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whereforarthur · 2 months ago

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A Night In

Request: I'm literally begging you for some George smut?? Like something dom and hot but still kinda cute and fluffy? He'd defo talk you through everything and give aftercare

Pairing: George Clarke x Reader

Category: Smut and Fluff

Word Count: 4.5k

*****

“You don't love someone because they're perfect, you love them in spite of the fact that they're not.” ― Jodi Picoult

George Clarke was a man of meticulous habits. Every morning, without fail, he'd rise with the sun, the faint light from the gap in the curtains tracing a path across his face. He'd blink the sleep away, his eyes focusing on the digital clock's unforgiving display, and then he'd slide out of bed, his bare feet making almost no sound on the cool hardwood floor. His apartment, nestled in the bustling heart of London, was a sanctuary of order and quietude. The only sounds that typically pierced the early morning silence were the distant rumble of a garbage truck or the occasional shout from a street cleaner.

But this morning was different. The air was charged with an electric anticipation that even George couldn't ignore. He'd felt it brewing for days, a tension that coiled tighter with each shared glance, each brush of skin against skin. He knew what he wanted, and he knew she felt it too. The question was, would she say yes? He padded into the kitchen, the scent of freshly brewed coffee filling the air, and poured two cups, his hand shaking slightly as he added sugar and milk to hers. He hoped she'd appreciate the gesture, the sweetness to start their day off right.

When Y/N emerged from the bedroom, her hair a wild halo around her flushed face, she looked at him with those big, doe-like eyes that never failed to make his heart stutter. He held out the cup, his voice a low rumble. "Can we stay home tonight so I can fuck your brains out?" The words were blunt, but the tender way he said them took the edge off, leaving only raw, unfiltered desire.

Her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink as she took the cup, the warmth of the liquid seeping into her palms. She studied him over the rim, her thoughts swirling behind her eyes like a storm about to break. "What makes you think I'd say no?" she replied, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. It was the answer he'd been hoping for, and his grin grew in response.

They spent the day in a delicious dance of anticipation, their every interaction a silent promise of what was to come. Every brush of their hands was a spark, every shared laugh a secret shared only between them. The city outside their windows was a blur of life and color, but all George could see was the siren call of their shared solitude, the unspoken understanding that tonight would be theirs.

When evening finally fell, they settled into their usual routine, the tension thick enough to slice with a knife. He talked her through dinner, his voice a gentle command that sent shivers down her spine. He was always like this, attentive and considerate, but tonight there was an edge to his care that made her pulse race. The way he'd look at her, his eyes dark with want, was almost too much to bear.

After the dishes were done and the apartment was once again bathed in the soft glow of lamplight, George turned to her, his expression serious. "Are you ready?" he asked, his voice a low purr that sent a thrill through her body. She nodded, her heart hammering in her chest. He took her hand, leading her to the bedroom, and she knew that tonight would be nothing short of explosive.

*****

Once the door was closed, the air grew heavy with desire. He stepped closer, his breath hot against her neck as he whispered dark promises into her ear, each word a caress that made her knees weak. "I'm going to peel every layer of you away," he murmured, his hands skimming over her body, tracing the curves of her hips and the line of her spine. "I want to see every inch of you, feel every tremble, taste every gasp." His words were a symphony of filth and love, a heady combination that made her melt into him.

As his hands roamed, she felt the heat of his touch like a brand, searing through the fabric of her clothes. His fingertips grazed her collarbone, her breasts, and she arched into his touch, desperate for more. He chuckled, the sound a dark, delicious rumble in her ear. "Patience, love," he said, his teeth grazing her lobe. "We've got all night."

His whispered words painted a picture of debauchery, a night of unbridled passion that she knew she'd never forget. Each syllable was a caress, a promise of the pleasure to come. He knew exactly what she liked, exactly how to make her tremble, and he used that knowledge with the precision of a master artist. "You're going to scream my name," he murmured, his hand sliding down to cup her through her jeans. "You're going to beg for me to never stop."

Her breath hitched as his thumb found her clit, applying just the right amount of pressure. She could feel herself getting wet, her body betraying her excitement even as she tried to maintain some semblance of control. But control was a fleeting thing with George, and she knew it. He'd take it from her, piece by piece, until she was nothing but a puddle of want at his feet. And she'd love every second of it.

Her hands found their way to his hair, desperately clutching at the strands as he kissed her. It was messy and hungry, their teeth clacking together in their haste. He tasted like mint and something darker, something that made her want to devour him whole. She felt his cock pressing against her, hard and insistent, and she could feel herself getting wetter, her body eager to take him in.

George's hands were everywhere, unbuttoning her shirt with shaking fingers, pushing it off her shoulders to expose her lacy bra. He growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through her chest as he took in the sight of her. His eyes were hooded, his pupils blown wide with desire. He traced the outline of her breasts with his fingertips before deftly unhooking her bra, letting it fall to the floor. Her nipples pebbled under his gaze, aching for his touch.

"My little slut," he murmured, his voice a warm caress as he bent his head to capture one of her nipples in his mouth. He sucked hard, the sensation sending jolts of pleasure straight to her core. His tongue flicked and teased, the wet heat of his mouth making her squirm. She gasped, her nails digging into his scalp as he worked her other nipple with his thumb. "You're mine to ruin," he continued, his words a dark promise that sent a shiver down her spine. "Mine to use and claim."

He pushed her back onto the bed, the mattress giving way with a soft sigh. His body hovered over hers, his muscles taut with restrained power. She could feel the weight of his gaze as he took in the sight of her, spread out before him like a feast. He took his time, savoring every inch of her, his eyes lingering on the juncture of her thighs. "You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered, his voice thick with need. "And you're all mine."

Her eyes searched his, finding the truth in his words. "I'm yours," she breathed, the confession slipping from her lips like a sacred vow. "Only yours." She watched as his pupils dilated, the blue of his eyes darkening with desire. It was a heady feeling, knowing she had that much power over him, that she could make him crave her so desperately.

He kissed her again, his hands moving to the button of her jeans. He tugged them down, his palms skimming her skin as he revealed the matching lacy underwear beneath. His eyes raked over her, a silent declaration of his appreciation. "So beautiful," he murmured, his voice a soft caress.

He slid her panties aside, exposing her to his gaze. He took a moment to just look at her, to drink in the sight of her. Then, with a wicked grin, he dipped his head and kissed her there, his tongue delving into her folds, tasting her sweetness. She bucked against him, her hips rising to meet his mouth. He licked and sucked, exploring every inch of her, teasing her clit until she was begging for more.

"I want to taste you so badly," he murmured against her, his voice muffled by her flesh. His words were a declaration of war, a promise of pleasure that had her body tightening with anticipation. His tongue swirled around her clit, applying just the right amount of pressure, and she could feel herself getting closer, the tension coiling tighter and tighter.

Her hands tangled in his hair, urging him on as he devoured her. The sensation was exquisite, a symphony of pleasure that had her body thrumming with need. She was close, so close, and she knew it was only a matter of time before she shattered. "Oh, George," she whimpered, her voice high and desperate.

He looked up at her, his eyes dark with lust, and she could see the smug satisfaction in his gaze. He knew exactly what he was doing to her, and he loved it. "You want it, don't you?" he murmured, his breath hot against her wet flesh. "You want me to fuck you so badly you can't think straight."

"Yes," she moaned, the word a desperate plea that seemed to echo around the room. "Please, George. I need you."

He chuckled against her, the vibration sending a fresh wave of sensation through her. He kissed his way back up her body, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. "Good girl," he whispered, his teeth grazing her skin. "But first, I want to watch you come for me."

With a final, lingering lick, he pulled away and stood, shedding his own clothes with a speed that belied his earlier patience. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, and she licked her lips, eager to taste him. But he had other plans. He grabbed a condom from the bedside drawer and rolled it on, his eyes never leaving hers. Then he climbed back onto the bed, positioning himself between her legs.

"Do whatever you want with me," she whispered, her eyes glazed with need. "I'm yours."

The words were barely out of her mouth before George took action, claiming her with a ferocity that made her toes curl. He slid into her with a groan, filling her completely, stretching her until she thought she'd break. But she didn't. Instead, she welcomed him, her body opening up to him like a flower to the sun. He began to move, his hips a steady, relentless rhythm that had her arching off the bed, her nails digging into his back.

He leaned down, capturing her mouth with his, his tongue mimicking the thrust of his cock. She moaned into the kiss, her hips rising to meet his, the friction delicious and intense. He felt so good, so right, and she never wanted it to end. His hands roamed her body, touching and teasing, bringing her closer and closer to the edge.

"Your body was made for mine," he murmured against her lips, his words a declaration that seemed to resonate in every cell of her being. She nodded, her breath coming in gasps as he found her G-spot, his strokes long and deep. She felt herself tightening around him, the pressure building until she couldn't take it anymore.

"I'm going to come," she panted, her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to hold on to the last shreds of her sanity. "Oh, fuck, George, I'm so close."

"Good," he growled, his hips pumping into her with a force that was almost brutal. "Come for me, baby. Show me how good I make you feel."

His words were a catalyst, sending her hurtling over the edge. Her body convulsed around him, her orgasm a white-hot burst of pleasure that stole her breath. She screamed his name, the sound echoing through the room as she clung to him, her nails digging into his back. He didn't stop, though, didn't even slow, his movements only becoming more intense as he drove her through wave after wave of pleasure.

"You're so good for me," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction as he watched her come apart. "So fucking good around me." His words were a gentle command, a declaration of his ownership, and she reveled in it. She felt like she was made for this, made for him, and the thought sent another ripple of pleasure through her.

Her body was still trembling when he pulled out, his cock slick with her arousal. He rolled her over, pressing her face down into the pillows, his hand coming down to rest on the small of her back. "Mine," he said, the word a dark promise that had her pussy clenching with need. She knew what was coming, knew she'd never be the same after tonight.

He positioned himself behind her, his cock nudging at her entrance. "Are you ready for me to claim you?" he asked, his voice a seductive purr that sent a shiver down her spine. She nodded, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. "Say it," he demanded, his hand sliding down to squeeze her ass.

"I'm ready," she whimpered, the words barely audible over the pounding of her heart. "Claim me, George. Make me yours."

He didn't need any more encouragement. With a growl of pure lust, he slammed into her, filling her completely. She gasped, the sound muffled by the pillow, as he began to move, his hands gripping her hips tightly. He didn't hold back, his strokes deep and powerful, each one driving her closer to the edge again.

"You look better with my hands around your neck," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. He reached up, his fingers wrapping gently around her throat. The sensation was surprising, a mix of fear and excitement that sent her arousal skyrocketing. He didn't squeeze, just applied enough pressure to make her aware of his control, his dominance.

"And your mouth around my cock," he added, his voice a dark, seductive whisper that made her shiver. She felt him pull out, the emptiness a stark contrast to the fullness she'd grown accustomed to. "On your knees," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. She complied, her legs trembling with the effort to support herself as she felt him line up behind her.

With a firm grip on her hair, George guided her face down to his cock, still glistening with her juices. She took him in eagerly, her mouth stretching around his girth, the musky scent of their combined arousal filling her nostrils. He groaned, his hips bucking slightly as she swirled her tongue around the tip. She took him deeper, her throat relaxing to accommodate him, and she could feel his restraint slipping.

"Ah, fuck," he breathed, his voice strained. His hand tightened on her neck, not enough to hurt, but enough to make her aware of his need. "Don't close your eyes, baby. Look at me." She obeyed, her gaze locking onto his, and the intensity in his eyes was almost too much to handle. The way he watched her, like she was the only thing that mattered in the world, made her feel powerful and vulnerable all at once.

He began to thrust into her mouth, his movements growing more demanding with each passing second. "That's it," he praised, his voice a low growl. "Take it all." And she did, eager to please him, eager to feel him lose control. She could feel the head of his cock hitting the back of her throat, and she gagged slightly, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she took him deeper, her tongue working him with a fervor that matched his own.

"You're so good at this," he murmured, his grip on her hair tightening. "So fucking good." He picked up the pace, his hips snapping against her face, and she could feel the beginnings of his climax building. Her eyes watered, her throat ached, but she didn't care. All she cared about was making him feel good, making him come apart the way he made her feel.

Her hands gripped the bed, her knuckles white with the effort to stay still as he fucked her mouth. She could feel his thighs tremble against her cheeks, the muscles in his stomach tightening as he approached his peak. "Don't be gentle with me," she whispered, the words barely audible around his cock. "I like it when you're rough."

It was all the encouragement he needed. His grip on her hair tightened, his hips moving faster, more forcefully. She could feel his cock thicken, the veins pulsing beneath her tongue. He was close, so close, and she reveled in the power she had over him. He groaned, his body tensing, and then he was coming, his warmth filling her mouth as he held her in place, his eyes never leaving hers.

The command was simple but loaded with meaning. "Swallow it," he said, his voice hoarse with passion. "All of it." It was a declaration of his ownership, a demand for her submission, and she complied without hesitation. She swallowed, her eyes never leaving his, the salty taste of him coating her tongue. He watched her, his gaze intense, as she took every drop, savoring the evidence of his pleasure.

*****

"I didn't hurt you too much, did I?" he asked, his voice laced with concern. His hand, still wrapped around her neck, gently massaged the skin there, his thumb brushing over the pulse point. She could feel the throb of his heart against her back, the steady beat a reminder of the connection they shared.

"No," she assured him, her voice a little raspy from his use. "I liked it." She felt his body relax, his grip on her loosening slightly. "Relax," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "Let me take care of you."

George pulled her back onto the bed, rolling her onto her back and settling between her legs. His eyes searched hers, looking for any sign of discomfort or distress. Finding none, he leaned down and kissed her softly, tasting himself on her lips. He was gentle now, his earlier ferocity replaced by a tenderness that made her heart ache.

He slid back inside her, his movements slow and deliberate. This time, there was no urgency, no need to claim or conquer. It was just them, lost in the intimacy of their shared passion. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, his teeth nipping at her sensitive skin as he moved. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his back as she met his every thrust.

Their breaths mingled, the sound of their bodies coming together the only noise in the quiet apartment. The world outside had ceased to exist, and all that mattered was the feel of him inside her, the warmth of his embrace, the sound of his voice as he whispered sweet nothings in her ear. "You're mine," he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. "And I'm yours."

His words were a gentle caress, a reminder of their connection, and she felt herself opening up to him even more. He was right there with her, their hearts beating in sync, their bodies moving together as if they'd been doing this dance for a lifetime. She felt cherished, worshipped, and it was a feeling she never wanted to lose.

As he moved inside her, she could feel her orgasm building again, a slow crescendo that started in her toes and worked its way up. It was a different kind of pleasure, one that washed over her in waves, gentle and all-consuming. "I've never heard such a truly beautiful sound," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm against the storm of sensations. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with wonder, and he leaned down to kiss her, his tongue delving into her mouth with the same slow, sweet strokes that his cock was making inside her.

He whispered sweet nothings into her ear, his breath a warm caress that sent shivers down her spine. "You're so perfect," he said, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate deep within her. "So perfect for me." His words were a drug, a heady cocktail of praise and possession that had her clinging to him even tighter.

Her body responded to his gentle touch, her hips rising to meet his, her legs wrapping around his waist. She felt herself getting closer, the pressure building, the tension coiling in her belly like a tightly wound spring. "I'm going to come," she whispered, the words a breathless confession that seemed to hang in the air.

George's eyes lit up, a wicked smile playing on his lips. "Come for me, baby," he urged, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver down her spine. "Let me feel you come around me." He kissed her again, his tongue mimicking the movement of his cock. She could feel herself tightening around him, her body straining for release.

And then it hit her, the orgasm rolling over her like a tidal wave. She screamed, her nails digging into his back, her body arching off the bed. He followed her over, his own climax crashing into her like a meteor, the force of it making her see stars. They came together, their bodies shuddering with the intensity of their shared pleasure. It was a moment of pure connection, a moment where nothing else mattered except the feel of him inside her, their hearts beating as one.

Their breaths mingled, ragged and desperate, as they rode out the aftershocks of their shared climax. His cock pulsed inside her, the sensation making her shiver. "You're mine," he murmured again, his voice a gentle reminder of the power he held over her. "And I'm yours."

He didn't pull out, instead choosing to stay buried deep within her, his body a warm, heavy weight that she never wanted to escape. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs still wrapped around his waist, holding him close as if she could keep him there forever. "Always," she whispered, her voice a soft promise that seemed to echo through the quiet room.

George kissed her forehead, his movements gentle and soothing. He pulled out slowly, the feeling of emptiness making her whimper. He rolled onto his side, bringing her with him so that she was nestled against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath he took.

"You're mine," he murmured again, his voice a gentle reminder of the possessive need that had driven him all night. She nodded, her eyes drifting shut as she felt the warmth of his embrace envelop her. His hand trailed down her back, his fingers tracing patterns on her skin that had her melting into him even more.

*****

"Bloody hell, George, that was..." Y/n's voice trailed off, the final word stuck in her throat as she stared at the ceiling, her chest heaving.

George, grinning from ear to ear, leaned over and kissed her forehead. "I'm guessing you enjoyed it?"

Her cheeks flushed a deep shade of red, but she couldn't help the small smile that tugged at her lips. "Well, it wasn't exactly your typical Tuesday night."

They lay there for a moment, basking in the afterglow, the room still and quiet. The only sound was the faint ticking of the clock on the bedside table. Y/n's hand reached out and found George's, their fingers interlocking in a silent promise of comfort and care.

George pulled the duvet up to cover their naked forms, his thumb gently stroking the back of her hand. "You okay?" he asked, his voice a low murmur in the quiet room.

"Mmhmm," she hummed, her eyes fluttering closed. "Just a bit... tender."

He chuckled softly, the warmth of his breath fanning her cheek. "I'll be more gentle next time," he promised, planting another kiss on her forehead.

With a sigh, Y/n turned to face him, her eyes searching his. "Thank you," she whispered.

He brushed a strand of hair out of her face, his eyes filled with concern. "For what?"

"For always looking after me, even when things get... intense."

He nodded, understanding in his gaze. "It's what we do, isn't it?"

They lay there for a while longer, their bodies entwined, until the room grew cold and the early morning light began to creep in through the curtains. Y/n shivered and George tightened his hold, sharing his warmth.

"Would you like some tea?" he offered, his voice still a gentle rumble.

"That would be lovely," she murmured, her eyes still closed.

With a soft squeeze of her hand, George slipped out of bed, his footsteps padding quietly across the floorboards as he disappeared into the kitchen. The faint sound of the kettle being filled and turned on echoed through the flat.

Y/n took a deep breath, letting the scent of him linger on her skin. She could feel the tenderness between her legs, a reminder of their passionate night. As she waited for him to return, she couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment wash over her. Despite the occasional roughness, their relationship had always been one of care and consideration.

When George came back with two steaming mugs, she sat up and took one from him, wrapping her hands around the warm ceramic. The scent of Earl Grey wafted up, soothing and familiar. They sat in companionable silence, sipping their tea and watching the shadows on the wall dance as the sun rose over London.

The moment was peaceful, a stark contrast to the passionate tumult of just an hour ago. Yet, in its own way, it was just as intimate. It was the quiet aftercare that followed the storm, the gentle touches and soft words that stitched their hearts back together, ready to face whatever the day had in store.

And as the night stretched out before them, she knew that she'd never want to leave this moment, never want to break the spell that held them in its thrall. Because in George's arms, she'd found a home, a place where she could be both the soft, vulnerable creature she truly was, and the fiery siren he brought out in her. It was a balance she never knew she needed, but now that she had it, she couldn't imagine life without it.

The city outside their window was a distant memory, the only world that mattered was the one they'd created in this room, in this bed. And as she closed her eyes, letting sleep claim her, she knew that she'd wake up to the same sweet, gentle care that had become their signature. This was their little slice of heaven, and she had no intention of ever letting go.

*****

@gvf23

@xxkatxgracexx

#british youtubers #imagines #george clarkey #smut #george clarke fics #george clarkey x reader

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twodogs-twocats · 6 months ago

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The Maskmaker and the Masked (Sleep Token’s III x fem reader) 18+, NSFW

You are hired by Sleep Token to design new masks for the band. But you quickly realize your relationship with III is more than professional.

Warnings: SMUT - 18+, MINORS DNI. Oral, penetration

I did my best to maintain members being masked while making this somewhat realistic. This is the first fanfic I’ve ever written, so please be kind! I hope you enjoy!

Part II

London was cold and rainy. Your head was steadily throbbing after 10 hours on an airplane, your hair frizzing out from the two buns you had carefully arranged just that morning. You felt sticky and tired.

And yet, you couldn’t help the tingle of excitement that coursed through your body. From the back seat of the taxi, you watched the rain splatter the windows as you twirled your thumbs. Excited, yes, but also incredibly nervous.

You had been hired by one of your favorite bands, Sleep Token, to design new masks for the band members. Apparently, the members of the band had found your Instagram and had fallen in love with your work. After several emails and phone calls with their manager and a couple of signed NDAs, you were emailed plane tickets and and address. And now, in just a matter of hours, you would be meeting the members to take measurements.

It had all happened so quickly, and while you felt confident in your work and thrilled by the opportunity, you were stressed about making a good impression.

A few hours later, feeling a bit more well-rested and certainly much cleaner, you followed the band’s manager through the winding corridors of an old house. It wasn’t quite where you were expecting to meet the members, but you were pleased by the aesthetic as it matched the mysterious vibe of the band itself. You made polite chit-chat with the manager, following them down a dimly lit hallway with red walls and ornate chandeliers.

Soon you heard the low thrum of male voices coming from a room ahead. You fiddled with the large tote bag that held your art supplies. The butterflies in your belly that had been softly fluttering all day long now grew into a frantic swarm.

The band manager stopped just before the door and turned towards you.

“Just remember, the band members will be masked, and you have signed NDAs that prevent you from releasing any sort of information about your time spent here with the band. I just want to reiterate that it is extremely important to the members that their privacy is respected”

You nodded. “Of course, I understand. I’m just honored to be here. I would never want to be disrespectful.” You meant this with all your heart. You appreciated the band’s desire to put their music first. You would never want them to lose that.

The manager offered you a genuine smile, and beckoned you into the room. “Right this way then.”

Taking careful steps and a few swipes at your hair (still frizzy - damn the rain), your eyes were met by the most beautiful sight.

All four members lay sprawled around a small, but gorgeously decorated room. Vessel lay stretched along a red leather couch, his legs so long that his feet (no shoes, just black socks with cat faces on them) dangled off the edge of the armrest. II was seated cross legged on the floor, clad in a thick black hoodie, reading what appeared to be a drummer’s magazine. IV stood by a window, sipping at a beer with his hands shoved in the pockets of his baggy black jeans. It was like staring at a piece of art far more spectacular than anything that lined the walls of this old manor. You weren’t even sure if you were still breathing.

Yet it was III that really caught your eye. He lounged casually in an overstuffed chair at the back corner of the room, long legs pulled up into his chest. His hair hung loosely around his mask. He wore a dark blazer and his trademark checkered socks. In a split second, you felt your body tune into his intense energy. He was incredibly attractive.

You had only a few moments to take them in like this, glorious in their peacefulness, before they realized you were there. Then it was all hugs and handshakes, smiles and questions.

“How was your flight? Not too dreadful, I hope.” Vessel asked you, taking your hands in his, their warmth welcome after the chilly weather. You were caught off guard by his voice at first, as you realized you had never heard any of them speak.

“Lovely to meet you, Y/N. I’ve admired your work for so long,” II offered, gazing at you rather intensely from piercing blue eyes.

“Come, sit.” IV said, clearing pillows off of the couch. You could see his eyes crinkled in a smile behind the fabric of his black mask. “We ordered pizza!”

It was at this very moment that your stomach grumbled loudly. You hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

This was received with gregarious laughter, but it was a quiet chuckle just behind you that made the hairs stand up on your neck. While you were being fretted over by the other members, III had managed to come up behind you.

“My my, we can’t have our girl so tired and hungry,” he spoke gently into your ear, his voice causing a shiver down your spine. Placing his large hand on the small of your back, he guided you firmly toward the couch. As you made to sit, his hands gently pulled the tote you carried from your shoulders. Everywhere III touched he left a burning imprint on your body.

“What else can I get for you, love?” he asked, kneeling before you and resting a hand on your knee. “You have come such a long way for us. I want to make sure you are well taken care of.”

Hot. He was so stupidly hot.

“I’m alright III, thank you.” You replied, trying to stay professional, even as his hand was burning a hole through your jeans. “Some food sounds lovely.”

“Good,” chimed in Vessel. “No work now. Tonight, we would just like to relax and get to know you.”

Soon the pizza arrived, and you spent the rest of your night immersed in delightful conversation. You talked about everything, from favorite foods to childhood pets, even playing a round of Never Have I Ever that left you laughing until your belly ached. Little by little, you felt yourself ease into their presence, becoming more comfortable and more capable of being yourself.

Still, you couldn’t help but notice the way III continued to look at you, his eyes always focused on you, lingering, assessing. You felt a knot in the deep parts of your gut. Was he checking you out? You felt like it was possible, but you didn’t want to read into it. You had a job to do. So instead, you continued to relax into the joyful company until the late hours of the night.

The next day was measuring day. You had everything you needed ready to go in your tote, and your head was swimming with ideas. The fact that your work was going to be worn by such talented musicians still felt unreal. Even more unreal after the incredible night you had just had. You couldn’t believe how sweet they all were, and they seemed just as in love with your art as you were with their music. The entire opportunity was a dream come true.

You arrived at the same manor as the night before, but this time you were led to a small sitting room flooded with natural light. Starting with Vessel, you met with each member one-by-one, having them sit on a stool in front of you while you gathered the data you needed.

While you worked, you chatted with them. They asked you questions about your art, and you asked similar questions back about their music. You listened intently, knowing that understanding their music on a deeper level would help you create better masks. Each interaction left you joyful and smiling. You still could not believe you were here with them, and how readily they welcomed you into their world.

The final member to measure was III. You could not lie to yourself, you had been the most excited to meet with him. You had spent your nighttime hours thinking about him, wondering what it would feel like to have him hold you, touch you, kiss you…

“Good morning Y/N.” IIIs voice pulled you out of your thoughts. Could he hear how loud your heart was beating?

“Good morning III,” you greeted him, plastering what you hoped was a nonchalant smile on your face. He looked ethereal, wearing a long-sleeve black button-down, and black jeans that perfectly accentuated his long legs. Just be professional, you reminded yourself. “Take a seat please, and we can get started.”

“Yes ma’am,” he quipped. Even as he sat, he still towered over you.

You pulled out your measuring tape and a pen and paper. Starting with his forehead, you drew the tape along the various planes of his face. Your fingers tickled with electricity as they studied the contours of his features under the black fabric of his mask.

The whole time, III gazed up at you with blue-grey eyes.

“Does it make it more difficult that we are masked while you’re doing this?” he asked you.

“Actually, it’s a bit easier,” you replied. “I can use the dimensions of your existing mask, rather than having to create complete new ones.”

He hummed with understanding. “Tell me more about your art. Why do you make masks?”

God, just him talking to you was getting you worked up.

“I’ve always been interested in the idea of losing oneself to one’s appearance. Whether it is a costume, makeup, tattoos, I often wonder if we use these things to hide ourselves, or to express ourselves more truly.” Your hands now measured the strong bridge of his nose. “Masks seem like the penultimate of this question. When we hide our faces, are we really hiding, or does the anonymity allow us to more fully be who we are?”

“How beautifully put.” Now you guided the tape along his jawline, feeling its sharpness under the fabric mask. Your fingers lightly traced the exposed skin of his neck, and you felt him stiffen. “A beautiful mind, beautiful art, a beautiful woman,” he said softly.

Your breath caught at his words and you shifted slightly. As you moved, your foot caught on his and you lost your balance, starting to fall backwards. But before you hit the ground, III’s strong arms wrapped around your waist pulling you towards his chest. His warmth, the strong muscles of his body, the musky smell of his cologne — all of it came crashing into you.

“Woah there love. I’ve got you.” He murmured into your hair as he continued holding you close. “I don’t need you getting hurt now. I’m not sure I could live with myself if you got hurt on my watch.”

You chuckled softly, but made no motion to pull away. “Thank you III. You just caught me off guard I guess.”

“Come now, I’m sure you’re used to such compliments.”

You felt yourself becoming braver now that you knew what he was trying to tell you. Now that his hands were starting to explore your waist, thumbs running small circles just under your breasts. “Ah, but I’ve never received such compliments from someone so��”

“Devilishly handsome?” he pulled back slightly, smirking down at you.

“So incredibly fucking hot.”

Two seconds. You felt him pause for two seconds while he registered what you said. By the third second, he had pulled the fabric of his mask up to his nose, wrapped his hands in your hair, and brought his lips down to meet yours.

The intensity of his kiss was ferocious. His teeth clattered into yours before he spread your lips with his tongue, sliding it in to meet your own. You kissed him back fiercely, as your hands explored his chest, his back, and finally ventured down to his ass.

That touch seemed to light him up even more, as suddenly he was picking you up to carry you towards the couch. He laid you on your back, spread your legs apart with his knee, and then proceeded to kiss you again as he knelt over you. This time, his kiss was more measured, slow and sensual. Your attention drifted to his knee pressing up against your core. He bit your lip gently. “Y/N, my love, you tell me when to stop, alright?”

“Alright,” you replied, gazing up into those stunning eyes, lids now heavy with lust.

You continued to kiss passionately while his hands explored your body, and then traveled up under your shirt. He took your breast in his large hand, thumb circling your nipple. “You are just perfect, aren’t you?”

You bucked to his touch, as your own hands worked to remove the buttons of his shirt. As he poised above you, now shirtless, his hair beginning to shine with sweat, you felt as though you were looking at a god.

“III?” You said softly, tracing a finger down his chest.

“Yes, my love?”

“Let me worship you.”

He growled at your words. You gently guided him off of you, until he was standing before you. Getting down on your knees, you started to unbutton his pants while his hands circled through your hair.

When he was fully unclothed, his massive length sprung out towards you. You were going to spend every second treating him like the god he was, you thought to yourself, as you took him in your mouth.

“Y/N,” he groaned. “That feels so fucking good.” His fingers in your hair tightened, and you welcome the little bite of sensation. You continued to pleasure him, savoring his taste, enjoying the way his breath sped up at your touch.

After you had taken your time with him, you felt a soft touch at your chin. “My love,” he said, taking your face to look up at him. “It is my turn to worship you.”

III guided you up to stand before him, and began to undress you. He took his time, letting his fingers caress your skin, kissing you along your collarbones, your shoulders, and down your chest. Once you were fully naked, he took a step back to admire you. Your body burned beneath his gaze.

“You, my love, are a work of art.”

And then his hands were everywhere. They wrapped around you, pulling you close. You felt his cock, still wet from your spit, pressing into your belly. His hands grabbed your ass, your waist, and then began drifting towards your center until his long fingers landed softly on your clit.

You let out a soft gasp, realizing how much you had needed him to touch you there. He traced lazy circles around your clit as he kissed your neck. You knees began to tremble at his touch.

Seeming to sense your inability to keep yourself upright, he guided you back to the couch and laid you down, fingers never leaving the wetness between your legs.

“I love how wet I’m making you,” he whispered, smirking. “My girl deserves nothing but absolute pleasure.”

You whimpered at his words as your hips arched towards him, wanting more.

“Tell me what you want, my love,” he breathed into your ear. “Tell me how to pleasure you.”

You looked into his eyes, meeting those cool blue depths. “I want all of you III. I want to feel you in me.”

It was like your words had released the final thread. III kissed you again, claiming your lips in his, as he pushed himself inside you.

It felt like heaven. His body in yours, your lips in his, the heat of your bodies like a fire between you. He rocked his hips in a steady rhythm, hitting you deep in your center every time, filling your eyes with stars.

Eden.

His fingers worked their way into your mouth, flooding you with your own taste. Your eyes met, locked together while III pounded into you, deeper with every stroke.

You came together, your body catapulting into a realm of intense pleasure as his fingers gripped the soft flesh of your hips, his head falling back as he reached his own climax. You relished in the warmth, the sense of fullness within you.

Slowly, your breathing softened. III pulled you close, and you both spent a few quiet moments settled in each other’s presence. The rain had started up again, spattering the windows and softening the daylight.

III’s fingers traced soft circles on your back as he held you. “Y/N, my love, I could do that forever.”

You knew in your heart you felt the same. So you pulled III closer and held on tight.

#sleep token #iii #sleep token iii #fanfiction #smut #writing #sleep token fanfiction

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manicrouge · 10 months ago

Text

Episode Two: The Barmaid

[𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛] || [𝙰𝚄: 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚢 𝙱𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜] || 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

[𝙳𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍]: 17/01/23

[𝙰𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝]: Graves settles well into his position in the cities police force while you attempt to fit into the crowd at the Hindsight.

[𝙲𝚠]: public sex, mentions of PTSD, gender norms of the time period, discussion involving religion

[𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝]: 7.2k

[𝙰/𝙽]: Part two is here !! I hope you enjoy and if you haven't read Part One of the series, I highly advise you do so before proceeding with this part !!

ENJOY!!

Comments are always appreciated !!

SERIES MASTERLIST

Please don't post my work anywhere else without my permission !!

You walk down the street from the home you have been provided with a weariness about you as you head through an unfamiliar area. It's hardly due to the fact that you're afraid of anything; you can handle yourself, and frankly, you have been in much tougher situations than the one you find yourself in at this very moment. It's nothing more than a relaxed walk down the street as you make your way towards the pub you have been told Mr. Price frequents. It's located two streets away from your home and while usually, you enjoy walking, you find your feet dragging as you're greeted by the people of the city.

When you arrived last night, you went straight to bed; a day of travel left you weary, besides, the pub was still open and you could hardly have gotten a word in if you had went then. So, you walk down the street, eyeing the building with a squinted gaze going over your plan in your head. It's nothing tough; you simply have to charm the man enough for you to get a job there.

You've checked the paper- did so during breakfast this morning, sipping on your cup of tea at the small dining table as your eyes scanned the page, relieved to find that the request is still in the paper.

Despite being already secure in a job, you find yourself shaking at the thought of doing an interview again. Perhaps it's the very fact that the entirety of your side of this mission relies on you getting the job here; you're hardly sure Mr. Price is going to willingly accept you as his secretary or a worker in his business. So, this is all you’ve got.

Flames breathe against your flesh as you pass by the iron works besides you and you wince at the sudden warmth kissing your skin. It reaches through the maroon cardigan you're wearing as you keep you look at the working men in the street who are shovelling coal from off of the pathway. Your heels are uneven on the road, the scattered stones causing you to walk with a slight stagger as you're cautious not to fall.

The roads in London are much better than this place. The roads are smoother, the air is somewhat cleaner, and the people on the street have much more of a decency about themselves than the people surrounding you do. Part of you wishes to be back home, to be free from what you have been tasked. Not through fear, however, rather through utter inconvenience.

Graves gets to do the fun shit, meanwhile, you're supposed to rot in a musty old pub. That hardly seems fair to you.

Finally, you make it to the doors of the pub, not hesitating to push them open. It's early, and part of you is shocked that they open with such ease, though, you don't detest such as you proceed forward, pushing open another set of doors.

Upon walking in, you're greeted with the sight of the Hindsight, the innards being but the standard pub. Light merely manages to get through the windows to the left of you, the majority of the chairs and boots located there. To your right, just before the bar, you note that there are two doors which are shut. It's a peculiar addition, though, you suppose you'll learn eventually when you get your position as the trusted barmaid what exactly is contained in there.

There's a creak from behind the bar as a door is pushed open and you're greeted by the sight of a man standing behind the bar. There's a dirty rag resting on his shoulder, an apron wrapped around his waist as his brow wrinkles at the sight of you.

'We're closed,' he answers, 'come back at noon, yeah?'

Wrapping your arms around yourself, you stalk up to the bar with him in your sights.

'I'm here for the barmaid position,' you respond.

The man standing behind the bar looks you up and down before he begins to laugh. You're confused as to what exactly he finds so funny about your request, and while you're used to looks similar to his, his laughter is working well to boil your blood. Standing dumbly, you clench your teeth as he quells from his sudden outburst of mockery.

'Yeah, no, sorry, the position has been filled already,' he bluntly states, a little breathless, 'you'll 'ave to go somewhere else.'

Pressing your hands against the countertop of the bar, you narrow your eyes. 'That's not what this mornings paper said,' you respond sharply, 'the position hasn't been filled, you need a barmaid.'

An exasperated sigh escapes the latter's mouth as he pulls the rag off of his shoulder, grabbing a random glass from behind him, wiping it around the rim. 'And I told you the position has been filled.'

You scoff, 'and I'm telling you that that isn't what this mornings paper said. Is this why the position is still available? Do you turn away every single woman who walks through these doors?'

'Someone like you shouldn't work in a place like this,' he retorts, 'trust me, love, I'm doing you a favour; you're too pretty to work in a place like this. They’d eat you right up.’

Frustration is evident on your face, you're sure of it. The man stares at you as though you're an idiot, some sort of dumb broad who isn't able to handle herself. It's demeaning and disheartening to be a part of such judgement, yet, you find yourself more desperate to get this job. Besides, if you don't get this job, you're fucked.

'Let me do a trial shift,' you bargain, reaching into the pocket of your cardigan, retrieving a list of references from supposed old employers.

Setting the glass down, he pulls the piece of paper from your hand, his eyes scanning over it.

'I worked in a pub in London,' you explain, 'it got blown up during the war and both of the owners died- that place was my life; I used to sing there to keep spirits high when things were looking drab during the war and it really helped them,' you ramble, 'all I'm asking for is a trial shift. One shift and I'll prove to you that I'm more than capable of working for you and working in a place like this.’

You're red in the face by the time you finish and the piece of paper is placed back into your hand. His expression is hard as he looks at you. 'One shift,' he says with a nod, 'if I like y' enough you can stay on, but any mistakes and you're gone. Got it?'

A smirk appears on your face as you eagerly nod your head.

─

Paradise is void in the land of the unholy, and as he walks down the road in the direction of the police station, he is greeted with such unlawfulness that it has his poor holy heart in shambles.

The lack of human decency, the greediness of his own kind is terrible in the land he's found himself in, and despite the errors in their ways, he can't seem to keep himself from looking at the crimes unfolding before him.

There are children playing in the street, darting past him with excitable little squeals. Their faces are covered in muck- they look as though a good bath would kill them, however, they don't seem to care as the entertain each other in their own little worlds. He supposes joy in such an area must be difficult to come by, the only source of laughter most likely being from their games.

Pleasure is plentiful, however.

He knows that as he progresses further down the street, and tucked away in a corner beside the iron works, there's a small entry where his ears catch obvious moans and the crude sound of skin slapping against each other. He pauses for a moment, craning his neck to look around the corner.

In broad daylight, he's shocked to find a woman with her hands pressed up against the mouldy wall in an attempt to steady herself. Her cheek is pressed against the wall, turning to face the passers by and her mouth is held open as her entire body rocks forward and backwards in a fluid motion. The grey fabric of her skirt is hiked up, exposing her legs and her ass, her white cotton panties sitting half-way down her thighs.

It's quite the sight to behold, truly.

Then there's her customer (from what he assumes). Dirty nails dig into her hips, keeping her skirt up as he fucks her against the wall. His teeth dig into his thin bottom lip, and the longer Graves' eyes linger the more he makes the connection between the man's attire and the clinking metal shovel of the factory sitting beside him.

He maintains a grimace as he passes the couple by, their indecency being so careless that he even finds himself wide eyed at what he has just encountered.

As he passes by the pub, he takes note of one of the officers patrolling the area. He's tubby, thick legs carrying him across the road. Allowing his eyes to follow him, he notes the way he lifts his hand to the brim of his tall black hat, tilting it in the direction of someone behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he follows the officers gaze to spot a man with a flat cap walking towards the pub.

'Afternoon MacTavish!' chimes the officer with a grin which Graves does not miss.

Tugging the cap off of his head, the man brushes his fingers through his mohawk. 'Afternoon sir!' he calls, placing the hat back on his head, walking merrily to the pub, leaving the officer to continue on his patrol.

Inwardly, he feels heat clawing at his insides from such an exchange. For the officer to be so friendly to someone who he knows for a fact is one of Price's lapdogs makes him sick to his very stomach. Both of them are making a mockery of a system which is supposed to be honoured.

Fortunately, he knows he is more than capable of dealing with him, therefore, there's no need to threat in the sight of such a friendly interaction; it will be one of his last.

Allowing his anger to stew, he proceeds with his adjective of arriving to the station knowing well that his men are waiting for him there and his arrival is expected of him. They will rid the streets of the mess, he's more than sure of it as he lifts his head, barely stepping over a filthy puddle as he continues with his pursuit of justice and fulfilment.

─

Walking through the doors, he pauses for a moment, lifting his head up to observe the sight he's been greeted with behind the bar. He's nearly winded as he sees you behind the bar, cleaning rag in your hand as you wipes down the bar with ease.

Unfamiliar with the sight of you, he approaches with ease, soaking in your dainty red cardigan. A grin meets his face as he approaches the bar, taking a seat, pulling the hat off of his head and placing it down on top of the bar.

You approach the man sitting opposite to you with a smile on your face, placing the cloth down as you bring your hands together. You recognise him; he's familiar and you find yourself trying to piece together which one he is from the reports you had been provided.

'What can I get for you, sir?' you chime politely.

He grins at your words, digging his hands into his pocket, 'whiskey please, lassie,' he answers, pushing the coin towards you.

Nodding promptly, you turn away from him and his eyes remain on you as you grab the glass bottle of whiskey from behind the counter. 'I've never seen you around 'ere, you new?'

Looking over your shoulder, you offer the man a smile, nodding your head as you turn to grab a glass, placing it on the counter as you unscrew the lid and pour the liquor into it.

'Trial shift,' you answer, 'moved from London to here.'

'Why would you ever wanna leave there?' he scoffs, 'exchanged the biggest city in the country to come to this shithole you have, bonnie,’ he says, picking up the glass and bringing it to his mouth.

'I could say the same thing to you; I imagine Scotland to be a lot nicer than the cities around here,' you respond, watching as the mans brow furrows. A small grin appears on your face and you fight off the urge to roll your eyes at his confusion. 'Your accent gives it away,' you explain, though you knew such even without hearing him open his mouth.

A bright grin forms on his face as he nods his head, almost seeming honoured at your acknowledgement of his home. If anything, you spy a sombre glint in his eyes as he nods his head, letting out a long exhale.

'Aye, you're right on that,' he says with a nod, 'a shame that bein' here is better for me than bein' home.'

'Do you not have family back home?' you ask.

'I do,' he says, watching as you slide the coin off of the bar, 'business n' work is 'ere though- makes it easier on me mam if I stay here; make a decent penny for myself and my family back at home.'

I'm sure you do.

'How long have you been living here?'

Part of you expects him to turn his nose up at the question you've asked him, for him to tell you that you're digging for too much. Besides, that's what people like him are usually like, right? Cold, untrusting, harsh. Yet, despite your assumption, you note the fact that his lips curl upwards.

'Not long,' he says, 'I served in the army during the war, got close to the boys in my regiment,' he explains, 'we fought tooth and nail together on the daily- had to learn how to trust each other and after everythin' we went through there, I don't think I could have left them,' he explains, 'bonded by experience, but not by blood.'

'Thank you for your service,' you respond genuinely.

'Nowt to thank me for, lassie; I did th’ easy part, kept me head down 'n followed orders,' he speaks with a smile, setting his empty glass down, grabbing another coin from his pocket.

Carefully, you look around, spying the very fact that James is nowhere to be seen. So, you hold your hand up and shake your head, grabbing the bottle of whiskey, pouring some more into his cup.

'Hardly seems easy,' you answer, 'although, if you want me to, I'll take your word for it.'

'How about you, lass?' he asks, 'what made you wanna move from the city to a place like this? You're far too pretty to be working as a barmaid.'

His voice is sweet, his sentiment on the edge of being overbearing, though, you'd be a liar if you say his words were charming.

'I needed a break from there,' you answer, 'I worked as a barmaid in a pub in London, but during the last part of the war it was bombed and the owners didn't survive.'

He frowns at you.

'I'm sorry to hear that, bonnie,’ he says, grabbing his glass off of the bar.

'Not your fault,' you shrug, 'there was nothin' left for me in London after that so I moved, thought a change of scenery would be better... that's how I ended up here.'

'Well, I welcome ye to the city, even though y'u'd be better off elsewhere,' he breathes, pushing himself up from off of the bar stool, finishing the drink you have just poured him. 'Hope t' see you around more,' he says earnestly, looking to the right of you as the door behind the bar creeks open while placing the now empty glass down. 'Y' got yourself a good lass 'ere, Jay,' he calls to James, 'keep 'er for us, alright?'

Your cheeks flush red as he winks at you before leaving out of the door. James looks at you with a raised eyebrow, seemingly for some for of answer. The best you can offer him is the shrug of your shoulders as you grab the man's abandoned glass and busy yourself with cleaning it until the next customer walks through the door.

─

It's silent as he enters the room, something he's been accustomed too since his time in the police force back home. A grin meets his face, gleaming white teeth greeting all the men who stand behind their desks in their large office.

Really, they have been hard done by, their office is grand though, the interior and scent of tobacco really bring down the interior down in the grand scheme of things. Much more of a pub than an establishment of law and order.

His pointed leather shoes click against the wooden ground as he walks down one of the aisles between the desks, his eyes narrow as he looks over the faces of the police officers who look at him with raised brows. There's a fear etched on their faces; they know real justice has just burst through the door, and by the time that he leaves, he knows for a fact there will be a hole no one else will be able to fill.

Bringing his hands together, he tugs at the cuffs of his navy blue blazer, stepping upon the stage stationed at the front of the room. Pulling his hat from off of the top of his head, his expression remains stoic as he clears his throat, resting his hat on the oak podium before him.

'Now, I've been called here to right your wrongs, gentlemen!' he exclaims, looking out on the sea of black hats and coats. 'Get paid to do a job you can't even fuckin' do... that right, is it?' he asks, tilting his head to the side. Pursing his lips, he laughs to himself while shaking his head. 'No, of course not, y' get paid for this job and another, don't you? On the payroll of John Price, and all for what? Is his pay worth more than the cause you've committed your lives to, huh?'

No one speaks, not daring to interrupt him.

If they did have their objections, he's more than sure they will air them out some other way- not to his face. Besides, it's insulting to have someone to come into your line of work and do it better than you ever could (not that he would know, of course).

'The streets of this city are flooded with the unholy, hell, even I'm convinced God has turned his back on this city 'cause no fuckin' Lord would wanna look down on here,' he laughs, placing his hands either side of the platform, leaning in. 'lucky for the Lord, I'm here to right the wrongs of all of you; you keep going like this: the corruption, the blind eye, the lies, why, you men might very well have assisted in the creation of hell on Earth.'

At the front of the crowd, he notes a man shifting, his thin lips moving as his wrinkle brow creases. It's unflattering; he's much too chubby to convey the sharpness he believes he's intending to show to warn the man off of continuing on his verbal tirade. Their eyes meet and Graves mends his posture, holding his hand out to the man.

'You got an issue?' he asks.

The man looks at him with wide eyes, opening his mouth to allow a breath to escape. There's nothing left for him to do aside from stammer over his words or keep his mouth shut. He picks the latter, bowing his head as Graves eyes him, though the man is not going to allow such an opportunity to get away from him.

If he wants to speak, then he can speak.

'No goin' quiet on me now, officer!' he announces brightly, holding his arms out either side of him with a shit-eating grin on his face. The officer startles, quickly lifting his head up when he realises that the man on the podium is looking to him for an answer. ‘Go on, junior, talk to me. What's wrong?'

Much to his surprise, the man's eyes harden as he looks at him, speaking, 'I think we've all been doing a good job here,' he states.

Graves bursts out laughing.

Tilting his head back, he brings his hands together in an obnoxious manner, the clap resonating off of the walls of the room. He could cry with laughter, go red in the face with teary eyes after hearing such, though, he reels it in just enough to remain professional.

Professionality and mockery hardly go together nicely. Besides, he's supposed to be playing the role of good cop.

'Good one, officer,' he says with a smile, 'on my journey here, I saw two people fucking in an alleyway- and you mean to tell me that you're doing a good job at keeping everything in order?' he asks, 'bull-fucking-shit, sir! Couldn't be further from it, especially, when you're all still takin' hush money off of John Price.'

Despite the very fact that he believes all of them knew he's well educated when it comes to the ways of the lore, he's rendered breathless as he catches the paling faces of the officers in the room.

'You really thought I didn't know that?' he scoffs, 'well, gentlemen, no longer are you going to be obeying the word of Price; I have some men on hand to assist me,' he explains, looking in front of him to the door he walked through to get into the room. 'Come on in, Shadows!'

One by one, men dressed in informal attire walk through the door.

They file in strictly in a line, approaching the podium he's standing upon, walking to cover the space behind him. His expression softens at the sight of the individuals flooding through the doors all to stand by his side. As they continue through the doors he opens his mouth again to continue onwards with his speech.

'Today is a new dawn gentlemen, no longer are you going to allow yourselves to fall into the hands of the devil, oh no,' he smirks, 'today is the day you see the light! Where you are taken into the arms of myself and the Shadows and shown what you can be without John Price.'

It’s eccentric, he knows it as he speaks; he's hardly ever been one to bat an eye to the sky for longer than necessary. Though, admittedly, it's performative, it's somewhat of a calling for him. So, he takes his strides in colour as he looks over his shoulders at the men surrounding him.

'These men will be in uniform and on the look out for any signs of the missing guns as instructed by Mr. Churchill,' he explains, trailing his tongue over his bottom lip. Then, he turns to the men stationed behind him with a bright grin, his heart beaming with pride. 'Shadows, these officers are your brothers now, I expect you to treat them as you would a family member- there is solidarity to be established, and I hope I can trust you men to walk into the light and stray away from the darkness.'

There's nothing more to be said, he knows that and he's never really been one to outstay his welcome. So, with a short breath, he motions back towards the door they all appeared through, nodding his head.

'Any questions?' he asks as his men begin to file through the door.

Eyes meet his though no hands raise. Fortunately, he's covered everything they need to know and he got to insult them during such which is always a bonus.

'Good,' he smiles, 'I look forward to workin' with you men, make sure you make it worth both my time and your own, yeah?'

The only sound he can hear is the footsteps of the Shadows.

Trailing his tongue over the inside of his mouth, he exhales deeply in a similar manner to that of a disappointed father. 'I said,' he begins, 'make sure you make it worth both my time and your own, yeah?'

Heads turn as they look at each other before their eyes fall back onto his. In a collective tone, the entirety of the room of officers muster up a (pathetic) 'yes sir.'

It's enough to appease his appetite as he gives them another short nod.

'Tomorrow is a new day, gentlemen,' he says with a short nod, 'don't let the worries or commitments of today get in the way of our task; we're in this together,' he firmly states.

As though he's a victor walking out from battle, he leaves the room with his head raised high. His heart very well could have burst through his chest from the sheer adrenaline of such a situation.

Change is imminent, however, and he knows that in life there's only three things people can't out run: death, taxes, and him.

─

As the day dies down and the sun begins to set, you find the night life in the city solely exists in the little pub you're working at. It's not necessarily a gruelling task, though, admittedly, you feel your chest tighten every time you think about Phillip getting to do the fun job. Meanwhile, you're sitting in a pub in smoke ridden air, and the only source of entertainment is the slurred conversations of the bumbling drunks.

Your back is hurting from how long you've been standing up and you can't quite place where and when Mr. Price is going to make his appearance.

Of course, you met the Scot of their group earlier on in the day, though, he isn't the one you're after, nor the one who intrigues you so much. It's a simple ask, you think, to meet the man who has had the entirety of the government up in arms.

What's so bad about John Price?

Perhaps he is not as bad as people say he is, maybe, just maybe, for once, people have been incorrect about their assessment of someone. After all, you've been over his file time and time again searching for something terrible he has done. There are assumptions of his guilt- that he has done some truly despicable things and you suppose you're flawed in the sense that you're actively seeking some form of justification for the man whose eyes have stared back at you from the paper.

But how could someone who fought for order in the trenches fall so far from grace?

'Excuse me, love,' a voice calls.

You startle awake, a breath escaping you as you catch the very same eyes you have been so acquainted with for weeks on end. He's there, right in front of you, and he's looking at you. Nothing feels particularly real to you until he blinks; then you know he's more than a bit of ink on a page. Now, he's a living and breathing human being.

Your cheeks flush red as he continues to look at you and you find it a struggle to keep your mind trained on only one thing. Professionalism is chucked out of the window as you assess how he has changed from the photo in your file. He's much more mature, a full beard and the eyes branded with grey ink dark blue as he looks at you.

Taking a moment, you inhale deeply, smiling at him. 'Sorry, what can I get for you?' you ask, shrugging off the blatant internal panic. You settle quickly as he shifts, placing his hand on the inside of his blazer, grabbing a carton of cigars.

'Bottle of scotch,' he says simply.

Without another word, you nod your head and turn your back to him. The initial shock is dealt with; you knew you were going to meet him eventually and you suppose the first encounter is always going to be the scariest.

Still, as you turn around to address the man again, you find it difficult to see him committing some of the crimes he has been accused of committing.

'That will be....'

Price raises his eyebrow, the sudden change on his face leaving your mouth dry.

James appears beside you, quickly holding his arm out in front of you. His forearm presses against your stomach and you're moved back as he looks to John with a glint in his eyes.

'On the house as always, John,' he says firmly, not even bothering to give you a look. There's a caution in his tone, warning off the form of threat. Your brows furrow as you look to the man sitting in front of you. Grabbing the bottle of whiskey on the counter, you don't miss the smirk on his face as he looks at you before looking at James.

'We'll be in the side room. Do me a favour, love, get me four glasses and bring them to me,' he breathes before leaving. You watch idly as he walks away, jumping as a firm hand grabs your shoulder.

James looks down at you with weary eyes, his nostrils flared. 'Whenever he comes in- any of the men in the flat caps, you give them whatever they want on the house,' he says.

'Why?' you ask with furrowed brows, recalling how the Scot paid for his drink earlier on in the day.

'Because you just do,' he responds, 'when I say something is on the house, you do as I say and you listen to me. They don't pay for their drinks... now go and fetch him the glasses- don't keep him waiting.'

Letting go of your shoulder, he turns to grab four clean glasses, handing them to you. His brow is still wrinkled and you feel as though you have sinned in the eyes of Mr. Price. Such a reaction for such a simple blunder starts to have your mind switching. Perhaps he isn't as bad as your file on him describes him to be.

Perhaps he's worse than what they say.

The glasses in your hand feel heavy as you leave the safety of the bar, walking around to the small door located to the side. Fortunately, he's left the door open for you, and as you step into the room, you're surprised to see that there is only him.

Placing the glasses down onto the table, you quickly turn on your heel with the intent of leaving him.

'In a rush?' he asks, humour dripping off of his tone as he chuckles.

'You have company,' you say, 'I don't want to get in the way of that, sir.’

There's a glint in his eyes as you look at him with a tight brow. You're expecting to be told off as he opens his mouth; you sense the disappointment in his eyes as he stares at you. Disgruntled, maybe, you're unsure; he's difficult to read aS you can't see his eyes under his hat.

As you move backwards to head back towards the bar, the door to your left is thrown open and you wince, staggering back in preparation for the hit. Only, you're pulled backwards, the warmth of the man standing behind you pressing against your back as a startled gasp escapes your mouth. His hold on you is firm and as you peer outwards, you catch sight of a man.

He's tall, of huge stature, similar to how you imagine minotaurs are built. Holding his hands against his head, he's rambling out silent curses, red rings around his eyes as he stumbles through the pub as though he is lost. His hands tremble as he pulls them off of his head, dragging them down his face with an exasperated sigh.

He looks haunted. Plagued.

Never in your life have you seen someone with such weight on their shoulders. He continues to ramble, sniffing as his eyes well with tears.

'T- They're gonna get me, they're gonna kill me, they're gonna kill everyone,' he blurts out.

Your heart aches at the very sight of him.

'Go home, Blake!' a voice barks from behind the bar.

You fight off the urge to snarl at the very sound of James’ voice. Of course, you're here for one thing and one thing only- to get the guns back, but, as you look at the man who is larger than life reduced to that of a trembling infant, you struggle to fight off your sympathies for the people in the city.

Corruption and war has destroyed this place.

Mr. Price pulls you to the side before letting go of your waist. Much to your surprise, he approaches the man who even towers over him, despite his large build. Blake doesn't flinch when Price grabs his face, nor does he stop trembling as the man looks him in the eyes.

'You're home, mate,' he utters, his tone guttural as he looks the man dead in the eyes.

'T- They're here, I can hear them- I can hear them Cap'n,' croaks the man, 'hiding in the walls, waitin' to pounce on me... they're waitin' to kill me. I can hear them scratchin’. Cap'n- why aren't you doin' anything to stop them?'

You watch as Mr. Price barely manages to heave out a breath as he keeps a tight hold on the man's face. There's something between the pair of them, a bond you note from the way he's gone out of the way to look out for the petrified man.

'I did do somethin' to make 'em stop, Blake,' he says softly, 'remember? Got you out of the war, didn't I?' he asks. 'We're home mate, we're not in the trenches- nowhere near the enemy now, yeah?' he coaxes with such gentleness that the fear in James' expression moments prior seems pointless.

There's a shift as his body hardens and he blinks a few times- it seems the wires in his brain have been switched. Seemingly having been cured by the man whom so many fear.

'Oh shit,' he breathes as Price releases his hold on him. 'Did I do it again?' he asks, looking around the rest of the pub. You're sure they're all looking at him despite being sheltered rom most of the guests in the small room you're standing in.

'Yeah,' Price confirms briefly, patting the taller man on the shoulder.

'I- I'm sorry Cap'n I didn't realise, b- but I swear I heard them, I heard the gun shots—'

'At ease, private,' Price states sharply, keeping him from blabbering onwards about his troubles. It seems to clear his foggy mind in an instance as he nods his head.

'Sorry,' mumbles the man as a child would when being scolded by their father.

'Go home,’ instructs the latter, 'go back home to your missus and little girl, they're waiting for you, Blake; you're home and you're safe- but if you keep doin' this, you're gonna get yourself in more trouble than it is worth, right?'

The door behind you squeals again and you're greeted with the sight of Johnny and two other men standing behind him. John looks to the trio, 'Johnny, take him home for me,' he instructs.

'C'mon Blake,' Johnny says, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, pulling him along with him. If the man didn't want to go with him, he truly had no choice as the Scot practically pulled him out of the door. Still, you don't move from the little room, simply standing and watching as the entire scene unfolds before you.

John slowly turns to address the room, and it's when he does this that you finally take a moment to step out and see that everyone in the pub is staring at him. Despite the eyes, he doesn't seem bothered- in fact, a sneer appears on his face.

'He's gone, stop looking,' he harshly states with a shake of his head.

It's as though he's cast some sort of spell on everyone as they all snap their heads away from the scene of the crime, opting to go back to whatever conversations they were having prior.

'You need to get him under control John; he was one step away from wrecking the fuckin' place again,' James barks from behind the bar, the fear he had moments before dissipating as he yells at the man. 'I'm not payin' you to keep this place safe for nothin'.'

Instead of answering the man, Price turns his attention back to you as you're standing in the doorway. You feel his eyes trail over your body, though, from the look on his face, you're quite sure pervertedness is not his motive. Such is confirmed as he reaches his hand out to grasp your forearm, ignoring the two men standing behind him.

'If you had listened to me,' he begins lowly, 'you wouldn't have almost been knocked out by the door.'

His grasp on your arm is light, although, you're more than aware that the hand holding you has blood on it. Even if it has been washed thoroughly with soap and water, you're sure in the night whenever he dreams, the red stain will always be a recurring character; no one can escape such, you know that and you know that well.

Despite his manner being that of a stern father, there's something in his tone that states that he knows better than you. You're not beyond acknowledging that, yes, if he didn't pull you out of the way, you very well would have been on the floor with a broken nose gushing with blood.

Even then, with the way he addresses you, you can't help the twist in your gut, the demeaning eyes of a man on you causing your skin to crawl.

'I would have been fine,' you retort sharply, 'I've been hit harder than that,' you add.

With that, you pull your arm out of his grasp, moving past him and back into the main part of the pub. You feel his eyes remaining on you as you leave, though, you don't flinch nor do you offer any form of reaction.

You’re here for the guns, not the enemy.

─

'You've got t' stop doin' this, mate,' Johnny states, walking beside the man as they grow further and further away from the pub. The taller man walks beside him, hanging his head as though he's a toddler who has been scolded by his parents. His arms hang against his side, feet kicking stones on the road as he listens to the Scot. 'If y' don't stop, you're only gonna get y'urself in more trouble- I don't want that for ye, none of us do.'

It's difficult to stomach the sight of his brother beside him, ho he's rotting from the inside out all because that dastardly mind of his incapable of forgetting. Sure, he can't be blamed; Johnny knows well the effects of war. But, there comes a time where he's going to have to man up, and such a time is required right now rather than later.

'I- I'm trying, Johnny, I swear to you that I'm trying my best,' he reassures him. Speaking with his heart only worsens the feeling in the Scots; he knows he sincere, in fact, that's the worst part. 'It's jus'... I'll be fine, but I'll be playing with Esme with her toys an' the littlest thing sets me off.' His voice is strained as he speaks and he lifts his arms up to rub his face. 'A- And then I'm back there, 'm in the trenches with you, John- everyone. I can't breathe, I'm trapped there and I'm convinced they're going to kill me.'

He's on the verge of tears as he speaks, Johnny even feels his own throat tighten at his ramblings.

'I- If I could be okay, I would be, I want nothin' more than to be like you... to be like Cap'n, but I can't and I don't know what's wrong with me.'

Digging his hand into his blazer, he pulls out a carton of cigarettes, looking upwards towards the night sky. The street is empty, the only things he can hear being the crunching of stones and Blake's hoarse breaths.

'I thought when I got out everything would be better... but the guilt of everythin'—'

'Blake,' Johnny sharply says, striking a match and lighting the cigarette between his lips. 'John told you it's fine, y’ gotta stop feelin' bad about what happened.'

'B- But if I was able to cope better then—'

'What happened wasn't y'ur fault and you know that,' he states, taking a drag from his cigarette, 'an' I'm not gonna let you think that you're the only one who has trouble with coping; what we saw out there was sent up from hell.'

'I don't think Luci could even be that horrible,' Blake responds, rubbing his hands together. 'I jus' wanna forget.'

'An' ye will, mate,' Johnny answers, taking a drag from the cigarette, 'y' will do, it's just gonna take time to get there.'

He wonders if there is any timeline where the memories of war would not follow him around.

Perhaps there is, perhaps Blake will forget in due time, although, the longer he looks at him the more he considers the very fact that there is something in the man that is broken. There's no cure to solve a bad memory, no medicine to make it feel better and he dreads to think that one day, they might have to resort to the only solution that can fixed his knotted brain.

It's a pity it's permanent.

As they continue down the road, he passes the cigarette in his hand to the man standing beside him. He takes it with a trembling hand as they continue to progress further down the road. Neither of them say anything as they walk, simply relishing in the silence between them; Johnny supposes he just need some fresh air and alone time with his thoughts to make everything.

Though, such doesn’t last too long as in the distance there's a sound.

It's almost too faint to catch their ears, though, the pair of them are no fools.

For a single moment, it's as though the pair of them are back in the trenches, where the silence of the nighttime dissipating in the matter of seconds after the first gunshot rang out at dawn.

The cigarette in Blake's hand drops to the ground as he snaps his head to Johnny. They stand in the middle of the street for a moment, awaiting the second ring of a gun. Johnny keeps his eyes narrowed on his surroundings.

'You heard that too, right?' Blake asks quickly, 'that one wasn't in me head, it wasn't, right? That was an actual gunshot.’

Johnny offers him a nod.

'C'mon, lets get you home before anythin' else happens.'

𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

TAGS: (If you would like to be added to the tag list let me know!) @forever-twenty-two-years-old @iizx7y @phantomreadsandreblogs @talooolaaloolla @guiltgoreglory

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ceilidho · 10 months ago

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tell me something nuclear winter ghoap NOW!! (bo)

BO!!!!! ok you wanna read what i've got so far?? it's not very much but here's what i have for my project that's tentatively titled "permafrost"

At first, it comes as a series of lights in the distance, a gentle rain like a cascade of falling stars. And then, it goes dark.

It happens over the course of several hours. By the time the dust settles—and it never settles, never really settles, always hangs in the air and renders it unbreathable, unlivable—and the sirens quiet and the last few screams die off, there’s hardly anything left. Hardly anything left living.

The initial blast doesn’t reach up the country and, for that, Johnny lasts the months after the first nuclear bombs are dropped. Somedays, he can barely recollect the hours after the initial impact; they come back in foggy chunks, stumbling out of his house, boots crunching over the glass that had been blown clean out of the windows, covering his eyes against the flash of light and staring out into the distance at the mushrooming cloud of smoke just cresting the horizon. The bottom falling out of him at the sight.

More bombs hit other parts of the continent, several in Russia, throughout Asia and down into Africa, and across the pond as well. The world goes up in flames in an hour. In his cabin up in the Scottish Highlands, crutches jammed under his arms in his haste to limp his way outside, he sees the blast and then hears it a minute or so later. A roar rippling through the air.

It shatters the world.

In the present day, the boat sways where it’s roped to the wharf, the waters choppy. Johnny sits on the deck in a foldout chair, fastening a new head onto his ax, fixing the metal wedge over the eye to hold it in place. The blade is cleaner than the one that’d just cracked, sharp from being run over the whetstone. He pulls his scarf back over his nose when it slips down his face.

His cabin in the Highlands hadn’t been a viable choice for longer than a few months, not after the cold had finally begun to set in. Too far up north. He’d made his way down south over the course of weeks, bringing with him only as much as he could carry. A bittersweet goodbye to the summer home of his youth, a hand laid flat against the door before turning on his heel and starting the long trek south.

It’s not any warmer farther down south, particularly around the coast where the wind gets bitterly cold, sinking into the bone. He’d found the boat on a whim, the only structure still relatively intact and, most importantly, isolated.

Making his home on an old boat might not win him any awards for brightest idea, but the downside to traveling further into the country, away from the untenable glacial weather up north, is that it coincides with the areas where the bombs were dropped, leaving limited options for shelter.

Months pass. Years pass.

His ankle healed funny all those years ago from prolonged bouts of starvation before desperation kicked in and from traveling miles on foot. He’d driven a portion of the way down north until the roads had outlived their usefulness—asphalt cracked, chunks of bedrock spiking up out of the ground. The rest he’d managed with his crutches and a single backpack, leaving the car to rot some three hundred or so miles up the country.

It's some strange occurrence, Johnny thinks at age thirty-something (he’s lost count), that his lot be murky, for death to miscount. He witnesses an apocalypse and comes out the other side. Happenstance. Coincidence, that he’s discharged from the military not a month before the first bomb hits London and leaves a crater that never fills, that never heals. A pockmark in the earth.

His lips twist bitterly. The price of a long life is a barbed and slick soul.

Immortality sometimes occurs to him, or godship, but neither option rests well with him and Johnny wonders if this is how gods are born: not of sea foam but of inevitability, of miscalculation, of death's err, of smallness, of acorns he carried as a child through pastures behind his summer house.

He sniffs. Cuts that memory off at the quick.

Johnny gives himself a couple more minutes to fiddle around with the ax before looping it into the gear loops on his backpack and buckling it in.

[MISSING STUFF HERE]

Much of the city has returned to nature, rubble encased in snow and ice; the stores have long been looted or reduced to ash from the blast.

#ceil writing

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hobiebrownismygod · 1 year ago

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So on one of my recent posts about Hobie, I got this comment from @unnecessary-account and I thought it was really interesting.

Miles has a connection with the Prowler

That's already been established (Prowler Miles)

We know that Uncle Aaron was the Prowler and he was a 'bad guy' and all that. We know that the Prowler in ITSV was supposed to be a bad guy, with his scary theme, the fact that he worked for Kingpin, and the fact that he was trying to kill Miles until he found out who was under the mask.

But the Hobie Brown Prowler is different.

Hobie Brown was a really smart kid who grew up in a really crappy family. His father left when he was a baby and his mom was an alcoholic. He had 9 siblings and all of them were basically forced to raise themselves.

In order to support himself, he became a window-cleaner who used his intellect to build gadgets to make his job easier. When he was eventually fired, he turned to a life of crime, where he would steal money from the Daily Bugle.

But after a confrontation with Spider-man, he realizes this life of crime sucks and he actually becomes an anti-hero. Spider-man even comes to him for help every once in a while and Hobie joins the Silver Sable group, a group of anti-hero mercenaries that includes Sandman.

"The Prowler gives me control over my own life-- and power. Power I can use to protect the helpless."

The Prowler Issue #1

The Prowler gives Hobie power over himself and his identity

It gives him control over his own life and his own future

Now lets connect this to Spiderman Hobie

Hobie advocates for freedom and free speech. He would want people to have control over themselves and their future. He actively fights against a fascist dictatorship in order to provide human rights for all the citizens of London

Being Spider-man means having the freedom to do these things

Having that mask on means being the voice of the people

That's what being Spider-man is to Spiderman Hobie

Now lets connect this to Miles

The first thought Miles has when he sees Hobie is "Damn. He's way cooler than me."

He's jealous of Hobie, not just cuz he's close with Gwen, but because he's an older boy who knows what he wants, does what he wants, and doesn't have to worry about other people's perceptions of him.

He's the definition of cool

Miles in the meanwhile is struggling to balance his classes, struggling to keep his identity a secret and feeling completely alone in his world

He's struggling with anxiety, panic attacks, maybe even a little bit of depression from what we saw in The Spider Within

He's struggling with the meaning of Spider-man

He's working so hard to protect his city, help the helpless, to fill those shoes that the original Peter Parker left behind. Hobie Brown's Prowler does the same thing, where he takes inspiration from Spider-man to fuel himself and his goals

Miles doesn't have control over his own life. At the end of ATSV, he doesn't even have control over his own future or his own fate.

Hobie Brown wanted control and power. Hobie Brown became the Prowler to have control and power.

Miles Morales wants control and power. Miles is fighting against his canon event because he needs that control over his future and he needs that power in his life.

Because both Spider-man and the Prowler are good people that have been put in tough situations.

And both of them want control over their own lives

Miles and the Hobie Brown Prowler share that connection. Spider-man in general shares that connection with the Prowler. I think that's pretty cool.

This analysis was kinda all over the place, mb 😭

if something doesn't make sense I'm happy to explain it though

Sources under the cut:

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justforbooks · 6 days ago

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Killing Time by Alan Bennett

The author employs his pitch-perfect repertoire of satirical skills in his first book for five years – a novella about the residents of an upmarket care home during the pandemic

Alan Bennett, now 90, hasn’t published anything original in book form for five years. In the meantime – the Covid years and the Johnson years and the Truss month – readers have had to be content with the peerless annual diaries he writes for the London Review of Books, yearly proof that his special ear for English comedy and sudden pathos is undimmed. This novella is in part his reflection on those years, set inevitably in a care home, the unlikely frontline of national crisis during the pandemic.

Bennett, of course, knows his way around those institutional corridors. He inhabited them in perhaps the most memorable episode of his Talking Heads series, Thora Hird’s Waiting for the Telegram. That episode was not remade when Nicholas Hytner recast the whole series during lockdown, in part because social distancing prevented it, and in part because its sentiment might have been too much for the nation to bear. The gap of a couple of years, however, allows Bennett to frame that period with more imaginative certainty.

The story is a kind of parable. It focuses on the residents of Hill Topp House, a self-consciously upmarket establishment that makes the promise to potential “clients” of “a choir on special occasions and a glass of dry sherry”. It is run by the authoritarian Mrs McBryde who threatens her “community” with banishment to “down the hill” to Low Moor, a more basic council facility, in the event of rule-breaking – of which, with inhibitions loosened by frustration and dementia, there is inevitably plenty. It is Mrs McBryde’s belief that the virus, when it comes, will not afflict Hill Topp – the place is too rarefied for common germs, “the wind would take care of them” – but of course those snobberies are no defence.

That wider tragedy is the backdrop to a surface comedy in which Bennett employs his repertoire of middle-England satire: the anticipated pitch-perfect exchanges about chiropody or babies’ names or war memories, those conversational non sequiturs that have survived intact from his awkward childhood. The initial drama is provided by the eldest resident Mr Woodruff, the home’s inveterate flasher. “Are you not curious?” he asks Mrs Foss, a new arrival, of his habit. “No,” she says, “I was in the St John Ambulance Brigade.”

In some ways the book feels like a wry little rejoinder by Bennett to Richard Osman’s The Thursday Murder Club, which has invaded this territory without much nuance or subtlety. Death is a presence here, but it is not to be solved by any senior citizens’ famous five. Instead, the advance of the virus through Hill Topp becomes a vehicle for something odder, after Mrs McBryde herself succumbs despite explaining in A&E that it couldn’t get her (“The disease was something that was supposed to single out old people and the occasional Asian”). In her absence, the surviving residents take back control of their lives – “arthritis permitting, they scampered” – encouraged by Gus, the window cleaner, who provides extra services to the frustrated and the curious – men and women alike – in the tool shed, on a rota.

Even as a young man, Bennett seemed intrigued by the taboo-breaking possibilities of older age. He expressed that loosening of his own buttoned-up nature in the more confessional tone of Untold Stories (2006), which included his frank account of his mother’s depressive illness that shadowed his childhood, and his candidness about being gay. In his 2009 play The Habit of Art, about the last year of WH Auden’s life, he wrote about locating his Late Style, the capitals expressing his ironic sense of that description: “Feeling I’d scarcely arrived at a style, I now find I’m near the end of it. I’m not quite sure what Late Style means except that it’s some sort of licence, a permit for ageing practitioners to kick their heels up.”

This little book proves he is still enjoying finding ways to utilise that authorial blue badge.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #Alan Bennett #Killing Time #book review

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scotianostra · 1 year ago

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On October 15th 1902 Edinburgh's Balmoral Hotel opened its doors for the first time.

Look out for my own connections to this grand old hotel, both in a personal sense and through my home town of Loanhead.

Back then it was called The North British and in Edinburgh a lot of people, myself included, still refer to it by the initials NB.

On Wednesday 15 October, 1902, on the front page of The Scotsman newspaper, a small advert appeared: “North British Station Hotel. This hotel in direct communication with Waverley Station is now open F.T. Burcher, hotel manager.”

According to the hotel’s official history, the North British was “a vanguard for the railway company which built it, a surrogate for the grand station they had never been permitted to erect in the sensitive site between Old and New Town.” The architecture, executed in golden sandstone, features towers and balconies galore. It’s a glorious mash-up of influences from across northern Europe. Expensive to build as well as to run – it gobbled upwards of 200 tons of coal every month – the hotel was seen as a “sign of the future heralded by the railways, the newly opened Forth Bridge and the electric lights switched on in Princes Street just seven years earlier”.

Nevertheless, some believed the Caledonian, which opened a year later, boasted the more advantageous location. And some detractors found the sheer size of the hotel gauche, complaining “it is coarse and obstructive at once”.

The hotel – working name “Waverley Station Hotel” – was the brainchild of George Wieland, a former NBR company secretary who retired to its board in 1890. Having toured some of the most lavish hotels in the world – where he realised the importance of having a banqueting hall to bring in business – he hired W Hamilton Beattie to draw up plans for Edinburgh. The hotel would have 300 bedrooms, 52 bathrooms, and 70 lavatories, and was designed to encourage the circulation of fresh air. Lifts shot people straight from the station into the hotel’s foyer, and beyond that, to rooms furnished with mahogany, leather and crimson moquette. It’s said that the bill for plants and flowers exceeded the bill for gas, and there was even a special machine to burnish the silver. Weiland made sure the new hotel’s cellars were full of the finest champagnes, hocks, ports, and whisky, the better to entice his ideal customers – wealthy, landed families moving between their multiple residences.

In 1922, the hotel became part of the London and North Eastern Railway Company and by all accounts the hotel sparkled from top to bottom, but after the Second World War, when the railways were nationalised, and Prestwick airport began getting transatlantic traffic, things began a slow downward trajectory. Even so, the hotel remained the destination for Edinburgh society events, be they corporate or personal. In 1983, British Rail sold off its rather faded North British Hotel. In 1988, it closed for refurbishment, it was in dire need of this, some of the rooms were looking a wee bit shabby, the wooden window frames unable to open fully, and how do I know this? Well I used to be the window cleaner in the hotel and the windows that didn't open meant I had to find one close by and edge along the crumbling sandstone ledges, the worst affected, and highest were on the south of the hotel and there was a six storey drop down to the train station below.

At the start of the 1990s, Balmoral International Hotels, an Edinburgh based company, bought the venue. In 1997, the Balmoral became the first hotel bought by Sir Rocco Forte as he assembled his portfolio of hotels. It currently boasts Scotland’s only Bollinger Bar, as well as the Michelin-starred Number One restaurant run by executive chef Jeff Bland, a spa, and ten function rooms accommodating up to 450 people.

Famous guests over the years have included Elizabeth Taylor, Michael Palin, Beyoncé and JK Rowling, who finished the last Harry Potter novel here, on 11 January, 2007, and then daubed her signature on a bust in her room.

A second wee link with the hotel, is Charles Forte, Grandfather of the present owner began his working life in my home town of Loanhead when he moved to Scotland from Italy.

#scotland #scottish #history #edinburgh #Hotel #Princes street

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thebibutterflyao3 · 7 months ago

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Day Fifteen - Candles @sapphicmicrofics

April Daily Series - 659 words

<<<Previous Parts OR Start Here

The curry shop they decided on was a little eatery tucked between a dry cleaners and a pharmacy. From the outside, it looked quaint and comfortable with a curved red awning over the entrance and hand-painted white flowers on the door. Inside, there was a stunning burgundy and gold colour scheme with a modern, glass chandelier that resembled a hundred little pieces of paper hanging from black stakes. Every table held lit candles and each place setting was elegantly set with a wine glass, water glass, folded cloth napkin, and silverware.

Marlene whistled low, so only Lily could hear it. “Wow, this place is posh.”

Lily nodded, eyes wide with surprise as she approached the host stand. As she requested a table for the group, Marlene slipped past Pandora to elbow James. His smirk told her everything that she needed to know.

“You picked this place on purpose, didn’t you?” she said, narrowing her eyes.

Regulus leaned past James and whispered, “He asked which of the curry places nearby was the most expensive. This one is deceptively simple from the outside, but it’s the best one I’ve found in SoHo.”

“Modest on the outside, lush on the inside. Just like me,” James said, biting the inside of his cheek hard to hold back laughter.

His boyfriend looked him over from top to bottom and scoffed, “Modest is the last word I would use to describe you. If anything, you’re overconfident.”

As the couple continued their weird flirting, Marlene checked her mobile again. She had three texts from Sirius and two from Pete. After Pandora sent Dorcas that last photo, she was hoping to receive a text herself. If Dorcas was that concerned about her, Marlene was happy to assuage her worries directly.

I know better. Dorcas doesn’t crawl for anyone, even me.

There was a time when Marlene held enough value for Dorcas to be worth her effort. She left London hoping that Dorcas would miss her. That one day, she’d find a text or voicemail on her phone from the woman that she pedestalled like the Venus she was for an entire year. It never happened.

“This way, please,” the host said. The older, West Asian man led the way to a large booth along the front windows. As they settled into their seats, he handed out menus and collected drink orders. When he finally reached Marlene, his eyes bugged wide. “Oh! Are you well, my dear?”

Marlene winced. She’d almost forgotten how bruised her face was after the “incident” this morning. “Yes, just a small mishap with a door.”

“May I bring you anything?” he asked, quickly returning to his professional demeanour.

“Beer? Vodka? Whatever you have with alcohol in it.”

The man nodded, then rushed away from the table. Marlene hoped that she hadn’t spooked the bloke. Peter told her often enough that she could be “off-putting” and “abrasive” when she was in pain.

“It’s not that bad,” Pandora said. “Your bruising is a lovely shade of purple now. It suits your skin tone beautifully.”

Marlene huffed a laugh. “Yeah, that’s why I always have them. Bruises are my favourite accessory.”

“I thought you preferred to hide your bruises.” Dorcas’s voice raised goosebumps on her skin as she walked toward their table. She was stunning in a deep purple pantsuit with a matching rosette tie at her throat. Overdressed as usual, Dorcas was a vision of loveliness.

“Depends how good the story is behind the bruise, and if I’m willing to tell it,” Marlene replied smoothly. Never was she more grateful for her mouth running faster than her mind.

Dorcas quirked an eyebrow at her as she slid into the only open seat left, directly across from Marlene. That had to be intentional too. These twats were clearly determined to see a row before she left. The host reappeared and handed Dorcas a menu.

“What about scars?” Dorcas asked quietly, thumbing through the menu. “Still hiding those too?”

“Only the internal ones.”

Next Part>>>

#dorlene #dorlene microfics #marlene x dorcas #marlene mckinnon x dorcas meadows #dorcas meadowes #dorcas x marlene #marauders era #marlene mckinnon #james potter #regulus black #lily evans #pandora lovegood

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pacifymebby · 1 year ago

Text

t r o u b l e / chapter twenty three

Masterlist

London looked herself in the early morning, the first rays of sunlight awash over dirty gray-scale tower blocks. The shards ugly head rising up on the horizon. So much corporate, artless grime around the city center that by the time Isaiah pulled up round the back of the 60s brutalist block Sonya and I lived in, I was almost relieved.

I knew these streets well, I felt a rekindling in my nerves. The feeling of returning home.

Only now it didn't feel quite like home.

"What is it love I told you we need to be quick... Could be..."

"Being watched," I said plainly, gazing up at the window I knew belonged to me. My eyes plain when I saw my hanging Ivy shadowy behind the glass. "But by who?" I asked in a ghostly tone, mocking him with rolled eyes so that had I not still had a gun I was sure he'd have changed his mind.

"Enough of that," he grumbled, "not dyin in this scummy fuckin city cause you weren't payin attention..."

"So wait here," I shrugged my shoulder stepping away from him and hurrying up the stairs to the front door where my key still fit the lock and inside the lobby the guard recognised me.

"Mornin Syl," he smiled warmly, "where ya been? Was beginnin to get the Freds bout ya," he said, one hand tapping his box of cigs on the desk, the other concealed.

"Hi Laurie," I said doing my best to replicate the sweet smile he'd seen almost every day for several years. "No Freds for me please," I added just as cute.

"Anyone called for her?" Asked Isaiah then, his voice a little too blunt and a little too rough for a man as old and as gentle as Laurie.

"Nah," said Laurie, "been propa quiet last few days...why? Yous expectin a visitor?"

"Nah," I said shrugging my shoulder, knowing that if anyone had been, Laurie wouldn't have noticed anything strange about them. He was a gentle old soul and an easily fooled old man. Take me for example, he thought I was the sweetest girl in London and why? Because I said hello to him every morning without fail.

"Saiahs gettin confused, had a long drive haven't you," I said glaring at Isaiah until he started playing along, "he's just tired."

"This your fella?" Asked Laurie, eyes flickering over Isaiah who was growing more edgy with every second the conversation dragged on for.

"Don't have a fella Laurie," I said parroting the advice he'd always given me, "never have an never will."

"Atta girl," he grinned with a chuckle, his smirk lingering when Isaiah took my elbow and pushed me away to the lifts. As the doors closed Laurie rolled his eyes and I smirked biting down on my smile, hands reaching for my gun as the lift shunted into action.

"Chances he's lyin?" Asked Isiah watching the light flickering between the slight crack in the lift doors as we moved between floors. A shadow flashing slow blink on and off.

"Zero," I said, my fingers curling around my gun, readying myself because I knew that when we reached our floor we might find ourselves face to face with dangerous strangers. "But if someone's lied to him he'll have believed every word they've said..."

"Oh good," he said, "an honest idiot, fuckin great..."

"Use your head Saiah, if someone came lookin for us they'd have fucked off when they realised they were too late.."

"Maybe they're patient,"

"Maybe you're a pessimist." I said when the 'ift doors opened to reveal a quiet hallway, everything untouched.

Our front door was at the end of the narrow corridor. The cleaners had been in and everything smelt a little like an old woman's bathroom, that strange clinging soap and talc scent which lingered in your nostrils. Almost nostalgic but a little too floral to make you smile.

"See," I said turning my key in the lock, listening for movement on the other side of the door, hearing nothing and feeling smug because Isaiah was still standing tense behind me.

"I'll go first.." he said pushing me out the way before I could protest, apparently ignoring the fact that had someone behind that door wanted to harm us they'd have shot straight through it.

"If someone wanted to kill us we'd already be..." I trailed off looking down at my feet on the doormat because I'd trodden on something. I dipped to pick a piece of paper which had been torn hastily from a gridlined notebook. "Dead.." I finished my sentence, the word quiet as I stopped thinking about Isaiah and the house and started concentrated on the handwriting in front of me. It was a rushed scrawl, unfamiliar to me but not, I was sure, to Sunny.

"Saiah!" I called out to him when I realised he wasn't still waiting with me in the hallway. I could hear doors opening and closing and I knew he was giving the place a once over, still not trusting the quiet.

But I couldn't trust the quiet now either.

"Si!" I called to him again, eyes locking with his when he rounded the corner, gun out and ready as if he thought I had company.

"Fuckin put it away soft cunt," I smirked, "I think Freddie Sabini's dead..."

"Who?" He frowned sparking an irritation in me which caught me by surprise. I didn't know Freddie Sabini, what was it to me if he lived or died. And yet Isaiah's ignorance to my sister's heartbreak left me gritting my teeth to stop me slapping him across the face.

"Sunny's boyfriend," I said handing him the note, letting him read it, hoping he'd tell me I was wrong, knowing he wouldn't.

"They're fuckin savages," he said shaking his head, his brow etched deep, a look of snarled disgust on his face when he handed the note back to me.

We won't see each other again my darling, just know you have always been dear to me. I know you'll hate me for asking but go back to your family before mine find you. I love you now and always, F.

"See this is why Tommy wanted you home... So he could keep you safe... For fuck sake Sylvia!" He snapped, his temper dropping disgust to despair SK sudden that for a second I was speechless, starring back ar him, this numb feeling in my fingers and chest as I watched him feel all the things I should have been.

"Jesus Christ what have I done?" He turned away from me, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as his face scrunched with frustration.

I swallowed and pressed the tips of my teeth to one another, watching him and then ignoring him, brushing past him into my bedroom to retrieve my pointe shoes, taking Sunny's from her bedroom too hoping she would need them soon.

I felt cold. Cold fingers brushing the back of my neck as I thought about Freddie. I'd never seen the lad in person but I'd seen him drinking in the west end with his cousins and his university friends. He'd always been one of this slicked back hair kind of lads, the boat shoes, the casual shirt and dress trousers. He looked like he'd been watching the sopranos or listening to too much late stage Arctic Monkeys, but it suited him and the crowd he ran with. He certainly looked the part.

When I returned to the hallway Isaiah was waiting for me, gun in his hand. He was leaning back against the wall with his eyes on the ceiling. He was muttering something which sounded like a prayer. Trying to forgive himself for betraying Tommy. For bringing me here. As if I'd given him a choice.

"Let's go," I said nodding to the door. When he looked back at me and saw the pairs of battered shoes his jaw hung slack for a moment.

"What?"

"Don't tell me we risked coming back here for a pair of fuckin slippers..." he breathed, his eyes glowing with a tiredness, a tiredness with me. I was wearing him out but I didn't feel guilty. This was just what had to be done and I was the only one with the balls to do it.

"Alright we didn't risk coming back here for my ballet slippers," I said plainly, turning to walk for the door, only stopping because he told me to, his hand on my shoulder just in case.

"Let me go first.

🌸🦢🌸

"Sylvia love I know you ain't listenin to me but..." Started Isaiah as he crouched down to check the bottom of the car for anything which could have been planted whilst we were inside. The lad was suspicious to the point of paranoia but I couldn't blame him. Not now I knew that Freddie was almost definitely dead. That he'd been killed in cold blood by his own family, his uncle, perhaps his brothers.

I kept thinking about my own brothers. Would they do the same?

"Don't be such a pessimist," I shrugged opening the car door, getting comfortable whilst I waited for him.

I looked down at Freddie's note again, chewing my cheek as I thought about Sunny. About how I was going to tell her. Whether there was any point in trying to break it to her gently. She'd always been a delicate girl and I wasn't sure how much more heartache she could take. What would happen if she slipped like I did. Would she slip just the same as me or would it be different for her, would it hurt in different places. Would she go numb, would she be able to shut down so as not to be destroyed by the feeling. Or would it hurt her the same way it hurt Arthur, would she spend the rest of her life trembling on the verge of crisis because she couldn't control the grief.

I sucked my cheek in and opened the car door about to tell Isaiah to hurry up when he sat himself down beside me and started trying to talk sense to me once again.

"Know you think you know what you're doing love but Alfie Solomons ain't like your brother... He's..."

"Certifiable, I know..."

"So..."

"So what? All the more reason to appeal to his emotional side..."

"He don't have an emotional side love he's a fuckin psychopath,"

"Been lettin rumours spook you love," I said with a small smirk, checking the reflection in the wing mirror with low expectations. I took my iPod out of the glove compartment and scrolled through the music. I only had a few tracks on it because it was the one I used exclusively for training. For rehearsing my sister's steps, perpetual understudy as I was.

"I just don't understand what you think you're gonna be able say to him that Tommy ain't already fuckin tried!"

"Tommy hasn't tried." I shrugged my shoulders placing my headphones over my ears, blocking his protests out with a lamenting violin.

Knowing that it wasn't what I was going to say to Alfie Solomons that would count.

🌸🦢🌸

Alfie Solomons, unlike the rest of the London organised crime leaders, preferred to hide in plain sight. That is to say he'd always preferred to be on the ground, running things as he saw them. While everyone else had put up skyscrapers, running construction and luxury night clubs, he remained in Camden Town, down by the docks which were only still running at all because he insisted on it.

He kept his office in the brewery and he could often be seen walking down by the canal with his dog, a gentle giant of a creature. He owned the market and most of the bars by the water, knew half the wannabe rockstars and celebrities in the city but wasn't on friendly terms with hardly any. He had a reputation for being a bit of a miser, a loner who didn't like small talk and didn't care much for anyone but himself. He'd earned himself quite the reputation as a mad man, a ruthless psychopath who'd put an end to so many lives he'd lost track of where the bodies were buried.

As it was I hadn't been expecting to be welcomed to the brewery in the way that we were. Hadn't expected the doors to open or for Ollie to nod to me, holding my gaze with a purpose. As if he'd been expecting to see me. As if he already knew the nature of my visit. But he did and when he lead us through the factory, between the brewhouses and silver tanks to Alfie's office, my skin began to bristle with an intuition.

"Mr Solomons doesn't usually like to be disturbed without notice..." Said Ollie before he tapped on glass of the office door, "however.."

From behind the door came the echo of a cane on hardwood floor.

"Alright Ollie my sweet," Alfie said, "if they wanted the enchantin introduction to my impeccable character they shoulda read my Wikipedia shouldn't they..." He called from behind the glass, his voice rough and yet almost melodic with his humour.

"What I'm sayin right sweetheart, is they ain't got all day an neither have I, if they're gonna ruin my fakin mornin the least they can do is have the common curtacy right, to be fuckin quick about it..."

I couldn't help but smirk, trying my best to bite down the snigger which rose inside me at the sight of Ollie's reddening cheeks. I could feel Isaiah's eyes on me but I refused to look back at him, refused to behave as if I was scared. Not when I'd dragged him with me this far.

In truth Alfie did scare me. Even now when I could hardly feel a thing. It wasn't his reputation for being a little unhinged. It was that I knew he wasn't. That he played up to his eccentricities to set people on edge, to make sure no one ever knew where they stood with him.

"For the love of god don't piss him off Shelby girl..." Said Ollie, his voice whispered and rushed so that Alfie couldn't hear him and chastise him anymore.

I did my best to neutralise my expression before he pushed the door open and let us enter. When I heard it close behind us however I felt that all too familiar cold set in. The chill down my spine, spreading to my fingers. Everything heavy, every part of my body slowly distancing itself from me.

"Well well little Shelby we are in trouble..."

Alfie was sitting behind his desk, his white t-shirt and combat trousers an uncanny contrast to the antique furniture which held him. A chair remarkably ornate in contrast to his heavy set build and his rough features.

He looked smug but only for a second, his slow forming scowl set deeper into his brow with every second which passed quietly between us.

"Usually right, when your big brother comes down here you can't shut him up..." He started, taking a pair of spectacles from where they hung on a chain around his neck and placing them on his nose. "Nah, y'cant shut your Tommy up for love nor money and believe me I've tried.... we've all tried..." he trailed off with a sigh, a distance feigned in his eyes before he turned back to me, precise, fingers interlinked as he leant forward on his desk.

"So Little Shelby - you really are in a lot of trouble y'know poppet - why don't you try old Toms shoes on for size yeah? Let's have a natter..."

I had the feeling of being studied, not just studied the way my brother did when he thought we were lying, not just studied the way Pol did when she was reading palms, but studied as in scrutinized. As if he could see through my dead eyes. I wasn't a fraud but he made me feel as though I had something to hide.

I chewed my cheek, hesitated just long enough for Isaiah to mistake my silence for sudden loss.

"Mr Solomons thank you for..."

"Oh I'm sorry, my apologies sunshine, my meaning must have been somewhat misconstrued... See that invite to natter yeah, that invite was exclusive right, between me and the little gypsy girl..."

Isaiah opened his mouth to speak again but before any words left his lips Alfie had raised s silencing hand and dismissed him.

"That means zip it soldier," he said his eyes never once meeting Isaiahs, only ever locked firmly with mine, "or I shall have to send you to wait outside be like you're back in school yeah... Not that I should imagine a peaky fuckin blinder could have spent much time in school?"

"You're my brother's friend Mr Solomon's, if you want to remain my brother's friend you should consider treating his friends with respect too," I said unable to take the smirk off my face when both men scowled. Isaiah scowling, his cheeks flushing with humiliation because the idea of a girl standing up for him probably horrified him. Alfie scowling because the idea of a girl standing up to him probably horrified him.

"Ahh, she speaks... the little gypsy girl speaks," Alfie smiled slowly, his grin a little too wide as he lent back in his chair and held his hands up in front of him, an impressed gesture as if presenting me to the room. I didn't smile, didn't say a word. Just starred him down with the dead eyes he'd recognise to be my brothers. "She speaks but she doesn't smile," he chuckled, "here, soldier boy... reckon she wants me to think she's just like her big brother don't she... is she?" He asked Isaiah. He wasn't looking at me, talking about me as if I wasn't even there. As if I couldn't hear his projected stage whisper.

Isaiah stood still and silent. His eyes were steely and fixed on Alfie, not threatening but determined to remain loyal to me. To my brother.

I decided to ignore them both. Took the iPod and the earphones from my pocket and stepped up to Alfie's desk. I moved slowly and though when he saw me approach I saw his hand dip to the drawer where he kept his gun, I didn't hesitate. Carried on moving with a purpose towards him.

"You don't need that yet," I said with a smirk, struggling to keep a steady hand as I placed my fingers on top of his and pushed the drawer shut.

I was aware of his eyes on me then. How he hesitated to at the touch of my hand. How he looked up at me and leant back in his chair, eyes flickering over my body, appraising me. He smirked, his hand left the drawer and returned to the desk, fingers drumming on the wood as I took the earphones I'd carried in my pockets and gave them to him.

He watched me the whole time, expression hard to read. He was trying very hard to work something out. Trying very hard not to smile at me.

"I've seen you you know, at the opera house..." I started, my voice soft and low, "You have your own box and you sit there like a shadow all alone... The girls say you use the ballet as an alibi but I don't really think that's true.."

"Ain't it now?" He asked his own voice quiet, as though I'd taken him a little by surprise, he sounded thoughtful and when I met his gaze I could tell it was me being contemplated by the older man who looked at me with such suspicion and warmth.

"You aren't always in shadow Mr Solomons, an I've seen you after the encore... Tears in your eyes cause of my sister... The girls call you Eric, our very own opera ghost..." I said, teasing him as I took the earphones from his hands and began to untangle them. I was aware of Isaiah's eyes on me too. Aware of a rising tension I'd been composing since my arrival.

I could tell that when I spoke some of my words lingered like mist around the older man's ears.

"What an you think your twin sister's my Christine? That what you take me for yeah sweetheart? Fuckin creepy old man?" He was trying to laugh, trying to put me off but he would never win at this game. We were in my territory now.

"No," I shrugged with a plain little smirk, held his gaze for a moment before shrugging my shoulders, refusing to let his hint at a temper bother me, "actually we've always been quite fond of you..." I said placing one earphone in his left ear, letting my fingers skim his cheek, letting them brush through his hair as I worked.

He sat back in his chair, fingers walking over the faded surface, his eyes fixed on me, watching me, his lips pressed together in a thin, controlled line.

When he narrowed his eyes I held his gaze knowing that he was waiting for me to look away. But I wouldn't.

"Count down from five and press play," I said setting the track back to the beginning. Leaving the room in silence as I locked eyes with him and then turned. Skipped to the center of the old Persian rug in the middle of the room. "Isaiah get the light."

Alfie raised his hand.

"The light stays on." He growled to Isaiah. His eyes however were fixed on me. It was I who felt the threat behind them as I readied myself in the center of the rug.

"Mr Solomon's," I said with a small smirk, "you aren't afraid of the dark when you're sitting all alone in box 5."

Taglist:

@elina-777

@zablife

@jomarch-wannabe

@itsghostgirlyo

@marwwfairy

@toddlerbodybag

@impossibleheartflower

@call-sign-shark

#trouble #peaky blinders imagines #shelby sister #peaky blinders fanfiction #bonnie gold #isaiah jesus #alfie solomons

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devastatingdraco · 5 months ago

Text

The End of Everything - Chapter One: The Beginning

SHIP | Dramione [Draco Malfoy x Hermione Granger]

CATEGORY | enemies to lovers, romance, angst, EVENTUAL smut, Hermione never went to Hogwarts

WORD COUNT | 8.7k

WARNINGS | temporary paralysis, swearing, rude!Draco, kidnapping, etc. (more coming soon)

SONG REC | hostage — billie eilish

A/N: Thought I would post this here since it's doing well on a03. Enjoy, angels. <3

Hermione always knew that she was different.

Whether it was because the girls at school told her so, or simply because she could feel it in her heart, Hermione always knew.

Her life had been fairly normal up until this point, and she was okay with that. She was a simple girl with simple dreams. Hermione wanted to be a writer. Work in publishing. She wanted to create worlds and weave words together in a way that touched people; that made them truly feel something.

So, she studied. Got good at it, too. Hermione studied day and night, and not having any friends helped. She never got distracted. Sure, she'd get called loser, know-it-all, priss, but the harsh names never stopped her. Because Hermione had a goal, and she never lost sight of it.

Her hard work got her to where she is now: six months post-university. Building up her CV. Living in a flat on her own. Going out occasionally on the weekends.

This is her life now. And she is happy with it.

Only, that inkling, the one that always told her she was different and that she could do things—feel things—no one else could... it never really went away.

That's why, she supposes, she should have seen it coming.

"Petrificus Totalus."

The voice makes Hermione's eyes fly open. She's in bed, but something is off. Different.

Early morning light shines on a figure adorning all black, and the sight makes Hermione scream—except, nothing comes out at all. She can't scream. She can't even fight back as the figure pulls the blankets off of her and pockets something. It almost looked like a thin stick.

Hermione's body is effectively paralyzed and she is unable to move.

The fear that ripples through her body is painful. It makes her heart pound dangerously fast in her chest and her stomach ache. She is scared and there's nothing she can do about it.

It's at this time that Hermione sees where she is.

It's a large room of sorts. Too big to be hers, and cleaner. More... sterile.

The bedposts have thick, lush curtains tied off on all sides and the walls are dark. Hermione doesn't see much furniture in the room except for a trunk at the end of the bed and a wardrobe on the opposite wall. It's not her bedroom, that's obvious. There's no reading chair, no nightstand with her lotions and diary, nothing.

If she could, Hermione would scream til her vocal cords were atrophied.

The figure leaves the room in a flash of monochrome—black and stark white—and Hermione has to take deep breaths to calm down. She looks out of the large window but it doesn't help. She sees rolling hills tilted blue from the morning light. The grass shines with dew. She sees sharply cut hedges and an entangled maze on the property in the near distance. She's in the country, far, far away from London, and alone.

Completely alone.

Hermione wonders, just for a moment, if she's going to die here.

A single knock on the door has Hermione's heart kicking back up, and she watches as the wood swings open, revealing a tall man with thick brows.

"Hello there, dear," The voice calls out. "My name is Helbert Spleen, I'm here to see if you have any immediate injuries."

Hermione can only whimper.

He gives Hermione a gentle nod before pulling out something like what the man from earlier had—a stick of some sort.

"Don't be afraid, my dear, you'll understand the why of all of this soon enough. I'm just going to do a quick diagnosis."

It's actually not a stick at all.

Hermione realizes this once a pink light slips out of the end and sets her world alight. Her body buzzes and tingles, and Hermione thinks that she might be losing her mind.

The light fades out but her body still feels strange. Her fingers are still vibrating once the man speaks again.

"You're doing well, but I'd watch the heart rate if it keeps up like that. Her Ladyship will be in momentarily."

And then the man slips back through where he came.

Hermione must have been focusing on the foreign feeling in her body for a long time because before she knows it, the door is opening back up again. The person doesn't knock this time, just comes right in and steps up to the edge of the bed, looking down at Hermione.

Another body trails in through the door, but Hermione is entirely focused on the woman looking down at her immobilized figure.

"My name is Narcissa," The woman says, and Hermione can't help but think that that is a strange name.

"Narcissa Malfoy," She continues. "I'm the owner of this manor."

Hermione can feel her eyes drying out. Malfoy. Now, that name is stranger.

"I know you must be very well confused and scared, but I'm going to tell you why you're here."

Hermione keeps eye contact with Narcissa. Maybe, just maybe, if she gets on her good side, she will let Hermione go. She looks nice enough. Hermione doesn't know her, but in time, maybe she could. She thinks that maybe this woman can see reason. Hermione doesn't have to be here. Everything can all go back to normal. They can let her go.

Right as rain.

"As you can see, you're no longer in London," Narcissa sits on the bed. "You're in Wiltshire. That's West of London. You're at a place called Malfoy Manor. Understand?"

Hermione lets out another whimper and Narcissa sighs. She turns to the figure standing in the corner and Hermione's eyes follow.

"Don't ask," He snaps. "We don't know what someone like her will do."

Someone like her?

Hermione studies this man. His hair is so light it almost hurts to look at and he's got this displeased sneer on his face. He's the man from before. The man who paralyzed her.

He has quite light eyes, and Hermione thinks that they might even be pretty if they weren't cutting right through her. This man does not look as nice as the woman.

"Draco," Narcissa says. "She can't speak."

"Good," He spits. "She doesn't deserve to. Filthy little—"

"I don't know what other option we have."

The blond leans back against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest. Hermione lets out a slow breath.

"She needs to be bound," The man directs. "That way we know she won't try escaping."

Alarm bells go off inside Hermione's head and she watches Narcissa stand. She flicks her wrist while holding a silver and black-looking—thing. Stick wouldn't apply now. It looks too decorative to be a stick.

"Finite."

A white light omits from the end and Hermione feels her body finally relax. She's about to scramble back against the headboard and yell out, but silk threads fly out and find their way around her wrists and ankles, binding her to the bedposts. No one was even touching them.

"What—"

"Pleased to see you're finally with us," Narcissa says. "Can you tell me your name?"

Hermione gulps.

"Why? I don't know you."

Narcissa goes back to sitting on the bed. She looks over Hermione's bound body with a look of... is that pity? Disgust?

Maybe this woman isn't so nice after all.

"I told you my name. Tell me yours."

Hermione stays silent. Narcissa tries again.

"I know that—"

"Oh for fucks sake," The man against the wall growls. Hermione blinks in surprise. Draco crosses the room in three large strides before he whips out his own rod. Hermione still can't place what exactly they are. It doesn't matter, though. She's seen what they can do.

Draco jabs Hermione's throat with the end of it, and her body goes cold.

"Tell us your name or I swear I'll—"

"H-Hermione! Hermione Granger," She chokes out. Draco's eyes flash with something before he looks toward his mother. She looks surprised herself.

"How old are you, Miss Granger?" She asks.

She takes a breath and says, "Twenty-three."

"Can you tell us what you do, Miss Granger?" Narcissa asks.

Hermione is confused, but if there's one thing she knows how to do, it's talk. Maybe talking will save her from this whole debacle.

"I work at a bookstore," She manages. Her voice is coming out in pathetic pants, the kind someone does before they start hyperventilating and crying. "I graduated from university six months ago. I—I just work, that's all I do."

Hermione doesn't know why any of this matters, but the pair share a satisfied look anyway.

"And can you tell us what you studied?"

"English," She coughs. Draco pulls his rod away finally, leaving her with a painful sting on the skin of her throat. She wishes desperately that she could press her hands to it and soothe it right now.

"What did you want to do with your life, Miss Granger?"

The question makes her skin go clammy. Did. Past tense. As in, will not be doing anymore.

Hermione feels tears well up along her waterline.

"I want to be a writer," She grits out.

The blond rolls his eyes and walks back to the wall.

"Muggles and their pathetic career choices."

Narcissa hooks a manicured finger underneath Hermione's chin and pulls her face to look back at her. Then, she pulls out a stack of books, one by one from the floor next to her.

"You're going to be staying here now Miss Granger, by order of Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt of the Ministry of Magic."

These words mean nothing to Hermione.

"We will give you books to read so you can understand our history and this... situation better," Narcissa says. "But what might set your mind at ease right now is knowing that you are not going to die. Not under our watch, at least."

Hermione still feels sick. Maybe death would be better than this.

"You see, Hermione," Narcissa says, leaning in a bit closer. She brushes her black-painted fingernail across Hermione's hairline, moving a strand away from her eye.

"Things in our world are changing. Because of that, you're here with us now."

Narcissa adds to the stack of books with a few newspapers, folders, and leather-bound journals.

"You'll receive a quill later on. We wouldn't want an attempted suicide, now would we?"

Hermione is just working out the logistics of how one would commit suicide with a feather when she hears a snort across the room. Draco. He's shaking his head, giving her another one of those pitiful looks.

"We'll leave you now, Miss Granger. Once we're gone, your wrists and ankles will be freed. You'll be able to acclimate yourself to this bedroom which shall be yours from now on."

"What about my room back home? My life?"

Hermione's broken voice stops Narcissa by the door. She spares a glance back at the girl.

"Everything will be settled, I'm told. It will not do well to dwell on those things now."

Hermione bites her bottom lip roughly. Until she tastes blood.

Narcissa stops at the door one last time as Draco goes, not bothering with Hermione any longer.

"You'll soon find that our world is more important now than yours ever was, Miss Granger. Much more important, indeed."

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redbullcateringfiction · 1 year ago

Text

Chapter 3 -

Cantata

Arabella is the executive assistant for Mercedes Team Principal Toto Wolff. 10 years into her career, it looks like the tide is changing, and she's beginning to question her relationship with him. Is it something more, or nothing but an idea lingering in her head?

F/M, Fluff, Boss/Employee Relationship, Romance, Pining, Love, Slow Burn

Third chapter below the cut or click here for AO3

Click here for the previous chapter on Tumblr, and click here for a list of all chapters

(Total: 12095 words thus far)

I waved down a taxi, and hopped in “Knightsbridge Station, please,” I nodded. The little bit of walking to my flat was easier to remember this way. I’m fully aware it's a bit silly to have my flat in London, but my office in Brackley. The truth is, I spend very little time in Brackley since I’m part of the traveling team. When I went to London though, it was hard to ignore my affection for Chelsea. I couldn’t resist, and it operates much more as a home base when I'm flying into Heathrow. On a race week, that one Sunday night and one Monday morning I can wake up and see a lovely garden just out my window is priceless. Then, by Tuesday, I have people staying in my flat for AirBnB. A cleaner comes in Saturday night, and then Sunday night, I’m back home. On a non-race week, by Tuesday, I’m in Brackley, where I keep the house. I leave Friday night and go back to Chelsea for the weekend. Then I wake up Monday morning, and shit, it’s race week again.

The house is 4 bedrooms and made out of beautiful masonry, but I can’t truly appreciate it. This house means nothing to me. I have never decorated it, or given it any love beyond the basics to maintain it. What am I supposed to do with 3 extra bedrooms? I’ve turned one into a home office, but I always go in, so what’s the point? The other two just linger. I clean them every Tuesday night of non-raceweeks. I don’t want the dust to build up. When my family comes to the U.K., which they never do, perhaps they’ll use it as a guest room.

As I arrived at my flat, I was much more excited than I should be for such a short stay. I walked in and unlocked my bedroom door. I found my closet which mostly only hosted racewear. I found my team polo and my slacks. I then began thinking about packing a dress for meeting with Jeffrey tonight and just staying longer at the event. I would have to change and do my hair and make up in the hotel bathroom…or take Toto up on his offer that I pretended not to hear. I would rather not pay for the taxi 3 times in one night. I packed my messenger bag with a dress that had thin fabric so as to not be bulky, and put on my high heels, prepared for the little bit of pain I might suffer standing for slightly too long.

My phone began to ring, and I looked and saw it was Toto. I quickly threw my bag onto the bed, and picked up.

“Toto,” I answered.

“Yes, Arabella. Is the speech in my padfolio?” He asked. I could hear the rustling of papers on the other end.

“Should be, didn’t you read it over in the car?” I asked.

“I did, I did. I can’t find it anywhere now though,” He sighed.

“Probably got lost in the shuffle. Let me check to see if I have a backup copy,” I spoke, taking my own padfolio out of my messenger bag. “Ah, there we go. I’m about to head back up to the hotel. Will be back there by 4pm, if that’s alright.”

“4…4…Yes, alright. Thank you, Arabella,” I could hear him beaming through the phone.

“It’s my job,” I answered.

“Ah, well…I’ll speak with you later when you arrive,” and with that he hung up.

I admired my view for a few moments, and quickly scarffed down my favorite lunch, before running down to the road to hail a taxi. I arrived at 4 on the dot, and watched as Toto walked out of the elevator. “Here you are,” I smiled handing it to him.

“We match,” he smiled, pointing to his own polo and back at mine.

“Not to break your heart, but we all do,” I said, vaguely gesturing to the hotel lobby which was coated with Mercedes wear. Except Lewis who always stood out with his bold fashion choices. I was a bit jealous of his bravery, but then again if I were a 7 time WDC champion, I would be quite brave too.

“It was the thought,” He shrugged, glancing over the speech. I took a deep breath, feeling the dress’s fabric in my bag.

“Sorry, but would you mind if I took you up on your offer? I need to change after the event. I wouldn’t head up until 8, but…you know,” I mumbled.

“So, you did hear me earlier?” He laughed.

“Barely…but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. All my clothing was at home.”

“You know there are extras flying all over this hotel right now,” He smiled.

“Yes, but why borrow when I could just run home?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Money? Taxis? Time? All of the above.”

“Conversation over. I declare it,” I ordered. “So that’s a yes, though.”

“Of course it's a yes,” He smirked.

“Thank you. You have two hours before you give that speech. Don’t read it over too many times, or you might get the words jumbled. I have to go meet with the driver’s assistants to make sure testing is planned out correctly. I’ll meet you in the ballroom at 5:30, but I’ll be down there at 5 if you want to stop in earlier,” I explained, already taking steps back from him. He waved me away kindly, and I went off looking for the reserved meeting room.

Walking through the hallways of the hotel, I eventually stumbled upon the room, and walked in. Already waiting was Angela and Nikola, Lewis and Valtteri’s assistants respectively. “How are we doing?” Angela asked as soon as I walked in. Angela is a strikingly pleasant woman, and just as I micromanage Toto, she micromanages Lewis. That is, however, to a much larger degree on her end. I swear, if Lewis breathes, it’s because Angela told him to. Her graying blonde hair defined her appearance, and also seemed to automatically imply that she kicks ass. His entire team runs right under Angela.

On the other hand, Nikola was much more lackadaisical. I had noticed two things about him. First, that much like me, he came with many preconceptions about his perception. Many people right off the bat assume him to be aggressive and overserious due to his Serbian heritage but instead he overcompensated and could at times be a pushover. The second thing being that he hates Formula 1. Nikola had for a long time been a personal assistant for actresses and actors. In fact, I knew him from my days at United Agents. He much preferred the world of Oscars, BAFTAs, and Emmys over watching 60 laps with a headset on. In fact, he skips 90% of the races, and instead go eats dinner in a new city.

“I’m doing good, Angela,” I smiled, sitting down. I took my padfolio out of my messenger bag and opened it up to my schedule. “Okay, testing.”

“London Heathrow at 8am right,” Nikola began. I nodded, and thus we were off to the races discussing every small thing and ever little detai. A single mistake could mean Lewis missed an important part of his daily routine or that Valtteri missed a training session. Testing established an important precedent. Showcasing that we’re going to dominate the tracks this season is an important first step to actually doing so.

“Time to head off,” I explained, standing up. “See you all soon.”

They all waved a kind goodbye, and I stepped out to the ballroom. I took the elevator up and walked in to see the huge room cleared of tables and chairs. Staff was running around setting up item after item. It was almost magical to watch an entire Formula 1 car be reassembled in a room for display. Each piece perfectly slotted in. Of course, just for an investors meeting we wouldn’t use any of the tech. With the cost cap being implemented this year, unnecessary movements also created unnecessary risks with no money to spare.

“Where’s the race suit?” I asked a passing staff member in Mercedes wear.

“Oh, um…” They began, checking their clipboard as they flipped through their pages. “Coming off the truck now.”

“You sure?” I double checked.

“Yeah, yeah. Oh, look, there it comes,” They pointed towards the ballroom door.

“Ah, perfect. Thank you,” I answered rushing over to the suit on mannequin being carried over by a team of just two people.

“I know we said we’d put that on the stage, but I think it’d be awkward. Can we place it next to the car?” I offered.

“Uh…yeah, but it could get damaged,” One answered.

“More than a red wine stain?” I asked. He shook his head. “Let’s go for it then.”

Following right in behind them was Toto, and he gave me a big smile.

“You think it would look awkward on the stage, right?” I asked.

“Oh, totally,” He answered. “The space looks nice.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I checked my watch. “Least we can do with all the money they give us. Uh…let’s see. Doors open in 15, go ahead and step into the little wings of the stage for me. Don’t care which, we’ll find you either way. I’m going to go over to the kitchen right quick and make sure that everything’s okay.”

He gestured for me to scurry off and I obliged, heading over to the kitchen and peeking my head in. Yes, of course they were ready. I immediately stepped up the stairs that led to the wings of the stage and found Toto standing in the stage left wing. He waved me over and I speed walked over.

“The clicker. Where’s the clicker for the keynote?” He asked.

“Fuck, they didn’t leave one back here?” I answered.

“I suppose not. They thought you had it.”

“Me? Christ, everyone loves to pin it on me,” I took a deep breath. I quickly snapped my fingers in recognition of a good thought. “Let me run up to your room. I always leave an extra in your bag.”

He smiled, and it quickly turned into a look of confusion. “In my bag?”

“Oh, yeah. When I ordered it for you two years ago, you never noticed this secret little panel. I keep extras of everything small enough that has a tendency to go missing. Clickers, RFIDs, batteries…”

“What? Where?” He asked shocked.

“Telling you would defeat the purpose considering you would immediately take them out since you would be sure they would be better somewhere else,” I replied. “Anyway, I’ll be back.” His expression as I turned my back was best described as a hilarious combination of impressed, shocked, and slightly disappointed that I knew him this well. I ran off, heading upstairs to the hotel room.

There I found, of course, the room was incredibly clean. Toto was never the type to leave a place messy, and everything always found it's perfect spot. Of course, his bag was conveniently located in the closet next to his coat, since the two went hand in hand. Right inside the bag, on the left hand side of the interior side pocket was a tiny zipper I had removed the tag off of to prevent him from easily feeling it out and of course, inside was a USB and bluetooth presentation clicker.

I quickly turned around to leave when I suddenly saw something out the corner of my eye on the edge of the TV stand. It doesn’t count as snooping if I gave it to him right? I instantly recognized it even at the distance I was. A pen. It wasn’t just any pen. No, it was the pen I gave Toto after his 5 years at Mercedes. I was surprised he still had it. It was a nice heavy silver, and had a rollerball tip. It had been engraved with his name and had the date of the 5 year anniversary.

“You want a pen? A fucking pen?” I chuckled to myself looking it over. I resisted the urge to look at what he had written down and scurried out of the room moving quickly returned to the ballroom. Toto awaited anxiously as I set it up with the tech staff before returning to Toto with the clicker. He gave me a soft smile, and patiently held it. I headed to the ballroom floor and found my favorite member of the team, Bono.

“You wanna tell me why Toto called me earlier about the hotel?” He asked without greeting me. To be fair, a greeting wasn’t really necessary. Of all the team members, Bono and I were the ones with one of the closest relationships. He became a race engineer the same year I began working at Mercedes. Two years later, when Toto became team principal and I joined his team, Bono was one of the first people to congratulate me. Since then, in the quiet moments, we’re the first to find each other.

“Remember Monaco 2016?” I answered. I watched as he tried to recall. “When the hotel refused to let me into my room because they didn’t believe I worked for Mercedes?”

“Oh God. Oh wait, again?” He stumbled over his words.

“Unbelievable isn’t it?”

“Unbelievable, yeah. If they actually watched anything they’d see you right behind Toto with a headset on.”

“Too busy watching Toto,” I chuckled.

“So did he have another moment?” Bono asked. Back in Monaco 2016, Toto had forced the staff members to walk me to my room, reclean the entire room, and then, even though the room hadn’t been used, made them upgrade my room.

“Yes, but much more quietly, and somehow, more intimidating.”

“Toto can be intimidating?” Bono asked. I raised my eyebrow at him. “Kidding.”

“I was about to say…”

“We best quit our gabbing,” Bono nudged me, and gesturing up to the stage where Toto sat down in a seat across from the UBS representative. As he did, I turned around and saw the room was filled with suits rather than Mercedes paraphernalia.

“Oh shit, I hadn’t even noticed the doors were open,” I sighed. Bono looked around and faked a jump.

“They all look like slenderman out there,” He laughed.

“Slenderman, you know what slenderman is?”

“I know, I’m old. But I know things.”

“Oh, no, we really do need to shut up,” I quickly mumbled as the UBS representative got up and headed to the microphone.

“Wait, why did you have the hotel call me, couldn’t you have just called?” He asked.

“They never would’ve believed me that it was actually you. They couldn’t even notice my name on the booking,” I whispered.

“Oh, right. Fuck. Shut up,” He whispered to himself. I chuckled as they approached the microphone. The UBS representative introduced Toto and Toto stepped to the microphone with the clicker. As he clicked on the first slide, he found my fave in the crowd and gave me a delicate wink. I smiled back.

“Thank you for the invitation. UBS has maintained an excellent working relationship with Mercedes AMG for 8 years,” He began. “Today, we present the investors with a unique opportunity to hear from us directly regarding the more fun part of our relationship: Racing. During the night, you can find engineers mingling about ready to discuss key aspects of the car, and answer your every question about vehicle performance. But before we enjoy the rest of our night, I want to begin by discussing the car and changes coming for the 2021 season. We especially want to discuss our plan to remain well within the new cost cap.”

As Toto detailed out every element of our car that we could discuss without risking leaks, I couldn’t help but fail to listen. It wasn’t boring. I found this enjoyable. Rather, I noticed the way Toto smiled, cracked jokes that weren’t written on the speech notes, and how he didn’t even have to look at the slides to know what they said. I watched how good of a speaker he was, and how he connected so well with everyone. Even while addressing a bunch of investors, he was also addressing the team. I was so focused on Toto, I failed to notice the way Lewis and Valterri had came onto the stage just for a brief conversation about the upcoming season. When I finally did, they were already walking off. I’ve really got to get this out my system.

As Toto finished, and the UBS representative had a conversation with him, I tried to think of other things. The hors d'oeuvres I had helped to plan, the drink I would order from the open bar, and the tartare I would order from Angler. Oh, right, I do have a date. Maybe that would help me get this out of my system.

As soon as the presentation was over, I ran over to the open bar. On an empty stomach, it was sure to help my rising anxiety. “A Vesper, please,” I asked the bartender. I watched as the drink was stirred and handed to me. I could see Toto head over to the car to prepare for questions and interactions from the various investors. He waved me over, and I took a deep breath as I stepped towards him.

“This is my executive assistant, Arabella Lazaar,” He introduced me to the crowd of investors. I put my hand up for a cursory wave, and took a relatively large sip of my drink.

“Yeah, what do you need?” I asked him kindly. He handed me the presentation clicker, gently placing it into my hand.

“I thought you’d want to hide it back in my bag,” He smiled. “What’s that?”

“A Vesper,” I answered, trying to casually sip it rather than down it.

“Oh…” He shivered.

“Yeah, I know. No one likes my drink,” I shrugged, taking another sip.

“Also, this gentleman,” Toto suddenly spoke to the group and gestured to a gray haired man in the middle of the group. “He’s looking for an executive assistant. I don’t know if you know someone.”

“Uh…no one who doesn’t have a job,” I giggled. “But the wonderful people at Souters have plenty recent graduates who need options. You can also mention if you’re looking for specific spoken languages and they’ll let you know what available.”

“Thank you,” He answered. “But I’m looking for someone more experienced.”

“Oh, well-” I began, nearly scoffing as I spoke.

“Thanks, Arabella,” Toto smiled gently placing his arm around my shoulder and turning me around. “Before you say anything, yes, I know. ”

“More experienced? I doubt he’s even high up in the company,” I answered.

“Thats what I meant I know. He’s not, he’s brand new. But you know how people are,” He finally took his arm from around me. I took a deep sigh. “Nevertheless, I had to stop you because right next to him is the president of Asset Managment. If you run into him without her though, you’re welcome to tell him exactly what you’d like to say.”

“Fine, Toto,” I sighed again. He chuckled at my behavior.

“Besides, Bono was looking for you. He’s by the stage,” He said.

“Oh, thanks,” I smiled, heading off. I finished my drink and handed it to a server collecting dishes, and grabbed a tiny little sandwich on the way. Damn, I picked good.

“Oh, look, there’s the disappearing act,” Bono laughed as I stepped towards him.

“Sorry, needed a drink,” I shrugged.

“Well, where is it?”

I gestured to my body in general, and Bono laughed again. He was surrounded by the engineering team. We all had a wonderful conversation and soon enough it was almost 8:00. I said my goodbyes and let Toto know I was leaving. When I re-entered the hotel room, I found the bag and slipped the presentation clicker into the secret pocket. I opened the door to the connecting room, which was directly next to TV stand where the note stared me in the face.

It wasn’t any of my business, but I wanted to look. I could just barely see the writing through the paper with the light against it. I quickly went into the connecting room to prevent myself from satiating my curiosity. I took a brief shower and avoided getting my hair wet, or I dared to face the wrath of curls that refuse to dry. I slipped on my little black dress and looked in the mirror. I wasn’t an especially thin woman. I enjoyed the way dresses like this could hug my delicate curves. I took some oil from my bag and slicked my hair back into a neat ponytail. I then applied my makeup. Just a small amount. If I were in the paddock, it would be no different. Those tight rooms can get very hot, and I refuse to sweat off any of it. I applied my eyelashes and looked in the mirror at myself. Great job, and only 5 minutes early. I took the hotel elevator down to the floor of the restaurant, being sure I had grabbed everything out of the room. As I approached Angler, I could see Jeffrey.

He looked just like his picture. A solid 6 feet tall, bringing me in my heels to 2 inches shorter than him, and short salt and pepper hair that was thinning just a little bit on top. He looked exactly how you would imagine a lawyer would look, with just the slightest bit of stubble coming in.

“Arabella?” He asked as I approached. I could hear he had a thick Manchester accent. “You look gorgeous.”

“Ah, thank you,” I said, gently brushing my dress in the nervous manner women tend to do when complimented by their date.

“Oh, where are you from?” He asked.

“The Netherlands. You’re from Manchester, yes?”

“You must be able to hear it,” He laughed. He had a slightly high pitched laugh that seemed to ring through the room. “Well, let’s get our table.”

He approached the desk, and they guided us to our table, sat shockingly close to the front of the restaurant. We could see out into the hotel, and I watched as various Mercedes staff wandered about. Being closer to Brackley than usual meant that much of the staff who wouldn’t even be expected to attend, could and did.

“So, how are you tonight?” He asked.

“I’m quite good,” I nodded.

“How was the UBS event? Anything interesting?”

“Oh, well, I think it was quite nice. I hope at least. I helped to plan it. So, let me know if anyone complains,” I joked. He laughed and got more comfortable in his seat. We continued to chat about small little things for a moment until we ordered our food. He took the break as an opportunity to ask me about my job.

“So, do tell me, what’s it like working in F1?”

“How you would expect,” I shrugged. “Lots of traveling. Drama. Drive to Survive is quite fun to have around.”

“I don’t really know what I expect, if I’m honest. I know only a little bit about F1. I’m much more of a football guy.”

“Oh, I just assumed since you knew Lewis,” I answered.

“I know enough. Team principals, drivers, a little bit of the drama. Outside of that though,” He shrugged. The plates came to the table as did my glass of wine. I began to snack on the tartare as he spoke. “So as you said, traveling quite a lot. Nice hotels, the high life, all that?”

“We fly private when we’re outside of Europe, but other than that, commercial. There’s really no point. If the drivers want to waste their money on flying private to a place that has cheap flights, they’re welcome to. But the hotels are always great. They’re not included in the cost cap so I doubt that’ll change.”

“The cost cap, now that I’ve heard about. Mercedes feeling the squeeze?” He asked.

“We are cutting our budget into a third of what it used to be. So…yes,” I laughed. “It could be much worse though.”

“So, you must work for Toto Wolff?”

“Huh?” I questioned, nearly spitting out my food. “How’d you know that?”

“Judging solely by the fact he’s walking over here,” Jeffrey shrugged. I whipped my head around and watched as the 6’ 5” man powerwalked over to the table with a look of determination. As soon as he saw my face, it quickly switched to a smile with a wave.

“Oh, fuck,” I groaned, putting my head into my hands.

“Arabella, I thought that was you,” He smiled approaching the table. “Oh, sorry for interrupting. Toto Wolff.”

He stuck his hand out at Jeffrey, and I watched as Jeffrey reached his hand out to shake it.

“Jeffrey Martens,” He answered, shaking his hand.

“What’s up, Toto?” I asked, looking up at him as they released their grip.

“Did you leave anything in your room? I know you talked about going back to your place, but I wanted to make sure if you left anything I grabbed it for the flight tomorrow, but since you’re here, I can just hand it to you.”

“You could’ve just texted,” I groaned.

“I was going to and then I saw you. Is that a yes?”

“No. It's a no. I didn’t leave anything,” I tried to smile at him.

“Alright. Sorry for interrupting again. Is this the same guy you brought to the Christmas party last year?” He asked.

“Nope.” If I didn’t know any better I would think he was purposefully sabotaging my date.

“Apologies. I should probably go now. See you in the morning, Arabella,” He patted my back. “Bye, Jeffrey.”

Jeffrey looked at me with a hefty smirk. “Never thought I’d meet an F1 Team Principal,” He laughed.

“I’m going to kill him for that move. So you might’ve just heard his last words,” I sighed. Jeffrey laughed even harder. I smirked back at him. We continued our conversation, discussing Jeffrey’s line of work, trying to pretend like Toto hadn’t even stopped by. As dinner ended, and he paid the check, he began walking me out of the hotel.

“This was very fun,” Jeffrey smiled.

“It was, yes,” I answered.

“You’re a really interesting woman. An F1 Team Principal’s assistant, a bit of a hard ass, and totally hilarious,” He smiled. A bit? I strive to be the absolute worst. So, that’s offensive.

“Thank you. You’re…interesting too,” I lied. He was certainly at best a curiosity. His life was quite boring. Dad was a lawyer, so he became one too. Now he works at a bank.

“Oh thank you. I hate to end the night here,” He spoke quietly. “Would you like to come to my place?”

“Absolutely.”

Time to get this out my system.

Tags: @daddyslittlevillain

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