinctions between these liminal spaces that are perhaps more illustrative of the real world than I would like them to be—with Tarzan of the Apes hugged to my chest and Ben chain smoking his hand-rolled cigarettes. They’re cheaper that way than by the pack, Ben tells me, and he got in the habit of making them himself as a teenager and never grew out of it. It occurs to me that I very rarely see him buy anything; he gives me money to buy things, sure, and he must receive a paycheck from Sir Buchanan, along with a generous stipend to cover the expenses of our journey…but he wears the same clothes over and over and his tastes are dreadfully simple and he seemingly covets nothing except his impending expatriation to America.

“What’s he like?” I ask Ben as we walk. Without either my forethought or permission, I can feel my mouth twist with something like awkwardness, acquiescence, bashfulness. I bow my head to hide it. “David Windsor.”

Ben shrugs ambiguously. “You’ve met him.”

“I’ve met the Prince of Wales, yes. But only as a gracious host once or twice a year. I’ve danced with him at Christmas balls and watched him play polo. I don’t know who he is as a man.”

“Look…” Ben sighs in an enigmatic exhale of cigarette smoke. “I don’t really know. I don’t know the guy. I only know what I’ve heard.”

“And what have you heard?”

It’s bad. It must be bad for Ben to want to hide it. Finally, he answers: “That he’s…frivolous. He cares about polo and parties and little else. He drinks a lot. He’s never had much interest in his studies. Wait, that’s too generous of me, he’s hopeless in his studies. All of it, math, science, languages, writing, religion, art, it doesn’t matter. He spent eight terms at Oxford and left without a single academic accomplishment to speak of. And he hates reading.”

Somehow, that last part seems like a greater crime than all the rest put together. “But he’s been serving on the Western Front, he must be at least somewhat heroic!”

“He’s spent far more time on leave in Paris than on the battlefield,” Ben says. “And none in the trenches. Unless of course he was touring them for a photo opportunity. I suspect that’s how it is for most princes. That’s how it will be for your sons one day, if you choose to have them.”

“But Olga and Tati were real nurses,” I insist. “They saw everything, the very worst of it, the mangling and the sickness and the madness, they weren’t there for some photo opportunity—”

“Yes, and that was one of your parents’ very best decisions. I’ll give them credit when it is due. But your sisters were at a Red Cross hospital, miles and miles and miles from the danger. And they were brought home the second things got too tough for them.”

I frown at him with irritation but no wrath.

“What do you think happens when a normal nurse falls ill?” Ben asks, more gently now. “Or becomes exhausted or homesick? Or breaks down emotionally from the stress? Or is injured or abused by men who have become animals?”

“I suppose she carries on somehow,” I realize.

“Exactly. There is no leave in Paris for most of the world. There is no swift evacuation back to their family’s palace or a restorative cruise around the Mediterranean. There is painful, relentless struggling, and then there are the glimpses you catch of things like love, hope, peace, wonder. Things that you live for. But those glimpses are so brief, and life feels so fucking long.”

“What else?” I prod after a moment. “About the Prince of Wales. Is there more? There must be more. You look like there’s more.”

Ben nods but doesn’t speak. He surveys the frothing cobalt waves that collide with the ship and send sea spray up to mist our exposed skin: our faces, our wrists, our palms.

“You want me to be prepared, don’t you?” I say. “I think it’ll be easier if I’m prepared. Mother always tried to protect me from the imperfect parts of existence. Don’t treat me like that. You don’t want me to be some sheltered, self-absorbed idiot, so don’t treat me like one.”

“He has mistresses.”

My stomach plummets. I try to conceal it. “As in…a few mistresses?” I ask hopefully. “That’s not so bad. He is still a bachelor, after all. Papa once had a dalliance with a woman when he was a young man. Did I ever tell you that? Back when it appeared the families would never agree to a marriage between him and Mother. She was a ballerina named Mathilde, and she was very attractive and perfectly elegant, but Papa never loved her. You’d think Mother would have been hurt by it, would have been quite sensitive about it, maybe even would have harbored some perpetual disdain for ballerinas in general. But she never seemed bothered. That affair solidified Papa’s determination to marry Mother, it taught him that his thirst for her was something no other woman could quench. And he learned that he could commit himself to her without ever wondering if he was missing out on something else.”

Now Ben turns to me. He’s somber and sad and…something else too. Something I don’t know the word for. “No. A lot of mistresses.”

My face falls like sails without wind. “Oh.”

“He likes actresses and courtesans, experienced lovers. Glamorous women who can entertain him and won’t become bothersome or overly-attached. And he tires of them quickly, so the number is more or less impossible to ascertain.”

“And…is that…common? For men to grow bored with their women?” I ask this fully cognizant that there was a time not long ago when such a thought wouldn’t even have occurred to me.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh. Right. Please continue.”

“He’s forgiven for everything because he’s charming and rich and illustrious,” Ben intones bitterly, taking a drag off his cigarette. “And handsome, of course. You can’t forget handsome.”

“Is he cruel?” I ask, very quietly, afraid of the answer.

“No,” Ben says immediately. “No, I’ve never heard anything like that. I wouldn’t take you to him if I had. I’d stuff you in a trunk and ship you off to Manhattan first. You could work in a fish market or something.”

We exchange a short-lived smile. In the west, the sun is rapidly descending towards the glistening waves. We’ll be summoned for dinner soon. I’m hungry, I notice with dull shock like a rusty blade. It’s the first time I’ve felt real hunger in almost a week. What Ben said about the Prince of Wales being handsome enough to enchant his way out of criticism is still clanging around in my skull. As Ben and I watch each other in the fading daylight, I think: Royals, for all of our advantages, do not quite have a monopoly on beauty.

“I hope I’m not a disappointment to him. The Prince of Wales, I mean.” I wring my hands, readjust my scarf. It suddenly feels like it’s strangling me. “I’m not exciting or experienced or particularly glamorous. There’s nothing especially alluring about me. Everyone always agreed that Tatiana was the most beautiful Romanov daughter.”

“Well, maybe not everyone.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah right.”

Ben repeats, tapping his own chest: “Not everyone.”

And it hits me like a lightning strike, like a wave. In my mind is the echo of the sound of a book snapped shut. I knew it from the beginning, of course, or at least a part of me did: I knew it when he pulled me out of the doorway of that greenhouse in Tobolsk, when he braided my hair, when he slept chastely beside me in beds and tents and train compartments, when he kissed me and cradled my face with bloodstained palms somewhere in the desolate wilds between Saint Petersburg and Moscow, when he tried to defend me again and again from a world that was so cuttingly unforgiving. But now I know it in a way that is entirely unambiguous, unclouded. Here under the twilight sky and above the rocking of the Baltic Sea, I know it everywhere: in my hands, my mind, my blood, my soul, my dark cavernous cravings to uncover the mysteries that I am not supposed to be aware of.

I want him. I want him so goddamn badly.

Ben is oblivious. His hand closes around mine. “Come on. Let’s get ready for dinner.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s piano music unfurling through the first-class dining hall. We’re served filets of sole and roasted tri-color potatoes and green beans almondine, and I clean my plate. Ben beams in a way that reminds me of how Papa once took pride in our mundane childhood accomplishments, tied shoes and penned letters and hair brushed with a hundred strokes. He sits across the table in his black jacket with the glow of candlelight dancing across his face, looking at me often as Joe jabbers on about his new best friends, the French ambassador’s staff. We split a bottle of white wine three ways and eat apple cake topped with vanilla ice cream for dessert, and I am overcome with a soft, lightheaded wash of warmth and calmness, an acceptance of all that has happened and all that has yet to come. It is temporary, I suspect; but it is more welcome than thawing frost at the close of winter.

Joe must indeed be very taken with the Frenchmen, because after dinner he joins them for cigars and card games back in their quarters. Ben and I return to our respective rooms. I take a long, hot bath—the steam fogging up the air and the mirrors and my skull—and change into my nightgown. I’m slipping into bed, dragging the covers up over my shoulders, when I hear the bedroom door creak open. Ben appears in the doorway wearing green flannel pajamas and damp, disorderly hair.

“Hi,” I say in greeting.

“Hi.”

We stare at each other in a silence that should be awkward but isn’t.

Ben clears his throat. “I was just…um, well, I was thinking that I should check in and…um…I wanted to see if…maybe…” He starts over. “Do you want me to stay again? Like this morning?”

“Yes,” I reply simply.

He climbs into bed beside me and I burrow into him, inhaling his heat and cologne and soap and whispers of cigarette smoke. For a moment, I’m back in Papa’s study in the Winter Palace, and there’s snow falling soundlessly outside and the shelves are heavy with books and I don’t have a single care in the universe, let alone the world. And then I’m here with Ben again.

I run my fingers through his hair and gaze into his green eyes, and then suddenly my lips are on his, and we’re touching and kissing and biting teasingly at each other. I’m forever amazed by how gentle Ben is in these moments, not intense or guarded but sinuous, graceful, light. And then he tears away from me.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demands, jolting upright in bed and breathing heavily. “I mean, what is this? What the fuck is this?”

I pull myself into a sitting position and shrug. My hair is falling in my face, my words are hushed and guilty. “Nobody has to know.”

“Nobody has to know what?”

“It’s nothing serious,” I sputter. “It’s perfectly innocent, in fact. It’s not even a dalliance, it’s a harmless flirtation, it’s just…just…kissing, and embracing, and…and…well it’s not very scandalous at all compared to what the Prince of Wales has been up to, now is it?”

“No no no no no,” Ben moans, burying his face in his hands. “We can’t do this. I can’t do this. You’re, you know, you, and if you marry the Prince of Wales then you belong to him, and you can’t have any sort of past, you can’t even have the whisper of a past, and I’m fairly certain that impropriety with the future Princess of Wales would get me arrested or brutalized or banished to Australia or, or, or something…”

I glare at him. “You act like it’s such a travesty for me to be treated like property and then you go and do the same thing.”

“No,” Ben says again. He looks petrified.

I tuck my knees to my chest and link my arms around them and stare down ashamedly at the rumpled bedsheets. “I’m sorry, I suppose I misinterpreted things. I didn’t realize the idea would be so unappealing to you.”

“That is not the problem here!” Ben exclaims; and despite myself I smile. “Okay, let’s assume no one finds out. Let’s assume you don’t regret it later and hate me for it. Let’s assume I don’t get stripped of my income or spend the rest of my days in fucking Australia. All of that aside, you are in absolutely no condition to be making decisions like this.”

“I’m not a child, Ben.”

“You’re grieving and you’re confused and you’re lonely and…and…and this is…” He shakes his head incredulously. “I didn’t think it was possible for you to see me this way.”

“You’re no different than I am. You’re better than I am, actually.”

“You’ve had wine, a lot of wine, you don’t mean this.”

“You drank more than I did and you seem to have plenty of self-restraint.”

Ben leaps off the bed and paces across the room, back and forth, back and forth, one hand swiping the perspiration from his forehead. “You need to think about this,” he warns me. “You need to think about this a lot, and then you’ll change your mind once you’ve slept on it and really considered what you’re suggesting here.”

“And what if I don’t change my mind?”

“You will.” He strides with thunderous footsteps to the door and throws it open. “Think about it.”

All the fire roaring in my chest—desire and fury and defiance stacked in layers that are nearly inseparable—dies like smothered coals. “You’re leaving?” I ask, trying not to sound disappointed.

“Yes. For now.”

He seems so steady, so sure; but he won’t look me in the eye. And just as he’s about to disappear, something occurs to me. “Ben…don’t you need to think about it too?”

Ben hesitates in the open doorway. “No,” he says at last. “I already know what I want.”

Then he leaves and shuts the door behind him.

[shealwaysreads]

Chase

drarry | E | 1.7k | kinktober, predator/prey, knotting, size queen, werewolf!harry

Summary: I’ve always liked dangerous games.

Read on Ao3

I’ve always liked dangerous games.

Baiting the hunting dogs when I was a child. Stealing from the seventh years at Hogwarts. Spying during the war. I even tried Russian Roulette once, with a gun Blaise pinched from one of his mothers’ conquests.

And now, this. Though perhaps it isn’t a game, not anymore.

Potter went travelling after the war and that spectacular fall from grace after his too-short stint in the Auror department. He came back different. He came back interesting.

He still watches—always watching ever since we were at school, ceaseless—only now he does it with the glint of gold in his eyes, and an intensity that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up whenever he’s in the room. He watches from unusual places now, like tonight; he’s in my favourite club.

It’s a muggle place, filled with bright lights and tiny pills, and it’s the kind of dangerous that means the next drink might leave me dizzily vulnerable, the next burst of euphoria might break the Statute.

I’m not wearing any scent tonight; I left all of the expensive bottles around my sink untouched. I did my research, because I like to learn the shape of danger before I dip my toes into it.

Heightened senses—smell, sight, taste, touch, sound—enhanced strength—his shoulders are broader, he’s taller even—strange hungers—insatiable, they say.

I’m not drinking, either, except for that first sparkling-green shot of absinthe. He might have changed in ways that pique my interest, but I don’t want any stray threads of nobility getting caught on snags like drunkenness. That, and I want to be sober for every minute of this. I want to remember it.

I can feel his eyes on me as I dance, as I let the guy with the blue hair and low-slung jeans grab my hips and drag me against him, as I follow his lead to where the fire door has been left cracked open. I wonder if tonight is when he finally cracks.

It is.

Potter slips through the door, quiet like he’s got no business being anymore now he’s so big, and just his presence—just the bulk of his body, just the weight of his glare, the curl of his lip—is enough to frighten off my little would-be lover. It’s enough to make my heart skip a beat. I wonder if he can hear even that.

“Malfoy.”

“Potter. Fancy seeing you here.”

“You should go,” he says. A warning.

He’s trying to scare me off, as though I haven’t been hoping for this exact moment. As though I don’t know that it’s the full moon tomorrow night, a wolf moon. I undo another button on my shirt, so my scars are properly on show, so he can see where he’s already made his mark.

“Are you going to make me?” I ask.

There it is; a slow rolling growl, like thunder in the distance. I can feel the edges of panic in my fingertips. My cock is heavy, thickening in my too-tight trousers. Potter takes a step towards me, I take a step back.

He frowns, a dark gathering of brows and disapproval.

I back away again, and he follows me, like I’ve hooked him to me with a string. Like we’re tied together. I could laugh, but I don’t. I turn, glance over my shoulder at him—he’s staring, of course—and then I run.

For a moment, all I can hear is the irate sound of cars beeping at me as I dart across the road, and I wonder if he’s still standing outside the club. But then—there—I catch the sound of his feet hitting the pavement, and I know he’s following me. He’s indulging me. There is no real chase, he could catch me in a moment if he wanted—enhanced speed—but he’s letting me gain ground, letting me think I have a chance of escape. Adrenaline sparks in my blood, I laugh and it sounds mad.

The sky is dark, but London is bright around us. Streetlights hit me in soft pools of illumination, kebab shops are neon white and savoury. I race past overflowing bins, through petrol-prism puddles of dirty water, past closed shutters and drug deals in shop alcoves. I’m running fast, a little wild, I wonder if people think I’ve stolen something. I’m running like I don’t want to be caught.

But I do. And I am.

Potter grabs my arm, grip like a vice, and stops my forward momentum with a jerk of his shoulder. He swings me into an alley and keeps hold of me even as he presses me hard against the wall.

“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at, Malfoy?”

My heart is pounding, and I’m not sure if it’s from the exertion or the fact I’m not sure how much harder he can grip my wrist without it breaking. I turn my head, catch a glimpse of him over my shoulder—his eyes are almost more gold than green, there’s a solid ring of glimmering sunshine around his irises, and his pupils are blown as wide as the night sky—he looks feral.

“I’m not playing,” I say, and watch the way that makes him clench his jaw tight. I wonder if his teeth get sharper this close to the moon. I wonder if it’s the idea of that which makes me arch my hips back against Potter’s.

“Now?” Potter asks. “Here?”

Of course Potter wouldn’t be content with the clear and obvious lack of struggle. I knew I had been right not to drink.

‘Yes,” I say.

That’s all it takes for him to release my arm and then reach around to rip open my trousers—I hear the button plink down into the rubbish-covered tarmac—and tug them down just far enough to expose my arse. Then he leans back, I can feel the cold air against my bare skin in the absence of the heat of his body, and uses his thumbs to pull my cheeks apart right here near the mouth of the alley where anyone walking past could see if they cared to look.

“A plug?

I don’t bother to hide my face, I’m not ashamed.

“Yes, I thought—”

I can’t finish the sentence, because I’m strangling on a gasp. Potter pulls the plug out without ceremony or delicacy, and just throws it on the floor. I crane my neck, and he’s just staring down at my arse. It’s dark in the alley, but he can see in the dark. I wonder if he can see the way I’m clenching down on the sudden lack. I feel empty.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fucking hell, Malfoy. You planned this, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did. Was it big enough?”

Potter goes still behind me, and with his chest pressed against my back I can feel the rumbling growl I’ve provoked. It’s like being too close to the speakers when the bass drops, or maybe that’s just what I’m telling myself to make it normal, to make it different from the fact that Harry Potter the newly-minted werewolf is pressing me against the bricks and unzipping his fly behind me.

The answer must have been yes, because I can feel his cock against me and it’s hard and hot and big. It’s big.

“You sure?” he asks, and ducks his nose to draw it along my neck.

I knew I was right to leave the scent bottles alone. I wonder what I smell like to him.

“Yes,” I say, and tilt my hips. It might ease the way.

Potter murmurs a lubrication spell, and I can hear his slick fingers as he wanks himself off for a moment, then they’re slipping between my cheeks, into me, and he whispers it again. He’s thorough.

That’s all the warning I get, before the blunt head of his cock presses against me. I was right to wear the plug too, otherwise this might be too much, already. I widen my stance—or try to, my trousers are still high on my thighs and hobble me—and Potter reaches around to place his palm on the stretch of stomach just above my aching erection to still me, to hold me in place more firmly than even the wall could manage as he pushes forward. Inward.

I’m gasping, inarticulate, when he bottoms out. I can feel the coarse hair at the base of his cock against my arse, it’ll leave my skin pink. I can’t wait to see it tomorrow in the mirror. Potter still has a hand against my belly, and he keeps it there as he pulls out then thrusts back in—hard. Maybe he can feel his cock moving inside me. It feels big enough for that, big enough to move my guts around, to make room for itself. To show from the outside.

“Merlin. You’re taking it,” Potter whispers, then he sucks a bruising kiss to the side of my neck and I can feel his teeth.

I was right, there is a hint of too-sharp to his canines. I tilt my neck to give him better access, let my head loll back to rest on his shoulder, let him have my jugular as he reams me deeper than anyone before. He wraps his other arm around me, slips his hand into my open shirt and drags his fingers across my scars before thumbing at my nipple.

“Can you take the rest?” he asks.

I’m not sure where I find the words, I hardly have room for breath alongside his perfect, enormous cock.

“Give it to me.”

He pulls out a little, and he’s moaning—guttural noises dragged out from somewhere deep—then he pushes back in, and I can feel it. His knot.

I can’t make a sound, I can’t, just choked-off gasps and shuddering exhalations. I can take it though. Potter clearly doubts it, he drops his hand from my belly to my cock and wraps his fingers around it with a surprised noise. I’m still hard.

“You—you fucking love it, don’t you?”

My mouth is open, but I still can’t speak so I nod, sort of, and turn my head so my mouth is at his neck. He tastes like salt and moonlight, and when I bite down his hips twist—ferocious—and he grips me tightly. His nails are sharp, like his teeth, and they prick my skin.

I do love it. Love the ache and the stretch, the deep-blooming heat and the yielding. I love the pressure—endless fucking pressure—and the sharp bright pleasure-pain. And I love the way he sounds. Unrestrained, feral. I love the way he feels. Wild, dangerous.

Read on Ao3

October 11th from this prompt list

Read the series here on Tumblr or here on Ao3

[vivid4am]

Life Goes On (Chapter 10)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Zemo, Sam, Bucky, and Y/N have discussions in various means of transportation. Y/N also has a big realization.

Warnings: Language, Zemo being an asshat, TFATWS spoilers

A/N: quick note! Lisichka means little fox in Russian! please leave some feedback for me! struggling to continue this series.

| Chapter 9 |

Y/N now found herself in the back seat of a vintage Volkswagen. The interior was crisp and pristine. How these guys got this vehicle, she had no clue. She also had no clue on where they were going and what the plan was. The frustration that diminished earlier was now back, slowly eating at her stomach and rising towards her head. She swore she could feel steam coming out of her ears.

She took a few deep breaths, trying her best to ease the frustration out of her system. Bucky was sitting in the back of the vehicle with her, trying his best to offer some sort of comfort and moral support. Sam sat in the passenger seat up front, Zemo driving the vehicle. How he convinced Sam and Bucky to drive was beyond her. They knew how dangerous he was, yet here they were, probably a pawn in his plans.

She definitely didn’t trust him. And now, she was starting to question her trust in Bucky. Are they that desperate? Is she fully not understanding what they’re up against? Did she clearly not think things through when she told Bucky that she knew who he was? She didn’t think that telling him meant going on missions with him, whether it was their choice or not.

One thing she did know was that the tension in the car was thicker than the Great Smog of London. She cleared her throat, partly because she was uncomfortable. The other part was that she wanted answers. Desperately.

“So,” She started. “How did you guys get this car? Steal it?” A slight venomous tone filled the end of her sentence there. She didn’t mean to, but the frustration sat on her tongue and slipped between her teeth. Zemo chuckled at her, causing her to slightly tense up.

“This is mine. Collected by my family over the generations.” He stated, his one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding the clutch of the car. His eyes trailed off from the windshield and into the rearview mirror, piercing right into Y/N’s. “You’re probably wondering why they brought me along, Lisichka .” A chill went straight down Y/N’s spine. Could he read her mind?

A small noise came out of Bucky’s throat as soon as that pet name was uttered from Zemo’s lips. A hand, specifically Bucky’s glove-covered metal hand, reached over to Y/N’s thigh, almost gripping possessively. His hold wasn’t too tight, just a light squeeze to Y/N’s thigh. She didn’t mind. She carried on with the conversation.

“Yeah, other than being a criminal mastermind, of course,” Y/N said, trying to rid of the flustered look that still sat on her face. A smirk filled Zemo’s face, pride practically exuding from his features. “I used to work for HYDRA, for their Winter Soldier Program.” He explained. “HYDRA had people who could recreate the serum. And once it’s out there,” He paused. “Someone can create an army of people...like the Avengers.” His gaze broke from the rearview mirror to look over at Sam who just glared at him.

Y/N wasn’t the only one who was against having Zemo on board.

Zemo turned his eyes back to the road and continued. “I ended the Winter Soldier Program once before and I have no intention of leaving my work unfinished.” The silence filled up the car once more. Y/N was a little stunned if she was being honest.

“How many are there?” She asked, obviously referring to the super soldiers that the quartet was searching for. “A total of 8 that we know of,” Sam answered, chewing his lip. “That we know of?” Y/N gasped, quirking an eyebrow.

Bucky turned over to Y/N. “We suspect that they need to serum to make more super soldiers. We’re trying to find someone who is still producing it.” Bucky’s hand still laid on Y/N’s thigh, his thumb starting to rub back and forth, providing at least what he thought was a bit of comfort.

“Any ideas on who they are? Why’re they’re doing this?” Y/N continued to prod. Bucky shook his head. “No specific names, just the group.” He replied. Y/N cocked her head to the side. Bucky looked at her, smirking to himself. Her detective brain was slowly coming to life.

“Sam,” She started. “What are their goals? The Flag Smashers?” She asked. Sam quirked a brow. “Does it matter?” Y/N coughed. “Of course it matters. Basic criminology is that criminal behavior has a reason behind it. Someone may steal from a store ‘cause they desperately need food.” She explained.

“Can’t they just be evil?”

“That’s a very low chance, especially considering you have eight possible suspects. Ninety-nine percent of the time, there’s an explanation for criminal behavior. A proper motive.” Y/N continued, pulling her phone out of her pocket.

Bucky stared as she typed quickly on her phone. A smirk infiltrated her concentrated features. “Ha, a quick Google search says that they’re an anti-nationalist organization trying to get the World back to the way it was before the Blip.” Y/N read from the Wiki page.

“A world unified without borders,” Y/N added, pocketing her phone again. Bucky, Sam, and Zeno sat there stunned. Sam clenched his jaw and bit the inside of his cheek. “Maybe Raynor was right about bringing you along.”

-

Y/N now sat on a plane, sailing 30,000 feet in the air. She sat directly across from Zemo, adjusting her sitting position under his gaze. She tucked her legs underneath her butt, trying to get herself comfortable. It was a private plane owned by Zemo. It was a nice plane. The seats were made of fine tan leather coupled with dark oak wood panels. The floor of the aircraft was carpeted. Y/N had made herself comfortable earlier. She flipped her shoes off and felt the warm woven carpet under the soles of her feet.

She fiddled with a pair of wireless earbuds in her hands, nervously. She still had no clue where they were going. A voice tripped her out of her thoughts. It was an old man, Ozenik, to be specific. He greeted the four of them outside of the plan. He seemed to be a sweet and loyal old man, considering he waited around for Zemo while he was in prison. Ozenik spoke in a croaky voice, “Apologies,” He started, handing Zemo a glass of champagne. “The fridge is out, but I will see if there is some good food in the galley.”

Zemo replied in Sokovian, making Ozenik chuckle. “It’s great to have you back, sir.” Ozenik ambled back to the front of the aircraft as Zemo took another big gulp of his glass of champagne. Y/N’s eyes shifted over to Sam and Bucky, who were giving her the same concerned look.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be locked in a cell,” Zemo said. He glanced over at Sam. “Oh wait, you do.” Sam sighed, looking directly back at Zemo. “Why don’t you tell us where we’re going?” He asked, clasping his hands together. Y/N noticed that Sam did this when he would get nervous. She grimaced. They didn’t know where they were going either .

Y/N faced ahead at Zemo. He was holding a book in his hand, probably some light reading for the plane ride. “I’m sorry,” Zemo replied. “I was just fascinated by this. I don’t know what to call it, but this part seems important.” Zemo pulled a smaller book from the book he claimed to be reading. “Who is Nakajima?”

As quick as lightning, Bucky lunged over to Zemo, grabbing him by the throat. “If you touch that again, I’ll kill you.” He threatened. Zemo offered him a small nod in agreement before Bucky released his neck from his grasp. He grabbed the notebook from Zemo and shoved it into his pocket. He sat back down in his seat. Y/N turned her seat over to him, trying to offer him a smile. He didn’t return it.

He was starting to brood.

Zemo started to address Bucky. “I’m sorry. I understand the list of names. People you wronged as the Winter Soldier.” He explained. Bucky bit the inside of his cheek. “Don’t push it.” He replied.

“I’ve seen that book,” Sam nodded his head at Bucky. “It was Steve’s when he came out of the ice.” Sam tried to bite back a smile. Y/N felt her heart swell as the two started to discuss their dearest friend, Steve. Sam's smile widened as he continued to talk. “I told him about Trouble Man . He wrote it in that book. Did you hear it? What’d you think?”

Bucky’s body tensed, his shoulders going up in a shrug. “I like 40’s music, so...” Bucky trailed off. Y/N scoffed. Sam about fell back in his chair, offended to hell. “You didn’t like it?” He exclaimed. “I liked it.” Bucky deadpanned, a slight bitter sass in his voice. Even Zemo chimed in. “It is a masterpiece, James. Complete. Comprehensive. It captures the African-American experience.” He explained. Y/N furrowed her eyebrows. “I agree with him, but I don’t like that I do.” She stated, pointing a finger at him.

“Everybody loves Marvin Gaye.”

“I like Marvin Gaye.”

“Steve adored Marvin Gaye.”

“Uh, don’t let him fool you, Sam.” Y/N started, a small smirk playing on her lips. “Bucky loves Marvin Gaye. He was obsessed with Too Busy Thinking About My Baby for a week straight.” Sam gaped at her. “You’re lying.” He gasped. She laughed and shook her head. “I’m not! After I played it for him one day, he would come back over and beg me to play it.” She chuckled, looking over at Bucky who was bright red in the face.

“You must’ve really looked up to Steve,” Zemo interrupted. “But I realized something when I met him. The danger with people like him, America's Super Soldiers, is that we put them on pedestals.” He said, swirling his glass of champagne. “Watch your step, Zemo,” Sam warned, as Bucky tensed up again. Y/N wasn’t sure if Sam was protecting Bucky or Zemo at this point.

“They become symbols. Icons. And then we start to forget about their flaws. From there, cities fly, innocent people die. Movements are formed, wars are fought. You remember that, right?” Zemo tilted his head at Bucky, who just stared back at him. “As a young soldier sent to Germany to stop a mad icon. Do we want to live in a world full of people like the Red Skull?” Zemo shook his head. “That’s why we’re going to Madripoor.”

Sam furrowed his eyebrows. “What’s up with Madripoor? You talk about it like it’s Skull Island.” Y/N bit back a laugh. “It's an island nation in the Indonesian archipelago. It was a pirate sanctuary back in the 1800s.” Bucky explained, turning his head from the side window of the plane. “It's kept its lawless ways. But we cannot exactly walk in as ourselves.” Zemo continued. He paused briefly before sending a slightly guilty look towards Bucky. “James, you will have to become someone you claim is gone.”

Y/N swore she never saw someone turn that shade of white in her entire life. Bucky’s jaw was clenched. Everyone knew exactly what Zemo was referring to, and no one agreed with it at all. Y/N bit her lip and looked down at her phone. She connected her earbuds to the device and offered one of them to Bucky, who gave her a reluctant look. The look of anxiety was all too evident in his eyes. Y/N motioned for him to take the earbud, which he did, but not without a big sigh first.

He placed the earbud in his ear and laid back in his chair, closing his eyes. Y/N played a song that she loved, one that Bucky loved also. The guitar strums, accompanied with bass drums and a muted tambourine filled Bucky’s left ear.

He immediately knew the song, Sleep on the Floor by The Lumineers, a band that Y/N adored. The lead singer’s voice made Bucky open his eyes and look over to Y/N. Her legs were still tucked under her butt. Her arms were crossed on the wall as she looked out the window. He loved that when he first listened to it, Y/N explained the song to him.

It was about a couple who ran to big cities and “seized the day”. Bucky liked it because it reminded him of his old self.

If the sun don't shine on me today

And if the subways flood and bridges break

Y/N looked over her shoulder to see Bucky staring at her with an unfamiliar look on his face. She’s seen that look on other people, but never him. She couldn’t tell you what it meant.

Will you lay yourself down and dig your grave

Or will you rail against your dying day

She knew what it meant. Of course, she did. She’s seen it on teenage girls’ faces, young couples after they married, and even on old men who accompanied their wives on daily trips. It was love. A loving look was on Bucky’s face as he stared at her. Butterflies filled her stomach, but she pushed it back down. She didn’t say anything to him but returned the longing look that he gave her. She gulped, leaning her body toward the other end of her chair. She reached her hand out to Bucky, trying not to look too hard at him. Just short glances. He didn’t grab her hand. For what reason, neither she or Bucky knew. Feeling rejected, Y/N looked back at the window, trying to ignore the feeling of her aching heart. She still kept her hand out, in case he changed his mind.

A few songs changed and Y/N was starting to give up any hope. She started to draw her hand away but was stopped by a gloved hand who encased their large hands in hers. She looked over again to see Bucky hold her hand but staring out his window. She bit back a smile and went back to her respectable window.

It was small, but it was progress.

-

Life Goes On Tag List:

@livvpl107 @navs-bhat @bluemoon-icecream @sltwins @loveheathens @wintersfilm @kaelyn-lobrutto24 @theashlynbarnes @joscelyn02 @gene5sos @vibraniumqueen @icant-hangout-imdrumming @spideyswebshooters @darkacademic2 @bahama-mama-llama @lawrencekate @thewinterrbucky @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @dancerslovelife @hey-there-angels @archaeoheart @unmagically @marvelfansworld

[hewhofightsbythesword]

mother’s little helper

warnings: suicide, drugs, angst, murder 

inspired by legend (2015)

y/n adored her weekly visits to the market. While she had plenty of maids to do it for her, this was something she liked to personally do. The many textures, colors, and shapes of fruits and vegetables captivated her senses. She often found herself at peace for all of the 45 minutes she was gone. y/n no longer felt the pressure of what it meant to be y/n, the wife of the notorious Thomas Shelby.

y/n loved Tommy. She did, truly. It’s just that he was so... messy. Anything an ordinary husband would do, Tommy did it by 100. It wasn’t just love. It was admiration with a hint of obsession. It wasn’t just jealousy. It was a blinding rage of violence that would surge through his veins like a general responding to an act of war against him. Just for his y/n, he was capable of an apocalyptic-like violence. What he wouldn’t do for her.

Something in y/n always made her question why, and she never understood the answers she came up with. That’s what love is, she tried to rationalize. All those excuses and she still couldn’t come up with a clear answer. How could the same man that told her funny jokes and smiled endlessly be the same man that tortured and killed if his own personal gain called for it? The same hands that were touching her softly, making her feel incredible feelings she never knew of were the same hands that were ending the lives men’s sons in the name of the Peaky Blinders.

y/n would never know that that point in her life was one of the simple ones. It sounded so silly to her ears: life was simple when Tommy did the killing. Now he didn’t and life was, well, complicated. By the time she was aware of these complications, she was already so used to the suffering that came with it.

It seemed as if time blurred itself out. Each and every day started to feel more like the last in a never ending nightmare. Most days y/n felt as if she was chained to the worst parts of herself. It was because of this, Tommy agreed to take y/n to some kind of new doctors in London. These new doctors declared his wife insane with severe anxiety and sent her home with medicine for it.

“Diazepam. Says here you can’t take more than what’s on the bottle.” Tommy looks over at his wife with a look of hopelessness on her face. “We will get through this together, love. All you have to do is take the pills and you be fine.”

All you have to do is take the pills and you’ll be fine. This was a mantra that rang out to y/n constantly over the weeks. Tommy was right. She was fine as long as she had her pills.

Now Tommy could order a kill. The first hit Tommy ordered was quite apparent for the sole reason he hired the eldest Shelby brother for the job. y/n and Polly shared the feeling of disgust and disbelief. What kind of man would use his own brother? The only answer that ever made sense was the one y/n came up with now: it would not take a good man or bad man. It would just take Tommy Shelby. And that made all the sense in the world to her.

“y/n, dear,” Tommy calls out to his wife, “Where are you?”

Currently, the Shelby’s were having a family meeting about some other dangerous people with dangerous money and dangerous intentions. y/n believed her life to be so predictable and she hated it. To calm the building fire in her chest, she brings her drink to her lips to down it all in one sip. Only, of course, fire and alcohol do not mix well.

“I’m sorry, my love. I’m here,” she puts down the glass, “As you were saying.”

All through the meeting, y/n only gathered bits and pieces of information at a time. Something about dinner with some other British gangsters. Or was it drinks? At this point it felt all the same. Irish business, Russian business, drugs, guns, all one and the same to y/n. None of it mattered. Just the weight of her chest. She could not believe this was her life.

Later that night, just right before bed, Tommy encased y/n in their bed with his arms. Noses almost touching, he allows a few moments of silence between the two. He was a smart man, and he wasn’t a blind man. The young girl he once knew does not have the same eyes as the aging woman in front of him. Even though her eyes no longer beamed hope and innocence, her aura still radiated a sense of home. One thing Tommy knew how to do was take, so he took what he could.

“You don’t agree with the choices that I am making,” he breaks the silence, his fingers dancing around the frame of her face.

“You know I don’t, Mr. Shelby.”

“We’re coming up in the world, y/n. I promise there will come a day when we won’t have to do this.” She had heard this excuse plenty of times. It was always the same excuse given to her to pacify her whenever Tommy wished.

“You know I can’t do this without you. I need you.” He brings the back of her hand to his lips, leaving many small kisses behind. “Tell me you’ll be there.”

“What? No!” She quickly retracts her hand but Tommy rolls on top of her wanting to take this further.

He pins her wrist down to the bed. “Tell me you’ll be there for me when the Americans come for some drinks tomorrow. You’re gonna be here, right?” He shifts his body to stop y/n from squirming. He had her completely down. y/n attempted to free herself from his hold but the only part of her she could move was her head and that was no help. “Come on, love. It looks like you’re stuck there. Say yes, and I’ll help you out.”

Tommy’s body began to feel heavy on y/n’s. She could feel her breathing get heavier. “Fine, fine! I’ll be there!”

Instantly, Tommy lets go. y/n turns to look at Tommy like he was crazy but as soon as their eyes met, they filled the room with the sound of their laughter. Just like Tommy’s weight from earlier, the heaviness on her chest gets lighter. y/n was ruined and she knew it. She was destined to a life where the very same man that broke her everyday was also the one that fixed her every night.

The couple’s night ended a lighter note than usual, but y/n could not shake the bad feeling in her. Americans? Has Tommy’s ambitions outgrown England? Surely if it can be stretched an ocean away all the way to America. y/n’s intuition spoke to her all through the night and day leading to the moment right before their plans. y/n sat in front of her vanity mirror giving her makeup final touches while Tommy got himself ready too.

He finishes first. “I’ll see you downstairs so we could greet our guest—“ y/n interrupts.

“Where’s my medicine?” She taps her fingers in the empty little box she stored her pills in.

“What?” Tommy looks taken by surprise.

“My pills, Thomas. Where are they? I need them. I can’t go down there without them.”

He inches closer to her vanity and looks down in the box. Tommy thought back to the day he saw her put the whole month supply in the box. Sure, he thought the popping pills was a little excessive but he wanted her to have her fun. Tommy knew about that Diazepam. He had heard people calling it “Mother’s Little Helper” pills. He knew what they did and genuinely thought they would help her. He never wanted to begin to entertain the idea that these Helper pills would do the opposite.

y/n quickly found Tommy to be of no help. “Damn it. Let’s just go.” Tommy reaches out his hand but in her haste body movements, she walks past and ahead of him to meet their guests as they agreed. All he could do was accept his wife’s rejection and follow her out the room.

At the start of their evening, the situation seemed very diplomatic. Conversation and drinks were flowing and y/n’s presence kept the Americans from going against their word of peace. Like all good things, this came to an end. Hostile words were thrown like darts across the table and all bets were off as too much alcohol began to settle in. 

y/n couldn’t help but just stare as things unfolded. Her insides felt like the second right before the water hits its boiling point. Without her Helpers, she was no longer the y/n Tommy confided in during the late hours of the night. For the first time in a long time, she felt free. She felt unpredictable.

At just the right moment, y/n’s eyes catch a piece of metal being reached out of one of the American’s jacket. y/n grabs the steak knife from her plate and pierced it through his arm. During this quick distraction,Tommy was able to reach for his own gun killing the other, but y/n wasn’t finished. She reaches for the wounded American’s own steak knife. He is too busy nursing his wound to notice. In one fell swoop, she grabs him by the ends of his hair, controlling his head to give her more room. And like the times she had seen her husband do, she drags the knife clean across his neck, her eyes never leaving Tommy’s.

“Why have you done that?” 

“Because I can’t kill you.” 

[fkingsteverogers]

Haven’t Seen You In Awhile (I Still Love You)

Lowtown, Madripoor

You’re onto your third glass of champagne when you see her. Natasha’s always been beautiful, no one can deny that, but she’s extra beautiful tonight. She’s wearing a midnight blue gown with silver beading running up the sides. A deep slit exposes a large swath of her thigh. You ache to touch it, to feel her quiver under you, to take apart the woman and break the highly tuned weapon.

You’re walking across the party before you even realize you’re thinking of approaching her. 

“Audrey! I didn’t expect to see you here.” Her head snaps up at your teasing voice. It makes her earrings bob against her jawbones, the jawbone you’d been kissing almost exactly a month earlier; half a world away from this party and these men and their expensive suits. She smiles--not her real smile, the smile she uses when she’s working--and politely excuses herself from her discussion. You let yourself be led to a quiet alcove, Natasha’s fingers on your elbow leave a trail of fire across your skin. You’d gladly jump into the inferno. 

“I told you…” Her words are drowned out as you watch her mouth forming the shapes of her tirade. It’s a pretty mouth, one you’ve kissed and traced the shape of more times than you can count. “You’re not listening.” Somehow, this phrase manages to swim to the top of your consciousness. You shake your head, a smile threatening to surface and ripple across your face. 

“I was admiring your beauty. You’re rather distracting, Natalie.” The words are mumbled into her knuckles as you press a kiss there. Natasha’s too well trained to blush but you imagine one spreading across her cheeks anyway. “What are you doing here?” The subject change is abrupt, a dance away from the dangerous territory of pet names and compliments. You shrug, brushing your styled hair over your shoulder. (It’s a nervous tick you’ve never managed to get rid of and you know she’ll notice. Why had you let her get so close?) 

Answering her question truthfully would be too dangerous. Business parties like this tend to be full of too many ears for any honesty. Instead, you tell her you’re simply there to enjoy the champagne and conversation. You tell her about your kind benefactor, a wealthy gentleman with business interests in paradise. Natasha nods, understanding all you’re not saying. “Of course, I’ll need to return home to Daddy on Monday. He expects a full report of this quarter’s earnings on Tuesday and I didn’t start it before I ran off with Charles.” You pout, the perfect picture of a spoiled rich girl with an internship at Daddy’s firm without a care in the world.

You’re anything but. 

The real you, the version you pull out of the box deep in your mind late at night to shrug on like an ill fitting coat, is old and troubled. The real you (or, at least, the most consistent version of you there is) has toppled regimes, destabilized countless countries, murdered world leaders in their beds before they even have time to tell you how good you were with your lips wrapped around their cocks. The real you is older than Steve Rogers by two months. The real you is the United State’s strongest weapon and darkest secret. 

The real you loves Natasha more than you’ve ever loved anyone. 

“Charlie!” You sway a little on your heels, hiccupping and slurring for effect. “Charlie! You remember me telling you about my good friend, Audrey. I was shocked to see her here!” Charles nods, barely glancing at Natasha. He’s a heavy set man with a graying bread and a disgusting set of wandering hands. He’s wearing a cowboy hat, making him look like a caricature of an American. “Ma’am.” he nods and pulls you off to talk to some associate or other.  

The next time you see her, you’re balancing on the edge of an impossibly uncomfortable chair in a high end club in London. You’re arm candy for a woman who shares too much, too loudly. It’s a boring mission, too easy for someone as highly trained as you. You start with a little game with yourself, how much can you get out of her? Just how much can you get her to buy you? It’s boring work, but it justifies your exorbitantly high salary. You’re downing your third cocktail (thank God for the Super Soldier serum and the tolerance it gives you) when you spot a certain redhead. She’s wearing a form fitting suit and a scowl, clear evidence of just how happy she is to be here. Barton is probably somewhere around, wearing a matching scowl and giving off an air of general menace. 

You want to approach her, invite her to dance, take her to the bathroom and make her scream. You’re contemplating leaving your mark when the wall to your left explodes. The explosion leaves a ringing in your ears and a feeling of absolute terror in the pit of your stomach. Your brain slips out of the office, disappears into the void of primitivity and you want to run, to scream, to make sure you and Natasha get out alive. 

You turn towards the explosion instead. 

After, bathed in dust, grime, and the flash of emergency lights, you find Natasha. She’s just as dirty as you, with a cut above her eyebrow trickling blood and a ripped dress. You grab her, cup her face in your hands, and kiss it. The kiss says everything you can’t. How much you love her, how you’d bring her the sun, moon, and stars if she asked, she just has to ask. (You’re begging her to ask). She leans into you and desperately returns the kiss. She mumbled something in Russian. Your brain, still out of the office, struggles to translate. You want to tell her you love her in her native language but before you can come up with the words she’s disappearing into the settling dust.

[inayashafiq8]

Inspirational Artists/Work

Bob Carlos Clarke’s collaboration with chef Marco Pierre White

Bob Carlos Clarke was a legendary British-Irish photographer of the 90s who made erotic images of women as well as documentary, portrait and commercial photography. 

During his illustrious 30 year career as a photographer, his biggest commercial success came with his friend Marco Pierre White. His study of Harveys' kitchen in the late 1980s focussed not on the dishes but on the cleavers and sweat that created them, setting the tone for the hard-living tormented celebrity chef and helping the book White Heat to the bestsellers.

Marco Pierre White with photographer Bob Carlos Clarke

The White Heat cookbook, published in 1990, featured recipes by Marco Pierre White alongside photographs of White by Carlos Clarke. The photographer hung out at Harvey’s, Marco Pierre White’s restaurant, for a year or so taking photographs on his 35mm Polapan. The book is cited today as having influenced the careers of several Michelin starred and celebrity chefs and has been described by one critic as “possible the most influential recipe book of the last 20 years”.

With a grey shark, shot in photographer Bob Carlos Clarke’s back garden, 1991

Greeting diners in his restaurant, Harveys, in Wandsworth, London, 1990.

Bob Carlos Clarke, highly regarded photographer, became a fixture in the kitchen. “It was a tiny space,” says chef Stephen Terry who was part of the original Harveys brigade alongside Gordon Ramsay and Phil Howard. “Carlos Clarke was a lovely man but he was always getting in the fucking way.” What emerged from those shoots was a portfolio of iconic, grainy black and white shots which captured a moment. 

It helped, of course that back then, White had cheekbones so sharp you could slice your hand on them. Plus, he was more than ready to step up to the role of chef as rockstar.

“A lot of people say I look like a rock star or a designer punk. But I swear it’s the job that has carved my face. It’s the hours, the stress and the pressure. It’s not me trying to look like this.” - Marco

It wasn’t White’s recipes that won a generation over, not that he wasn’t more than adept in the kitchen. He was, in the 1990s, the youngest chef ever to have three Michelin stars, at Restaurant Marco Pierre White. His food was French and often fussy but it was cooked with a surgeon’s care. His carefully composed plates also had a visual impact that seemed new in England. Everything appeared to come with a side order of pheromones.

It wasn’t White’s antics that caught the eyes of aspiring chefs, either, though he was funny in a mean way. If an assistant chef erred at a big moment, White might toss him into a garbage bin, hang him by his apron from hooks on the wall or make him go stand in the corner for a while.

“One day a chef moaned that he was too hot, so I took a carving knife in one hand, held his jacket with the other and slashed it. Then I slashed his trousers. Both garments were still on his body at the time. ‘That should provide a bit of ventilation,’ I told him, and when he asked if he could change out of his chopped-up clothes I said, ‘Yes, at the end of the service.’” - MPW

It was the photographs in “White Heat” that put the book across. No cookbook had looked like this one. Carlos Clarke shot White’s kitchen at Harvey’s, which opened in 1987, as if it were a war zone. The black-and-white photos were filled with blood, with cigarettes dangling from lips and with rattled, unshaven young men who appeared to be on a mission up the Congo.

At the centre was Marco Pierre White himself: thin, 28 when the book was published, with unruly dark hair, penetrating eyes and veins running down his forearms that made them resemble hydraulic pork shanks.

Before then, well-known chefs and food writers during that time tended to be plump, jolly figures, like Russian nesting dolls. The French master Fernand Point wasn’t so jolly, but he had a belly that toddled in front of him like a kettle grill.

White on the other hand, looked as if he had been raised in the woods. He wielded a cleaver the way Bruce Lee wielded nunchucks. He seemed as if he popped supermodels into his mouth like ortolans.

In him, young chefs saw themselves — or at least they saw the person they hoped to be. He looked like an artist, not like a hospitality director.

“Nine out of 10 English chefs have their names on their chests. Who do they think they are? They’re dreamers. They’re jokes. Just ask yourself how many chefs in this country have Michelin stars and how many have their names on their jackets. We all wear blue aprons in my kitchen because we’re all commis, we’re all still learning. 

At the end of the day, it’s just food, isn’t it? Just food.” 👌🏽

________________________________________________

ARNOLD NEWMAN

Arnold Newman was an American photographer, acknowledged as one of the greatest masters of the 20th and 21st century. His work had changed portraiture and he was recognised as the “Father of Environmental Portraiture”.  His work is collected and exhibited in the major museums around the world.

Newman was an important contributor to publications such as New York Times Magazine, Vanity Fair, LIFE, Look, Holiday, Harper’s Bazaar, Esquire, Town and Country, Scientific American and many more.

“As for myself, I work the way I do because of the kind of person that I am - my work is an expression of myself. It reflects me, my fascination with people, the physical world around us, and the exciting medium in which I work. I do not claim that my way is the best or the only way, it is simply my way. It is an expression of myself - of the way I think and feel.”

Newman’s new approach to portraiture began its influence through key publications in America and abroad.

In 1945 his Philadelphia Museum of Art one-man exhibit, “Artists Look Like This”, was one of his most successful works that attracted nationwide attention from which he became well established.

Artist Pablo Picasso, Cannes, France, 1956

Milton Avery, American Modern Painter, 1961

Leonard Bernstein, American Conductor, 1968

Agnes de Mille, dancer and choreographer. New York, 1955

American photojournalist W. Eugene Smith, New York City, 1977

American newscaster Edward R. Murrow at CBS Studios, New York City, 1951

Architect I.M. Pei, New York City, 1967

Eleanor Roosevelt, New York, 1992

Robert Moses, urban planner. Roosevelt Island, New York, 1959

Mr. Newman went on to photograph names like Eleanor Roosevelt, Pablo Picasso, Frank Lloyd Wright, Golda Meir, Andy Warhol, Marilyn Monroe, Salvador Dalí, and the former president Bill Clinton. There would be no overstuffed costume fittings or stark studios. Mr. Newman’s portraits were defined by his sitter’s environments, which led him to be known as the “father of the environmental portrait.” Mr. Newman argued that he was not interested in the details of his subject’s surroundings, but the symbols he could create with them.

One of his most famous, signature images is his mid-1940s portrait of Igor Stravinsky that was commissioned by Harper’s Bazaar, shows the composer at the corner of a large piano. This, Mr. Newman explained, was not about the piano, it was about the symbol the piano represents.

Newman was a master at composition and was meticulous about his work. He even used a large-format camera and tripod to ensure that every detail of a scene was recorded. 

A beautiful, black and white portrait of Russian Composer Igor Stravinsky seated at a grand piano. Look closely and you'll notice that the piano was strategically silhouetted against a blank wall, creating an illusion that the lid is an abstract musical note.

The magazine rejected it.

“It was one of my first assignments for Harper’s Bazaar,” Mr. Newman told The Boston Globe. “Stravinsky was staying in a hotel room. Hotels were part of his life, of course, since he traveled, but somehow I felt it wouldn’t represent him. A piano turned up in an editor’s apartment. So I photographed him with it. The piano is symbolic, you see, because Stravinsky composed in his mind, not on the piano. But it seemed like a beautiful shape that resembled a half-note and was like his music — strong, linear, harsh, but also lyrical and beautiful.”

Though it’s debatable whether that piano top resembles a half note or more of a backward quarter note, the symbolism is especially prominent in one of the contact sheets from the session, which is also included in the book. Mr. Newman quickly rejected three other images of Stravinsky around the piano bench. Instead, he picked the most composed and formal image. In it, Stravinsky anchors the photo’s composition at the base of the lid prop, which also serves as the top of another quarter note. Part of that tight composition was thanks to the ground-glass grid on his view camera.

Igor Stravinsky, Russian Composer, Pianist and Conductor, 1946

His approach to portraiture is far from that of the commercial portrait, where the main aim is to produce a flattering, even idealised impression of the subject.  Indeed, Arnold Newman’s portraits often have what might well be an uncomfortable and revealing quality as far as the sitters is concerned. His famous portrait of arms manufacturer Alfred Krupp taken in 1963 was lit with a direction and quality of light which created a distinctly evil, even depraved image, making an unashamed personal statement about his subject, who was not at all pleased by it:

Alfred Krupp, industrialist. Essen, Germany, 1963

This image is of Alfred Krupp who was not a military man but an industrialist who ran war factories manufacturing arms for the Nazi assault on Europe. Krupp gained notoriety for his insistence on using slave labour from the internment camps, where the prisoners of war were literally worked to death. Even the Nazi’s suggested that Krupp use free German workers rather than slaves but Krupp insisted on exploiting these captives. Naturally the majority of the men and boys who perished were Jewish and Krupp holds a particular place of hatred amongst its people.

The fact this image was even taken is quite surprising when you learn that the photographer was a Jewish man named Arnold Newman. Originally Newman did not want to take his picture but after a while he decided to do it. Newman had a platform specifically erected in order to place Krupp against an industrial backdrop and he knew exactly the kind of image he had in mind.

The positioning of Krupp is vital, by placing him in this elevated position is declaring that he is the highest authority within these premises, that he is the master of all he surveys and ultimately the man responsible for all that happens or has happened. Coupled with the knowledge of the atrocities that occurred within those factory walls and the clever use of positioning the model and the lighting and Krupp is revealed as a pitiless and brutal overseer answerable for so many deaths.

When composing the shot he asked Krupp to lean forward slightly, when he did he clasped his fingers together under his chin. The light hit the face perfectly and when Newman saw the impact of this effect he said in his own words that ‘He felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck’. He grabbed the shot which became one of Newman’s most iconic images. When Krupp saw the picture he was said to have been furious and for Newman this was a little bit of revenge.

Arnold Newman talks about photographing Alfred Krupp portrait in interview with The Boston Globe 

If there is one tangible quality which exists in many of Arnold Newman’s portraits, beyond that of his own style, it is his ability to use a setting to complement and enhance the personality of his subject. Newman himself disclaims the idea of being an innocator in what is called environmental portraiture; he simply says that he found the studio a sterile place in which to work. Much off his work is done on large-format view cameras. He does, however, use 35mm SLR cameras, where the additional freedom is an advantage. He also prefers the quality of natural light, but where necessary will supplement it with additional lighting and reflectors in a way that retains a natural appearance. He prefers to describe his work as ‘pictures of people’ rather than portraits, and believes that as such they must first of all be good photographs.

[extremelyblackandwhite]

innocence - 28

PAIRING: bodyguard!bucky barnes x innocent actress!reader

WARNINGS: angst

A/N: its angst season again!!

NEXT CHAPTER

Bucky looked around like a crazed maniac, looking for anyone, just anyone who could be responsible for the letter he was holding in his hands. His blood seemed to freeze in his veins just like they used to when they held him hostage in the Russian base. Those words were tattooed in his retina, as it dawned on him he had once again to keep her safe. His ears started ringing like they always did when they used to trigger him, the ring itself replacing any other environment sound, becoming so loud it fully overcame over his senses, rendering him particularly useless. Not that he was of use lately.

     - Bucky? - Y/N’s sister, Claire, called out to him. Almost mechanically, he stuffed the letter in his back pocket. - Are you okay? You look a bit shocked. Any naughty Christmas post cards?

     - Just a bit ... cold.

     - Yeah, Y/N said you were not very comfortable with it. Sorry about that, I was just trying to keep you away from Aunt Petunia. She’s too much.

     - Thanks, Claire. Hm ... do you have any landline? I need to make a call to the US and my plan is running out. 

     - Yeah, no worries. There’s one in the hall by Y/N’s bedroom. - she gave him a warm smile which was reminiscent of Y/N yet did little to nothing to calm him down. He handed her the rest of the mail before climbing up the stairs to the same hall which had doors on each side. Yet, despite it looking like a maze all he cared about was that small telephone on the table. 

Her picked the phone, leaning it against his ear as the rolled the dial to Steve’s number, the letter firmly mashed in his fist as he wanted nothing more than to burn it in the big fire place but he couldn’t. All he could think of was whoever had broken into Y/N’s flat back had followed them to London and once again he had been incapable of protecting her. He had let whoever was sending her those nasty messages, get to her in one of her most safe places. The other line rang like the passage of long times, until he heard the voice which had become synonymous with freedom and America together.

    - Steve Rogers.

    - Steve, they did it it again. - he snapped before he could even tell who it was on the phone. Yet, if his oldest friend couldn’t figure out his voice after so many years then maybe he needed new friends.

    - Buck?

    - Someone left a letter on her mail box calling her a whore again. You and Natasha were on it trying to figure out who did it in New York. - he continued on like an out of control mess. 

    - Buck, calm down. Was the handwriting similar? Maybe it’s a prank.

    - There’s no handwriting just magazine cut outs and it’s not a prank. 

Y/N stepped out of the car, walking over to the luggage holder to help her father take the shopping bags out while her mother walked up to the door to unlock it before they could climb up the stairs. Her father opened the truck of the small red car which they had had since she was a baby. She still remembered her father picking her up from ballet practice, the red colour bright through the cloudy skies. It always felt so safe to enter through those doors, almost if there was no harm whenever she was inside the old metal vehicle. Things were so simple back then and evil was so hardly defined and bordered away from her. She had had a good childhood, good parents, good family so why was she so scared whenever she was in New York? Why was she so intrinsically insecure and meek?

   - So, beanie, you and James. Does he treat you well? - he asked as he handed her some bags and christmas boxes.

   - He’s just perfect, dad. 

   - Then what is it? 

   - What do you mean? - she looked over her shoulder.

   -  Well, you’re my daughter, you’ve been my daughter for over 5 years now and I like to think I know you better than you think. What’s wrong, Y/N?

   - I’m just homesick, dad. - she faked a smile, pushing her hat further down her head, trying to fiddle with something else. - New York is different from here and well, stardom is different from here. It has nothing to do with Bucky. 

   - He makes you happy?

   - He does. 

    - Then I’m happy for you, beanie. - her father kissed the top of her head, carrying half the shopping bags and gifts onto the home while Y/N stood back looking at the neighbourhood she’d grown up in. It wasn’t perfect, no place in the world is perfect but it had a much more emotional connection to her than her place in SoHo. Of course, maybe it was just her own rose coloured glasses of being away from such a structured, planned 3 year ahead career. 

She smiled softly at the houses in exposed brick shades and the coloured blue and red doors with big gold number. Rows and rows of houses which seemed never ending when she was younger yet now seemed so quickly fading from view. Nothing is everlasting and she remembered so well thinking everything was but maybe it was for the best. Good things end to give way to better ones and bad things end become they no longer suit you.

Y/N looked over her shoulder one last time before entering the house. She put the bags near the other ones neatly stacked by the staircase before pulling her coat and jacket off. The house was always filled with noise, it was never quiet. Always abundant with laughter or discussions about the silly topics. This time, they were discussing some weird plot on the television. However, Bucky was nowhere to be seen. 

   -  Did you not invite Bucky? - she crossed her arms, giving her siblings the dirtiest look she could muster. - Guys, I asked you to include him.

   -  We did but your boyfriend has been on an international call for the last hour. It’s gonna add up. - Colin retorted.

   - I’m gonna go check on him. - she reminded herself to tell Colin off for that backhanded comment but she was much more preoccupied with Bucky. Sure, he did enjoy his loneliness but Y/N didn’t want him to feel alienated. She did not want him to feel lonely or like a stranger in her home. Climbing up the stairwell, she noticed him at the end of the hall, old telephone she used to toy around with when she was a kid pretending to call her family yet, unlike her past childhood self, Bucky had the phone firmly pressed against his ears, lips tight, one hand holding himself against the table. 

She noticed his indisposition, his muscles so tight she wondered how come he hadn’t had a cramp and like any empath she approached him with her characteristic sunny attitude, wrapping her arms around his waist, putting herself on her tip toes to kiss him. Bucky, however, moved his head to the side, mumbling something over on the phone in Russian, switching languages as if he did not want her to hear his conversation. Her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach, her overthinking nature picking at her brain as she leaned her head against his shoulder. Bucky turned around slightly to kiss her on top of her head like one does to a child or a friend. 

    - I’m on a call now, princess. - he held her arm up to wrap it from his waist.

    - Okay. I’ll just go ... go have a shower.

She delayed her exit, almost waiting for him to kiss her like he always did whenever she left. However, Bucky quickly returned to his call, in Russian, and she got the message loud and clear. She tried not to think much about it, after all Bucky was still related to the Avengers and despite being his girlfriend, she was not expect to be into that sort of information. She tried to convince herself of that fact as she stepped onto the cold porcelain of her shower floor. The water fell from her head onto her shoulder as she scrubbed the dirt off her body, constantly telling her inner anxiety, Bucky was merely busy. If she were busy she wouldn’t have liked her partner being clingy. He was busy. 

She turned off the shower, wrapping herself in the fluffy bathrobe she probably had had since she was 18, hair still damp as she slide her feet into fluffy slippers and walked into her bedroom. Bucky was sat in her bed, laptop on his lap as he typed the keyboard so harshly one would think he’d break the keys. She smiled to herself as she took the side near him, head laying on top his cozy black jumper, probably dampening the fabric but Bucky didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he didn’t even seen to mind her presence, merely ignoring it. She looked up at him, moving to kiss his jaw with an innocence type of request which was anything but innocent. 

  - Buck. - she said in a sing song type of voice, almost like a mermaid calling out for a sailor. - Why don’t we finish what we started in the airplane?

  - Not today, princess. - he kissed the top of her head once again. - I’m not in the mood for it.

  - Oh ... hum ... okay. - she almost retracted back into her shell at those words. Had she done something this morning? Something to upset him? Maybe he didn’t enjoy her leaving him alone with her family. - Do you wanna go out for dinner?

  - I don’t think it’s wise, princess. They might ... pap us or someth’ng. 

Did he not want to be papped with her? Maybe he was still upset over the pap photos she had willingly given away. She didn’t know and she didn’t want to know. Instead, she decided to turn around in the bed, still naked under her bathroom and stare at the wall until she felt sleep weigh on her eyelids. Bucky, on the other side, had his wild eyes glued to the screen, watching the security tape of her apartment over and over again. It had been cut, he knew it had from the time changing sharply, however, he couldn’t see anything which would be of any aid. All he knew was that not only had he failed his job as an Avenger, he failed his job as her bodyguard and failed to protect her like any boyfriend would do. Would it be in a club he could’ve just punched the daylights out of whoever dared to call her that but right now he couldn’t. He didn’t know how to make it stop. 

Bucky closed the laptop, putting it on the floor as he looked through his mind about who could want to hurt her, who cold do anything to want her to suffer. He could no figure it out and all he wanted was to figure it out. He leaned against the bars of her bedpost, looking over to his side to see her sleeping on her side, hand under her face and hair drying in front of his face. He carefully pushed the hair away from her face, tucking her into her large duvet before kissing her cheekbone. He couldn’t bring it upon himself to say anything, to tell her the letter came in. Bucky still remembered how she had reacted last time and he did not want it to happen again, he did not want her to feel unsafe in her own home. Instead, he let himself fast asleep next to her.

The morning woke Y/N up, the strange brightness of a sunny winter day hurting her eyes. She groaned, raising her torso from the bed, eyes blurry as she opened them. Rubbing the sleep off her eyes she extended her arm to notice Bucky’s spot was empty. She furrowed her brows, jumping off bed and walking outside and down the stairs onto the living room where most of her siblings and their partners were.

    - Wow, Y/N. Clothes under the bathrobe, much? - Eloise teased. 

    - Where’s Bucky? - she ignored her sister.

    - He went out. - Claire added, handing her a cup of tea. - Said he had to grab some stuff. 

    - Oh ... okay. He didn’t say anything.

    - He probably didn’t want to wake you up. - Claire patted her shoulder, kind smile on her lips. 

     - Or maybe he’s cheating on you. - Colin added, only to be slapped over the head by Eloise. - Hey, what was that for? I was joking.

     - He’s not cheating on you. - Claire reassured her. - Colin is just being an ass. 

     - What? I was joking!  

     - Not with Y/N, you idiot. - Eloise muttered under her breathe. - Maybe you should go put your clothes on, Y/N. Bucky is probably just Christmas gift shopping.

     - Or maybe he got lost? He is like 200 years old. Did you give him a pager? He might be lost in Piccadilly Circus or maybe he can’t get out the underground. 

     - Fuck off, Colin. - Y/N snapped at him before returning up to her bedroom.

He knew her brother was just trying to get under her skin. Bucky was not cheating on her, when did he even have time to find someone in London to cheat her with? Maybe he had some contacts in London from when he used to come to missions with the Avengers. Maybe he had someone in London for him. No. No, Bucky did not. Bucky wouldn’t cheat on her, Bucky liked her but he was acting out of style to him. She sat on her bed, hand in the middle of her legs as she tried to stop herself from overthinking things that were absolutely ridiculous. Since she was no good at doing such thing, she called the only person who normally could push her back to reality. 

    - Chuck? I have a problem. 

    - Jesus, Y/N. Have you forgotten time zones? - Chuck groaned on the other side of the line. - You better be dying.

    - Bucky is acting weird. 

    - Bucky always acts weird. What’s your point?

    - I don’t know, Chuck. It feels weird. I even tried ... initiating IT and he said no. Do you think he’s not attracted to me anymore? He didn’t even want to kiss me

    - Maybe he was not in the mood, Y/N. Also, why are you so freaked out about saying sex? Are you sexually repressed? Did you try to initiate some kinky sex with Bucky and maybe his old man penis wasn’t okay with it?

    - Can we not discuss my boyfriend’s penis, please?

    - What? He’s old, maybe it hasn’t been getting up. Did you ask him? Maybe he forgot to pack Viagra and he’s ashamed. 

    - Chuck. It is not that.

    - I don’t know, Y/N. Maybe spice it up. Dress up like Princess Leia in Empire Strikes Back. Every man is into it.

    - Bucky hasn’t seen Star Wars.

    - I don’t know what was sexually appealing in the 40s, Y/N. Don’t you have that lingerie set they made you wear for Rocky Horror? Use that. Maybe he really just wasn’t in the mood.

    - Okay ... yeah. Uhm, maybe it will work. 

    - Great. Now, I need to sleep because it is too late and there’s a girl in my bed and I don’t want her to think I have you on the side.

    - Oh, is she a nice girl?

    - Y/N ever since you lost your virginity you get very boring when you don’t get a dick appointment. Go on and do it with Bucky and we’ll talk later.

    - Okay, thank you.

    - Bye, bye. 

Y/N stared at herself in the mirror. She never really saw herself a sexual being or a sexual girl at all. After all, she was the one who got told by three guys at her university freshers party she had the sexual charisma of a toaster. Now the metaphor did not make any sense but all she knew was that it probably did not make any sense. It wasn’t that she wasn’t comfortable with her own sexuality, she just didn’t think about it outside of work. Maybe Bucky was used to girls who put a bit more effort and wasn’t very attracted to her very old bathrobe and her Marks and Spencers cotton underwear. She shrugged it off, opening her wardrobe to skim through some of the costumes she had worn until she found the white lacy set. It was better than her regular cotton underwear. She put her robe back on looking at herself in the mirror as she gave herself a pep talk. He’s not cheating on her. She knows he would never do that.

She sat down in her bed, going over some scripts sent over by the agency until midday when Bucky came into the bedroom, on the phone with someone else, still speaking Russian. She waited for him to finish his call before she walked over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. 

    - Sorry for not telling you, Y/N. I had to make some calls with the team.

    - It’s okay. - she smiled at him. - I was just thinking maybe ... maybe we could have some us time. My parents went to do the groceries and my siblings won’t bother us, besides I have something I want to show you.

    - Sorry, not in the mood. I need to call Steve. - he took his jacket off, putting it on the edge of her bed. - It’s urgent, princess.

    - Oh, okay. 

    - Can I use the landline? Pretty sure I still haven’t figured out  how to make international calls. 

    - Yeah. - he kissed the top of her head once more. 

She sat on her bed defeated. Her mind going through everything she could’ve possibly done wrong the morning she left with her parents. Maybe he really wasn’t in the mood, however he did seem pretty eager that morning. She sighed. Damned Colin and his stupid backside comment. She sighed, rolling in her bed, the movement making his jacket fall to the ground. Great Y/N, now you’re wrinkling his clothes. She got up from her bed to grab the jacket for a letter to fall on the ground. She looked to the side, leaning down to pick the letter only to drop it once she saw the writing. You cannot hide, whore.  She grabbed it from the ground before storming out to the hall, pulling the cable out the wall, effectively stopping Bucky’s call.

   - When were you gonna tell me?

taglist: @disasterbii @lookiamtrying @buckysteveloki-me @americasass81 @jamesbarnesappreciationclub @lostinthebeans @mariahthelioness29 @bbabysbaby @peaches-roses-sins @theadorasabditory @sipsteacasually @saiyanprincessswanie @booktease21 @noiralei @learisa @everythingisoverratedbutgreat @uglipotata72829 @naturalthrone22 @husherstan @mandiiblanche @vicmc624 @newyorkgoddess @itsallyscorner @chipilerendi @emzd34 @writerwrites @bluevxnus @that-girl-named-alex @captnrogers​ @nsfwsebbie​ @sarge-barnes-sir​

[murderousginger]

Nothing at all to me

Tommy Shelby POV

Warnings: Angst? Sex. Messy mind. They're criminals, guys, they do bad things.

Word count: 1,747

This song requested by @babylooneytoonz

Special thanks to @pollyrepents for her help to sort out my brain ❤

He couldn't go to Lizzie. Not tonight.

He couldn't ignore the look of worry on her face or deal with her feelings right now. He didn't want to be nice or ruin whatever it was that held them together like it did. He didn't want pity or love.

No. 

Tonight he needed a whore. No strings attached; just his memories, the sex, and the money transaction. 

It was the first anniversary of the fundraiser that killed his wife. 

He had slept with plenty of women since Grace's death. He had his needs and he met them with lackluster and duty. Sex. Clarity. Back to work.

Back to taking care of his family and the many other families that depended on him.

Without Grace, he felt little joy. He had no one to reflect to that wouldn't judge him for his real thoughts. Grace was cut from the same rough cloth as he; she was just always better at hiding it from others.

Charlie was a constant reminder, a mirror of what he lost. He had never known love and heartache to fill so completely in one body, but there it was reflecting back at him from his son.

So he kept his distance. And he drank.

As the night grew longer, he kissed his son goodnight and passed him to Mary, the head maid. He sat in his office and drank as he always did. He whirled the whiskey in the glass, watching the amber liquid turn and coat the sides before he downed it completely. 

He had called the man earlier. She was expecting him soon. 

A brunette, Tommy had said, always a brunette. The days of blondes in his bed were over. None would ever compare again. 

As the clock chimed 11, he got up and put his coat on and stepped outside. The brisk air hit his face and made the slightest fog as he exhaled into the night. 

He would walk tonight. No need in taking a car that others could identify. Or to make one of the men drop him off and pick him up. A walk might do him good. Perhaps the air could break through his muddled mind.

It didn't, of course. His mind would always be a minefield of memories of war, blood, death. 

And her.

Her face flashed across his mind, sweet and angular and golden. Her perfume drifted across his senses and he swore he felt her hand upon his elbow. 

As soon as it was there, it was gone. The night felt colder.

He reached the door and knocked,  immediately hearing a honeyed answer. A madam opened the door with a coy smile and ushered him in quickly, leading him to one of the many bedrooms in the house. 

"Here you are, Mr. Shelby," she said in a hushed tone. "Laura is waiting for you inside. You need something else, don't hesitate to ask."

He nodded, enjoying the haze of his mind in the rushed movements. No time to think. No time to regret. 

The woman had dark kohl-rimmed eyes. It's the first thing he noticed when he opened the door. Her eyes were so dark and deep they could swallow him. Good.

The second thing he noticed was her naked body sprawled enticingly on the bed. She lay with her legs open, no fear or fake modesty. She knew what he wanted and made quick work of starting. 

Tommy stepped closer to the bed as the door closed behind him and was greeted by hands pulling him closer still. She bit her lip playfully as she tugged on his belt and undid his pants with ease. 

"Talking or no talking, sir?" She asked as she stared up from behind her lashes at him.

"No talking," he growled as his head bent back and she found more useful ways to keep quiet.

His hands found their way into her coarse hair as she bobbed and his eyes closed to focus on the warm wet sensation and block the rest of the world out. 

No business. No blood. Only pleasure.

She made quick work of him and he found himself pushing her head to him until she gagged. He pushed her off of him roughly until she was crawling backward on the bed. He crawled over her, grabbing her leg roughly to splay her wide as he thrusted into her, chasing the high. She moaned as his rhythm quickened and he pushed his face into her shoulder. 

One hand lifted her leg higher and the other pushed fingers into her mouth to quiet her as his eyes squeezed shut and he focused on the sensations. 

He would tip her extra as he left, guilt peeking around the corners of his mind, but for now all he wanted was the quiet and the pleasure. 

He could feel it rising in him, the high becoming nearly unbearable as he pounded into the woman. He came quick and hard.

Afterward, he lay in the uncomfortable bed, on the scratchy sheets not made for sleeping, and allowed the woman to curl around him. He needed the reminder of warmth. The grounding of another person who did not have the duties he had. He needed the reminder that other people lived just fine without him. 

He reached to the bedside table where his shirt had landed and withdrew a cigarette and lighter, placing the cigarette in the woman's mouth and lighting it as she inhaled his flame. He dropped the lighter back onto the table and plucked the cigarette from her mouth as she giggled.

A coo came from behind what he had thought upon entry was the curtains to a window. 

She froze, her eyes widening. 

He didn't want another person to look after. He didn't want another soul to worry about. 

He didn't want another mouth to feed. He didn't want another person to curse. 

She smiled guiltily as if she was caught. 

"Don't tell him, please," she scrambled to clutch his arm. "I'm not supposed to bring her, but she was so fussy I couldn't keep her home alone or else the neighbors would call the landlord. Can't have that again."

"Again?" Tommy murmured as he thoughtlessly patted her hand before pulling the cigarette out of his mouth. 

"I'll quiet her," she said quickly, getting up and disappearing behind the curtain. "I can't discount your fee, you've already paid the man, but I can provide extra service?"

Her words rang through Tommy's ears and burned. He heard the muffled whine of the baby and the woman's increasingly desperate pleas for it to calm. 

Before he knew it, he had walked to her with his hands outstretched to take the baby. She hesitantly obliged, allowing Tommy to bounce the baby against his bare chest, a hum escaping the side of his mouth that didn't hold his cigarette. The baby soothed. 

"Come Monday," he toned, "find yourself in my office. You know who I am. Talk to my secretary, Clara, and she'll get you set up for a day job and childcare."

"Mr. Shelby, I couldn't--"

"You didn't ask," Tommy exasperated, quickly regretting himself. 

He always did this; it was his way. 

"Just do it," he said, passing the baby back to the whore, the mother. "I paid for the rest of the night. Just keep the child quiet and rest."

"I didn't ask you to save me," she said indignantly.

Was her name Beth? Or Lacy? Maybe Sue. He couldn't remember. He had lost care for her name as soon as the madam said it. It hadn't been about her. Only his needs. 

"No one ever fucking does," Tommy said as he pulled the half used cigarette from his mouth and extinguished it on the bedside table. 

He took his wallet and threw down some money. He started to dress as the woman nervously paced the room. 

"Monday," he reiterated, pointing to the angry woman and the baby. "Her name is Clara."

He disappeared like smoke, blending back into the night. He and the other patrons moved quickly with their head down as they passed one another in the hallway. 

He didn't know why he helped her. Only that he felt he had to, so he did. Another mouth to feed. Another body to warm. Another set of pleading eyes when things went wrong, and they always went wrong. 

How high was his body count now? How many people did he allow to depend on him?

He had lost himself in the pleasure for a brief moment, only for the world to crash down around him. Only to remember who he was and what he always had to do. 

His mind wandered as he walked the dark streets home. 

His family were in their various houses, sleeping soundly no doubt. Arthur curled against his pious wife, using her as a lightning rod for God's redemption. John no doubt encircled around Esme and her constantly round belly. His children splayed all over the house like the Russians after an orgy. Ada and Carl in their rooms in London sleeping soundly. Polly dreaming up God knows what in her fitful sleeps, visited by whichever ghost will tell her the future and which way to guide the family. 

And Charlie, sleeping soundly in his bed,  unaware of the atrocities his father did daily and the gross acts he committed with strange women to have a moment of peace in his own mind. 

Tommy feared when his son would get old enough to know what he did -- what he really did -- and how he was able to go from a poor traveling family to an OBE in one generation. Tommy didn't look forward to the day his son realized his goofy uncles had blood on their hands because of him.

He knew he was cursed. He knew that those closest to him only lived so long, and the more he fiercely loved a person the faster they died. Tommy knew this. 

You don't pass by the devil and shake his hand that many times without getting some death and knowing about you. 

And by now, Thomas was rife with it.

There were days he wished he could sleep as soundly, that food tasted as flavorful, that he could trust that someone else would pull him from the muck and make everything alright. He yearned for a day that he could turn off his brain and live, but Thomas only had himself. 

So was his curse.

[alfredosauce50]

You’re gonna go far, kid [Punk! England x reader]

Synopsis: Ever since coming to England to study, you haven’t had the time to do what made you come in the first place--tourism! The only friend you have is an exchange student from Russia, Ivan, so why not kill two birds with one stone? He schedules a little playdate with Arthur, a local, so he can show you around the hottest spots in London. You two immediately hit it off. Ivan is quick to notice his interest in you, so he starts teasing the poor man and making things hard for him. Camden is the last destination, and there’s no saying when he’ll ever see you again. Will he be able to get over himself and ask you out before the night ends?  Note: Attractions are italicized and have a link to a picture. Wordcount: 4,641 The reader is referred to as she/her.

This was the day you had been dreading, and yet, looking forward to. The first part was easy to explain. Picking up your hot latte, you set it down after a quick sip. You didn’t even have time to enjoy it. Not when you were typing away at your keyboard like a speed demon. You promised your friend you would finish your assignment before today’s meet-up, but your procrastination habits were a bitch. Nevertheless, you were eager to uphold your side of the deal, even if it meant stressing your hair out to get it done. 

So long as he didn’t show up before you were done, right? 

After burning your tongue for the second time that morning, you let out a small groan at the sting you felt but gasped at what you saw outside the window. It was a sound made from genuine terror--rather than the quiet streets of London at seven AM, you spotted a man pressing his face right up to the glass. And he was staring at you, menacingly. 

Anybody would’ve been creeped out by the sight, but you knew the guy. “Aha--Ivan! Hey! Morning?” You began rather awkwardly. 

He waved in response, and his glower melted away in exchange for a childlike smile. “Dobroye utro, (F/N)! I hope that’s not your assignment you’re doing.” He hummed, placing two hands on the glass to peer at your screen from outside. Oh shit. Glancing briefly at said screen, you turned it away before clicking the upload button. 

“Of course not.” You grinned, shutting your laptop immediately after. “I was just... Surfing the net. Checking Instagram. You know?”

“Is that so? I’m gonna check.” He made his way inside. And in no time, he was looming over your shoulder to start browsing through your internet history. You, on the other hand, were sweating balls. 

“You’re so funny, (F/N). Who checks Instagram on their computer?”

It seemed like only yesterday he was the oblivious exchange student from Russia who had no concept of social media. He had been a country bumpkin through and through, but a few semesters after befriending you, your influence rubbed off on him. Even you had no idea what went through your head when decided to talk to him, the intimidating new kid who spoke broken English, but there was no turning back now. He was attached to you by the hip and picked up on your habits faster than you could deal. 

He only became more of a menace when he discovered Twitter.

A displeased expression contorted at his expression when he saw that there was no evidence of you ‘surfing the net’. Google Docs couldn’t possibly count, after all.  “... Hm... Apparently, not you. Why didn’t you finish this yesterday, sunflower? Remember our promise?” 

You sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. I passed out last night. But hey, I technically finished it before you came, didn’t I?” 

He craned his head from side to side in thought. “Maybe. But if you hadn’t, you know what that means.” Ivan coiled his arms around your neck and a sickeningly sweet smile curled up at his lips. 

“You will come with me to Moscow for Christmas!” 

A chill ran down your spine at the thought. Going to Russia was bad enough. But during Winter? You were never good with the cold. If you could barely handle London, Moscow was out of the question. “Oh God, please no.” He nodded giddily. “I’m never going to Russia. Maybe I’d consider it during Summer, but--anyway, that’s not the point here! I didn’t break any promises so I won’t be turning into a popsicle this year. Got that?” 

He pouted. “Aw...” 

“You damn sadist.” 

“Hehe.” 

“I wonder how you even became friends with him. Arthur, was it? Poor dude.” You mumbled, but he didn’t look all too offended. 

He tapped his chin and hummed. “Now that you mention it.” Then, he let out a short laugh. “It’s a long story. Let’s just say it was a happy little accident.”

“Unfortunate.” 

“But don’t worry! I don’t plan on bothering you as much as him today.” Ivan clarified, earning a slow nod from you. Phew. The clock was inching closer to eight and you weren’t much of a morning person, so hearing that was like music to your ears. “That’s why I wanted you to finish your work yesterday. I want him to be the only one making mistakes! It’s interesting to see him mess up and get embarrassed.” 

You had to wonder if he was using ‘interesting’ as a synonym for fun because he was clapping. “... Ivan, you really are a sadist.” 

The two of you stayed in that café for another hour or so, ordering some breakfast during your stay. Once the table was cleared and the bill was paid, you and he caught a bus to the London eye. You could marvel at the iconic ferris wheel for a few minutes as you walked up to the London aquarium next to it, your first stop. The building was huge to start with, and it didn’t look like they’d be storing fish in there considering how fancy it was. But wasn’t everything in England fancy? 

“He should be waiting in the front. Look for a short grouchy man with a bad taste in fashion.” You shot him a weird look, beckoning him to elaborate. 

“... And blonde hair.”

“Alright. I guess I’ll try my best.” Glancing around the sea of people filled with tourists, couples, and families, you skimmed the crowd for someone who fitted the description--but to no avail. It was only when they walked up to you both did you find the guy. He had short and choppy blonde hair that framed a heart-shaped face, and under his fringe was a pair of lime green eyes staring on with a neutral expression. And did Ivan say he had bad taste?

You couldn’t agree. Yes, his charcoal pants were ripped and he had a bandana tied around his neck with a Union Jack on it. But he still had a kind of style you liked. Under his black leather jacket was a gray shirt, and combined with the piercings in his right ear, you couldn’t help admiring him for a second. 

“Arthur! I was wondering if you were trampled because we couldn’t find you.” Ivan began, causing the said man to furrow his brows. And boy, were they thick. 

“You just arrived, so don’t start now you twat.” He grumbled. Ivan never teased you for your height, even when you were a little shorter than the Brit. He always found it cute, but you figured it was only because you didn’t care. The Russian always found amusement in poking fun at others, after all. “Anywho, I’m glad I won’t be spending the whole day alone with you.” 

Turning to you with a soft smile this time, he held out a hand for you to shake. “Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland.” 

You shook it, but not without a laugh. It hadn’t even been a minute since meeting him, and his personality seemed to clash violently with his appearance. He sounded so prim and proper, but his outfit screamed punk rock. 

“(L/N). (F/N) (L/N).” 

He released you from his grip. Placing his hands on his hips with an accusing stare, he felt a grin upturn his lips. “Are you copying me, (F/N)?” 

“I don’t know. Do all British people introduce themselves like James Bond?” 

Arthur clicked his tongue. “... Not all of them. Just a force of habit.” 

“Mhm. Right, right. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Arthur. I’m a student here too and I could only imagine how busy it gets for you--so thanks for coming out today!” He didn’t respond to those comments and simply nodded. 

Ivan stayed quiet in the back, but he was probably reading the atmosphere like he always did when he didn’t speak. 

“It’s nice to meet you too.” The blonde turned on his heel and closed his eyes. “As much as I’d like to stay out here and chat, we can do that in the aquarium. Wouldn’t wanna waste our tickets, do we?” 

While the group of three wandered slowly through the establishment, Ivan lingered in the background while you walked in the front with the Brit. For the first ten minutes, you’d look at him expectantly, gesturing for him to join in the conversation. As the mutual, wasn’t he supposed to be the icebreaker? He’d shake his head every time, offering you a smile as if to say, go and make some friends. But soon, this brief spell of irritation morphed into gratitude.

“I’ve been here probably a hundred times, so don’t take it personally when I don’t seem as excited as you.” Turning to him to watch his face as he spoke--which was filtered through a bluish tinge from the Antarctic setting-- you only caught a brief glimpse of it before he turned away. Huh. Maybe it was just you not paying enough attention. 

Either way, what came out of your mouth next would surely grab his. 

“Don’t worry about it. But hey, this is the first time you’ve been here with me, so look alive, won’t you?” It happened to be a slip of the tongue, something bold and improvised, but luckily, he reacted fairly quickly before the regret set in.

“Oi, you better not be flirting with me already,” Arthur grumbled, feeling another smile come as he heard you chuckle. Since when was he this expressive? He pinned it on the fact that he was starting to have a little fun himself. 

“Couldn’t imagine it.” Before he could add anything else, you hopped in front of the penguins and started waving your friend over with great gusto. “Ivan, c’mere. Arthur, mind taking a photo of us?” Once he joined your side, the two of you held up peace signs for the Brit to snap a photo. 

“Ivan, change your pose. We can’t have both of you doing the same thing.” 

The said man moved his peace sign to the back of your head so he could stick two fingers over it. “Is that better?”

“... Better.” Trailing his emerald eyes to you, he felt his cheeks heat up a touch at the sight of you grinning ear to ear. What the fuck, Arthur. Just take the damn photo. And that was exactly what he did, showing you both right after. Whatever just happened, he boiled it down to him idealizing a stranger. That was right. He had yet to get to know you, so his perception of you couldn’t be any better at this stage. 

But there was one thing he couldn’t deny.

“Damn, I look really ugly in this. You two better not post this anywhere.” You settled a hand over the screen to lower it with a nervous laugh. Then, you looked away, and what was that? You looked a little flustered. 

You were cute.

Hanging his head to look at the photo, he knitted his brows together. You? Ugly? He couldn’t imagine it. 

“... I bet I could take an even uglier one of you.”

Spinning back to him, you folded your arms. “What did you say?” 

“Nothing.” He shook his head slowly, and the amusement in his voice made it blatantly obvious he was lying. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

Walking off at that, Ivan followed. Because he was behind him, he could brush his shoulders against his. Arthur looked up at that, but almost wished he didn’t. Ivan was smiling down at him so shrewdly, it was threatening. Then, he raised a hand to his mouth so he could laugh softly. “Huhu. You like (F/N)~” 

His eyes flew open and blood rushed up to his face. “What the hell gave you that impression? I literally just met them!” As adamant as he sounded, he knew deep inside he liked you, but only platonically. Your personality was refreshing, and talking to you was as easy as breathing. Even if it wasn’t platonic attraction, he was endlessly frustrated the other figured it out earlier than he could. 

Whatever it was, he was certainly more sociable than usual, even to the point of being a tease. And not to mention the rosy cheeks. Maybe he should’ve just kept his trap shut--otherwise, his huge outburst let Ivan milk the obvious. Fuck. He even started to giggle like a schoolchild. 

Giving him a rough shove, he muttered a string of curses under his breath.  “I bloody hate your arse, you know that?” He hissed, his face now redder than a tomato. God, why he did have to be born so pale? Every slight change to his complexion was jarring, and it was embarrassing. 

“Don’t hate me because I’m right,” Ivan hummed, joining his side as your back came into view. “Once you realize, it’ll be too late. I’m not letting you have (F/N). I will always be (F/N)’s number one.” Lighting up at that, he skipped off to you in the front. “Wait for me, sunflower! Don’t leave me alone with Arthur!”

Arthur stopped in his tracks and clenched his fists. How annoying. If he was going to continue being a little tyke, then he figured he’d up his game as well. He didn’t know what that exactly entailed yet, but he’d do it. Ivan didn’t even sound like he wanted anything more than friendship, so what was with that? Pointing a finger at him as he walked off with you, his face scrunched up. 

“What did you even call me out for then, you idiot? I’m supposed to be guiding you both!” Picking up his pace at that, he slotted himself between you and him. Flashing you a brief smile, he gave Ivan another push without breaking eye contact. “It’s a tight fit for three, so he’ll stay in the back.” 

“Hey, no fair!” 

By the time the whole aquarium was toured, you and Arthur were laughing to yourselves while leaving through the exit. 

But the joyful atmosphere was short-lived. 

The Ferris wheel just outside was the next stop, and the Brit offered to splurge a little to have a carriage without strangers. That way, you could run around as much as you wanted, even if that meant leaving the two men to sit in their lonesome. While Ivan was sitting on the bench in the centre out of his own volition, the same couldn’t be said for him. 

Sitting back to back to the other, he pressed his legs firmly together and leaned over in a hunch. Then, he dug his hands through his hair, all while keeping his round eyes fixated on the ground. His heart couldn’t stop pounding, and his head was spinning like a carousel. What was he thinking, taking you here? That was right. This was an iconic destination you couldn’t miss, that was why. He was initially planning on staying back there on the ground, but you were so excited, he couldn’t help but hop on with you. 

Fuck. Maybe Ivan was right about him. But he wouldn’t let him know it. Speaking of the guy, he didn’t know if he was sitting there by choice, or just rubbing it in. While he was incapacitated by fear so he couldn’t even stand, he was sitting there because he wanted to. 

“You should’ve stayed on the ground if this was going to happen.” 

Arthur screwed his eyes shut and tightened his arms around his stomach. “... Shut up.” 

“I was just saying.” Ivan murmured, looking at him over his shoulder. Poor guy. He really was down bad, wasn’t he? Down bad for you, that was. Too bad Arthur was hoping he wasn’t convinced--but it was too obvious. So all Ivan wanted was to prove his point, and later on, keep you away from him. But maybe he’d save it until after the ride was over. “... This ride is thirty minutes long. You’ll live.” 

He heard the other groan. “Thirty minutes? How long has it been?” 

“Mm... Ten.” 

“Fuck me.” 

Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be long before you would pull away from the railing and return to the company of the two. Arthur had been praying that somehow, you’d leave him alone sitting there, pathetically, but he couldn’t expect something so cold from you. So while he hung his head, he wasn’t surprised to feel your hand on his shoulder. 

“Hey, you okay?” He heard you ask, but he never looked up. 

“... Yeah. Just give me a minute.” 

“I have. Ten, actually.” Taking a seat beside him, you leaned down to peer at his face, which was a few shades paler than normal. He didn’t even have the energy to respond, and kept his eyes fixed to the ground. Concern immediately contorted at your features, especially when he looked so shaken. “Arthur, you look a little sick. What’s wrong? Can you talk?” 

He shook his head slowly before managing a weak smile at you. “Sorry, love.” It didn’t even faze him he just called you that. He was far too uncomfortable to feel the embarrassment from a nickname he should’ve saved until a little later. 

“I’m not... Too good with heights. Never have been... I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.” His voice was slow and faint, and you were beginning to suspect he was having a panic attack. “... Sorry if I seem a little lame.” 

“No, of course not.” You frowned. “Things like this happen. Just breathe with me, okay? You can do it. Just count to ten.” 

Arthur took a deep inhale. “... Okay.” 

Around ten minutes later of these exchanges, he calmed down some, especially when you kept on reminding him that the carriage was finally descending. Once the ride was over, you had to help him up and walk him out. Now that he had his two feet planted firmly on the ground, it didn’t take long for him to recover. Even then, you remained rather cautious and stuck with him on your journey to Soho. By the time everyone took their seats in Circolo Popolare, a beautiful Italian restaurant Arthur so kindly booked, you were still looking out for him.

Leaning over to rest your head on the table, you glanced up at his face with a soft smile. “... You okay now?” 

A light blush dusted his cheeks and he nodded. You didn’t need to be this observant with him considering he was well now, but he loved your attentiveness. It wasn’t something he was used to. “Yeah, I’m fine now. Thank you. Now quit worrying about me, alright?” Rubbing the nape of his neck at that, you couldn’t help lingering on his body language for a moment.

It didn’t matter what he dressed like, or what his personality was. He could be endearing when it came to it, and a total softie too. And the thought made you smile even wider. If he thought you were cute, then you thought he was adorable. “Fine. I’ll leave you alone.” You slowly turned to Ivan, the action making Arthur tense up a little. 

Reaching out to your hand, he took it. “I didn’t mean it like that.” 

The feeling of his warm fingers around yours made your heart skip a beat. Did he just? Your thoughts manifested into your look of shock, and you darted your eyes over his neutral expression to try and decipher it. Before you could come up with anything, there was a phone in your face, followed by a flash. 

“Wha--?” 

He turned the screen to you to reveal a photo of you, and in your opinion, it was the least flattering picture anybody had ever taken of you. “I said I’d take an uglier photo of you, didn’t I?” Arthur grinned, the words acting like a cold splash of water to bring you back to reality. 

“... You sneaky little shit.” You growled. “Delete that right now!” 

“How about no?” 

“I’ll never forgive you for this, Arthur.” 

“I think you already have, love. You’re smiling right now.” 

You stared at him wordlessly for a few seconds. Then, out of nowhere, you reached out to snatch his phone right out of his hands. Tapping furiously on the screen to get rid of it, you heard his chair scrape back violently as he tried to retrieve it. “Why, you--” 

But it was too late. Gone forever. Lost in the abyss of cyberspace. And so, he immediately channelled his frustration by jabbing his fingers into your sides. “If I can’t have that photo of you, at least let me do this!” You burst into a fit of laughter so loud, nearby patrons turned their heads. Only then did he pull away, leaving you to recover through breathless wheezing. 

“Fuck you, Arthur.” You whispered, but it was on an affectionate note more than anything. As you glowered at him from your seat, you never noticed Ivan doing the same thing, but he was glaring at the Brit for an entirely different reason. Arthur had to be the most self-aware person out there, and to make a scene in a restaurant like this? He really fell for you, didn’t he? 

When he realized Ivan’s scorching gaze burning into him, he froze. 

Not just out of how intimidated he was, but the epiphany that he was right all along. Why else was he acting so out of character? The only explanation was this--in the short time of being with you, he may or may not have developed a little crush. But that was no problem, right? 

All he needed to do was to ask you out. 

But that would prove a task easier said than done, especially when Ivan decided to attach himself to you by the hip after that stunt. That cunning bastard knew what he was doing. After a little window shopping around Bond street and Mayfair, he stuck to you like a tattoo, and kept it up until night fell. While the group walked around Camden, Ivan kept you by his side with a firm grip on your hand. 

When you asked why he was suddenly so clingy, he simply justified it with, “It’s dangerous for small people like you to wander around at night!” 

But Arthur called bullshit. Especially when the other went ahead and smirked at him right after saying it. Maybe he liked you too, but was refusing to admit it. How hypocritical. If not, then he probably didn’t want you making friends when you were the only friend he had. Whatever it was, he wasn’t about to back down so easily. Camden may be the last destination for the night, and perhaps, the last time he’d see you again for God knows how long, but it was his trump card.

If this didn’t sweep you off your feet enough to get you to pull away from Ivan, nothing would. 

As a town famous for its thriving nightlife and punk culture, it encompassed everything he was passionate about, and he’d give anything to show it to you. So he included a visit to the bar here on the agenda today, one that hosted live music. While you and Ivan got comfortable in your seats, Arthur never made a move to sit down. 

It was already dim inside, so you never noticed him leave. The next time you saw him, it was a few minutes later when he was on stage with a few other musicians. Leaning forward with surprise, you watched him strap on a bright red electric guitar. Walking up to the microphone, he adjusted that. No way. 

You were still trying to process him being a professional performer, but a lead singer as well? 

The second he strummed the strings to start a guitar riff, he opened his mouth to start singing.

Play this while you read

Show me how to lie, you're getting better all the time

And turning all against the one is an art that's hard to teach

His fingers never stopped moving as he belted out note after note. His voice was so different to how he talked, you had to do a double take. He sounded a little more rasp, a little more punk. To say you were impressed was an understatement. 

Now dance, fucker, dance, man, he never had a chance

And no one even knew it was really only you

While he jammed out on stage, he was electric. The energy in the bar exploded, and he had everyone singing along. You could almost see the confidence in him shoot up from the excitable crowd, because he was smirking. 

Nice work, you did. 

You’re gonna go far, kid! 

Turning his head to you as he sung that line, you raised a hand to your mouth. Whether he did that on purpose or not was a mystery. But no words could describe how attractive it was. Hell, it even made you mind blank for a few moments. This was Arthur? He was like an entirely different person! Needless to say, you were completely star struck. 

You couldn’t even make out what Ivan was telling you when the music was blaring in your ears. But you didn’t care. Arthur had you caught in a trance with his voice and guitar all until the end. When the song finally ended, the band bowed graciously and threw up hand signs as the audience erupted in applause and cheers. 

When he stepped off the stage, you didn’t hesitate to run up to him. There, you practically pounced on him for a tight embrace. “Oh my god, you were amazing! I didn’t know you could play so well! And sing, too! Why didn’t you tell me!?” You exasperated, pulling away to be met with his dazzling smile. It was the first time you’ve seen him so energetic, as if performing sparked a fire inside him that burned with youthful intensity. 

“I was dying to show you all day. I wanted it to be a surprise, and I had to save the best til’ last, didn’t I?” He grinned, feeling his heart swell up with warmth as he watched you light up. 

“Well, good on you! I loved it!” Squeezing him again, you felt his chest shake under his laughs. When you pulled away, you reached up to cup his face. But it felt so natural in the spur of the moment, even he didn’t seem to care. 

“Thanks again for today, Arthur. I really appreciate you taking us out today. You completely blew me away.”

The way how you phrased it reminded him of why he was here in the first place. That was right. He still had to ask you out. And with Ivan watching on from afar, this was his chance. The thought reddened his cheeks, but while you had his face in your hands, he couldn’t feel more comfortable. “Is that so? If that’s the case, how about I take you out again?” His expression grew serious. “A proper date, I mean.” 

It was your turn to blush, but you managed a quick answer. 

“No need to look so serious, love. Of course I’ll go on a date with you.” 

He chuckled and leaned in to peck your lips. “Stealing my vocabulary now, are we?” 

“Stealing kisses now, are we?” 

“Touché.” 

Now a third wheel of the group, he breathed out a soft sigh and rested his cheek on his hand. “I guess my job here is done.” It didn’t really look like it, but he had been trying to play the wingman all along. Arthur was always one to go a little crazy when he wanted something, and only more so when he was desperate. So all he gave him was a little push in the right direction. 

Maybe he would thank him later, but for now, he’d leave you two be. 

This is a request. Thank you for requesting.