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earlgreydream · 3 years

Text

rings.

| bucky barnes x reader | smut | fluff |

anon requested. bucky with rings

mafia au, soft!dom

cw: sliiiiight dubcon if you squint, but not actually

“You’re running the money through here?” Steve asked Bucky, and he nodded.

“Yes. We have a few other sites we launder through, but most of the money comes through here. Police don’t come poking around a locally owned Romanian restaurant on the upper east side,” Bucky explained.

“Boss is very... careful.” Zemo explained, referring to Bucky.

They were trying to make a deal with Steve and Sam, the two American bosses of another mafia they were trying to sell their illegal weapons to. One of their bases was raided, all of their drugs and weapons seized by the DEA.

They had come to Bucky, looking to buy more weapons to arm their dealers and “soldiers”.

“And who is this exactly?” Sam eyed Zemo suspiciously.

“Zemo. He’s security, and my weapons expert,” Bucky answered.

“Do you have connections?” Steve continued, trying to ignore the Sokovian’s unsettling stare.

“Yes. The head agent of the Manhattan DEA is one of us. Half of the local precincts are in our pocket, and I own the NYPD.” Bucky’s tone was impatient, he didn’t appreciate the questioning of his authority.

Bucky was the most powerful man in New York, and also the most feared. He demanded respect, dominating every space he entered. Steve and Sam wanted to be under his protection, and be supplied by him.

The men stopped talking when they heard a noise, and the four men burst into the front of the restaurant, guns drawn.

“Did you not lock the fucking door?!” Bucky snapped at Zemo. Zemo just rolled his eyes, and they stepped out into the dining room, where you stood.

You loved the Romanian restaurant just a few streets down from your building. You frequented it, their papanasi your favorite comfort food.

You’d had a rough week, a lot of family drama, and you were craving the Romanian food. You found the door unlocked and a back light on as you were walking home late, and you’d gone inside to try to get a snack.

It was empty, but four men had come out, three of them pulling guns and pointing them at you. You’d heard voices and had begun to walk to the back hallway, where they’d been talking in an office. You’d heard “I own the NYPD,” and nothing else. You’d started to leave when the men had appeared.

The man who didn’t have a gun pointed at you was in an all-black suit, silver eyes matching silver rings on his fingers that looked like they costed more than your Manhattan rent.

You were frozen, staring down the barrels of three guns, fear robbing your lungs of air.

“Get your fucking guns out of her face!” Bucky shouted, making you jump. Zemo obeyed immediately, but Steve and Sam kept their guns pointed at you.

“She’s-”

“She’s unarmed and terrified. Put down the fucking guns!” The other two slowly lowered their weapons, and you were shaking.

Bucky looked at you, a frightened girl who clearly had just ended up at the wrong place at the wrong time. You stared back at him, your hands trembling. You didn’t understand him protecting you from the other men, but you were thankful.

“Please, I didn’t hear anything, I haven’t done anything... I just wanted some food,” you pleaded softly, looking at Bucky in hopes he’d take more pity on you.

“I believe you, doll, but we can’t let you leave,” Bucky spoke, and you bit your lip.

“I won’t do anything,” you promised.

“I know. You came for something to eat? Let’s get you some food. Zemo.” Bucky pushed the Sokovian toward the kitchen.

“Barnes, we can’t just-” Steve turned to Bucky, starting to object.

“You will respect my authority, Steve.”

You looked at him, and Bucky held his hand out for you to take. You hesitated, and his silver gaze softened.

“I’m not going to hurt you, doll,” he said quietly, and you carefully put your hand in his, the metal rings cold against your warm skin. Bucky pulled you toward him, his other hand going to rest on the small of your back as he led you to his office, sitting down with you on one of the brown leather couches. You began to smell the food Zemo was cooking, growing hungrier. Sam and Steve sat across from the two of you, and you shifted under their intense gazes.

“What’s your name?” Bucky asked you, and when you didn’t answer immediately, he introduced himself.

“I’m James Buchanan Barnes, but my friends call me Bucky,” he felt bad that you’d gotten caught up with them. Under another circumstance, he probably would’ve sent you away, but he couldn’t let you go in front of the two Americans, and not risking what you may have heard of their conversation.

Your mind was spinning. You’d never been in the presence of four men as beautiful as the ones in the restaurant. Bucky especially, was incredibly gorgeous. His stern, dominating personality made him far more attractive somehow, and you found yourself growing warm in your jeans.

“Your name, doll?” Bucky’s voice was soft as he called you back to attention, snapping your mind out of your wandering thoughts.

“Y/N,” you whispered, pulling at a rip in your jeans, letting your eyes fall down to your lap.

“That’s a pretty name,” Bucky said, repeating it, and god it sounded so much better falling from his lips.

“Here,” Zemo returned, setting down a plate for you. A small gasp left you as Bucky hauled you closer to him on the couch. You realized it was so that Zemo could sit down on your other side. You picked up the plate, eating quietly, trying to ignore the stares from the men across from you.

Zemo and Bucky didn’t stare, and Bucky’s hand rested lightly on your leg. They began to speak in Romanian, and you didn’t understand, so you kept eating. You nearly choked when Bucky squeezed your thigh a bit, his rings glinting from the movement.

You wondered how the cool metal would feel against your heat.

“Y/N? I asked if you were alright?”

“Hm? Yes,” you blushed furiously, and Bucky had an amused smirk on your face, practically reading your mind, or at least recognizing filthy thoughts as you stared at his large hands.

“Her cheeks look a little rosy,” Zemo hummed, his fingers brushing lightly over your cheekbone. Your chest rose and fell heavily, and Steve leaned forward and took the now-empty plate from your lap.

“Are you nervous?” Bucky teased, his deep voice soaking into you, surrounding you and blocking out everything else.

“No, sir,” you shook your head, swallowing hard.

“Sir? So sweet,” Zemo chuckled darkly, and you felt his fingertips ghost down your spine.

“I am sweet,” you said, looking up at Bucky, and he tilted his head to the side a bit, running his hand up and down your thigh. You squeezed your legs together without meaning to, just needing to alleviate some of the sexual frustration that was building inside of you.

You were overwhelmed by the two men speaking softly and sensually to you, their hands on you, the dominating personalities, and the tension in the room. You were focused on Bucky, and he helped you onto his lap. You let him move you to straddle his hips, your back to the other men.

“Want to show me how sweet you can be, doll?” He asked, his hands resting on your ribcage, and you could feel him through your thin top. You nodded shyly, and he kissed you to get you to relax a bit.

“My friends here are going to watch, okay?” Bucky’s voice was dangerously soft, and you nodded. He kissed your cheekbone lightly before slipping your top over your head, your breasts barely covered by thin, see-through lace.

You blushed, looking to the side and seeing Zemo shift at the sight of your chest.

“He’s admiring you,” Bucky hummed softly into your collarbone, pressing a kiss to the skin there, just above the curve of the lace on your breast. His hands slipped down into the back pockets of your jeans, squeezing you and pulling a breathy noise from you. You couldn’t see Sam or Steve, but you felt their gazes on your back, watching the way Bucky balanced softness and dominance with you.

“I want to make you feel good, I want to hear your little moans of pleasure,” Bucky spoke quietly, mouthing gentle kisses along your jaw.

“Please,” now, instead of begging to leave, you were begging for him, the mafia don you were on top of.

“Let’s let these poor boys behind you see. I want them to know who’s in charge here,” Bucky said, and you nodded in consent. You felt like you could collapse as he got you to stand up off of his lap. You looked down at his rings as he smoothed his hands up your belly to tease the raised peaks under your bralette.

“So pretty, doll,” Bucky praised you, kissing just above your navel. His eyes gazed up at you, and your trembling fingers threaded through his dark hair as you got lost in the stormy grey.

Bucky wanted to tear you apart, but he took it slow and was gentle for you, the sweet girl under his protection.

He kissed the space between your hips as he undid the button on your jeans, sliding them down your legs. He reached a hand up for you to take as you stepped out of them, holding you steady. He smiled at the lace bottoms that matched your top, nearly see-through.

You heard a soft throaty noise from behind you, and you looked to see Sam and Steve with their hands down their trousers, stroking themselves as they watched Bucky undress you. Zemo was doing the same, but less shy than the other two, his suit pants down around his knees, giving you full view of his cock.

You blushed shyly, feeling exposed but somehow safe with Bucky, who was squeezing your ass, leaving imprints of his rings against your skin.

“Look, they’re all touching themselves because of you, how beautiful and sweet you are,” Bucky turned you around so your back was to him, making you watch Steve and Sam. Your skimpy underwear showed how wet you were, and you were unable to hide how turned on you were any more.

Bucky’s hands were on your hips as he kissed down your spine, shivers shooting through your body. He slid the lace down your legs, leaving it discarded on the floor with your jeans, but not bothering to get you fully naked.

A soft squeal escaped as you were suddenly dragged backwards, falling onto Bucky’s lap, your back pressed against his suit-clad chest.

“You can rest on me, doll,” he coaxed you to relax, his hands smoothing down your body.

Steve and Sam were overwhelmed by the sight in front of them, and Bucky knew it. He was doing this to assert his dominance, and to establish a level of trust between them. They watched him part your legs, keeping them open with his knees. Zemo was much more unphased than the other two, enjoying the show as one of Bucky’s loyal friends.

Bucky could hear your soft, unsteady breaths, and he stilled when your smaller hand grasped his.

“Leave them on, please,” you begged, tilting your head back to look him in the eyes before he could remove his rings.

“Of course, sweet girl.” Bucky planted a gentle kiss to your lips, deepening it to hear your soft moans.

“Oh my god, fuck,” one of the men moaned as they came, seeing your sex glisten as Bucky licked into your mouth sensually.

Bucky gently trailed his fingers through your folds, feeling how wet you were. He began to stroke your clit softly, listening to you whine.

He eased one of his large fingers into your tight entrance. You shuddered, your breath stuttering as you felt the cold metal against your hot pussy, your muscles squeezing around his finger.

“Does that feel good?” Zemo asked you as Bucky pushed two fingers inside of you, still teasing your clit to keep you relaxed.

“Answer him, doll,” Bucky commanded you sternly.

“Yes, sir,” you turned your head to look at Zemo, watching his hips fuck up into his hand.

“No, you keep touching yourselves. You’re not done until I’m done.” Bucky’s order was directed at Steve and Sam, who’s noises rose in pitch at the forced overstimulation. They were too afraid to disobey Bucky, knowing the consequences would be dire. Zemo knew this ahead of time, and was taking it much slower, still enjoying himself as he watched you writhe on Bucky’s lap.

Bucky kissed along your shoulder and neck, three fingers pumping slowly in and out of you. He expertly drew whines and moans of pleasure from you, and your legs were beginning to shake from the intensity.

The cold metal against your heat was driving you mad, making your eyes roll back in ecstasy. Your back arched off of Bucky’s chest, and he wrapped an arm around you to hold you against him. He still managed to stay calm enough to continue being gentle with you, leading you quickly toward a powerful orgasm.

“You must ask him before you let go, sweetheart,” Zemo informed you, and your broken whimper filled Bucky’s ears. He watched the other three men writhing in their own mind-blowing pleasure, all under the instruction of him.

“Please, Bucky, I need-” you cut yourself off with a strangled squeal as he curved his fingers forward inside of you.

“Let go, I’ve got you,” He said, kissing your cheek as he murmured the soft words. Your screams of white-hot pleasure filled the room, shaking and falling apart on his lap. A choked sob left your chest as he pulled out of you, his digits soaked in your come. He’d waited until you had fell down from your high, becoming relaxed in his arms.

He was whispering gentle praises in your ear as he slipped his fingers into your mouth to clean them off. You hollowed your cheeks, obediently cleaning him up and feeling the metal rings pressed against your lips. You were soothed by sucking off his fingers and the praises, melting into the mafia lord.

“I think I want to keep you.”

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spiltscribbles · 3 years

Note

Hi love!! I just took a look at the prompt lists u have linked and the prompt “you said what to your teacher?” sounds like it could be absolutely hilarious if u wanna write something for that!! <33333

Notes: OMFG HIYA DAN BABEYYYY!!!! Thank you SO SO much you absolute angel face!!! This was the first thing I tried writing and actually enjoyed and just wrote it all at once in the middle of the night dlkfsajlkgjasdofiewghklsdgj THANK YOU AND I LOVE YOU!!!!

You Said What To Your Teacher? | Send Me A Prompt💜

“Do you remember when we were nine and I gave you my last sparkler because Regulus was crying that he wanted your purple smoke bomb and I was left with only my shitty poppers to throw when the ball dropped on New Year’s.”

Sub half way to his mouth and mobile lodged between his shoulder and ear, Sirius gently sets down his sandwich and dabs off the splatter of mayonnaise on his cupids bow as he tries to parse out what in bloody hell his best friend is blabbering on about.

“Oh, hi, Jem. Yeah I’m doing well, mate, thanks for asking. Works the typical grind but I think Minnie is about to give me that promotion any day now.”

“It’s a simple yes, or no answer, arse.” James retorts haughtily, sounding somehow frenzied and buoyant all at once.

“Pardon me, I thought we would just have a normal conversation like typical blokes,” Sirius sniffs, tilting back on his chair and clicking around on his desktop to look at the revised dimensions of a new building his firm was employed to begin constructing in south London. “Now remind me, my sweet. Was this the same New Year’s that you stuffed that stink bomb in the back of my shirt after stomping on it so it’d explode on me?”

“That is neither here, nor there.”

“I still feel the debris on my poor back on especially rough days.”

“You’re a twat.”

“And you’re acting dodgy.”

“I need a favor, and I thought a transactional proposition would be the sort of thing that you corporate types would appreciate.” James jabs, laughter in his words. Sirius just hopes he could picture the middle finger he’s emulating through the line.

“Just because you’ve completed residency doesn’t make you a special snowflake, you do realize this, correct?” Sirius tells him, already shooting a message to Minerva and his team that he’ll be jetting off a bit earlier so he could do whatever it is that James needs.

“Slander! It makes me the most special snowflake, Black. And it eats you up inside.” James retorts, moving away from the receiver to yell something towards one of his interns about a patient or the other.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, gorgeous. Now are you going to ever tell me what it is you need from me, or keep trying to get in my trousers, because listen either option is aces on my end. I’ll just add it to the document I send Lily every week about how I’m so obviously your dream partner.”

“It always just comes back to your burning jealousy that I chose her over you, doesn’t it?” James pretends to sigh forlornly. “Listen, my love. It’s not my fault that some birds are just born prettier than others.”

“Psha, I’m the prettiest fucker you know, Potter.”

“It’s the attitude for me, just absolutely no decorum about you.”

“Is this about that snag with me teaching Haz how to properly curse at a United fan?” Sirius asks, moving to collect his satchel and jacket. “Because I stand by that. We’re a fucking Arsenal family, damn it.”

“We were at brunch when he called that poor woman a weasel faced toad, Sirius.”

“Good man,” Sirius insists, waving goodbye to the secretary who always gives him the most devoted heart eyes.

“Well, speaking of the sprog. I’m stuck here with a new bout of paperwork to get someone transported to us from a hospital in the states, and Lily’s stuck in the maternity ward till at least nine.”

“Ooo, a bit of God father/God son time then??”

“With great power, comes great responsibility,” James says gravely.

“What have I told you about your shitty nerd references and how they give me a rash.”

“Spider-man isn’t simply for nerds you absolute pleb! There’s been three bloody franchisements for him in the past two decades!”

“Imma let Harry eat ice cream for dessert, I reckon.”

“Then you’ll have Lily to answer to,” James warns, still seething from the jibe. “And if you’re taking the bike, can you at least park a block away. This new school we’ve enrolled him into this year is well and proper, and I’d not want them to think that our son’s God father is some sort of ne’er-do-well.”

“You put respect on Rosco’s name, or so help me!”

“Right, right, the only constant love in your life.”

“She’s the only one who understands me.”

“ Whatever, just try and behave decently, will you?”

“Hah, and why wouldn’t I?” Sirius asks as he tosses his helmet into the air, patting Rosco in apology for James’s impertinence.

“Hmm, we’ll see, won’t we.” James says in an irritatingly ominous tone before clicking off the line.

There are a lot of reasons why Sirius could hate James. He could hate him for forcing Sirius to join him on his morning runs, or hate him for his intensely perky attitude about every sodding thing. Hell he could probably hate him for his complete disregard of the mad sport that is American football. But all that withstanding, Sirius reasons that for today he’ll hate him for his cryptic fucking warning and how he knew this would happen and is probably cackling over it as he fills out a new set of discharge papers.

That absolute, unceasing, weasel faced, toad.

The ‘this’ that Sirius is referring to of course is the fact that Sirius is left dumbstruck and gawping as he strolls leisurely into Harry’s third year class, eyes roaming over the small cluster of children who had stayed after hours for extra tutoring and who are now just lounging around, waiting for a guardian to come and pick them up. But instead of first spotting the dark head that belongs to his God son, Sirius’s gaze focusses on a man… A very fit, very golden, very beautiful man. A man that’s all lithe limbs and honey eyes, and a small, quietly encouraging smile as he kneels down to chat with a blonde girl who’s got on a blue tutu and rainbow poncho.

“Fuck you James Potter,” Sirius hisses lowly to himself as he tries to collect his wits about him, and remind himself that flirting with his God son’s actual, fucking professor is not a thing that is approved of.

“Uncle Pads!”

Sirius starts, feeling suddenly grounded as Harry bounds towards him and hugs his torso with a tight squeeze. “Hiya Prongslet,” he says, grinning indulgently as he ruffles a hand through Harry’s wild mop of curls.

“Am I coming to yours then?”

“If you’ll have me,” Sirius winks, tapping the bridge of his specs fondly.

“Brilliant! I’ll just tell Professor Lupin.”

Oh, that’s a very sexy name if Sirius does say so himself, though he tries not to marinate on the fact as he waits patiently while Harry leads that absolutely delicious looking man towards him. And God, the way he’s tipping back his head only slightly to meet Sirius’s gaze— It’s lewd.

“You’re Harry’s God father, yes?” Is the first thing Professor Lupin says to him, stretching out a hand that’s all long fingers stained by ink, and knobby knuckles that Sirius suddenly has the insane craving to nip at.

Jesus, he needs to get himself the fuck together.

“Ahem, yes, yes. I’m that. I’m Sirius I mean— Oh, my name, and erm— I’m also serious that I am his God father, that is a thing.” Sirius rambles, feeling like a complete idiot as he takes hold of Remus’s slender hand into his own, and shakes it with two, awkward pumps— holding onto it for a beat too long.

Sirius repeats, fuck James Potter.

“Right,” Professor Lupin says with something akin to amused. “Well he’s only got his maths to finish tonight, and a bit more reading for history.”

“Oh, good. I’ll definitely help with that. I’m great with numbers.”

“Wonderful,” Professor Lupin nods at him before peering down at Harry and grinning widely. “You did great today, just keep up with your novel for Professor Meadows and you’re splendid. Yeah?”

“Thank you Professor Lupin,” Harry preens, chest puffed out not unlike how James had used to do back in their school days every time they won a footie match.

“Nice meeting you Mr— ah?”

“Black!” Sirius quickly offers, straightening up immediately like a rose bud stretching towards the sun. “Sirius Black.”

The corner of Professor Lupin’s mouth twitches up, and Sirius is struck with the searing need to see the full force of his smile directed towards him— and also to snog it right off. “Remus Lupin, just to make things even.”

And fuck.

Sirius swears— hand on his chest and face to God— that it was a flirtatious inflection that Professor Lupin— Remus— used right then, but before he can even have the chance to toy around with the development, a mother in yoga pants and Starbucks strolls in and Remus walks over to greet her hello, and before Sirius knows it, Harry’s tugging on his hand and dragging him out the room.

Damn it.

Despite his total and complete fail of a first meeting with Harry’s sickeningly attractive professor, the rest of the night turns out to go as perfectly as planned. Otherwise known as them stuffing themselves with greasy pizza, and heaps of ice cream, and staying up an hour past Harry’s typical bed time to play Far Cry instead. And if Sirius contemplates asking him more about this elusive Remus Lupin, he bites down the urge and concentrates on sticking his spoon onto his nose before Harry could beat him in their match.

It’s totally fine.

That is until it’s six o’clock in the ruddy morning and he’s woken up by the loud knocking of his front door, only to be met by the grossly chipper faces of Lily and James— that sort of glow is only a thing that happens after a good shag, and Sirius knows that for fact.

“We brought pasties,” Lily tells him as she sashays indoors, red main of hair billowing in the late autumnal breeze and her voice ringing out like she’s some sort of radio show host.

“How was last night?” James asks him as he toes off his boots and follows Lily to the kitchen.

“Fine,” Sirius gripes, still pissy from James’s cruel joke. “Haz is always great.”

“Mmm, I hope Remus didn’t give you any trouble picking him up, you’re on the paperwork and everything but it’s the first time he ever met you and all.” Lily says, faux lightly as she picks out the plates and turns on the electric kettle.

“You knew!” Sirius accuses emphatically, pointing a heated finger her way and then directing it towards James.

“Knew that he is exactly your type?”

“And that you’d look like a tosser talking to him for the first time,” Lily tacks on, giggling.

“Fuck you, and fuck your weird, married telepathy!”

“Nah, not telepathy mate,” James assures, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re just incredibly predictable.”

“We’d have to be thick not to know that you’d be a total idiot around him— You’re the worst whenever you have to talk to pretty people who you actually want to do more than just screw.”

Sirius feels himself go scarlet. “That is an attack on my person, Evans!”

“Yes, dear. I know.” Lily croons, patting him on the cheek like a doting grandmother. “But does it help that I think you should totally go for it.”

“Lily! He’s our son’s teacher!”

“Only for this year,” Lily shrugs, sitting on a stool that lines the island. “Besides, I really like Remus. We have the same cycling class and he taught me how to make my face into an emoji like I’m a Kardashian.”

“You guys talk about’m like he’s the second coming of Christ,” James harrumphs, doling out their mugs with a scowl.

“He’s just so pretty,” Sirius sighs, beyond dejected. “Did you see that little birthmark on his cheek that looks like a butterfly! And Jesus, his eyes are like a third of his face!”

“Don��t forget how well he fills out those trousers for such a skinny bloke,” Lily adds, mixing the honey into the tea that James had just poured her.

“I alas did not get a chance to give his ass the appraisal it warrants,” Sirius bemoans.

“I very much do not like the idea that my best friend and wife are thirsting over the same bloke.” James sniffs.

“Jealous, lover,” Lily leers, laughing at how James wrinkles his nose at them and kisses his cheek in reassurance. But Sirius doesn’t pay them any of his attention, is too distracted by painting the picture of Remus in his mind’s eye, and how he really does need a second look if he loves himself at all.

“He’s like those caramel lollypops from when we were kids,” he tells them unceremoniously. “But instead of that tart middle, he’s just sweetness through the center.”

“You want to lick him, huh?” Lily asks, smirking at him with a lecherous air.

“I want to lick him until he goes mad and begs me to just flip’m over and—“

“Enough!” James quickly cuts in with a smack of the hand against the countertop. “This man is Harry’s professor, I can’t have these sort of images of him while I go to pick him up after class.”

Sirius jerks forwards, beyond excited. “Then let me pick up Haz from school today, yeah? It’ll give me a chance to speak with Remus!”

“Why do you want to talk to Mr Lupin?”

The three adults turn around at once, met by the image of Harry in the spare uniform he keeps at Sirius’s house— hair sleep rumpled and specs askew.

“Hallo my beautiful boy,” Lily grins, her and James each kissing his cheek and giving his shoulders a squeeze as he sits between them.

“Why do you want to talk to Professor Lupin, Uncle Sirius.” Harry asks again, earnestly as he tares apart his cheese and veggie pasty. “Do you like him?”

“Oh, erm—“ Sirius feels his insides squirm, not sure where to step, afraid that his God son might not appreciate the fact that Sirius’s already planning out a reception party for his impending nuptials with Remus.

“I think it’d be cool if you did.”

And in an instant, Sirius feels his shoulders loosen and his smile go elastic. God he loves this kid. “yeah?”

“Mhmm,” Harry nods, taking a sip of his water to clear his throat. “Ron told me that Professor Lupin use to be married to his Uncle Fabs and then they broke up last year, so I bet he’s sad now. And you’re the best person on the planet and you always have fun! You should make him happy again.”

Sirius’s heart seizes, suddenly needing to be the person to help Remus with anything he could ever need.

“You’re a diamond kiddo, you know that?” Sirius says, standing up to lift his eight year old God son into the air and blowing a raspberry to his cheek. “Shove it to your dad, you’ll be my best man at the wedding, yeah?”

“Imma need to start smoking if he’s gonna be this much of a prat all the time now,” James mutters lowly, making it so Lily crows with laughter.

That afternoon finds Sirius parked back outside Harry’s school, straightening the collar of his jacket and combing a hand through his hair. Though once he steps into the nearly emptied classroom, he’s still slack jawed when Remus looks over his shoulder towards the door and grins at him in such a glimmering sort of way, that it punches Sirius in the fucking solar plexus!

“Mr Black, twice in one week?”

“Hah— Yeah.” Sirius hopes his smile comes out more gentle than a grimace. “It’s not far from my work, actually. So I guess I’ll be around more often.” In fact, the drive is a good twenty minutes from his office, but Sirius doesn’t think that’s really relevant.

“Lucky us.” Remus retorts, looking up and down his frame with a slow, languid sort of gaze that makes Sirius feel filleted right open. “Well I can’t wait to get to know you better.”

“You can know whatever you want,” Sirius practically sputters, wonders if he should try and act cool, especially now that Harry’s wandered over towards them.

“Is that an open offer?” Remus asks, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth and lying back leisurely against his desk.

“Yes. Yes, absolutely.”

Remus’s beautiful face goes absolutely incandescent right then. “Good.”

“Good,” Sirius repeats, completely devout.

“Oh, before you go,” Remus says, pointer finger raised to freeze them while his other hand fishes into a drawer of his desk. “It’s not a caramel pop, but at least the Tutsi ones are sweet all the way through.”

Sirius feels his jaw completely drop while Remus gently places the stick of the treat into his open hand, tossing him a quick wink before walking off to chat with a new parent who had wandered in.

“Harry— You said what to your teacher.”

“That you said he looked like a caramel pop,” Harry answers, totally owlish and unconcerned.

Sirius contemplates drowning into the lake, but then decides that this is a game he will not lose against Remus.

“All right, Prongslet. Let’s grab us some chocolate eggs and you can tell me everything you know about your dear Professor.”

“Okay, Uncle Pads,” Harry beams.

~My Wolfstar FIC Masterlist💜

#WOLFSTAR #REMUS LUPIN #SIRIUS BLACK #WOLFSTAR FLUFF #SIRIUSXREMUS #REMUSXSIRIUS #THE HARRY POTTER SERIES #MARAUDERS #HARRY POTTER SERIES #spilt ink

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fandom-puff · 4 years

Note

hi i have a request! imagine for tommy he picked you up at the bar so he doesn’t know you very well but you guys ~do the nasty~ and later he overhears from your one friend telling lizzie that you faked your orgasm and he hunts you down determined to make you cum for real

HI! thanks so much for this request- I adored writing it!

Word count: 3.3k

Warnings: SMUTSMUTSMUTSMUT also swearing bc... peaky blinders?

It was the grand opening of the Shelbys’ new bar, and naturally, almost all of Small Heath was crammed into the main room. The whiskey and gin (from Shelby Company Limited, of course) was flowing, and the Swing Band was playing loudly, much to the joy of the inebriated men and women dancing. You hummed to yourself, touching up your lipstick before calling for another round for you and your girlfriends, Ada and Lizzie. “You want another drink, Linda? Maybe just stout?” you asked, getting your coin purse out.

“Don’t bother yourself. I won’t succumb to that temptation. Just tonic water for me,” you rolled your eyes and soon received your drinks. “So you won’t touch gin, but you’ll happily play in the snow, eh?” Ada smirked, winking at you as she sipped her drink. You spluttered into your own.

“Come on, ladies,” you said, sensing the tension growing between sisters-in-law. “Let’s dance before the band starts playing that American rubbish,”

Together, you joined in with the dancing, giggling and cheering each other on. “C’mon Lizzie! Spin me around! I wanna be twirled,” you squealed, and the taller woman happily complied. You were new to the company, and she wanted to make you feel welcome before the boys scared you off. Soon you left the dancefloor, leaving the girls, to get another drink. You arrived at the bar, giggling and breathless, and ordered your favourite drink.

“Miss YLN,” a low voice rumbled next to you as the bartender poured your drink. “I don’t believe we’ve properly met. Been keeping the books, eh? My brother John says you’ve very neat handwriting, and hardly cross any number out,” You nodded as your eyes met Thomas Shelby’s.

“Oh… yes, Mr Shelby,” you murmured. “I try to make them neat so you lot don’t get muddled up,” you said. He nodded. The bartender put your drink in front of you and you reached for your purse. Tommy stopped you and gestured to the bartender that your drink ought to be on the house.

He soon took you into the side room, kicking Finn and Isiah out. “My secretary, Lizzie, recommended you to me,” he said as you perched opposite him. He lit a cigarette, rubbing it along his lip before taking a drag. “And I’ve been trying to figure you out. Couldn’t find anything,”

“I didn’t grow up ‘round here. When my mum died I took her maiden name. Most of her lot were killed. The Somme, I think,”

“And your dad?” he asked, watching you as you drank.

“The bastard died in France too, as far as I know. But I left home after Mum died. That was before the war,”

An hour later, you were still talking, although the pair of you had drained a bottle of whiskey. You were giggly and warm when drunk, but Tommy only closed in more. This didn’t bother you in the slightest. You leaned forward and smirked. “So, Mr Shelby, do I meet your approval, eh?”You were so close to him, and your pupils were dilated with what could only be described as a mixture of inebriation and desire.

“Yes. Yes, you do. C’mere,” he grunted, dragging you into his lap. He pressed his lips to yours in a bruising kiss, his hand already running up your thigh. You groaned and wriggled, sucking his lip into your mouth, grinding your heat onto his tenting trousers. He growled, unbuckling his belt and shoving his trousers down, and tearing your knickers down. He stood up, bending you over the table, before rutting into you animalistically. You whimpered, crying out, pushing back into him. His thrusts soon became sloppy, and you reached to stroke your pulsing clit- but he grabbed your hand as soon as he saw you moving, pinning you down and shouting out his release. It was a good job the band had started playing a popular song, otherwise, the whole of Birmingham would have heard you.

You panted, expecting him to carry on thrusting to bring you over the edge. Instead, you heard the sound of a belt buckle and the door slamming shut.

The experience sobered you up slightly and you straightened your dress, fixing your lipstick and hair before slipping out of the side room. You bumped into Lizzie and told her you were going home, as you were working in the morning. She nodded and took in your dishevelled (despite your best efforts) appearance. “Get some rest,” she said knowingly, giving you a wink.

The next day, you arrived at work despite your headache. You lit a lamp, as it was still a little dark out, and started on the books, flicking through the notes scribbled by various members of the Shelby clan. You worked in peace for ten minutes before Lizzie and Pol came into the room, chatting.

“There she is. How’s your head?” Lizzie grinned, sliding you some aspirin. You smiled gratefully and took the tablets.

“Holy shit,” Pol commented, staring at the bruise on your throat. You blushed deeply and tugged your collar closed. You hated wearing this blouse buttoned all the way up, but needs must.

“Wild night, eh?” Lizzie asked, getting her own paperwork sorted as Pol went to fix tea.

“Not really,” You sighed, looking down. You wanted to ground to swallow you whole.

“Oh, piss off. You came out of that side room five minutes after Tommy, looking like you’d been dragged through a hedge backwards, and you show up to work with a dirty great love bite on your throat,” she grinned. “I’m not judging you, by the way. If anything I’m impressed. He’s been a right prick lately,”

“And he was a right prick last night,” you hissed. “Moody bastard, and a lousy fuck as well. Didn’t even finish me off, I had to fake it in the end,” you glared down at your paperwork. Lizzie chuckled and rubbed your shoulder gently. Polly came back into the room with the cups and teapot, pouring for you all.

“So who’s the man? Boyfriend we haven’t heard of?” She asked, smirking.

“It was Tommy, Pol,” Lizzie explained. You kept your eyes down. “Apparently he’s a lousy fuck. Our poor YN was treated worse than the back alley whores by the sounds of it,”

Prolly frowned and set your tea in front of you. “Wouldn’t think a lousy fuck would leave that mark,” she said slyly. “Use a cold spoon and some powder when you get home,” she advised.

“And then tonight, go dancing and get a man who’ll treat you right, eh?” Said Lizzie. “You deserve better than someone rutting against you like a dog,”

The two women had cheered you up significantly and you smiled weakly until Arthur’s loud voice cut across your conversation.

“Rutting like a dog? Was that what you and Tommy were up to last night?” He grinned, having overheard, and you flushed angrily.

“Hey, no need to be embarrassed, YN, you are a pretty little thing-” he said, his smile dropping when he saw that his banter wasn’t making you laugh like normal.

“No. I’m not embarrassed. If anything, I’d be embarrassed for your brother. Who would’ve thought Thomas Shelby didn’t know his way around a woman, let alone how to properly please her!” You turned around. “Pol, I’m going home. My head is banging and I need to concentrate on these books. Arthur’s done all the adding up wrong. Dock my pay if need be,” You took the heavy leather-bound book and tucked it under your arm, before storming out of the betting shop, right past Tommy without even noticing.

The peace of your home was what you needed. You brewed yourself a pot of tea with the nice teabags you had picked up from the market, and settled yourself at your rickety old desk, going through the books and copying them up neatly, and more importantly, precisely. You even hummed to yourself, soon letting the stress of the previous night slowly fade away.

That was until there was a sharp knock on your door. You sighed, getting up. There was another knock. “Alright! I’m coming. Rent’s not due for another week, though!” You called, going to take the door off the latch.

There in the doorway, in all his glory, was your boss. His cap was drawn over his face and he blew out a breath of smoke. “YN. Can I come in?”

You wanted nothing more than to slam the door in his face and lock it, put the chain on and drown him out with your rusty gramophone. But-

“Fine. But put that cigarette out before you step over my threshold. The last tenant was a bad smoker and I’ve only just got the smell out of the cushions,” when the door shut, you turned around, crossing your arms. “What do you want, Mr Shelby?”

“Mr Shelby, is it now?” He asked, smirking. “That’s no way to greet a guest, is it. Are you going to offer me a drink?”

“No, I’m not. You don’t take me as one for cold tea with no milk,” you quipped. “What do you want?”

He arched his brow, looking you up and down as if you were a fresh cut from the butcher. You stood a little straighter, determined not to look small. “What I want, YN, is to know what your little fuss was about earlier on,” he said lowly.

You scoffed. “Oh please. You know exactly what it was about, and even if you didn’t, I’m sure the boys would’ve informed you,” you said coldly. “If you must know, I was pissed. Still am. Because I let you… have me. And I’m pissed because you treated me like a common whore, and I’m pissed because everyone knows and will think less of me,” you said, flushing, brow furrowed.

“And what’s all this about being a lousy fuck, eh?” He asked, face like stone.

“Oh you heard that part well enough, didn’t you?” You suppressed an annoyed laugh. “It’s true. You are a lousy fuck. D’you bend all your women over and hump them like a dog in heat or am I just special?”

“YN…,” he said, voice low, standing up and walking to you.

“You know, I’ve had better shags when I was a teenager. At least the lads I used to go out with had the decency to finish me off once their balls were empty!” You ranted, unaware of him stalking closer and closer, like a panther on the prowl.

He pushed you against the wall, arms braced either side of your head. You gulped. Had you pushed him too far? You looked up at him through your lashes, and couldn’t help but lick your lips, your breath already becoming shallow. “Finish you off, eh? Is that what you want?” He asked lowly, leaning to growl in your ear, sending a shiver that crawled all over your skin and made your eyelashes flutter.

You bit your lip and nodded. “Y-yes…” you whispered.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes please, Mr Shelby,”

That was all he needed. He gripped your hips and pulled them tight against his, kissing you ferociously, his hands gripping, squeezing, stroking every inch of you he could reach. You moaned against his mouth and scrabbled at his heavy coat and jacket, pushing them to the floor. You began fumbling with his belt when he grabbed your wrists, holding the, above your head.

“Ah Ah Ah,” he said roughly. “I intend to make up for last night. And believe me, YN, I’m feeling particularly generous tonight,” He hoisted you up by the thighs and held you against him, carrying you to your bedroom and kicking the door shut. He deposited you onto the bed, before looking down at you. “Dress. Off.” He demanded, and you all too eagerly complied, much to his satisfaction, casting it aside, quickly followed by your slip, leaving you in your knickers and bra. He chuckled darkly at your eagerness, and when you went to undo your garter and stockings, he halted your hands, shaking his head. You nodded obediently and watched as he kneeled down in front of you. You pressed your knees together, but he tutted and caressed your legs, from ankle to thigh.

“Don’t be shy, YN,” he murmured.

“No one’s ever…” you whispered, shifting your thighs together. He cocked his brow up and smirked.

“No one’s ever what, pet?” He asked, pushing your thighs apart and making quick work of your stockings. “Tasted you? Not even all those boys who knew how to please you, eh?”

You nodded and bit your lip, gasping at the new sensation of his hot breath skittering across your core as he pressed filthy, open-mouthed kisses against your heat. He nipped the inside of your thighs to get you to spread them further and inhale your musk, shuddering at the scent of your arousal.

“You won’t even remember your own fucking name once I’m through with you, love,” he promised, stroking his finger lazily up the seam of your underwear, pressing it against your clit. You clenched your fists into the sheets, thighs already trembling. This did not go unnoticed, and Tommy chuckled darkly at your desperation. “So responsive,” he murmured, dragging your underwear down torturously slowly, before burying his face between your legs. You whimpered as you felt his tongue running up your slit, gathering your arousal before he swallowed with a groan, gripping your thighs tightly and holding them apart. He traced your sopping folds with the very point of his tongue, his nose occasionally bumping your swollen clit, but giving it nowhere near enough attention for your liking.

“Tommy please!” You whimpered after at least ten minutes of him scrubbing the flat of his tongue against your heat, nipping at your thighs, and even pushing his tongue into you. He pulled away and looked up at you with raised eyebrows, your slick glistening obscenely on his chin.

“Please, what, YN? Use your words,” he demanded.

“Please, touch me!” You cried, shifting your hips, trying to get some friction to your needy clit.

“Touch you where YN? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me,” he said smirking cockily, pinning your hips down to still you.

“On my… my… here!” You whimpered, reaching a hand down to flick at your throbbing nub. “Please, Tommy, please!”

He growled and knocked your hand away, instantly attaching his lips to it, sucking like a man starved and flicking his tongue under the hood. You cried out and tipped your head back, gripping whatever handful of hair you could, swearing like a sailor. “Oi. Watch. Eyes on me.” He commanded, although slightly muffled by your writhing hips. You whined softly but nodded, focusing on watching the gorgeous man devouring you. Your eyes fluttered when you felt a familiar tension building up in the pit of your belly, your clit beginning to throb against his tongue. Your breath came in sharp gasps, and you bucked your hips up, desperate to tip over the edge, so close already-

Then… nothing.

You groaned, glaring down at the man before you, who still held all the power despite being on his knees. You whined trying to grab him back. “What the fuck? Please, I was so close!” You said, intending to sound angry, but actually sounding needy and desperate. He grinned.

“I know,” Bastard. He repeated this routine several times, bringing you right up to the edge, but dragging you away at the last moment, until you were practically sobbing with need. When he had taken his fill of your nectar, he worshipped your breasts, sucking and nipping and kissing and lathing his tongue over your nipples until you were writhing, arching your back, convinced you would cum from this stimulation alone.

“Please, Tommy!” You whined, fingers tangled in his cropped hair as he sucked a dark mark on your breast. “Please, Tommy, you’ve proved your point, please!” You sounded pathetic, begging like a whore, but to be quite frank, you could give a bigger fuck if you tried. “Just… please, Tommy, I need you. Need to feel you,” you whispered, stroking his jaw as he resurfaced, his piercing eyes trained on yours. “Need you to fill me up, claim me… I’m yours, Tom. Don’t you want to feel me cumming all over your cock?”

Your words were meant to rile Tommy up, but they made you shift and whimper and buck despite yourself. “Good girl,” he whispered. “I’m very impressed with you. I’m going to fuck you, YN, and I’m going to do it properly,” You nodded eagerly and watched with glazed eyes as he discarded his waistcoat, shirt and trousers. You licked your lips as he dropped his underwear, groaning at the sight of his long, thick cock bouncing free, already leaking.

All for you.

You whimpered as Tommy crawled up the mattress towards you, already spreading your legs for him. “Please,” you whispered, reaching for him. He nodded, slowly pushing himself into you, bracing his elbows either side of your head. You cried out at the stretch of him, arching your back to press into his warm chest. Already, you were digging your nails into his back, and he grunted at the feeling of your walls clenching onto him for dear life.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned into your neck, drawing back almost completely, before driving back into you with slow, measured movements, his forehead pressed to yours as he fucked you slowly, yet each thrust was ended with a sharp snap of his hips. You whined out, throbbing around him, trying to meet his thrusts with faster, needier ones of your own.

“More, Tommy, more!” you cried out, scrabbling your nails down his back, clinging to his shoulder blades. You raised your legs to wrap them around his waist, angling your hips up more, eyes rolling at the deeper penetration gained by the new angle. “Please, faster,” you begged, writhing eagerly beneath him. “Please?” you whimpered, practically sobbing with need.

Tommy grunted and nodded, holding you tight to him as he fucked you harder, faster, more relentlessly, growling into your ear, before suckling dark marks down your throat and to your collarbone. Moaning, he pistoned his hips into you, each thrust bumping delicious pressure onto your aching clit. It was too much.

You moaned wantonly, arching your back and biting his shoulder. “Fuck Tommy, I’m gonna cum,” you whined, clinging to him, not wanting him to pull away before your release again.

“Good girl,” he groaned. “Cum around my cock, love, that’s what you want. That’s what I want,” he grunted, his thrusts sloppy and harsh. With his permission, you yelped out, crying his name as you came, seeing white spots, even when you clenched your eyes shut. Feeling you clench around him like a vice, he shouted his release, spurting into you, filling you with his hot cum.

Panting, he pulled out, and for a moment you worried he would buckle up his belt and leave you like a whore again, but the mattress dipped beside you as he lay down. He drew you into his side, holding you close.

“You alright?” he murmured, kissing the top of your head. “You okay, love?” you nodded, resting your head on his chest, breathing deeply.

“I-I… more than alright,” you murmured, causing him to chuckle. He lit a cigarette and grinned, rubbing your side as you drew the covers around you both.

“So, still think I’m a lousy fuck, eh?” he smirked. You grinned and looked up, reaching to kiss him.

“Not sure,” you said cheekily. “That might have been a fluke. You’ll have to repeat that display a few more times so I know you didn’t just get lucky,”

“Oh, I got lucky all right,” he smirked. “Sleep. We’ll take the day off work tomorrow, and I’ll show you that wasn’t a fluke, eh?”

#tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby #peaky blinders #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders imagine #smut #tommy shelby smut #tommy shelby x you #prompt #request #sorry jesus

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1ddotdhq · 4 years

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🐝Fri 13 Nov ‘20 Pt.1💃

Harry made (a whole lotta) history today by being the first man ever to be on the cover of American Vogue Magazine! Even the Daily Mail had to agree, with its shockingly on point headline, “Harry Styles wears a Gucci dress as he becomes the FIRST ever male cover star of US Vogue in groundbreaking gender neutral shoot”. As Oscar Wilde tells us, “you can never be overdressed or overeducated”. Well, HARRY said it in Vogue today: but Oscar said it first.

It’s a pretty standard Harry interview, except the fact that he met the Vogue writer at a bathhouse in Hampstead (I wonder if they wanted to take that chilly early morning swim with him, lol)- he talks about choosing to spend his quarantine with friends (first a pod in LA, then later with Mitch and Sarah, and always wearing sweatpants), about reading Alain de Boton (his takeaways are “being in a relationship with someone is a real skill” and “real friendship stems from being vulnerable with someone”. Yes, I hear it too, it’s fine, we’re not gonna talk about it), about potentially moving to Tokyo (“there’s a respect and stillness, a quietness that I’ve really loved every time I’ve been there”), that he loves “the feeling of nobody knowing where I am,” (poignant when you think how rare that is for him), and, of course (it's Vogue!), about fashion. Well, he’s certainly become a fashion icon: his Tik Tok famous JW Anderson rainbow cardigan has gone into the Victoria & Albert museum’s permanent collection as “an emblematic document of how people got creative during the COVID-19 era”. One of the most interesting moments was what he selected as a pivotal moment in his relationship to clothing; “I was really young,” he says, “and I wore tights for [a school play] - I remember it was crazy to me that I was wearing a pair of tights! And that was maybe where it all kicked off.” Listening to him talk about his own journey and self discovery is wonderful, but questions about his personal life and living situation are just prying and he’s not gonna give any straight (haha) answers, because he doesn’t want to, so can we please just let him talk about books and stuff instead of drawing the story about Ben Winston’s attic out yet again?! Anyway the text is followed by an video, maybe the best part of the whole thing-- it's him playing an acoustic rendition of Cherry (on a truly beautiful guitar) that has to be my favorite performance EVER of that song, where he adopted a twang that was reminiscent of Bob Dylan (Tangled Up in Blue, anyone?). It played over gorgeous behind the scenes content of them setting up the shoots, him moving around and laughing with everyone, and incredible shots of him bustling up the hill holding up his floofy skirts (yes he is absolutely personifying the wedding photoshoot cliché, fabulous indeed) and brushing his teeth while wearing the blue bandana with the “But Daddy I Love Him” T-shirt: now that's a LOOK. He just can't stop the larrie baiting huh? Our Harry, always so competitive!

But anyway, let's not forget the real point of any Vogue spread: the PICTURES! The cover shoot is Harry in a soft blue lacy Cinderella dress and bolero jacket blowing up a sky blue balloon and wearing his rings, including the peace ring. Amongst his other outfits, there was a pair of golden Bode pants, custom made to feature things personal to him, such as some of his tattoos and other elements that made him who he is: a Robin, his godsons names, the crest of Manchester, a bee named Hester, the word “Wolfie” (theories abound!), daisies, and a poem by Richard Branaugh (the author of the novel “In Watermelon Sugar”) called ‘The Wait’. “But the wait was worth it,” the poem reads, “because I was in love”. And we are certainly all in love with this shoot. Some other notable pictures include one with Gemma that was a surprise for Anne (“this is my sister from the same womb”, he said, making it awkward for everyone), a lot more with him in various skirts (maybe more than trousers? have we counted?), and every outfit featuring his beat up vans with the pink shoelaces and flattened heels. There doesn’t seem to be a way to buy the magazine online without a subscription yet, but if it becomes available I will be sure to let you know the details. Harris Reed and Gemma posted a lot of behind the scenes content on Instagram, as did Anne, who celebrated Harry’s accomplishment on her story. I hope she’s very proud, because so many of us certainly are.

#harry styles #gosh what else is there to say really #well i guess i have to say that he wouldnt look out of place at a DMAs concert with the green blue and red outfits he's wearing #in fact hed be repping their colors!#also uh...can i borrow that pantsuit under the petticoat?#that was gorgeous #anyways!#song of the day pt 1!#Tangled Up In Blue by Bob Dylan of course!#both the original and KT Tunstall's gorgeous cover

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bettycooperoutfitwatch · 4 years

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4x13 Chapter Seventy: The Ides of March

Hey. Sorry for disappearing. I was writing fic. And then I catalogued all of Jughead’s jackets. Pandemic, election. You know—stuff.

Anyway, season’s over (...sort of), let’s get to it!

okay lol.

Betty’s smart, Jug’s into it, and she knows it.

Her short-sleeve knit reminds me a bit of the sweater she wore to break into the Farm’s records room in 317, in that it’s a bit of a mishmash of colors and shapes. The cropped pants are something we’ve been seeing Betty wear in season 4 (see the last episode). I, personally, love a cropped trouser.

The pink platform Converse are the ones we first saw in 321, also at the Farm, but more recently were worn while working with Charles on FBI-ish Farm-hunting stuff in 402.

Do we think if Bret walked in and saw Betty in his chair, he’d be pissed? I feel like he’d be snitty about it. He seems the type.

Ah yes. Another turtleneck under a jumper (an American jumper, fyi). This is a season 4 uniform for Betty.

Light blue is something we’ve certainly seen her in quite a few times, but a dark forest green, with a v-neck? That’s newish.

The lettuce hems are sending me to the 90s.

Also—Betty drinking coffee? If I recall correctly, that’s how you know shit is going down?

Light-colored ankle boots—very season 1.

(Do you think Donna’s turned on? I think Donna’s turned on.)

(Backpack 2.0)

Behold those fuzzy slippers.

(head in hands)

The fckn dino bomber jacket. It’s Murder Day, y’all.

This outfit first appeared in a flash-forward in 409. The oatmeal-colored turtleneck was also worn in 410 (another turtleneck and cord jumper look), when B & V worked to infiltrate a different Stonewall party.

As for the plaid mini—Betty’s often worn tartan throughout the show as a nod to Jug, which—yeah, that works here, too. She wore this one in Quiz Show.

This bag has popped up throughout the season, first seen when Betty visited Stonewall with Jug in 402.

Based on this terrible screenshot and one from when she’s in the woods later that is just too dark to inflict upon you, I’m like 85% sure these are the iridescent oxfords she wears in 412.

I, too, am concerned with whatever is happening here.

As an aside:

A plot seedling set in motion in 407 comes home to roost. (Listen, I’m out of practice, don’t @ me if my metaphors are wonky.)

I hate it. But it does give us this (admittedly rare) moment of reality from Riverdale:

It’s true and I also hate it. Women suffer a disproportionate brunt of the negative results from what is misleadingly called revenge porn.

Fucking misogyny.

...This is a very Alice Cooper stance, Elizabeth.

If I’m completely honest, I still don’t get the plan. What’s the plan, Jug? What’s the bunny mask for? Note it’s the same mask Bret and Donna wore, also in 407—maybe Bret’s threat of blackmail made Jug think of it? How is this your means of getting rid of the leverage the Stonies have over you, Jug? I have questions.

Even Betty is like what’s the plan here I don’t get the plan.

Obviously the plan doesn’t come to fruition, because Jughead gets ~murdered~

idk V, you tell me!!!

Before we get to the end of this ep, let me just say the only folks doing this party right are Archie and Veronica, who sneak off to smash in the woods. Less murdering and getting framed for murder and being murdered, more smashing in the woods pls.

(Every time she says ‘make it’ I think of Joanne in Company.)

Liquid courage.

Whoops, didn’t work.

Summary: 3 outfits (not including a very brief flashback to her pajamas in 407)

Backpack 2.0?: hey friend.

The fucking dinosaur count: listen.

Best outfit: I’m not terribly partial to any of these? Let’s go with the green pinafore.

#4x13 #s4 #riverdale #betty cooper #betty cooper outfit watch

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xmxisxforxmaybe · 4 years

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Twin-Swap: “The Twins Talk”

Day 1: “Rami Wakes Up in LA; Sami Wakes Up in Miami”

Warnings: Wee bit o’ angst

* * * * *

Rami was silent, and so was Sami.

“I don’t even know—”

“What the hell happ—”

The twins began at the same time, both of them sighing with frustration before Sami cleared his throat and asked, “What’s the last thing you remember . . . remember as you inside of you?”

Rami thought for minute, his fingers reaching up and scratching at his chin, the whiskers of Sami’s beard so foreign that he lost his train of thought and had to restart.

“Well, uh . . . I was drinking a beer. Some place not far from the hotel. Gwil and Joe were at the bar, talking,” Rami paused, thinking hard to piece together his final memories in his own body.

“It’s—it gets weird. Like I was blackout drunk but I know I didn’t drink that much. I’m working, Sami. I would never—”

“I know. I know how serious this is for you.”

“What do you remember?”

It was Sami’s turn to pause, and as he thought, he remembered that right now he was naked. He sat down on the hotel bed with a tired sigh and pulled a pillow over his lap. He leaned forward as he cradled the phone next to his head, a well-manicured nail finding its way between his teeth.

“Stop chewing on my nails,” Rami interrupted, his agitation a welcome, small piece of normality during this fucked up situation.

“Shit—sorry.”

“Anything? Do you remember anything?” Rami pressed.

Sami closed his eyes as yesterday swam through his mind—a normal, albeit tiring Thursday with his freshman. He remembered making it back to the house, maybe around 5:30 or 6:00 pm.

“I remember coming home from school. I, uh . . . I got a beer from the fridge. Went into the living room and turned the TV on. Damnit! It’s just like you said—like trying to pry into a memory after you’ve gotten too drunk.”

The harder Rami thought, the more his head began to pound—a headache so deep in his brain that the pain felt both within and without, like he was looking out of a window only to see himself looking out of another window, then another, and another.

“My head hurts,” Sami confessed, and Rami concurred. The twins were used to knowing what the other was thinking or feeling before they said it, not because of some indefinable, mystical connection but because they shared everything; before their birth, they were more one soul than two. It was only in their early adulthood that they began to separate, to realize that solace could be found individually.

They thought they didn’t need each other as they once had, and in fact, while Rami was filming Bohemian Rhapsody in London, it was the longest physical separation they had undergone. Even while they were at college on opposite ends of the country, every few months, one of the twins would visit the other, unable (or unwilling) to go any longer without seeing the other.

Neither of the twins had enjoyed being apart for so long, but neither was willing to offer up the confession they both already knew—they were far too stubborn, a trait they carried down from their father.

“That’s weird, isn’t it? To have the same headache?”

Rami laughed at his brother’s use of “weird” considering the current situation.

After a moment, Sami softly laughed, too. “This obviously isn’t a dream right?”

“I mean, I didn’t slap myself or anything, but no. This isn’t a dream.”

“I did.”

“Don’t slap me!” Rami guffawed, once again agitated at the lack of care Sami was showing his body. He needed to be pristine—it was his job to look good.

“Big thanks for sleeping naked by the way.”

“Sometimes sleep-trousers—”

“Pants, Rami. You’re a fucking American.”

“Pants are underwear in—”

“You! Are! American!”

“Stop yelling at me!”

“What else am I supposed to be doing?” Sami yelled, his cool completely lost. “I’m in a hotel room in Miami. I need to be at school—shit! What time is it there?”

“It’s uh, 7:26.”

“Oh my god,” Sami moaned. “You have to throw on whatever you can and get to school. You’ll be a little late, but I’ll have Melissa cover my room until you—until I—get there.”

“Have you LOST your fucking mind? I can’t teach! I don’t know your students!”

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to get a sub on a Friday? You have to put your day in weeks in advance—no sub, guess who covers? Your colleagues. And it’s not like the kids can just skip English and fuck around somewhere else for an hour.”

“I can not do this, Sami. I think the fact that we are in each other’s bodies—”

“Please Rami. Please! Tomorrow is Saturday—”

Rami felt a twinge of pain as Sami begged. His brother never, ever asked for anything. But that pain was quickly overrun by panic as Rami remembered, “I have to be on a plane this afternoon!”

“What?”

“We leave for Dallas. And as soon as I land, we have an interview. Oh fuck me. What the fuck am I gonna—”

“Just. Let’s think about this. We have to think.”

“I can’t mess this up, Sami. I can’t mess this up.”

“And neither can I! Honestly, I think you think your job is more important than mine sometimes.”

“It’s a little more fucking public!”

“Just—stop. We can’t do this now. You need to get dressed and get in the car. Call me when you’re on your way to school.”

Rami was silent longer than Sami would have liked but he knew his twin heard him.

“I’ll call you from the car.”

“Thank you.”

“Sami?”

“Huh?”

“We’re gonna fix this, right? Whatever this is, we’re gonna fix it?”

Sami’s eyes were suddenly blurry because of the uncertainty in his brother’s tone. He took a deep, silent breath and willed his voice to be strong, to be sure.

“Yes. We will fix this.”

“Call you from the car,” Rami answered, then the line went dead.

Sami flopped back onto the bed, the pillow that had been covering his naked lap falling to the floor. He shoved his hands in his hair, wondering for a moment what the hell they put in his twin’s hair to make it so soft, then he brought his brother’s perfectly manicured index finger to his lips, hesitated, then started chewing at the edge of the nail as he pleaded with his brain to remember something, anything.

But as the throbbing in Sami’s head became overwhelming, he gave up, thinking instead of how the fuck he and Rami were going to fix this.

#twin tuesday #twin tuesday fic #rami malek #sami malek #twin-swap #rami malek fic

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thesameasbe4 · 4 years

Text

Harry in London

*Loosely inspired by the British Miniseries The Bodyguard. Cameo appearance by Richard Madden’s streak of gray hair. Explicit language and some sexual references.

We had passed each other many many times. I think I even spoke a few brief words to him here and there, polite greetings and the like. In this way it was strange then to feel like I had seen him for the first time. “Sarge,” I had heard some of the other security call him. I wasn’t particularly familiar with British Policing but he did seem to be the one that others reported to on our security detail even though he worked along side them.

I was uncomfortable with the idea of personal security at first, unsure why an international consort of social welfare experts needed such a thing, until we encountered our first protest. It turned out that almost every political platform could find a reason to disagree with this initiative. There were complaints about taking British social practicum into the international sphere, disagreements about our inclusion of family planning and safeguards sensitive to immigrant welfare. The list never stopped. A few weeks into our stay we learned that there were also death threats targeted at several of us individually. That was when I first officially met Sergeant Collins. They started the day off by pairing each of us with a personal protection officer who, from that time forward, would be with us from the moment we stepped out of our residences till we returned there in the evenings. The Sergeant had stepped toward me, introducing himself and I did the same in return, putting on a display of politeness but distracted by the work we had yet to do that day.

At lunch, I dragged myself down to the lower floor courtyard, a paper cup of coffee steaming in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other. I lowered myself to the ground against the wall, sloshing coffee over my fingers. “Fuck,” I muttered, remembering suddenly that I had a horrid headache. I set the cup down on my right side and tossed the pack of cigarettes down next to them. I wiped my stinging hand on the fabric of my black pants and drew my knees up so that I could rest my head on them for a few moments.

“Are you all right Ma’am?” An emotionless voice said. I looked up, startled that I was not alone as I had thought. The sturdy figure of Sergeant Collins stood in the doorway of the courtyard. I took another deep breath, this one a little more exaggerated than the last and rolled my eyes up at him.

“Yes Sergeant, I’m fine thanks. It’s just been a long day, and it’s not nearly over, ” I said on an exhale. I brought the cup of coffee to my lips and took a heavenly sip of the dark brown liquid. I had the forethought to pack my old dorm coffee pot from so many years ago, anticipating a lack of American style coffee in work spaces, and I had been right. Tea and instant coffee would not get me through these high stress days, and so I brought my own solution, something I was well known for and one of the reasons I had the honor of serving on this initiative. Though I did receive my fair share of ribbing based on my very Southern American preference for black drip coffee.

“Are you allowed to sit while on duty Sergeant?” I asked, inviting him to join me with a nod of my head.

“Sometimes, Ma’am, if it’s appropriate.”

“What would make this an appropriate time for you to sit next to me?” I asked taking another sip of coffee.

“Well Ma’am, firstly if I’m not interfering with your work duties or personal wishes, and secondly if it is advantageous or inconsequential to your physical safety.” I had never heard him string that many words together, and I was startled by the brusk Scottish tone of his voice.

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Well we are still within a secure government building and I am inviting you to join me because it’s weird for you to stand over me. Is that sufficient reason for you to join me?”

Interestingly, he cracked a smile at me and then took a few measured steps toward me and lowered himself to the ground. I noticed the special care he took in making sure his fire arm was still safely holstered in the belt at his waist. He kept a professional distance between us, but it was the closest we had ever been to one another besides the few times he held car doors open for me.

I studied his form. From far away all of the PPOs looked put together and slick, but up close he looked uncomfortable and lumpy. He wore a well tailored suit, but there was an intercom wire attached to his collar and threaded down the back of his shirt and clipped onto his trousers. He also had an ear piece in the left ear, which was closest to me. His chest was unusually stiff and wide, which led me to assume he had a bullet proof vest under his crisp white collared shirt.

“Want a smoke? I asked, offering him the pack.” He shook his head.

“No thank you, Ma’am.” So I dropped the pack again. Instead I held out my hand to him.

“Lucy, I’d rather you call me Lucy, at least when we are alone,” I said to him. Hesitating only for a moment, he took the hand I offered and shook it twice firmly.

“Harry,” he replied. Our movements stirred the air just a bit and the faintly masculine scent of old spice teased my nostrils. I turned to face forward again so that I wouldn’t stare too hard at him. I had assumed that he was middle aged because he was the Sergeant, but up close he appeared to be in his early thirties. “Don’t let me interrupt you Ma’am, go and have your smoke.”

“I don’t smoke,” I replied and we both fell silent.

Finishing my cup of coffee, I rose and dusted myself off as I waited for Sergeant Collins to check the door and open it for me.

The day faded to late afternoon and then into early evening. Much of the day had been set aside for meetings and I was throughly spent. Our final decisions were made for the day around six and I was already thinking about what I would make for dinner and coaxing myself into believing that I had enough energy for a short workout as well.

As we filed out of the conference room I sought the dark shape of Sergeant Collins amidst the line up of PPOs. He nodded to me and stayed where he was, patiently waiting for the halls to clear before moving toward me.

“You mind if we take the stairs instead of the lift?” I asked. He spoke a few words into his collar and then waited while I assumed someone was responding through the receiver in his ear. I was about to interject that if it was any trouble we could just take the lift, but he nodded in assent and we headed the opposite way down the hall from the cluster waiting for their turn down to the ground floor.

I was itching to get some of the wiggles out after being seated for so long and I relished the faint strains on my quads as we made our way down the five flights of stairs. It is hard to explain what happened next, my brain recalls only fragments of it at a time. I remember bursting out of the stairwell and into the building lobby slightly out of breath and then being tackled by a huge mass behind me. I hit the ground hard, slamming my jaw on the tile floor and I felt my knee pop. All around me there was a deafening noise and an abrupt wave of heat followed by screams and the hectic whining of the fire alarms.

“Lucy… Lucy!” I heard in my ear, “can you hear me?” I nodded, realizing that the heavy weight on top of me was Sergeant Collins. “Stay here, don’t move at all, I am going to assess the situation and then come back for you. I won’t be long.” I felt the weight shift and then lighten as he rolled off of me and staggered to his feet.

I stayed there, inhaling thick smoke, systematically wiggling each of my body parts. As far as I could tell I was in one piece.

A few moments later a strong hand reached down and grabbed my arm. Startled, I tried to wriggle out of the grip. “It’s me Ma’am,” Harrys voice cut through the smoke and alarm bells. “Come, there is a car waiting out the back entrance. Can you stand?” I scrambled to my feet, wincing at a sharp pain in my knee but gritted my teeth and allowed the Sergeant to guide me back into the stairwell and through a series of emergency exit doors. Hesitating just inside the final door, Sgt. Collins spoke into his collar, waiting for some kind of signal before he stepped out into the fresh air. From my vantage point behind the Sergeant I was still able to see a black SUV pull up and brake hard a few meters away from our exit. As it halted abruptly, the back door swung open and another PPO got out and made a signal in our direction. Sgt. Collins gripped my arm and ushered me out into the cool air. We walked quickly to the vehicle and I climbed in, Sargent Collins following me into the back seat.

“Ma’am,” a sturdy female voice caught my attention from the driver seat, “have you any need for emergency medical assistance?” I blinked a few times, unsure of what to say.

“Um, I don’t think so. I’m a little battered but I don’t think I’ve got anything major thats wrong.”

“In that case, we will drop you off at your safe house. A detail has been sent to screen your belongings for hazards and then they will be brought to you at your new location.” I nodded, unsure of how one was supposed to react in a situation like this. “Sometimes you don't notice you are hurt until the shock wears off,” she continued, “Sergeant Collins has the appropriate training to treat any minor injuries you may discover you have and a trip to the doctor can be arranged for tonight or tomorrow if that becomes necessary.”

The rest of the ride was quiet. I had no idea where we were, although I was still unfamiliar with London in general. Finally the vehicle glided to a stop and Sgt. Collins stepped out and held the door for me. It was now too dark to see anything and there were no lights on the outside of house, just the headlights from the SUV. Collins stopped me at the front door and he proceeded to check each room, shouting “clear,” as he finished his inspection of each one. Finally he returned to the front door. “Ma’am, it is safe for you to go in now. I will be waiting here with you at least for the time being. Would you prefer it if we arranged for a female officer to stay with you over night?”

“Um, no, I trust you, it is fine, I just want to be as little trouble as I can,” I replied hearing an unfamiliar tremor in my voice. Sergeant moved aside, allowing me access to the interior of the house. I wandered through the little rooms without much purpose while the two PPOs spoke quietly to each other on the front stoop.

I managed to find a few light switches and flipped them on. There was a kitchen and dining room all in one with a sitting area just beyond and a short hallway that I gathered led to a bedroom. I went to the dining table and pulled out a wooden chair and sat down. In the light I noticed that I had little scratches all over my arms and my clothes had small holes in them. There wasn’t a lot of blood but there was enough that I felt my hands tremble as I felt around, trying to locate the source of it.

I didn’t notice that Harry had come into the house till he pulled out a second dining chair and sat across from me. His clothes were torn similarly to mine, and I could see that he had a nice sized cut on his eyebrow. “You’ve got a few cuts on your face,” he said to me. “May I bandage them?”

“What happened?” I asked, ignoring his question.

He sighed and leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “Someone detonated a bomb.” Pausing, he looked at me, waiting for my response. I had assumed as much, I mean, I had heard it, felt the blast, if just the very outer bit. So I returned his gaze, though I suspected my eyes were a bit harder than his. “I don’t have many details, I expect you will be debriefed in the morning.” He sat back, sighing.

“What do you think though?” I asked. He shifted, pulling at his shirt like he was just noticing the warmth of the room.

“I can’t confir-“

“I know,” I cut him off, “but what do you think?”

He was silent for a moment, meeting my cold stare again before he finally replied. “I think if they wanted all of you dead you would be.” He stood and turned his back on me, reaching into a cabinet and pulling out a bottle of brown liquid. From the drying rack he took two glasses and poured a little liquid into each of them. “This was hate mail, not attempted assassination.” He placed a glass on the table in front of me. I picked it up gingerly, half expecting it to blow up in my face as well.

“So what happens next?” I asked quietly. The Sergeant let out a sigh and met my gaze as he downed the contents of his glass. Closing my eyes for just a moment, I did the same.

We remained silent as he then proceeded to inspect my injuries. Though I insisted I was uninjured, as my shock faded, it was replaced by a dull ache in my jaw and a sharp pain in my knee any time I tried to put weight on it. He stuck a few bandaids on my face and gave me some paracetamol which I washed down with another shot of whiskey. He showed me the bathroom and the spare clothes already laid out in the bedroom.

“What about you?” I asked stopping him in the doorway of the small bathroom.

“Ma’am?”

“Lucy, please,” I said without thinking. He looked straight ahead, just over my hairline, as if that mask of professionalism would erase the intimacy of our now entangled reality. “You are bleeding, may I clean your cuts?” I stared at his face, willing him to look at me. Finally he looked down and met my gaze, his eyes softened.

“Thank you, Lucy.” So we returned to the kitchen where the first aid kit still lay open on the table. He sat down as he had before and I fumbled with an alcohol swab determined to stop my hands from shaking. I could feel him watching me and my frustration grew as hot wet tears squeezed out of my eyes unbidden and unnecessary.

And then his warm hands were covering mine, stilling them. His touch calmed me and I drew in a slow breath. I remembered how far from home I was, how alone, only working and working.

My gaze settled again on the Sergeant, who, I noticed, was still wearing his suit jacket which was badly shredded, since he had weathered most of the impact from the explosion.

“You don’t know me,” I said, my brow creasing as I dabbed at a cut on his forehead.

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

“Why would you put your life in danger for someone you don’t know?”

“It’s my job.”

“But what about your family?”

“I don’t have any.” I paused my barrage of questions.

“But what if I’m a bad person, you don’t know me. Why would you risk your life for someone you don’t know?”

“It’s my job.”

The tears were flowing freely down my cheeks now. “And if someone was shooting at me, what would you do?”

“I would move you out of the line of fire, using my own body if I had to.”

I let out a sob and I sank to my knees on the ground, he followed. Blinded by the moisture in my eyes I grappled with his jacket, trying to tear it off. “I want to see it,” I spat through my soggy tears. “Let me see your vest.” He had been trying to still my hands, but at this demand he released my wrists and helped me pull off his jacket and held still while I fought with the buttons on his well tailored but now ragged shirt. Finally they were all undone and I couldn’t really recall what it was that I had intended to do, so I placed my hands on the hard surface of his ballistic vest. It was white and started high up on his chest. I started there, running my fingers over the top seam of the thick material, then I followed it out, to where it ended on his taught shoulder muscles, and then tapered down just below the bottom of his rib cage. I circled my arms around him so that I could feel the back side of it as well. Realizing that I was looking for punctures in the material. I found what I had been dreading close to his left shoulder blade, a shard of glass dug in deep. I pulled and pulled but it wouldn’t come out. Finally I felt his body resisting me and I sat back on my knees.

Not breaking eye contact with me he undid the velcro under each arm and lifted the vest over his head.

I jumped at the knock on the door. “Stay here Ma’am.” Harry said, resuming his professional tone, despite being dressed in only an undershirt and his slacks.

It was the other PPO from earlier arrived with a medic who checked the work that Harry had done on me, providing a knee brace that I should wear when I needed to move around. After that I excused myself and took a long hot shower.

…

I awoke slowly the next morning, my mind fuzzy and my body sore. Shifting uncomfortably in an unfamiliar bed, I slowly recalled the events of the night before. Eventually I thought to check the time but could not locate my phone anywhere. Easing out of bed I searched the unfamiliar room but to no avail. I thought it might be in the kitchen where we had first sat upon arriving, I made for the door but realized just in time that I was dressed only in a large t shirt, no pants and no bra. Turning to face the room again, I saw only my clothes from the night previously strewn about the floor, which were in tatters and covered in blood.

I saw a towel draped over a chair so I grabbed it and wrapped it around me. Tiptoeing down the hall, I made my way to the living room area. Harry was sitting in a lounge chair, looking not at all relaxed as he stared at a tv screen showing footage of a building up in flames. Fascinated by the violence of the black smoke and the red fire, I moved closer. “God, is the building even still standing?” I muttered, and was surprised at how quickly he stood and turned around. I must have been quite a sight, because he relaxed when he saw me standing there pitifully wrapped in a towel still damp from the night before.

“Good Morning,” he said. “Your things were delivered earlier this morning. They are in the kitchen.” I swiveled to see three half full black garbage bags sitting on the kitchen floor. I moved towards them. “You may want to put on something comfortable,” he said to my back, “you can’t go in to work today.” I gave him no sign I had heard what he said, but I rummaged through my now rumpled clothes and came out with a pair of dark wash jeans and a light knit sweater.

I returned to the bedroom to make myself presentable. I peered into the floor length mirror and frowned. The left side of my face looked like I had been sprayed with brown paint from the micro cuts that had sliced into my skin. I also had a growing dark splotch under my right eye which I expected would bloom into a full on shiner by the end of the day. My shoulder length black hair was frizzy and knotted, but I didn’t know where my brush was so I ran my fingers through it a few times before giving up, not wanting to look at my damaged face anymore.

Harry had said I couldn’t go to work today, so I suspected the next best thing to do was to make coffee. I nosed around in the kitchen, unsurprised to find that there was no coffee maker, just a kettle and a half of a tin of brittle brown pebbles. Happy to grumble about something normal, I set the kettle to boil and located the cupboard of mugs. As I waited I recalled that I had originally come out to look for my phone.

“Sergeant, have you seen my phone lying anywhere? I’m not sure what happened to it last night.” There was a sound of old creaking wood as he rose from his position in front of the news and joined me in the small kitchen area. We each retraced our movements the night before but to no avail. During our search I couldn’t help but notice again his various scrapes and bruises. There was a long gash that went up into his hairline as well as some of the smattering of tiny cuts that I had on my face, but his were thicker and though his new crisp white collared shirt obscured his torso, I guessed that they continued down his arms and neck.

“Its likely it didn’t make it out of the building,” he said. We discussed this possibility and I realized that if my phone didn’t make it out, neither did my wallet or passport. After a number of expletives on my part, he excused himself to make a call.

The kettle boiled while he was out and so I poured out two steaming cup fulls of hot water. In one I spooned a few sad lumps of brown instant coffee and in the other I plopped a tea bag, a drop of milk and one sugar.

“Okay,” he said, reentering the house and bolting the door behind him. “Here’s the plan, someone will be brought over from the American embassy to take some information from you and they will hopefully be able to get you a new passport by the end of the week. My colleague from last night, will also be returning to take our statements about the events yesterday.” I nodded and handed him the mug of tea. He took it from me with a lift of his eyebrow and brought it close, as if inspecting it. Then he sipped it, his face changing to amusement. “How did you know how to fix my tea?” He asked.

I just shrugged, “What? You think you are the only one who notices details? I’ve got nothing better to pay attention to during all those long winded meetings than what happens at the tea station.” I sipped the dark sludge in my cup.

He nodded as he took another sip.

The embassy clerk came first, looking a bit wide eyed at the two of us, reminding me again how close we had come to death. I gave him all the information I had and we coordinated for the rest of it to be sent to the embassy from the United States. The fidgety man assured me that it would all be processed as quickly as possible and that I should expect new papers by Friday. I stood to shake his hand and then Sgt. Collins showed him out and watched the armored vehicle leave.

The other PPOs arrived not long after, bringing gifts. The woman PPO who had driven us here the night before, Davis, I think was her name, arrived with large cups of real coffee and a bag of groceries, on the very top of which was a box of croissants. She set it all down on the table and slid a coffee over to me as well as a croissant. I ate and she and Sergeant chatted for a while till I was done. Sensing a shift in the atmosphere, she turned to me and laid out the situation as they understood it to this point.

I was the only international on the task force that had not been hospitalized, likely because they had targeted a spot close to the elevator, not the stairwell. One of my colleagues was in critical condition but stable and all the others were suffering from topical injuries such as burns and shrapnel and all were expected to recover. I was to continue to remain in this safe house for several more days as an investigation took place. Sergeant Collins would remain as my PPO as long as I was comfortable with that. A new cell phone and any other equipment I would require would be provided to me.

I gave her my statement and Sgt. Collins retreated outside with her for quite a while. While they were away I dug into the bag she had brought. There were a few groceries as well as a chocolate bar, a bottle of wine and a pack of cigarettes. I studied the box of smokes, curious about why she had thought to include them.

…

It had been a while since I had done absolutely nothing. Idleness never looked good on me. I had picked over the sparse book shelf several times already that morning, finding only two novels that looked palatable, only to discover they were too smutty to stomach in my current state of emotional and physical frailty. I had unpacked my things in the small bedroom at the back of the house and then reorganized them.

Mid-afternoon, a gentle rain settled over the house and I finally sunk into a chair in the kitchen. My knee was throbbing so I hobbled to the freezer and found a pack of frozen mixed vegetables that I laid on my knee. The PPO agent had offered to get me set up to work from this location immediately but warned that no one else was up to it, so I told her to get me connected whenever the rest were healthy enough to begin working again. Sergeant had left for a few hours earlier and Davis remained in his place. He had returned with a neat little overnight bag hanging from his shoulder. The rest of the time he either lingered next to the door, muttering into his earpiece or he would pace in a loop around the kitchen and living room. He didn’t speak to me really, but now in this small space together, it was hard to ignore him. And it felt silly.

“Are you allowed to sleep while you are on this assignment Sergeant?” I inquired when I finally couldn’t take the pacing any longer.

“Of course Ma’am,” he replied, turning to give me his full attention.

I nodded, “Then is there a second room for you somewhere that I missed?”

Resuming his mantle of professionalism, he raised his gaze to just above my hairline, “no Ma’am, we did not have a house available at this time that is more suitable to the situation.” He didn’t answer the question.

“So where do you sleep?”

Still gazing beyond my head, “On the couch Ma’am.”

I closed my eyes and sighed. “I know you will refuse, but I just want you to know that I would gladly give up the room for you.”

“Thank you Ma’am, thats very kind.”

“I mean, you did all the hard work, you did your job for sure, kept me safe, had to react under severe stress…” My words faded away, I wasn’t communicating what I was trying to. Sergeant remained standing at attention as I floundered to gather my thoughts. “Why did officer Davis bring a pack of cigarettes if neither of us smokes?” I blurted finally.

Sergeant Collins raised that one eyebrow again and if I wasn’t mistaken, a faint look of amusement settled on his face. “Ma’am, she brought them because you have led everyone to believe that you are a smoker.” I continued to look at him quizzically, so he continued, “When I was first assigned to you I was briefed that you took up to four smoke breaks a day.”

“Oh right,” I had discovered within the first week of working in London that only the smokers ever actually got fresh air during the day, everyone else took their lunches and breaks in sad corners of the break rooms or at their desks. So I had walked down to a corner store and purchased a pack of cigarettes, and like magic, any time I wished to be left alone, I would grab it and make my way to the courtyard. The Sergeant was the only person who knew I never actually smoked any of the cigarettes. I lifted the pack off of the table, “Any chance I can scoot out the back while I smoke one of these?” I swear, I could hear him itching to roll his eyes, but he gamely refrained.

“Of corse, Ma’am.” So he did a quick sweep of the fenced in garden at the back door and then stood aside to let me out. It was still gently sprinkling but I was happy for it. The back stoop was covered so I sat there, rubbing my hands up and down my arms, having forgotten that it was late November. This back garden had a lovely peaceful, very English feeling that I hadn’t ever gotten in the flat I was provided in the center of London. There were some over grown roses climbing up a disheveled trellis in one corner, a few garden chairs and a little table on the other side. Acting on a whim I stood and stretched, reaching my hand out to test the rain. The sky was darkening and the drops grew more frequent. I stepped out from under the back stoop, hobbled to the center of the small yard, feeling the drops plop onto the back of my neck, I stood there unmoving, waiting for the steady fall of rain to penetrate my clothes and shock my system with their cool wetness.

It felt good on my face, cooling the skin that was scabbing over. As the water ran over me I remembered the weight of my arms, my head, my back and legs. I breathed slowly, aware of the small stream of water running off the tip of my nose. I didn’t hear him move closer, but his warm hand on my shoulder did not make me jump. I noticed he had a days worth of stubble on his cheeks and neck, already obscuring some of the scabbing on his face. And the rain caught and was lost in his dark curly hair, a streak of it already greying on the left side of his head. I had a sudden urge to touch that streak of hair. I wondered what he would do if I did.

“Come inside, Ma’am, you’re getting wet.”

“I prefer it to the heat,” I replied.

“Ma’am, really I insist.”

“I can’t,” I said, exasperated and wanting to be left alone.

“I’m also getting wet Ma’am, please can we go inside.” I tilted my head, gazing at him through the sides of my eyes, enthralled both by his dark silky voice and by what he said. What did he think he knew about me that would make me more inclined to save him discomfort than myself? So I asked him.

“Am I really that persuadable?”

“Sorry, Ma’am?”

“You think I will value your discomfort over what I need?”

“Is that so, Ma’am?” He asked, evading my query with his own. I watched the rain falling heavily on him now. His hair was flattening and streams of water poured off the hems of his jacket. I imagined his shoes were filling with water also.

I sighed, “Fuck, I guess so.” Turning away from him I moved toward the door.

As I reached the cover of the stoop I pulled the now drenched sweater over my head, realizing too late that I was not wearing a shirt underneath. My eyes widened and I glanced at the Sergeant who was behind me. At my look he turned around quickly, allowing me a moment of privacy to right myself. I rung my sweater out and bounded inside the little house, closing and locking the door to the bedroom, which I was now ashamed to have since I knew the Sergeant was confined to the couch.

I took my time slipping into some stretchy leggings and a loose fitting shirt. I noticed in the long mirror that my hurt knee was much larger than the other one and I winced as I pressed on it. I hobbled back down the hallway, intent on the bottle of paracetamol in the kitchen. Rounding the corner my eyes were arrested by the half naked figure standing in the living room. I stepped back into the hallway quickly, not wanting another awkward encounter with Harry, but it was too late, he had already heard me and turned to look at me.

“Apologies, Ma’am, I thought you would be in there a while.”

“Oh, no,” I said hurriedly, my voice too high, “This is your space, after all. I should have given you more warning.”

“Not at all Ma’am,” he replied stiffly as he pulled a tight shirt over his head, obscuring his torso. But he wasn’t fast enough to keep me from noticing the marks and scars all over his back. I hadn’t looked very hard, but while some appeared to be from our recent bombing, others looked like long healed scars from some other event in his life. My gaze slipped to the kitchen as the kettle whistled.

“Ah, I was making tea,” he said, walking over to the stove and cutting the fire. “Fancy a cuppa?” He asked, already filling two mugs with steaming water. I joined him in the kitchen, sitting with my aching knee propped up on a second chair. “How do you take it?”

“Just milk.” I said, gritting my teeth as I massaged my knee gingerly. He placed the cup in front of me and remained leaning against the counter top.

“May I check it?” He asked, nodding at my swollen knee. I nodded in unperturbed assent. He swiftly but carefully lifted my leg high enough that he could slip into the chair I had propped it on. He sat so that my calf way strewn across his lap. I quieted my breathing as he poked and prodded at my poor knee.

“What are you looking for?” I asked in a gasp, realizing I hadn’t been breathing.

“I’m just checking again to make sure there are no obvious fractures or a dislocation.”

“Do you think I need to see a doctor?”

“I am going to schedule an appointment for tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry I ruined your suit,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow at me. “Not at all, Ma’am, it’s my job.”

“Please call me Lucy,” I said. He opened his mouth to respond so I cut him off quickly, “I mean you saved me from a fucking bomb, you’ve at least earned that. It’s so weird you have to call the people you guard Sir and Ma’am, I’m not your boss, just the pathetic person who can’t look after herself.”

He was outright smiling now. “Well Lucy, I have no doubt you can look after yourself, I’m here so that you can focus on other things the rest of us aren’t bright enough to deal with.” I was transfixed by the hollow of his collar bone, the way the skin over it stretched when he breathed and spoke. And his hands were still on my leg, one of them on the rounded part of my calf, the other just barely above my knee. “And while I officially have no opinion on the matter,” he leaned in conspiratorially, “I appreciate your American sense of earning respect rather than inheriting it, something the Scots and the Yanks have in common.”

His hands moved over my leg, a non invasive gesture meant to be reassuring but the touch made my stomach flip. We sat amicably like this for a while, sipping tea and listening to light rain hitting the low roof of the house.

“Now,” Harry continued, “shall we take another smoke break?” The sun had sunk low in the sky and the light appeared orange in the still cloud filled sky.

“Sure, but only if you promise not to follow me into the rain this time,” I made a funny noise as I hoisted myself into a standing position.

“I can’t do that Lucy.”

“Then I guess we are both lucky it has stopped raining.”

…

This time we sat closer together, squeezed beside one another on a single step of the back stoop, taking in the bright cool air the rain had pushed in. Harry had given me more paracetamol by orders of the doctor I was to see the next morning and it was making me a bit drowsy. I yawned and felt my body lean into Harry’s sturdy form.

“Shall we go back inside?” He whispered, I grunted in the negative. Now only half conscious, I thought I felt a rumbling laughter in his chest and then an arm slip behind me as my muscles loosened and relaxed.

And then I was floating, my feet weren’t moving but I was gliding down the hallway to the bedroom. I opened my eyes and looked up to see Harrys stubbly jaw looming over me. Was he carrying me? I didn’t want to throw his balance so I remained still as he negotiated the door gracefully and laid me out on the edge of the bed. As he leaned over me, I reached up and grabbed a handful of his stretchy shirt material. He hovered above me, waiting patiently.

“Stay,” I whispered. To which he shook his head and began to pull away. So I pulled again and he let me, remaining suspended above me.

“You know I can’t,” he said.

“I just don’t think I can stand to be alone right now. Please stay.” The words were difficult for me and I avoided his gaze. He sighed heavily. I sat up slowly, still groggy, “you said you would follow me into the rain.” My hand bunched tighter into his shirt, dreading the moment he would move away from me.

He sighed one last time then knelt down, removing his shoes with a resigned expression. Straightening again he sent me a defeated look. Then gracefully, he climbed over me and gingerly laid in the center of the bed, leaving a wide gap between us. We laid on our sides facing each other, his head at the height of my shoulders. Again I had the urge to stroke that streak of grey in his hair, and so I did. Tenderly, Harry ran his hand along the silhouette of my body, starting at my ear and moving down to my shoulder and side and finally stopping on my hip.

We were magnetic as we moved closer to each other. I pulled his head into the safety of my chest, his stubble a raspy comfort against my skin and our legs entangled. In silence we lay there, feeling each other breathe. We may have fallen asleep though the line between consciousness and unconsciousness was not immediately apparent. After a long while he stirred and rolled off the far side of the bed, making his way to the toilet.

When he returned he paused and removed his shirt, letting it fall to the ground before again joining me. As he lay back down I shifted, laying my head on his torso. He was very warm and I put my ear to his chest, listening for all the sounds a body makes as it works to keep living. “Am I hurting you?” I asked quietly.

“No,” he whispered, running his hands down my body again till they found my bottom. I propped myself up above him on my elbows, caressing the recent bruises and wounds, tenderly tracing the old scars.

“Tell me about Scotland,” I said.

“Hmm, what do you want to know about Scotland?” He returned.

“Only the good bits,” I said. He smiled gently as he coaxed my good leg up, bending it around his hip in a sort of half straddle and I lowered myself again to his chest. I listened to his stories about a lush green land of great promise and adventure as the words carelessly rumbled out of him.

…

I hadn’t expected to be so jumpy when I got in the security vehicle. I got in and slid to the very center seat, a hand planted firmly on each side of me. I stared straight ahead the whole time, ignoring the dizziness from the sharp turns.

The consult from the doctor confirmed there was nothing broken, but the hard fall had slightly dislocated my knee which was promptly reset and I was warned that it would take several weeks to heal. I was sent home with a heavier brace and instructions to take over the counter pain meds for swelling.

We returned to the house and were met with a second security detail that had come with equipment for me to work remotely. I dove into it with manic energy. Indeed there was little that could be done as the other internationals were still recovering from burn trauma. So I prepped all the materials I could think of that we would need in order to resume our work. Harry placed a cup of tea next to me which I drank, but I ignored the lunch delivery, feeling like my eyes and hands could not keep up with the speed at which my brain was moving.

“Ma’am,” I heard someone say from far away. “Lucy,” who was that? “Lucy!” I flinched when Harry’s hand touched my shoulder. “Perhaps you might take a break now, you haven’t eaten at all today.”

“No, no I have to get this done,” I replied, turning back to the computer.

“It is common to feel strong bursts of energy and fatigue after an event like the bombing,” he continued.

“Really?” I continued to stab at the keyboard. “Then I guess I’m fine, if this is a common reaction.”

“It’s common, it’s not fine.”

I slammed the laptop shut, pushing the heels of my hands into my temples, God my head hurt. My chest heaved with sobs. I felt him move closer but I needed air, space, I lashed out, feeling my hand connect with his ballistic vest.

I took off down the hall toward the bathroom, seeking a place he couldn’t follow me. But he caught up with me, securing his arms around my shoulders, immobilizing my arms. I continued to sob for several minutes. He continued to hold me like this till I quieted and stopped fighting and sagged weakly against him.

“What do you say we get some food and water in you now?” I nodded and we returned to the kitchen. I ate ravenously, with Harry looking on like a cafeteria lady from grade school, making sure I ate all my greens.

“Why do I still feel out of control?” I asked, “Why can’t I just move on?”

“Well it hasn’t been that long, barely two days. If anything I’d say your actions today are very much fitting with the magnitude of the event. In fact you probably deserve a few more temper tantrums.” He looked at me and valiantly fought off a smile. I stabbed a tomato with my fork and pouted, not quit ready for joking yet.

I narrowed my eyes at him thoughtfully. “Clearly you have been in situations like this before.”

“Clearly,” he repeated back.

“So when should I expect you to throw a tantrum?”

“Probably not this time, but I have before.”

“Why is this not hard for you?”

He sighed, “in my perspective, we did it, we survived. That’s not always the case. I did my job well and I am continuing to keep you safe.” He leaned over and touched my hand. “It’s a win.” He leaned back in his chair.

I stood abruptly, taking the few steps to where he sat. He didn’t move, just looked at me, challenging me. I moved even closer, my legs now straddling his lap. I thought he would again assume that distant look and excuse himself, but instead his hands reached up, urging me down closer to him. I sat, wrapping my arms around his neck and he brought his head close to mine, our foreheads touching.

“I don’t think this is keeping you safe,” he murmured to me.

“It’s hard to tell what is safe,” I mumbled.

“So for now all we can do is react.” I made a noise of agreement as our lips connected. We pulled each other in closer, unable to touch enough, to feel enough. His lips were searching and needy. Never had I needed to be touched so badly. I wanted to be shielded by him and yet I wanted to draw him in tighter, protecting him from the dangers he saw every day.

His lips moved lower, caressing my neck and collar bone as I wrestled his jacket and shirt off his body. I kept removing layers till there were no more to remove. He responded in kind, lifting my shirt over my head then drawing me close to him in a warm embrace, like he wanted to cover me completely. “Harry,” I whispered after several long seconds. Then again, “Harry,” and he responded.

“Lucy.”

Pulling out of his arms, I stood and stepped away. “I want this, I want you, and I don’t want either of us to have regrets.”

He rose out of his chair gracefully, stepping close to me. “I cannot regret any time with you.”

“And tomorrow? In a week? When I have finished this job?” I gulped, bile rising in my stomach just thinking about leaving.

“I don’t think I can let you go.”

“Will you take me to Scotland?” I asked as I wrapped my arms around his waist. He leaned his forehead against mine, “Only if you let me stand in the rain with you.”

#bodyguard #short story #fiction #fanfic #the bodyguard #imagine #romance #british #scotish #richard madden #sergeant budd #david budd #keeley hawes

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pythiaofgenz · 3 years

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David Foster Wallace - about language, men and skirts

Then let's talk about pants. Trousers, slacks. I suggest to you that having the "correct" subthoracic clothing for U.S. males be pants instead of skirts is arbitrary (lots of other cultures let men wear skirts), restrictive and unfair (U.S. femalesget to wear pants), based solely on archaic custom (I think it's got something to do with certain traditions about gender and leg position, the same reasons girls' bikes don't have a crossbar), and in certain ways not only incommodious but illogical (skirts are more comfortable than pants; pants ride up; pants are hot; pants can squish the genitals and reduce fertility; over time pants chafe and erode irregular sections of men's leg hair and give older men hideous half-denuded legs, etc. etc.). Let us grant-as a thought experiment if nothing else-that these are all reasonable and compelling objections to pants as -an androsartorial norm. Let us in fact in our minds and hearts say yes-shout yes-to the skirt, the kilt, the toga, the sarong, the jupe. Let us dream of or even in our spare time work toward an America where nobody lays any arbitrary sumptuary prescriptions on anyone else and we can all go around as comfortable and aerated and unchafed and unsquished and motile as we want. And yet the fact remains that, in the broad'culrural mainstream of millennial America, men do not wearskirts. If you, the reader, are a U.S. male, and even if you share my personal objections to pants and dream asI do of a cool and genitally unsquishy American Tomorrow, the odds are still 99.9 percent that in 100 percent of public situations you wear pants/slacks/shorts/trunks. More, to the point, if you are a U .S. male and also have a U:S. male child, and if that child were to come to you one evening and announce his desire/intention to wear'a skirt rather than pants to school the next clay, I am 100-percent confident that you are going to discourage him from doing so. Strongly discourage him. You could be a Molotov- , tossing anti-pants radical or a kilt manufacturer or Steven Pinker himself-you're going to stand over your kid and be prescriptive about an arbitrary, archaic, uncomfortable, and inconsequentially decorative piece of clothing. Why? Well, because in modern America any little boy who comes to school in a skirt (even, say, a modest all season midi) is going to get stated at and shunned and beaten up and called a Total Geekoid by a whole lot of people whose approval and acceptance are important to him. In our culture, in other words, a boy who wears a skirt is making a statement that is going to have all kinds of gruesome social and emotional consequences.

#gender roles #language #linguistics #geek culture #lgbtq #grammar #skirt #boy to girl

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ayellowbirds · 4 years

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33 Usher Street chapter one script, First Draft

I’m planning to go back and do a major revision on this, but i wanted to share what i have for the time being! This was part of last years NaNoWriMo project, about Jewish (and otherwise) vampire hunters in an alternate history 1920s, including a transgender golem and an intersex dhampir as the joint protagonists.

What follows is an unfinished draft of a comic script intended for my own reference as the artist. Some art directions are absent, intended to be filled in later; or reflected a lack of a particular concern about how the panel looked.

Questions and comments are welcome! I’d love to get some other folks’ ideas about what needs changing. Please excuse any formatting issues! This didn’t copy-paste so well.

Italics outside of quotation marks indicate art directions and page layout.

[Square brackets] indicate sound effects (SFX), signage, captions, or other non-bubbled matters of lettering.

“Quotation marks” indicate speech bubbles.

1. Three panel page.

1.1. Full-width view of a bus (reference 1920s buses) puttering along beneath and above autumn leaves.

[CAPTION: September 24, 1923]

1.2. A thick black full-width border. Repeated on the following pages at full-width size, same height, to be indicated as BORDER

[BORDER: SFX: Bus engine chugging]

1.3. Interior of bus. Driver, assorted passengers, and towards the rear, SOLOMON “SOL” SZOMBATHY. He is a slight young man in a jacket and oversized “Oxford bags”,. His hair is thick, black, and curly (3B type); his features Ashkenazic but on the darker side. He holds a plain-looking wooden cane. Behind him, occupying the last row of seats, is a long, coffin-like box or chest, sealed with rope or cord.

2. Six panels.

2.1. A close-up of Solomon. He seems lost in thought, leaning against the bus window.

2.2. [BORDER: SFX: THUMP!]

2.3. The bus bumps, Sol is jolted upwards.

2.4. Sol settles, squeans emanating.

2.5 Sol looks out the window.

2.6 Exterior, the wooded roadside. A sign reads: [WELCOME TO Jackson, Mass. EST. 1842]. Perhaps the bus is visible here, chugging past the sign.

3. Six panels.

3.1. The bus stop. Perhaps a sign indicating that’s what it is. The bus has stopped.

Driver: “JaaaAAACKson station!”

3.2. A tail extends from the speech bubble from the previous panel, to overlay the BORDER. Driver: “Last stop!”

3.3. Passengers exiting the bus. Sol is lifting the box.

3.4. Same as 3.3, with more movement ahead of Sol. He is pulling the box, struggling.

3.5. Same as 3.3, the bus now empty of other passengers. The driver is standing, impatiently watching Sol. Sol is half-way down the aisle, perspiring with effort.

3.6. Same as 3.3, Sol finally exiting the bus, with his box.

Driver: “That everything?”

4. Two panels

4.1. Sol, wiping sweat with a kerchief.

SOL: “Yes, thank you. And—”

4.2. As in 3.2, a tail extends from the previous bubble into the BORDER, which fades from black to white.

SOL, stylized as the chapter title : ��Can You Tell Me The Way To Usher Street?”

[Credits:

A 33 Usher Street story

Written and Illustrated by K.P.S. Roman Religious Consultation by Quell Nessuno]

5. Six panels. Wide, double, double, border.

5.1. Sol, walking along a Jackson street, dragging the box behind him on wheels and hoisting his cane over his shoulder. The city is sparsely populated in spite of its size; apartment buildings and businesses line the streets, but there are few people visible. The buildings have the sagging, unsettled look of those built on swampland.

5.2. More of Sol, rounding a corner and excusing himself past some locals, including ADRIAEN TEN BOOM, a stogie between his lips.

Sol: “Pardon me!”

5.3. Sol, looking up at a street sign for the corner of [MARSH ST] and [WASHINGTON ST]. A car putters past. WILHEMINA FAWKES is in the driver’s seat.

5.4. Sol continues past some kids playing marbles. He’s starting to visibly sweat. An older black man [ALEISTER JONES] watches the game from a stoop, his gloved hand resting on his cheek.

5.5. Sol, stopping at another corner. A conspicuously incognito figure [CONSTANCE WRIGHT] watches from behind a newspaper. A sledgehammer leans against her side.

Sol: “Ah!”

5.6. BORDER, Sol’s speech bubble extends from 5.5.

Sol: “Here we are!”

6.1. The sign for the corner of [WASHINGTON ST] and [USHER ST]

6.2. Sol moves a bit more speedily down the street, indicated by hites. PLUTON, a large black cat with only one eye watches.

6.3. Sol, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket, exhaling a panting puff. Pluton is visible following behind at a distance.

Sol: “Let’s see…”

6.4. Sol looks up at the numbers of the buildings. He passes the unremarkable numbers twenty-one and twenty-three. Pluton cocks his head.

6.5. BORDER. Sol’s speech bubble tails from 6.3.

Sol: “Number... Thirty-Three?”

6.6. Sol stops before a row of thorny bushes. The speech bubble trails from 6.5. Pluton is posed as if looking around the tail of the speech bubble, to see Sol.

Sol: “Oh!”

7.1. Sol, standing before 33 Usher Street. The building is assembled from a mix of newer construction and old ruins with the masonry at diagonals to each other, as if someone happened upon the leaning remains of a graystone castle and chose to join it together in red brick. The 33 is quite large and visible on the exterior of the building, and a less-legible sign hangs beneath it.

7.2: BORDER, a caption (Sol): “There it is.”

8.1. A close-up of the sign beneath the 33 from 7.1. It now more clearly reads: [USHER STREET HOUSE OF ANTIQUITIES AND CURIOS]

8.2. BORDER. A speech bubble trails down to 8.3.

Sol: “That wasn’t... so hard to find... after all.”

8.3. Sol walks up the path, while Pluton, indicated by tracing lines, bounds up into the building out of Sol’s view and onto a windowsill. He has set down the box.

9.1. Pluton, pausing at an open window, looks out imperiously at the approaching Sol.

9.2. Interior of the room from 9.1. A view from the back of JAMES “JIM” CULLOCK III. The room is full of talismans, wards, and assorted scraps of paper framed upon the walls.

Jim: “Yes, that would be him.”

9.3. A hand [that of MARIE BOSLEY] sets a Victrola to play.

Marie: “I’ll leave the interview to you, then.”

9.4. A partial view. Pluton bounds down into the room. Enough of Marie is visible that she can be seen cranking the Victrola. Jim appears to be fussing at something invisible on his sleeve.

Jim: “If you’re certain.”

9.5. [BORDER: SFX: the opening lyrics of Marion Harris’s “After You’re Gone”]

9.6. Jim’s feet descending the stairs.

10.

10.1. Deliberate parallel to 9.6. Sol coming up to the front door. The lyrics of the music continue from 9.5, and there on until otherwise indicated.

10.2. Sol’s hand raised, to the door, there is a simple bronze door knocker.

10.3. [BORDER: SFX: KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.]

10.4. Sol waits at the door.

10.5. Same framing as 10.4; Sol looks back at the box.

10.6. Sol looks back at the door, anxious, patting his head with his kerchief.

11.

11.1. The door swings open. Inside stands Jim. A tall, older white man with the slender yet solid look of a longtime dancer or a runner, clad in two parts of a mismatched three-piece suit: striped trousers under a diamond-patterned vest, with bow tie. His hair is close-cropped, styled fashionably, and streaked with gray.

Jim: “Good afternoon...”

11.2. BORDER. A trailing tail from Jim’s line in 11.1.

Jim: “...young man.”

11.3. Sol holds out a crumpled envelope.

Sol: “The Rev. Dr. Hammer sent me, sir?”

11.4. Jim takes the letter in his left hand.

11.5. Jim looks at the letter.

11.6. Jim tosses the letter over his shoulder, smiling.

Jim: “James Cullock III, son.”

12.

12.1. Jim, extending his right hand to shake.

Jim: “But, call me Jim.”

12.2. Sol, returning the handshake.

Sol: “Sir, my name’s Solomon.”

12.3. BORDER.

Jim: “Mr. Grundy, then?”

12.4. Sol looks tired of this joke already.

Sol: “No, sir. I was born on a Saturday.”

12.5. Jim laughs

Jim: “You’re the right one, alright!”

12.6. Jim motions Solomon in.

Jim: “Come in, Mr. Szombathy, and have a seat.”

13. Three panels, the top full-width but narrow, as is the border: the main action is 13.2.

13.1. The foyer of 33 Usher St. The room is set up for greeting visitors and entertaining, and Sol is already seated opposite Jim.

13.2. Full view of Solomon, seated and without his coat. He is wearing a tight-fitting sweater, giving him the silhouette of a paintbrush when paired with his trousers.

NOTE: Use the antiquated “Rumania” spelling whenever it appears on the page.

[CAPTION: Solomon “Sol” Szombathy Age: 20

Born: 10/31/1903

Hometown: Pittsburgh, Vandalia

Background: Hungarian/Rumanian Jewish, First Generation American

Likes: Science Fiction & Fantasy Magazines, spicy foods, cooking.

Dislikes: Running, swimming, high noon.]

13.3. BORDER.

Jim: “So, Solomon Szombathy. I understand from my old friend Matteus—he wired me here before you arrived—that you have had quite a remarkable encounter, of late.”

14. Reversal of 13.

14.1. BORDER.

Sol: “Just so, sir. I am told it is within your area of expertise?”

14.2. Full view of James, seated and with his legs crossed.

[CAPTION: James “Jim” Cullock III

Age: 56

Born: 2/18/1867

Hometown: Roan Mountain, Nickajack.

Background: Scottish-American

Hobbies: Gardening, Morning Constitutionals

Profession: Antiques, Estate Management, ???]

Jim: “By which you mean…”

14.3. Pluton enters the room.

Pluton: “Miaou.”

15.

15.1. Sol watches as Pluton approaches.

Sol: “Vampires, sir. A vampire. Just the one.”

15.2. Pluton inspects Sol, who is now focused on Jim.

Jim: “You have no need to worry about being doubted on that subject here, Mr. Szombathy.”

15.3. BORDER.

Sol: “Ah, yes. Dr. Hammer told me that you are in the business of…?”

15.4.

Jim: “Formally, the Usher Street House of Antiques and Curios is in the business of the management of estates belonging to those who passed without clearly defined wills, or without leaving behind heirs to manage their estates.”

15.5. Pluton approaches Jim.

Jim: “Informally, better say genuinely, we are in the business of public health. To deal with the threat of vampires to the general public.”

16.

16.1. Pluton settles down at Jim’s feet.

Jim: “Tell me, what are your opinions on the morality and ethics of vampirism?”

16.2

Sol: “Well, in my father’s collection, there was a commentary on the Sefer Hasidim, which says that a person who must consume the blood of another human being… should be pitied, for it is in her nature and her needs to survive, and if she should make recompense to her victim, should be treated with compassion as a member of the community.”

16.3 BORDER

Sol: “But that’s regarding a living vampire, what some call an estrie, and the exceptions made for one who must violate kashrus for the sake of pikuach nefesh. And Eleazar Rokeach said that one should stop up the mouth of a deceased estrie, to prevent her from feasting on the living, after death.”

16.4

Sol: “From a strictly Halakhic standing, it is permissible for the living to eat as they must to remain living, but the deceased are deceased, and are forbidden to do so.”

16.5

Sol: “So, I think that, ultimately, it depends on the circumstances, case by case. It requires careful but decisive investigation.”

16.6. Jim, close-up, a scrutinizing gaze.

Jim: “But Mr. Szombathy, you are not solely the books you read.”

17.

17.1. BORDER.

Jim: “What was your experience with a vampire? How do you feel about the morals and ethics?”

17.2.

Sol: “I… my family lived in Pittsburgh, you see. Since I was born.”

17.3.

Sol: “My mother had been pregnant, just newly so, when they came here, from the old country.”

Jim: “Which…?”

Sol: “Transyvlania. In Rumania.”

17.4. Sol is in silhouette in the foreground. We see KÁLMAN SZOMBATHY, a Hungarian Jewish man nearing middle age.

Sol: “My father—he was always very learned. In many ways. And he had acquaintances, friends, contacts? Who knew….”

17.5. Sol, younger, looking out the window at his father, who is outside with a candle in hand at night.

Sol: “Strange things. Secrets. Mysticism.”

17.6. Sol, a bit older, looking at his father examining a book. A diagram of the sefirot is visible—ish-style, or yosher?

Sol: “I saw so much of it, growing up. I didn’t think it was strange.”

18.

18.1. Sol, almost his present age, sitting by the window with a book, while his father talks with some baalei shem.

Sol: “Just… another thing we didn’t talk about with go—gentiles.”

Jim: “Like this… golem?”

18.2. The golem, standing with toddler Sol. It looks more lumpy and vaguely defined than when we see it later.

Sol: “Yes. It was around before I was born. Like a caretaker or guardian. A nanny.”

18.3. Sol sitting, reading a book aloud. His narration is not bubbled, but bleeds into the scenery.

Sol: “I would talk to it. Just… talk to it. My parents, my father only told it what to do.”

18.4. Sol looking up at the golem.

Sol: “And you may think it silly, sir, but sometimes, I thought that it spoke back.”

18.5. The golem looking down at Sol.

Jim: “Golems are said to be mute, are they not?”

18.6.

Sol: “So I am told.”

19.

19.1. A bedridden person.

Sol: “This summer, people started taking ill. A doctor came to visit, every one. But people just got worse. Wasting away.”

19.2. A doctor at the door, tipping his hat. He looks flushed, and has a distant expression.

Sol: “My parents had boarders. Renting rooms. And the doctor, the physician, came to call on one.”

19.3. Kálman stopping the golem, which seems determined to approach the “doctor” and has an upset expression.

Sol: “The golem kept… my parents said it was menacing him.”

19.4. Sol’s mother, DOINA URS-SZOMBATHY, shooing the golem from a door. Doina is about the same age as Kálman, with darker features.

Sol: “And it happened, the same day, that the Reverend Doctor Hammer was visiting. Resting, from traveling. He knew my father, somehow. The golem had been bothering him, too. Trying to push him around.”

Jim: “Hm.”

19.5. Sol, looking down.

Sol: “Which I guess is why he didn’t notice the physician was actually undead.”

19.6. Sol’s parents, reclining on a couch, resting their heads against one another. The shadow of the vampire looms over them.

Sol: “Which was why my parents thought it safe to rest, as well.”

20.

20.1.

Sol: “My parents—they were in the other room, you see. They had left the golem with me. Because it kept bothering everyone. Getting in the way.”

20.2.

Sol: “I guess the vampire got greedy, though. It came into my room. I was reading.”

20.3. The vampire reaching for Sol, who looks shocked. It is an upiór type, with a sharp, barbed tongue instead of fangs.

Sol: “I only realized what it was, up close. Too late for my parents.”

20.4. The golem’s clay fist swings at the vampire, sending it sprawling.

Sol: “But not too late for me.”

20.5. The vampire is sent flying across the room, slamming into the wall.

20.6. The Rev. Dr. MATTEUS HAMMER, a wild-eyed trans man of mixed Scandanavian and indigenous heritage, with a shock of white hair, in his pajamas and brandishing a sword and pistol.

Sol: “The fight woke up Dr. Hammer.”

21.

21.1. Splash of Hammer shooting the vampire in the heart.

[CAPTION: THE REVEREND DOCTOR MATTEUS J. HAMMER

Age: Like, So Old

Born: A Man, In Spite Of What The Nurse Said Hometown: Tarrytown, NY

Background: Finnish/Swedish-American and Lenape, He’s Pretty Sure Fears: God And Nawt Else, Also Centipedes

Enjoys: Fresh-Baked Bread]

21.2. The golem stands between Hammer and Sol, protecting Sol.

22.

22.1. Hammer looking over Sol.

Sol: “The Reverend Doctor, he checked me over. Asked me a lot of questions about what happened. About me.”

22.2.

Sol: “Checked everyone else, too. Everyone who... survived.”

22.3.

Sol: “And he told me… all things considered, I should come here.”

22.4. Jim, pensive.

Jim: “To report on your experiences? I’m sorry for what you’ve gone through, your loss, but….”

22.5. Sol, surprised.

Sol: “No, sir. He sent me here for me to seek employment.”

22.6. BORDER.

Sol: “As stated in the letter you dropped upon the ground.”

23.

23.1. Jim, flushed, looks at the envelope.

23.2. Jim, bends over to pick up the letter.

23.3. He dusts it off.

23.4. He opens the envelope.

23.5. He begins to read.

23.6. BORDER Hammer: “Dear Jim. Give the lad a job. Do something about the golem. Remember: that matter in Chattanooga. Or I will tell Marie. Sinc. The Rev. Dr. Matteus J. Hammer.”

24.

24.1.

Jim: “Well, then I suppose that this is an employment interview, although....”

24.2. Jim sighs through his nose.

24.3. BORDER.

Jim: “Chattanooga, eh?”

24.4. Jim: “In that case, we had best find the best place for you.”

24.5.

Jim: “Let me explain a bit more about what we do here.”

24.6.

Jim: “Through a number of agents, contacts, and former customers, we are apprised of events that may require our attention. Our more ordinary business provides both cover and funding for this.”

25.

25.1. Jim, facing Sol, sidelong view.

Jim: “We employ both in-office experts, and traveling agents who visit locations where vampirism is believed to be at play.”

25.2. Sol, headlong view.

Jim: “What qualifies you to act in the field, rather than from behind a desk?”

25.3. BORDER. Sol’s speech trails to .4.

Sol: “Well, sir, as a dhampir,”

25.4. Jim, headlong view. Two ghosts are visible, framing him: RODERICK and MADELINE USHER. They are the spirits of two young WASPs nearly identical in appearance, with large eyes, wild fine hair, and aquiline noses, clad in shrouds.

Sol: “I can see the dead.”

26.1. Roderick and Madeline notice Sol is looking at them.

Jim: “...”

26.2. Roderick waves coyly at Sol. Madeline seems disinterested.

Jim: “You would be far from the first to claim that you are able to see the unseen. Do you have any proof?”

26.3.

Sol: “Outside of the word of Dr. Hammer…?”

Jim: “If you please.”

26.4. Jim, an eyebrow cocked.

Sol: “I don’t suppose you know that you have twin siblings hovering in the air around your study?”

26.5. Jim looks up at Roderick.

26.6. Jim looks up at Madeline.

27.1.

Jim: “You will, I trust, forgive my skepticism. Even in this trade, there is always room for incredulity.”

27.2. Jim lets out a puff of a sigh.

27.3.

Jim: “I myself have found that what one sees is not always what is.”

27.4. A view of Sol, from Jim’s perspective. Sol and the room are crawling with transparent insects of imaginative and unnatural anatomy. Take care to note that they are only visible on surfaces of a solid, continuous color.

27.5. BORDER.

Sol: “Do you find that very often?”

27.6. Jim, looking weary, dusts one ‘bug’ off the table.

Jim: “For many a year.”

28.

28.1.

Jim: “But, here, you said that you were a dhampir! How comes that to happen?”

28.2. Sol, obviously embarrassed.

Sol: “In the usual manner, sir.”

28.3. BORDER.

Jim: “Which is to say, one of your parents—your birth parents—was a vampire?”

28.4.

Sol: “My mother’s first husband. After his death. My father, I suppose, my stepfather, was his brother.”

28.5.

Jim: “My condolences.”

28.6. Sol, holding the cane tightly.

Sol: “I don’t think of it much. It wasn't his fault.”

29.

29.1. Jim stands up abruptly.

Jim: “Quite! Not his fault. Not his fault. The majority of vampires—people want someone to blame, you know?”

29.2. Jim begins to walk out the door, motioning ‘come here’ to Sol. Pluton perks up.

Jim: “But a vampire—follow after, won’t you?—is not really a someone. It’s a something.”

29.3. Jim walks outside towards the box, Sol and Pluton following.

Jim: “Are you familiar with the association of vampirism with cases of tubercular consumption in Connecticut?”

29.4. Jim has reached the box and is inspecting it, leaning over it.

Sol: “That there was some similarity, but that the word ‘vampire’ was not used?”

29.5. Jim circles the box.

Jim: “Well, the papers used it—here, how do we open this—though the locals did not.”

29.6. BORDER.

Sol: “Open it, sir?”

30.

30.1. Jim, gesturing at the box.

Jim: “This is the golem in here, is it not?”

30.2. Sol, hesitant. In the background, RANDOLPH CARTER appears in the doorway, startled. Reference HP Lovecraft, naturally.

Sol: “Yes, but—” 30.3. Carter rushes up, waving the letter from Hammer in his hand.

Randolph: “Mister Cullock! James! I can see what you mean to do and—this is folly of unfathomably cyclopean proportions!”

30.4. BORDER.

Randolph: “The letter from Matteus Hammer is entirely explicit in its brevity, this container is as an inscrutable Hebraic box of Pandora!”

30.5. Jim, gesturing bemusedly to Randolph.

Jim: “Ah, Mr. Szombathy. Allow me to introduce our Rare Books Expert, Mr. Randolph Carter.”

31.

31.1. Carter looks down at Sol.

[CAPTION: RANDOLPH CARTER Age: Younger than he looks, really.

Born: 8/20/1874

Hometown: Some Nameless New England Town

Expertise: Ancient Tomes, Forgotten Lore, Adjectives

Hangups: Xenophobia, Icthyophobia, Anglophilia]

31.2. Carter nods at Sol in greeting, ignoring Sol’s offered handshake.

Randolph: “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Szombathy.”

31.3. Carter whips his head around (speed lines!) back to Jim.

Randolph: “I really must protest, James!”

31.4. BORDER Randolph: “The golem acted without instruction, in a violent and destructive manner according to its inhuman whims!”

31.5. BORDER, again. The text is less contained within the bubble.

Randolph: “It is a lifeless husk animated by eldritch secrets, which has demonstrated a readiness to cause harm!”

31.6. BORDER, once more. The text is almost overtaking the space, no longer contained in a bubble.

Randolph: “It is every bit the arcane monstrosity that we are employed to eliminate, an idiot half-form!”

32. The thickest BORDER panel so far, over a three panel of one full width over two half-widths.

32.1. BORDER. A single, solid, centered speech bubble, trailing down.

Jim: “Enough.”

32.2. Jim, over the box, holding a pair of gardening shears to the ropes binding it.

32.3. The severed ropes falling, in view of Sol.

Jim: “Mr. Szombathy; I should like to employ you. But after hearing your story, I suspect that you are but one part of what the stores would call a ‘package deal’.”

32.4. Jim opening the box, viewed from as if within.

Jim: “Would you mind if I were to awaken it?”

33.

33.1. Sol, looking resolute, with Carter looking horrified behind.

33.2. Repeat of 33.1, but with Sol nodding, Carter faint with terror.

Sol: “Please do, Mr. Cullock.”

33.3. A full view from above of the golem in the box. It is squared and inanimate, eyes shut and form even more vague than in the flashback. Pluton bounds into panel.

33.4. BORDER, more gray than black, now.

Jim: “Please, call me Jim.”

34.

34.1. Jim reaches into his pocket and pulls out a strip of paper. Pluton appears in the corner.

Jim: “Matteus had sent this ahead, as well.”

34.2. He holds it up for Sol and Carter to see. An א is visible, but the rest is concealed by the curl of the paper.

Jim: “I take it this is the ‘sacred words under the tongue’ type of golem, rather than the ‘אמת’ variety?”

34.3. Sol, confused.

Sol: “Yes, s—Jim.”

34.4. Jim, looking contemplative and holding the strip absently.

Jim: “I wonder. Was the golem silent for fear of spitting out the paper?”

Sol: “Eh?” 34.5. BORDER. Still gray.

Jim: “I would keep mum, myself, if my continued animation depended upon something held under my tongue.”

34.6. Jim’s hand pressing a tiny hole into the clay. Pluton is looking over the edge of the box.

Jim: “Just like planting a seed, hm?”

35.

35.1. Jim’s hand swipes over the hole, sealing it by pushing clay back over.

Jim: “There, now—”

35.2. BORDER, but with the image of ‘eyes opening’, slightly, in white.

35.3. BORDER as 35.2, but wider. Jim, Sol, Pluton, and Carter coming into view.

35.4. BORDER as 35.3, wider. Jim, Sol, Pluton, and Carter in full view.

35.5. Same panel width as 35.2-4, but a full, unshaded panel of Jim, Sol, Pluton, and Carter.

36.

36.1. The golem sits up, form still vague, androgynous. Carter shocks, Jim smiles, Sol looks nervous, Pluton is deadpan and does not move from looking over the edge of the box.

Jim: “How is that?”

36.2. The golem looks at Jim. Everyone’s expressions are the same as 36.1.

Jim: “Can you try speaking, now?”

36.3. The golem, closeup, mouth open slightly.

36.4. Same as 36.3.

Golem: “C’n try… speaking.”

36.5. Now Sol is shocked, too.

36.6. Same as 36.5.

Sol: “He can talk?”

37.

37.1. The golem, frowning.

Golem: “...can.”

37.2. Sol and Carter, even more shocked.

Randolph: “M-mimicry?”

37.3. The golem gives a headshake.

Golem: “Nuh-uh.”

37.4. The golem’s gaze shifts in the direction of Sol.

Golem: “Why… c-call me….”

37.5. The golem, looking down.

Golem: “He?”

37.6. Sol looks as though he has realized; unlit lightbulb? Carter is fizzling smoke from his noggin.

38.

38.1. Repeat of 37.6. More smoke from Carter, lit lightbulb on Sol.

Sol: “You’re a girl!”

38.2. The golem nods.

38.3.

Sol: “I’m so sorry, I never realized—you looked like a boy, so?”

38.4. The golem, puzzled.

Golem: “...looked?”

38.5. The golem starts to push out of the box.

Sol: “Of course, I should know, appearances and all, but—”

39.

39.1. The golem starts to rise from the box, form changed towards a more definite shape.

39.2. Continuing from 39.1, more and more defined, more and more upright.

39.3. Fully upright, fully defined as feminine. Dotty as per concept art.

39.4. The golem, in full view, looking down at herself while Jim, Sol, Pluton, and Carter are gathered around.

Golem: “Be...tter?”

40. Four quarter-width panels, one full, two half-width.

40.1. Jim, smiling.

Jim: “Quite so.”

40.2. Sol, beaming.

Sol: “Amazing!”

40.3. Pluton, feline.

Pluton: “Miau.”

40.4. Carter, stunned.

Randolph: “Transmogrification!?”

40.5. The golem, smiling.

40.6. Jim, Sol, Pluton, Carter.

Jim: “And how should we call you, Miss…”

40.7. The golem, thinking.

Golem: “D…”

41.

41.1. The golem, DOROTHEEA “DOTTY” SZOMBATHY, smiling, her speech bubble forming the CAPTION:

[Dorotheea Szombathy But you c’n call me Dotty!

Age: I dunno, like eight’r nine months older’n Sol?

Birthdate: I guess February of 1903? It was Tu B’shvat, I think.

I love helpin’ Sol, and all kinds of toys and games! My clay came from Horezu, but I was born in Bran! That’s in Transylvania, you know? The one in Rumania, not Usonia]

41.2. A view from behind Dotty as she continues talking. Jim and Sol look dumbfounded, Carter is letting out smoke from both ears and his eyes have rolled all the way back in his head.

Dotty: “I was asleep on the boat to Usonia, but someday I wanna try riding it while I’m awake….”

Jim: “Oh, she certainly can talk.”

Sol: “יא”

42. END page of “Can You Tell Me The Way To Usher St?”

42.1. CAPTION:

[סוף.]

42.2. A bubble of Dotty.

Dotty: “Say, c’n I wear clothes now?”

#33 usher street #my writing

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amuseoffyre · 5 years

Text

Britpicking Index

Some useful compare/contrasts for non-British people writing characters in Britain :) (Also, vice versa, because me and my editor have had some run ins over things I didn’t realise had different names in the US). Feel free to add more if you think of them. These are the main ones I’ve encountered and seen discussed in various forums.

Apartment

Flat. We occasionally use apartment now, purely because Americanisms have slipped into the lingo, but mostly, we call them flats.

Bangs

Have never understood why they’re called bangs. We call them fringes.

Bathroom (Going to the…)

Nipping to the loo, having a slash, nipping to the little girl/boy’s room.

Candy

Sweets. Just generally sweets of any kind.

Chips

Crisps. Because they’re crisp, I suppose?

On a related note, chips over here are the great big chunky potato fries. The little skinny ones (ie. Like McDonalds or Burger King’s) are French fries, but generally, people will still call them chips.

Cookie/Biscuit

Honestly, this one is… all over the place because US biscuits sound like savoury scone-type things but are very much not savoury scones because they’re served with gravy. Or apparently with jam/honey/other stuff.

Meanwhile UK biscuits are generally small, crunchy and sweet. But I have been reliably informed that a biscuit =/= cookie. However, some things that UK manufacturers call cookies are – in fact – biscuits. Do not trust cookies that crunch and hurt your teeth.

Fannypack

Um. So fanny is a certain area of genitalia over here. Just... worth knowing. We also call them “bumbags”.

Faucet

Tap. Also, we have separate taps for hot and cold in older buildings. Because Chaotic Evil :)

Freeway

Motorway. (More road/traffic information at the bottom)

Garbage/Trash

Rubbish. Bins are the general receptacles for it.

Gas (Gasoline) and Gas Stations

Petrol and petrol stations. Same stuff, a lot more expensive from what I’ve seen of pricing per gallong versus per litre.

Grill (For cooking)

This one tripped me up very hard in one of my short stories. My US editor and I were as confused as each other when we described them to one another.

We do have grill pans here (ie. The pans with the ridged bottom) and we do the outdoor grilling thing over a flame as well, but generally in the UK, if we say ‘grill’ we are talking about the oven broiler.

Outdoor grilling is just called barbecue unless on a large/professional scale, when it miraculous turns into a grill. The George Foreman grill is also a thing, but I haven’t seen them show up in fic all that often.

Jelly

Jelly = jam, ie. the spreading stuff for sandwiches and things. Jello, on the other hand, is called jelly.

Jumper

Not a dress. These are generally the knitted kind of pullovers/sweaters. Christmas jumpers are definitely a thing.

Lemonade

It’s a trap. It can refer to a) freshly squeezed lemon juice, b) fizzy lemon juice or c) lemon-ish-flavoured-ish fizzy drinks like 7Up and Sprite. And to add to the trap, it varies in every shop and restaurant. Good luck!

Line/Lining up.

Queue/queuing. Also getting in line.

Movies (Going to)

Going to the cinema or going to the pictures.

Pancakes

Yes, I hark back to The Discourse of crepes versus pancakes. UK pancakes were not like US pancakes in my tothood. They were thin, rolled-up things that were more like crepes. However, Scotch pancakes (or drop scones – no idea. Not a frigging scone) are like chibi US pancakes, thick and fluffy. Ingredients vary across the board. I’ve seen recipes including butter and soda and everything. The most basic recipe is pretty much eggs, flour, milk.

Pants

This is a big one that shows up an awful lot. The word pants in Britain tends to describe underwear of some variety, so you can imagine that this gives a very different mental image of a scene if someone is wearing tight pants in a fancy restaurant. Pants can be anything from tighty-whities to full-blown granny pants.

Generally pants get called trousers over here. We have the usual varieties of jeans and leggings and things, but generally, full-length leg coverings? Trousers.

Pie

Generally, a pie is savoury, unless specified otherwise.

Pumps

Technically, some shops do refer to them as pumps, but most people I’ve encountered in my 30+ years of living here just call them shoes and define by other means (ie. ballet flats, beach shoes etc)

(Also, fun fact, pump is frequently used as slang for a fart. So someone putting on a pair of pumps...)

Refrigerator

Just fridge, usually.

Roommate

Unless you are literally sharing a room with them, they’re a flatmate. Also, UK universities don’t generally do shared dorms. Everyone gets their own private room, though not everyone gets their own private bathroom.

Sidewalk

Pavement or footpath depending on how rural said walkway is. (More road/traffic information at the bottom)

Shopping Cart

Trolley. If it doesn’t have one wonky wheel, you are Blessed.

Sneakers

Generally, trainers. This can cover any kind of laced-up shoe that is used for sport or is kind of casual and flat, although we also differentiate between Converse, tennis shoes and such as well.

Plimsols are those lace-less slip-on canvas shoes used by kids for indoor sports. They are awful and smell like rubber.

Soda

I can’t give a fixed answer for this one. There are some areas that call all fizzy drinks “pop” while there are other regions which call all soft drinks/fruit drinks “juice”.

Store

Shop. Superstores, on the other hand, are supermarkets. On a related note, going grocery shopping is generally just known as “doing the shopping” or - more northerly - “getting the messages”.

Street cars/Trollies

Trams. This was a matter of great and heated argument back in the day. Fortunately, there aren’t all that many in the UK, so unless you’re writing in specific parts of the country, it shouldn’t be an issue.

Suspenders

Braces. Because using the word suspenders over here is generally referring to the stockings-and-suspenders variety, with strong hints of lingerie involved. Kind of a nudge-nudge, wink-wink, wahey! kind of thing. Because sometimes, we never grow past the Carry On films.

Trunk (of a car)

The car boot or just ‘the boot’. Similarly, the hood of the car is called the bonnet.

Called either TV or telly. Daft little thing, but putting the telly on reminds me of home :)

Washcloths

Flannels or facecloths.

Some minor oddities that may be useful:

Eggs

We don’t refrigerate them. We don’t have to. Some people keep them in a special shelf of the fridge, but generally it’s not necessary.

Laundry

In British houses, washing machines are generally in the kitchen. Don’t know why, given that Europe tends to have them in bathrooms or laundry rooms. (Useful to know, we don’t call the baskets laundry baskets/hampers. They’re generally just referred to as “the washing”)

Also, a lot of houses don’t have tumble driers. Outdoor drying is still quite common (weather permitting) on lines strung for the purpose between poles or on a whirligig contraption in the back garden. In Scotland, blocks of flats often have a shared “drying green” which does exactly what it says on the tin. Except, because it’s Scotland, I believe they named it ironically.

If you don’t have a tumble drier and the weather Gods are displeased, then we resort to the good old-fashioned airer, a murderous contraption of metal rods (usually coated in white plastic) that unfolds (and bites the unsuspecting finger when it collapses for no good reason).

Recycling

Oh. good. god. In the name of trying to make us save the planet, we have bins for everything. In my area, we have a regular bin, a recycling bin, a garden waste bin, a composting bin and a glass-recycling box. I know places that have more. I know places that have less.

They’re usually on weekly rotations and it’s an absolute nightmare trying to a) find space to store them and b) find space to put them out for the rubbish collection. Some areas that are mainly blocks of flats have large communal bins with similar distinctions, but I think pretty much everywhere is burdered with an excess of large plastic bins.

Roads and the Use Thereof

We drive on the left side of the road with the driver’s side on the right of the vehicle. Intersections are called junctions and I think roundabouts are a much more common phenomenon in Britain than in most sensible countries.

We still have the usual road signs and things, although British variations thereof. You can find British traffic signs by any basic search online. Traffic lights are usually just the three colours - red, amber, green - but you do occasionally get ones with extra signals for cyclists and the like.

Cycle lanes are about, but they’re not as common as somewhere like the Netherlands.

Which brings me to crosswalks - we have two common varieties: zebra and pelican. Yeah, we’re eccentric like that.

The pelican crossing is the one where you press the button and wait for the little green man to give you the all-clear to walk. It’s called Pelican because it used to be a semi-acronym - "pedestrian light controlled crossing".

Zebra crossings usually have no buttons. Some of them have striped poles with roung yellow/orange lights at the top, but not as much anymore. These kind of crossings give pedestrians the right of way, although a lot of drivers seem to ignore that rule.

Technically, they do have their names, but most of the time, we just refer to them as “the crossing”. No one really differentiates between pelican and zebra anymore.

School/college/variations.

Generally, we have state schools (government funded, variable on quality) and the independent schools which are the fee-paying ones for people who want to go private. Be aware that public refers to independent schools in some places, but to state schools in others. Children are entitled to education between the ages of 5-18.

For the early school stages, it varies depending on region. Where I am (Scotland), you have 7 years of Primary school (P1-7) and up to 6 years of Secondary school (S1-6).

I get a bit confounded with the English system because it seems to vary a lot depending on region. Primary covers most for the early years, up to age 11, but then you get a cocktail of Lower/Upper, Sixth Form and College for the secondary years depending on which area you’re in.

We don’t use terms like sophomore etc (I honestly thought that was the flag-code thing)

College is generally seen as the stepping stone between school and university. You don’t need to go to college in order to go to university in a lot of areas, but in some regions, your final year of school is done at college. It’s all a bit confusing.

University is where you go if you want to study a degree. Again, the courses vary by length depending on subject. A standard bachelor degree is 3 years in most places (except for stuff like medicine and architecture). Masters are an additional year (or two) on top of the Bachelor. Anything beyond that is variable depending on both university and course. We call the unis for short.

Swearing

Depending on region, the strength and frequency of profanities varies. For example, I’m in Scotland and one of the ladies I work with has used the c-word as a verb. Someone was playing the fool and she described them as “c*nting about”. My boss was usually ill if she didn’t drop f-bombs 8+ times a day and usually while laughing. It’s rare not to hear someone on the bus swearing on a daily basis as well.

Going back to the previously mentioned fannies, please enjoy an infamously Scottish advert:

youtube

So swearing. Yes. Variable. Definitely something to be aware of.

#britpicking #trying to be helpful and useful to fandom for a change :)

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sparxwrites · 4 years

Text

(written to “american love” by smallpools, which is a bit of a nadi anthem tbqh. neidyasset ainseelie is my character from a dnd campaign by @ladyofrosefire. for my fellow players: beware, there are Minor Spoilers here for the much-hyped eventual Meeting Of Nadi’s Family, in that this fic is primarily about nadi’s family. if you don’t care about that, then feel free to read on!!)

cw for shitty/manipulative parenting, a dubiously healthy relationship with alcohol, and an excess of teenage angst

[ao3]

The butler let Nadi in, as always. A new one, since the last time she’d visited – a young man, either an unusually pale Drow or half-Elven, smartly dressed in the Ainseelie livery of ivory and gold and already looking tired of his job.

She kept her eyes down, mumbling a thank you as he let her through the heavy wood-and-wrought-iron front door. No sense getting too friendly, all things considered. Her mother’d never been too good at keeping butlers – or any kind of serving staff for that matter. It rankled, she knew, just one of the many pricks at her mother’s noble pride.

He took her bags, too, foisting them off onto a more junior staff member moments later. She kept her satchel, one hand clutched around the strap across her chest, but the rest were spirited away before she had time to take more than two steps into the entrance hall. Quite how the butler thought he could get them to her room before she got there, she wasn’t sure, but–

“Neidyasset!” Lady Luarine Ainseelie’s voice rang out through the large entrance hall.

Nadi froze, eyes still on the pale, veined marble of the floor. That was how, apparently. Relying on a little family reunion. Unfortunate.

She’d assumed her parents would be out, given her deliberately-awkward mid-afternoon arrival, but apparently not. There was her mother on the stairs – in an elegant, understated dress of pale silk to compliment the deep purple of her skin, gold-set diamonds hung around her throat in thin, dripping strings, and a perfect smile pasted on her perfectly made-up face.

Her father stood a full two meters to the side, one step down, in starched cotton dress pants and a shirt rolled up to his elbows, both in a shade of ivory to tone with his wife’s gown and accented with gold buttons. His expression was as flat and unreadable as ever, lips pulled into a thin line and his eyes hard and cold.

“Lady Luarine Ainseelie,” said Nadi, forcing a smile onto her face that was somehow even more fake than her mother’s own painted-on one. “Lord Istas Ainseelie. It’s good to see you.” She offered a clumsy attempt at a curtsey, then gave up on it half way through as a bad deal and segued into a stiff bow.

Istas snorted, softly and humourlessly, at the graceless display.

The look his wife gave him out the corner of her eye was positively glacial, though her smile never wavered. “Neidyasset, darling, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Mother?” she said, expansive generosity in every word. A lie. They’d been through this little script enough times for Nadi to know the reaction if she opened with Mother. “Honestly. So formal!”

“Mother. Of course. ” Nadi straightened up, carefully correcting her posture and ensuring her shoulders weren’t up around her pointed ears, clasping one hand around the other wrist at the small of her back. “I… had assumed you would be out making social calls, given the hour and the season. I would have sent ahead to inform you of my arrival, otherwise.”

Luarine smile widened, though it still didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, water under the bridge,” she demurred. “The servants will sort everything, regardless. It’s just good to have you home, Neidyasset. How have your studies been?”

“They’re going well.” Nadi’s fingers tightened around her wrist, trying to remember this particular bit of the script, what lie she’d used last time. “It’s– you know. Business as usual. Research, reading, experiments… my supervisor’s hopeful that I’m very close to a breakthrough, but it’s always a little slow going when you’re on the cutting edge of arcane research.” She shrugged, dipped her gaze in what she hoped was a modest gesture, not a suspicious one. “I won’t bore you with the technical details, but it’s groundbreaking work. We’re taking mathemagics and philoarcanosophy to previously-unconceived-of heights. Very exciting.”

It was a lie, but mostly a white lie. Nad reassured herself with that, even as the nape of her neck prickled at the deception, even as she fought to keep from breaking out into a guilty cold sweat.

There was absolutely no need for her family to know about her missing supervisor, after all. About the faculty’s ambivalence towards finding her a new one. About her stagnating research, in light of her recent academic suspension. And definitely no need for them to know about the impromptu Feywild trip. The mere thought of her mother learning that little tidbit was almost enough to make her shudder.

Though if Professor Egreth was gone for much longer… well. She’d burn that bridge when she got to it.

“Oh, how exciting!” Luarine turned to Istas, with a smile that showed too many teeth. “Our own little Neidyasset, on the cutting edge of arcane research. Aren’t you just so proud?”

“I am indeed,” said, Istas, drilly, looking as though he couldn’t care less. As though he would prefer to be literally anywhere else, having literally any other conversation. His gaze was fixed in the middle distance, on a point on the far wall somewhere well over the top of Nadi’s head.

For perhaps the first time in her life, Nadi felt a fleeting sense of kinship with her father.

“We’re both very proud,” said Luarine, fussily smoothing her hands over an imagined crease in her skirt, not so much as batting an eyelid at her husband’s lack of enthusiasm. “I can’t wait for your graduation, Neidyasset. I’m sure you’ll be the talk of the town.”

Nadi, not sure what to say to that particular little performance-cum-threat, offered a respectful half-bow in response.

She was rewarded with a high, insincere laugh from Luarine. Istas gave no response whatsoever, save for crossing his arms, as though he were also waiting for the rigmarole to be over – though far more blatantly than Nadi was.

“So formal! Always so formal, our little Neidyasset.” Luarine eyed her up and down, taking in the mismatched boots, the scuffed trousers and oversized jumper, the goggles still perched atop Nadi’s head. “Though not so formally dressed, unfortunately. You’ll want to clean up before dinner.”

“Why? Do we have company?” Nadi fidgeted absently with the strap of her satchel, trying to not grind her teeth at the extended eye contact, the extended pantomime of politeness. She wanted nothing more than to disappear to her room, but her desire was subsumed beneath familial duty, beneath her mother’s pointed stare.

Like a butterfly on a board, she was pinned in place until Luarine decided otherwise.

“Though Talice will, unfortunately, not be joining us this Heartsease – she’s been asked to play a vital part in the ceremonies at the temple, can you imagine! Our Talice! – but the Lord Ainseelie has kindly lent us Veyris back for the holiday.” She failed to hide the note of distaste in her voice, despite the smile still firmly in place. “So she will be joining us. And I’ve invited the Lady Sabine’s family to dinner tonight. She, unfortunately, is otherwise engaged, but her sister and brother-in-law will be joining us! And their daughter, too – who I’m quite sure I told you about in my last letter.”

The letter had, if Nadi remembered correctly, made much of exactly how eligible Lady Sabine’s niece was. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from groaning. Yet another futile matchmaking dinner – and on her first evening home, too. What fun.

“So we must all be dressed appropriately, and on our best behaviour,” concluded Luarine, with a singularly pointed look at her daughter. “It’s very important to make a good impression. And, of course, we’ll be having family over for the next few nights after that – the Lord Ainseelie and some of his entourage,” again, the ill-hidden distaste, “tomorrow, I believe, and the Arganans the day after, And then, of course, it’s the family ball. I’ve taken the liberty of acquiring a suitable outfit for you, since I assume that you have failed to do so.”

Nadi ground her teeth a little harder, her mother’s tone sliding between her ribs more effectively than any dagger. “Thank you, Mother,” she managed after a moment, her voice perfectly flat. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

“Yes, I thought so too. Anyway. Busy busy busy! An exciting few days ahead of us. And it’s lovely that you could join us. Finally. After your absence, the last few holidays.” There was no missing the icy note in Luarine’s voice. No missing her pointed disapproval, even buried as it was beneath layers of courtly courtesy.

“Mmh. Well. Academia’s time consuming, unfortunately,” lied Nadi, through her teeth. She’d spent Silver Night drinking copious amounts of sweet, spiced rum and doing shots of brightwine with the other Starspire postgrads in her student flat’s kitchen, until she’d passed out at the table in the wee hours of the morning. She’d spent King’s Day before that in the bed of some mathematics undergraduate, half-drunk and drowning her worries in easy, meaningless sex. “I’m glad I could return home for Heartsease, though.”

Another lie. Nadi felt sure her mother must know, because she’d never been much good at lying – but the polite, insincere smile pasted onto Luarine’s immaculately painted face never faltered.

Perhaps her mother hadn’t noticed. Perhaps Luarine just didn’t care, so long as the pretense at happy families was maintained.

“Luarine, dear,” interrupted Istas, before Luarine could launch into more barbed platitudes. “As thrilling as your entrance hall interrogation of our daughter is, perhaps you could save it for dinner? I’m sure she’d prefer to run along and get… cleaned up.” He, too, eyed her well-worn lab outfit, and the corner of one lip curled up in distaste. “She looks sorely in need of a bath, after all. And a change of clothes.”

Nadi tightened the hand around her wrist until she felt sure she must be cutting the circulation off, and dug the blunt nails of her other hand into her palm until it ached.

For a split second, Luarine’s expression cracked, and a look of frustrated loathing flashed across her face – though Nadi missed it, busy sinking nails into her own skin and staring into the middle distance. Then it was gone, tucked neatly behind her near-flawless mask once more. “Oh! Of course. Quite right, husband dearest. She must be quite desperate to refresh herself.” She regarded Nadi for a long moment, and then flapped a dismissive hand at her. “You are excused. I look forward to continuing our conversation at dinner.”

“Mother. Father.” Nadi bowed once more, a little more gracefully this time, and then fled.

She didn’t run, but she did walk faster than was probably seemly, her boots echoing against the marble in the cavernous entrance hall and the hallway leading out of it. Down a corridor to the right, a turn to the left, up a staircase spiralling hidden behind an innocuous door, out into another hallway on the second floor, a sharp right turn–

The door to her bedroom clicked shut behind her, and Nadi inhaled properly for the first time since setting foot in the house as she turned the lock.

It took a long moment of just remembering to breathe, her slumped against the solid wood of her door, before she found the energy to pull herself up. She wandered into the centre of the room and, looking around. It was exactly as she’d left it, last time she was home – the furniture lavish and elegant, dark wood and lacquer and metal, but sparse.

The four-poster bed dominated the room, draped with deep purple silks and beautifully embroidered linens. A writing desk sat under one silk-curtained window, along with a high-backed chair and her bags. In the corner was a tall, thin armoire, and a capacious chest of drawers.

Otherwise, the room was empty – no rugs on the flagstone floors, no personal effects, no artwork. What little clutter she’d had was currently occupying every available surface in her student room, leaving her bedroom at home looking distinctly un-lived-in. Which was appropriate, really, given how rarely she returned to it

Nadi sighed, and set her satchel down on the desk, with a dull thump that echoed in the empty, high-ceilinged room. With a flick of her wrist, she summoned her familiar to her shoulder.

An irritated-looking raven popped into being with an angry squawk, nearly sliding off her shoulder before righted himself – hitting her in the face with one large wing, and grabbing at one of her many earrings with his beak for balance. Even once he was settled, he kept tugging on it, nibbling at the point of one long, obsidian ear until Nadi swatted him off her shoulder.

“Vyrrd,” Nadi chided, without any sort of heat in her voice. She tugged her goggles off her head, setting them down on the desk beside her bag, and dragged a hand over the close-cropped fuzz of her glittering, silvery hair. “Fucking hells, though, right? Fucking hells. Encounter one survived. Fifteen minutes down, four days to go.”

Vyrrd ruffled his wings at her, indignantly, from his new perch on the footboard of her four-poster bed.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Mother bitches terribly when you’re a rat, though, so, you know. Suck it up for a few days. We’re both making sacrifices here. I’ll give you pizza after.” A suspicious croak. “Loads of pizza. I promise.” A less suspicious croak. “As much pizza as you want. Which is gonna be like half a slice, because rats have super tiny stomachs. Dumbass.”

She toed her mismatched boots off and left them by the end of the bed, padding over in her socks to the old, elaborately-carved wardrobe in the corner. When she opened it, it was already full of the clothes she’d brought home for her visit – the staff must have at least partially unpacked for her. The thought sent her stomach into an uncomfortable curl. She wasn’t a fan of other people touching her stuff.

Hanging on the far right of the rail, though, was the outfit her mother had mentioned. Nadi took it out, and held it up to the refracted light of the crystalline chandelier, appraising it with a critical eye.

The shirt was thin, bordering on sheer, a deep, cool charcoal that highlighted the blue undertones of her obsidian skin. It was unadorned, so as not to detract from the suit it was designed to accompany – a darkly iridescent, exquisitely tailored waistcoat and trousers. The fabric of the slim trousers caught the light in unusual ways as Nadi twisted the hanger back and forth, the dark fabric picking up oil-slick hints of green, blue, purple, and pink in every crease and fold. The waistcoat went a step further, the front covered entirely in exquisite, carefully-arranged raven feathers, sleek and gorgeous, its fastenings disguised beneath the plumage.

Hung next to it was a jacket, no doubt also carefully tailored to her measurements, made of the same iridescent fabric as the pants and the back of the waistcoat. It was lined with a silk so deeply purple-blue it was almost black, and buttoned up to the throat with silver buttons stamped with the Ainseelie crest.

“The bitch’s got good taste in clothes, if nothing else,” murmured Nadi, running a finger down the front of the waistcoat and sighing at the texture of feathers against skin. “And you’ll match beautifully, Vyrrd, huh? Lucky you.”

Vyrrd, now underneath the bed and undoubtedly hunting for months-old crumbs, communicated his disinterest in Drow fashion with a half-hearted croak.

A cursory check of the wardrobe floor found a new pair boots, sturdy and ankle-high, polished to a mirror shine. There was new jewellery in the jewellery box on her desk, too, as Nadi had known there would be. No new earrings or rings – her mother had given up on that particular battle a while ago, irritably resigned to Nadi’s assortment of diamond studs and platinum hoops and mismatched finger jewellery – but there was a new string of diamonds, so small they’d do little more than catch the light in a fine sparkle, long enough to wrap several times around one wrist.

“Pretty,” she murmured, absently, testing the drape of it over her fingers and tilting her hand back and forth to make it catch the light. It glittered, beautifully, like a line of tiny stars across the inky darkness of her skin. It would turn into a constellation when worn, she had no doubt, throwing delicate points of light across the oily darkness of her clothing.

She dropped it back in the jewellery box, pleased but disinterested, and wandered over to join Vyrrd in poking around under the bed.

There, directly under where her pillow would lie on the mattress above, was her faithful old loose flagstone. Or rather, loosened flagstone. She’d rather deliberately cracked one corner of the enormous slab in her youth, and pried it up to carve out a small hollow beneath in which to stash anything she didn’t want her mother’s prying eyes to find.

She was pleased to discover it as undisturbed as ever – though she had no doubts that if her Luarine had found it, it would have been the first thing out her mouth the minute Nadi walked through the door.

Nudging aside a couple of books, a sheaf of papers, and a small pouch, she pulled free a heavy bottle of amber liquid. Dwarvish whiskey, old and extortionately expensive, pilfered unnoticed from her father’s collection several years earlier. It was still half-full, and Nadi hummed happily, standing up and letting it swing idly by the neck from her fingertips as she padded over to the ensuite bathroom door.

The bath had been filled, no doubt by the same attentive servants who had feverishly unpacked her belongings whilst she’d been waylaid by her parents. The water in the claw-footed tub steamed faintly. It was probably hot enough to nearly scald, just the way she liked it. It was both gratifying and uncomfortable to realise that someone in this godforsaken house knew her tastes well enough to hew so closely to them, down to even her bathing preferences.

After several years of an – admittedly high-class – student lifestyle, such luxuries seemed both foreign and awkward, an unexpected and delightful-yet-discomforting indulgence.

Nadi set the bottle of spirits gently down on the floor by the edge of the tub, and considered the water for a moment. Her gaze settled on the slow curls of steam from the surface, unfocusing as she tracked the random, meandering path of the vapour. Another increment of tension eased from her shoulders at the minor dissociation, and she exhaled slowly, letting her eyes fall shut.

Her internal deliberation about whether to strip off there and then and climb straight into the hot water, however, was interrupted by an insistent knocking at her bedroom door.

Eyes snapping open, Nadi stifled a groan, shoulders hunching up once more. “Coming!” she called, loudly, making sure to kick the door to the bathroom closed behind her as she left to answer. “Gimmie a moment!”

A cursory glance around her room confirmed nothing offensive in view – the flagstone section had been replaced, Vyrrd was still busy beneath the bed, and the bottle of illicit whiskey was out of sight behind the door of the en-suite. Satisfied within reason, Nadi braced herself, and unlocked the door to her room before pulling it open.

She needn’t have bothered with the pre-emptive stress. No sooner had she opened the door, than Veryris had thrown herself through it, dragging her younger sister into a tight embrace. “Nadi! You’re back! Finally. It’s so good to see you.”

Her vision was, abruptly, filled with the lower quarter of her sister’s head – a deep purple-charcoal cheek and long, silvery braids twisted into an immaculately elegant hairstyle. Her elder sister was everything she wasn’t; long-haired where she was close-cropped, tall where she was short, willowy where she was stocky, sociable where she was awkward.

Sometimes it seemed hard to believe they were genetically related, with the differences as stark as they were.

Nadi tolerated the embrace for a polite, painful count of five, before disentangling herself. “Vey,” she said, voice soft and uncharacteristically warm, despite the lingering discomfort of unanticipated physical contact still prickling across her skin. “It’s good to see you too. How’ve you been? Surviving under the watchful eye of the dread Lord Ainseelie?”

Veyris laughed, a light, high-pitched sound that was significantly more sincere than her mother’s. “I’ve got my townhouse, thank you very much, so I’m hardly under his eye. Or anyone’s, for that matter. And Uncle Rhyldyn is far more interesting to be around than Mother and Father, so you needn’t worry about me. The internship is a dream. I’m learning more about politics than I could ever have dreamed– and I’m almost starting to believe Mother’s theories about him handing off the Ainseelie title to me. I mean, he’s still unmarried, well into middle age, and the kind of duties he’s having me perform–”

She cut herself off, eyes bright with obvious excitement. “Ahem..” Her cheeks darkened a little, clearly embarrassed with herself at such an enthusiastic, unseemly outpouring – enough so that even Nadi could spot it. “Anyway, enough about me. How’re you? How’s school been? You must tell me everything! I’ve been surviving on Mother’s gossip and parliamentary intrigue for months and, I must say, it’s not half as interesting as the stories you come back with.”

For a moment, Nadi considered spilling her guts to her big sister. About Professor Egreth, about the academic suspension, about the Feywild and the strange people in it. About the tiefling coming to crash at her dorm. Or even about just some of it, just the funny bits, just about her brief and bizarre trip to the Feywild in all its improbability and alien beauty.

Veyris would have loved the it, she knew, if only for the drama and high elegance of it all. Her sister had always loved the fey. Or had, at least, loved the romanticised, fairy-tale version of what the fey could be, learned through childhood books and second-hand stories.

In the end, though, Nadi bit her tongue. “Still haven’t got Jazreth expelled,” she said instead, with a toothy grin and a slight pang in her ribs at the lie-by-omission. “I accidentally set a water elemental loose in the lab about a month ago, so. That’s a thing. The vice-provost just loves me, right now.”

“Oh, gods.” Veyris made a hand gesture commonly used to ask for Bahamut’s protection, only half-jokingly. “You’re going to give me grey hairs, Nadi. Grey hairs. Uncle Rhyldyn will ask me where my beautiful white hair has gone, and I shall have to blame you.” Her lips, though, curled into a co-conspiratorial smile. “You’ve got to tell me all about it. After dinner. And over some kind of alcohol, since I know you’re good at swindling that from the serving staff – so I’ve something to look forward to, after Mother’s no doubt extensive interrogation of us both..”

“I’ll bother the cook into giving us some of the good wine. Assuming Mother’s managed to keep same cook as the last time I was here. And assuming I survive dinner,” grumbled Nadi, her good mood soured by the reminder of what was to come. “Mother’s trying to set me up with some nice, eligible Drow heir, again. Because gods forbid I be allowed to finish my fucking doctoral studies without the promise of wedding bells at the end.” She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt.

“Bahamut’s balls, Nadi,” groaned Veyris. Sympathetic as she was to her sister’s exasperation at their mother’s machinations, she found the endless whining more than a little wearing. “Yes, Mother’s endless matchmaking gets a little tiring, but do stop complaining. Or– I don’t know! Do an Aunt Vierayema, or something! Take a year studying abroad, find someone to marry who’s wealthy but just disreputable enough that you stop getting invited to dinner other every week, and then settle down in that ivory tower of yours for the rest of your life, blissfully free of familial bothering. Honestly.”

Nadi’s lips twitched, somewhere between amusement and irritation. “Or find someone very disreputable, and do an Uncle Tobith, and stop getting invited to any dinners, family or otherwise, ever.”

“Absolutely not.” Veyris levelled a finger at her sister, abruptly deadly serious. “Absolutely, under no circumstances, do an Uncle Tobith. Because you’re my sister, and I love you, and I do not want to deal with the enormous mess that would be you getting disinherited and then me trying to re-inherit you when I’m Lady Ainseelie.” Her lips twisted with distaste. “And also because if you run off with a tiefling called Delirium, of all the gods-awfully tacky names to choose, I’m not sure I’ll want to re-inherit you.”

“I was joking!” Nadi raised her hands in a gesture of truce. “I was joking, Vey. I’m not planning on running off with a tiefling any time soon. Or getting disinherited.” She pursed her lips, expression turning bitter. “The family fortune is an excellent incentive to stay on Mother’s good side. Trust me.”

She was abruptly glad, though, that she hadn’t mentioned the Feywild, or any of the people she’d met in it, to Vey. An elf with more knives than manners, a tiefling with entirely the wrong sort of manners, a halfling in the employ of the Baba Jaga, and a half-elven bastard… She could imagine what Veyris might have said about them and, though she couldn’t say why, her sister’s imagined disapproval left her feeling– unbalanced. She’d met this bizarre group of strangers once, unwillingly, in deeply awkward circumstances, and had left with no debt towards them whatsoever. And yet…

And yet.

“Anyway,” Nadi said, her mood abruptly soured for no reason she could put her finger on. “Given I haven’t pulled a Vierayema yet, I should get ready for dinner. I guess. Brace myself for whatever new idiot Mother’s found for me. No point getting myself mildly to moderately disowned if I’m not going to do it in style.”

Veyris sighed. “Yes,” she agreed, with a tired flap of her fingers. “Go– I don’t know. Have a soak in the bath, or something.” She was familiar with her sister’s sharp tongue and mercurial temper, but that didn’t make it any less wearing to deal with – especially when she’d clearly stumbled across some conversational pitfall so well-hidden she hadn’t even known it existed. “And, Nadi? Cheer up, for the love of Bahamut. It’s a few days of dinners and parties, not a bloody death sentence.”

“Not for you, maybe,” said Nadi, darkly, but the corner of her lip twitched all the same. Veyris stuck her tongue out, and Nadi responded in kind, her poor mood lifting for a heartbeat at the childish display of fondness. “Anyway. Fuck off, Vey, I want a bath.”

“As her highness demands,” demurred Veyris, sweeping out of the bedroom door with a grace Nadi had never seen in her before. Clearly, hanging around Uncle Rhyldon had been rubbing off on her mannerisms. “See you at dinner, sister dearest!”

The door clicked shut behind Veyris before Nadi could respond. She was left standing by her desk, in silence, staring at the satchel and the stack of books upon it.

She was seized, suddenly, by the urge to push them off – to sweep everything off, the bag, the books, the papers, the quill and ink, the candles, in a single violent motion, send it all crashing to the ground. To turn it all into a ruined heap on the floor, to scream and not stop screaming–

She picked up the book atop the stack, instead, and padded absently back into to the bathroom. The muscles in her jaw and neck were so tight they hurt, a dull ache at the edge of her senses. Her shoulders were up around her ears once more, and no amount of willing would push them down again.

The bath was still hot, at least. She set the book down on the tiled bathroom floor, next to the bottle of whiskey, shedding her clothes in a graceless heap. The water burned her feet a little, as she stepped in, but she ignored it, gritting her teeth against the bite and sinking her entire body down into it until she was submerged deep enough to scream.

It was only when her lungs started to ache, oxygen-starved, that she resurfaced, gasping for air through the near-scalding water rolling down her face.

Tilting her head back until it was resting on the rim of the tub, she stuck an arm over the edge, groping for the neck of the bottle of Dwarvish whiskey. She needed a drink, clearly. Being so tense hat she was already resorting to screaming where no one could hear was a poor omen for the long weekend ahead.

No, what she needed was clearly a long soak in an obscenely hot bath, and a drink. Or two. Or three. And perhaps a chapter or two of dense arcane theory, as well. That ought to be enough to numb her to the dinner ahead, to leech the tension out of her shoulders and the building headache out the base of her skull.

Her questing fingers found the whiskey, and she grasped it, thumbing the cap off without looking. Sitting up just enough that she wouldn’t choke on it, she took a generous sip, exhaling slowly as the burn of it worked its way down her throat to the pit of her belly. The combination of heat and alcohol began turning her muscles to soft clay, and she let her eyes slip closed for a second – luxuriating in the sensation, trying to grasp at the singular moment of thoughtless peace and keep it.

The moment lingered for a heartbeat, and then it slipped through her grasping fingers, ephemeral.

Sighing in disappointment, Nadi took another sip of the whiskey, and traced the glyph for Mage Hand in the air. She murmured the activation word, and hummed satisfaction as the spectral fingers grasped the book, lifting it up over the bath and flipping to the page she’d last left off. Dense arcane theory it was, then – or rather, it was that or masturbation, and she really wasn’t in the mood.

Arranging herself a little more comfortably in the bath, the heat of the water seeping into her bones and the whiskey turning her head pleasantly numb, she exhaled slowly, and began to read.

#dungeons and dragons #original #ocs #dnd #misfit toys #(the joke here is that she just acquired a tiefling boy-toy (if you ask her)/boyfriend (if you ask the tiefling) kdjfhs)#(what could possibly go wrong...........)#god i love her........ my best girl. my asshole girl.

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asheasexualvampire · 4 years

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My Clothes Weigh More Than Me

Alternatively, “The period in history where your child weighs the same as the clothes you wear all day”. Yes. Today I would like to talk about fashion, and my lack thereof. For anyone new, salutations. I am Ashe, I am both a panromantic asexual, and a vampire. Welcome to my hell. Fashion. It had been both the bane of existence and also the funnest thing ever since day zero. It can alternately flatter or disfigure your appearance, no matter what body type, size, height, or gender. If you follow its whims then you are “typical”, or in the newest term, “BASIC.” If you don’t then you get asked why you can’t just wear what everyone else wears, and then get called a lot of very unpleasant and uncalled for names. Witch. Goth. Nerd. Looser. Pansy. The list could honestly go on for days. I grew up in the Victorian age, when everything was about that strange, hourglass shape but if you turned in profile, you almost looked like a very long bird, because the front curved out so far. Fashion then was very strictly divided. If you had boobs, you wore dresses. If you had balls you would trousers. Welcome to hell. Population, you. I had the unfortunate grace to be born with boobs. Well, they came in a matter of course, shut up, you know what I mean. Heathen. Being a girl meant learning how to sew, serve tea, sing, dance, run a house, balance the books, pay the staff, and how to dress so that no one thought you were foreign, or worse, poor. It starts when you’re a child. You’ve got a chemise which is like a full body thin dress made of cotton or muslin. Sometimes with pretty ribbons and ruffled bits. Then you have your dress, made of some other material, more ribbons and bows and lace than any child should be expected to wear, and a pair of stockings and shoes. Fine. You’re covered from neck to ankle in fabric. Then you grow up. You start developing weird bits and your hips are doing this thing and what in the hell is going on down- never mind. Now you’re a young lady. Now, you wear your chemise, and possibly some drawers if you’re feeling too drafty. Then over that goes the first corset. Now about corsets. Before anyone starts in about them being disfiguring cages of hell spawn, just take a breath. There’s this thing called “Going Too Far”. It has happened since the dawn of time. 99% of the populace would wear things in the way they are meant to be worn, and one person has to go the extra mile and add layers or flounces or bows, or something. People do it now! Have you seen some of these people getting plastic surgery until they look like they’re inhuman? That is “going Too Far”. People did it back then, but with clothes. Back to the topic. Corset. You get it on, fairly loose for now, but as time rolls on you will slowly tighten it until it’s firm but still comfortable. Its actually very supportive to the spine and encourages good posture. Tight lacing it would be unwise, but people also used to use arsenic in wallpaper so... Now you put on a petticoat, and another, and then you add hip pads, and a butt pad, and if you’re not full enough in the chest they even made stiff bodices that created that bird-front look. And then more petticoats, and then the dress. By the time you’re tied, buttoned, hooked and pinned in, you’ve got enough layers on that you could cook some ham under that skirt, you need a wide berth so hugging anyone is out of the question, and your clothes could stop a sword. If you put on the LEAST amount possible, it will all weigh about 17lbs. Or, the same as a slightly pudgy chihuahua. If you were kitted out for a formal event, your clothes could weight up to 30lbs, or a small toddler. Men’s clothes were not nearly as restrictive, and I began wearing them in secret as often as possible. My Maker possibly thought I was a man when they made me. Poor chap got one hell of a surprise I think. But men didn’t have nearly the layers and weight of women. Drawers, an undershirt, regular shirt, tie of some sort, waistcoat, trousers, socks, shoes, cuff-links, jacket, coat. And you’re off with hat in hand and you don’t need a perimeter of 6 feet around you to make speaking into a shouting event. After I was Made, it was arranged that my former self had “died” and then I chose to go about as a man all the time. Of course, it was different then, and I didn’t have to worry about getting married, I could be a confirmed bachelor and just do whatever I liked. In the 1900s clothes slimmed down, skirts went up, I still wore pants. Because I have lived a life in skirts. Its bloody inconvenient and too much work. The 1920′s was fun, picture shows became a thing, lots of very cute men, women started wearing pants and suits, and it was quite lovely. Look up Lavender Marriage, it was a thing and it was glorious. Then the 50s came. Skirts, heels, pearls, “How was your day honey?” please god shoot me in the eye. I continued to be a man. Motorcycles are fun, as are leather trousers. Wear a damned helmet you idiot, your skull is not impervious to pavement. I wear one! The 60s was back to nature, lots of people being very high and very friendly and wanting to just lay outside and stare at the sky with you. Also a LOT of nudists came out of hiding. Like, almost too many. Then there was disco. Disco was so fun. It was like the lazy days of the 60s had just been Too Much, and people went overboard in the arts and crafts aisle with all the colour and glitter and the lights and the platform heels even for men. I have shite balance, I wore sneakers and trackies. Track pants. I cannot do the robot or the worm. But comfort was my thing. I do so love glitter tho. Then we have the 80s with the hair bands and the leather and wow that’s a LOT of hairspray. Even I choked, and I don’t need to breathe! But it was glorious, even though shoulder pads should be against the law. Hideous. The 90s went grunge and then pop, and then you lot started being born in the 2000s. But yes. Fashion tends to recycle and also react to what happened before. Bell-bottoms in the ‘60s became flares in the 90s and the 2000s, cigarette pants in the ‘40s became skinny jeans, tattoos and coloured hair came back from the Celts, the Picts, and the Native Americans, Africans, Samoans, and basically every ancient culture ever. Sure, people take it too far, full-body tattoo so you look like a snake (Why won’t anyone hire me?!), tight lacing until you break a rib with your corset, but there’s always going to be those people. For the most part its just a fun way to cover up all the soft squishy bits. Enjoy it. Me, I wear a lot of stretch pants and t-shirts. I cannot be bothered to deal with skirts. Sweatpants are my friend. I’m wearing them now.

-Ashe, the Asexual Vampire

#fiction #asexual #ace pride #vampire #fashion #victorian #decades #corset #wear a fucking mask people #wear a helmet

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boywizardscanbecute · 5 years

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The Rest of Our Days

Here is the love triangle request from @themonsterheloved

Sorry it took so long I wanted to get it just right! Enjoy :)

Word count: 5.6K

Request: Hey! saw you open your requests and if you don’t mind can we get a Newt x Reader x Theseus triangle? like a bunch of angst that punches us in the heart (but like the reader ends up with newt preferably hehe) i just would love to see you’re take on writing this love triangle since you do so well in writing them out with the readers in general! 💞

*NOT MY GIF

Summary: Growing up next to Newt and Theseus Scamander made your childhood very interesting, but you wouldn’t change it for anything. As a child, you were much closer to Newt, but you haven’t seen either brother for years. Not since you graduated Hogwarts. Newt now 30, Theseus 38, you were 27 and living in Wollongong Australia, playing as starting chaser for the Wollongong Warriors. Tragedy strikes, bringing you back to your hometown and to the two brothers.

Wollongong Australia, 1929

“Coach, are you sure all this time off is okay? I don’t want to miss training, I want to be ready for the season opener,” you babble at your Chaser Coach, concern etched on your face. Stella, your coach, puts her hands on your shoulders and sighs, “Y/n, your dedication is admirable, it really is. But your father has died. It’s time for you to go home, spend some time with your family. The season doesn’t start for three months, and besides I know you’ll keep up your own training regimen. We’ll see you back here for the start, now go on, go on home.” You look down, defeated. But you knew she was right. Your mother needs you now more than ever and with the way the hot summer was going on the Gold Coast, England would be like a breath of fresh air. So you leave the field, returning to your home to collect your things. Gathering up your bags, you depart for your portkey. The one that would take you home.

In the Scamander household, Newt’s mother calls out to him, “Newton! Theseus will not return from the ministry for another couple hours. When the timer goes off, I want you to take the casserole in the oven over to the l/n’s. Y/n’s returning today, perhaps you’ll get to see her. They need all the support we can give.” Newt saunters into the kitchen and blushes at the mention of your name. “Yes mother,” Newt responds diligently. Then he paces across the kitchen floor, waiting for the timer to go off.

Appearing in your mother’s living room, you get your bearings and drop your bags. “Mum! I’m home!” you call out through the silent house. No answer. Sighing, you walk through to the kitchen, searching for your mom. Passing a mirror on the wall, you glance at your reflection. It’s been years since you went home. Now you returned in your late 20’s, a full grown adult. Stopping in front of the reflective glass, you study your face. E/c eyes stared back at you, though not quite as vivid as when you were a babe. With your hair pulled back in a simple braid, you wiped your sweaty hands against your black, wide legged trousers. Adjusting your crisp blue blouse and tucking it into your pants, you continue on through the household. Out the back door, you smile at your mother’s form, knelt in the dirt, delicately tending to her plants. Slipping out the door, you walk over to her.

“Hi mum,” your voice comes out softly. Your darling mother quickly jumps to her feet and turns around to face you. “Oh my beautiful y/n,” she chokes on tears. Of course she would get emotional. “Hi,” you smile. She ropes you into a hug and clings to you for dear life. “I’m sorry about dad,” you whisper. She holds you tighter. “I’m sorry I haven’t come home in awhile,” you continue. She waves off your apology, saying, “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.” And as much as you wanted to get out of the bone crushing hug, you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. Lucky for you, the moment is broken by footsteps coming through the back door, towards both of you. Glancing up over your mother’s shoulder, you gasp at the man sauntering over to you. It was Newt Scamander, your childhood best friend. But he too had grown up, and it sure agreed with him. Immediately you admired his red curls, he had let them grow out and they flopped against his forehead. And his deep green eyes, seeing them again for the first time in seven years, you were floored to find them even more vibrant than before. A single moment passes, and you detach from your mother’s grip, racing towards Newt.

“Newt!” your voice squeals like a gleeful child. He meets your grin with an equally eager look and opens his arms to you as you barrel into him, hugging him for the first time in nearly a decade. As your body crashed into his, you felt his arms tighten around you, they were considerably larger than the last time you’d seen him. His hands settled on your waist as your feet left the ground. Emotions bubbled over as Newt laughed with you, spinning you around in the air. When he realizes what he’s doing, he brings you back to the ground and reluctantly lets go of you. “Y/n, it’s been way too long,” Newt insists. You tilt your chin to look up at him, he’d grown so much! “Way way too long,” you agreed. Newt studies you, drinking you in with his eyes. “You’ve… you’ve grown up,” Newt manages to say, a blush rising in his cheeks. “You too,” you mutter. Newt runs a hand down your arm and briefly grips your hand. “I see the land down under is treating you well! You’re getting lots and lots of sun!” Newt beams. You chuckle, “Kind of hard to avoid sun when you’re on the field.” Newt replies, “Yes and how is it, being the star player of the Wollongong Warriors?” You argue, “I am so not a star player.” Newt playfully rolls his eyes, saying, “Sure. Whatever you say.” A brief silence passed between the two of you, and Newt squeezes your palm, before letting it go. Before he can lose his nerve, Newt gushes, “I’ve really missed you y/n. You’re my best friend. You’ve been gone a long time.” Searching his eyes, you bite back a gasp at the emotion that was looming in them. You respond quietly, “I know. I’m sorry Newt. I’m sorry I haven’t visited. I’ve missed you too. You’ve got no idea how much.” Newt’s eyes widen at that last bit. “Well how much?” he asks before he can think about it. But before you can answer, your mother walks over, pulling both you and Newt into the kitchen, blabbering on about how the two of you used to dig up dirt in her garden together as toddlers.

“Please tell your mother thank you for the casserole. It was so kind of her to do,” your mother tells the youngest Scamander. Newt responds simply, “It’s no trouble at all. Mother and I, we want you to know that we’re here for you. For both of you. Whatever you need.” Struggling with her emotion, your mother chokes out, “Thank you Newt.” Meeting his eyes, you smile at him, gratitude gushing out of you. “You should stay for dinner,” you tell him. He shrugs, “If you say so. I won’t turn down a free meal.” You laugh and offer him a chair as your mother goes to heat up the casserole. Sitting down next to him, you ask, “What will you do now? You’ve finished your book, you’ve fought off Grindelwald twice now, surely you’ve been offered a job with your brother?” Newt frowns at the mention of Theseus. He sighs, “As a matter of fact I have been offered a position at the ministry. And my thoughts on aurors have changed. Theseus is more complicated a man than I thought. Yes he may be a stickler for the rules, but he’s trying to do what he thinks is right. And the American auror I met, she’s simply wonderful.” Your face briefly falls, but you try to hide it. Before the conversation can continue, the eldest Scamander brother wanders into your kitchen. Newt watches as you leap to your feet, jumping to meet his brother.

Theseus flashes his flirty grin at you and simpers, “Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” as he embraces you fondly in his arms. You giggle, “It’s good to see you too Thes.” He runs a hand affectionately through your h/c locks and holds you a second longer than necessary. After he releases you, he laughs, “Well give me a little spin, let me get a good look at you!” You echo his own laughs and twirl as requested. Theseus, always the jokester, lets out a low whistle.

“Theseus Scamander you stop that!” your cheeks redden as you swat his arm. He shrugs, “Just being honest.” you ignore him. Across the table, Newt’s fists tighten and he glowers at his older brother, Theseus Scamander, the biggest flirt known to man. As Theseus walks to the table, he ruffles Newt’s hair and says, “How’s it going little brother?” Newt responds, “Fine.” Theseus eyes him curiously, but shakes his head, turning back to you.

“How’s the all star quidditch life going?” Theseus smiles at you. Sitting between the two brother’s, you answer his question, “It’s okay I guess.” Theseus narrows his eyes at you, fishing for more of an answer. The blue of his eyes was like the dark night sky and it made you melt. Giving in, you confess, “Alright it’s more than okay. I love it. Living on the coast, it’s amazing. Sunshine everyday of the year! The salt air of the ocean, I mean bloody hell, you can still smell it from the pitch!” Theseus listens to you ramble on about the gold coast, and quickly gets lost in admiring you. The thoughts in his head tell him he could be content watching you forever. But another biting thought comes through to the front of his brain. He remembers how close you and Newt were as kids. Throughout his adolescence, envy was his constant companion. He longed for the closeness that you and Newt had.

Dinner was a family affair. You once again felt whole with the two Scamander men by your side. Once upon a time they were both your closest companions. And it was no secret that as a young witch you fantasized about spending the rest of your life with the younger Scamander. Newt had always been your best friend, your better half. But that was years ago, and you saw the articles about the hot shot American auror: Tina Goldstein. There was no way Newt wouldn’t fall for her, if he hadn’t already. Your thoughts begin to wander to what could have been when Theseus’s voice pulls you from your wandering. “Y/n you’ve been away too long. How long are you in town?” There’s a quiet desperation to his question. Glancing up at both of them, you answer, “Season doesn’t start for a while. So I’m back for three months.”

Both reactions from the boys are joyful ones. Theseus opens his mouth but it’s Newt who speaks first. “Y/n, that’s great! I’m happy you’re home, I only wish it was under better circumstances, but you know I’m here for you. Always,” Newt says sympathetically. You give him a watery smile and place your hand on top of his own, managing a tiny, “Thanks.” He lets slip a reply, “Anything for you.” Your cheeks flame and you turn back to your plate, pushing the food around on it. Theseus bites down on his lip next to you, cursing Newt for being the one to offer support first. He pushes himself back into the conversation, boldly saying, “You know, y/n, I would love to visit you sometime and see a match. Living on the Gold Coast, it must be breathtaking. I’d love to see it.” You feel a mixture of emotions at this statement. Excitement, nervousness, and guilt. Theseus’s blue eyes sparkled at you and you melted under their glint. “That would be lovely Thes, we never did get to spend enough time together,” you confess. Theseus confirms your thoughts, “I agree completely. I only wish we spent more time together as children. But Merlin knows that someone had to watch over you and Newt and keep you out of trouble.” You laugh, glancing over at the younger Scamander, who is sulking like a moody toddler. He seemed irritated, a rare emotion for him. You looked at him puzzled, and behind you you can feel Theseus’s eyes glued to you. Torn between what to do, you rise from your chair and decide to clear everyone’s dishes, removing yourself from the situation.

There’s a tapping at the window over the kitchen sink and you glance up to see an owl holding a letter, no it was a ministry envelope. Retrieving it from his beak, you turn to Theseus and say, “Thes, I think this is for you.” The tall auror rises from his chair at your table and takes the letter from your hand, his fingers lingering on your skin. Ripping open the envelope, he growls in annoyance. “What is it?” you place a hand on his shoulder, rising up on your toes and trying to peek over him. He scowls, “I’ve got to head back to the ministry. They may have a new lead on one of Grindelwald’s hideouts. I won’t be long. Y/n, don’t go anywhere.” Theseus flashes you a toothy grin and disapparates.

Five minutes later you stood in front of the sink, washing the dinner dishes. Newt was at your side, drying them for you. Breaking the silence, you say, “You know I saw the article in the Prophet about that American Auror. Tina Goldstein I think it was. She seems very talented.” Newt’s eyes glance up at you from under his moppy auburn curls. He coughs, “Tina is very talented. Don’t think I’d be alive if it weren’t for her.” “Wow, that’s…. Intense,” you manage to say. Newt nods, “Tina is a good person to know. She always fights for what’s right.” It stung to hear him talk about her so admirably. Pushing down your emotion, you say barely audible, “Well I’m glad you found her then.” Newt stops wiping the dish in his hand and places it lightly on the counter. “Y/n. You know that you’ve always been my best friend. From the first day we met, all the way up until now. You may be thousands of miles away, but nothing’s ever going to change or come between us,” he tells you. What you knew Newt meant as a beautiful sentiment, struck a chord within you. He didn’t want anything to change with the two of you. But deep down, you knew that you wanted more from him. To be his one and only. Sighing, you respond, “I’m glad to hear that Newt. Me too. I can’t imagine what I’d do if I didn’t have you in my life.” Newt takes your hand and smiles, “You’ll never have to worry about that. I’ll always be there to support you.” Finally meeting his pressing gaze, you get lost in the color of sunlight shining on the forest floor. Electricity pulled you toward him. Brushing his curly locks affectionately, you lightly chuckle, “You sure could use a haircut Mr. Scamander.” He glances up at your hand running its way through his hair. “You always wanted me to let it grow,” he responds, shrugging his shoulders as if it’s obvious. Your hand pauses, before coming back down to your side. “I said that when we were ten years old,” you say in awe. Newt again shrugs, “I remember some things.” And maybe it was the way his eyes were absolutely glued to you, maybe it was the smell of grass and lavender, his scent, wafting to your nose, maybe it was how close he now stood to you; no matter what it was, you found yourself wanting to confess your feelings to him. Stepping now only inches from his face, your voice trembles, “Newt I-” Your statement is cut off by footsteps wandering back into your mother’s kitchen.

Theseus’s face falls at the sight of you and Newt so close together, so obviously longing for one another. Clearing his throat, he declares, “Am I interrupting something?” Jumping back in surprise, you turn to the elder brother. “Theseus, I’m glad to see you back so soon!” you say, ignoring his question. “I’m glad to see you’re enthusiastic about my return,” Theseus beams back at you. Theseus begins to explain why he was called away to the ministry and you listen with intrigue. Behind you, near the sink, the ginger haired magizoologist stares at you, longing to close the distance between the two of you. To be so close again, so close that he could feel your little gasps of breath that washed over his skin, leaving tingling prickles in its wake. Just moments ago you were so close he could have kissed you. It took every ounce of self control in him not to reach out and grab your hand, pulling you back close to him. The wildest desires pumped through his heart and his mind fantasized about kissing you, about holding you close to him, his arms around you, protecting you. But he looked on, watching you chat with his much more charming older brother. Surely Theseus must have known how he felt about you. Didn’t seem like he cared though. Newt looks on helplessly as Theseus works his magic and flirts with you endlessly, making you laugh and blush.

Eventually it’s time for the Scamander boys to go home. Walking them to the door, you pause to embrace them both. “I’ve missed you both so much. A girl needs the Scamander boy’s in her life. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to come home,” your voice echoes in the night air. First, you hug Theseus. Rising up on the balls of your feet, you wrap your arms around his neck and squeeze tight. Inside, Theseus’s heart thumps wildly in his chest. “Night Thes,” you whisper, your lips lightly brushing his ear. He shivers, a turmoil of emotions rolling through him. Regaining his smooth composure, Theseus smiles, “Night beautiful.” Planting a playful kiss to your hand, he descends the steps and walks back to his childhood home.

Turning to Newt, you drink him in with your eyes, wishing on all the stars in the night sky that you could look at that boy forever. Newt bravely meets your stare, thousands of feelings passing in between the silence. Newt’s heart disobeys his brain that tells him to stay cool. Instead, he reaches a hand out and brushes a lock of hair behind your ear. His hand rests on your cheek. Reaching your own arm up, you cover his hand with your palm. “Thanks for helping with the dishes,” you smile shyly. Newt responds softly, “Like I said before. Anything for you.” You suck in a sharp breath at his words. Newt looks like he wants to say so much more, but instead, he reluctantly pulls his hand from your soft cheek. He walks backwards towards his home, never wanting to take his eyes off of you. “Goodnight Newt,” you call after him. “Goodnight y/n,” his voice lingers in your ears as you turn and walk back inside.

The next morning at your father’s service, you forget all the joy of the previous night. Sorrow overcame your entire system as a mist of rain descended upon your group standing in your family cemetery. Dozens of strange faces pass you and offer you their condolences. You mindlessly shake hands with every one of them. Being the hostess she is, your mother rushes back to the house to prepare appetizers. Pretty soon it’s just you standing before your father’s grave. You, and the two Scamander brothers standing ten feet behind you, each of them diligently watching over you.

Each Scamander longed to take you in his arms, protecting you from all this sorrow and heartbreak. Newt watched you closely, an overwhelming sense of the need to shield you from this cruel world. His feet carried him slowly towards you, but Theseus beat him to it. Newt scowled at his brother, and bit the inside of his cheek until he drew blood. Theseus always got there first. He always got what he wanted.

Tears dropping into the wet grass, you felt a warm hand on your shoulder. Hastily sniffling and wiping away your tears, you glanced over your shoulder to see Theseus standing behind you. “Hey Thes,” you whisper quietly. Theseus walks so he is standing in front of you. Looking down at you, he gently wipes your tears away. “How are you doing?” The question he asks is just a formality. Managing a shrug, you say, “I’m fine.” Theseus’s deep blue eyes study you so intensely, you can’t meet his gaze. So you glance down at the ground, sucking in a sharp breath. Theseus bravely tilts your chin up towards him and replies, “No, you’re not. You don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to say anything, okay? Just let me take care of you.” Looking into that deep blue, your eyes pool with fresh tears, along with new feelings pooling in your chest. Because as much as you longed for Newt, it was Theseus who came to you in your time of need. Without a second thought, you collapse into his arms, crying hysterically. You whimper, “He’s just, he’s gone. My father’s gone and I never even got to say goodbye.” Theseus brushes a hand affectionately against your hair and murmurs in your ear, “I’m so sorry y/n. I’m so sorry.” You sob helplessly against his chest for what must have been at least 20 minutes. Finally you look up at him and croak, “Thank you Theseus.” Holding you close, he responds, “Of course. You’ve been through so much y/n. You deserve a break. Why don’t you come have a drink with me tonight?” You bite your lip and consider the suggestion. “I don’t know Thes, my mum, she needs me right now.” Theseus sighs, “Your mother can manage without you for a few hours. Trust me. You need this.” You give in, “Oh alright.” Theseus gives you a boyish grin and says, “Perfect. Meet me at the club at 8. See you then beautiful.” He gives you a quick peck on the cheek and departs.

Watching Theseus go, your eyes travel to Newt. He looks, you couldn’t put your finger on it. It was a mixture of anger and sorrow. You raise your eyebrows at him in question, but he avoids your gaze, something extremely unlike him. Striding up to him you ask, “Newt, what’s the matter?” Briefly meeting your eyes, he shrugs, “It’s nothing. I’m fine, really. I’ll see you back at the house.” Then he leaves. Your eyes grow wide as you watch him go, and you’re filled with even more sadness than before. Turning back to your father’s resting place, you fall to your knees before him. “Oh daddy what do I do?” you sob, wishing desperately that you could hear the sound advice your father used to give you. Continuing your one sided conversation, you cry, “I love him. I love Newt. But I don’t think he’ll ever see me as anything more than a friend. And now I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if I could ever stop loving him. But here’s Theseus who is oh so sweet and protective and seems to genuinely care for me. I’m lost.” You sit there in the wet grass for what must have been hours. And when the cold of the rain has finally crept into your bones, you decide to go home.

When you get there, Newt is nowhere to be found. Sighing, you ask your mother, “Mum, have you seen Newt?” She glances up at you briefly before returning to her chopping and saying, “No, I haven’t dear. Might want to check in the yard.” “Okay,” you nod. But when you bolt over to the window, Newt’s not outside either. Sighing, you return to your room and rifle through your wardrobe for something to wear. Your eyes come to rest upon a navy blue short beaded dress, with capped sleeves. The height of flapper fashion. Not something you would normally wear, but you decided to give it a chance anyway.

An hour and a half later you were ready to go. Your h/c hair was curled and pulled into a low bun at the nape of your neck. A loose strand of hair fell and framed your face. With simple eye makeup and red blood lips, you slipped on your black strappy heels and walked out of your bedroom. Your mother was asleep on the couch and you tucked her in fondly with a blanket. Satisfied that she was finally getting some rest, you left to go see Theseus.

One of the best jazz clubs in town, you fluttered through the door and searched for the eldest Scamander. You spied him standing near the bar and sauntered over to him. Tapping him on the back, you smile, “Hey Thes.” He turns around and his eyes nearly pop out of his head when he sees you. “I don’t think I’ve seen you wear a dress since we were ten,” Theseus gulps. You self consciously adjust your dress and hastily ask, “Is there something wrong with it?” Theseus chuckles, “Not at all! You look stunning y/n, really. The most beautiful girl in the room.” Blushing, you mutter, “Thanks.” Theseus turns back to the counter and hands you a glass of giggle water. Taking a deep sip, you relish the taste of the drink. The way it burns against your throat satisfies you, taking away some of the pain lingering from today.

You and Theseus stand at the bar for a while, talking about nothing and everything at once. This time you let yourself get lost in his ocean of deep blue eyes, relishing in the feeling. At the same time, you tried to bite back the part of your heart that desperately longed for Newt to be there too. Pulling you from your haze of thoughts, Theseus sweetly asks, “This is a great song. Would you care to dance beautiful?” Excitement bubbles in your chest as you respond softly, “I would love to.”

Theseus takes your hand in his and you gasp at how tiny your hand looks in his palm. Leading you to the dancefloor, he places a hand around your waist and the other hand intertwines with your fingers. Music lulls in your ears as Theseus twirls you joyfully around the room. Giggling happily, your heart soars and you smile widely. “I love to see that smile,” Theseus gushes. You blush in response. Theseus dances with you for nearly 10 songs before you get tired out. “Should we call it a night then?” he asks you. You nod. Taking your hand, Theseus takes you back to your house.

Arriving on the porch, you sigh in contentment and peer up at Theseus. You whisper softly into the night, “Thank you. You were right, I need this. I had a great time.” Theseus agrees, “It was a wonderful date.” Your face flames and you ask quietly, “It was a date?” Theseus awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, and clears his throat, “I mean I would like it to be. Is that alright with you?” Your voice cracks, “It’s alright. It’s just, I was kind of stuck on someone else. I’ll need to take things slow.” Theseus looks at you with sympathy and responds, “Of course beautiful.” Continuing on, you add, “I really did have a great time Thes. Thank you.” He replies, “I had a wonderful time as well. Goodnight beautiful.” He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your lips. It was sweet, but you noticed the lack of fire there. “Goodnight Theseus,” you respond quietly. Turning, you go back inside your house.

Stepping inside your dark bedroom, you shut the door quietly. “So did you have a good time?” Newt’s voice comes out of the darkness. You jump in fright, cursing loudly, “Merlin’s beard Newt you scared me! What are you doing here?” Reaching around for the light switch, you find it, and shed light on the room. Newt stands at the foot of your bed and stares in your direction, his eyes hungrily drinking you in. There was that familiar gaze full of sorrow. He asks again, “Did you have a good time?” You look at him puzzled, suddenly wondering why he was so interested. “Yes, I did. But Newt-” he cuts you off. He grimaces, “So I guess you and Theseus are seeing each other now?” He looks pained. “Newt why are you asking me this?” your voice rises in curiosity. Newt’s hand curls into a fist and he huffs, “No reason. Just making friendly conversation. With my friend.” You raise your eyebrows at him. “Is that why you were waiting in my bedroom for me to come back from drinks with your brother?” you ask. Newt’s voice rises defensively, “I just wanted to know how it went!” It was unlike Newt, to act this way. It was almost as if he was…. Jealous? You prod him further, “Newt why were you so upset at the grave earlier?” Newt struggles to form words. You look pleadingly at him, begging with your eyes for him to tell you what on earth is going on. His own eyes swam with emotion, and you could feel him teetering on the edge of a confession. “Newt?” your voice calls to him like a prayer. Then, he answers you.

“I was upset earlier because of the way Theseus was comforting you,” he bursts out. Your heart thumps wildly in your chesty as you continue, “Why?” Newt’s emotions spill over and he confesses teary eyed, “Because I wanted to comfort you that way alright! I wanted to be the one to hold you and wipe away your tears. You’re my best friend y/n, my closest companion. But I want more than that. I’ve always wanted more than that. The truth is is that I have loved you for a long time now.” Tears drip down your own cheeks as your heart stops, listening to this confessional. He continues, pained, “But then my brother had to go and ask you out. And now I missed my chance. I blew it. I’m sorry y/n.”

What feels like an eternity of silence passed between the two of you. Newt goes to leave, walking past you, but you stop him, grabbing his sleeve. You whisper barely audible, “Maybe you didn’t blow your chance Newt.” His head whips around to face you. “What did you say?” he searches your eyes desperately. You repeat yourself louder, “You didn’t miss your chance Newt. You didn’t.” His eyes widen and he chokes out, “I didn’t?” You shake your head and whimper, “I love you Newt. I always have.”

Heat fills the room as Newt closes the space between the two of you. He grabs you by the waist and passionately pulls you into him. His lips meet yours in a loving embrace fireworks flutter behind your closed eyes. Your hands wind their way through his cinnamon curls and you smile into his lips. Newt only pulls away when he’s run out of air. “Y/n I love you,” Newt breathes lightly into your face. “I love you too Newt,” you beam back at him. His forehead rests on your own and Newt holds you close to him, something he’d been longing to do since he was ten years old. You stay like that for awhile.

“If this trip home has taught me anything, it’s that life is short,” you whisper after some time. “Yes, that it is,” Newt agrees. “It took us nearly 20 years to get together Newt. But I can’t be apart from you. Not now, not ever,” you say decisively. Newt’s breath hitches in his throat, “Y/n what are you saying?” In that moment, hearing the hope in his voice, your decision was clear. Responding, you echo his heart’s desire, “Newt. I’m not going back to Australia. I’m staying here with you.” He smiles the widest smile you have ever seen and asks eagerly, “Is that truly what you want?” You nod brightly, “Of course it is. I can get traded to a team near here. I want to be with you my love.” He chokes on his emotion, “Darling that is music to my ears.”

The next day, you break the news to Theseus that you were with Newt. Of course, ever the dutiful older brother, Theseus graciously accepts this outcome and even says that he is happy for you. “You really mean that Thes?” you ask him, Newt trailing behind you. Theseus shuffles his feet on your porch and says, “Yes, I mean it. I’m not oblivious. I’ve always seen the way you two look at each other. I knew it was inevitable, but hell, a man can try can’t he?” You chuckle, “Thanks Theseus. Means a lot.” Newt adds, “Yes thank you brother. Truly.” Theseus nods and bids the two of you goodbye.

Sitting on the porch swing with your new love, you sigh in contentment and lean your head on his shoulder. “Happy darling?” he asks you. You respond, “The happiest my love. It’s just you and me. From now until forever.” He presses his lips to your forehead and tells you, “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.” You smile at his comment and sigh, “And you’re everything I’ve needed.” Glancing up at him, you plant a firm kiss to his lips and say, “Grow old with me Newt. My life’s only complete with you in it.” He answers, “I can imagine us sitting here, visiting your mom, with our babies. I want that life for us. I want to grow old with you.” His response makes your heart soar. “We’ll be together, for the rest of our days,” you grin at him. “The rest of our days,” he echoes your thoughts and his heart’s desires. You snuggle deeper into his side and he wraps an arm around your shoulder even tighter, relishing in the fact that you were finally together.

#theseus x reader #newt Scamander x reader #theseus imagine #newt scamander imagine #fbawtft #fbcog #theseus scamander #newt scamander

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lonelypond · 4 years

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Tiger By The Tail, Chapter 5

NicoMaki, NozoEli, Love Live, 2K, 5/?

Maki and Honoka recover from filming, Eli and Nozomi go out to dinner, and Nico and Rin stay in.

Chapter 5

The video session had been manic. They always were. Honoka was now sprawled out on the music room couch, candy red uniform jacket open, tank top plastered to her torso with sweat, Maki was slumped against the wall, chugging water, jacket off, sleeves rolled up. Walnut parts were scattered everywhere, Honoka reached down, grabbed a handful, and tossed the shells in Maki’s direction.

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” Maki raised her mug in salute.

“That was like 10 minutes.” Honoka groaned.

“You got walnut shells in my piano.”

Honoka sat up, her arms wide and pounding up and down, “That part in the middle, that was so cool, you were like” more gesturing, “And I was” Honoka made cracking nuts movements, “and they were flying everywhere, cracking in half right when you hit the keys…that was the Russian Dance, right? Eli’s gonna love it.”

“I don’t think so.” Maki closed her eyes, head back against the wall.

“Why not, it was great.” Honoka sounded peeved.

“Eli’s a trained classical ballerina, Honoka, cracking walnuts to Tchaikovsky’s masterpiece is probably not going to crack her top 10 versions.”

“You’re wrong.”

Maki sighed. “We have to clean up now.”

Honoka fake yawned and stretched her arms wide, “But I’m tired now, Maki. And I want to show Eli the video. Think she’s done with her date?”

Maki raised an eyebrow. She would not have expected Eli, who lived alone, to return here, after her date, to this house full of people who might get in the way of any after date activities. “Eli might want some privacy. I’m sure Kotori would love to see the video.”

“Oh yeah, we looked amazing.” Honoka jumped up and grabbed the phone off its stand, “I’ll send it to her.”

They had looked amazing, Maki’s snowy tuxedo and Honoka’s vivid splash of seasonal red, Honoka’s uniform trousers out of the same fabric as Maki’s. The faux bearskin hat was now ludicrously off balance on the edge of Maki’s piano. At some point, Honoka had taken it off and started tossing walnut meats in it, which is how they got into the piano.

Maki flexed her fingers. She’d spent most of the day practicing for both tonight and the more traditional program Eli had put together. Finger fatigue and no patience for picking walnut carcasses out of her piano so what she needed now was a snack. “Cookies. We need cookies.”

Honoka bounced to her feet, “We do.”

Maki grabbed the hat, shook out walnut parts, and put it on, tilting it back, decisively giddy as she remembered a plate of snickerdoodles. “We’ll clean up tomorrow.”

“YES!” Honoka fist pumped, “You’re the best, Maki. I’ll be down here right after breakfast with a broom.”

Maki tried frowning, but could barely dent the energy that made her want to tap dance across the floor, “You’d better. It’s bad enough that you invi…”

“Maki.” Honoka sounded serious.

“What?”

“You said you would stop blaming me.”

“No, I agreed to stop mentioning that I was blaming you.”

“Isn’t that the same?”

“No.” Maki tossed the hat on the couch, giddy bubble burst, “If Rin ate all the cookies, you’re making more.”

“There’s some in the freezer.”

“Good.”

###

Eli opened the door for Nozomi, who had a dark gray dress with a slightly darker pattern scattered over it. Eli had opted for a dark green turtleneck tucked into light gray trousers.

“This is a very cute little place.” Nozomi glanced around the small room, shifting her shawl.

Eli waved at the bartender, who smiled back. “Yeah, it’s very cozy. I recommend it to a lot of my clients.”

They slid into a circular back booth. “Do you bring them here yourself?”

Eli shook her head, “No. After a long day of hiking or skiing, they’re usually tired of my jokes. I only have 5.”

Nozomi brushed Eli’s arm as she took off her shawl, staying close, “I’m sure that’s not true. You seem charm.”

Eli laughed, “I am charmed. By you.”

Nozomi tilted her head and her next comment was in Japanese, “Perhaps I meant you are charming. Do verb tense hints come with dinner? And is there a quiz with a prize for excellence? I am only motivated by reward.”

Eli’s grin broadened and she continued the conversation at Nozomi’s speed, “My apologies, Nozomi-san. I could not resist the word play. And you can have any reward you want.”

Nozomi arched an eyebrow, smiling at the waitress but waving away the menu, “That is a very generous offer, Eli. Aren’t you worried about what I might demand?”

Eli shrugged, opening a menu and placing it between them, “No. I might be intrigued.”

“Possibly you should be worried.” Nozomi’s hand brushed Eli’s.

Nozomi sensed nervousness as the seemingly bold Eli concentrated on the menu, speaking without making eye contact, “You seem like a holiday gift in a lonely winter so I just intend to be grateful for the brightness.”

Nozomi smiled. “And what does the local tour guide recommend?”

“Seafood, always seafood.” Eli paused, “There are vegan and vegetarian options though…”

Nozomi glanced at the menu, then caught Eli’s eye. “Local specialties are fine. Everything I’ve seen looks tasty.”

A blush. Nozomi was starting to feel confident. Eli might be adpt at teaching skiing to groups, but perhaps Nozomi could provide private tutoring on other sports after dessert.

###

Nico was restless. Her siblings were sleeping in Japan so no video chatting with them. There was nothing in this rustic kitchen that Nico wanted to eat or cook. This was not Nico’s house so she was not going to clean. And she had already added Nico Ni songs to all of Maki’s playlists, for which she would obviously be thanked for once Maki realized how much they had been improved. So Nico was watching Terrace House because at least it felt a little like home.

Rin came bounding through the kitchen, talking as she chewed. “Hey, Nico, these cookies are great!”

Nico shook her head and pulled the blanket Maki had given her closer.

“What you watching?” Rin jumped over the back of the couch.

“Terrace House.”

“Nah, Nico. We’re in America. Watch American.” Rin grabbed the remote and slid next to Nico. “There’s some show with truckers or ice fishers or something.”

“Nico is getting tips from the models.” Nico reclaimed the remote.

“Hey, good idea. Is this an episode with photo shoots or something?”

Nico shrugged, “Nico doesn’t know.” Then Nico pointed the remote at Rin. “When are we starting the shoot tomorrow? No one told Nico the schedule.”

“We’re not!” Rin threw a pillow in the air, “It’s amazing. Umi actually said I can sleep in. She texted me.” Rin showed Nico her phone.

“Why do you have a picture with that fan person as your wallpaper?”

“Because Kayo-chin’s the cutest.” Rin threw herself back against the arm of the couch, hugging the pillow and grinning.

“Kayo-chin?”

Rin shrugged, “Cute nickname for the cutest girl.”

“Where is she?” Nico had spent all of dinner answering very detailed questions and then Rin had dragged the fan girl upstairs to show the girl the bunk bed she was going to get. Nozomi had decided to move into Umi’s room and Umi, ever gallant, had agreed not to strand a compatriot in a lonely hotel.

“Kayo-chin wanted to take a bath and a nap.” Rin yawned and leaned back against the pillow, “Ayase-san wore her out. They ice skated all afternoon. You’d be worn out too.”

“Nico is in excellent shape.”

“Cold makes it harder.” Rin considered tossing the pillow but Nico’s glare deflected the impulse.

Nico didn’t reply, her attention returning to the three women having a chat in the girls’ bedroom. One of the women was upset by how a male resident was treating her and getting support in her distress. Nico decided the two women would have been better off with each other, but nobody decided to be gay or bi. Some poor suckers actually seem to like being het. Nico snorted. Why in the world wouldn’t you want legs and curves and fire and someone who looked pretty and felt soft and sweet bright breathy whisperings ....Nico shook her head. She needed urban stimulation. Or a job to do. Too much quiet and daydreaming about improbable…A door slam and clamoring voices interrupted her thoughts.

“Hey, Maki, race you to the cookies.”

“Honoka, it is literally 5 feet away.”

“Ha! I won.” A pause and some opening and closing noises, then grief…”The cookies are gone.”

Rin leaned over the back of the couch and shouted, “I ate them.”

Another opening noise and then Honoka, sounding apologetic, “Sorry, Maki, there’s none in the freezer either. I can make some from scratch.”

“That’s all right,” Maki came into the room, jacket over her arm, shirt half unbuttoned and mostly untucked, chunky gray wool socks with a red toe cap looking silly with her creamy white tuxedo pants. Seeing Nico and Rin on the couch, she nodded a greeting and curled herself into an armchair by the fire, box of frosted wheat cereal in hand, “Cereal will do. What’re you watching?”

“Terrace House.” Rin grumped, “I told Nico we should watch American.”

Maki considered Nico, and then crunched a handful of cereal, “This is okay. The location is really pretty in this season. Makes me want to snowboard. And Tsubasa’s dad’s restaurant is great.”

Nico clucked her tongue and pulled her phone out, typing rapidly.

“Nico is always on social media.” Rin stated proudly, “Make sure you follow her. She can get you a lot of TWIG fans. Do you have an account for this place?”

“No.” Maki had one personal, very private TWIG account and it was locked.

Honoka bounced into the rocking chair with a bag of chips. “That’s a great idea. What’ll we call it? Cabin in The Woods?”

“That was a horror movie.” Maki crunched another handful of cereal.

Nico snorted, seemingly amused. Maki frowned.

Nico pointed at Maki, “Number.”

“What?”

“Your number.” Nico pointed to her phone.

“You are not posting my number on social media.”

Nico rolled her eyes, “No. Send list. Nico needs... “ Nico’s English ran dry and she waved in the direction of the kitchen, “Eats.”

“There’s ‘eats’.” Maki countered.

“I did a grocery store run yesterday. Everything’s stocked.” Honoka was rocking back and forth.

“No.” Nico was insistent.

Maki got up, leaned over Nico, who avoided staring down Maki’s cleavage by turning aside as the redhead reached for Nico’s phone, “Let me see….miso, bonito flakes, shoyu, sesame seeds, wakame…” Maki frowned.

“Proper breakfast.” Nico stated.

“I like cereal.” Maki insisted.

“Nico’s cooking is for...” a frown, Nico grabbed her phone back and typed quickly, then pronounced slowly, “appreciative tongue.”

“You mean palette.” Maki corrected automatically.

“Like painting?”

“No, Honoka.” Maki stared at the unyielding Nico for a minute, then slid back to her chair and cereal crunching, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Arigato.” Nico bowed her head.

“Why do they even bother with him?” Maki grumbled, as she watched the on screen shenanigans.

“Baka.” Nico decided.

“Truth.” Maki offered Rin the cereal box, Rin grabbed a handful, Nico looked horrified.

“Baka.”

“You already said that.” Maki pointed out.

“Nico meant you.”

“Huh?” Maki grunted.

“Use bowls.” Nico ordered.

“Why?” Rin and Maki echoed.

“Germs?”

“I washed my hands.” Rin defended.

“It’s my food.”

Nico shoved Rin. “You’re both worse than Cotaro.”

“Who’s Cotaro?” Maki asked.

“My little brother.”

Maki hugged the cereal box.

“He’s not here, taking your...feed.”

“Feed is for animals.” Maki stated.

“Nico knows.”

Maki snarled, grabbed another handful and crunched loudly. Nico shook her head and turned back to the screen leaving Maki to glare. Terrace House; they had a system. How did they get random housemates to get along? And sometimes even go out on cute dates. Winter was a great season for cute dates. The ice skating date this season had been super adorable. But what Maki got instead of cute dates was people harassing her food choices. She frowned at Nico, who caught the expression, smirked and stuck out her tongue. Terrace House wasn’t like this, Maki thought. Those people almost made sense. Nico made none.

A/N: I hope everyone is staying safe.

#NicoMaki #NozoEli #Nishikino Maki #Yazawa Nico #Tojo Nozomi #Ayase Eli #Hoshizora Rin #Kosaka Honoka #Tiger By The Tail #Holiday #fanfic #Love Live #Love Live School Idol Project

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