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wardenparker · 10 months

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Vampire Waltz - ch 11

Max Phillips x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

A mysterious inheritance, sprawling mansion, eccentric roommates, friendly bat, and coven of New England witches are the newest chapter of your life after being unceremoniously dumped and kicked out by your boyfriend. For Max, the biggest change in his life is you, and what exactly he's going to do about the fact that he is stuck living with you as long as his sire continues to punish him for that incident at his last office...

Rating: Mature, but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 9.5k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this series: deceased parents, cursing, food, blood and blood drinking, depictions and references to abusive relationships. Anxiety and trauma responses. Self-worth issues.* Not many warnings this chapter, just a lot of emotions running high and a fair bit of lying for the sake of keeping secrets. Summary: Your first day in the past with Max is full of emotional moments and surprises, but nothing more surprising than a revelation shared with Eddie and Allison back in your own time. Notes: Hello and welcome to the Gilded Age!! It's been so exciting to see how many of you gleefully jumped into the deep-end with us on this plot twist and I hope you enjoy! This week's Chateau-sur-Mer room on display is Eddie's room 💛

Ch 1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4 ~ Ch 5 ~ Ch 6 ~ Ch 7 ~ Ch 8 ~ Ch 9 ~ Ch 10

It is Mrs. Taylor who wakes you with a gentle knock on the door the next morning, bearing an arm full of clothing for each of you. Max had been resting with his eyes closed, holding you close while you slept, but his eyes opened immediately at the sound. "Good morning," she greets you both with a nod as she hustles into the room, shutting it behind her. "I brought you some things. To help you to blend in. Mr. Brown has arranged for each of you to be measured and fitted today, if you will be kind enough to go into town just after luncheon. He has sent orders to have wardrobes made that will be fitting for members of his family." It isn't her place to comment on the decision or the certainty with which the word 'family' was used, but she follows her orders to the letter.

Max sits up, shirtless and nods. “Mr. Brown is a gracious host.” He is almost giddy at the prospect of tailored suits, considering it’s so hard to have one made during his time. He’s looking forward to the trip to town. “Would you help my wife dress?” He has no clue how to dress you and he’s not sure if you know either.

"Of course." Mrs. Taylor agrees to the request easily, considering she had already but told to do so, but sets down the clothing on the nearby chaise for a moment while you rise from bed in your odd clothing. "After this morning, Mr. Brown has tasked Miss Annie's maid Renee with seeing to your wife. I hope that is acceptable."

It’s a struggle not to show that he recognizes the name, but he manages. “As long as it does not interfere with her duties to Miss Annie.” He takes the borrowed clothes for him and strides behind the privacy screen. He doesn’t care about you seeing him, but this is a different time and he doesn’t wish to offend Mrs. Taylor.

"Of course not, sir." While this particular morning is outside of her own normal duties, that does not concern her much. The staff of this particular house is far more efficient than any other in the community for their ability to work hard without the need for substantial rest or food. Losing a few minutes to dressing a young lady hardly affects her schedule.

Max dresses quickly, approving of how well his sires' clothes fit him and sets out from around the screen with only his boots left to put on. They are his modern shoes, but no one will notice.

The layers that Mrs. Taylor helps you put on seem endless. Chemise. Corset. Bustle. Petticoats. Corset cover. All these underlayers have to go on before she can even button you into the outer shell of the dress, but once you have the soft green and dark brown dress on in all its complicated glory, it's...oddly comfortable. The corset redistributes the weight of the dress and underlayers so that it isn't too heavy on any part of you, and the layers are all surprisingly thin but so much cotton adds up to a very warm outfit. The chill of the fall weather won't get very far at all, especially not with the wool stockings you have on underneath it all to cushion your feet in the neatly laced leather boots that somehow fit you perfectly. They must be your grandmother's -- that's the only explanation you can come up with, knowing how well some other pieces of her wardrobe fit you in your own time.

“You look….” Max’s eyes are wide, slowly taking in your very prim exterior. He had never expected to have such an attraction to the Victorian style, but he finds that it’s very becoming on you. “Exquisite.” He manages. “It’s as big as a ball gown.”

"Hush." The warmth in your cheeks belies the tone in your voice though, seeing the slow way Max surveys you up and down like some kind of precious gem. "You look very handsome as well." The suit that was brought for him is simple but well-made, and even though you have no idea whether or not it's in fashion, he looks like the romantic lead of a BBC period drama come to life and you are absolutely here for it.

“So you’re allowed to compliment me, but I can’t say how attractive my wife is?” He huffs at you playfully and shakes his head. “That will not be cool at all.”

The term is unfamiliar to Mrs. Taylor but she tactfully does not react at all, simply nodding to you and Max in the doorway. "Breakfast will be served in the dining room in fifteen minutes," she informs you before disappearing again. "You look like Mr. Wickham," you tell Max with a grin, doubtful that he'll get the reference but not really caring. "Dashing and handsome, and a little bit like trouble."

“Mr. Wickham.” He looks at you in utter offense, huffing. “I am no wastrel, I’ll have you know.” He grins back at you to show he’s teasing, and holds out his arm to you. “I’m Darcy, of course.”

"Hmm, maybe you're right." Taking his arm is soothing and grounded, reminding you that no matter how crazy this situation is, he's right here with you. "Alli and Eddie are definitely our Jane and Bingley, after all."

“Yes, they are.” He snorts and rolls his eyes. “Obvious to everyone but them that they were crazy about each other.”

"I think it's sweet." Their enthusiasm for each other has been endearing, and a pang of missing your friends makes your heart ache but you have no choice other than to shake it off. "And it looks like we'll have some very, very interesting stories for them when we get home."

“Yes we will.” The dining room is straight ahead and he reaches over and pats your hand. “Are you ready to get to know her in ways you never imagined?” Max asks, not wanting to say ‘your mother’ in case she has hearing like a vampire.

"I'm nervous," you admit, knowing that this is an enormously big deal for only you. Max has no emotional stakes in this meeting, but you have them in spades. "What...wh-what if she doesn't like me?"

“There’s no way that would ever happen.” Of that, he is confident. You are amazing, even if you don’t see it.

"You're biased." It's bolstering, though. It makes you feel a little bit like you have a champion on your side to help square your shoulders when they start to round down again. "But I hope you're right."

“I know I’m right, babe.” He tells you cockily, sending you an air kiss. “They are both going to love you.”

"I hope so." A soft nod is what you can manage right now, knowing that beyond that doorway are two women who have been completely lost to you for so much of your life. "I really hope so."

“I’m with you.” Max promises. “After this, we will see how you dance in that dress of yours.”

"With really big swishes." That is a welcome thought, though, and you revel in the idea of dancing with him becoming so normal that it can happen pretty much anywhere. It has you smiling again, and visibly relaxing, and you nod to Max before gently squeezing his arm. "Okay. Let's do this." The dining room table has been laid with fine China. There are five places set and five chairs, while the sideboard is filled with piping hot serving pieces full of all manner of breakfast items. Tea and coffee and a third carafe that you have to assume is blood are all set out on the opposite wall where a footman stands at attention waiting to pour.

Max glances at you, wondering if it’s a reprieve that your mother and grandmother aren’t down yet. He hums as he guides you towards the table, deciding that he would set you on the opposite side from the door so you can see them when they come in. “At least there is coffee and tea, right?”

"And more, it looks like." You nod toward the third carafe. "Good morning." The next figure to sweep into the room is your grandfather, and he sets himself down at the head of the table without hesitation. "I trust you had a restful night?"

“She slept through the night.” Max answers with a polite nod. “Thank you for the clothes as well. It will be better to blend in.”

“Indeed.” He nods, not reacting at all when the footman in the room steps forward to fill first his coffee cup and then his drinking glass with blood. “The appointment to make your wardrobes is essential. We are throwing a ball in just a week’s time and you must be properly attired.”

Max winces when the blood is poured into a wine glass and when the footman comes around the table, he covers the glass. “Please pour it into the coffee cup.” He instructs.

The footman says nothing but nods and adjusts the angle of his pour once he is standing beside Max. “Your room is comfortable?” Yayo asks. He knows that his staff works hard but he also knows that humans are particular.

Max looks over at you for the answer. Knowing that you were the one sleeping, although he was comfortable as he laid with you. “My dear?”

“Very comfortable,” you assure him quickly.

“Good.” He nods and gives a pleased smile. “The gold room has a special fondness for me.”

“Oh?” Whatever stories your grandfather is willing to share are wonderfully welcome. Only for a moment do you find yourself distracted by the appearance of the footman, who pours tea for you when you indicate your preference.

“Cookie and I spent nearly a year exploring the far East.” He tells you with a soft sigh as he leans back in the opulent chair. “When she had fallen in love with that bed, we bought it and had it shipped back.”

“It’s very beautiful.” Even before now you had thought so. Even considered asking to have it moved to your bedroom on the second floor. But you had decided that that would be an immense thing to ask for and instead started dreaming of one day having visitors who might use the room.

“Our daughter was conceived in that bed.” He admits with a small smirk and raised brow as he stares at the two of you. As if expecting you to say that you are also expecting a joyous occasion after one night in that bed.

“Is that…so?” It’s a little more than you need to know, considering that’s your mother he’s talking about, but it’s still worth noting. With everything you’ve been finding out about your family and your magic lately, who knows if it means something or not.

Nodding, he’s amused by your reaction. You are not timid, you dress far too boldly for that, but you are slightly embarrassed by the idea. Further cementing the truth that you are his granddaughter in his mind. “My wife and daughter should be downstairs shortly. They are not exactly morning people.”

“No…” A slip of a memory runs through your mind and you smile. Your mother dragging herself downstairs in her robe with a yawn only to find that your father had already made her coffee for her. “No…that seems to be true no matter what the age.”

“Since she was a babe.” He chuckles softly. “A fortuitous arrangement, considering that I do not sleep. So I could be up late into the night with her when she was fussy. My wife and I did not allow a nurse to care for her.”

“A fairly unusual choice, but I can see why.” Not knowing how much can or cannot be said around the house staff in this time, you just smile and politely add, “She must have been a rare child. And very loved.”

Everyone in this house is aware of what his child is and he nods. “We are free to speak of all issues but yours,” he tells you meaningfully. “The staff are all vampires. Easier than explaining to humans.”

“I see.” Well, that certainly explains how things are the way they are in the future. When your staff never ages or dies, there’s no need to change them. “That certainly does simplify things.”

“Quite.” He agrees. “The coven and social circles provide Cookie with human companionship when she so desires.”

“I know the Newport coven to be full of kind and caring women.” Of course, it might not be entirely true now, you don’t know for sure. But in your time? Those women became your friends as easily as breathing.

“Then the reputation of the coven has endured over the years.” He hums. “There were some turbulent years, but Cookie is not one to deal with much foolishness.”

“It is my understanding that she is very much beloved.” Before you have the chance to say more, you spot two women approaching from the great hall and nearly swallow your tongue. Your mother looks nearly identical to how you remember her, with the biggest difference being just her style. You remember a woman with short hair and a fondness for berry-tone lipstick, who wore dresses only on the most special of occasions. This version of her blends perfectly into the time, with none of her natural features tempered by makeup, her long hair swept up into a complicated style, and the gown on her frame affixed perfectly to make her look as elegant as a flower in soft pink. Memories of your grandmother have been coming back — many as dreams — since the spell that kept them from your mind seemed to break apart. And now that you are in a different time it seems as though the veil over your mind has been lifted entirely. Your abuela looks just as you remember her as well, all dressed up as she liked to be, with a twinkle of mischief in her eye and a perpetual smile tucked into the corner of her mouth. As though she were intending to save it for later.

“John, you didn’t mention we had guests when you came downstairs.” Her tone is apologetic as she sails into the room and to the seat that is at her husband’s elbow. “My apologies for seemingly ignoring your arrival.”

“Not at all, my dear.” He softens measurably when he looks at her, and seems to forget everything else in the room for that moment. “Some family arrived late last night. One of my sons, and his young bride. I insisted they stay on with us.”

“Oh?” Her eyes brighten and she glances back at the two of you with a warm smile. “Then welcome. I must assume that your bride is breathing?” She asks curiously as she tilts her head. The footman brings the coffee over and pours her a cup silently.

“Max’s wife is as you and Annie are,” he informs his own wife and daughter politely. Just because they can speak freely in the house does not mean he will be crude.

“Delightful.” She nods and turns towards you with a smirk on her face. “Perhaps you will be willing to take tea with me this afternoon, then?” She asks. “John has some business to attend to and my daughter is expecting a caller.”

“I would be delighted.” Tea time has become a sacred ritual for you because of Mrs. Taylor and your grandmother. To actually sit down to tea with her is a privilege higher than you can articulate.

“Lovely.” She smiles at you and then looks over at Annie. “This is my daughter, Annie. She’s normally more engaging than this, but she’s not had her cup of coffee yet.”

“I fully sympathize.” And having seen your mother before coffee on many, many occasions, you expected nothing less. Even so, it’s the seeing her again that has you struggling to hide emotion. “And I’m…I’m very glad to meet you, Annie.”

Her smile is polite and tired. “Forgive me.” She begs. “I become more social as the meal continues but I mean no offense.” She takes a sip of her coffee and sighs. “I believe I should have been an owl.”

“There is a certain magic in seeing sunrise at its beginning instead of its end. The nighttime can have magic in its own right.” At least, that’s what you’ve always thought. Hopefully it doesn’t sound cheesy.

She perks up slightly and nods. “Yes, you are right.” You seem so familiar but she cannot place where she knows you from.

“You seem to be two peas in a pod,” Cookie observes, seemingly delighted by that revelation.

“Do you only have the one child?” Max asks, hoping to draw out more information for you to soak up about your family while you are here. “Or is she the youngest of the group?”

“We only have our darling Anne.” Cookie beams at her daughter as the two of them pick up their plates to serve their own breakfast at the side table and you follow suit. “She is our entire world, I am happy to say.”

There needs to be a conversation about how he can reproduce and other vampires cannot. Max hums. “That is good. We thought to have one, maybe two.”

“Children are an infinite blessing.” While the three mortal women are serving themselves breakfast, the man known as Mr. Brown smiles at the son he barely knows. “An unpredictable and bewildering blessing.”

“I’m sure that we will discover that blessing for ourselves sometime in the near future.” Max wonders if the child you and he will have will be more vampiric or more like you.

“Most families like ours are not so blessed.” Cookie smiles at her husband. “But we have been lucky. And you will be too, I think.”

“Hopefully so.” It’s a truthful answer. He had always assumed that he couldn’t have kids since he was technically dead. Since learning that it was possible, he’s been imagining a little girl that looks just like you, but her favorite parent is him.

“I think my husband has hopes he has not yet shared with me.” It's impossible to deny how much you like calling Max that, and you break out into a smile when you come back to the table with your plate. “Not that I mind, of course.”

“Dolly, you know that I am your willing servant.” Max hums dramatically. “If you wish to be childless and not go through the pain, we will have our friends and my vampiric offspring to surround ourselves with.”

“Not at all.” In fact, it warms you straight to the bone that he has even thought of a family with you. The fleeting thought is far more than you’ve allowed yourself, but now the fantasy seems to jump fully formed from his mind to your heart. “I think it’s very sweet.”

Mad smirks and takes a sip of his blood in the tea cup. “That’s me, my dear.” He teases. “Sweet.”

“You certainly seem to be.” Cookie offers with a polite smile. “May I ask how long you have been married?”

“Recent.” Max laughs, picking up your hand and kissing it. “Very recent. Yesterday as a matter of fact.”

“Truly?” Annie perks up at that, returning with her plate to the seat on your other side. “How romantic!”

“Yes, we were suddenly overcome with the need to marry.” Max sighs softly. “Her parents do not approve of me - I was reluctant to share my true nature with them and they found me odd.”

“So you eloped?” This seems to appeal to Annie even more, and she sighs dreamily at the sheer romance of it all. “What utter devotion.”

“I would not spend eternity without the other half of my soul.” Max nods and leans over to kiss your hand.

"Soulmates." It is your grandmother who sighs this time, and for the moment your extended family seems utterly besotted with the idea as you and Max share a sweet smile. "Well," Cookie's expression is wholeheartedly maternal. "You must stay with us as long as you need to settle yourselves and begin this next chapter of your lives. Mr. Brown may be able to help you find a new home, or lend you the ear of our architect if you choose to build."

“That is a very gracious offer.” Max didn’t expect much else, but it’s honestly a relief. He doesn’t know anything about this time and to be around his sire and your family will help him relax. He knows that they will help protect you. “We humbly accept with our thanks.”

"It is very kind of you." There was a lot more tension in your shoulders than you realized, and when they drop it's out of full relief rather than anything else. Since you have no idea how to get home, there is a remote possibility that you're going to have to buck up and make a life here in...whatever year it is.

“Think nothing of it.” Your grandfather assures you. “There is nothing like having family while you are starting out and you are now family.”

******

You find out quickly that the planning you have been doing for the Samhain Masquerade at home pales in comparison to the levels of planning that Cookie has been doing for her own. There is a small ball to be held in two days time -- something your grandmother refers to rather affectionately as a dinner dance but sounds to you to be an enormous undertaking, and then the full-blown Halloween masquerade in a few weeks time. From the look of the menus she is sifting through in the green salon and the sound of the dresses that are being made as well as the decor and band being hired? It's very clear that you have been planning a dinner dance for Samhain and not a full-blown ball. Maybe you ought to be taking notes, as you sit near your grandmother with a book and she bustles through her papers, but all you can do is watch in awe.

“Lobster bisque with a curried quail or roasted prawns and lamb with mint cream?” She asks, looking up as she decides between the two menus that appeal the most. “I don’t think that I care for the tomato custard with beef shank.”

“Prawns and lamb, I think?” Not ever having eaten quail before, you don’t feel safe recommending it over something else. “Or…that is what I would choose. Although, if you are fond of curry, it is delicious with lamb as well.”

“We will have to have a tasting menu, I believe.” She decides, finding your idea intriguing. “We will have both menus and your curried lamb. Do you have a recipe for Mrs. Taylor? Or just use a curry like with the quail?”

“I actually do have a recipe…” It might be a little too intense for Gilded Age palettes, or it might go over like gangbusters. There’s no way to tell. “I can write it out for you, if you like.”

“If you would not mind.” She asks with a smile, tilting her head imploringly.

"Of course not." The recipe had been your mother's, in fact, and now you can't help but wonder if this is how it made its way into your family in the first place. "It would be my pleasure."

“Delightful.” Cookie beams at you and offers a pen and paper. “We will have Mrs. Taylor make the menus for dinner tonight.”

"I hope very much that you will all like it." Writing with this pen is going to be a nightmare, but you valiantly dip the nib in the ink pot that she offers you and begin to write out the recipe as you remember it from cooking with your mother.

“I am sure that it will become a family favorite.” She predicts, watching you scribble. “You have such unique technique with the pen.” Cookie offers. “Do you often write letters?”

Unique technique. You almost snort at the way your grandmother politely calls out the fact that you can barely write with such a common instrument. "I did not have many people to write to," you tell her by way of neatly avoiding the question. It's not like you can explain texting.

“I see.” Her heart aches for you, finding you a wonderfully charming young woman. Reminding her so much of her own daughter that she feels very protective of you. “Well, if you and Max decide to settle elsewhere, I insist that we exchange letters.”

"I truly doubt that we will, but if it ever does happen, I hope to share many letters between us." That box of letters from her is at the forefront of your mind, and the smile on your face ends up slightly bittersweet before you remember that you're here. Here with her and with your mother.

Cookie interprets the slightly sad smile as a remembrance of your family. Perhaps you still mourn their lack of acceptance of your life. “Don’t worry, my dear.” She reaches out and pats your hand. “Family has a way of coming back to you.”

"More than anyone could possibly know." And that brings your smile back to a much brighter place instantly. "Perhaps my life with my husband will have many more surprises in store."

“Men, especially vampires, are always full of surprises.” Cookie trills and shakes her head fondly. “Even when he drives me to wail, there’s no one I would rather spend my life with than John.” She admits and reaches out to take your hand. “Max has explained that he can lengthen your life, correct? A mortal existence is just but a blink of an eye to a vampire.”

"It has not been the subject of a long conversation yet, but I do know of the possibility." You can't tell her that you know about it because of her, but it doesn't matter either way. The fact is that you'll eventually have to talk to Max about it. "But he cannot tell me if it hurts. Or if it has any other...effects."

“There is no pain involved.” Cookie assures you, happy to share the information she possesses with the wife of another vampire so close to her soulmate. “Truly, you only need to drink but a drop of his blood every day. Just a drop. I know that partaking of their…habits, sounds unsettling, but it is masked wonderfully by a cup of coffee.”

"Really?" It hadn't seemed like it should be that simple, and you tilt your head at her with a small laugh. "I expected it to be far more...dramatic. They are terribly dramatic men, after all."

“Lord, they are.” She joins in the laughter, her own bright and vivacious. “John has a flare for it and it seems he chooses others with that same inclination to change.” She huffs. “As far as effect….you will feel stronger, be stronger. I have such horrid eyesight but since I’ve been partaking in my soulmate’s blood, my eyes are perfect.”

"The strength that it lends them...we get some of it as well?" Truth be told, you hadn't considered that before. But it makes perfect sense now that you hear it out loud.

“Most of the favorable attributes we would share with them.” She explains. “However, we will never have their full strength.” She sighs. “But it does have one ill effect.”

"That seems only fair." A nod of your head asks her to go on, willing to hear whatever unsavory side effects this otherwise magical situation.

“You…” Cookie leans in, cupping her hands around her mouth as if she were telling a secret. “Have horrible smelling body functions.”

It's so unexpected that you sort of freeze, feeling like time has slowed to a surreal whirl, right before you burst out in the most unladylike laughter of your life. "Is that all?" You manage, gasping for some semblance of control between guffaws. "Why--we deal with that on a monthly basis anyway. That hardly seems to make a difference at all!"

“I suppose so.” She straightens and wrinkles her nose. “John sometimes cannot be around me, the smell is too much for his sensitive nose.”

"That seems almost useful," you joke, still laughing harder than you can control. "It gives some time alone, doesn't it?"

She stares at you for a moment and then gives a very un-ladylike snort. “I suppose you are correct, Dolly.” She muses, finding your way of thinking refreshingly bright.

"There is nothing wrong with a little solitude now and then." While you would never ask for it from Max, there are plenty of times when he's off doing other things and you fill your time on your own. That's just how life works.

“Individuals need to be free to pursue things that fulfill them.” She agrees. “My coven accepts John, but they also know he will not be there every time. Society does not know about his…nature.”

“You have been very lucky, I think.” With your grandmother’s hand still holding yours, it’s hard not to be overly emotional. There is something in your chest just aching to burst out but as long as you’re here you won’t be able to let it. Knowing even a small part of her story makes you feel oddly like the Grim Reaper in ways you dearly hate, but can’t ever show. “I hope the rest of the life you choose continues to be happy.”

“Even if it’s not, it will be my journey.” She hums softly, squeezing your hands gently. “Every journey, good and bad, teaches us. Helps us learn for the next life.”

“Maybe you’re right.” It’s such a bittersweet thing to hear from someone who has already begun their next life journey, but you offer her a smile and nod. “That is a soothing way to think of it.”

“Isn’t it?” She smiles softly. “The only problem is; I don’t know when John would meet up with me in the next life.” She admits. “Even though he is immortal, and very much older than I, we are joined in this life and every life we will have.”

“Then perhaps it is you who will find your way back to him?” You suggest, hoping it sounds as soothing to her ear as it feels to you. “And not the other way around? I know…whatever comes next…I will do everything I can to find my way back to Max.”

“Your paths have been destined to be intertwined.” Cookie sighs lovingly, her own eyes soft and dreamy. “Every person should find their soulmate and their happiness. Although the two are not mutually exclusive to one another.”

“I think that’s very important to remember.” And bittersweet, considering you know that it will be forgotten along the way. When your mother falls in love with a man who isn’t her soulmate. Well after that man is taken from her.

“Are you feeling peckish?” She asks after a moment. “I feel as if we should have some tea.”

“Tea is always welcome.” The morning seems to be that much longer when breakfast is served sharply at 7:30am, and with more than an hour left before luncheon, a cup of tea sounds perfect. Down the hall you can hear the soft sound of laughter and conversation from the library, and you can’t help but smile. Your mother’s laugh sounds so much more polite in this day and age. Which makes perfect sense, considering how young women were supposed to act. “Do you suppose Annie and her caller would join us? Or would that be imposing?”

“We can see.” She agrees with a small smirk on her face. “If she can drag herself away from Emmanuel long enough to take tea.”

It’s impossible not to stare when the name crosses your grandmother’s lips, realizing that the man your mother has been talking to in the library for more than a half hour (well over the societally-correct fifteen minutes) is her soulmate. The most you can manage is a weak “Oh?” Out of the need to make some sound.

“It seems as if he will be a regular caller.” She continues on, not noticing your reaction. “He is from a nice family and my husband is impressed with his business dealings.”

“So, it is a…a good match?” You remember Yayo speaking of it with fondness. Saying that your mother had loved her soulmate and that was why he had taken such drastic action. This seems like it is the very beginning of that attachment and your heart aches knowing what your mother has yet to go through.

“Very much so.” She nods. “My daughter is a very powerful witch and will take a strong man to stand by her side.”

“And a good one, I hope.” Never having met Emmanuel, you can’t say. But you’ve seen what strength looks like in good and bad men all your life. “Strength in a bad man can break even the strongest of women. Not help her.”

“You are right.” Cookie nods seriously. “It has happened before and it will happen again, I am sorry to say.”

“A tale as old as time, some would say.” Even if you hate yourself for the reference just a tiny bit, it’s too good to resist.

“Oftentimes the best of tales are older than time, just as some of the worst.” Cookie muses with a wry smile on her face. “I have seen time pass far more than most and I believe that to be true.”

“I will trust your word,” you tell her honestly. Your grandmother has seen far more of the world and far more of humanity than you have and you both know that even at face value. “My life has been sheltered until now, for better or for worse.”

“Then we will have to make sure that under the protective shield of your husband, you live the life you wish.” She promises.

“Then I suppose I ought to decide what it is that I wish for.” Whatever it is, it will have Max and it will have dancing. Anything else that life decides for you is still very much up in the air.

“Agreed.” She smirks slightly and her toe presses the button that is discreetly placed near the table leg by her chair. Allowing her to summon Mrs. Taylor.

Mere seconds later the vampire housekeeper arrives in the doorway of the drawing room with her hands folded and an expectant smile. “Ma’am?”

“Please ask Annie and her guest if they would join Dolly and myself for tea?” She asks, smiling at the housekeeper. “And we have a new recipe for you to try.”

“Of course, ma’am.” The recipe is a surprise, but Mrs. Taylor accepts the paper from Cookie with only a slight look of disbelief at the handwriting before she curtsies lightly and turns the corner toward the library.

“Shall we adjourn to the morning room?” She asks with a small smile. “Give the lovers a moment alone to discuss having to be around someone else?”

“It’s always a rude awakening. To have to remember that there are other people in the world when you are in your own little bubble.” That expression probably doesn’t exist here, but it’s probably self-explanatory. Hopefully.

“You have the most charming colloquialisms I have ever heard.” Cookie hums in delight. “It has been so refreshing having you here. I feel as if we will be lifelong friends.”

The best you can do is sigh your relief that she doesn’t call you out on being odd, and instead embraces it. So you smile warmly. “And perhaps those lives will be much longer than other friends could ever hope for.”

“The advantage of being with a vampire.” She laughs. “One of many, although I’m sure you are finding out the others when you retire to your rooms at night.”

“Oh, um…” You really have to wonder how odd it is that you claim to be married to Max but haven’t breached that particular nighttime activity yet. Thank the gods your abuela can’t feel the heat rolling off you as it rises in your cheeks. “I—of course…”

“Do not worry, we are not as uptight as some families might be about that sort of thing.” She assures you, standing up and offering you her arm. “If you wish to talk to another woman about those things, you just come to me anytime.” She is assured that your mother never spoke to you about a wife’s relations with her husband behind closed doors, and she doesn’t wish for you to be ignorant.

“That is most generous of you.” And it is, really, except she can’t possibly understand how awkward it is to have that offer made by your grandmother.

She can sense you won’t but she just pats your hand. “Well, we will talk about something else, shall we?”

Like a merciful saving grace, your mother appears in the doorway a moment later followed by a tall man with masses of wavy, dark brown hair and crystal blue eyes. It’s pretty clear your mother’s physical type is tall and strong, though. If the similarities between Emmanuel and your father are anything to go by. “You sent for us, Mother?”

Your grandmother tuts playfully. “You act as if you have been summoned to a hearing, rather than tea.” She teases. “I was hoping you and Emmanuel would join Dolly and I for tea?”

“Of course.” Even though she says it with all manner and politeness, you recognize the tone from your mother as placating and bite back a smile. She called it her ‘PTA voice’ for when she had to deal with the other moms at your schools when you were growing up. Apparently it had existed long before her involvement in any PTA. “Mr. Aubert was just saying how lovely today would be for a walk,” Annie tells the room as if it was some momentous declaration. “Perhaps you could spare me this afternoon, Mother? To accompany him?”

“I think an afternoon walk after tea would be a very delightful undertaking.” She grins because she knows that her daughter would like to be alone with her beau. “Perhaps Dolly and I will join you.” She has no intention of joining, simply meddling to meddle.

“Oh!” Annie’s head whips back to look at Emmanuel and reminds herself to smile before looking back at her mother. “Of course. If you would like to join us, you are both very welcome.” It’s clear that wasn’t her hope, but she isn’t going to say no. Saying no might have her chance at a walk revoked altogether.

“Although….” She tilts her head towards you. “Dolly and I still have so much to plan for the ball. Since she has volunteered her help.” She reconsiders. “It would be best if we stayed and continued to work, wouldn’t it?”

“There is considerable planning to do.” You manage to pick up on it almost right away, the way abuela Cookie is messing with her daughter, and you even manage not to crack a smile or laugh. “Perhaps it would be best. Will you be terribly disappointed if we are forced to stay behind?”

If your mother could look any happier, she would be crying tears of joy. Bobbling her head quickly, she’s not even looking over at Emmanuel. “That seems like a proper plan, I would hate for our outing to put you behind. Perhaps another time?”

“Yes. Another time.” Cookie’s face shows no trace of teasing or amusement until her daughter looks away and shoots you a sly smile. “What a pity. But I am sure you are more than capable of being a charming companion for Mr. Aubert.”

“So, tea?” Your mother looks around for the tea set eagerly. As if beginning it will get it over with quickly. She is eager to be alone with Emmanuel.

“Yes, miss.” The footman that appears with the tray and sets it on the low table in the center of the room. “Thank you, Franklin. We can manage for ourselves.” Cookie smiles when she dismisses the footman, but it is definitely a dismissal.

“Emmanuel, allow me to fix you a cup of tea.” Annie flirts, smiling winsomely at her caller and moving over to the tea quickly.

“Mr. Emmanuel Aubert, may I present Mrs. Dolly Phillips. Her husband is family to Mr. Brown and they will be staying with us for the foreseeable future.” Ever the gracious hostess, your grandmother makes you sound as grand and important in her introduction as royalty and you nod politely as you have now seen several women in this time period do. Shaking hands seems to be considered something quite intimate so you refrain from offering the gesture like you normally would. Seeing your mother act exactly like a teenager with a crush is sort of sweet, but you don’t comment on it at all for now. Hopefully having the other guest in the room get a bit talkative will take some of the focus off of you. “How long are you in Newport for, Mr. Aubert?”

“Business brought me to Newport for the next three months.” He explains, looking towards Annie again with a smile. “But I think I will be staying longer for personal reasons.”

"That's wonderful to hear." And more than a little heartbreaking, considering Yayo told you what happens to them. But right now your mother is happy. And being able to sit next to her again? See her smile like that? It's everything.

“Quite.” Emmanuel’s gaze at Annie is nothing short of adoring and he’s already sent for the heirloom ring that his grandmother had made him promise would rest on his spouse's finger.

“And…what sort of business are you in? If you don’t mind me asking.” So much curiosity overwhelms you at this other possible direction your mother’s life could have taken. It’s a little maddening but fascinating at the same time.

“Railroads.” Emmanuel answers simply. “My family builds railroad cars. My grandfather is George Pullman.”

“Really?” That’s probably too enthusiastic a reaction to be considered ladylike, but you weren’t expecting such a fascinating answer. “I—that is—how remarkable!”

“Then you have heard of our sleeper cars?” He asks with a proud smile. “Have you traveled in one?”

“I have not been so lucky yet.” Pullman cars being a thing of the past — now that you’re in the past maybe you’ll have a chance. “But I saw a photograph of one printed in a newspaper once.” In the archives at Vanderbilt, there had been loads of old newspapers on microfiche. It had been something of a hobby to go through them for little tidbits, and you ended up finding some fun things there.

“Then we will have to rectify that.” He smiles at you with the excitement of a man being able to show off a favorite toy. “My personal car is at the rail station. Perhaps we can take a small trip to showcase the luxurious ride available?” He clears his throat. “Your husband is welcome to join us, of course. As well as you and your husband, Mrs. Brown.” He adds politely.

“Alas, I think perhaps Mr. Brown and I will be too busy to join you.” Cookie smiles a very knowing — scheming — little grin. “But perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Phillips would be entertained by a train journey? There is time yet before the masquerade, if you choose to go sooner rather than later. A few days away does young people a world of good, without interfering with any of your responsibilities.”

“Would I be able to go?” Annie’s eyes are wide and pleading, wanting to spend as much time as possible with Emmanuel.

The knowing smile on your grandmother’s face is everything, and she nods once in polite agreement to her daughter’s plea. “I think it would be lovely for you and Dolly to make friends,” she hums, pleased with the idea. “As long as your father agrees, you may depart on Sunday as long as you return again before the Astor’s ball next Friday.”

“Mama, thank you!” Rushing forward, she kisses her mother’s cheek happily and nearly buzzes with excitement.

“Mind you behave yourself.” Cookie accepts her daughter’s love with glee, though, before going back to demurely sipping her tea. “Mrs. Phillips shall be my spy while you are away.”

“There will be nothing to report.” Annie promises, nearly giddy and she rushes around to hug you as well. “We will become the best of friends during our tour.”

“Wherever you would like to go.” Hugging your mother again — despite the corsets, despite her not knowing you yet, despite every obstacle — nearly has you in tears and you have to blink them away as fast as lightning so no one notices. “Whatever you would like, Annie.” It doesn’t even matter that using her first name is a foreign concept to bend your mind around. You’re getting to hug your mother again.

She beams and nods, happy that you are willing to be a chaperone so she can spend more time with Emmanuel. “Perhaps tomorrow morning, we can walk through the gardens together?” She asks softly.

“That sounds wonderful.” So wonderful you could damn near cry, but you’ll save that for the privacy of your own room tonight, where you know Max will understand.

“Then we have a date.” She had picked up on some of Max’s unusual phrases at breakfast, liking them immensely. Nodding and letting go of you, she rushes back over to her caller’s side.

“Wisely and slow.” Cookie says, in a moment that would seem rather enigmatic if it didn’t immediately trigger a core memory somewhere in your mind that you hadn’t even given a flicker of recognition to in years. “They stumble that run fast.” Both you and Annie finish the line of Shakespeare in unison, exchanging a look of surprise immediately afterward.

Annie is the first to break, giggling and humming playfully. “Did your mother dole out wisdom from Shakespeare as well?”

“Rather constantly.” And now you know exactly where she got it from. “And took me to the plays, as well.”

“How utterly delightful.” Annie nods. “Mother always makes sure Father secures tickets. Experiencing Shakespeare is a requirement of being a cultured lady.”

“My mother thought so as well.” And how you wish you could just dive across the room and hug her and just never let go. Or just say anything. But you promised Yayo it would be a secret.

“Well, I am glad that you are also well versed.” Your grandmother beams at the two of you. “This is like having two daughters, if only for a while.”

“I’m very glad you think so.” For you, the dream of seeing your family again is very real. It only makes sense that they recognize those traits in you, as well.

She smiles softly and nods, aware that your own parting from your family must be bittersweet for you. “Well, I think that we are going to have a marvelous masquerade this year, don’t you?” She asks you.

“It sounds like it will be wonderful.” If you ever get back to your own time to plan another, the second Samhain Masquerade you plan is going to be a hell of a lot fancier, you know that for damn sure.

“Mother enjoys planning events.” Annie offers with a proud little smirk on her face. “No one would dare turn down an invitation, not even the Astors.”

“I know I can speak for my husband when I say we are both honored to be included.” The morning for Max has been time alone with his sire, and you know that this afternoon when you have to venture into town to get fitted for clothes he’ll be talking your ear off about everything that’s been said.

“You will not regret it. The salmon pâté is probably my most favorite bite of all the buffet.” The other woman practically moans at the prospect.

“Then I dearly look forward to it.” It seems like Mrs. Taylor has always been both cook and housekeeper here and you know her cooking is impeccable. She’s made things for you that you had never imagined trying before and they’ve always been wonderful. “You’re very fortunate to have such a talented chef.”

“Mrs. Taylor has a passion for cuisine that I have never seen before.” Cookie answered honestly. “If she were born a man, she would have been accepted to the top culinary schools.”

“Perhaps she should start a school for women cooks. Share her talent with any who wish to learn and let the pool of talented women become talented, trained women.” Just because you know for a fact that it does not happen between this time and yours, doesn’t mean it never could. And it doesn’t mean it shouldn’t either. Mrs. Taylor would be a wonderful teacher.

“That would be something she would adore.” Mrs. Brown admits. “She cannot have children of her own, so the people she cares for become her children in a way. I know students would be no different.”

“Perhaps one day.” Annie chirps with a smile. She knows that something drastic would have to happen to separate her mother from their housekeeper.

“Perhaps.” Your grandmother hums softly with a smile on her face. “For now, we get to sample her delightful creativity. Why Mrs. Phillips had brought her a new recipe to try.”

“It is nothing. Really.” A bit of bashfulness has you not wanting to have your offering pried into. It all happened by accident anyway.

“Nonsense. Mrs. Taylor was floating around the kitchen with glee.” Even if she hadn’t seen the other woman, she knows how she reacts to new challenges.

“Then I hope the dish turns out to be a popular one. So she may enjoy her triumph.” You offer, and just let the facts settle over you privately and silently, that the reality of time travel is very weird.

“We will find out tonight.” She reminds you with a smile before she takes a bite of her finger sandwich.

******

"I guess they aren't up yet." Allison shrugs her giant cardigan a little closer around her body, overcorrecting for the lack of body heat from Eddie even though her vampire boyfriend is wrapped around her like an ivy vine as they slowly descend the stairs to the dining room for breakfast. There's no sign of you or Max being up or around the house, so the logical conclusion is that you've chosen to sleep in and Max is by your side. "More breakfast for us, then," she looks up at Eddie with a smile. "Or just me? Are you eating with me this morning?"

Eddie smiles down at her, amazed that she is here, that she’s in his arms. He hadn’t even heard Max’s car come home, so apparently he had been completely preoccupied. “I’ll eat with you.” He promises. “I love eating with you.”

"There's an entendre there somewhere," she hums, grinning when he leans down to kiss her halfway down the stairs.

“Didn’t think you’d want Mrs. Taylor to hear what else I love eating.” He teases her softly, grinning against her lips.

“Menace.” She’s giggling though, and pinching Eddie’s side before she starts down the second half of the stairwell. “You’re an absolute menace, Edward Cowper.”

“That’s me.” He never thought he would be classified as a menace, that was thoroughly Max’s area of expertise but Allison brings it out of him. “A menace.”

“Something smells like paradise.” The scent wafting up from the kitchen is rich and fruity and cinnamony at the same time, and Allison groans happily. “I’m getting spoiled being in this house all the time. With the Menace and the best cooking in the whole world.”

“That is nice to hear.” Mrs. Taylor bustles through the door, a distracted frown on her face as she looks at the pair. “Did Max and Dolly indicate that they would be lodging elsewhere last night?” Her question is abrupt, showing none of her usual tact.

“They didn’t come home?” Eddie’s frown matches Mrs. Taylor’s instantly. “I figured Dolly was just still asleep.”

“Max’s car is not in the garage and Renee said the bed was undisturbed.” She tells them, her jaw set in a very unhappy stance.

“They only went to Portsmouth.” The younger vampire’s frown deepens and he pulls out his phone to see if he’s missed a text but there’s nothing there. “There’s no reason they shouldn’t have come home.”

“That is what I am afraid of.” Mrs. Taylor frowns even more, her fangs descending in worry.

“If anything had happened to Dolly, Max would have brought her home instantly,” Allison reasons, though her arm around Eddie’s waist tightens with nerves.

Unless he couldn’t is the unspoken fear that passes between the two vampires in the room. Making the normally calm and collective Eddie ruffle slightly with a shudder.

“If you are wondering after his brother and his soulmate, they won’t be returning for some time.” From the darkened doorway, his voice is quiet but firm

Allison’s eyes widen at the sound of the new voice, unaware that anyone else is there and her head swings around to peer at the voice. “Why?”

“They are traveling.” Is the enigmatic answer, as the master of the house enters the room with one long, sure step.

“Where would they have gone?” Eddie asks, but a look of understanding immediately passes over Mrs. Taylor’s face. “I see.”

“Not far.” His sire assures him, seemingly nonplussed by the concern on Eddie’s face. “But I am afraid it will be some weeks before they return.” His eyes slide over to Mrs. Taylor, who nods. “Allison,” he addresses her without shifting his gaze. “You will take up Dolly’s place in finalizing plans for the ball with the coven. Mrs. Taylor will tend to things in the house. She knows what to do.”

“I- me?” She asks, slightly alarmed by the presence of Cookie’s soulmate. She has not seen the vampire since her funeral.

“Yes, my dear.” He regards her with the warmest expression he’s capable of this morning, knowing what has befallen you last night in those woods. “Cookie taught you how, and I know you have been helping Dolly. You will manage it well and have Mrs. Taylor to keep you moving forward.” His cool hand touches her arm and he nods as if to say it will all be well. “My soulmate regarded you as something of a second granddaughter, you know. I know you will make her proud.”

“I- I don’t know what to say.” Allison says, teary eyed at the beautiful words. “I will make sure that everything is perfect for Dolly and Max’s return.”

“Second granddaughter?” Eddie frowns, not quite understanding and looking to his sire curiously. “I didn’t know Cookie had a first granddaughter.”

The elder vampire smiles enigmatically. “The cat is out of the bag.” He hums and shrugs slightly. “Dolly is our granddaughter.” He reveals as simply as if he was stating the weather outside and not some surprising news.

“I knew something didn’t make sense!” Allison nearly leaps out of her seat but anchors herself by grabbing Eddie’s hand in her eager surprise. “Cookie would never have left this house to some far-flung, unknown relative!”

“You are correct.” The smirk on his face is both slightly sad and proud. “In order to break the spell, my darling Cookie decided to give up her immortal time to allow Dolly to know all of you and myself.” He pauses. “Once she is settled, I will end my existence and find her in my next life.”

The shock of that announcement sucks the air out of the room instantly, leaving even the undead breathless as Eddie’s jaw hangs wide open and Mrs. Taylor grasps the nearest piece of furniture in an uncharacteristic moment of uneasiness. She doesn’t question him, knowing how devoted he had been to his soulmate for hundreds of years, but she clasps her hand over her heart as though it were breaking. “You…” Eddie swallows air he has no need for, the harsh sound echoing in his chest. “You have an entire family here,” he protests, knowing it sounds weak — and maybe it is weak. But there are only so much family he will ever be able to have in his afterlife, and they are all because of his sire.

“I do.” His decision was not made lightly, and Cookie had protested against it, as much as he had protested her decision. “And every one of you is special to me, but she is the other half of my soul.” He reminds Eddie. “The Devil made me walk this earth for over a thousand years before my soulmate was ever born. I cannot walk another thousand without her.” He refuses to, is the real answer, but he is more dramatic than that. “I know that my chosen successor will fill my role fantastically and keep our family together.”

“Then you have already chosen.” Mrs. Taylor nods in understanding and recognition, as solemn as it is.

“All will be revealed when it is time.” He intones seriously. “It will be a joyous occasion amongst my vampiric offspring.”

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @katheriner1999 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04

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My Masterlist!

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Max Phillips #Max Phillips x you #Max Phillips x reader #Max Phillips x female reader #Max Phillips f!reader #Eddie BtVS #Eddie BtVS x OC #Bloodsucking Bastards #soulmate au #mysterious inheritance #time travel #so much chaos #it's the gilded age bitches!

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neewtmas · 9 months

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12 days of Christmas // A Lockwood & Co Advent Calendar

DAY 10

Hello everyone! It's the second-to-last post for this advent calendar, and today, it's time for my personal favourite. I wanted to include an x reader fic for every member of the agency, and after Lucy (day 2) and Lockwood (day 6), it's finally time for George! Seeing as this is a certified George-Fanblog™️ of course his fic is gonna be the grand finale.

But the best thing about today's post is that it is actually a collaboration! I wrote this together with the wonderful and insanely talented Eden (@givemea-dam-break) who understood my vision for this so well and I am so proud of what we created together. Thank you so much for doing this with me Eden, it was so much fun!!! love you🫂🫶🏻

make sure you don't miss out and go check out Eden's other writing here: masterlist

Brother Knows Best

pairing: george karim x fem!reader

wordcount: 6.3k

short summary: George's brother shows up at 35 Portland Row and shakes things up between George and reader

advent calendar tags: @givemea-dam-break @wellgoslowly @maraschinomerry @losticaruss @oblivious-idiot @uku-lelevillain @avdiobliss @strawberryloveyyy @strawberrycowgirly @demigoddess-of-ghosts @thefriendlyneighborhoodmomfriend @boookfreeak

my masterlist

day 1 day 2 day 3 day 4 day 5 day 6 day 7 day 8 day 9

It was a beautiful day in the middle of winter when (name) realised she was in love with George Karim.

The two of them were walking side by side, their breaths forming little puffs of white in the freezing air. It had snowed the night before, but all that was left were some dirty grey piles on patches of grass by the road. She’d had her hands buried in the warm pockets of her coat the whole walk, but still, her fingers felt stiff as she pushed open the gate in front of 35 Portland Row. George followed closely behind, carrying a bag full of books and newspapers they’d borrowed from the Archives.

(name) bounced up the stairs like she always did, not considering what the puddle of melted snow on the steps that had wet her shoes this morning would turn into over the course of the cold day. The worn sole of her boot slid over the patch of ice, and she lost balance, trying to grip the railing to prevent a fall.

But that wasn't necessary. George was there in an instant, arms wrapped around her and steadying her until she found her footing again.

"Are you okay?" he asked, and she nodded, finding herself unable to speak.

He released her from his grasp, taking a slow step back. (name) could do nothing but stand still for a moment, trying to calm her racing heart. She had no idea if it came from the adrenaline of almost falling or the shock of having George be so close to her so suddenly. She watched as he picked up the bag he had dropped on the ground in his rush to catch her, and then searched his coat pockets for the house key. His fingers trembled slightly, probably from the cold, as he pulled it out and turned it in the lock, keychains jingling.

Inside, the kitchen was deserted, but the kettle was still warm so (name) just had to choose two mugs and quickly reboil it while George laid out the books they had gotten. At this time of year, the warm, cosy kitchen of Portland Row was so much more inviting than the somewhat chilly archives. They could turn the heating up as much as they wanted here, which was why they had opted for just a short trip over to gather some books and then return to the warmth of their home.

(name) brought the two steaming mugs over to the table and made herself comfortable on the chair beside George. He had already grabbed one of the books and was intently skimming the table of contents.

“You can get started on the newspapers," he said without looking up, flicking through the book to find a specific page. “We’ve got a few to work through.”

She knew that, of course, because she had been the one to go on an hour-long hunt for all the ones he claimed they needed. Silently, she pulled the heap of newspapers over and started with the one on top, dating back 15 years.

George took a sip from his tea and grimaced. "You forgot the sugar."

That wasn’t like her. She always remembered the sugar. What was up with her?

George leaned over and reached past her for the sugar, and (name)'s breath hitched in her throat at the proximity. She could faintly smell his shampoo and was near enough that she could see the little scar on his temple, barely visible, from a case they’d taken on a month or two ago. Wordlessly, and seemingly oblivious to the thundering of her heart, he poured some sugar into his cup and stirred, all the while focusing back on what he was reading.

(name) tried to do the same, she really did, but the fact that George was now so close that their legs were touching made the simple task everything but. How was she supposed to focus when all she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears; hearing him muttering quiet words under his breath as if he hadn’t just stolen the air from her lungs?

It was when she looked at him then, a picture of serenity in the winter sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, that she felt it in her heart. Some urging sense of need, of want. A desire to do this for the rest of her life - to sit beside him, whether it be to research something or remember to put sugar in his tea or God knows what. To spend an eternity pressed up to his side, feeling this thrum of her heart. To feel the thrill of his fingers brushing hers as he reached over to peek at something in the newspaper she was reading.

There was no guarantee he would feel the same, she knew that. She didn’t expect him to, not when his life revolved around uncovering the root of the Problem. But she was grateful for what she got: the time he spared for her; the books he would gift her after visiting a bookshop on his way home from the Archives; the tea he’d make in the morning, served with some partially burnt toast he’d forgotten he’d put in the toaster until the moment it popped out.

And that was okay. Truly, it was.

—

35 Portland Row was in chaos.

George was in the middle of a cleaning spree, rushing around in a flowery apron and blue rubber gloves, scrubbing at every crack and crevice to be found - and, well, there were many of those. Lockwood was straightening the pillows in the living room, something he would seldom be found doing, and it was likely that he was stuffing things under said pillows to save having to find space for them in the cluttered house. Lucy, bless her soul, was making tea quicker than her hands could move and had spilt boiling water on her toes. Many curse words ensued.

This chaos, however, did not extend to (name).

Standing by the living room window, staring out onto the street beyond, she felt an odd sense of calm mixed with a hint of excitement.

Why? What incredible company could they be having that had the ability to send the members of Lockwood and Co. into such a frenzy?

Issam Karim.

She had been set on guard duty, ordered by the younger Karim brother to shout out when she saw him approaching. In all honesty, she wasn’t entirely sure why George was making such a fuss about it. He had four older brothers, Issam, or Sam as he preferred, being the youngest of them and, according to Lockwood, the one most similar to George. So it wasn’t like he had anything to worry about.

Even still, when (name) saw a familiar mop of dark curls, she called out to the others and hurried over to the front door.

The knock came soon after; two slow taps followed by silence. George was there, staring at the door over her shoulder, tugging his rubber gloves off. And there was Lucy and Lockwood, peering from the end of the hallway like overly interested parents meeting their child’s friend for the first time.

(name) swung the door open.

Seeing Sam was like looking into George’s reflection, minus the glasses and with slightly neater hair. He was a little taller, broader, and, well, more adult-looking, she supposed. But he was most definitely a Karim.

And, god, did he smile like George, too.

It was the same kind of smile that George showed when he was proud of something - full of teeth and elation, with a sparkle of dark eyes to top it off. If it had been George smiling at her like that, her knees would’ve buckled and her heart would’ve threatened to beat out of her chest, but there was something different about Sam’s variation of the smile. Something extremely fraternal.

George ushered his brother in, scooting past (name) with barely any room thanks to the narrow hallway. Her heart lurched at the feeling of his arm brushing against hers as she hurried to move out of the way.

“Oh, Georgie,” Sam said, smiling at the decorations covering the walls, “you’ve been holding out on me. If I knew you stayed in a house like this…”

He plucked the nearest mask off the wall, scrutinizing it, and Lockwood looked as if he wanted to tell him off, but he refrained after the warning look George gave him.

(name) could understand that. He wanted to impress his brother, especially after years of feeling excluded from his family simply for pursuing a life revolving around ghosts rather than engineering.

She just hoped that he knew he impressed her regardless.

The five of them sat down in the living room, the coffee table laden with mugs of steaming tea and plates stacked high with biscuits and doughnuts. Sam plucked a Hobnob from one of the plates and chewed on it carefully, glancing around the room like a child at a theme park. He had a look of wonder in his eyes that (name) so often saw and admired in George’s.

“You’ve met Lockwood before,” George said from beside his brother. “But this is Lucy, and that’s (name). They’ve both been here a year and a half now.”

“Oh. This is the infamous (name)?” Sam’s smile was dazzling despite the scathing look George gave him. “Wonderful to meet you.”

(name) and Lucy shared a look. Lucy looked like she was trying not to smile as she caught Lockwood’s eye. It seemed like the two of them knew something that (name) didn’t, and it had her feeling a little uneasy.

“Nice to finally meet you, Sam,” she said, offering up a smile.

The conversation went well enough thanks to Lockwood, who started asking Sam about his university life and how classes were going. Most of what he said, however, was just confusing to them. As agents, they hadn’t gotten the chance to experience much of a school life, so all this talk of complicated maths and big, fancy words went straight over their heads. Sam didn’t seem to mind. It appeared that he just liked having people he could sound incredibly intelligent to.

Definitely related to George. Although George was much more willing to simplify what he was saying so that the others understood.

Not that (name) minded. She could listen to George speak in his overly-complicated way for the rest of their lives and she’d be grateful.

An elbow dug into her side. “You’re staring,” Lucy murmured, leaning close.

“Hmm?”

“You’re staring. At George. Hard.”

(name) blinked. “No, I'm not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No! Look, over his shoulder, there’s a tear in the sofa cover. That’s what I was looking at.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes, with lovey-dovey eyes, huh? You can’t even give a half-decent fib.”

(name)’s face felt awfully hot, and she couldn’t even get herself to look in George’s general direction. She hadn’t been staring at him, right? She had just looked for a moment, finding herself particularly fond of how his hair flopped over his forehead in soft curls; how his fingers fiddled with the loose threads from a rip in his jeans, and -

With a silent curse, she realised that, yes, maybe she had been staring.

At least it was Lucy who had noticed and not George. Although, she likely would have to deal with incessant questions at night when she was trying to sleep.

The conversation carried on for a while longer before Sam sat his empty teacup on the table and rose from his seat on the sofa.

"Alright, that was lovely, but I’m going to head off for a bit. I have some friends in the city that I haven't seen in a while", he said, wiping his hands on his jeans.

Lockwood stood up as well, brushing some imaginary dust off his trousers as he so often did. "Will you be back for dinner?"

"(name) is cooking", Lucy added.

Sam turned to (name) and shot her a smile. "Well, in that case, I'll make sure I'll be back. Wouldn't want to miss that."

(name) lowered her head, embarrassed at the attention that was on her now. "I'm not even that good,” she mumbled.

"I think you're great", George blurted out, though if the slight pink tinge to his cheeks was anything to go by, he hadn’t meant to say it.

(name) was sure she was blushing now. She knew George appreciated her cooking, but considering his cooking skills, she sometimes wasn't sure if he didn't just say so to make her feel better.

Sam left the house a few minutes later, and any indescribable tension that had built up dissipated. Lockwood and George started up a conversation while Lucy and (name) grabbed the dirty mugs and took them through to the kitchen.

"So… What do you think of him?" Lucy asked as she dumped the dishes into the sink.

"He's nice", (name) replied, adding the dishes she was holding to the pile in the sink, though much more carefully than Lucy. She frowned at a chip in the top of one of the mugs. "But I didn't expect anything else. After everything George has said about him, you know, I half expected the sun to shine out of his ass."

Lucy snorted, leaning back against the counter. "George seems a little on edge, though, don't you think?"

(name) wasn't sure where Lucy was going with this. "He's probably nervous if we'll like him. He's family after all."

Lucy looked at her for a moment with an unreadable expression. "That must be it,” she finally said, before leaving the kitchen to retrieve the rest of the dishes that were still waiting in the living room.

----

(name) was quietly humming to herself as she sliced some tomatoes, periodically checking if the water in the pot on the stove next to her was boiling already. The house was still and quiet, just how she liked it. Sam was out with his friends, Lucy and Lockwood were out doing whatever - they had been gone since lunch - and were, in all honesty, probably fawning over each other in that way they so often did, albeit obliviously. George had buried himself in the library since Sam had left, mumbling something about 'important research and experiments'. (name) had the sneaking suspicion that that meant he was doing something with the skull, but what exactly, she didn't really want to know. Based on the faces the skull always pulled after a day like this, his expression more horrid than ever, it couldn't be anything good.

The evening sun was shining right through the kitchen window in front of her, and in her peripheral vision, she saw movement in the garden. She looked up and spotted a small red squirrel running through the high grass before racing up the tree. She smiled at the sight of the animal and its simple joy in the winter garden, but a sharp pain tore her from her stupor, and she couldn't help the yelp that slipped past her lips.

Immediately, her gaze fell to her hand, where a deep cut on her finger was bleeding heavily. Shit, there was blood all over the cutting board. Without thinking, she hurried over to the sink and held her finger under the water, cursing at how cold it was. The water faded to red after running over her finger, and she could already feel herself starting to get lightheaded. The shock of the cut was wearing off, and the pain was intensifying.

It was stupid, really, that she was in such a fuss over a small slice. Nevertheless, she yelled for George in what was probably a futile attempt. If he was deep in his experiments, there would be no tearing his attention away. Lockwood had tried many things in an attempt to get his attention, so she didn’t hold out much hope.

But just a few seconds later there he was, suddenly in the kitchen doorway. His eyebrows were raised, lips parted in a silent question as his eyes found her finger in the tapstream, leaking a seemingly endless amount of blood.

"Oh shit, (name), what happened?"

“Thought I’d add a bit of my finger to dinner." She spoke through gritted teeth, joking in an attempt to ease herself, or even George. It didn’t work that well.

She’d never had any problems with blood, and she’d cared for many injuries her teammates had sustained over the last year, but her blood - that was an entirely different story. George was next to her in an instant, rummaging around in the medical cupboard for a plaster of the right size. She almost laughed upon hearing him complain that they needed to reorganise the whole thing as he tore a long strip from a box and cut it with a pair of scissors.

"Can you turn off the water?"

(name) did what he asked. Before she knew it, one of his hands was gently holding her wrist, bringing her hand closer to inspect the cut. It wasn’t as deep as it had appeared at first glance, just long and thin, but it was still oozing blood. Most of the issue had been the sheer shock of it and the throbbing pain that filled her whole finger.

It was easier, though, to forget about the pain when his skin was touching hers. He held her so softly, dabbing blood away with such care that her heart swelled as she watched him, brows furrowed in concentration as he tried to avoid the cut itself. He pressed slightly too hard, and her breath caught.

"Sorry, I'll try and be gentle,” he promised.

He led her over to the kitchen table, where she could rest her arm atop the scribbled-on cloth as he worked away. He was quiet as he took the plaster off the paper, slathering on antiseptic cream before wrapping it carefully around her finger. Something in his cheek twitched.

She watched as the concentration moulded his face into some softer version of a frown, the kind of one he often donned when working away in the Archives on a more complex case. Delicately, he stuck the remaining side of the plaster down before relaxing a little. His hand rested on hers, enveloping it in comfortable warmth, and she had to question if the lightheadedness she felt was still from the blood or just from the way he smiled at her.

For a wonderful moment, neither of them moved. His hand squeezed around hers ever so slightly, and his eyes found hers; his gaze encapsulating her very soul. She couldn’t look away, trapped in eyes that no artist could ever replicate, and found a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She could’ve stayed like that forever, would’ve given anything for this moment to last just a little longer, but it didn’t.

George cleared his throat, pulling his hand back and tearing his gaze from hers as he stood. (name) looked down at her finger, wrapped snugly in its waterproof plaster, and hoped he couldn’t see the blush that was staining her cheeks.

"I'm going to take over dinner", George said, shuffling awkwardly. "There is no way I'll let you cook with your hand like this.”

“But -”

“Research can wait before you say anything.”

And that was that.

(name) reluctantly did what he said and stayed in her seat, watching as he washed off the cutting board and then continued where she had left off. It was frustrating how much neater he sliced tomatoes than she did.

The pain that had momentarily subsided had come back worse, and her whole finger was pulsating with waves of dull pain. She tried her best to keep up a conversation with George, and not let on how she was feeling. No need to make him more worried than he already was. But it was clear that he was still concerned, what with his short glances back every two minutes. She had to fight back a little smile at that.

A bang sounded, signalling that somebody had just come in the front door, and she turned to look through the kitchen doorway to see who it was.

Sam, upon seeing the kitchen door open, made his way down the steps after taking off his jacket, smiling as he entered.

"Man, that was exhausting", he said, making himself comfortable on one of the seats - Lockwood’s. He wouldn’t be happy about that. “Forgot how big London is.”

"Do you want something to drink?" (name) asked.

"That would be great."

She squeezed past George, half-annoyed at the small walking space in the kitchen and half-grateful that she had another excuse to be closer to him, and reached up into one of the cupboards for a glass.

"What happened to your finger?" Sam asked, gaze fixed on the plaster as she filled the glass with water.

"Just a little cut", she said, plastering on some semblance of a smile. The pain was worse now after bashing it on one of the shelves. “Nothing much.”

Sam furrowed his eyebrows in a way that looked so much like George. "That doesn't seem like just a little cut", he said. "Can I check it?”

(name) didn't know what to do. She looked over to George, who was busy stirring the contents of the pot, seemingly not listening to their conversation.

“Oh, no, George has already patched me up. I’ll be fine.”

“George is about as good at first aid as our dad, which is to say shit. I insist. It’ll be quick.”

With one more glance at George, she sat back down, setting the glass in front of Sam. No harm in letting him check, she supposed.

He shuffled his chair around, sitting so that her legs slotted in between his, then took her hand and inspected the plaster. A shadow of blood was already peeking through.

"I'm going to take this off and see how bad the cut is, alright?"

(name) nodded in agreement, already dreading the pain this was surely going to cause.

George had turned down the heat of the stove and now leaned against the counter to watch them, his arms crossed. There was something in his expression, a sliver of unfamiliar emotion hidden in his eyes and the slight downturn of his lips.

"Is that really necessary, Sam?" he asked, his voice unusually sharp.

Sam moved closer to (name), slowly peeling the plaster off and revealing the cream-covered, blood-stained finger that had her feeling lightheaded again.

"Oh, it’s necessary. After that one time you tried to patch me up when we were younger, I wouldn’t trust you with a paper cut.”

George huffed. “I was eight. It’s not like I was going to be an expert. Besides, you’re an engineer, not a doctor.”

Sam only hummed, glancing at his younger brother for less than a second. A shadow of a smile haunted his lips.

(name) shuffled uncomfortably, gaze flickering between the two. Tension was rising for some reason unknown to her, and she had a feeling that she was the root of it. But why? She’d only cut her finger. That shouldn’t have been a cause for anything.

“Just as well I’ve checked,” Sam murmured. “That’s definitely more than a little cut.”

“It barely hurts now,” (name) lied. “Seriously, it’s fine.”

And it was. It had been. She had liked it when George had held her hand so tenderly, making sure not to hurt her. Sam doing the same wasn’t necessarily bad, but it felt wrong. Especially with that look on George’s face. He looked ready to kill.

That look alone had a flicker of hope igniting in her chest. Did it mean he felt the same as she did, even just a little bit?

No, she told herself. This was George. George loved his books and scribbling insults on the thinking cloth for Lockwood to find later and reading away in the Archives. There wasn’t enough room for her to fit in his heart. Surely.

Sam was quick to put a new plaster on, this one more neatly cut than the one George had rushed to tear, though there had been an essence of care in it. In reality, she preferred his jagged edges over Sam’s cleaner ones.

She wasn’t entirely sure if she was thinking about plasters now.

“Thanks,” she said, taking her hand back out of Sam’s grip. “Uh, George, how’s dinner coming?”

For a moment, there was no reply. Then George seemed to remember that there was a world beyond the little bubble that had encased the three of them and hurriedly glanced back at the boiling pan of vegetables.

“Fine,” he said eventually.

“Hope you’re better at cooking than you are at first aid, Georgie,” Sam jested.

It was clear he meant it to be a joke, but whatever had soured George’s mood had twisted it into something different. He all but scoffed as he turned back to the pan, stirring methodically.

“George is the best,” (name) said. “If we didn’t have him, we’d be living off of Lockwood’s toast and jam.”

George’s shoulders eased slightly at that. “Either that or spag-bol every night. There’s only so much of it I can eat.”

(name) laughed and so did George, albeit breathy and quiet. Even still, it had the pressure building in her chest ease off a little and had her heart aching to hear more.

Sam’s eyes flickered between the two of them. “So, how long have you two been together?”

Dead silence. There it was again - that suffocating tension. (name)'s heart felt like it had stopped in her chest entirely, and George had ceased every movement. The wooden spoon in his hand hovered over the simmering water, dripping and dripping and dripping until the sound became unbearable and, somehow, too loud.

Did she mind someone assuming she was in a relationship with George? No, of course not. She couldn't imagine anything better for herself. But the hesitation in his movements, the way he looked back at Sam with what could only be described as acute disbelief, had her lunch making its way back up her throat. That tiny sliver of hope she’d felt earlier? Gone.

“No! We’re not - ” George stammered helplessly, eyes wide.

“Oh, my mistake,” Sam said nonchalantly. There was a glint in those dark eyes of his. Mischief. “Just from what I’ve seen today, and how much George talks about you, (name), I kind of assumed…”

“Sam!”

Sam closed his mouth, apparently unwilling to be further berated by his brother, but there was a hint of satisfaction in his smile.

- - - -

Dinner, to begin with, went as smoothly as it could after the bomb Sam had dropped. Lockwood and Lucy returned from their escapades, rosy-cheeked and laughing, but their demeanours soon shifted upon feeling the tension filling the kitchen. With nothing more than a look, Lucy seemed to gauge the situation and began talking about some of the strange stuff she and Lockwood had encountered on the streets of London.

Well, to her and (name) it was strange. To the native Londoners, it was an everyday thing. But truth be told, (name) was much more concerned about George… it was strange seeing him behave like he did.

George was often quiet, unless he was talking about a topic he was particularly enthusiastic about or insulting Lockwood or the Fittes team they’d dubbed their rivals. Yet there had always been a sense of peace in those silences, a comfort that allowed (name) to know that he was okay, either just listening or pondering away in his own little world.

Now, though… This silence was new and different and she knew that it was caused by the implication that they were acting like a couple. (name) tried to think over everything they’d ever done to make it seem that way - the lingering touches and long-held gazes, the time spent together and the happiness they always seemed to feel around each other - and she could see why. And if Sam had been telling the truth, George had talked about her to him in what she had to assume was a positive way.

So why was he reacting like this? Why did he seem so distressed by the thought of her?

It was halfway through dinner when she decided she couldn’t bear it anymore. He wouldn’t look at her. Wouldn’t answer her questions on how his research was going. Wouldn’t listen to Lockwood droning on about heaven knows what.

She stood from her chair and moved away from the table. “I’m going for a walk.”

That seemed to perk everyone up.

Lockwood frowned. “You all right?”

“I just need some fresh air,” she said. “It’s stuffy in here.”

Sam shifted in his chair, making to stand. “I’ll come along. I know some good places to clear your head -”

“No, it’s fine,” (name) insisted, and her voice came out rather firm. “I’ll not be long. Just a walk around the block.”

And then she was gone, fighting not to look back to see if George was concerned or unbothered.

Why did she care so much if he was? He had practically ignored her throughout the whole of dinner, despite her effort to have a conversation, all because his brother had assumed they were a thing. Was she truly so inadequate? Was the mere prospect of being with her so terrible?

It didn’t matter. She’d be just fine on her own. She’d managed it all of these years, and she’d do just the same regardless. What did it matter whether or not he liked her?

But, as she strolled through the wintery streets, it became abundantly clear that no matter how hard she tried, it would always be important to her.

(name) loved George more than anything she had before. She would give him the world if she could. And part of her wanted to believe that, even if he didn’t feel the same, she would always hold on to those feelings.

But that sentiment was just for the romantic movies and sappy novels she spent her free time reading. In reality, she didn’t have it in her to give and give and give and get nothing in return.

The cold air bit at her cheeks, and she crossed her arms as she walked, trying to preserve any warmth that she could. Maybe she should’ve grabbed a thicker jacket on her way out, or changed from her trainers into the pair of boots she’d left out because, god, the frost was seeping through the canvas material.

She almost jumped out of her skin when something wrapped around her neck.

In a burst of fear, she whirled around and stumbled backwards before realising that the thing was soft, and it was warm. And the person who had wrapped it around her was someone extremely familiar.

“George?” she asked, frowning. Her hand reached up to the thing he’d wrapped around her, nails catching on the knitted fabric. “You brought me… a scarf?”

George, who looked mildly shocked by his actions, nodded. “Uh, yeah - yes. You, um, you left without it. I didn’t want you - didn’t want you getting cold, you know?”

“Uh, thanks.”

And for a moment, she lingered, waiting for him to say something. George stood still before her, looking at her in a way she was sure he had never before - slightly wide-eyed, awe-like - but he tore his gaze from her and looked at the ground.

It was then that the feelings she’d been consumed by just moments ago began to creep back again. Why was she still standing here? So what if he'd brought her a scarf? He hadn’t even been able to stomach speaking to her after Sam assumed they were together.

The thought was enough to convince her. With a tight, thin-lipped and awkward smile in his general direction, she turned to continue on her walk. She’d come out to clear her head, and although she was grateful for the scarf, George was jumbling her thoughts again, just as he always did. And, well, if he wasn’t going to say anything, then she was just going to continue her stroll.

“(name), wait.”

She was half-tempted to keep walking, but the tone of George’s voice was enough to stop her feet from moving. He was nervous. Yes, sure, she had seen him nervous many, many times, but this was different. With the slight tremor in his voice, so very subtle, he had all the power at that moment to stop her.

Slowly, she turned to face him again, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “Yeah?”

There was a look in his eyes, unlike anything she had ever seen before. They had softened considerably from when he had been talking to Sam, and there was a crease between his eyebrows that showed a hint of worry she would usually have to search for in his movements. Never did he show his anxiousness as clearly as he did now.

“I -” His voice caught, and he tore his eyes from her face, instead looking at his muddy trainers. “I’m sorry. About how I’ve been acting today.”

She shrugged. “I get it. Your brother’s here. You want us to like him, but he’s getting on your nerves. It’s what siblings do. None of us mind, George. Sam’s nice.”

“That’s not…” It wasn’t what he had meant, and it was clear that he knew she was trying to avoid the topic. “Sam is a lot of things, you know. He’s annoying and insanely smart and kind and -”

“I’ve met him,” (name) said, not unkindly. “I know.”

George ran a hand over his face. “I know, but what I mean to say is that he isn’t a liar.”

Usually, George Karim was not someone to beat around the bush. It was one of the things that (name) admired about him. If there was something he wanted to say, then he would say it, straight and upfront. But to see him now, fumbling over himself and avoiding the point…

“You’re making no sense,” she said.

“What he’s been saying about me… me talking about you a lot.” There was a brief pause. “He’s not wrong. I do talk about you a lot. I think my mum knows more about you than about me.”

A smile tried to fight its way onto her lips, but she held it back. If this was going where she so desperately hoped it would, it wouldn’t hurt to have him say it directly.

“I suppose that’s what friends are like,” she said. “Growing up, my dad knew every detail there was to know about my best friend.”

If one were to describe George Karim, bold would not be a word they would use. Smart, of course. Sarcastic, yes. Awkward, yes again. Bold? Absolutely not.

But there was no other way to describe his actions at that moment. The certainty he stepped forward with, the soft yet assured feel of his hands wrapping around hers. God, he was so close now that she could feel his warm breath ruffling her hair. And his eyes, lord, his eyes. Despite the slow-creeping darkness in the evening sky, his eyes only seemed to grow brighter. She could see the anxiety creeping beneath the surface, whether it be for the actions that may follow or her possible reaction.

“I don’t want to just be your friend,” he said. His voice was barely more than a whisper, but she could hear the words as clearly as she would if he had shouted them.

She had known the words had been coming or had hoped, but hearing them was an entirely new thing. She could feel her heart swell with joy and relief, feel the smile that had so badly wanted to break free rise onto her lips. Her hands shifted carefully, cautiously, until her fingers could fit in between his.

“I’m sorry again about how I’ve been acting.” His words were beginning to rush out the way they did when he had too much to say. “I hadn’t felt ready to tell you, and Sam kept pushing and pushing. I thought if I ignored him I could sort my feelings out, but then I got too nervous and couldn’t even speak to you. God, you make me nervous. Did you know that?”

Her face scrunched with delight. “Georgie?”

He looked a little out of breath. “Yes?”

“Can I kiss you?”

Judging from the look of pure shock on his face, he had not expected such a straightforward request. He didn’t speak, but he nodded.

(name) grinned, slowly pulling one of her hands from his grip to push his glasses up his nose before placing it on his shoulder and leaning forward.

As a child, she had not liked to watch the kissing scenes in movies. They had always felt awkward and, at the time, she had never been able to imagine sharing an intimate moment like that with anybody, nevertheless enjoy it.

But here she was, kissing her best friend, and loving it.

It was a little stiff to begin with but after a moment, they relaxed into it - into the feeling of fireworks and butterflies and warm lips. George’s hand squeezed hers, and his free hand slipped around to her back, pulling her a little closer.

The kiss didn’t last long, no more than a few seconds, but (name) found herself unable to compare the breathtaking moment to anything she had ever experienced. And, well, the look on George’s face told her that he felt much the same.

“I don’t want to just be friends either,” she said, finding herself feeling somewhat shy after such an uncharacteristic moment of confidence. “If that’s okay with you.”

George nodded with such vigour it was a wonder his head was still attached to his neck. “Okay with me.”

thank you for reading!

#lockwood and co advent calendar #george karim x reader #george karim #lockwood and co #lockwood & co #lockwood & co x reader #lockwood and co x reader

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thefrogdalorian · 10 months

Text

Dincember Day 6: Gifts

Word Count: 2050 Rating: General Summary: It's Life Day and time for you and Din exchange gifts. You love sharing in the joy of seeing others surprised with your gifts, but nothing surprises you more than the incredibly thoughtful gift Din gives to you. Content Warnings: Tiny little mention of grieving parents but other than that, fluff! Author's note: This was just so soft and I once again made myself emo... need to hug Din Djarin like rn IT'S SICK.

You had explained to Din that swapping gifts was a Life Day tradition that you enjoyed and, while you obviously enjoyed receiving presents, giving gifts to others brought you the most joy. You wanted Din to know that he did not have to get you anything flashy or expensive as you had everything you had ever dreamed about in him and Grogu, plus the little cabin you shared on Nevarro. You knew how generous Din could be, how he always made sure that you wanted for nothing. A life with him meant you had everything you needed. Plus, whenever the two of you enjoyed a trip together, Din always ensured that you stayed in the most luxurious lodgings available.

But Din was not exactly an easy person to buy presents for. You really wanted to spoil him, but what could you buy the man who always wore the same thing? Who had a perfectly functional ship, a well furnished cabin and who had a dizzying array of weapons already? You knew the best way to spoil Din was to buy gifts for Grogu, so while you pondered what you would buy for your incredible Mandalorian partner, that was exactly what you did. You had only meant to visit the market to buy Grogu a Loth-cat plush from a familiar vendor on Nevarro. You came away with several plushies, some new clothes and plenty of traditional candies that would be eaten at this time of year. You knew the way to Grogu's heart was through food and he would make short work of the sweet treats.

You felt somewhat guilty that ideas for what to buy Din were not coming easily to you. You loved buying gifts for others, loved the look on their faces and their excitable reactions to the surprise of the gift, which to you, of course, was no surprise at all. But there was one thing that you knew Din desperately needed, something that would make your nights more tolerable if your gift stopped him complaining about the temperature of his feet.

So, with that in mind, you ventured to the latest market on Nevarro, to head for the vendor you knew would stock exactly what you needed. You were shopping for his gifts in plenty of time, which was fortunate, because while you were shopping for one part of his present at the tailor, an idea struck you.

"If I gave you the name of a planet, would you be able to source traditional garments from there?" You asked curiously, admiring the enormous variety of materials the elderly woman stocked.

"No promises," She said, flashing you a gap-toothed grin, "But I will endeavour to do my best."

You were grateful that you had been so organised shopping for Din's gifts as to leave enough time for the vendor to attempt to source the materials from the planet you knew would hold enormous sentimentality for Din. You headed back to your cabin with your heart soaring as you imagined Din’s reaction to the gifts you would exchange with him.

The big day arrived, and you were practically bursting with excitement to finally give Din and Grogu the gifts that you had sourced for them. You were equally excited to see what Din had in store for you. You were sure whatever it was, that it would be incredibly thoughtful. Although Din did not have the years of experience in exchanging presents with loved ones as you did, you knew that he confronted everything in his life with nothing less than one hundred per cent enthusiasm, especially when it came to his loved ones.

The first order of business was naturally to give Grogu his gifts. You knew scant details about his life before Din, as Din himself did. But what you did know had broken your heart, the little guy had been through so much loss and fear over his life. So, you did not feel too bad if you were spoiling him just a little bit.

With Grogu happily occupied by the new plushies and making headway into the festive candy you had bought for him – you thought that you had bought enough that it might actually take him several hours to gobble it all up, but it seemed that the treats would not see the light of day for too much longer – you couldn’t wait any longer to give Din the gifts that you had bought for him.

“Okay, so, the first gift I bought you is something I believe you really need because I’m constantly having to hear you complain about it at night.” You babbled excitedly, always eager to explain the gifts that you had bought for the recipients to them, whether they wanted to hear it or not.

“Alright…” Din said cautiously, as he accepted the neatly wrapped package that you handed to him from your position on the floor, where you had just helped Grogu unwrap his presents.

You squealed with delight as Din began to unwrap your present, excited to see his reaction. When he had finally torn through the shimmering paper, he lifted the woolly garments off his lap and held them in the air, regarding them curiously.

“Socks?” Din said, raising an eyebrow curiously.

“They’re made from Tauntaun fur! I bought them from a vendor at the market,” You explained enthusiastically. “I know you’re always complaining about having cold feet at night, so this will take care of that.”

“Thank you cyare, that’s very thoughtful of you,” Din said, appreciatively, as he felt the warmth of the fur by placing his hand in the socks.

“You’re welcome,” You smiled as you handed Din the next parcel. “This is your main present. It took some time for me to arrange this, and I'm not entirely sure that it is authentic, but the vendor assured me she did her best."

You waited with bated breath, as Din unwrapped the paper and pulled out the cloth. You knew instantly, from his reaction, that he recognised the distinctive red material.

“How did you get this?” Din said quietly, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I… I haven’t seen this shade for so many years.”

“I asked the same vendor at the market that I bought your socks from, whether she could source rare materials for me. I gave her the name of your home planet, she said to leave it with her.” You nodded. “I picked it up a few days ago. I hope you like it.”

“It’s Aq Vetina Carmine… right here before my eyes. Cyare, I don’t…” Din shut his eyes again, clearly fighting hard against his emotions. “I don’t know what to say, other than thank you.”

“You can do whatever you’d like with it. I was thinking perhaps of a new cape, considering how your current one has certainly seen better days. Or some other clothes, or a blanket…” You trailed off quietly. “Really, whatever you like.” Your enthusiastic babbling seemed inappropriate once you had realised how emotional your present had made Din.

“Thank you,” Din said quietly. He sat there and cradled the fabric between his fingers, no doubt thinking of his much-missed parents and home world. Din a few moments to compose himself. You glanced over to Grogu, who had taken a pause from his assault on the sugary treats to look at his father with concerned big, brown eyes.

You sat there silently for a few more moments, fearing that perhaps you had slightly soured the mood by giving Din such an emotional gift on a day that was meant to be filled with joy. But then Din shook his head, regained his composure and placed the fabric carefully on the arm of the couch.

“My turn,” Din smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes. You knew that your present had deeply moved him. But you also knew that the excitement to give you whatever it was he had for your present had overridden any upsetting emotions that the gift of Aq Vetina Carmine had provoked in him.

“I can’t wait,” You smiled, leaning forward on your knees in anticipation.

“This is something that I’ve been meaning to give you for a while now,” Din said quietly. If you weren’t mistaken, there was a sudden shyness that had come over him. You wondered what could possibly be inside the little pouch that he had just pulled out of his pocket. “It may not look like much, but it has a deep meaning in Mandalorian culture.”

The cloth of the pouch was soft in your palm. Inside, you could feel a small, hard weight. It did not feel particularly heavy and you wondered why such a small thing could be making Din so visibly anxious. You took a deep breath, as you pulled on the strings of the cloth pouch with trembling fingers. You reached your thumb and forefinger inside and felt the cool metal, which appeared to be of a similar composure as the Beskar which Din’s armour was made out of.

You pulled the mystery object out of the cloth pouch, but what greeted you did not answer any of your questions. It was a metallic shape, it looked to be a skull of some kind with two tusks protruding from it. There was a thin, black leather strap that the pendant was attached to. The craftsmanship on it was stunning. Whatever it was, it looked beautiful.

You looked at Din, with curious eyes, visibly confused about the meaning behind his gift. “It’s gorgeous Din, what is it?” You asked, curiously.

“It’s a Mythosaur, the sacred, ancient symbol that belongs to all Mandalorians,” Din said, gesturing towards the pendant that you still clutched tightly in your fingers. “It’s made out of Beskar, the same steel that my armour is forged from.”

“It’s stunning, Din,” You breathed, deeply touched that he was sharing a part of the traditions of his people with you, an outsider.

“And when given to another…” Din shut his eyes and took a deep breath, clearly attempting to steady his nerves before he completed what he needed to tell you. “It means, if you’d like to be, you would be a part of my Clan, alongside Grogu. Wherever you are in the galaxy, even if we are no longer together, even if I’m… no longer alive, you can show that necklace to any Mandalorian, any covert and give them my name. You will always have protection and a safe place to go.”

“Oh Din,” You whispered shakily as tears began to stream down your cheeks. You pushed yourself up from the floor where you sat and sat on the couch next to him, throwing your arms around his neck. “I love you, so so much.”

“I love you too, cyare,” Din said into your hair, as he buried his face into the side of your neck.

You could barely speak, the gesture had left you feeling so emotional. Not just the thought of Din no longer being around, but the fact that he cared for you so deeply that he wanted you to be a part of his Clan. Din had introduced you to some Mandalorian customs throughout your relationship, sharing the way of life that was such an important part of the man that he was, but it had never been anything as deep, nor as profound, as the gift of the Mythosaur necklace.

“Thank you,” You said, pulling back from the embrace and cupping his stubbly chin with your hand gently, “It’s the most meaningful gift I’ve ever received. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you.”

“I could say the same about you,” Din said, as he brought his plush, warm lips to yours for a gentle kiss.

“Beats socks, too,” You said, giggling, as Grogu leapt onto Din’s lap, clearly feeling abandoned on the floor.

“Nonsense, never having to worry about cold feet ever again is a win in my eyes,” Din said, his brown eyes shining from the multicoloured lights that still twinkled in the main room of the cabin.

You stayed there, cuddled up warm with the two Mandalorians who had just officially become your Clan, grateful for having such an incredible man in your life, your heart full from exchanging such sentimental gifts.

#dincember 2023 #din djarin #din djarin x reader

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scoops-aboy86 · 6 months

Text

I guess this... is the end! With an epilogue to follow, probably, that's a little more soft feedism related, but for those who aren't into that it's totally optional. Thanks to everyone who came along for the ride, and I'll put this up on ao3 sometime soon. 😊

Part 1, part 1.5, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10 of the love spell no go au

The world didn’t end, so life goes on. Eddie, who is the king of casting teeny little spells so he heals fast but not too fast, gets out of the hospital and moves into a one-story little place with Wayne that’s miles from the trailer park. It’s on the same street as Robin’s house so he sees her all the time—but still not as often as he sees Steve.

And they tell Wayne what really happened, NDAs be damned. It’s a Tuesday night and Steve and Robin have brought a couple Western tapes from their latest shift at the miraculously still standing Family Video; they put one on in the background and a flick of Eddie’s fingers make sure that’s all the government bugs scattered throughout the house can hear.

Afterwards, when they’re about to head over to the bigger record shop in the next town over to replenish Eddie’s music collection but pulling up at a gas station first, Steve complains that the whole thing was a little anticlimactic.

“We told him there’s a whole other dimension under Hawkins that there’s this huge government cover-up about it and he didn’t even blink.”

“Well,” Eddie starts, then abruptly reaches for Steve’s ear and produces a quarter from it. He leans over from the passenger seat and holds it up in Steve’s line of vision with a smirk. “It takes a lot to startle us Munson men, sweetheart.”

“Really?” Robin interjects dryly while Steve pulls up to the pump and cuts the engine. “Because the other day Steve asked you to get a sponge from under the kitchen sink and something touched your hand and you shrieked because you thought it was a spider.”

Steve eyes the quarter critically. “Did you… really just magic a coin out of my ear?”

“When it was, in fact, the sponge in question,” Robin finishes.

Eddie sticks his tongue out at her. “Of course not, baby, that was slight of hand,” he tells Steve, repocketing the coin and glancing around to make sure the gas station is deserted before planting a little kiss on his cheek.

“Oh, okay.”

“I actually magicked it from your gas money jar into my pocket.”

Steve laughs, and that Eddie wants to bottle and hoard like one of those stupid rich old men with their dusty old French wines. “Good thing I’m not just about to get gas or anything, or I might need that back.”

“I’ll get you something from the convenience store?” Eddie offers, batting his eyelashes and tilting his head in a way that he knows makes his eyes look bigger. Knows because Steve has told him, and seems as susceptible to it as cats to catnip.

“Strawberry slurpee,” Steve says immediately. “But if they only have cherry, I want a blue one. Wait, Robs—that’s what the screaming was about?”

Eddie flails with both arms, waving at them both to get out of the car as all three of their doors pop open. “Alright, nothing to see here, some of us have snacks to buy and one of us has a car to gas up, let’s go!”

So they all pile out, and Steve points at Eddie over the car while unscrewing the gas cap. “You’re going to use that on the gremlins, right?

“Just who do you take me for?” Eddie scoffs, hooking an arm through Robin’s and dragging her towards the store. “Of course I am, Harrington.”

Robin snorts but keeps up with him, breaking into a frankly jarring skip that causes them to almost trip over the curb right in front of the doors. Once inside, they break into their customary shop-till-you-drop game of trying to grab everything they want, beat the other to the register, and get to the car before Steve finishes filling the tank. They both almost always lose, but it does help make stops like this more efficient.

(It has been Steve’s idea.)

“You know,” Robin starts conversationally while he’s filling two slurpee cups at once and she’s flipping rapidly through a nearby magazine rack, “I’ve never witnessed the dingus in an actual relationship before.”

Eddie flicks his eyes in her direction, then to the bored-looking cashier, but the statement was vague enough and Robin isn’t stupid. He returns his attention to the slurpee machine. “I find that hard to believe.”

“No, I’m serious. He’s dated a lot, and I mean a lot, but—ah ha!” Snatching the magazine she was looking for, she moves on to the soft pretzel heater and grabs the tongs to fish a couple off the slowly rotating rack. “But no one he’s ever really gotten serious about. He used to complain to me about his dates at length… Kinda relieved that’s over. He’s literally the happiest I’ve ever seen him these days.”

As she turns away to grab a couple Cokes, Eddie hides a giddy smile behind his hair—and then beats her to the register with a slurpee in each hand and a flimsy but full little shopping basket dangling from one arm.

Because Robin wouldn’t lie, not about Steve. She’d already threatened him over Steve’s welfare back in the hospital (and people thought he was scary, Jesus); it’s obvious that she wouldn’t encourage him if she didn’t think it was in Steve’s best interest. And, against all laws of probability and magic, Eddie seems to make him happy.

The happiest his platonic soulmate has ever seen him, even.

“I win,” Steve crows when Eddie is still a few feet from the car. He lifts the nozzle, blows on it like it’s a smoking gun, and pumps his fist in victory. “In your face, Munson!”

Eddie doesn’t care though. His prize is in Steve’s beaming smile, in the energy that rolls off him that crackles across Eddie’s senses like a kind of magic all his own. “Yeah yeah, big boy, you’re a champ.” He holds up the slurpees and the flimsy plastic bag crammed with a tube of Pringles, a bag of pretzel sticks, Doritos, and various snack cakes. “Are we ready to hit the road or what?”

Robin jogs up behind him, bagless because she keeps insisting that they’re bad for the environment but barely hanging onto her sodas, pretzels, magazines, and a few odd candy bars. “Aw man, did we lose to the dingus again?”

“Yes,” Eddie tells her faux mournfully as he crowds past Steve to the front passenger door, bumping against him way more than necessary but meeting no complaints. “Almost makes me reconsider giving you the change, Steve-o.”

He does anyway, though. Drops a nice, shiny quarter into the gas money jar after getting himself situated, slurpees nestled in their cup holders and a Twinkie already unwrapped to shove suggestively in his boyfriend’s mouth as soon as the wonder twins are both in the car. Robin heckles from the back seat; Steve takes it with the ease of practice and a smirk as he chews and swallows and licks escaping cream filling from the corners of his mouth.

It’s a beautiful summer’s day and Eddie feels like the luckiest guy in the entire world.

Tag list (comment to be added/removed): @hotluncheddie @8em-em-em8 @anaibis @connected-dots @lawrencebshoggoth @zombiethingy

#love spell no go au #steddie #wg steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #robin buckley #scoops words #chubby steve harrington

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 10 months

Note

AITA for going to an out of state event rather than helping my older brother with moving my injured mom to a new apartment?

(rather than listing specifics just know everyone involved is an adult with their own living spaces and lives) A few weeks ago my mom injured her knee at work and has to wear a knee brace. As soon as I heard I made the 2 hour drive to go help her at the hospital and drive her back to her apartment. Her current apartment is up 3 flights of stairs (no elevator). I couldn't stay longer than that as I had work, so my oldest brother drove 4 hours to stay with her for three days. I came back on the last day he was there to get her dog, and have been watching her dog since. It's apt to be a 4-6 month recovery period, and my mom wanted to live closer to me and my other older brother anyways, so she decided to find a new ground level apartment and is moving.

There was a large event over the weekend that I've been planning to go to since well before her injury. The Wednesday after the event was the move-in day, and I was back Sunday at 3am and was planning on helping her move Tuesday and Wednesday. She was aware of this and excited for me. So, I went to my event a few states away, had a great deal of fun. Over the weekend while I was at my event, my brother made the trip to help pack and make a couple trips back and forth between the new and old apartment (4 hours there and back) It was around 14 hours worth of driving for him. I was never asked to assist with this, I didn't actually even know he was making the trip down and assumed my mom was just going to have the movers and I help her on Wednesday.

When I got back and chatted a bit in the family group chat, I was surprised by how much work my brother did over the weekend. I called to check in on him and thank him for his help. While we were chatting, he mentioned it was better that I wasn't there, it was too crowded. I took this at face value. I asked him how it went and gave him the opportunity to vent. I started talking about my show, what a great deal of fun it was and how happy I was that I went- it was for something I'm really passionate about! Thinking back, it may have sounded like I was boasting, I wasn't meaning to.

He suddenly got irritated and said he was put off by me going, went on to say it bothered him that I was complaining about my mom's dog in the family chat so much- the dog is VERY annoying, whines and barks frequently, her presence has prevented me from letting my pigeon have quality time out of her cage because the dog whines when kenneled. It wasn't constant complaining, more humored things along the lines of, "just 7 more days of this awful beast," and send a picture of the dog doing nothing in particular, or "why is she like this?" and a video of her staring at me and making weird dog noises. My family is all aware of the fact that I don't like dogs, but I was willing to put up with my mom's dog of course. I didn't think I needed to be happy about it. This is mostly unrelated but he did bring it up as a point.

Anyways, my brother said I was doing the bare minimum and selfish. I stood my ground and said I did not regret going to the event, I was happy I did it and had planned to months in advance. I suppose I could've apologized for seeming like I was boasting, but frankly that wasn't my intent- I was just happy about an experience I had. He did try to change the subject, but I think I must have said something along the lines of, "I'm not going to apologize for doing something for myself." I should have brought up the fact that our mom did not once ask me to come help over the weekend, just during the week.

Instead, he got mad and abruptly said he'd talk to me later, I started to say, "oh, okay, I love you," and he hung up...which really upset me. I cried afterwards and my other brother had to console me because I took it very personally. We always say I love you and never fight, we bicker from time to time but not about, like, real stuff.

I know I shouldn't have talked so much about how good my weekend was when he spent his driving back and forth, on top of that when he got home he discovered something was wrong with his car (my mom already told him his car is ancient and she would help cosign to get a new one), so I understand why he was upset and I do understand that he was in the wrong for being a dick about not saying I love you back...however, I can't tell if I should have come help move things even though I wasn't asked to. Is that something I should have just offered to do even though I'm helping during the actual move? Was I the asshole for talking about my fun thing after he did something laborious?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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thebibutterflyao3 · 7 months

Text

Day 6 Prompt: Heat @rosekiller-microfic

March Daily Series - 995 words

<<<Previous Part OR Start Here

Barty shook his head clear and refocused on the mostly empty road ahead of him. Luckily, it wasn’t busy in the off-season. Not many were foolish enough to travel to the coast in the winter, especially in a car without heat.

The sun mocked him through a cloudless sky, bouncing absurdly cheerful light off of the hood and directly into his eyes. He fumbled for the sunglasses tucked into his visor and shoved them on his face. Relaxing a bit, he leaned back and grabbed his phone. Barty rolled the scratched-up silver case on its edge over and over on his thigh. When the screen woke up mid-spin, he glanced at it hopefully.

No notifications. Of course.

By the time he reached the signs for the Prince of Wales bridge, Barty was seriously considering a detour into the river. If he wasn’t already regretting his life choices, and there weren’t a massive green metal barrier, the decision would be so easy.

Best not to start trusting myself now.

Barty inhaled deeply as he stared at the cables rising to the outline of an enormous letter “h” that straddled M4’s six lanes. Bridges fucked with his head, especially long ones running over water like this. Movie scenes of bridges cracking open like a fresh, crisp baguette toyed with his mind.

Breathe. Just breathe.

The moment his front tires passed the shoreline to England’s soil, Barty deflated. He was one hour in and already drained physically, mentally, and emotionally. Any clarity this road trip brought him earlier was lost to him now. He just wanted to crash onto his crappy sofa and stay there. Not moving for a week sounded so bloody good, but he was expected at work tomorrow.

When the opening bars of Never Let You Go drifted through his speakers, Barty tensed again. The chorus of this one hit a little too close to home.

Suddenly, his screen lit up as his mobile buzzed against his denim-covered thigh. Evan’s face appeared on his screen and Barty jerked the wheel as he screeched to a halt on the shoulder and narrowly avoided scraping the barrier. He fumbled with his phone as his stomach lurched violently.

“Rosie?”

The other end was silent except for the steady tap tap tap of Evan’s rings against the phone he was holding. Barty knew that sound intimately, but not the tempo. Evan was agitated.

His heart beat doubled and his chest clenched in panic. This wasn’t good. He didn’t know how it could get worse, but it was about to and the dread was overwhelming.

Shite shite shite!

“Before you hang up…I’m sor-sorry I didn’t tell you about Regulus. When I realised that you were friends, I shou-should have.”

Barty’s ears thrummed with his own rapid heart beat as he strained to listen for a response. After another long silence, he released a ragged breath and added, “And I’m sorry for going after your sister yesterday. I was….that doesn’t matter. I’m sober now and I hate myself for acting like that.”

“That makes two of us.”

His heart plummeted to the floorboards. “Please don’t say that, Rosie. I swear—”

“Don’t call me that,” Evan said. His voice was flat and clipped.

“Oh, right.” A chill ran down Barty’s spine and he struggled to find the words he’d practised in case Evan actually answered one of his calls. “Evan, I—”

“Not that either.”

Barty closed his eyes and repressed the urge to beg for forgiveness. There was no hope of that in Evan’s tone. This was going to hurt, he could sense it. The hammer was already pulled back and the trigger was twitching.

“Okay. I understand.”

“Good, because we are nothing to each other,” Evan snapped cruelly. “I don’t want anything to do with you, Crouch, and if you come near my sister again—”

“I won’t!” Barty cried out, shaking with the effort to hold himself together. “Please, please don’t—”

The line went dead.

“No! No no no nonono!” He quickly tapped on Evan’s picture to call back. “Please pick up! Please, please, please.”

A robotic voice informed him that his call could not be completed as dialed. His hands trembled as he texted Evan, pleading with him. The text didn’t go through. Barty stared at his screen in disbelief.

“He-He’s…I can’t…oh fuck.”

His body crumpled against the steering wheel as a shudder rushed through him. He was numb from head to toe. The hole carved out of his chest deepened until it hit curled his vertebrae. No thoughts, no emotions.

Moving on instinct alone, Barty opened his car door, stumbled out of the road, and collapsed before he emptied his stomach. His limbs quivered beneath his weight until he flopped onto his back. He swiped at his mouth and groaned at the sharp burn that raced up his throat.

He rolled away from the open car door and forced himself to push upright. The endless expanse of the river where it joined the sea spread out before him. Barty stared unblinkingly at the waves as they lapped the shore, rhythmic and repetitive.

This is it. Rock-fucking-bottom.

A hollow laugh burst from his chest, but quickly died out. It hurt to laugh. Hell, it hurt to breathe!

He hauled himself to his feet, then stepped unsteadily toward the edge where the tall barrier ended. With slow, measured steps, he climbed the short rail and headed down the slope toward the shore. Barty studied the muddy, frigid water as his boots sank with every step into the soft soil. The height of the bridge created a terrifying vantage of the water, but from here it looked tame.

Water was cleansing, that was a common belief. A refreshing drink for a parched throat, moisture for dry skin, and the perfect conduit for soap. Standing here before a river wide enough to swallow an entire city whole was humbling.

I would only make short-lived splash.

With a short burst of adrenaline, Barty ran forward, threw his arm back, and flung his mobile into the river. It disappeared beneath the waves without a sound. No splash, no interruption.

Inconsequential.

Next Part>>>

#evan x barty #barty x evan #rosekiller #rosekiller microfic #barty crouch junior #barty crouch jr #barty jr #evan rosier #slytherin skittles #marauders era

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merlot-and-chardonnay · 9 months

Text

A Lark Among the Wolves and Dragons: Chapter 7

Chapter 6

-----------Kaer Morhen--------------

"Ready?" you ask Ciri, wooden sword in hand. "Whenever you are," Ciri answers, light on her feet, eager to get this sparing session underway.

In the last several weeks, since that day when you discovered Geralt's secret kink, you had asked him to teach you how to use a sword. You've always kept a knife or dagger on your person before as a precaution as being a woman traveling mostly by yourself wasn't all that safe in this world, but now you wanted to really learn the art of sword fighting so to better defend yourself should the day come.

Geralt had initially found this odd, given you were more of a pacifist, but he nodded and agreed to teach you alongside Ciri, who was already advancing well into her training.

You currently took a stance, ready to spar with the young girl. You have yet to beat Ciri in a sparring match, but this time you had feeling today was the day. You check to make sure the wrappings around your chest were still secure (you're still breastfeeding and it's not the most comfortable feeling to have them move about all over the place when you're spinning and sword swinging).

Eskel, Coen, and Lambert stood at the sidelines as spectators along with Vesemir, who was holding Aemma in his arms and keeping her company (something the old man would've enjoyed a little more if your daughter wasn't so keen on pulling his mustache every five seconds or so).

Geralt stood by waiting to give the signal as you and Ciri make stances and touch swords. On the witcher's signal, the two of you clash wooden swords.

"Five crowns on Ciri," Lambert whispers to Coen. "I'll take that bet," Coen whispers back. "I double that bet on (y/n)," Eskel joins in on the conversation. "Pfft, (y/n) has yet to beat the Ciri in a fight," Lambert fights, "the girl can fight circles around her." "Then you have nothing to worry about," Eskel shrugs.

You continue clashing swords with Ciri, mimicking the turns and pirouettes Geralt has been showing you. Ciri had age and speed working in her favor (along with the fact she's never had a baby), and of course she's been training longer than you were. But, you noticed the young girl has been getting a little cocky today, almost certain victory was hers like it has been dozens of other sparring matches with you.

Maybe you could use that to your advantage.

You back away, feigning like you were about to yield and accept defeat from the girl once more. Ciri lunged towards you, ready to finish the match. You notice the way her feet were positioned; a sloppy mistake made as a result of her cockiness. You quickly spin around and trip Ciri, causing her to fall over.

She quickly grabs her sword and still parries your sword from the ground. You keep swinging, even though Ciri said she yielded, but you didn't listen as you start to experience flashbacks from your previous life in Westeros, back to the day of the tourney.

"(y/n), she yields," Geralt calls out. The other witchers exchange looks, wondering what was going on with you.

"(y/n)! That's enough!" Geralt exclaims, but still you don't listen.

Him and Eskel run to pull you away from Ciri.

You were panting and sweating, barely aware of your surroundings as Geralt tried to shake you back to reality, calling your name.

You were fully brought back the moment you heard your daughter crying in distress.

"Huh? What?" you shake your head.

"The fuck is wrong with you, woman?!" you hear Lambert's voice, "you almost killed the girl!"

"What?" you look to see Ciri was still laying on the ground, Coen helping her back to her feet. You also look to see Aemma was crying, Vesemir doing his best to comfort her, carrying her away from the scene.

Your eyes widen in horror, realizing what you have done. You drop the sword in your hand, feeling sick to your stomach. You turn and run back to the keep.

---------Flashback: King's Landing---------------

"I don't believe I've yet expressed my congratulations for being named heir, princess," you say as you tune your lute.

It had been nearly a month and a half since Daemon had left for Dragonstone, since you broke off your relationship with the prince. Since then, you've kept yourself occupied entertaining Rhaenyra and composing more songs to get over your heartbreak. It hadn't been easy, but you knew it had to be done for the sake of your mental well-being.

From what you heard, though, Daemon had taken someone else with him in your place; probably Mysaria, you figured. It was no surprise as he had still been seeing her even though you made him promise not to when you and him were still together. You never said anything; he was a man after all and one who was used to doing what he wanted and no one else would challenge him. This was already apparent by the fact that Daemon's been occupying Dragonstone this whole time, even though Viserys had ordered him to Runestone to be with his wife, and the king had yet to do or even say anything about it.

"It must be a high honor to receive such a title," you continue speaking to the princess. "I suppose it is," Rhaenyra admits, her mind seeming to be in another place. "For what it's worth, princess, I think you'll make a good Queen," you say, meaning it. Rhaenyra is the Realm's Delight after, all, and even though she is a woman, you believe people would come to accept her as their leader.

"I sense this is not on your mind right now, your Grace," you say, bringing the girl's attention back to reality. "Oh, forgive me," the princess speaks, "I uh, I was thinking about my mother. I miss her dearly." "I understand," you nod, "as someone who's lost a mother before, it took months, years I dare say to get over her loss." "How did you do it?" Rhaenyra asks. "I honestly wasn't able to come to terms with losing her until years later," you admit, "my, uh, father had his own way of grieving her loss, one that placed me in a position where I had to put aside my own grief and take up many of his responsibilities. And when I was able to properly mourn, I just had to stare into the void and scream my heart out...and compose a number of songs to further process my loss. It gets easier princess, with time...never easy, but eventually, you'll be able to come to terms with it as well."

"Why didn't you leave with my uncle?" Rhaenyra asked you, changing the subject. "...My place is here with you, princess," you decide to tell her, "you're the reason I am here in the first place, it wouldn't have been right to leave my station, especially given your recent, uh, loss."

Rhaenyra wasn't completely convinced by that answer, but accepted it nonetheless.

"I'm not so sure I want to be queen," the princess admits, "up until this moment, I never even considered that would be a possibility for me. Up until now, all I wanted was to just ride on Syrax, travel to far off lands, and eat cake."

You chuckle a little at that, seeing how this statement made you realize how young she still was.

"Yes, I too would like to travel to parts unknown and eat cake," you joke, "oh wait, I've already done that."

Rhaenyra laughed at that, "I should like to travel to this Continent from your songs," she says, "see the things you've seen, meet the people you have. I should like to meet this white hair witcher you've spoke so highly of, or this warrior Queen, the Lioness of Cintra. I'd like to see these elves, dwarves, and dryads from your ballads, learn to swing a sword, or learn how to use magic and become a sorceress like the one from your songs."

"Unfortunately, princess, one must be born with the natural ability to use magic," you tell her, "however, anyone can learn to use a sword."

"Can you use a sword?" Rhaenyra asks. "Not a sword," you admit, "but I have some skill in using a knife or dagger. I consider myself a pacifist, princess, but that doesn't mean I don't want to defend myself. This world can be a scary place for a lone woman, anything can happen to people like us." "Well, then I will consider myself most fortunate to have a dragon by side," Rhaenyra says.

In the midst of your conversation, Ser Harrold Westerling approaches you and the princess, "my princess," he greets, "the king has requested your presence." Rhaenyra gave you a strange look before answering the knight, "did he say why?" "It is best that you see for yourself, princess," Harrold answers crypitcally.

Rhaenyra nods and allows the man to escort her to the small council chambers. Rhaenyra walks inside, but Harrold stops you, "I'm afraid this meeting is not for troubadours." You nod and turn, pretending to walk away but actually went through a secret entrance to listen in on the meeting; it was a special passage into the small council room that you remembered Daemon showing you once.

You look through the slats of a screen you were hiding behind. You see the small council with Grand Maester Mellos, Lord Lyonel Strong, Otto Hightower, and of course the king with Rhaenyra by his side.

At the other side of the table was a man dressed in black and gold with the sun embroidered on his robes. Two soldiers in armor with similar patterns stood by, along with a woman dressed in white and silver.

You recognized the sun insignia to belong to that of Nilfgaard. Your eyes widen even more the moment you recognized the woman to be the mage Fringilla Vigo.

What, you wondered, were Nilfgaardian ambassadors doing all the way in Westeros?

"It is an high honor to be welcomed into your home, your Grace," the Nilfgaardian ambassador begins his speech, "it was a very long journey, and truly you have lived up to your reputation as a kind and generous king. To show our gratitude, please accept this humble gift." The ambassador has a servant approach the princess with a necklace of gold, "a personal gift from His Imperial Majesty, Emhyr Var Emreis."

Rhaenyra looks to her father who nods in approval and the princess accepts the gift, "it is truly exquisite," she says, removing the Valyrian steel necklace her uncle gave her so as to wear this one. It was not quite the same, but she turned to the ambassador and thank him for the gift.

"It is truly a wonderful gift," Viserys speaks, "but I assume you did not come all this way from the Continent to gift us with gold necklaces and flattering words."

"You are right to assume such," Fringilla speaks, "we have also come with an offer. From the emperor himself."

"Forgive me, but who are you exactly?" Otto asks the woman. "Fringilla Vigo," the mage answers, "I serve His Imperial Majesty as both his court mage and his confidante. You can rest assure my words are his."

"You are a sorceress," Rhaenyra says impressed, "I've heard much of your sort. Can you give us a demonstration?"

Lyonel, Mellos, and Otto exchange looks, a little skeptical. "I'll be glad to, princess," Fringilla says, standing and approaching the young woman. The mage mutters an incantation in Elder speech and in her hands a glass figurine of a dragon appears in her hands, "for you. Consider it another gift."

"How are we to know this is magic you possess?" Otto scoffs, "for all we know this...charlatan could have kept this little figurine in her sleeves this whole time."

Fringilla only made a threatening smile and turned to the Hand, "if you doubt the authenticity of my talents, my lord, perhaps you would like further proof if I turn you into a toad."

Otto glares back at the mage, ready to call her bluff, but on the chance that she was serious about this little threat, he relents, "that...won't be necessary."

"I'm glad you agree," Fringilla smiles again in victory.

"I believe you wished to give us an offer on behalf of your emperor," Viserys speaks, bringing the conversation back.

"Of course," Fringilla speaks, "the Emperor wishes to propose a marriage. Himself to your daughter, the princess Rhaenyra."

Rhaenyra's eyes widen a bit, your eyes widening also from where you were hiding. "I think it a fair arrangement," the mage speaks, "in the last years since I've been brought to serve His Imperial Majesty, Nilfgaard has prospered. We have access to new resources in food, metal, wood, and many other things that could benefit this realm. Should you accept, the princess will be crowned Empress of Nilfgaard and her children will bear claim to Nilfgaard's throne."

"An Empress of a foreign land along with the title Heir Iron Throne...a very generous prospect indeed," Maester Mellos speaks.

"And what resources, pray tell, would the Emperor of Nilfgaard wish to trade with us in return?" Otto asks.

Before either the sorceress or the ambassador could answer, you feel your stomach turn and retch in response, which caught the attention of the small council.

You stay still, in hopes no one would come investigate.

Said hopes were dashed when Fringilla muttered another incantation that dissolved the screen.

You stare at the audience with an awkward smile on your face, "Must've been something I ate," you joke.

Otto gets up and yanks you from your spot by the hair, dragging you to the table.

"Hey! Let go! Let go!" you demand.

"Looks like we have a rat in the walls," Otto sneers, "Have you come to spy on the king?" "Get your fucking hands off me!!!" you bite Otto's hand, causing him to release you.

"(y/n)?" Rhaenyra rushes over to your side, "what are you doing here?" "Forgive me, princess, I did not mean to snoop," you tell her, wiping your mouth, "I saw the emblems of your guests and recognized them to be Nilfgaardian."

Fringilla stood and stared at you, almost like she had seen you before.

"I know you," she speaks to you, "the bardess from the Continent. The White Wolf's Lark." "I've heard of you too," the Nilfgaardian ambassador quips in, "(y/n). My wife is a big fan of your work. The Song of the White Wolf is her particular favorite."

You notice the way Viserys and the small council looked at you.

"Yes, that, uh, that's me," you shyly admit. "No relation to the Bard who's written ballads of the same famous White Wolf, is there?" "Uh, he's....he's my brother," you tell the mage, "singing and a penchant for writing seems to run in the family."

"You must be Fringilla Vigo," you speak to the mage, "I've heard of you. I'm friends with your colleague, Yennefer of Vengerberg."

Fringilla had a certain look on her face at the mention of that name, "if you do happen to come across her again, tell her I send my regards...and to thank her."

"I'll be sure to do that," you say.

"If I may interrupt," Otto says, "We had more pressing matters to discuss."

"Ah yes, a marriage proposal between the princess of Dragonstone and the emperor of Nilfgaard," you say, "it is a rather unique proposal," you turn to Fringilla, "I'm a little surprised Emhyr Var Emreis didn't look some place closer to home; any of the Northern realms on the Continent would've sufficed. Temeria, Kaedwen, Redania...Cintra perhaps. Or maybe further down south? Last I heard, the Duke of Toussaint had two eligible daughters that are close to marrying age."

You lean closer to Fringilla and speak in the elvish language, "of course none of those places boast a possession of dragons. Dragons that could be used in Nilfgaard's favor in times of war."

Fringilla stares at you, standing up to address you in the same language, "a bold accusation for one who doesn't even know of the treasure she currently carries."

You raised an eyebrow, confused by that statement.

"Can we please talk in a language we can all understand?" Otto exasperates.

"This offer to unite the two realms is quite generous, that much I'll admit," Viserys speaks, looking to his daughter who had a certain look on her face, "however, it is one we will have to talk over. We will take this proposal into consideration."

Nodding, Fringilla and the ambassador up and exit the small council chambers.

You attempt to sneak away, hoping to avoid some kind of reprimand from Otto or the king. "Not you," Viserys speaks, getting your attention, "you stay."

You sigh and stand by the table, "father, surely you don't mean-" "I would," Viserys admits to his daughter, "as this is highly irregular. However, I believe as a Continental her input would be most useful."

You give the king a confused look, "what can you tell me about this emperor? This Emhyr Var Emreis?"

You were still confused, but grateful you weren't going to face some kind of discipline, "Regretfully, your Grace, I know very little about this man," you tell him, "In fact, very few on the Continent, outside his inner circle, know anything about him. His predecessor, the late king, had a certain reputation for drinking and whoring while his subjects starved and threw riots on the streets. The king was disposed and a usurper took his place. Emhyr apparently had fled as a child and then returned to take back his throne and turn Nilfgaard into an empire."

"So he means to start a conquest it seems," Lyonel speaks, "and what better way to do so then with an army of dragons by his side."

"Do you think this to be the case, (y/n)?" Rhaenyra asks you. "...I would not be so quick to discard that motive as a possibility, princess," you honestly tell her, "and if Nilfgaard means to start a war with the northern realms, I predict those kingdoms will send envoys with similar proposals so as to secure an alliance with House Targaryen."

"Excuse me, father," Rhaenyra takes you by the arm and escorts you out of the chambers, "if what you say is true, I should like to learn more about these kingdoms," she tells you, "will you indulge me?" "I'll be happy to, princess."

-----------end of flashback: Kaer Morhen----------------

"Do you want to talk about it?" you hear Geralt ask as he leans by the door way.

You were in the bathtub, back facing the witcher, relishing in the hot, steaming water.

You weren't sure what to say as you were still reeling from the events earlier today when you almost pummeled Ciri to the ground.

You weren't sure what came over yourself. You've never lost control like that before, but the moment you had Ciri down, all you thought about when you would have to use those sword skills. You had started to imagine yourself fighting off Aemma's father, what it would be like if he came to Kaer Morhen on his dragon only to drag both you and your daughter back to the one place you did not want to go back anytime soon.

"Is...how's Ciri doing?" you decide to ask, pulling your knees close to your chest. "A few bruises here and there, but she'll live," Geralt assures, "it's nothing she hasn't had before."

"Oh gods, what have I done?" you groan, resting your head against your knees, tears welling up from the guilt of almost causing the poor girl grave harm, "Geralt, I am so sorry. I don't know what came over me. I wouldn't blame Ciri if she didn't forgive me for this."

"Ciri was little miffed at first," Geralt says, leaning behind the tub and grabbing a wet rag to wash your back, "but she's come to understand. She's already forgiven you."

"I don't deserve it," you sniffle, "I almost killed her."

"No you didn't," Geralt assures, "not with a wooden sword that is."

"But I could've if we were using different weapons." "Hey," Geralt scolds, "quite beating yourself up over this. It happened, no one got hurt, it's all in the past, now we need to move on."

You sigh as Geralt rinses out the rag. You feel the witcher place a kiss on your bare shoulder, "Geralt," you say, "if something happened to me or Aemma...if someone tried to take us away from Kaer Morhen, you would stop them, right?"

"Like Aemma's father you mean?" Geralt says to which you lightly nod, "if he tries to take you away to place you don't want to go, I'll do everything in my power to stop him."

You turn around in the tub, taking Geralt's hand in yours, "thank you."

Chapter 8

Masterlist

#geralt of rivia #geralt #eskel #lambert #coen #vesemir #ciri #rhaenyra targaryen #viserys targaryen #fringilla vigo #The Lady of Larks

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charlewiss-writes · 2 years

Text

the beach is for lovers / daniel ricciardo

masterlist

day 6: tourist (part of one-word november prompts!)

pairing: daniel ricciardo x reader

word count: 0.8k

summary: after the disastrous year you two had (you, due to your break up and him, with how hard the season has been), nothing better than going back to home sweet home.

"why don't you go to australia with me?"

daniel fucking ricciardo was many incredible things. he was known by his amazing race craft on the track, that allowed him to be on the highest step of the podium eight times. but apart from being a talented driver, he was also fucking unpredictable. it was a phenomenal trait to have on-track, but off-track, you had learned, after a few months working with him at mclaren as his pr manager, it led to being surprised by whatever his mind came with that day.

"wait, what?"

it would have been a normal weekend, if it wasn't the last race of the season: abu dhabi. the year had been unbelievable tough for both you and daniel, and you two couldn't wait for the winter break that was approaching around the corner. nonetheless, it was for very different motives. he was sick of mclaren, the team that had stabbed behind his back, just like your boyfriend of two years had.

he repeated, like you truly hadn't listened clearly before. "come with me to australia. i heard your talk with lando saying that you didn't want to go back to your the apartment you shared with that asshole. so don't" he shrugged, like it was the most normal thing to propose. "dan, you haven't seen them since winter break. you deserve some quality time alone with all of your family together."

the whole conversation had been going on since he finished with the press conference he had been assigned to attend. so now, after trying to keep up with his fast walking back to his driver's room, you were left out of breath when you arrived at your destination. he turned to look at you, just as you had closed the door behind you. "what if I want you there?" he said, tilting his head.

—

so now you were here, at the airport, after a 14 hour trip, only because daniel fucking ricciardo asked nicely. another one of his traits, you learned late enough, was being annoying until he had what he desired: a quality that was incredibly helpful on the track, but proved to be used against you, as you now were on the home country of the australian gp that was beaming beside you.

"you'll meet michelle first. she'll take us to her house where you'll get to know the little demons i always tell you about" he continued talking about his whole family while you two made your way towards the entrance of the airport. you were far too quiet to answer to him, which he found weird instantly. "you're awfully quiet. what's up, sunshine?" he dodged your shoulder, trying to make you talk to him.

"you're sure this was a good decision?"

he laughed like you had told him the funniest joke to ever exist. "of course, sunshine. they'll love you. and you'll get to know all my friends and all the places i grew up in" dan was beyond excited about all the plans he had already made for the two of you.

—

and he executed all the plans he made with precision like clockwork. you had arrived on monday evening, and by saturday, just as he promised, you had already seen almost everything dan wanted to show you: the park where he used to go when he was a kid, the school he attended growing up, the bar where he met on fridays with his friends. there was only one place left to show you: the beach.

it was close to his house, so after a little walk you finally arrived. the sun was already setting when dan and you laid the picnic mat that you had brought, along with the cans of beer that daniel had insisted on bringing, claiming that he hadn't see you drinking before, which was a blatant lie.

"my dad always said that I shouldn't wait until it was too late to look back over history, otherwise it would be filled with nothing but regret. i think I wasn't true to his word this year". you knew the season had been tough on him, but you two didn't talk about it on the weekends, too busy with all the work being part of mclaren's media team included. seeing that he hadn't met your attentive look yet, you keep quiet, understanding that he wanted to go on with whatever he had wanted to say. "I don't know what the future holds, y/n, but I would hope it included you in it".

"I know it's too soon. I understand. I just appreciate you coming all the way here, supporting me after this year." dan looked at you now, grabbing your hand with his free one. "I would like to do the same for you" he smiled, and ended his speech with the biggest smile you had seen in him all year. "I would like that very much, i'll try to be half as annoying as you are" you told him, jokingly. he launched himself at you, tickling you until you couldn't even breathe, "please stop, i'm only joking" you almost screamed, not being able to control the laugh that erupted from your body.

thank god for australia, you thought. and thank god for daniel fucking ricciardo.

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x you #charlewiss writing challenge #one word november prompts #user charlewiss #f1 x y/n #f1 x yn #daniel ricciardo imagine #daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo x you #daniel ricciardo fluff #daniel ricciardo x y/n #daniel ricciardo x yn #Spotify

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cottoncandy-cult · 1 year

Text

Calmer Days

Zack Foster x LilSis! Reader

I'm finally getting around to transferring a lot of my stuff from Wattpad to here, so here is the first of many to come. Might event transfer my Zack Foster Scenarios book. But that depends, I might save that book and one of my others for my Ao3 incase they're too long to post without multiple parts of just one scenario. Oh how I wish the organization on here was better, and that we didn't have such a small word count limit.

Anyways TW: Lot's of swearing and references to child abuse (If you know anything about Angels of Death or Zack you know his story isn't a happy one.)

Zack was stretched out on the couch in his room on floor B-6, his younger sister was walking around trying to clean up a little. Unlike her big brother she wasn't a blood thirsty killer, just a quiet girl who loved her brother dearly. She had bandages around her right arm and around her waist, she was maybe 5 when Zack had been set on fire, in her attempt to help put him out she had been burned as well. "Why do you even bother? This place is a shit hole anyways, not like we'll be having guests any time soon " (Y/n) only smiled, putting an empty box in a trash bag. She was on decent terms with Danny, so usually when he went out, she'd ask him to pick up one or two things. "Because I'm tired of not being able to walk without stepping on something, besides... I can't help it..." The young girl looked down, Zack only sighed as he got up and approached her. (Y/n) had been abused much like Zack, despite being so young their mother treated her as a maid. She took care of most the chores, and if things weren't up to their mother's standards, she'd be beaten with a leather belt. Zack tried to stand up for her, but then they started using her to punish him.

Zack may not have remembered much about the night he was set ablaze, but she did, and her heart ached. Their whore mother brought one of her John's home, the bastard had slapped (Y/n) because the beer she brought him wasn't cold enough. Zack had immediately stepped up; the fight was verbal at first. But then he drug Zack to the garage, having locked the door that led into the house. But when (Y/n) heard his screams she ran around through the door on the side of the garage, she was horrified at what she saw. She wasn't sure how she caught fire, thinking back she figured when she tripped running into the garage that her arm had touched a puddle of gas. So, when she got close to put him out, she figured that's when it caught fire. Their mother had been the one to put them out, but she simply wrapped them up in bandages and dumped them off at the shitty house that night.

The two were all they really had, so he had no second thoughts of pulling the girl into his chest. He always felt guilty for when they were kids, how often she was hurt just because he messed up. "I promise (Y/n), no one will hurt you ever again. If they try, I'll fucking kill them." His voice was soft but gruff, the girl dropping the garbage bag in favor of hugging him back. Her body relaxed into it, the only time she felt safe was when she was close to her brother. She blamed him for nothing, he did his best and he couldn't help the positions they had been put in. "Thank you, bubba..." Her voice was soft, Zack petting her for a moment before going back to the couch.

(Y/n) smiled, picking up the bag and continuing to clean. She had the best big brother in the world, no one could tell her otherwise. "Hey Zack?..." The girl turned to her brother who flipped through the pages of a magazine, he couldn't read but he liked the pages. "What?" He didn't glance up, but she knew he was listening. "You'll never leave me... Right?" That got his attention, he looked to her with a raised eyebrow. "The fuck you talking about? Of course, I wouldn't leave you stupid." That made the girl giggle and nod, going back to cleaning. Zack smiled softly as he watched, then went back to his magazine. She was his sanity.

#angels of death #isaac foster x reader #fem reader #little sister reader #fluff #Zack Foster #Isaac foster #my old wattpad writing lol #candy cult vault

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wilchur · 1 year

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I really don't think I'll ever get to actually writing it this decade because I have just That Many other wips and this story is Long, but my god I keep rolling that RDR2 Modern AU of mine in my head like a pretty pebble and I have Many Thoughts. Looong ramble under the cut.

The general gist of it that it's supposed to be a "happy ending" to a true crime story, but it isn't. Not for a long while, at least. Like imagine watching a 45 minute documentary on a missing person's case, the credits roll and you're like "Wow so happy that they turned up in the end" but on the other side of the country that person has been having the worst fucking time for the past year and would've probably been better off missing.

Let me explain.

Up until May 1999 the story plays out like your run of the mill Modern AU that is kept as close to canon as I can make it. Of course some things are different in the way that comes from throwing everything a 100 years into the future like how Eliza and Isaac died in a car accident, not a home robbery. People have jobs that are different, some backstories needed to be adjusted. Arthur's last name is Matthews and not Morgan, having been adopted by Hosea and Bessie when he was around 8 or so. Him and Mary have actually been married, but it still didn't work out. Small divergences, seemingly inconsequential.

Then on May 18th Arthur Matthews goes missing. Leaves no clues as to what might've caused him to leave and where, had showed no signs anything could be wrong before he disappeared. A proper mystery. Of course it's a big thing for a while, Hosea being a pretty well known crook defence lawyer makes it interesting for the news, but after 6 months of nothing even the nastiest vultures get bored and everyone pretty much assumes Arthur to have died. Especially since he's well known to be a recovering alcoholic with multiple relapses under his belt. Probably fell off the wagon again, tripped into a ditch, hit his head. Dead.

That's when Arthur Morgan shows up.

It's up to the reader to decide if this is some universe warping time travel shenanigans or if he's the same person that went missing, just having an episode of some sorts. To everyone in the story Arthur "I'm telling you, I jumped off a sinking boat in 1899 and then showed up here" Morgan comes off as Mentally Unwell, so it doesn't really matter since it is not told from his perspective anyway and there's no way of really knowing.

(It's John's POV by the way. Forgot to mention that, whoopsie.)

And the entire story is basically a whumpy hate letter to all time travel AUs where Arthur gets yeeted into our times and pretty much shrugs it off with minor discomfort (/lh I don't actually hate those, they're silly fun, but they're not realistic?? And I am a realism nerd). Here, he gets majorly fucked up by it. Because how could he not be? First off, Hosea, who he just watched die maybe days prior, is alive and well. So is Sean and so is Lenny. He may be happy, but all that only makes everything feel even less real, pushes him further into believing that the reality he's in is some sort of a mirage or a dream. People talk about all these things that have not happened to him, there are pictures of a stranger with his face in places he's never been to. It's distressing and Arthur might be a guy that handles pressure well, but I doubt there's a single person on earth that wouldn't break under the weight of that. He's no different.

He keeps getting really distressed whenever that kind of stuff gets brought up too often. Starts having regular panic attacks, gets put on medication, sent to therapy. The "gang" are there to help him through it, but the situation takes a lot out John in particular once he realises that whatever has happened to Arthur seems unlikely to be reversed. Just as much as the person in every single family picture is a stranger to Arthur, this Arthur is a stranger to John. It's like he really died in a way. So the plot is just as much Arthur learning to cope and maybe eventually accepting that all of this is real and he's just "crazy", as John watching him go through it while simultaneously grieving the person he no longer is.

Basically an essay pondering the question "What makes us who we are, our memories or personality?" disguised as a fanfic because I like getting philosophical sometimes lol And I genuinely love it. This AU is my baby and really want to work on it, but it would have to straight up be a novel-length story. I don't have that in me 😭😭

#couldn't make it fit anywhere but this is like.. preslash at best sowwy #realised i kind of might've made it sound like an established morston my apologies #rdr2 #rdr2 modern au #arthur morgan #john marston #rambles #oh the joys of fic writing

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karatekels · 1 year

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I am so happy I found your blog! Your writing is amazing! Could you write a story about CK Terry meeting reader but she's in LA only for the summer vacation so he only has a couple of weeks to convince her to stay with him?

I’m glad you found your way here too! This one really took my imagination for a ride, so thank you for the prompt. I hope you enjoy, and sorry for the wait! (I'm imagining this will be in 5 or 6 parts, and I'll update with links at the bottom as I go!)

---

(Note: Reader is in L.A. for 2 weeks, and meets Terry on Day 4, so the fic will take place across Days 4-14 of her trip!)

---

Fresh Start

---

Day 4

You’ve come to the conclusion that you are, in fact, a very boring person.

It’s only your third full day of a two week trip to L.A. and you are already out of ideas of how to spend your time. You’d come here for a vacation, for time away from everything. You were between jobs, you had ended a long-term relationship somewhat amicably, and you needed time away from your well-meaning but extremely overbearing mother who had been more hurt by your recent break-up than both you and your ex combined. No, you supposed you likely wouldn’t marry before 30. Why exactly was this her problem?

The idea was to come here, relax in the sun, see the ocean and, most importantly, not think about the mess you had left at home. However, after taking the first day to get settled and relax after your flight, and then two days of wandering around boardwalks, you had spent the morning doing nothing but dwell on your problems. What was wrong with you? What twentysomething got bored while on vacation in LA?

You suppose it’s just because you were here alone. You didn’t have any friends here, and you weren’t exactly the person who went out clubbing, especially with people you’d just met. Of course your thoughts are driving you crazy.

Your eyes flit over to the stack of books that you had brought with you; you could never go anywhere without something to read. Perhaps reading, getting lost in another world, would help your mind escape your problems the way your trip had allowed you to physically escape the tensions of being at home. This vacation was the closest thing you were going to get to a fresh start, and you were going to do whatever made you happy, even if that meant doing something you would likely do at home. Still, you suppose you should at least go find somewhere scenic to read. Throwing a few of your books into your favourite tote bag along with a blanket, sunscreen, and a change of clothes in case the day turned cold, you change into your bikini and a floral sarong and hop into your rental car, making your way to the beach.

---

You’d been at it for a couple of hours, walking from one end of the beach to the other, but couldn’t find a comfortable spot to read for more than twenty minutes. You couldn’t begrudge the people laughing, splashing around, having fun, but you did wish there was a spot where one could enjoy the view in relative quiet.

You approach a treeline at the far end of the beach where fewer people are gathered, peeking through the foliage to see an oasis of private sand perhaps a hundred feet away. Perfect. Stepping through the sun-dappled grass and trees, you approach your destination with a dreamy smile. You could already see yourself coming here again and again during the rest of your stay…

“Freeze.”

Disobeying the order, you whirl around in surprise. A large man, broad-shouldered and mean-looking, stood ten feet away from you with a severe expression, judging by what you could see of his face around his tinted sunglasses. You don’t miss the holster at his hip.

“This is private property, Miss.”

You exhale in relief before the anger sets in. The man’s intensity was completely mismatched for the situation; he had you thinking you were walking into a minefield, or a wildcat’s cave or something.

“Oh, jeez, I thought there was an actual problem for a moment,” you reply sarcastically, already moving to go back the way you came. You didn’t need the headache this conversation was likely to bring forth.

“I’m going to need to check that bag.”

“You can’t be serious!” you say incredulously, laughingly. The man starts to close the distance between you, and you push your sunglasses to the top of your head, leveling him with a glare. “I haven’t done anything but wander into the wrong place! There wasn’t even a fence or a sign or anything!” you argue, backing away from him, but he’s much faster, snatching one strap of the bag from off your shoulder. Your grip tightens on the other strap, refusing to let go.

“Let go!”

“You can’t leave here until I check your bag,” he insists, grabbing your upper arm.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you snarl, trying to wrench your arm and your bag out of his grip.

“Is there a problem here?”

You both freeze, heads turning to the source of the voice intruding on your struggle. The speaker is a tall, older man, though he looked incredibly strong for his age. His hair was long and slightly curly, and a gorgeous shade of silver that shone in the sun. His blue eyes are calculating behind his tinted sunglasses as he takes in the situation. You are briefly taken aback by how breathtaking the man is; this place must be exclusive if it had security guards and guests who were clearly insanely wealthy, if his clothing was anything to go by. You suddenly feel very underdressed, and like you’re showing far too much skin.

“No, Sir,” you reply, trying to yank your bag out of the security guard’s grip, but he holds fast. “Will you let go already?!”

“I caught her trespassing, Mr. Silver,” tattles the security guard. What kind of adult did this sort of thing? “I have to check her bag, per your policy.”

“Don’t you think if I had anything dangerous in it that I would’ve used it to get rid of you by now? Just let me leave!” you snarl, both of you pulling the bag with all your might. There is a tearing sound that echoes through the trees, and your bag is torn right down the middle, your books and things falling to the ground. With a cry of frustration you drop to your knees, picking up your things. That asshole guard had gotten his way and seen the contents of your bag; time to grab your stuff and get the hell out of here.

A pair of polished shoes that undoubtedly cost a fortune appear a few feet in front of you, and a large hand decorated with rings reaches down and picks up one of the remaining books. Your neck snaps up to look at him – he had moved so quickly, and so silently – and he’s looking down at you, one hand extended towards you. Your anger evaporates under his gaze, and you reach up and accept his hand, feeling him pull you to your feet so easily. What did a man this strong need a security guard for, anyway? You withdraw your hand from his after a long moment, backing up a step or two, and he follows you with his eyes, his head cocked slightly to one side.

“You were right, Victor,” the man says, looking at the security guard. “We have a veritable assassin on our hands here.” He looks back to you and gives you a wink, and you bite your lip to stifle your laugh.

“But, Mr. Silver, I –”

“You were supposed to be monitoring this side until we had the new fence installed,” the man continues, dressing the man down in front of you and giving you a strange sense of vindictive pleasure. “It is hardly this young lady’s fault for wandering in here right under your nose.”

“I was just –”

“No excuses, please. Go find a bag for her things.”

The guard leaves quickly, giving you one last look of pure malice, and you let out a breath you hadn’t known you were holding.

“I truly apologize for my employee’s actions, Miss. Are you alright?” he asks, sounding like a character from one of your books. Was it his age or his money that had him sounding like the picture of chivalry?

“Oh yes, I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me or anything, just pissed me off!” you half-joke, and the man’s lips quirk in a small smile.

“I am sorry though, Mr. …Silver?” you apologize, hoping that you’ve at least remembered his name properly.

“Please, call me Terry,” he insists, holding out his hand again, this time to shake yours.

“I’m Y/N,” you take his hand, enjoying the feel of it once again. “And I am sorry – I really didn’t mean to trespass or anything. I was just looking for a quiet place to read…”

“Quite the collection you have here, Y/N: Dostoevsky, Dumas, Hesse… not exactly casual read-on-the-beach material, huh?” he jokes, smiling at you and handing your worn copy of Crime and Punishment back to you. Of course he would have read the classics; you imagine everyone as wealthy as he seemed to be would have a traditional education.

“Yeah, well I always find reading about someone else’s problems makes it easier to not think about my own,” you say, before pausing and letting out a self-deprecating laugh. “Wow, that sounded really pretentious of me. Listen, don’t worry about the bag, I can carry my stuff to my car; I’ve taken up enough of your time, and I’m sure you need to get back to everyone else.”

“Everyone else?” Terry asks, cocking his head at you again. You look up to the large estate he had come from.

“Yeah, isn’t this some swanky resort or something?”

Terry laughs, though not unkindly. “No, Y/N, this is my home!”

“It’s just you?!” you exclaim, before you realize how presumptuous and judgemental you sound. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean –”

“It’s alright, it’s alright!” he says placatingly. “I hope that Victor didn’t give us a bad reputation; you can relax here.” He gives you a charming grin. “In fact, I have no issue with you staying here and reading if you’d like. It’s the least I can do after everything!”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t want to intrude more than I already have!”

“Intrude? Please. As you have pointed out, there is more than enough space here for one person,” he says, smiling wryly at you, and you have the grace to blush. “I insist, at least until Victor returns with a bag for your things. Go and read, and if you need anything, I’ll be up on the balcony, alright?” He shoos you towards the beach with both hands, his rings glinting in the sunlight, and leaves without another word.

Slightly dumbfounded, you watch him walk away, confused by the rollercoaster of events that have taken place since you stepped onto his property. Turning, you head down to the spot of the beach you’d had your eye on, though it seems a lot less interesting to you now.

Spreading out your blanket, you lay down and try to read, but after half an hour or so you find yourself unable to focus on the page. It had felt so nice to just talk to someone, even as awkwardly as you had with Terry. Would it be horribly rude of you to go see if you could strike up a conversation? At the very least, you could say you were just checking up on the bag and that you needed to go – having an excuse to leave if you embarrassed yourself seemed like a good idea.

You decide to change before going up to see him, feeling self-conscious being around him in nothing more than a bikini. You throw on a light flannel shirt, rolling the sleeves up to your elbows and buttoning up enough that you didn’t feel too exposed, and swap your sarong for a pair of shorts.

Bundling up the rest of your things in your blanket, you wander up the path from the beach to the flight of stairs leading to the balcony. Quietly, you climb up the stairs, hoping that you aren’t interrupting the man doing anything important. As you approach the top of the stairs, the patio comes into view. You see Terry signing some papers before handing them to a woman who seemed to be a housekeeper, and catch the end of their conversation.

“– see where Victor has run off to. He was supposed to find a bag for – for you!” he says, spotting you and giving you a pleased smile. You smile back shyly, and he dismisses the other woman with a “Thank you, Karla,” before turning his attention fully to you. “Hello again, Y/N. Is there something you need?”

“Oh, I was just coming to check and see if you’d found a bag, but I can see you’re already on the case, so I –”

“I’m sure he’ll be back shortly. In the meantime, why don’t you join me?” he asks, gesturing to a comfortable-looking patio chair across from him. You bite your lip nervously.

“You’re sure I’m not interrupting anything?”

“You know, you’re starting to make me feel quite boring, sitting around my own home without something better to do,” Terry replies, giving you an amused look.

“I just assumed that entertaining trespassers isn’t likely to be at the top of your priority list,” you reply, setting your things on the ground beside the chair before taking a seat.

“Well, you’re the first one to make it past the snipers,” Terry quips, smiling at your laughter. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Oh no, I’m fine, really –”

“What will it take for you to stop feeling like you’re bothering me?” he asks seriously, arching an eyebrow at you. The woman from before, Karla, reappears with a large tote bag. I guess Victor scares easy, you think to yourself with a smirk, missing Terry ask the woman to bring out a bottle of white wine and two glasses. He takes in your smug expression as you put your things in the new bag, one corner of his mouth curling up in a smile.

“You’ve scared away my head of security,” he comments, and your eyes flit back to his. Had you been that obvious? “Proud of yourself?”

You laugh softly. “I may just have a teensy issue with authority and the way people like to abuse it.”

“Is that why you’re in town? Are you a wanted woman?” he jokes, taking the bottle of wine Karla has returned with and pouring two glasses, handing yours to you. You smile over the rim of your glass.

“Nothing that exciting, I’m afraid. I just needed some time away to clear my head,” you explain, taking a sip of your beverage. Somehow, you feel like you can taste how expensive it is.

“Ah yes, you mentioned that’s why you were carrying the existential library with you.” He seems visibly pleased that you’re no longer trying to flee at every opportunity, even after Karla returning with the tote. “So, work or personal life? What’s giving you trouble?”

“Would you believe me if I said both?” you reply, groaning for emphasis. “I just wanted to get away for awhile and not have to think about things, but I’ve only been here for a few days and I’m already going stir-crazy with my thoughts.”

Terry doesn’t press you on your problems back home, picking up on your reluctance to talk about them. “There are countless things to do in Los Angeles if you’re looking for distraction. What have you tried so far?”

You briefly summarize the few events from the past couple of days over your glass of wine. Terry asks a couple of follow up questions, and recommends a few museums and gardens he thinks you should see. You’re grateful for his efforts, but mostly you’re just happy to actually be talking to someone for the first time in days. Eventually though, your glass runs empty.

“I should really get going; plus, I have to drive,” you insist, snatching your glass off the table quickly as he goes to refill it. He pauses with the bottle in hand, seemingly surprised by your reflexes, before offering a resigned smile and setting it back down. You stand, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

“Thank you for the drink, and for not letting your security guard eviscerate me,” you say graciously, smiling a bit wickedly as you extend your hand towards his. “I’m very glad I trespassed, Terry.”

“Thank you for keeping an old man company, Y/N” he replies, shaking your hand perhaps a little longer than necessary. “I hope you find something of interest during the rest of your time here.”

“Well if I don’t, I know whose door to knock on!” you tease, grinning up at him. “Bye, Terry.”

“Have a good evening, Y/N,” he replies quietly after you as you walk down the stairs towards the public beach.

“Tell Victor goodbye from me!” you call over your shoulder, smiling at him. You hear his laughter echo through the trees, slowing your pace so that you can appreciate the sound for a moment longer.

Day 5: Terry’s POV

There is a knock on the back door of the estate, and Terry walks through the ground floor to answer it, the staff seeming to have disappeared somewhere for the moment. It was later in the evening, but still too early for them to have gone home yet. Something feels off, like there is a strange tension in the air, but Terry carries on towards the door, unperturbed by the energy.

He opens the door without checking the security feed on his phone – he hadn’t done that in years – and throws it open.

There you stand, in a lovely summer dress, looking up at him with tears sparkling in your big, beautiful eyes.

“Y/N? What are you doing here? What’s wrong?” he asks, immediately concerned.

“I don’t know what it is, Terry, but the further away from here I drove, the worse I felt,” you hiccup through the explanation, your tears spilling over. “Does that make any sense?”

He closes the distance between you, tilting your chin up to face him with a hand on your cheek. “It makes all the sense in the world, my dear,” he whispers, bending his head down towards you. When was the last time he had felt his heart skip a beat, the way it was now? Your lips are just a hair’s-breadth apart, and he watches your eyes flutter closed in anticipation…

There is a faint thudding noise in the distance that makes him pause before kissing you, and he feels his adrenaline spike immediately, the military instinct to jump into action still within him even decades later. At least now he has something worth protecting, he thinks to himself, taking your small hand in his and pulling you into his home.

“Mr. Silver?” a voice calls, the thudding getting louder. The voice sounded familiar, but why couldn’t he place it?

“Mr. Silver!”

Terry jumps, sitting up in his bed as he wakes up suddenly, body still tense with adrenaline from the dream. You hadn’t shown up at his door, then.

The banging on his bedroom door continues, and he growls, throwing the blankets off and his red silk robe on before answering the door.

“WHAT?!” he snarls, throwing the door open and scowling down at the person that had interrupted what would likely have been a very enjoyable dream.

“Apologies for waking you, Mr. Silver,” says the man meekly, unable to even attempt to look him in the eye. When did he start hiring cowards, anyway?

“Then why did you?” he asks impatiently, his fist clenched behind the door. He hadn’t snapped at anyone like this in longer than he could remember. He forces himself to loosen his fist, taking a deep, calming breath.

“Andrew found something in the garden that he says you should see, Sir.”

“Fine. Let me get ready and tell him I’ll meet him on the patio,” he says dismissively, waiting for the man to turn before closing the door abruptly. He discards his robe, walking naked into his closet to dress for the day. As he does, his thoughts turn back to his dream and to you.

Terry Silver had largely given up on love and long-term commitments, finding the occasional woman to warm his bed. The last had been Cheyenne, and their relationship (if you could call it that – Terry wouldn’t) had gone on for several months before he’d let it peter out. Not once had his casual lover appeared in his dreams in all the time they’d been together or since they’d drifted apart. So why, after talking to you for less than an hour yesterday, had you featured in his dreams?

It wasn’t just that you were a young, pretty thing; L.A. was full to bursting with women that fit that description, especially in his circles. It was more than that; it was the fire in your eyes as you struggled against Victor, a man he had personally vetted before hiring him, despite your clear lack of fighting experience. It was your shy, self-deprecating attitude, and your strange decision to fly across the country for a vacation and not know what to with yourself now that you were here. It was your choice of "light" reading material and yes, it was your beauty. All of it, all of you, had gotten under his skin so quickly it had made his head spin, and he couldn’t fathom why.

After you had left the afternoon before, Terry had spent his evening trying to relax. When that didn’t work, he had tried to review contracts for upcoming acquisitions; retirement hadn’t suited him and he still needed to feel involved in his businesses. Still, his thoughts kept circling back to how he could have convinced you to stay longer, and even in his sleep you had come back of your own accord in his dreams.

Terry sighs as he buttons his shirt. He needed to stop dwelling on you; there was no point in thinking about what could have been when your paths would likely never cross again. He’d dealt with disappointment in relationships before, and he could do so again.

He finishes getting ready for the morning, walking out onto the patio looking the picture of ease, his anger in check once more.

“Yes Andrew, what is the big, groundbreaking discovery you have for me?” he asks with a wry smile.

“I found this near the path to the beachfront this morning, Mr. Silver. Is this a security issue? Should I report it to the police?”

Terry had stopped listening to the gardener the moment his eyes took in the object in the man’s hand. He had never been one to believe in fate, kismet, whatever you wanted to call it, but as he spots your wallet in the palm of Andrew’s hand, presented to him like Cinderella’s slipper on that velvet cushion, he finds himself briefly reconsidering.

“None of that will be necessary,” he interrupts the man, snatching your possession out of the man’s hand, savouring the texture of your billfold against his palm. “Thank you, Andrew.”

He quickly turns on his heel and walks back into his home, heading down to the cellar where he wouldn’t be disturbed and waving off Karla’s question about his breakfast. Closing the door behind him, Terry exhales deeply before grinning widely, feeling like a child that had just successfully stolen a cookie from the cookie jar. He opens your wallet, thumbing through the ID cards and crumpled bills eagerly. He pulls out your driver’s license, quickly snapping a photo of it with his phone. This was serendipity, this was perfect, this was a chance to see you again while putting him in the best possible light (who didn’t appreciate a Good Samaritan?). And if it allowed him access into more of your personal life, then that was just a pleasant bonus.

He returns to the ground floor of the house a few minutes later, trying to appear casual.

“Karla, I’ll take breakfast in my office today, thank you. I have a few calls to make and don’t want to be disturbed.”

The woman nods, already heading to the kitchen, and Terry heads down the hall to his office with a spring in his step.

You had been surprised yesterday that he hadn’t had anything going on; if you only knew how much he was planning on filling his schedule up over the next few days. Not very long to make an impression, he supposes, but then Terry Silver was known for his ability to impress.

#terry silver #thomas ian griffith #terry silver x reader #cobra kai #eventual smut #fresh start

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lovebaela · 2 years

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Ice & Fire ༄ Pt. 1 (Bran Stark x Targaryen oc fanfic)

Chapter 1 ⋇ Winter is Coming ⋇

Tsireya’s POV

Sansa, Arya, and I were all practicing our sewing. Sansa, of course, was doing very well. “Nicely done!” The Septa told her. Arya and I were having a bit of trouble. “I hate sewing,” Arya told me. “I’d rather be with the guys right now.” I agreed, the Stark boys were outside. From the window, we could hear an arrow getting released and laughing afterwards. Must be Bran’s turn. “I have an idea,” Arya whispers in my ear. “Follow me…”

I follow Arya outside to the courtyard and watch her grab a bow and arrow. “What are you doing?” I ask her. We both hide where none of the guys could see us. “Just watch.” Arya giggles. Right before Bran could release his next arrow, Arya shoots hers and hits the bull’s eye! They all turn their heads and see us. Arya does a playful curtsy. “Hey!” Bran yells. Arya takes my hand, “Run!” Everyone laughs as Bran chases us around. I stop running for Bran to catch up. “Īlen nūmāzma naejot jiōragon ziry..”(I was about to get it), Bran protested. I smiled, “Kesā jiōragon ziry mirri tubis” (I’m sure you will get it someday).

Bran and I like to speak the tongue of my ancestors, High Valyrian. When I first arrived in Winterfell, I barely knew common tongue, but Bran was willing to learn the language to make me more comfortable.

Lord Stark approached us and told Bran to come with him to see the execution. Bran nodded then turned to me to say his goodbyes.

After hanging out Arya again, decided to go to the godswood. It seemed to bring me comfort. I liked going there to meditate or embrace what’s around me. I watched the fish swim around in the pond. I listened to the birds chirping and singing. I smelled the scent of the flowers and grass.

“Shouldn’t you be with the girls?” I heard a voice ask softly.

I look up to see Lord Stark with his wife, Lady Catelyn Stark. “Yes, I should but I wanted to be here for a while. It brings me at peace,” I smiled. “As it does for me,” Lord Stark agreed. He explained to me the history of the Weirwood Trees before, I liked learning about history with him, Old Nan, and Maester Luwin. I looked at the heart tree, the eyes of the carved face stared back at me. He placed the greatsword Ice on his lap and started to clean it. “Perhaps you should go to the other children,” Lady Stark suggested to me. “I’m sure you’ll like what the boys brought back from their trip.”

I ran back to the castle and found Bran. “Rytsas, Bran!” I said. He said hello back, “Jurnegon rȳ skoros īlon ūndan!” (Look at what we found) He goes to get something.

“It’s a direwolf,” he says as the pup snuggles against him. “There was a whole litter of them! 6 for the Stark children!”

“Oh Bran, he’s so cute,” I smile. “Did you give him a name yet?”

“Summer,” he replied giving the pup to me. Then he frowned, “I…I wish that you were able to get one…if only there was one more.”

“It’s okay!” I reassured him. He was upset because he knew how much I adore animals.

Bran’s face lightened up, “How about we share Summer! We can both look after him.” I giggled as I agreed with him, “Yes, I’d like that.” We did our handshake to seal the deal. We didn’t even notice Lord and Lady Stark watching us.

Ned’s POV

We couldn’t help but smile at Bran and Tsireya together.

“Oh what a good pair they are,” Cat said. “It seems that Bran enjoyed her since the first day she came.”

“She is a true delight indeed,” I said. “We must protect her. This world is very cruel. It took a lot of pleading to Robert just to let the poor girl live.”

“Speaking of Robert,” Cat said. “We need to start preparing for his arrival.”

Daenerys’ POV

I smiled to myself with joy as I wrote my letter. I loved writing to her. Nothing gave me more happiness than receiving one back. She’s the only thing that keeps me going.

“Daenerys!” A voice roared. “Did you take your bath?!”

My brother, Viserys.

“Yes,” I replied softly.

“Good, you must be perfect today. Nothing can go wrong…or else you’ll wake the dragon.” He snapped. “What on earth are you doing? Don’t tell me…you are writing to that girl again.”

“I am.”

“Oh my stupid, naive sister,” Viserys said. “I have told you thousands of times…she is not real. We are the last two Targaryens in this world. Even if she was alive, she isn’t a pure Targaryen. She is a figment of your imagination. Now get dressed, the Khal shall be here any minute!” Viserys left the room.

I couldn’t help but shed a tear. I know it seems silly to believe there is really another Targaryen out there, but I feel it in my bones. In my blood, I know it. She is alive. She is real. And one day I will meet her. My dear, sweet cousin Tsireya.

Tsireya’s POV

Everyone was preparing the the arrival of King Robert. Everything was so hectic, everyone moving around everywhere. In all honesty, I was nervous myself. I haven’t seen him since he wanted me dead. I’ll just have to be out of his sight. I decided to go climbing the castle walls with Bran. No one loved climbing more than him.

We climbed all the way to the top. “Kosti ūndegon mirre bē kesīr,” (We can see everything up here) I said in awe. Bran agreed as the wind blew through our hair, “Aye, I love coming up here and watching the scenery.”

We look out and see the visitors coming. You could see the gold and silver trailing down the pathway, like a river. We could also see the Bannermen and the Knights and free riders. There were at least a dozen golden banners above them. On the banner was a stag with a crown. House Baratheon.

“Se dārys iksis kesīr! jī ivestragon kepa!” (The King is here! Let’s go tell father!) Bran says. I nod and we began to climb down the castle.

“Brandon!” A voice yells. It was Lady Stark. “Tsireya, you two shouldn’t be-”

“The King is here!” Bran shouts to her as we climb down. “He’s got hundreds of people!”

“How many times I must tell you?” She asked. We finally made it down to the ground. She knelt down to us, “Promise me, no more climbing.”

Bran and I turn to each other and then I say, “I promise.” Lady Stark smiles and nods at me, then she turns to Bran. He looks down at his feet then says, “I promise.”

“Do you know what?” She asked.

“What?” Bran replied.

“You always look at your feet before you lie.” She grins. Bran smiles at agreement.

“Bran, go tell your father the king is close,” she tells him. Summer follows behind him, the wolves sure do grow fast. “Tsireya, go get ready with the girls.” I nod and go find Arya and Sansa.

We are all getting ready with our maids. I sit in my chair as my maid is doing my hair. She takes the hair that is above my ears, split it into two sections brushing them. Then she makes another third section at the side braiding it. She takes the braid and wraps it around my head. After that, she brushes the rest of my hair down. Once my hair was finally done, I put on the soft, light blue dress the maids gave me and tied the collar into a knot.

“I do hope the Prince will notice me,” Sansa squealed. “I want to look my best.” She tells her maid smiling.

“Oh brother,” Arya rolled her eyes. “There’s more to the world than boys.”

“Well one day I want to marry him and become his queen.”

Arya gagged, “I’m never going to marry.”

The Septa knocked on our door and told us that the King was just about outside of the gates. We all make our way outside to the courtyard. Getting in our positions, I stand beside Jon Snow, the bastard of Lord Stark, and Theon Greyjoy, he always claims to be a prisoner.

“Don’t be afraid,” Jon reminds me, he must have noticed how nervous I was. “We won’t let him or anyone else hurt you.”

“Thanks Jon,” I whisper. Jon was always kind towards me. There was something different about him. Different from the other Starks. I just don’t know what it is.

The gates opened and we watched as visitors walked in. I could see Ser Jamie Lannister, the hound, and the Prince Joffrey riding on their horses. Then the King entered on his warhorse. That was our queue to kneel before him on our knees. The King got off his horse storming towards Lord Stark. “NED!” He roared. We all stood back up. Then came the Queen, Cersei Lannister, and her other youngest children from the wheelhouse. The King spoke to the rest of the Starks and wished to pay his respects in the crypts.

#bran stark #game of thrones #brandon stark x reader #bran stark x reader #game of thrones x reader #bran stark imagine #game of thrones imagine #daenerys targaryen #rob stark #jon snow #sansa stark #arya stark #fanfic #fanfiction

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ipsen · 1 year

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Intangibility

For @weektg!

Inspired by day 6: Romance (if you can call this that). And, of course, once again cross-posting from AO3, as is my wont.

Not to be completely predictable, but it’s more EtoKen from me. One day I’ll write something else for this fandom. Maybe. No promises.

This is literally the only thing I wrote besides Bitter Dream, which I’ll be reblogging at some point. Enjoy the rest of TG Week everyone! Looking forward to everyone’s pieces.

Kaneki should’ve known what she was up to. But, like with most things, Eto was one step ahead.

He was to be her shadow in the days following her arrest. The CCG, while it seized her home and belongings, had designated a hotel room for her to stay in; they had just arrived after a morning shopping trip, where she’d bought that haircut kit.

The first thing he asked was, “Why?”

And her first response was to laugh. “Do I always need a reason to do the things I do?”

“Yes,” he said. “Senselessness doesn’t suit you, Ms. Takatsuki.”

In her chair before the dresser, she laughed again, but it was more of a giggle this time. He felt more unsettled by it, because the One-Eyed King wasn’t supposed to be… this.

Tracing the edge of the box with her finger, she smiled. “You know me so well.”

And he imagined that was as far as he’d get.

“So will you do it?” She turned slightly. “Or shall I go to a barber instead? Spend what remains of my funds?”

Because they’ll be suspended soon. What they both know to be true went unspoken. It was inevitable now that she was officially on the CCG’s radar. One RC scan and that was the end of it.

“What else would you spend it on?” he asked.

“I was thinking charity.”

Charity? “Charity?”

“Charity.”

His eyes narrowed. “What kind?”

With a flick of her thumb, she cut the packaging open. “You know.”

He didn’t. “You expect too much of me.”

“Do I?” She brought the box closer to her, opening the top and examining its contents. “You need stronger shoulders.”

“Hmph.”

Hadn’t he borne enough weight for enough time? Hadn’t he suffered long enough? And for what? The world had betrayed him at every turn. His aunt hated him. Hide was gone. His own mother had beat him. And now Takatsuki was another farce too, another sick joke with him as the victim. It was all for nothing. All meaningless. He refused to let this world hurt him further.

So, when he was done, he would go out with a bang, and then everyone would—

“Kaneki.”

Eto’s voice pierced his thoughts and threw him off-trail, as it always did. Sometimes, he felt like she had a special sense for it. Then again, she was an author.

“What?” he sneered. It didn’t deter her, unfortunately. Nothing he did would.

“I was thinking of a bob cut. Thoughts?” She twisted her head this way and that, the mane that was her hair swaying as she did.

“Why?”

She sighed. “Again with the whys…”

A memory of trailing behind the Asaokas reared its head, and he glimpsed her from afar at one of her early signings. “You used to wear your hair like that, when you were just starting out.”

“Oh, you remember!” She giggled this time. “How sweet of you. So?”

He scoffed and turned away. “I’m not your babysitter.”

“So cold, Investigator! You’re my escort, right? The least you could do is indulge me.”

She let the box spill from her hands back onto the dresser as she leaned back in her seat.

“I’m only supposed to keep an eye on you.” Kaneki crossed the room to their luggage. “You can pretend like I’m not even here.”

“I could never ignore you.” He felt Eto’s eyes on his back as she spoke. “Oh, that’s for you, by the way.”

He had picked up a wrapped package; judging by its size and shape, he guessed it to be a book. He didn’t say anything— giving her ammunition to play with was a dangerous act— but he did examine it a bit closer.

“It’s the author’s copy for Takatsuki’s last work.” He heard the chair squeak as she stood up. “I won’t be using it, so it’s for you.”

The disgusting voice in the back of his mind— the one rebelling against his chosen path— told him to open it. In front of her, no less. But that would mean giving her the advantage. Giving her what she wanted.

“It’s called King Bileygr,” she continued, either unaware of (unlikely) or not caring for his inner turmoil. “I’ve always wanted to write it.”

Bileygr. Another name for Odin. Rough translation: one who lacks an eye. So in other words, the One-Eyed King.

Three years ago, he might have cared, but no such emotion filled him now. Aogiri, Takatsuki, the CCG— none of it mattered to him anymore. And besides, her arrest had already sealed her fate; any extra evidence was redundant.

He threw it back on top of her other things, and it made an ugly noise. He waited for her to comment, as was her wont, but nothing came. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her drift to one of the two beds in the room, flop on top of it, and then become still.

He watched her openly; there was no point in pretending otherwise, because he knew she knew. She simply stared at the ceiling with those eyes whose shade reminded him of a coming storm. A quiet, brewing phenomenon waiting for the right moment to burst and destroy everything in its path when it did.

Anger.

This was the manager’s child, he unfortunately remembered. The manager, who had left her in the 24th ward, which Touka once described as a shithole.

“Kuzen learned about the One-Eyed Owl, a ghoul who hated the world.”

Sorrow.

Against the bed frame, Eto’s small body looked even smaller. One of the largest known kakuja in the CCG’s database was, in truth, just this petite woman staring at nothing before him.

“She seems to have lost hope in everything; she expects nothing from anybody…”

Bitterness.

Kaneki picked up the package with King Bileygr in it, and his thumb brushed over the packaging.

“I… I like you!! We’re so similar!”

Betrayal.

(…)

He moved it to his own bag, then stood over her, making his first mistake. “Get up,” he commanded.

She glanced sideways at him. “Hm? For what?” Her tone, light and fleeting like the bird she was, betrayed her caged body language.

He walked to the dresser. “A bob cut, right?”

And for the first time, she followed him.

She took her seat again in front of the dresser, hands folded over her lap. He opened the box and examined the tools. He still remembered the style Hinami had wanted when she traveled with him, and used that as a blueprint.

Without a proper cloak to cover Eto, he used his own coat instead. It was a few sizes bigger than her, anyway, working just fine.

The whole time, she shamelessly watched him. Not like how a predator watched their prey, like he expected. It was a different kind of gaze: softer, deadlier. It was a gaze that reminded him of an old knife— the way it seemed sharp from a distance, but upon closer inspection and usage, was actually quite dull.

He found the brush and got to work, undoing the knots in her hair. Or, as he quickly learned, lack thereof. His surprise was illustrated by a smile in her eyes.

Kaneki set the brush down on the dresser and gathered her hair behind her shoulder. As he did so, the fabric of his gloves brushed against her neck. At that, he heard the slightest hitch in her breathing. A crack in her mask.

Affection was such a foreign entity that a false touch was enough to give pause.

He tried to ignore it, but the memories came anyway. Memories of the words she put to page, memories that wrapped him in a frigid embrace, memories that expanded his scope of the world and taught him about its wrongs, memories that whispered to him in his lowest moments that he was not the first to fall through the cracks.

And he inevitably imagined how she might have been when she wrote those words. Alone, and shivering underground. No father, no mother, no comfort— only walls and torn flesh to embrace her. To her, love must seem like both something to be coveted and feared.

It was just so easy to take it away.

Before he could reach over her and grab the scissors, risking again to even ghost some part of her body, she pressed the scissors into his hand. A shield against further vulnerability, further possibility that things could be better for either of them.

Further possibility that something valuable could be taken from them.

He stared at the tool. “Ms. Takatsuki, this is the wrong pair.”

Eto slowly turned to look. “So it is, Investigator.”

More walls, more hiding. She handed him the right pair this time. He got to work.

Snip, snip.

The longest bits of hair fell to the floor in clumps.

Snip, snip.

There was a surprising volume to her hair, he noticed.

Snip, snip.

Through the mirror, she watched him, her green eyes like the tranquil center of a hurricane. Where he often could not predict where the rest of her body would go— wild birds were difficult to cage like that— he sensed that he could always find her eyes.

Snip, snip.

Kaneki didn’t like his conclusion.

“You know—“ Eto broke the silence, as was her wont— “the Commission and the editorial department at Shoeisha are letting Takatsuki hold a press conference for the book.”

“How nice of them,” he mumbled, setting the scissors down and picking up the other pair from earlier.

“‘Nice,’” she repeated, making the word as empty as it sounded. “It’s amusing how much they’re trying to keep your investigation under wraps.”

“You’re Sen Takatsuki,” he replied easily. “Imagine the panic that would happen if it got out that you were a ghoul.”

Snip. Snip.

Eto chuckled and adjusted her posture for him. “I’m just another writer.”

“‘Just.’” Kaneki’s tone hardly carried the weight of his implication.

A pause, then a sigh escaped her. “You’re too much,” she said with a defeated smile.

He used the comb to see if he had missed anything, silent.

“Anyways, about the press conference— I’d like for you to attend.” She waited for his reaction.

He looked back, brow furrowed. He spotted a stray strand of hair.

“Will you attend?”

Snip.

“Don’t be so suspicious,” he replied, failing to scowl. It made her giggle.

“Someone has to watch me, right?” she rightfully pointed out. “So… I want it to be you.”

Snip.

The last bit of her hair floated to the ground. Kaneki paused, hands hovering over her shoulders.

“Me?” came the question.

She answered it with another one. “Who else but you?”

He set the scissors down, now properly glaring at her. “Don’t do that.”

She returned it with an innocent smile. “Don’t do what?”

“Be phony. Saying things you don’t mean. It’s unbecoming.”

“Oh?” She shifted to actually look at him this time. “Have I ever lied to you?”

He said nothing.

“You think I do,” she said. “I suppose I can’t fault you for it; I often speak with every intent to deceive, after all.”

“And why stop now?”

Eto looked back in the mirror at his handiwork, but he could tell she was somewhere else. Somewhere far away, where he would never reach.

She spoke first. “You are…”

Terrible. Pathetic. Worthless. A burden.

“… very good.” She touched the ends of her hair, then smiled with practiced ease. “Well done.”

(…)

She stood from her seat and undid his coat, tossing it to the floor and fluffing out her freshly cut hair. She headed for the shower. Kaneki, for his part, stayed rooted to his spot, the scissors and comb trapped in his hands. But before she disappeared from the room, he made his second mistake.

“It looks good on you.”

And Eto, for all he knew her to push forward and never look back, turned around.

“The style,” he elaborated further. “It looks good on you.”

She stared at him, her expression soft enough to kill. “Thank you, Kaneki.”

Then she was gone.

#tg #tokyo ghoul #tokyo ghoul re #tgweek23 #eto yoshimura #sen takatsuki #ken kaneki #etoken #fanfic #writing

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