#I just think that Freddie is so sweet and she cares so much about Grace and is so in love that being stabbed to death was an easier choice | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

writesowhatnext · 4 years

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everybody has those days // fred weasley

Summary: A drunken night at Harry and Ginny’s wedding leads to a slightly, very awkward situation with the reader and the bride’s elder brother

Request: nope

A/N: basically I read sunkissed by @ickle-ronniekins and I became, as the kids say, thirsty also as I was doing the warnings I realised that I essentially described uni so go figure!!! i don’t know why but this was so difficult to write and I’m like wow am I just losing the ability to form sentences

Reader: female

Warnings: suggestive themes, hangover, drinking, nudity, hickeys, innuendo, swearing,

A low sound escaped your lips as you shuffled, frowning at the strange weight over your waist. Peeling your eyes open, you winced as rays of bright sunlight leaked through the open curtains. So, you figured, today was almost certainly not going to be a very productive one. You huffed and then blinked slowly, adjusting to the light and letting your eyes focus, a decision you definitely regretted as a familiar face came into view.

Now, you’d recognise Fred Weasley’s face anywhere. Not only was he your best friend’s brother, but he was also half of your bosses and a man you’d been regrettably attracted to for almost seven years. So, as you looked at the slope of his nose and the freckles sprinkled across his cheeks and his brassy red hair, you knew that you had made a decision somewhere along the way the night before with very hefty repercussions. And so, as all rational and mature people do in such a situation, you decided to handle it with a certain level of grace and decorum.

“Oh, fuck.”

You hauled yourself from the bed, your head screaming at the immediate whiplash from your sharp exit. The room spun around you and your knuckles look fit to burst as you clutched at the sheets in your hands, pulling them to your chest. Whether it was your abrupt profanity or the vicious reorganisation of his bedsheets, Fred let out a deep, gruff exclamation and tumbled backwards off the other side of the bed.

For a moment, you were both silent, except for the panting noises of your combined heavy breathing, and you found yourself staring very intently at Fred’s confused expression, trying desperately to remember the night before. Why couldn’t you sleep with and forget someone you hadn’t been pining for years for? Wouldn’t that have been more fun?

“What the bloody hell did you-“ he stopped himself as he looked at you wrapped up in his bedsheets, the skin of your neck and collarbones mottled with dark purplish bruises that he was sure he could almost still taste on his tongue. “Oh.”

He stood up with great difficulty, rubbing his head with his hand, sending his hair into ruffled disarray. You didn’t exactly mean to look down and you also didn’t mean to let out a high-pitched screech at the sight of his manhood.

“You’re naked!”

You looked away quickly, heat flooding your cheeks as he grabbed a pillow, the one you’d just been lying on, and placed it over his junk.

“You’re naked, too!”

Though you hadn’t intended to, his indignant tone made you look at him, and you caught what was left of an embarrassed flush extending from his face, all the way down his neck. You clenched your jaw at the sight.

“Please don’t think about me naked,” you said, squeezing your eyes shut as the throbbing in your forehead returned.

“Sorry, love,” he said. A lopsided grin pulling at his lips despite the edge to his voice, his inner panic rather obvious beneath the surface. “But I think that ship’s already-“

“Fred!” you squeaked, your eyes growing wide. He stayed silent, but his smile didn’t budge, enjoying your flustered expression far too much. “Do you remember what happened?”

You looked at him then, properly this time. He was handsome, but you always knew that, what with his strong jawline and the long slant of his neck. The skin all over his collar and chest was pale and freckled and covered in dark, splotchy hickeys, you realised with a strange warmth flooding your system. You swallowed against the tightness in your throat as your eyes trailed down, taking silent note of the lean muscles of his arms and his toned stomach.

“No, but if the way you’re looking me up and down right now is anything to go by, I think I can take a guess how it started.”

“What- No- You… Fred, you are so irritating,” you spluttered, annoyed that he could get you so riled up so easily. He shot you a lazy grin, the same one you’d seen almost every day since Ginny introduced the two of you. From the day you met, you and Fred had a habit of bickering constantly about nothing and everything all at the same time and you were sure that had you not been a close family friend, you’d have been fired years ago. Thinking of the family for the first time, your face soured as you dreaded to think what their reaction would be if they found out about how you spent your night. They’d probably hate you.

“You’re not too bad yourself, love.”

You shot him a dry look before remembering where you were. “I have to leave. Like right now.”

You didn’t wait for him to reply, too busy searching the ground for your clothes, heat searing under your skin at the haphazard display of them on the floor.

“Hey, wait, hold on,” Fred said, reaching out to you with one arm, holding the pillow with the other. You bit your lip, forcing yourself to focus.

“What?”

“Shouldn’t we…” he voice wavered slightly, a first for Fred. “Shouldn’t we talk about this?”

“This-“ you said, pointing between you and him, your underwear flying around in your grip. “Was a mistake.”

You noticed the way his eyes lingered on your hand and huffed, reaching down the get the rest of your clothes, searching for your dignity whilst you were down there. He probably only wanted a shag and whilst that would be totally fine for someone else, you just couldn’t do that. Not with your history. Not with your feelings.

“But-“

You didn’t give him the chance to speak as you shot up sharply.

“Turn around then!”

His brown eyes turned dry as he tilted his head, a silent sarcastic question on his lips. Your frown deepened and he sighed, turning around dutifully. You rushed to put your clothes from the night before on, struggling to keep your balance, especially when your eyes stalled on his bare bum.

“You better be looking at my arse,” he said, his signature smirk loud in his voice. You couldn’t even try to respond, returning to your dressing with new-found haste.

That had been a week and a half ago and you were still avoiding a proper conversation with him. You’d talk, of course, you worked together, you had to, but it was always just courtesy, small talk, and then that deafening silence Fred hated so much. He missed the easy banter you had and more than anything, he missed you. It all just felt so wrong and he couldn’t help but feel that he’d messed everything up somehow. And so, if you asked him, that’s why he was stood there, hiding behind boxes of sweets stacked neatly on a row of shelves and watching you refill the massive tub of love potions. He felt like a creep, but he hadn’t formed the right sentences or backbone required to talk to you yet. And so, as you emptied the box in your hand and made to fetch another from the backroom, he went to follow you, stopped only by a familiar waistcoat, or rather the man wearing it.

“You alright there, Fred?” George asked, the smile in his voice more than evident as he looked down at his crouching brother.

“Just peachy, cheers, George.”

“So, you’re just stalking Y/N for fun then, yeah?”

Fred glared up at his brother, sighing and standing up under his expectant stare.

“What’s going on with you two?”

“Nothing,” Fred said far too quickly. He cursed his defensiveness and groaned. Instinctively, he knew you wouldn’t have told anyone; you said it was a mistake, he reminded himself, earning a familiar sinking feeling at the memory. And so, he’d avoided mentioning it to anyone either, even George, who was now staring at him with a very suspicious scowl.

“Fine,” Fred huffed, rubbing his face with his hands. “At Ginny’s wedding we uh- we-“

Well, he didn’t really remember, did he? He knew on a base level what must’ve happened, but you’d both been so pissed and-

“You shagged.”

“How the bloody hell do you know that?”

George’s laughter only served to further Fred’s indignance. “You two disappeared at midnight, fawning over each other like lovesick teenagers… it doesn’t take a lot to connect those dots, Freddie.”

Fred’s expression soured. “So, everybody knows, then.”

“Afraid so. Mum’s chuffed, obviously, thinks it means you’ll finally get together. With you pair, it was inevitable, though. Especially with that industrial-strength Romanian firewhiskey Charlie smuggled in.”

Fred groaned at the memory, gripped the shelf in front of him so hard his knuckles turned white.

“It’s ruined everything, George. She doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

George laughed again.

“What’s so bloody funny?”

“You’ve both been mad for each other since fourth year and you think a quick screw is gonna change that? We’ve been placing bets on you for years.”

“You what?”

“You’re so bloody oblivious, the pair of you, honestly.”

“I don’t-“ Fred huffed, immediately dismissing the idea that you would fancy him in any way. There was no chance. “I don’t understand.”

George, helpful as ever, just shook his head, chuckling as Fred rested his forehead on his hands. Neither of them spoke for a moment, but when someone cleared their throat next to him, he sighed.

“George, I’m-“

He stopped short when he saw you, with your arms cross and eyebrows raised. You were clearly unhappy with him. It was hard for him to care though when his words caught in his throat at the sight of you.

“You’re not George.”

“Why are you spying on me?”

“I’m not-“

“Fred.”

“I am Fred, actually.”

Your vaguely threatening expression made him rethink his approach.

“I’m not spying on you,” he insisted, throwing his hands up. “I’m just watching… closely.”

You rolled your eyes. As you looked at him properly for the first time since the incident, a strange feeling stirred in your chest. He was the same Fred he had been before; the same handsome features and the same five-steps-ahead ingenuity behind his eyes, but somehow it was all different. A very bad different. You sighed, turning to go back to your restocking when his hand caught your wrist. You frowned, your eyes trailing from his hand to his face, studying his almost surprised expression.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” he said, his eyes oddly sincere. You swallowed. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes-“

“I’ll say-“

“Can you not just listen to me?”

“Not when you’re acting so strange!”

“I’m acting strange? You’re the one that’s barely said a bloody word to me since we-“

“Fred!”

“Oh, give off,” he huffed, finally letting go of your arm. “George already knows.”

“You told him?”

“The whole family knows! Apparently, love, we aren’t as subtle as we think.”

You groaned, leaning back against the cash register and sliding down it until you hit the floor, rocking your head back against the wood.

“Is it really that bad?” he asked, pausing a moment before sitting next to you, your shoulders almost touching. You rubbed your eyes with your hands, thinking about Ginny’s reaction when she found out. It was a surprise she didn’t hate you already.

“It’s not the same for you, Fred. This is your family, it’s fine for you. But I’m just this girl that’s friends with your sister and probably should’ve been fired ages ago and they probably think I’m a right slag-“

He barked a laugh, his head tipping back and smacking against the register loudly. Had you not have found his consequent pout annoyingly adorable; you probably would’ve been able to keep your frustrated tone without a smile tugging at your lips.

“What is so funny about that?”

“Well, I mean, you don’t need to be worried about that, do you? You’ve always been a slag,” he said, laughing at your offended expression as you smacked his arm, unable to contain your own laughter.

“You’re such a cheeky git.”

“Oh, come on, Y/N, you were never just some girl. You’ve been a part of this family since you were fourteen.”

You didn’t say anything at that, not even when you felt his eyes carefully inspecting your side profile.

“And it wasn’t a mistake for me,” he said, softer this time. “It’s actually been a very long time coming.”

You sighed, drawing your knees up to your chest and biting your lip.

“It wasn’t for me either.”

It wasn’t until his knee hit against yours that you mustered up the courage to look at him, floored slightly by the sheer amount of emotion in his eyes.

“So, what now?” you whispered, raising an eyebrow. It felt foreign to be so vulnerable with Fred, but you found that you didn’t hate it as much as you thought you would.

“Well,” he said, pulling back his sleeve to look at the time. “We’ve got about twenty minutes till we open and an empty cupboard about,” he squinted. “Thirty feet away.”

You wanted to be mad at him; that was always your go-to emotion with Fred, but as you watched him grin with his bright eyes and his tongue between his teeth, all you felt was a familiar fondness for this stupid, obnoxious, annoying man. And even as you stood up and let him pull you to the broom closet, you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad about that either.

harry potter tag list:

@creator-appreciator

@decadentwastelandtrash

@loveisblindness

@xinyourdreamsx

@brainlesspasta

@hariosborn

@staringmoony

@rexorangecouny

@ickle-ronniekins

@harrysweasleys

@alittletoomanyobsessions

#fred weasley #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley x reader #writing #imagine #Harry Potter imagine #harry potter

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citydreamgrls · 3 years

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they were roommates - part four

a weasley twins x fem!reader fic

summary: she had nowhere to go, fleeing home to pursue something along the lines of freedom, so being welcomed into the entrepreneurial twins life was a whole world of new experiences waiting to happen.

an: thank you for all the lovely messages i’ve been getting lately, everyone has been overwhelmingly sweet it’s great, love u always <333

words: 4,456

“Are you sure you’ll be okay here?” George asked the girl, who was taking a well-deserved rest on the sofa with a magazine propped up on her knees.

“Yes, you don’t need to worry. I’ll let you know if anything happens.” She chuckled, seeing how nervous they were about leaving her, even if it was just for one evening.

“Do you really want to be left all alone?” Fred seemed concerned, “With the ghosts?” He teased.

“Stop it freddie,” She groaned, knowing better than to believe him, but fully aware that every noise would spook her now. “Now, go. Both of you,” She swotted the man’s shoulder as George joined him in the living room. “And say hi to Ginny for me, tell her I miss her.”

“God, anyone would think you like her more than us!” They huffed, taking their place in the fireplace with handfuls of floo powder.

“Well-” She started, seeing the men’s faces drop in unison. “I’m kidding, I could never.” The girl grinned, waving goodbye as they announced their family home and left for the night.

Suddenly the loft felt very empty, and spooky. Maybe Fred was telling the truth about the ghosts?

The twins landed in their mother’s fireplace, dusting off their smart jackets with a sniffle. It always was a hassle to use the floo line home, that damn chimney was blocked up with all sorts that clogged their noses.

“Darlings!” Mrs Weasley called out, dragging them into a room and yet another hurried hug as she had no time to spare with dinner ready in only a few minutes.

“Sorry we’re a bit late.” Fred apologised, smacking Ron on the back of the head lightly as he walked past.

“Wanker,” His little brother mumbled, ignoring them.

“That’s okay, as long as you’re here.” Molly replied, using her wand to direct a multiple of bowls onto the table before them.

Ginny sat in between Harry and Hermione, who had made it a habit of theirs to join in on family dinners at the Weasley’s. Not that anyone ever complained, the more the merrier eh?

“Y/n says she misses you,” George whispered to his sister, not wanting the bombardment of questions about their houseguest until a little bit later.

“Tell her I’ll have a day off soon, hermione and I will swing by and we can go shopping or something.”

“You’ve told Hermione about her?” Fred chimed in, obviously a bit worried.

“Well of course I have, she can’t wait to meet her.” She gushed, excited to share her new friend with her oldest friend.

“Oh great well that means Ron will-”

“So... who’s y/n?” Their youngest brother asked from beside the twins, wide eyed with innocent curiosity, catching everyone in the room’s attention.

Mrs Weasley whipped her head around.

“A girl? Have one of you got a girlfriend, why didn’t you tell me?” She started up on her assumptions, knowing that her sons were awful at telling her about their lives.

“Thanks a lot, idiot.” The twins groaned at Ron, who seemed just as confused as ever.

“Well, which one of you?” Molly continued, taking her seat at the other end of the table to Mr Weasley, who beamed silently. Wanting to hear the gossip as much as his wife did.

“Y/n isn’t a girlfriend mum, she’s staying with us for a while.” George took charge, keeping a straight face as he explained the facts to the rest of the family.

“What do you mean staying with you, where did you find her.”

“She’s not a stray dog mum!” Ginny laughed, taking a spoonful of roast potatoes and lumping them onto her plate.

“She used to work with Neville and his wife Hannah, you remember her right?” Fred joined in.

“Oh yes, lovely lady, beautiful hair!”

“Well, they couldn’t afford to keep her on. And she was living there until she could find somewhere more permanent to live,”

“What about her parents, surely they wouldn’t leave her homeless?” Molly asked, pouring herself a much-deserved glass of wine before passing the bottle around.

“Well, a-about that.” George started, but he seemed unsure on how to explain it to his family without giving out the girl’s private information.

“All we know is that she ran away from home because she needed to.”

“And you trust that!” Ron scoffed, earning a kick from Ginny and a glare from Hermione.

“She’s lovely, and yes she can be trusted- how else would she have gotten a job with neville if not?” Their sister came to her defense, shutting the youngest brother up with one breath.

“Thanks Gin,” George whispered.

“Well, I think that’s a lovely thing you’ve done boys.” Molly chirped up, “I’m proud of you both for being so charitable.”

“Yes, very good.” Mr Weasley mumbled, urged on by his wife’s awaiting gaze. “Just be careful, she is a stranger after all.”

“I think it’s y/n who should be careful around these two.” Ron chuckled, earning a harsh kick from his fiance under the table.

The family chatted all the way through dinner, telling stories of their work and their friends until all the food was gone and Harry helped Molly to clear up while the rest settled in the living room, next to a roaring fire.

“Your mother has been begging him to visit for weeks now, but he’s been tied up at the bank with yet another break in.” Arthur explained to his kids, telling them about Bill’s recent absence.

“Have they not updated their wards? Gringotts is the hardest to get into, it doesn’t make sense?” Hermione frowned, shaking her head.

“Luckily nothing was stolen, I think whoever did it got scared off before they made it to the vaults.”

“That’s odd, if anything vaults are easier to break into.” Ron was just as confused as his counterpart.

“Well yes, you lot would know wouldn’t you.” fred teased, squeezing Harry’s shoulder who sat by the fire in front of him.

“We could do a better job.” The boy with glasses chuckled.

“Just be careful, if these thieves are in the alley then there’s a chance they could target the shops next.” Mr Weasley warned them, knowing their business was known to be the one doing the best in diagon alley.

The twins nodded in response, sharing a small worry for the girl they had left behind in the loft. Fred thought about bringing it up to his brother, but decided against it the second everyone’s conversation topic changed.

“We won’t stay too long then.” George whispered to him, assuring him that he too was concerned about leaving y/n alone with the risk of someone breaking in. But even as the family laughed over stories, old and new, Fred couldn’t help but grow restless.

The longer they were there, comfortable and happy, the longer the girl was alone and vulnerable. He knew if he mentioned it again that George would grow suspicious of his feelings for the girl, whom he blatantly presumed could defend herself by the way he accepted yet another drink from his father.

If he hadn’t been such a wimp about it, he could have just put George in his place and been open about the way he liked the girl. But now he had to keep quiet, for his own sanity.

Another hour or so later the twins finally said their goodbyes, promising their mother that y/n would come along with them next week so everyone could meet her, and left the burrow to return to the loft where y/n had already fallen asleep on the sofa.

George chuckled, creeping over to her while Fred was distracted by the sight of her face yet again and picked her up into his arms.

“I’ll take her downstairs, Freddie, can you turn all the lights off up here?” He asked, letting the girl fall into his chest.

Fred hated how perfect they looked together, how George hadn’t even hesitated to hold her himself, how she slotted into his arms so simply. He hated that all of this bothered him, that he was pitting himself against his double, who hadn’t even shown any signs of wanting her.

Still he watched them leave, disappear down the steps and into the darkness. He considered waiting, with the hope that he could listen in on any conversation but realised that might be a bit much and sloped away to his bedroom, mumbling a quick “nox” as he went.

The more days that passed, the easier y/n fitted into the twins’ day to day life. She was a saint in the shop, and loyal customers got to know her and like just as quickly as the two men had done so.

Her little room was a godsend on her back, but in the evenings she stayed up in the loft with them, very rarely wanting time alone unless she was particularly exhausted. Which only made things harder for Fred, who seemed to grow more and more jealous around the girl.

He hadn’t realised how bad it had gotten, however, until Bill graced them all with his presence one afternoon while they were shutting up the shop. He had, of course, heard news of their guest from Ron and decided to find out all he could for himself while he wasn’t busy.

“She’s not here right now, we just sent her to the shop for dinner,” Fred told him, cashing up the till with a concentrated look. His older brother leant on the counter, still dressed in his fancy bank suit, having come straight from work.

“Not sure what she’s cooking, no doubt it’ll be good though,” George chuckled, stacking more things onto the shelves nearby.

“Apparently Ginny likes her, is that true?” He asked them, to which they both nodded. “Wow, she must be great then- never met anyone else with better character jugement, well except myself of course.”

Fred rolled his eyes at Bill, always one to be humble.

“She’s pretty great.” He assured, ignoring George’s weird look.

“Shame I missed her, guess I’ll have to find out for myself at dinner on friday.”

“You’re coming to the burrow?” George laughed, amazed that he finally had time.

“Yeah well, we haven’t had much progress with these break ins so there’s no point trying to force it. The aurors have taken over as it is, we’ve done all we can.”

“Which reminds me, I need to update our wards Georgie.”

“Again, I only did it a couple days ago!”

“No point taking chances, what dad said was right- they could easily target other businesses next.” Fred huffed, his brother accepting defeat.

Their attention was caught by the sound of the front door tinkling open, a jingle of keys telling them that y/n was finally back.

“Here she is!” Bill announced, greeting her with a charming smile and confident tone. The girl seemed surprised, her smile awkward and a little confused.

“This is our big brother, Bill.” Fred explained, offering to take the heavy bags from her. She smiled, making sure to lock eyes with him as he stepped back again.

“Hello Bill, it’s lovely to meet you.” Now she was more relaxed, her shoulders dropping as he spoke to her and asked her plenty of questions about herself, all the while leaning suavely against the counter.

Fred wanted to go over and drag her away, tell her that bill was way too old for her. But all he could do was stand and watch as she giggled away at every other comment he made, her eyes scanning him all the time that he was there.

“I better take this all upstairs-” She reached for the bags that were in his hand, but he stepped up onto the stairs.

“N-no it’s alright, I’ll go.” At least he wouldn’t have to hide his anger around them much longer.

Only a couple minutes later she joined him in the loft, her cheeks rosy and her eyes sparkly as she smiled at him in the kitchen.

“You okay?” Fred asked her.

“Yeah, George is saying goodbye to your brother. I said I’d come help.” She grinned, setting up a chopping board right beside him.

“You didn’t have to.” He nudged her shoulder playfully, making her giggle, the same way Bill had done.

“I wanted to, silly, plus I feel like I barely saw you all day- it was weird.”

Maybe liking her wasn’t off the cards after all, she wanted to be with him, she felt weird when she didn’t see him. Hell, she even left big-shot Bill downstairs just to be in the same room as him. George could have been wrong, she could want him back after all.

“Do you mind if I take a quick shower?” She asked the taller man beside her, looking up with those hopeful eyes.

“Yeah sure,” “I’ll be back in ten to help, okay?” “Don’t fall!” He called out as she rushed off, hearing a faint giggle as the bathroom door shut. Fred smiled to himself, liking how much more comfortable they were getting around one another.

“Need help?” George asked, poking his head round the kitchen door.

“Can do, y/n’s just showering.” He directed his twin to the vegetables that needed peeling.

“By the way, Bill was asking about her-” His stomach tensed. “He wants to ask her out, I told him it’s fine… you know since you said you were just drunk when you told me those things.”

Fred’s heart stopped. Of course, just as things showed the smallest sign of getting better his hope was crushed by the weight of one sentence. He nodded, trying to pay as little attention to what nonsense George spewed out as they cooked, but he couldn’t help hearing how Bill had been taken in by the girl’s beauty.

The man wanted to yell out, he wanted to snap and explain that he’d liked her first. It all seemed so childish, he’d been jealous of one brother and now another one had swooped right in and charmed her. There was no way she would deny him, either, he’d seen her blush.

All through dinner, George asked the girl what she thought of their older brother, most likely at Bill’s request. But it made Fred feel sick, to see her so excited to talk about him, all that he could do was stay silent and eat his food. Not that either of the others noticed, too enthralled in their riveting conversation.

George was as bad as his mother for gossiping, together with y/n’s childlike excitement, he decided he couldn’t take much more and quietly dismissed himself so he could run off to his room and let out the breath he’d been holding onto all evening.

This was going to be harder to get over.

That Friday night, the three of them apparated to the burrow, wanting to show the girl a different way to travel as she had never been taught how to do it when she lived at home. The moon was bright out that night, and shone done over the field as they landed, both men having to keep her stable as she giggled.

“That was fun!” She squealed, jumping up and down and looking around, amazed that she had never experienced such a exhilarating thing before.

“I gotta be honest, I was expecting you to vomit.”

“We both were,”

“It’s practically tradition at this point.”

“Maybe on the way back, after dinner.” The girl teased, stomping her boots over the long grass that led towards the house.

She had found her nicest pair of big blue jeans and used some of the little money she had on her to buy a new top when Ginny had taken her out with Hermione. It was white, with thin lace sleeves and a corset waist, which had reminded her of the dresses her mother used to wear whenever her father took her out for a special occasion. Before they grew apart, of course.

Fred had gulped when he’d seen her wearing it, presuming that she’d been swayed by Hermione’s elegant style over Ginny’s punk-princess dresses. And while he loved seeing her wearing clothes that made her look like an angel, as she did that evening, everything the girl wore seemed to make him want her more and more.

“Y/n!” His little sister cried out from the front door, having spotted them from the front window, making the girl run even faster to greet her. They flew into each other’s arms like best friends, they most likely were that close by now, given both of the girl’s addictive personalities.

All of them were quickly ushered inside, where Ron and Harry awkwardly stared at her while she talked with their fiances. George nudged their shoulders.

“You guys look like creeps, have you really forgotten how to talk to girls other than those two.” He scoffed.

“Oh, we’re just worried.” Harry explained, looking as white as a sheet.

“About y/n?” Fred sneered, “She’s a softie, come on.”

“Ginny and ‘Mione are great, but when they’re together they can be-” “They’re brutal.” Ron finished his friend's statement bluntly. “And your little project will turn into one of them if you’re not careful.”

“She’s not a project Ron-” “Yeah, shut up Ron.”

Mrs Weasley wiped her hands of cooking and rushed over to the new face in her house, immediately dragging the girl into a hug.

“It is so lovely to meet you y/n!” She exclaimed, her children’s kindness so evidently learnt from her. “Ginny has told me so much about you,” The girl blushed before her, unknowing of a parent so welcoming.

Her mother used to be like this, if she remembered far enough, she would invite all their friends over and treat other’s children as their own. Always with a bright, beaming smile, one that had been lost as the years went one, but one that she no doubt inherited herself.

“Why don’t you go sit with the boys, dinner won’t be long.” She smiled, keeping Ginny and Ron behind to help her finish up. She followed the twins, who seemed too tall for their own home as they ducked beneath archways and low hanging lights.

A fire was lit in the next room, surrounded by sofas and armchairs that looked even comfier than her own bed. Mr Weasley sat, facing the doorway, having a conversation with someone who had their back to the trio as they entered.

“Hi dad, evening Bill.” George smiled, slumping down on a sofa comfortably.

Bill turned round, expectantly, his smirk rising when he saw the girl stood before him, looking much more made up that she was the other day after a long shift.

“There she is,” He said, smoothly, relishing in the way she blushed nervously in his presence.

She politely greeted Mr Weasley, before sitting down in between the twins who were her pillars of safety as they talked over her head. Even as Bill conversed with his father about matters that she struggled to catch up on, his gaze burned upon her body like a flame.

Fred noticed it, the way his brother watched over her like a hawk and the way she lapped it up. It was sickening to see her fall under his spell so easily, he didn’t even need to try. Bill always got what he wanted, everyone knew that.

When Mrs Weasley called them all in for dinner, Fred certainly didn’t miss the way his older brother whispered into her ear and all but dragged her over to the table so he could ensure they would be next to one another. He just let it happen, who was he to stop them, a hopeless romantic… that’s all.

“So y/n, where did you go to school?” Arthur asked, thinking nothing of the question. But her face fell a little, not that anyone but Fred saw it happen from across the table.

“Uh- I was actually homeschooled, but there’s still a lot I don’t know.”

“Well I hope the boys have been teaching you lots, it’s good to know as much as you can.” Mrs Weasley beamed, rubbing the twin’s heads as she passed by with glasses for everyone.

“They’ve been extremely helpful, in more ways than I can thank them for.” She smiled sweetly, catching Fred’s eye as everyone started up their own conversations.

That was the last time she looked over at him that night, as Bill started telling her all sorts of things that made her giggle and smirk and blush and fidget. It was obvious to anyone that watched the two of them that Bill had made up his mind about her.

It was the scar tour which finally made Fred roll his eyes, no one seeing but his twin.

“You alright?” George said, with a confused chuckle.

“Oh yeah, fine.”

“Bill’s a right show off isn’t he, wonder where he’s gonna take her on their d-a-t-e.”

“We’re not dogs you know, we can spell.” Ginny hissed from the other side of him, leaning over behind him so she could talk to Fred directly.

“Is it true?” She asked him, hushed.

“Is what?” He whispered back, praying that George hadn’t spoken of his drunken confession.

“Bill’s gonna ask her out?”

“Well- I guess so, he said he would.” He sat up straight again, wanting nothing more to do with that conversation if he could help it. He was already forced to watch the two of them as if he was front row at a particularly excruciating play.

The whole night seemed to drag on for hours and hours, as it seemed like Ginny and Bill were fighting over the girl’s attention. Fred finally gave up on trying to bear the whole situation and slipped out the back door when no one was watching, hoping to have a few minutes alone in the night’s cool air.

But not even thirsty seconds of silence later, the door opened behind him, and someone came to join him.

“You alright Fred?” Hermione’s voice sounded over to him, as he sat slumped against the stone wall. He nodded, not minding her company over any of the other’s. She at least knew how to be quiet when it was necessary.

The brunette took a seat beside him on the grass, crossing her legs and taking in a fresh breath of air. He was always happy that Hermione was the one friend of Ginny’s to actually join the family, he’d never been a fan of the other’s as most of the time they would bother him and George.

“You like her, don’t you?” Hermione asked, dragging him from his vacant thoughts.

“What?”

“Y/n. You like her, and you haven’t said anything.”

“Hermione, I don’t-” ‘I’m not going to tell anyone, I hate gossip.” She scoffed, and he knew it was true.

“It’s a tricky one, okay.” The man finally said, after she let him think over his answer for a few moments.

“I bet, and now Bill’s got his sight on her.”

“Yeah well, I’m not him-” He sighed. “Doesn’t mean you can’t like her.”

“It’s too late, she’s gonna say yes to their date and then they’ll be together and I’ll have to watch them be happy and shit, all the while I’m gonna be miserable.” “She might say no,” “Bullshit will she say no, have you seen the way she acts around him?” “Not really.” Hermione admitted.

“Well, it’s obvious she likes him- that’s all.”

They fell into silence again, the stars in the sky not even settling Fred’s growing rage over how stupid he’d been to hide how he truly felt.

“Either way, you should tell her.” Hermione said, standing up and brushing off her legs before giving him a sympathetic smile and heading back inside.

The twins headed back outside, getting ready to leave, when y/n called over to them with a giggle. Bill’s hands were wrapped around her waist, begging her to stay as she cutely tried to get away.

“I’ll just be a moment you guys!” George nodding, waving bye to his brother and heading back into the field to give them a bit of privacy. Fred followed, with no other choice. He could still see their figures through the tall grass, holding one another like they were already lovers. When Bill’s head dipped down he just turned away, seeing George watching him with squinted eyes.

“What are you doing freddie?” He asked him.

“Nothing, jus- nothing.” He grumbled, kicking up the ground beneath his feet as they waited patiently.

When the girl finally bounded over, full of giddy excitement, he wanted to be far away from her. He swore he could feel Bill’s presence all over her, just by the way she took his hand to apparate back to the loft.

The whole time that she spoke his head was in a daze, as if he felt there was no use in listening to anyone anymore. No matter how much advice he was given, or however nice he was to her. If she didn’t want him, then there was nothing he could do.

“Goodnight freddie!” She called, when he silently left the other two in the dark shop and climbed up to the loft. He didn’t say anything back, in truth he didn’t take in that she had spoken to him and then by the time he had done so, he didn’t trust his voice to not crack under pressure.

“Is he angry?” The girl turned to George, who was just as confused about his twin’s odd behaviour.

“No, sweet, he’s probably just tired.” He whispered, giving her a reassuring hug. “So, when’s Bill taking you out?”

“Tuesday night.” “Oh. How romantic.” The man scoffed, which earned him a light slap on the arm.

“Stop it you, he said he didn’t want to wait until next weekend- I think it’s sweet.”

“You would missy- you’re in love!” He teased.

“I wouldn’t call it love… yet.” She grinned.

“Go on you, get to bed.” He chuckled, giving her yet another hug and letting her skip off to her room which was covered in fairy lights.

George wasn’t even going to bother talking to Fred that night. Whatever was up with him, he could take a wild guess on and probably hit the jackpot. But that meant he was upset, beyond compare, and most likely needed some time alone. So George gave him that time and just went up to bed himself. Hoping that things would look up in the days to come.

Little did he know that, when it came to love, Fred held grudges.

91 notes · View notes

merakiaes · 4 years

Text

First Impressions - Tommy Shelby

Pairing: Tommy Shelby

Requested: Yes.

Prompts: None.

Warnings/notes: This might actually be the shittiest shit I’ve ever written. I’m posting it for now but I’m going to come back and re-write it once the other requests are done. Sorry if this sucks xD A short, hopefully better part three coming tomorrow.

Wordcount: 4360

Summary: Tommy invites you to meet the rest of the Shelbys and things get a bit out of hand, as they always do in the life of a Peaky Blinder.

Part One - Nice To Meet You

Part Three - Salvation

The day Ada had been trying to avoid since you first met Tommy had finally come.

After hanging around your shared home far more often than he usually would for two weeks straight, he had finally invited you to join their family for drinks at the Garrison.

You had gotten incredibly close with the Peaky Blinder leader since you met him two weeks prior, much to Ada’s dismay and everyone back in Small Heath was surprised to see how quickly he had taken a liking to you. He hadn’t even reacted that strongly when first meeting Grace and they hadn’t thought it would ever be possible for him to love anyone else that way again.

You were currently standing in front of the mirror of yours and Ada’s shared bathroom, putting in a pair of gold earrings and smearing a coat of bright red lipstick onto your lips while Ada and Tommy waited downstairs.

Karl had been dropped off at the babysitter’s house an hour before so that you and Ada would have enough time to get ready, and it was safe to say you were not going to be needing many drinks at the pub as you were both already slightly buzzed with the wine you had consumed.

Tommy had arrived only ten minutes ago, and you had yet to see him for the evening, but Ada had already started nagging his ears off downstairs, without a doubt about how to treat you, and the thought brought a slight chuckle from your lips.

You checked your reflection a final time, brushing your curled hair out of your eyes and straightening your red dress before finally retreating out of the bathroom and heading out into the hallway.

Already at the top of the stairs you could catch up snippets of their conversation, and even though you didn’t like eavesdropping, it was pretty much impossible to shut their voices out now that you were so close.

“She’s been good to us and I love her like my own sister.” You heart Ada say at the bottom of the stairs, her voice still slightly muffled. “If you ruin that I’ll kill you myself.”

Tommy’s voice followed shortly after, low and confident. “I would never do anything to hurt her.”

Merely his voice managed to bring butterflies to your stomach. You were ashamed to say that you, a grown-up woman, had fallen for him in such a short amount of time. Hopelessly so.

“That’s what you always say.” Came Ada’s response, but they didn’t get to continue their conversation as Tommy finally caught sight of you coming down the stairs over Ada’s shoulder, a smile instantly rising to his lips.

The sweet sight caused your own lips to pull into one as well, and Ada to turn around, clearly hurrying to put on a strained smile to cover up the fact that she was undoubtedly not happy about the idea of you meeting her family.

The very same family she had been trying to distance herself from ever since before Freddie had passed away.

You made it down the final step and your hand left the railing, and Tommy, who had already been holding your coat in his hands, wasted no time in coming over to you, opening the piece of clothing and helping you put your arms into the sleeves.

“Thank you.” You thanked him, smiling.

Once your arms were secured in the sleeves, he carefully reached his hands up to your neck and pulled your hair out, dropping the curls to your back.

“You look beautiful.” He complimented, looking down into your eyes, and for a moment, you almost forgot that Ada was there too, standing to the side watching the scene unfold before her with crossed arms, lips pulled into a straight line and foot stomping on the floor impatiently.

But you were quickly pulled out of your trance-like state when she let out a loud clear of her throat. “Are you ready to go?”

You and Tommy turned your attention to her, taking a step away from each other. You nodded, smiling, and wasted no time in walking forward, hooking your arm with hers and pulling her out through the door.

The second you had gotten away from Tommy, her mood was lightened again, and the two of you skipped down to the car awaiting you while Tommy locked up the apartment, a cigarette now hanging from between his lips.

He kept quiet pretty much the entire ride from London to Small Heath, only speaking when you sparked up a conversation with him.

Other than that, most of the ride was just you and Ada chatting and having fun, like you always did when you were together.

You reached your destination in a little under three hours, and by the time you were there, the dark had fallen outside, the clock now being around ten.

Tommy left the car first once you had stopped, helping his little sister out before moving on to you.

You smiled widely as you took his outstretched hand, thanking him quietly through your eyes and letting him help you down from the car.

Your eyes immediately looked around.

It was sure to say Watery Lane was no London, but it did have its own charm to it.

You thought so at least. Ada didn’t seem to care much for being back home, but you guessed you couldn’t really blame her after everything that had gone down in the past few years.

Ada started walking ahead, and you got left behind her with Tommy walking by your side.

“Are you cold?” He asked quietly after a moment of silence, his hands tucked into the pockets of his pants.

You turned to look at him at the sound of his voice and shook your head, but smiled gratefully. “I’m alright, but thank you.” You answered, and he smiled, before turning his eyes back forward.

Only three minutes later, the Garrison entered your field of view, and already from down the street you could hear the sound of loud singing, yelling and glasses clinking together.

It all seemed a bit chaotic from what you could see through the window upon closer inspection, but you were still excited.

Ada entered first and her name was instantly called out by several voices. Once you reached the door, too, Tommy wordlessly opened it for you, letting you step into the warmth before stepping inside himself, closing the door behind him.

“There she is!” A voice you didn’t recognize called out the second you stepped inside, but once your eyes landed on the source of the voice you could instantly come to the conclusion that it belonged to Arthur.

Ada had shown you more than enough pictures of her family for you not to recognize them.

The smile that had previously been very bright on your lips turned into a more nervous one as the entire Shelby clan was now watching you approach with expectant smiles on their faces, all yelling out for both Ada, Tommy, and surprisingly, you, in their drunken states.

But then again, you guessed it wasn’t very surprising, at all. After all, they had known you would be coming along.

Before you had even had the chance to think about getting your jacket off, Tommy had already started pulling at it, and you let him, smiling and thanking him silently over your shoulder.

Upon reaching the table where his family sat, Ada had already found herself a spot and Polly was the first one who stood up to greet you.

Her arms wrapped around you in an embrace and you gladly accepted it.

“It’s nice to see you again.” She said, and you smiled, hugging her back.

“You too, Polly. It’s been a while now.”

She chuckled, pulling away and giving you a mildly amused look. “Someone has to keep these idiots alive.”

You laughed, and she sat back down, Finn and Isaiah being the next ones to stand up, both with wide smiles and wasting no time in hugging you. Isaiah first and Finn last.

“Nice to see you boys again.” You smiled, having to stand on your toes to reach them as they were both taller than you.

As you broke away from Finn, you raised an eyebrow. “Keeping out of trouble, I hope?” You asked, bringing a hand up to the arm you had patched up when he had been shot, teasing him.

“Of course.” He agreed, but the smug smirk on his face said the opposite.

Finn sat back down, but Isaiah remained standing, holding his arms out for the man to his right. “This is my father. Dad, this is (Y/N).”

The man wasted no time in standing up, reaching a hand out for you to shake. “I’m Jeremiah Jesus. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

You took it in yours without a second thought, shaking it. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

He smiled and both him and Isaiah sat back down. Finally, after having hanged your coat on the back of an empty chair, Tommy pulled said chair out and offered you a seat.

“Thank you.” You smiled at him, sinking down in it. He sat down in the chair beside you and held a hand out towards John and Arthur, introducing them despite knowing you already knew who was who.

“This is John, and Arthur.” He said, and John wasted no time in straightening up in his seat, reaching over the table to shake your hand.

“It’s nice to meet you.” He said, a toothpick hanging from between his lips.

You shook his hand and nodded with a smile, and then moved on to Arthur as he did the same, reaching his hand over the table.

“Nice to finally meet ya, love. Tommy boy hasn’t shut up about you for weeks.” He joked, causing everyone around the table to snicker.

You blushed at his words, expecting Tommy to make some kind of protest, but he did no such thing, simply throwing his arm around the backrest of your chair and smiling as he filled himself a glass of whiskey.

“A pleasure to meet you.” You answered both John and Arthur, trying your best to hide the faint blush rising on your cheeks.

And you did an okay job. The room was very hot, which made it a pretty acceptable excuse that the heat in the room was the cause of the heat in your face.

Polly then put a hand on the shoulder of the boy sitting next to her, the only one who hadn’t been properly introduced yet. “And this is my son, Michael.”

Of course. You had heard enough about him to be able to recognize him from miles away.

“I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s nice to finally meet you.” You admitted, shaking his hand over the table like you had his cousins only seconds before, and he offered you a shy, boyish smile back, nodding his head.

“Likewise.”

“And you’ve met, Aberama.” Polly continued, waving a gloved hand towards the man in question.

You nodded. “Yes, I have. Nice to see you again, Aberama.”

“Likewise, miss (Y/L/N).” He answered, tipping his hat slightly but not attempting to shake your hand as you were too far away.

“How are your studies going, (Y/N)?” Finn asked then, being the first to spark up a conversation and very clearly proving the crush you had been told he had on you.

The thought made you snicker slightly.

“They’re going great. If everything goes as planned, I should have my degree by the end of next year.” You smiled proudly, and Aberama was the next to talk, congratulating you.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” You smiled at him.

“What are you studying?” John pitched in, taking a drag from the cigar between his lips.

“I’m studying to become a surgeon.” You said, and when these words left your lips, Arthur’s interest was instantly piqued.

“Is that so?” He asked, and you nodded. But before you had time to answer, Finn spoke again.

“She’s got tons of books. I looked through them and I couldn’t understand shit.” He laughed, bringing everyone else with him.

“That’s because you can’t read, Finny boy.” Arthur turned his attention to him, teasing him, and at this, the light snickering broke into full laughter.

You joined in on the laughter, but felt bad as the youngest of the Shelbys burned bright red and turned slightly sour. “Don’t worry.” You assured. “I didn’t learn how to read until I was fifteen. I’ll teach you.”

He smiled, nodding in thanks.

“I’ve been able to read since I was eight and I can’t understand her books, either.” Tommy suddenly joined in from beside you and reached out to rub Finn’s head., having been quiet up until that point. “Just a bunch of Latin.” He chuckled, leaning forward to put out his cigarette on the ashtray.

At the mention of this, Ada finally joined in on the conversation, happily declaring. “She’s actually been teaching me some.”

“Yeah?” Tommy questioned, raising an amused eyebrow. “Like what?”

Ada smiled a crooked smile, repeating the phrase you had taught her some weeks before. “Verita Nunquam Perit.”

“What the ‘ell does that mean?” Arthur exclaimed, his face pulled into a mixture of a glare and frown, clearly confused.

“The truth never perishes.” She answered, but he only waved it off, turning to you.

“How do you say I need another drink?”

You chuckled. “Alio opus est bibere.”

“Well, I’m not repeating that.” He grumbled, causing everyone around the table to laugh.

He turned his head to the bar, reaching his arms up in the air for extra emphasis and yelled. “Harry! Get us another bottle!”

After ‘Harry’ had signaled an okay to him, he turned back to you, threw back the rest of his current drink and said. “Nice to finally have some brains in the family.”

Tommy chuckled beside you as everyone else laughed and started chatting about everything and anything again, introductions now being out of the way, and you smiled at the feeling of Tommy’s hand slowly moving to rest on your shoulder, his thumb brushing against the bare skin.

Your hand instinctively moved up to hold his, and your other hand went to grab the glass of alcohol you were soon being served, wasting no time in bringing it to your lips.

You talked and laughed a lot with the Shelbys, getting on with every single one of them like you had known each other your entire life.

But while you had fun with them, Tommy only ever chuckled beside you, only joining in when being directly spoken too, and you found yourself wishing he would have talked to you some more.

But you had known already before coming here that he was more of a ‘sit back and spectate’ type of man, so you guessed you shouldn’t have expected much more. He was much chattier when he wasn’t surrounded by other people.

A few hours and many drinks too many later, the entire pub had ended up gathered together, everyone standing with their arms thrown across each other’s shoulders and singing at the top of their lungs.

And you were no different, your drink raised high in the air as you stood between Tommy and Ada, singing along to some song you barely knew the words to.

A drunken man had taken the lead on top of the bar, much to Harry’s dismay as he was kicking and knocking over several bottles and glasses.

You didn’t get much time to register what was happening but soon, as the song came to an end, everyone was nudging each other around and someone managed to nudge a man a little harder than meant to, sending him stumbling into your body from behind.

In your drunken haze, the force was enough to successfully send you into a table, the corner knocking into your hip uncomfortably and Ada going with you as you were still attached by the arms.

When seeing you and his sister being pushed around, Tommy instantly reacted by pushing the man back the way he came from.

Too drunk to think by themselves, Arthur and John took this as an introduction to a fight, and wasted no time in running to their brother’s side, and the next thing you knew, the fun was thrown right out the window and the entire pub had erupted into a rowdy fight.

“What the hell are you doing?!” You yelled out as you watched Tommy knock the man in the nose, you and Ada using each other for support to collect yourselves after the stumble. “Thomas, stop it!” You yelled again, eyes widening as he kept pushing people who came too close, the rest of them doing the same.

Polly and Aberama had retreated to the back, trying to stay clear of the flying fists, and Jeremiah and Harry were both trying to stop it by yelling.

But no one was listening.

You wasted no time in leaving Ada’s side, despite her protests, and running for Tommy, grabbing the back of his waistcoat and trying your hardest to pull him back and out of the crowd.

But he was much stronger than you and didn’t even seem to realize you were there in the state he was in, simply shrugging you off.

“Thomas!” You yelled again, but it did nothing, and upon closer inspection you noticed that John and Arthur were both smiling, hollering with laughter as they punched and kicked.

They were having a jolly good time. A good time beating people up.

You had known what they did for a living ever since the start and knew that this was probably nothing in comparison, but still, seeing it with your own eyes made it all so much more real and left you shocked and horrified.

Realizing you wouldn’t have any luck with Tommy, John or Arthur, you instead hurried over to where Finn and Isaiah were fighting, and as they were both a lot smaller and less muscular than the oldest three of the Shelby siblings, you managed to pull them away from the crowd, taking them back to the table where Polly, Jerimiah, Ada and Aberama were hiding away, waiting it out.

“Sit down and stay there!” You instructed them, pushing the younger boys into their previous seats, much to the adults’ amusement.

They stumbled into their seats, landing rather roughly and in any other situation you would feel guilty and apologize for being so careless, but at this moment, you didn’t give a flying fuck. They had brought it onto themselves.

Once you were sure they wouldn’t be going anywhere and that they were supervised, you walked over to Ada, giving her a sad look.

“This is no scene for me. I’m sorry.” You shook your head, trying your hardest to ignore the sounds of fists hitting flesh behind you.

Ada only gave you a sorry look. “No, I’m sorry.” She told you, crossing her arms over her chest. “I told Tommy not to do anything like this and he didn’t listen.”

Her words drew a scoff from Polly’s lips. “What else is new.” She questioned, emotionlessly, taking a drag out of her cigarette.

You really found it horrible that she must be so used to stuff like this happening that she didn’t even bat an eye anymore.

You sighed, grabbing your coat from the chair you had previously been sitting in before turning back to Ada. “I’ll see you at home.” You said, and she nodded, giving you another sad, disappointed look.

Turning to Aberama, Jeremiah and Polly, you forced yourself to smile politely. “It was nice seeing you again, thank you for having me tonight.”

All of them nodded, and you turned to Finn and Isaiah, giving them one last disapproving glare to which they looked up at you sheepishly, before turning on your heel and pushing your way through the fighting crowd in the direction of the door, luckily getting there unharmed.

In the middle of a fight, Tommy spotted the back of your head as you retreated in the other direction and lost track of what he was currently doing to call out for you from the end of the room, but the yelling and sound of breaking chairs and glass was too loud for you to hear him.

The last thing you heard before the door closed behind you was Ada yelling Tommy’s name with more anger than you had ever heard her use before.

You didn’t even bother putting on your coat once you made it outside, just letting it hang over your arm as you walked away from the pub with rushed steps, not really sure where to.

You didn’t make it very far before you could hear the door of the pub opening, however, and sighed in annoyance when you heard the footsteps coming after you.

“(Y/N)!”

You didn’t turn around at the sound of Tommy’s voice calling after you, but rather picked up your speed and hugged your jacket closer to your chest.

Soon enough, he caught up to you and rounded you, coming to a stop before you.

“Don’t go, please. I’m sorry.” He was quick to apologize, but you only glared at him.

“Why the hell are you apologizing to me for?!” You almost roared back, throwing an arm behind you. “Apologize to those men you just gave a beating for no reason at all!”

“He hurt you.” Was his only response, causing your eyes to narrow.

“It was an accident, Thomas! Those do happen!” You let out a dry laugh. “You may be a Peaky Blinder but you still can’t just go around starting fights with people without a reason.”

If you weren’t mistaken, you almost could have sworn that intimidation flashed through his eyes for a short moment.

And you weren’t mistaken. All of the times he had spoken to you, you had been softer and kinder than anyone he had ever met. And now here you were, yelling at him and giving him a piece of your mind.

“You’re right.” He nodded, letting out a breath. “I’m sorry.”

You adjusted your coat over your arm, crossing your arms over the chest and pushing back the chill running through your spine.

You stared him down from another moment, allowing yourself to calm down, before answering sourly. “Apology accepted but you’re not off the hook.”

His entire body relaxed at your words, but his eyes remained desperate as he reached his hands out to take yours in his.

“Let me make it up to you.” He said. “I’ll take you to dinner, just you and me. Tomorrow.”

You snorted, letting your gaze run up and down his face, scanning him. “Better be one hell of a dinner.” You agreed, making the corners of his lips twitch upward.

“Will you come back inside?” He asked, squeezing your hand, and you raised an eyebrow, pulling it back and crossing it over your chest again.

“Are you gonna start another fight?” You challenged, and he instantly shook his head.

“No.”

“Is that a promise or just empty words?” You asked, not yet convinced.

But then he took a step closer, staring down at you with nothing but sincerity behind his eyes as he answered. “You have my word.”

You found yourself lost in his baby blues for a moment, the anger you had previously been fueled by melting right off you.

Your body relaxed slightly at the feeling of his fingers brushing against your bare arm, but you didn’t let any emotion show on your face as you looked down and nodded, mumbling out. “Alright.”

That was all the confirmation he needed to take you under his arms and carefully turn you back to the pub, slowly leading you back.

You had to admit it was nice to come back inside into the warmth, the evening air outside having been a lot colder than you had expected, especially when not wearing anything but a thin dress.

Upon re-entering the Garrison, the fighting had settled down again, and judging by the look of Polly and Ada standing behind John and Arthur with their arms crossed over their chests, they had been the ones to sort everything out.

Everyone were back at their original tables, some people now nursing cuts and blackeyes but drinking and talking as they hadn’t just been shoving each other’s faces into the floorboards while hitting them upside the heads with bottles.

You could see all the way from the door that Ada was practically fuming where she stood, and John and Arthur were sitting in their seats with straight backs, looking down into the table sheepishly, clearly terrified of the Shelby women. Just as they should be.

Once said women noticed you returning, they slapped the two men upside the heads, causing them to look up at you.

Both of them mumbled half-coherent apologized under their breaths, for having started the fight.

You only glared at them as you reached the table and Tommy pulled out your chair again, sinking into your previous seat and bringing the glass you knew was yours judging by the smudged lipstick on the edge closer to you.

“You’re all brutes and you should be ashamed of yourselves.” You told them without missing a beat, still pissed beyond words at the fiasco you had just witnessed.

But nonetheless, you tilted your glass slightly, looking at each and every one of the men around the table.

“Now who the hell’s going to get me another drink?” You asked, and all of those who had in one way or another participated in the brawl wordlessly got out of their seats and headed for the bar, Tommy included, while those whose hands were clean sat back down and made themselves comfortable, more than amused at the fact that you had only been there for a night and was already bossing them around – although more surprised than anything that they were already letting you.

So much for making a good first impression.

Tagged: @thatlittlered

2K notes · View notes

t-o-m-hollands · 4 years

Text

PARIS PART II of III

Warnings: Swearing, heavy drinking, smut. +18.

SUMMARY: Timmy is an artist living in Paris in the 1950′s. You come to him to model for a painting but you have an unusual demand for the artist.

R E A D P A R T O N E H E R E

1st of October, 1952 - Paris.

It’s Tuesday and Timothée is tired. It’s 1 in the afternoon but his head is still aching from last night. It's been seven months since you left Paris, and somehow, life has gone on.

The sun is shining mercilessly bright and he wishes he was back in his studio, so he could hide from it. But it’s a place he spends as little amount of time as possible in as of late. Instead he’s sitting on a bench just below Sacré-Cœur, wearing last night's clothes, a mess of curls framing his tired face. In one hand a cigarette and in the other a freshly printed copy of the Tatler. On the front page is your face, radiantly beautiful, in a wedding dress and veil, diamonds in your ears and diamonds on your head. Next to you is your Freddie, looking straight at the camera, unnecessarily smug; or so Timothée thinks. Inside the magazine there’s an entire montage in the happy couples’ honor, complete with exclusive pictures from the high-society occasion.

“Dubbed the wedding of the season this intimate affair took place on a drizzly September morning between baron Freddie Fairfax and his blushing new bride. Freddie, who is the son of the 9th Earl of Abington, was overheard by some guest remarking over the beauty of his new bride, who was wearing a bone-white couture gown signed Christian Dior and accessorized with a diadem, an heirloom of the Fairfax family that has been in their possession for generations and borrowed to the bride on this special occasion. The nuptials were exchanged in St Margaret’s Church, gloriously decorated with bunches and bunches of yellow chrysanthemums, aconites and white lilies, in front of an audience including representants from most of the royal households of Europe and the English social elite. The reception took place at the Earls 25,000 acres estate in Oxfordshire and upon arrival the guest were served ice cold”

Timothée stops reading and throws the magazine down on the bench. For a long time he sits there, watching as people climb their way up the stairs to the church, and smoking cigarette after cigarette until his throat feels sore. It’s a fine October day, the air crisp and clean. The leaves on the trees changing from emerald green to vibrant shades of orange and yellow. Some have already fallen to the ground. A melancholic part of him, the majority in fact, can’t help but to think of it as a metaphor of his life. He’d met you and the entire world had seemed in bloom. Now it was rapidly fading.

Someone sits down beside him on the bench, but he ignores them, mind too far away to care.

“You are monsieur Chalamet, I presume”. With a startle he looks at the person next to him. It’s an elderly lady, possibly in her 80’s, with hair in a sophisticated updo, burgundy lips and sparkling eyes. She’s clothed in an expensive fur coat and with diamonds on every finger. He suddenly feels dirty in his unwashed clothes.

“Yes madam, and who are you if I may ask?” he answers politely.

“Marguerite Beauchêne-Wright” she introduces herself, stretching out her heavily bejeweled hand. He shakes the elderly woman’s hand. It feels strangely cold in his.

“And what can I do for you, madam?”

She doesn’t answer at first but looks down on the magazine between them. “Pretty, isn’t she?” she asks. He doesn’t answer at first, doesn’t know what to say to that. “Yes, very pretty” he answers at last.

“It was a terrible wedding” she continues. “Terrible”.

“And how do you know the bride?” He asks, feeling rather uncomfortable

“She’s my grandniece” she says and looks up at him again, studying his face. “She lived with me for a period, here in Paris. I believe you know one another?”

He doesn’t answer her question, knows she already knows the answer to it, instead he asks “and why was the wedding so terrible?”

“Oh” she says and swats with her hand, but there’s a look of worry on her face he can’t look past. “When the bride’s wearing the wrong dress, or the bridesmaids won’t behave, or the food’s terrible, well those are all things one expects at a wedding. But when the bride marries the wrong groom, well, that’s not quite as easily overlooked. Then you find yourself actually praying for an ill-fitted gown instead”. ��

He stares at her in confusion. “What do you mean, the wrong groom?”

She observers him with shrewd eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Madam, with all due respect, I not sure what you want with me” he says slowly. He finds himself wondering if maybe he’s still asleep and this is a strange dream produced by too much absinthe. If he’ll perhaps wake up in a ditch soon, with a hangover from hell.

“But don’t worry” she says with a kind smile “We can still fix this”.

He wonders if he should leave, for this is not a conversation he wants to have, especially not with a complete stranger. But despite himself he says “there’s nothing to fix”.

Then she takes him by surprise, for she grabs the magazine from the bench and hits his arm with it, not hard, but enough to get a reaction out of him. “Ow!” he bursts out, “what was that for?”

“For you to get a grip of yourself! Don’t be so defeatist, I told you we can fix this. You still love her and she loves you, not that absolute buffoon”.

“It’s too late, she’s already married him. And I'm over it” he lies, trying to keep on to some kind of dignity in this bizarre situation.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you haven’t moved on from any of it, I know an idiot in love when I see one, and you’re it”.

“Gee, thanks” he mutters, rubbing the sore spot where she hit him with the magazine.

“Now, what are we going to do? Are you going after her?”

He stares at her in disbelief, “no, she’s married, I told you, it’s too late”.

“Do I need to use this again?” she threatens and holds up the magazine, but there’s a humorous gleam in her eyes that makes him smile.

“Why are you trying to help me?” He asks.

“Well, quite frankly dahling, I'm not trying to help you. But that girl, my dahling niece, is miserable.” There’s sadness now in her old eyes and something twists uncomfortably in Timothée’s chest.

“It’s that bloody women's fault, her mother!” She bursts out, taking him aback. The venom in her voice almost palpable, “She’s whispering ideas of self-sacrifice in her ear. Not that her father’s any better – defeatist! That’s the only word to describe him! Never could fight for himself. To think that my dahling sister could have given birth to such a fool. And now my grandniece...” she trails off, sadness in her voice again.

“Now your grandniece has a title and is married to one of the richest people in England.” He states firmly.

She throws the magazine down on the bench again and swats her hand in front of her, as if to get rid of a particularly annoying fly, and the diamonds on her hand sparkle in the sun. “Yes, but it’s not what she wants. Is it? What she wants is, well, it’s you.”

There’s something so penetrating about her eyes and the way she looks at him. Crinkled and full of wrinkles her face may be but those shrew eyes shine bright as ever. They are very familiar eyes, a strong remembrance to another pair of eyes that haunt his dreams. He looks away,

“But she did decide to marry him, that was her decision. Doesn’t mean I don’t understand it, but there’s where we’re at. There’s nothing to be done.”

“I saw the painting you made of her” She says in a voice that make him think she’s fishing after something and in the corner of his eyes he can see her inspecting him. He lights a new cigarette and avoids her eyes. “The one with yellow tulips?” she adds, making it sound like a question.

“’s just a painting” he mumbles, feigning nonchalance.

She continues to observe him before sighing. Then, she pats him on his arm and in a gentle tone she says “we both know that’s not quite true”.

And suddenly he wants to weep. Weep in a way he hasn’t since he was a child. Without holding back, without grace or shame. Weep, and subject the poison from his body. But he doesn’t. Clenching his hands around the rim of the bench with all of his strength he manages to keep the storm at bay. Only when he feels he has his emotions locked up and under control does he look at her again. Her familiar eyes, full of sympathy, observes him and something inside his chest is screaming.

“Could I paint you, madam?” he asks with a smile, to lighten the mood.

She throws her head back in laughter. “Oh, how sweet of you, but I'm afraid my modelling days are far behind me. But if you ever need something, a listening ear or” and she looks at his dirty clothes “or perhaps a loan, then feel free to keep in touch.”

She gently pats his shoulder, then gets up and leaves.

February 12th, 1953

In a dimly lit club in Pigalle Timothée is writing a letter. Smoke surrounds him and the dim light shining through gives the illusion of a halo around his head. It’s a bad place to conduct letters in. People around him are cheering and talking, singing and howling with laughter while a modern band plays experimental jazz. It is rowdy, and it is wild, and it’s the perfect distraction.

It’s a shabby sort of place, where the floors are sticky with god knows what, the music is loud and the liquor comes cheap. Timothée thinks it’s heaven.

A man sits down next to him in the bar and orders a Gin Rickey.

“Terrible, aren’t they?” He questions in a broad American accent, gesturing toward the band as the bartender hands him his drink. Timothée nods in agreement and gestures with his empty glass to the bartender, implying need of a refill of his whiskey neat. The barman catches his gesture and pour him a new glass of Glenlivet and hands it to him just as the band begin a new tune.

“Hardly Duke Ellington” he says to the stranger and nods to the scene. He folds the unfinished letter and puts it in his pocket for later. The other man snorts in response, “that’s putting it kindly” he says, amusement in his voice. Timothée takes a good look at the stranger. He looks to be about his own age and is wearing a nice grey suit and hat tilted to the side. With a square jaw, a tall stature and piercingly blue eyes he could pass for a movie star. Lighting a cigarette, the man then offers one to Timothée, who gladly accepts the offer in a gratified manner. He’s been running low on his own stash these last few days.

They start talking. Discussing the differences in American and French jazz, the best drinking holes in Paris and who really is the great American writer. Timothée claim it’s Hemingway (“mark my words, he’ll win a Nobel price one of these days) whereas the stranger argues for F. Scott Fitzgerald (“the way he writes about the promise of the American dream, no one can rival Fitzgerald” he proclaims and Timmy wants to argue that surely he writes about the failed promise of the American dream, but they move on to a less dividing topic). The discuss bourbon and whiskey and rum as the bartender refill their glasses and the liquor no longer burns his throat and his eyes have adjusted to the smoke in the room as they mindlessly chat on. Timmy finds out that the strangers name is William and that he’s originally from California though went to boarding school in ‘good ol’ England’ but that he’s spent the last year in New York. Also, that he’s just separated from his wife. Timmy in turn tells him of his own life in broad strokes, his American mother and French father, art school and life as a painter in Paris. A few drinks later still and they get a hold of an old, wooden table at the far back of the room and so they cross the room, avoiding collision with the dancers, all in various states of drunkenness, and they begin a game of cards. The jazz band plays on.

William turns out to be quite the gambler and Timothée, who’s been walking around for months now with a feeling that he has nothing more to lose, can’t help but bet on the few things he has. They laugh and play and share stories of their youth while the jazz band play louder and louder. Perhaps the good company and distracting surroundings goes to his head, because a couple games in and Timmy is indebted to the American. He has had a bad hand overall as of late and he tells his opponent as much. The man in turn laughs and leans back in his chair, his cards in one hand and a cigar in the other. He takes a long drag from it before blowing out smoke across the space between them. Around them people dance to the chaotic music.

“Hell, I’m feeling generous tonight and you’ve been good company. Not many people I can talk to here in France, my French is terrible. So, you’re a painter, how about a painting, then? And I’ll write the whole thing off.” he suggests and smiles broadly.

Timothée hesitates. His apartment has been unusually empty of paintings as of late. The few ones he had he sold just last week in order to meet rent. Inspiration to paint new ones had not been with him. Not since you left. Everything he had managed to paint had come out drained of colour and bleak and he ended up losing interest in it.

He only has one painting left. But he couldn't, could he?

“Alright” Timmy agrees. Because what choice does he have? Maybe it’s time to put this ghost to rest, once and for all. Your gone and no wishful thinking or practices in gratefulness can change that simple fact. You’re married and there’s nothing he can do about it, despite madame Marguerite’s words of your misery ringing in his ears. There’s nothing he can do to save you now. You’ve made your choice, and all there is now is the aftermath. The post mortem. You have to live with that decision and so does he. Even if he doesn’t want to. So, why should he keep the painting? The baron got to keep the real you after all, and the only thing he has is the picture of you. A picture that can’t talk or laugh, can’t smile or play with his hair or touch him or dance to Chopin or lecture him about classical music. A painted image that he has stared himself blind at for these past few months, grieving that he cannot bring it to life, while the baron got the real you.

His unfinished letter burns in his pocket but he ignores it.

And so they leave, on unsteady legs and heads swirling with liquor, and the jazz band plays them out to their worst tune yet as they exchange the smoky club air for a cold night’s breeze.

“Fuck” William mutters as they enter the night. “Fucking freezing” he adds and shivers in his nice suit. “No worry” Timothée slurs “not far”. They stumble their way across the cobblestoned streets. “You damn Frenchmen” the other man mutters after some distance, “always got to fucking walk everywhere, taxis where invented tor a reason, you know!” Timmy snorts and points to a building just a couple of meters away. “Live there, yeah?”

And with a lot of effort they help each other up the stairs to the loft. Once inside William asks if there’s any brandy, for ‘recovery purposes after their hellish journey’ and so, they drink some more. They start discussing politics, a bad idea all around, before venturing into the less dividing topic of French cinema. It’s not long after that they’ve both fallen asleep, William slung on the sofa, his long limbs hanging over the edge, and Timothée’s sprawled out on the carpet, the bottle of brandy clutched firmly in his hand. (For recovery purposes.)

A few hours later and Timmy’s hurling down the toilet. He wants to check his head for bullet holes, that’s how bad it’s aching. After having cleaned up, although there’s nothing to be done about the mess of curls that is his hair, he joins the American in his living room.

William is sitting up on the sofa, but it looks very much as if he’s just woken up, hair a mess and a 5 o'clock shadow, his expensive suit all wrinkles now. The sun is shining mercilessly bright and its rays lights up the room as he rubs his eyes. “Coffee?” he requests in a gruff voice. Timothée nods, before realizing that any movement of the head is a terrible idea as pain shots through it.

“What a fucking night” William mutters some time later as they drink their coffee. “And I’ve got a meeting with the lawyers this afternoon, not the sort of thing one should do hungover.”

“Oh yeah?” is all Timothée manages to get out, head still too sore to put any thoughts together.

“Yeah, divorce proceedings”

“Rotten business” Timmy states and the other man laughs. “Rotten business, indeed” he agrees and cheer him with his mug of coffee. “Still, a necessity that must be endured.” He looks around the loft. “But I’ll have a new painting to hang in my bachelor pad, that’s something to write home about!” he says, more cheerful now.

And fuck, he’d forgotten that part.

Feeling nauseous again he puts down his coffee cup. “Yeah, you’ll have a new painting” he agrees, mostly to fill the silence.

“Haven’t seen any of your work yet though” William considers. “You might be shit. My five-year-old niece might be a better painter, and I’ve just promised to write off your debts to me” he adds and laughs. Timmy gets up, there’s no putting this off. “I’ll go get it and you’ll decide” he says and heads for his bedroom.

The paintings leaned against the wall. He doesn’t turn it, doesn’t want to see it one last time. There’s not enough brandy in the world for that recovery. Something inside his chest is rioting against the very idea of handing the picture over to anyone else, but he pushes down the feeling of nausea and heads back to the living room, canvas clutched firmly in his hands.

“Well” he says and holds it up, so the other man can see. “Here’s your winnings”.

William looks up at it and then, the strangest thing happens. His entire being freezes, his mouth ajar, stuck mid-movement as he had begun to say something before having seemingly been struck by lightning. Bells are ringing alarmingly in Timothée’s head, going off like sirens. Somethings wrong.

He observes Williams glossy eyes taking in the portrait in front of him, mouth still agog in chock. He places to painting on the dingy little table but William still doesn’t take his eyes off it. He gets up slowly and walks over to the painting, as if in a trance, like a man bewitched, and he reaches out a hand to touch the painting and with hesitant fingers he gently touches your cheek. The nude portrait of you, the one Timothée had painted on the day that you left him, posing slung on the very same sofa William’s just slept on.

And it hits him then, like a collision.

That this is William. The William. The man who broke your engagement and sailed across the Atlantic with his new bride. A bride he’s apparently already separated from.

“How, how-” William begins but he seems unable to finish the sentence.

A sudden feeling of being a side character in somebody else’s story settles inside of Timothée. Words like destiny and star-crossed comes to mind as he observes the other man and his wide, wild eyes, the way he looks at the painting in absolute wonder.

“Is, is she still here? Is she still in Paris?” and his voice is weak but full of hope. Slowly Timothée shakes his head. “She’s left.” He confirms, and the crushing disappointment is so clear in the other man’s face that it feels cruel to continue, but he does. “She’s married now. To a baron”.

William’s head snaps away from the painting for the first time since he saw it. “Freddie?” He asks, voice bitter and Timmy nods. “That fucker” he swears “he always was sniffing after her” he adds resentfully. He looks back at the painting and his expression soften, but he looks sadder too.

“That’s why you came here, isn’t?” Timothée asks hesitantly. “To look for her?”

William nods, seemingly unable to look away from the picture. He reaches for it and an overwhelming urge to stop him, to remove the painting from his sight washes over Timothée. To hand this portrait of you away to a stranger had seemed like a sad but unavoidable thing to do. But to give it away in due for his debts to your ex fiancé… It felt dirty and cruel.

But what choice did he have?

And so, he watches William take the painting and watches him leave with the only thing he has left of you.

Because Timothée is 26 and he still hasn’t got any money. And he can’t compete with handsome William, or to Freddie the baron. Because Timothée is 26 and all he’s got to show for it is an apartment he can’t afford anymore and a broken heart.

He runs to the bathroom and hurls in the toilet again, unable to ignore the feeling of nausea and guilt any longer.

That night you come to him in his dreams. Like a vision you appear at the end of his bed, drenched in water. White, wet silk clenching to your body, hair slicked to your face and such a haunted look in your eyes that he involuntarily reaches out for you, to hold you, to help you, to save you. He’s not quite sure. But before he can reach you the scenario changes. Because suddenly – as is the way of dreams, you’re the Tate museum watching John Everett Millais Ophelia. Your standing next to him, water dripping from your drenched body down on the floor. He looks at you, but you keep your eyes on the painting.

And when he looks back at it, it’s no longer a portrait of Ophelia lying dead in the water. It’s you.

He wakes with a jolt, drenched in cold sweat, gasping for air. It feels like he has to force fresh air into his lungs, like he’s been under water for too long. He feels around himself, automatically, to feel for your body, make sure you’re safe.

Bur you are miles away.

February 14th, 1953

Timothée writes a new letter.

It’s 5 am and I'm drunk and I am thinking of you and in a few hours it’ll be 12 am and I'll be drunk and I'll be thinking of you. And so the story goes.

I met your William, charming bloke, shame about his wife. He came here looking for you, you know? Don’t worry, I told him you got married to a baron. Your wedding pictures looked lovely in the Tatler, by the way. Diamonds suits you.

I haven’t painted much since you left. I have no inspiration. For anything.

You know, we've made a beating heart out of my pain. It’s a living, breathing creature and it walks with me everywhere, hidden somewhere under my ribcage. Like a second heart. Where I go it follows. What I feel for you, it’s a Frankenstein's monster kind of grief, bits and pieces cut out from us both, turned into a living creature. Can you hear it beating for you? Can you hear it screaming out for you? Saying ‘where did she go? Where did she go? Why can’t I follow?’ Like a child begging for its mother. Come back, come back and collect your second heart, take it out of my body, remove it from me, I cannot stand its begging. I'd kill the monster, but it’s the only thing I have left of you now. Don’t think I could stomach the loss.

I’m not the same I was before I met you. This love has made a different man out of me. This love has made a bitter man out of me. This love sure feels a lot like drowning. In my dreams you come to me, all Ophelia-esque and suffering, and I want to pull both our bodies out of the water, but you’re determined to sink and I don’t want to let go of your hand and so – we drown.

I know it’ll pass, this longing I have for you. It must. I cannot keep walking these streets wrecked with grief. One day at a time. That’s what I tell myself each morning as a watch the sun rise over Paris, my head and heart pounding in revolt, one day at a time.

There’s a Swedish saying that goes ‘a lot of water shall run under a lot of bridges before I forget you’. What it essentially means is that it’ll take a lot for me to forget you, or the way you made me feel.

But I'm sorry. One mustn’t be morbid. I won’t write you again. I’ve tried to be grateful; I am trying. I hope married life is treating you well. I hope you’ve gotten all you ever wished for. I hope you’re happy. I honestly do. You deserve the best life has to offer. I’m just sad I can’t be the one giving it to you. Being without you is a hard thing to be grateful for.

One day at a time.

Yours,

Timothée

The next morning, he calls the model agency. Later, just as his headache is subsiding, a blonde model named Lucy knocks on his door. She’s chatty and friendly and moves around too much when he paints her. Her laugh is loud but childlike and she keeps the conversation going. He plays a Benny Goodman record and her hips gently swing along to the rhythm almost involuntarily and she sings along in a sweet voice to ‘The Sunny Side of the Street’.

Outside the sun is shining and the whole world seems at rest. It’s not the same – God knows it’s not the same – but for the first time in months it all seems, not alright perhaps, but bearable.

Later that night as he washes himself clean from the yellow paint that’s stained his fingers, he tries to push the feeling of guilt down from where it seems to be stuck in his throat. When that doesn’t work he tries to wash it down with absinth but as he lays down on the livingroom floor, too tired to make it into the bedroom, he watches the golden painting of Lucy gleam even in the dark, he wonders if perhaps absinth is what makes guilt grow.

1st of Mars, 1953

Timothée wakes to sunlight streaming in through the large and unwashed windows. For a long while he lays there completely still, sprawled out on the white linen sheets, curly hair draped over the pillow; trying to force his eyes to get used to the light. His head is pounding, and his body aches, but the sensation feels as familiar as the scent of turpentine and oil paint. Slowly he moves his limbs, first wiggling his toes and his hands; as if to count them all, and then, with monumental strength of character, he gets out of bed. Naked as the day he was born he walks over to the window. Far down on the street Paris is already awake, cars and passer-byers chasing down the streets. Some have changed out of their heavy, winter jackets to lighter coats as the bustle off to their individual destination.

It is the first day of spring.

He turns away from the window, in search for some clothes but stop in his tracks. As if seeing the room with new eyes he takes it in. Around the bed lay bottle after bottle of liquor, the sheets are old and dirty, the room hasn’t been dusted in months, and various pieces of clothing lay scattered everywhere.

He can’t go on like this. It’s time, whether he wants it to be or not. He has to go on.

He pours down the absinthe, the rum, the whiskey and the brandy down the kitchen sink and watches as it disappears. He cleans and wipes the floor, washes his sheets and clothes and then carefully folds them and puts them away in his closet. He finishes his painting of Lucy and then starts on another. He calls his delighted art dealer and informs him of the progress, tells him that he’ll have more ones in no time. He then swallows his pride and calls madam Marguerite, asking for the loan she offered. Pride won’t keep him warm if he loses the apartment due to not paying rent. She too sounds delighted and tells him he can pay her back by coming over for dinner. They both need the company.

And so, he walks to her apartment, a bouquet of daffodils in hand, smelling like clean laundry and with his newly brushed hair it all feel an awful lot like going to church. Upon arriving at Marguerite’s home, a maid opens the door for him and he tries not to smile when she wrinkles her nose and takes his old and patchy coat. The apartment is palace-like in grandeur, white marble everywhere, and decorated with expertise. She leads him into the lounge and announces him.

“Mr. Chalamet, madam”.

“Yes, thank you Louise” Marguerite answers and the maid leaves them.

“A cocktail?” she asks, holding up an empty martini glass. He politely accepts and looks around the room as she prepares it. “Is that a Picasso?” he asks astonished, pointing at a blue portrait of a woman on the wall opposite.

“Yes” she says and hands him a martini.

“How- how?”

She smiles at him indulgently. “I knew him in my youth” she explains and takes a sip from her own drink. He stares at her in amazement. “You know Pablo Picasso?”

She scoffs. “Oh, don’t be jealous of that, man’s an absolute fool”.

And so, they talk, all through drinks and then dinner. About art and music. About both of their childhoods, different though they both may have been. She tells him stories from her long and impressive life. About dahling Humphrey. After dinner, which had been a superb affair of duck confit; served on the finest of porcelain and paired with the finest of wines, they’d gone out on the terrace for drinks and smokes. He sticks to his old Lucky Strikes and she to imported Russian cigarettes, (a habit she’d picked up during the war, she’d told him).

“Darling Humprey would have liked you, he would have rooted for you” she says and leans back in her chair, a Hermès blanket in her lap to keep her warm.

“Oh really? Was he a good gambler?”

“Oh god no, he was terrible better. And a sore loser.” she says and smiles in the fond way she does when she thinks of her late husband.

“How reassuring for me” he says dryly.

“Dahlinh” she begins in a drawl that would have made Betty Davis proud, “what should be reassuring is that I’m fighting in your corner, and I don’t believe in a losing hand”. Then, changing the subject she says “My niece is quite right you know, your knowledge of classical music is subpar, so I'm educating you. Next week, I'll take you to the opera.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, indeed. Gianni Schicchi. I have a spare ticket so feel free to bring someone along with you”.

“Puccini?” he says with a grimace.

“Now boy, I'm fond of you but if you say bad word of Puccini I will throw you of this balcony myself”.

He smiles, but she reminds him so much of her grandniece in this moment and something in his chest is calling out for you

Later that week he calls Lucy and they go out dancing. He doesn’t take her to Pigelle, wants to keep away from its smoke-filled rooms and sticky floors. Escapism isn’t heaven. Not anymore. Instead he takes her to La Noyade, a nice place where nice people go to have fun. And they dance, and she makes him laugh and it’s not world-altering or butterfly-inducing but it’s a good way to pass the time. They mindlessly chat about movies, and music and film stars over glasses of Champagne and they never once wade into personal territories. She wears a nice and tight dress in a sunny color, her golden blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, and as he watches her seductively move her hips to the live band's music, he finds himself thinking ‘why not?’ And when she kisses him with painted-pink lips under a streetlamp he kisses her back. Because why not. And when he takes her to bed that night and fucks her into the mattress, her moans ringing in his ears, and her yellow hair sprawled over his pillows he nearly manages to forget you.

Nearly.

He holds her as she falls asleep and he tries to get used to the unfamiliar scent of her hair, the unfamiliarity of her body next to his. One day at a time.

(In his dreams you come to him, through the haze of a misty beach. You take his hand and guide him into a boat. And there you lay, as the boat drifts away and you watch the stars. You hold him close, and breathing feels easier. The rioting creature inside his chest finally at ease.)

Walking of the stairs of L'Opéra Garnier one can’t help feel anything but small. The supreme grandeur of the palace is designed to make you feel inferior after all. The high ceiling, gloriously painted by Isidore Pils, is enough to knock the breath out of anyone, and then white marble and gold for as far as the eye can see.

Timothée is wearing a tuxedo, the cheap rental kind, and the collar hasn’t been starched properly. It itches, and he fights the urge to scratch at his neck, and so he keeps his hand occupied by taking Lucy’s hand in his, and they make their way forward.

They make their way down the grand foyer. All around them people are dressed up to the nine’s in evening dresses, furs and tuxedos and more diamonds than he’s seen in his entire life, and god, Timothée misses Montmartre. Through the crowd he can see madam Marguerite, fitting her surroundings perfectly.

“Madam” he greets and kisses her cheek.

“Timothée” she responds, and she sounds fond. However, before he can introduce Lucy to her Marguerite looks over his shoulder and excitingly exclaims “Oh, there you are darling!” Without thinking he turns around to look at whomever Marguerite is greeting.

His body reacts before he does and goes completely still and for a moment he doesn’t understand what’s happening to him.

It’s you.

With your hair up in an eloquent hairdo, wearing a black velvet gown that he bets costs more than his apartment, and diamonds around your neck, you’re walking towards them. Arm in arm with you walks a man Timothée recognizes from the Tatler, Freddie, with blond hair and upturned nose. He’s certainly not wearing rental wear. “Timothée?” you ask in a weak voice as you reach him. You’re seemingly unable to believe your eyes. “Is it really you?” And with your painted blood-red lips you lean in to kiss his cheek, but they never touch his skin. You pull away and he sees how Freddie’s arm tightens around your waist.

Then you look at Lucy.

“Oh, yes of course, this is Lucy she’s my, uh” he halters.

“Muse” Lucy fills in and Timothée wants to protest, wants to catch the word midair and change it for something else, something less familiar. But he can’t. So, he watches in silence as she stretches out a hand for you to shake, which you elegantly do and even though you’re politely smiling there’s a frozen look on your face that unsettles him. With effortless grace you introduce yourself.

Then, “and this is my husband, Frederic”. You smile up at him and something inside Timothée chest is wreaking havoc. Freddie looks bored.

“Should we move along?” Freddie says in a drawling, posh voice that makes Timmy’s skin prickle in displeasure.

“Of course” Marguerite says, and leads the way, calling out ‘hello’s’ and ‘dahling’s’ to various familiar faces as she goes. Lucy crosses arms with him and they follow the older women's lead, you and your husband at your heel.

Timothée feels disorientated, head swimming with thoughts. There are too many feelings at once inside of him, too many different emotions fighting for dominance. But somehow, he continues to put one foot in front of the other and before he knows it, they’re in the auditorium. They’re in one of the boxes, and Marguerite places herself front row, next to an elderly gentleman she greets with fond familiarity. In the row behind them Freddie guides his wife and then sits down next to her. He and Lucy take the two seats behind them, Timothée ending up in the seat right behind you. He sees how Freddie leans in to whisper something in your ear, but he can’t hear his words. All he can see is that you stiffen, and slowly shake your head.

He looks at you, you’re perfect updo, not a hair out of place, the immaculately painted lips, the swan-like neck and perfect stiff posture. Your face still with that unsettling frozen look, as if you’ve retracted somewhere far inside yourself and he remembers how you used to dance in his studio, unguarded and free. Laughing and dancing while he painted you. A sudden urge to take your hand grabs hold of him. To take your hand and lead you away from all of this, away from the man sitting down beside you. To loosen your hair and limbs. To take you home and play Chopin and make you laugh again. Erase that frozen, still look from your face.

The lighting dims in the auditorium and then the orchestra begin the dramatic first chords of the opera but Timothée finds it hard to concentrate. Lucy has her eyes set on the stage, her hand on his knee. He feels like a trapped animal.

He thanks his lucky star that it’s at least only a one-act opera he tries to focus on the performances, but his eyes keep moving back to your neck. Your dress is backless and if he reaches out his hand, he could touch your skin. But doesn’t. Knows you wouldn’t want him to.

When O Mio Babbino Caro starts playing he sees how you lean forward, mesmerized by the beautiful voice of the soprano and he smiles, for he remembers you telling him it’s your favorite aria. But he sees how Freddie puts a hand on your arm, making you sit straight again.

‘Huh’ Timothée thinks and looks at your husband, ‘so this is what pure hatred feels like’. He digs his nails into his hand, leaving little half-moon shaped marks.

Eventually the wretched thing ends and after having applauded the performers and the orchestra you all rise up to leave. You turn and look at him and he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch your cheek, tell you how beautiful you are, how brave and wise and kind, and how undeserving the man next to you is. But he doesn’t.

Once outside it’s decided that you and your husband are going back to George V with your aunt for drinks. Politely you invite him and Lucy but he reclines with a bad excuse. He observes you, and even with your perfectly polite manners it’ like you’re walking around half-asleep, still with that frozen look in your face that’s beginning to scare him. And Christ, you’re just so guarded. You bid your goodbyes, and kissing her cheek he thanks Marguerite for the tickets, but when he tries to say goodbye to you, he can see Freddie’s arm tighten around your wait again. So instead of leaning into a kiss on the cheek he politely bows his head and you and in a gentle voice he says “goodbye then, it was nice seeing you again”. You smile back, eyes glossy and for a moment he wonders if you’re about to cry but a moment later you’ve pulled yourself together and politely bids goodbye to Lucy. And then you’re walking away, Freddie’s arm still around your waist.

* The next morning he goes to visit madam Marguerite, a book in hand. Louise lets him in, looking down on him as usual. “Would you like me to mend this, monsieur?” she asks, both sarcasm and contempt clear in her voice, as she looks takes his coat, indicating the big tear in one of the sides. “If you wouldn’t mind” he answers cheekily and walks past her.

Marguerite is sitting on the terrace eating breakfast, Le Monde in front of her. He puts down his copy of Jane Austen’s Emma in front of her.

“There” he says and sits down in the chair opposite her “your literary soulmate”.

She scoffs “Mr. Knightley really isn’t my type”

He rolls his eyes, but smiles fondly at her “No I shouldn’t think so. And I meant Emma, not Mr. Knightley. You and Emma are the same”. “Oh what utter nonsense!” She burst out, indignant, “I’ve never meddled a day in my life!”

Timothée stares at her in disbelief.

“Honestly!” she defends herself “I didn’t know they were coming to Paris until the day before and then, well, it seemed unnecessary to tell you”.

“You should have warned me she’d be there” he says sternly. “If nothing else then because then I wouldn’t have invited Lucy”.

She has the decency to look ashamed. “Oh, I dare say I should have warned you. But I was afraid you’d cancel, and I needed you to see it with your own eyes.”

“See what?”

She looks him dead in the eye then, a grave look, “the change in her, of course”.

He stays silent, doesn’t know what to say, drags his hands through his hair in distress.

“So” she says after a few moments of silence, “what do you make of Freddie?”

“The words princeling comes to mind”.

She observes him for a second, a sceptic look on her face, “I’m sure that’s not the only word that comes to mind”. He can’t help but smile at that, because she’s right. “True, but those are not words I'd use in front of a lady. She bursts out in laugher. “Darlinh, I practically invented swearing, no need to hold back in front of me.”

“What do you think of him?" He asks instead.

She huffs. “I prefer Picasso”. *

14th of Mars, 1953

Timothée is painting. Specks of yellow and gold adorn his hands and white shirt. The afternoon sun is lighting up the room and Chopin is playing for the first time in months on the record player. The knock on the door startles him, and since he was in the process of painting the details of Lucy’s eyes a stroke of dark paint ends up on her eyebrow as his hand jerks in surprise at the sudden noise.

“Fuck” he swears, and with a great deal of annoyance does he go to open the door.

You look surprised as he flings the door open.

“Sorry” you say, apologetically. “Is this an inconvenient time?”

He doesn’t answer, can’t seem to find his voice, just steps aside, inviting you to come in. You do, and move into the studio. He walks after you, seemingly in a daze.

“Drink?” he asks eventually, interrupting the pressing silence.

“Yes please” you answer. He looks at you, your hair is elegantly styled and your wearing another expensive looking dress. You’re not looking at him though, but instead at the golden portrait of Lucy he’s in the process of making. You don’t say anything. There’s still that still look on your face and it unsettles him.

He hands her a glass of gin. “Where’s dear Freddie then?” he asks, in a feigned nonchalant manner as he offers you a cigarette. You step closer to him so that he can light it. You’re so close he can smell your familiar perfume, and feel the heat from your skin. He looks down on you as you try to get the end to gleam. He can count your eyelashes from this distance, see every single feature in your face, every crook and corner. In the beginning, when you had first come to this studio, he had felt obsessed by the idea of painting your perfect likeness. But the closer he looked at you, the more impossible it felt. “Freddie is at a business function. I was not required” you answer and steps away from him, blowing out smoke into the room. “And where’s your muse?” you ask, and there’s a certain amount of resentment in your voice that you can’t seem to keep at bay.

“Right here” he answers simply, looking at you.

“And Lucy?”

“I don’t know” he responds truthfully. “I got your letter” you say, calmly.

Ah,

“Sorry” he says. “Shouldn’t have sent that. I was drunk”.

You keep looking at him, seemingly deep in thought. And before he loses all courage he asks, “may I paint you again? One last time?” “In what colour?” “In all your colours, just as you are” he answers, and then “I don’t have rose-colored glasses when I look at you anymore”. The room goes very still for a moment. “Do you still want me?” you ask, voice small. And with sincerity clear in his voice he answers. “More than ever”.

“No” you say and put down your drink, stubbing out your cigarette in the ashtray. “No, I don’t want you to paint me”.

Something twists painfully in his chest.

“That’s not what I want you to do to me” you continue and step closer.

And then you kiss him.

He grabs hold of you and kisses you back, trying to express every ounce of longing he’s felt since you left into the kiss. But he can tell part of you is holding back. “Don’t do that” he says in a low voice, pulling away from you. His eyes are bright and shining. “If you’re with me, you’re with me. Don’t keep foot out the door. If you’re with me; be with me. If you don’t want to be, then you have to leave. I don’t want you half-heartedly. I understand you can’t stay with me longer than today but if you’re with me then don’t keep your mind on him.” You stare at him, taken aback. “Well?” he asks “is this what you want?” Your answer is a red-hot kiss. Your answer is your hands, trying to tear his shirt off of him. Trying desperately to get your hands on his skin and he wants to cry from the sheer relief of feeling you touch him again. Frantically you’re tearing at his clothes. He grips your hands to stop you. “Slowly” he whispers in your ear. He can tell that you’re worked up from your labored breathing, chest rising and falling quickly, your eyes gleaming as you look up at him. The frozen look finally gone. You look alive again. He can tell that all you want right now is for him to lay you down and fuck you as hard and fast as he can. But he doesn’t want to rush this, knows this is all the time he’s going to get. And he feels like a man living on borrowed time. He kisses you, languidly, and your lips taste like gin. He leads you down, so you’re lying on the soft carpet, hovering above you. For ages all you do is kiss, your hands roaming his body, like you can’t stop touching him. Eventually he starts to remove your clothes, the silky material of your dress soft like water in his hands as he takes it off you, sneaking in kisses all over your body as he does so. You in turn help remove his dress shirt and trousers. Until eventually there’s nothing but air separating you. He looks you directly, deep into your eyes “Sure?” he asks, because he must hear it. Couldn’t live with himself if you ended up regretting this. “Yes” you say, voice barely louder than a whisper, but it doesn’t waver. The last rays of golden sunshine lights up the room and maybe it’s his overactive imagination, but he swears the light forms a halo around your head. He’s prowling over you, settled in-between your legs. He thinks you must see, surely you must see, all the wonder in his eyes that he feels when he looks at you. He kisses your sensitive nipples and you shiver in delight. Your hands in his hair and you move up against him, desperate for him to touch more of you. He bites, nips, licks and sucks your breasts, leaving wet traces as he goes and god, he’s missed this; missed you. The taste and feel of your soft skin, your gasps and moans, your hands tugging at his hair. Some part of him, a particularly cynical part of him, thought he’d must have made it up, that in the aftermath of you leaving his brain had beautified the memories of you until you’d reach almost divine proportions. But it was all real.

He grinds his body against yours, fill his hands with your breast, kisses you everywhere he can. He reaches down a hand to the wetness between your legs. “So wet” he murmurs against your skin “have you been thinking about this all day?” He pushes a finger inside you and you buckle up against him in response. “Mon cœur” he continues as he presses wet kisses against your throat, and adds another finger inside you, touching you with expertise in just the way he knows will send sparks of pleasure all down your spine. He remembers exactly how you like to be touched. “I asked you a question”. “Yes” you moan. He looks down on his fingers, moving in and out of you, glistening with your wetness. “Have you missed it?” he asks, voice low, and he speeds up the pace, his thumb moving over your clit. Your head thrown back you let out a deep moan and in a breathless voice you answer “yes, yes, missed it so much”.

Your hair has fallen out of its elegant hairdo, your cheeks flushed and wet and lips swollen from kisses. You look wild and free.

“I’ve been thinking about this, touching you; fucking you, ever since the opera” he leans down and kisses your clit, fingers still moving inside of you. And then he sucks on it and you explode around his fingers, cramping down around them, hips bucking and moans falling freely from your lips.

He strokes your cheek and kisses your face as he lets you catch your breath. Eventually you start kissing him back, softly at first, then ardently. He so hard he feels he could self-combust but as he lines up at your entrance, he looks you in the eye and asks “sure?”

“Never been more certain” you reply, voice like honey, and you wrap your leg around his waist, trying to guide him inside you.

He lets you get used to him, adjust to his size, before he starts moving. Your hands are in his and he can feel your wedding ring against his skin.

You try to incite him to move faster, bucking your hips against him, but he doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t want to go too hard on you.

“I’m not made of porcelain” you hiss, frustrated “you’re not going to hurt me. Fuck me like I'm yours”.

He’s starts fucking you with more force then, grinding where he knows you like it. Your nails are scratching his back, pulling at his hair. Sounds – moans, whimpers and begging's of more – escaping your mouth uninterruptedly. You can’t seem to stop them. He looks down on you and he swears out loud. The good damn sight of you like this, he knows he’ll never get the image out of his head. Knows that in months from now – when you’re back in good old England with your husband and he’s all alone here in this apartment – that he could paint this moment with picture-like perfection. Your glossy eyes filled with bliss, wild hair and flushed skin, lips still painted red and formed in a moan. But he won’t. He’ll let it be a memory, the thought of anyone else seeing that painting too unsettling for words. You come again then, eyes tight shut and head thrown back, mouth wide open in a silent scream. He feels your orgasm, can feel you spasm around him and he swears he’s gone to heaven. And as the final rays of sunlight disappears outside, he calls your name – half prayer half cry– and releases inside you, white hot pleasure racing down his spine, and then the whole room goes dark. The only reasons he knows the world hasn’t ended are your warm and sweaty body beneath him. The only sounds in the whole, wide world are both of your breathless gasps. * After, you put on your clothes in silence, avoiding the others eyes. He feels almost shy. The thing inside his chest is crying, knowing that you’re minutes away from leaving again, that this time it’s forever. How do you do something even though it kills you? “I’m sorry, for everything” you say and it startles him. “For everything?” “Yes. I’m sorry I came back” you avoid his eyes as you speak “well, I’m sorry but I don’t regret that part. And I’m sorry I can’t stay. I’ve never meant to hurt you.” Because it’s the right thing to do.

You are staying with your husband. This is your decision. He can’t force you to leave, or stay. He can’t save you, no matter what Marguerite says. Not when you’re determined to drown. “I’ve loved you wholeheartedly and I have no regrets. I’ve loved you of my own free will. You don’t owe me anything.”

The frozen look is back on your face and your spine straight again, hair fixed in place. You’ve put your armor back on. And like this, you leave.

* 18th of April, 1953

It’s a fine morning in April and Timothée is headed over to madam Marguerite’s apartment, a box of treats from her favourite patisserie in one hand and bouquet of magnolias in the other. Later this week she’s taking him to the opera again, Rossini this time, and he wants to give her something as a thank you.

Outside on the street an ambulance is parked. He walks past it and starts climbing the many stairs to her apartment. When he gets to Marguerite’s floor he’s taken by surprise. The apartment door is wide open and in the doorway stand a sobbing Louise, being comforted by a medic. Dread settles in his stomach.

“What’s going on?” he asks, and he can hear the panic in his own voice. “Where’s madam Marguerite?”

Louise starts sobbing even louder and the kind-looking medic pats her sympathetically on the shoulder.

“She passed away in her sleep last night. This woman here found her this morning”.

Something falls inside Timothée and is lost forever. The ground feels unsteady under his feet and for a second, he waivers. “Have you notified her family?” He asks.

The man shakes his head, “no, not yet”.

“I’ll do it” Timothée says firmly, letting it be known that this isn’t up for discussion.

* “Frederic Fairfax speaking” Freddie’s drawly voice answers when Timothée calls your London address.

“Hello, it’s Timothée Chalamet, could I speak to your wife, it’s urgent”

Silence for ten long seconds.

“No, anything you want to tell her you can tell me” Freddie eventually answers and there’s tension in his voice.

“Is she not in?”

“Yes, she is, but I'd rather you take this with me, Mr. Chalamet”.

“I see” Timmy answers, and he somehow manages to keep the rage he feels out of his voice. “But I have some very distressing and urgent news I have to pass on”.

“Then I suggest you share them with me”

Timothée wants to bang his head against the wall. But he keeps his voice calm. “You see, her greataunt Marguerite has passed away.”

“I see” the other man answers in a cold, unfeeling voice. “Well, if that was all, Mr. Chalamet, good bye.”

And he hangs up.

* May 1st, 1953.

In a red brick building on Chancery Lane, London, Timothée is sitting smoking in an armchair. The solicitor’s office looks like you would imagine a solicitor's office to look like, with oak furniture and cabinets full of files with important documents, outside busy men in suits hustling by and secretaries in pen skirts tapping on their typewriters’.

Madam Marguerite’s solicitor Mr. Lancaster looks on the crowd gathered for the reading of the will.

There’s Timothée, lounging in his chair, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else and avoiding looking at you. There’s you, perfectly poised and wearing black, hands clapped in your lap to stop them from shaking. Then there’s your parents, your black-clad mother sniffling into a tissue and your father, with a grave look on his face.

Freddie is nowhere to be seen, and this surprises Timothée.

“Shall we begin?” the solicitor starts, organizing the papers in front of him. There’s a general hum of agreeing from the crown and Mr. Lancaster clears his throat. “Very well then. I had the great fortune of knowing Mrs. Beauchêne-Wright and I considered her a personal friend. She was a remarkable woman” he clears his throat again and Timothée shuffles with his feet, still not understanding why he’s been called to be present at this occasion. “An extraordinary woman” he repeats and look down at the papers in front of him. “Very well then” he says, before beginning to read from the will. “This is the last will of me Marguerite Beauchêne-Wright of 55 Rue de Châteaudun 75009 Paris -”

* It’s raining outside, a gentle but persistent drizzle. TImothée stands under his umbrella and observes as your mother storms off, her husband at her heel, into a taxi. She slams the door and they drive off, water splashing up on the sidewalk. His head feels foggy. The whole situation feels unreal. He’s standing outside the red brick building smoking, trying to get a grip on the situation. In a few hours he has to get back to Victoria station to take the night train back to Paris.

You walk out of the solicitor's office, a dazed look on your face, seemingly not even noticing the rain falling down. You seem him and walk up to him and he lifts his umbrella so you’re under it too.

“Gotta admit, didn’t see that one coming” he states and hands you his cigarette. You take it gratefully and inhale deeply.

“No” you say, some seconds later, “no I didn’t quite see that coming either”. A homourless laugh escapes you. “They’re furious about it” referring to your parents. “Asked if they could contest the will. Mr. Lancaster told them they didn’t have a leg to stand on”. “So” you say and look up at him. “What are you going to do with the money?”

The money. Marguerite’s entire estate divided between him and the woman in front of him. There had been a few smaller bequests to various people and charities, but the absolute majority of the fortune where to be split between you. Even after all the death duties it was by all consideration a fortune.

“Dunno” he answers. ”Haven’t really thought ahead that far”. And then, because he can’t contain his curiosity anymore. “Where’s dear Freddie then?” You’re silent for a moment, avoiding his eyes as you watch the rain create patterns in the puddles. “Freddie’s left.” you say eventually. “He’s seeking for a divorce. God knows he’s got grounds for it.” the cigarette shakes in your trembling hand. “I’ve been a terrible wife all things considered.”

He’s stunned into silence, too much life-altering information having been dropped on him already today. Eventually he gets a hold of himself and states, because he already knows it to be true, “he knows about us, doesn’t he? About what happened in Paris.”

You nod, and two tears fall down your cheeks. “They’re furious with me.”

“Who are?” he asks, confused.

“My family” “Why?”

A grimace, then “doesn’t matter”. Drop the cigarette on the ground and stomp it out. “Mr. Lancaster says we have to go to Nice. Apparently, most of her possessions are there and we need to go through them. He says that since we own the house now, we can live in it while we do so”.

He observes her for a moment. “I have an exhibition in Paris this month, I can’t leave before that’s done.”

You smile, but it’s still devoid of humour. “And I have a divorce to settle.”

The rain keeps falling around them.

“How about this” you say “we’ll go there in July, a summer on the riviera doesn’t sound too bad, and we’ll...” you trail of for a second “and we’ll settle everything then”.

Gently he puts his fingers under your chin and tilts your head up so that you look at him. You look as if you’re bursting at the seams, like you’re at your last straw. “Alright” he says and leans in to gently press a kiss on your forehead. “Alright, sounds like a plan”. And then he looks you in the eyes again “Everything will be alright, you know. Everything will be fine”.

You smile again, and this time it’s more genuine. Then you lean in, and place the softest of kisses on his mouth.

Then you leave. A/N: jesus christ, I spent a good 25 minutes of my life googling the rules of aristocratic titles in England. Freddie’s father is an earl, that makes freddie as the oldest son a baron and his wife a baronet? Right? If that’s not correct then, well, sorry, but those rules are mind boggling.

Other things I've googled a lot is the language of flowers and what different flowers symbolizes.

That ‘Swedish saying’ timmy refers to in his letter is not a saying but in fact from a song by Veronica Maggio called Stopp and very badly translated by me.

Also. I know that timothée’s letter is a bit... disturbing, but the thought of it wouldn't leave my mind so I had to write it.

I am planning on writing the last part, but this story always takes a lot of effort to write so it’ll be a while.

#timothee chalamet #timothee x reader #timothee x you #timothee x y/n #timothee chalamet x reader #timothèe chalamet #timothée x reader #timothée x you #timothée chalamet #timothee imagine #timothee fanfic

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rossmccallsqueen · 4 years

Text

Music and Lyrics

Brian May x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Brian have just had a beautiful little girl, but she doesn’t have a name yet.

Warnings: N/A (just lots of fluff)

Word count: 1.6K (I know it’s short I’m sorry)

A/N: I know it’s been awhile and I’m so sorry y’all. Quarantine has not been my friend, but I’m so happy to be writing again. I hope you enjoy!

Nine months later and here you were, in your hospital room, absolutely exhausted. You’d been told time and time again that being pregnant and giving birth were truly tiring, but now that you were experiencing it first hand it was an entirely different ball game. It was your first pregnancy after all, so this was so new to you. Your saving grace had been your husband. Brian was not a first-time dad, but this was his first with you. He had been so excited throughout your whole pregnancy, wanting to experience all of your firsts with you.

You knew it was because he hated himself for missing those things with his other children. He was going to be there the whole time, he told you. And he had been. When the two of you had heard your daughter’s heartbeat for the first time you remembered Brian had tears in his eyes. You could tell this was special to him, and the love you felt for him was indescribable in those moments.

You would be lying to yourself if you hadn’t been nervous about Brian becoming a dad again. In the back of your mind, there was that little worry that he wouldn’t give your daughter as much attention and things like that. Every time you’d convince yourself out of it but for some reason, the thought wouldn’t go away. Anxiety was a funny thing sometimes when it came to things like that, you thought. Brian was amazing with his other kids. He had spent so long righting his wrongs with them, and you felt he had done so.

But what if the same things happened again? You didn’t want him to be the dad that your daughter only sees once every couple of weeks. Everyone knows the early years are so important to a child’s well being and life in the long run. You looked over at him, as he was asleep on the couch chair thing that the hospital always puts next to the bed for dads when their significant other was in labor. He looked peaceful, unlike yourself. You’d think that after pushing a whole baby out of you that you’d be tired enough to sleep, but apparently not.

You thought you should at least try to shut your eyes. Maybe then you would be able to trick yourself into falling asleep, but you had your doubts. Just because your eyes were closed, didn’t mean that your brain would turn off at the same time.

Not long after you started to trick yourself into falling asleep, you heard a soft knock on the door.

“Yeah?” You heard Brian say.

“I saw Mum was asleep, so I thought Dad would want to spend some time with the little one. Still no name yet?

“Not yet. I would love to take her.” Brian responded. Small coos came from her mouth as Brian gently took her from the nurse. Followed by the nurse’s footsteps out of the room and the door shut, you opened your eyes just enough to see Brian lean back against his chair bed with your daughter on his chest.

That was another thing that had been on your mind, trying to figure out her name. Whenever one of you came up with something the other one didn’t like it. You were about to ask Freddie because he had named Tiger Lily for Roger. Freddie seemed to be the best at coming up with names. But Brian insisted. He thought that the two of you should come up with it since it was your first child. You just had a child and there were a million things on your mind, no wonder you couldn’t sleep.

You peeked your eye open again one more time, and you saw Brian kissing your daughter’s forehead. He had tucked her in under his t-shirt and was rubbing her back. You kind of wished that you weren’t pretending to be asleep so that you could get the camera out and take a picture. However the more you looked, the more you could tell it was a special moment.

“I cannot believe we still don’t have a name for you, little one. I thought your brother and sister were small, but you give a new meaning to the word.” He spoke so softly. It would always amaze you how he could sing so loudly on stage, but talk so softly to tiny humans.

“You’re absolutely beautiful, just like your mum. You’ve got my nose though, you poor thing. Your mum will say I have a wonderful nose but I’m not so sure that I agree with her.” You smiled, as he was right. You loved Brian’s nose. She started getting a little fussy, and Brian kissed her again.

“Would you like to hear a song? Yeah how about we sing a song. You’ll grow up hearing lots of it baby girl.”

Isn’t she lovely? Isn’t she wonderful?

Isn’t she precious? Less than one minute old

I never thought through love we’d be, making one as lovely as she

But isn’t she lovely, made from love?

He was singing one of your favorite Stevie Wonder songs. He had sung it to her while she was growing inside you, so you knew he would sing it to her once she was born. Your damn hormones were making your eyes water looking at the two of them because it was so sweet. Any worries that you had about Brian before were slowly starting to go out the window. You could already tell that his whole heart and more loved your daughter. Within a day, she was already your whole world.

Isn't she pretty? Truly the angel's best

Boy, I'm so happy, We have been Heaven blessed

I can't believe what God has done

Through us, He's given life to one

But isn't she lovely made from love?

Brian made the song sound like something completely new. His voice had put your daughter to sleep and it was starting to do the same thing to you. You didn’t want to fall asleep yet though, you wanted to watch how precious Brian was being with your daughter. Then it came to you again, you still hadn’t thought of a name for her.

You’d already suggested just about every name you could think of. At least the ones that you’d read in all the baby books you’d been given. She was already looking to be a Daddy’s girl, so maybe Brian would think of something.

You watched the two of them a little bit more. Brian continued to sing and your daughter didn’t make a fuss. His voice was like magic to her. That daddy daughter bond was definitely one to be taken seriously. She had Brian wrapped around her little finger so tightly already.

She had a head full of hair, which she definitely got from Brian. You could see the little curls forming on the top of her head, just like his. She had his nose and his hair, but he’d told you that she had your eyes and your smile (which he had also said were the best features to get). You wanted to hold her, but at the same time it was the sweetest thing getting to observe them. Brian had paused in his singing, and you took the chance to “wake up” from your nap.

“Hello love, who do you have there?” You asked. Brian looked up at you and a warm smile spread across his face.

“Just our little one. She’s the most beautiful little girl I’ve ever laid my eyes on. How did we create something like this?” He kissed her forehead one more time.

“I’ve been asking myself that since she got here. But ya know what?”

“What is it my love?” Brian could barely take his eyes off your daughter.

“She still doesn’t have a name. Maybe we should come up with one?” You suggested, a little smile showing in your tone.

“That might be a good idea, yes.” He laughed a little, and got up out of his chair while holding your daughter tightly in his arms. She was so small his arms almost swallowed her. You moved a little so that Brian could sit down with you on the bed. He maneuvered so that your daughter was laying on the bed in front of you two so that you could both get a good look at her.

“Any ideas Mr. May?” You asked.

“Not a one. How about you Mrs. May?” It always made you feel all warm and glowy inside when he called you that. That would definitely never get old.

“I think I have one.” You smiled. You’d finally thought of it.

“Care to share with the class?” He raised an eyebrow and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“I heard you singing to her. She loved the sound of your voice, it was almost like magic. So I think we should call her Melody.” You looked at Brian for his reaction. His eyes lit up like it was Christmas, and you knew that was the one.

“That’s it. That’s her name! Melody May. What a wonderful name for a wonderful little girl made from love.”

But isn’t she lovely? Made from love.

———————

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writing-of-a-british-bitch · 4 years

Text

I promise

Fandom: Harry Potter

Specified gender: Female

Pairing: George Weasley x reader

TW: violence, insecurity, umbridge being umbridge

Genre: Angst and Fluff

Word Count:3.3K

Request: Would you write about George Weasley dating a Slytherin girl? I love the idea since he's the softer twin and he would never judge. With the family and friends being rather sceptical thinking she is maybe just pranking him, but they actually love each other a lot :)

Masterlist

A/N: I’m kinda proud of this but also not, so I’m sorry if this isn’t what you wanted. Hope you enjoy. Also this is my favourite gif of Fred and George.

(Y/N)'s heart was thrumming aggressively against her chest as she made her way along the long stone corridors. Several students whispered as they watched her pass. News spread quickly in Hogwarts, just as it does in any school and this news was no different. A Weasley and a Slytherin were like water and oil - they never mixed. Yet a Weasley and a Slytherin were wandering down the halls together, hand in hand. Not just a Weasley either, one of the infamous Weasley twins, who were notorious for their pranks against Slytherin in particular.

(Y/N) couldn't help but hold onto George's hand a little tighter, her other hand clutching her luggage. This would be (Y/N)'s first time visiting the rest of the Weasley family, though she was well aware of their opinion of her. George tried his best to lie to her but nothing slips past a Slytherin. She knew very well that Ron and Percy cared very little for their relationship, they were very hesitant, quite understandably so. Slytherin's had been doing them dirty from their first day so (Y/N) couldn't exactly blame them. Fred was, well, Fred. As long as his brother was happy, he couldn't care less. And at first, Molly and Arthur were ecstatic upon reading George's first letter about the couple, but after learning of her house, you could say they were more than a little sceptical. Ginny was especially unsure of their relationship, following her mother in being furiously protective of her family But George, he was everything she'd ever wanted. Respectful and kind, loving and gentle. Who knew the boisterous prankster was such a caring soul? Many couldn't tell Fred from George or Forge from Gred, but (Y/N) was one of the select few. George had a small crook in his nose, he was a few inches taller (despite Fred's constant denial of the fact), while Fred a scar on his left eyebrow and his voice was just a tad bit higher. Barely noticeable things but when you spend as much time with them as (Y/N) does, you learn to tell the difference.

The main thing that split them apart, however, was their personality. Fred was always the first to speak, the one who often suggested the more disruptive, ruckus pranks and the one who took longer someone's emotions. While George, he was the more sensitive of the pair, he would discard any pranks that could hurt anyone involved and he usually was second to speak.

(Y/N) and George's hands remained linked until they reached the train, the pair brushing off the fake gags and teasing comments from Fred with a chuckle and a roll of the eyes.

"How are you and Angelina not together yet, Freddie?" George shot back to one of Fred's comments, barking out a laugh as Fred's cheeks dusted a red that practically matched his hair. Fred huffed indignantly.

"Don't think we didn't notice the googoo eyes you were sending each other at the Yule Ball," (Y/N) added playfully, nudging Fred's arm and he sent them a teasing glare.

"Suprised you guys noticed us since you pair were goggling each other like two idiots," Fred defended weakly, the red of his cheeks spreading to the tips of his ears. (Y/N) and George simply shrugged with a laugh, knowing exactly they had been looking at each other. The Yule Ball had been a, for lack of better words, magical night for them and they had the time of their lives.

"Oi, lovebirds, I'm heading to the trolley, d'you want anything?" Fred asked, pushing himself up from his window seat. The couple shook their heads, mumbling thanks anyway. "Alright, suit yourself. Don't have too much fun while I'm gone."

"He's so going to find Angelina," (Y/N) commented as soon as Fred was out of earshot. George hummed in agreement, lazily throwing his arm around his girlfriend's shoulders.

"Oh definitely," He agreed with a snicker, before pulling her closer and looking out the window, a contented look gracing his pale, freckled features. Seeing him so peaceful made (Y/N) feel bad about the topic she was about to bring up but her palms were clammy and her heart wouldn't stop pounding in fear.

"Hey, Georgie?"

"Yes, love?" George turned his face to look at, who he saw as, the light of his life.

"What if your family don't like me? I know Ginny, Ron and Percy aren't exactly my biggest fans, but what if your mom hates me? Or your dad?" She'd been yet to share any of her insecurities with the ginger but he knew this conversation had been coming for a long time. Any time he brought up meeting his family, she'd change the subject. It took two weeks and nearly all of Fred and George's effort to convince her to even come this time around. George took (Y/N)'s clammy hand into his own and squeezed it tightly.

"Darling, they're going to love you. I know Ron and Percy don't like you much but Percy's a stuck up snob and Ron can be a twat sometimes," The insult made the girl snort, and that alone caused George to grin "And, well, Ginny is very protective. And she scares me and Fred. But they'll come around, they haven't time to get to know you like me and Freddie. Once they see what a sweetheart you are, they'll love you as much as Fred does."

"Why not as much as you do?" She asked, waiting for some cheesy joke.

"Because no one can love you as much as I can."

"God, you have gone soft, haven't you, Weasley?" (Y/N) giggled teasingly, absentmindedly running patterns on his hands. George tugged her closer resulting in her letting out a small screech of laughter.

"Careful, (L/N), your Slytherin is showing," He said, in his typical joking fashion, gently tapping her nose "In all seriousness though, love, my family won't care that you're a Slytherin, it's all going to work out. Don't worry your pretty little head about it."

Just as George leant down to press a kiss to his girlfriend's lips, Fred came bursting back into the compartment. And though he was holding onto some sweets from the trolley, his hair was ruffled and out of shape and there was a clear lipstick smear around his mouth.

"Got the sweets," Fred stated, slightly breathless, stumbling in and plopping down opposite the pair.

"And then some," (Y/N) replied, a sly smile sliding onto her face, and George nudged her with his shoulder despite his obvious agreement.

"Alright, alright. I get it," Fred muttered sheepishly, as he began to open his chocolate frog. (Y/N) and George exchanged a look before deciding to let it go. Just this once.

"Oh, dear, it's so nice to finally meet you!"Two arms latched around (Y/N) in a bear hug before she could even register the voice. Something, however, in the famously tight hug gave her the inkling of a feeling that this was Mrs Weasley. Fred and George had warned her of their mother's python-like grip, and how hard it was to breathe, but until that moment, she'd never believed them. Molly pulled back from the hug and held (Y/N) at arm's length with a beaming smile. But she could see the hesitant past her eyes.

"It's lovely to meet you too, Mrs Weasley. Fred and Georgie have told me all about you," (Y/N) responded politely, returning a kind smile that made Ron and Harry, who were stood behind Molly, do a double-take.

"Oh, now what have you boys told this poor girl?" Molly called over her shoulder to Fred and George, both of whom let out boisterous laughter.

"Didn't need to tell her anything, mum," Fred began, folding his arms, eyes raised playfully.

"She's heard all your howlers," George finished, wrapping an arm around (Y/N) shoulders. (Y/N) gently smacked his chest, berating him for his teasing.

"Don't worry Mrs Weasley, I've been their mother away from home," (Y/N) reassured and George rolled his eyes,

"She's right, our ears are sore from all her bloody tugging and yelling," Fred said, leaning his elbow on (Y/N)'s head.

"Alright, alright, that's enough. Come on, let's get home," Mrs Weasley urged with a warm smile.

The Weasley household was just as hectic as the twins had described. There was constant chatter and shouting and laughing. Even more so with Fred and George's eldest brother, Charlie, visiting. But it was warm and homely and (YN) instantly felt welcomed by the house, even if not so much by the family yet.

"You must be (Y/N)," Mr Weasley said, standing up from the couch as the family entered and offered the girl his hand. (Y/N) shook it firmly and George shot her a reassuring smile.

"You must be Mr Weasley," She returned with a raised eyebrow. Arthur chuckled, already liking the girl's attitude. Percy and, who (Y/N) presumed to be, Bill came down the stairs at the sudden commotion, knowing the family were home. "Ah, Percy, a pleasure as always."

Percy only gave her a curt nod, looking very much like he'd swallowed a lemon. After settling in and meeting Bill, with whom (Y/N) got along with like a house on fire, it was soon time for dinner. The large family all positioned themselves around the table, (Y/N) with a twin on either side. Everyone around her was engaged in conversation but she was quite happy digging into her meal.

"So (Y/N) how are you enjoying Hogwarts?" Arthur questioned, and suddenly all eyes were on her. (Y/N) swallowed her mouthful of food and glanced at George nervously.

"I love it there, Mr Weasley. It's like having a massive family. Well, apart from Malfoy," There was scattered laughter amongst the family, but Ron just gave her a sour look.

"What, even though you're a Slytherin yourself?"He snapped harshly, stabbing some of the food on his plate.

"Ron!" Five voices sounded, belonging to Fred, George, Bill and Mr and Mrs Weasley, narrowing their eyes at the young ginger.

"We're not all that bad Ron, Malfoy and his gang just give us a bad rep, I suppose," (Y/N) said quietly, brushing off the tension. Ginny raised her eyebrows slightly at her comment, always taking Slytherin for those starting arguments, not diffusing them. "The Malfoys have always been stuck up rats who care about their worth and little else."

"I can agree to that one," Fred and George mumbled in unison, both taking a swig of their drinks.

"How did you guys meet (Y/N)?" Bill questioned, changing the subject quickly before anything could escalate.

"The same way anyone meets the twins," (Y/N) muttered sarcastically, and Harry let out a hum in an understanding manner.

"A prank, if the boys' history says anything," Ginny commented, hesitantly including herself into the conversation.

"You'd be quite right, little sis," George nodded, a boyish smile on his face, that reflected Fred's in almost every way. (Y/N) grinned up at her boyfriend and subtly laced their hands under the table.

"Georgie it's freezing up here!" (Y/N) whined as George tugged her up onto the roof of the burrow. He laughed softly and sat down, pulling her with him and wrapping the blanket he'd brought around them.

"I wanted some time with you away from my beyond crazy family," (Y/N) curled herself closer to her boyfriend, resting her head on his shoulder. He placed his head on top of her own, and she giggled as his long ginger hair blew in front of her nose.

"Your Mum and Dad are lovely. I don't think your siblings are too fond yet though," It was true, while George's parents, Fred and Bill had taken a liking to her, instantly softening when she was around, Percy, Ron and Ginny were still very stiff about her and her house.

"As I said, they'll come around. And anyway, who cares? You're the love of my life and I don't care about what house you're in," George turned his head to press a kiss to her forehead. (Y/N) let out a small sigh.

"I know I just... don't like the little biting comments. Or the glares. Reminds me too much of my house back at Hogwarts," George had been made aware of the comments a lot of Slytherin's made at Hogwarts, comments that only intensified when they had started dating.

"Do you want me to talk to them?" He asked sympathetically, running his hand up and down her arm.

"No, no, it's okay. They'll just have to get used to me," (Y/N) eventually said, after a long, pregnant pause. George slid his hand down to hers and squeezed it firmly.

"It'll be okay, I promise."

And it was. Granted, it took the remaining Weasley's a long time to trust (Y/N) but slowly, Ginny began talking to her more, Ron stopped blaming her for things and started to open up a bit more, though he was still very iffy with her and Percy, well, was still Percy. It's hard to tell whether he ever liked someone or not. Everything was going perfect, just the way George had promised.

Until Umbridge that is. It was their last year. The last year they could have fun at school before they left and joined the world of adulthood. But the second her toad-like, pink wool wearing face stepped in front of the great hall, they knew it wouldn't be so. All of a sudden, Defence Against the Dark Arts was changed, Quidditch was cancelled and an insane amount of stupid rules were brought into place. Including a rule stating that boys and girls must remain six inches apart. Of course, (Y/N) and George didn't listen, in the pure Weasley fashion.

George was the first to get a detention with Umbridge, though not for breaking the six-inch rule. Fred and George had pranked Snape and Umbridge, swapping the colours of their offices around entirely. Initially, they had expected to be cleaning Snape's cauldrons without magic, but they ended up coming out of detention with fresh wounds on the back of their hands. And livid couldn't even begin to describe how (Y/N) felt about what had happened.

"Georgie, what's wrong with your hand?" (Y/N) had asked as soon as he came back from his detention with a bandage wrapped around it.

"It's, uh, nothing. I don't want you to worry about it," George shrugged, putting his hands in his pocket with a wince. (Y/N), however, was having none of it, storming straight over to him and tenderly pulled his hands out of his pockets. (Y/N) began to unwrap his bandage. A soft gasp escaped her as she saw George's hand.

"' I must not disrespect or humiliate my teachers'?" (Y/N) read in a hushed voice "This is Umbridge, isn't it?" Her eyes narrowed and George knew what was about to happen. (Y/N) pushed past him, but he both grabbed her with his non-injured hand.

"(Y/N), I'm okay, just leave it alone," George reassured, pulling her back but she just shook her head angrily, folding her arms.

"No, George! I'm not letting that toad hurt my loved ones! Fred has the same thing, I'm guessing?" (Y/N) asked, giving him a look that just dared him to argue with her further. George sighed in defeat.

"Yes, yes he does. Love, I really wouldn't worry. If you tried to defy her you'd just get the same thing. I'm okay, Fred's okay. I promise," George gently tugged her forward and into a tight hug, resting his chin on her head. (Y/N) huffed against his chest.

"She hurt you and Fred, though, Georgie. She can't get away with this," She grumbled in annoyance. "She'll get what she deserves, definitely from me anyway."

Dinner in the great hall was quiet. Eerily so. It was never this quiet. Teachers were beginning to get fidgety at the lack of noise from the students. The Weasley twins were missing, as was Ron and (Y/N). The main causes of noise. Harry and Hermione couldn't help but wonder where most of the Weasley's had disappeared to. It wasn't uncommon for George and (Y/N) to miss dinner, or even Fred for that matter, but Ron never missed anything to do with food. The two doors to the great hall suddenly burst open and a red-faced Slytherin came charging in, with three Weasleys hot on her heels, trying to stop her. But nothing could stop her.

"You absolute toad! A rotten, little snake! How dare you?!" A few teachers stood up at the disturbance, but (Y/N) couldn't focus on them, all she could see was the pink toad she was pointing her finger at. Umbridge stood up and moved around the table to the front of the hall, a smug smile on her face. (Y/N) had nearly reached the front when the Weasley's finally managed to grab onto her, one hand on her one arm and two on the other.

"Miss (L/N), Mr Weasley's, what is the meaning of this?" Umbridge asked in her normal pompous voice. McGonagall moved around the table as well and stood in front of the students.

"That's enough, you four. Back to your tables," She ordered, and reluctantly, Ron and Fred moved back, but since (Y/N) had yet to move, George declared it not safe for him to move yet either. "Mr Weasley, Miss (L/N), now," Gradually, George and (Y/N) began to move back to their tables

"Not you, Miss (L/N)," Umbridge spoke, and she saw several of the teachers, Snape included shift uncomfortably. McGonagall squeezed her arm, knowing she no longer had control of the situation and walking back to the table. "I believe you require punishing, bursting in like that and disrupting our lovely meal."

"No, you listen here, you cockroach, you can do what you like to me, but you leave everyone here alone! You may be the headmistress of this school, but the use of a black quill is illegal! It's torture! And you've been using against students who defy you!" (Y/N) yelled, and students began whispering and the teachers exchanged looks of surprise and shock. George's foot was shaking under the table nervously and Ron and Ginny were gaping at her

"What nonsense," Umbridge commented simply, in her normal girlish manor. "I think you shall join me in detention, so you can see how wrong you are, tomorrow evening."

(Y/N) let out an indignant huff, glaring at her, knowing she could say little else. Malfoy let out a snicker, along with Crabbe and Goyle, and Snape shot them a glare.

"You're going to get what's coming to you," She mumbled, turning around and rushing back out, furiously stomping back to her common room, her fist hitting one of the walls on the way, splitting the skin of her knuckles.

"What the bloody hell happened back there?" Ginny requested as soon as she and her brothers had gotten back to the common room. Fred and George both flopped onto the couch as Ron sat down on one of the armchairs. Harry positioned himself on the floor between the twins and Ron.

"(Y/N), uh, she saw this," Ron lifted his hand to show them the cuts from his latest Umbridge detention "And she just lost it. Started shouting about how she was going to kill Umbridge, then she sprinted. We had to go after her, she was chuntering the entire away, we tried to stop her, George was trying to calm her down. She was bloody terrifying."

"I've never seen her that angry before," Fred stated, slightly shaken about it all, and mildly confused, his eyebrows furrowed. George shook his head slightly.

"Me either."

"Wait, you're telling me she got angry because Umbridge hurt Ron. Why would she care?" Hermione asked, crossing her arms.

"She's fiercely protective of the ones she loves. She'd die to protect them," George explained, rather harshly, disliking Hermione's tone.

"I thought she didn't like us," Ron murmured, slightly embarrassed.

"You're my family. Anyone important to me is important to her," George snapped back, narrowing his eyes a little, suddenly getting very protective. Ron and Ginny both went silent, awkwardly running their hands through their hair and looking away. Maybe (Y/N) wasn't as bad as they thought.

Not bad at all.

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hb-writes · 4 years

Note

So since I am obsessed with LLB and the 40 question ask thing is my forte I have requested quite a few, sorry in advance.

8, 10, 12, 18, 21, 22, 24, 29, 33

If you would like to include Finn in these or even Tommy please feel free, it would be nice to see how they think too!!xx

No need to apologize. I’m very much enjoying these!

I will offer the disclaimer that these are just my opinions of Tommy/ Finn from the LLB-verse. Opinions may not be 100% canon compliant, so don’t come @ me. :)

This is QUITE long.

8. Does your oc prefer being in a crowd or being completely alone? How many people can be around them before they get uncomfortable?

Clara: She would absolutely choose being alone over being in a crowd, though if it’s people she knows (family, blinders, etc), she can manage just fine. She really prefers one to one interactions.

Finn: I do think he enjoys adventures and outings and risk taking and generally prefers a crowd but would definitely need alone time to recharge after.

Tommy: I feel like Tommy will tolerate and navigate crowds well but certainly doesn’t prefer them. I don’t think he particularly enjoys being completely alone either though.

10. How open is your oc to trying new things? Are they the adventurous sort, or would they rather stay in their comfort zone? Why?

Clara: Clara likes the idea of new things but also finds a lot of comfort in the familiar and what she knows she’s good at. She generally prefers her comfort zone but also loves to learn so she is always pushing at the edges of her comfort zone, it just may be in a slower, more cautious way.

Finn: Finn likes new things. He likes to be “brave” and is constantly seeking to show the brothers the new things he can do.

Tommy: I think Tommy leans heavily towards “adventurous” side, though when he does these things it doesn’t even come across as adventurous, just like normal Tommy behavior. I feel like he is so unfazed by most things that the things we normal humans would consider “adventurous” are just well within his comfort zone.

12. Does your oc have any best friends? Who was/is their closest friend? What about their worst enemy?

Clara: I think she considers her siblings best friends, especially Finn, Ada, and Tommy. Isiah. She’ll get a new friend outside of the family/ Blinders later in the series.

Finn: Clara. John. Isiah (this may not translate 100% to canon but it does for our purposes).

Tommy: Does this man have actual friends? Greta, Freddie, and Grace. Polly? Lizzie? Johnny? Alfie? Clara :) this will shift more and more as she gets older and Tommy learns to rely on her in different ways.

18. How does your oc fare in an emergency situation? Do they panic, do they freeze, do they take charge?

Clara: Answered here

Finn: Immediately ready to take action though whether his brain has caught up with the movements of his body yet is debatable. Very much an act first, think/ process later, so a mix of take charge and panic. lol.

Tommy: He definitely takes charge, but I will say if it’s an emotionally charged situation (I’m thinking specifically of when Charlie is taken), there’s at least a moment of panic/ crumbling before our typical Tommy kicks in.

21. Are there any public events your oc would love to go to? Concerts, plays, movies, parties, etc? What about ones that they would hate? Why?

Clara: Clara would love going to plays, concerts, ballets, dance halls, and the pictures. She would like parties to a certain extent. It would depend on the crowd. She’d love for her brothers to let her go to the races! Unapologetically has zero interest whatsoever in the vast majority of sporting events.

Finn: Finn has no interest in plays or most concerts, but he likes the pictures and loves to party.

Tommy: I think Tommy actually would not be opposed to plays and ballets. I’ve decided he enjoys certain pictures. He could give or take on the parties or concerts.

22. How quiet or loud is your oc? Are they easily capable of sneaking around without being heard, or do they feel it’s impossible to stop talking?

Clara: She has an overwhelming capacity for being both. She can be chatty as heck with those she’s familiar with, but also spends a lot of time in quiet contemplation. She’s definitely not stealthy despite trying (she’s clumsy).

Finn: Loud. He goes through a shyer/ uncertain phase in teen years, but Finn is overall loud. Not capable of sneaking. Not possible to keep the boy quiet.

Tommy: Tommy can sneak around no problem and has absolutely no issue with barely speaking. However, he can be very loud. “NO FUCKING FIGHTING!” comes to mind.

24. How dramatic is your oc? Do they make a big deal over every little thing, or do they fail to react to even the most crazy of events?

Clara: Answered here

Finn: Finn’s dramatic, especially compared to the other brothers. They assume it’s because he’s soft and because he didn’t go to war and because he’s been so influenced by his twin and older sister and aunt.

Tommy: I feel like some things he does come across a bit dramatic (or unnecessary??) but I know they’re all extremely well-thought out/ explained so I get it. Example: Going to Wales to get himself absolved of guilt after Grace’s death feels dramatic, but also I get it? Example: Pulling your sister out of school because of some little fights... feels dramatic, but also he’s ten steps ahead of us thinking on some other level, putting something in motion now that won’t pan out for 5 - 10 years.

29. How empathetic is your oc? Or are they closer to being a sociopath? Any reason why?

Clara, Finn, and Tommy: I actually think they’re all empathetic, actually, and able to understand others’ emotions, experiences, and motives.

33. How does your oc’s own perception of themselves compare to how other people see them? Is your oc aware that other people see them differently (if it’s different)?

Clara: Hm. I think Clara knows she’s a clever child, knows that other people think she’s clever and sweet. With time, I think she’ll come to be a bit underestimated. People will continue to see her as a child and very naive even as she grows beyond those distinctions.

Finn: Finn is also underestimated. I think people believe him to be a bit dim, but he’s actually not! He’s also feels like he’s got to perpetually prove himself though he doesn’t.

Tommy: I feel like Tommy’s very aware of what other people think of him but probably doesn’t care with the exception of a select few people. I think Tommy believes (hopes) he’s a decent human being under all of it and some people may believe that to be true. Others, not so much. I think Tommy simultaneously thinks very highly of himself and thinks he’s awful. I think this depends also on what “other people” we’re talking about - family/ friends or the public/ enemies.

#little lady blinder #clara shelby #finn shelby #tommy shelby #asks

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storytellerssanctum · 4 years

Text

Petals & Thorns - chapter 11/?

Pairing: Fred Weasley x oc

Warnings: none

Word count: 2k

The days passed by slow. Adalinda had taken a week off of her classes, refusing to leave her dorm. This was painful for her brother, because he couldn't even get to her if he wanted to. When she left her room, it was either very early in the morning or very late at night. It was her goal to avoid everyone she could until the marks subsided from her skin, or they became easy to cover. Fred's wandering eyes missed her in every one of their shared classes. He searched for her in the great hall at every meal, but he was left empty handed each time. He fell victim to her love, and the more she was absent, the more he pained. He wanted to know what was wrong, he needed to know what happened, but he couldn't ask anybody. If he showed any sign of concern, they'd be figured out for sure.

So the late night came around. The castle was eerily quiet. Addy was sneaking out of the dorm to get to the washroom. She could've went to the one connected to her dorm, but she thought a walk might do her good. In truth, she wanted to stretch her legs more than she actually had to use the toilet. She just wanted a good excuse to leave. She could always sweet talk Filch if she had to. She had enough snacks from her parents monthly care package to last her all year, so she didn't have to leave her room for any reason. It just became a little daunting after a while. The dark purple of her cheek had begun to subside into smaller black marks with yellow tinging the edges. In a few more days it would be easy enough to cover with the right amount of makeup, but not yet. She felt herself going slightly insane at the isolation. It had been days since she had spoken to anyone, days since anyone had touched her. She didn't long for just anybody's hold, she wanted someone in specific. Unbeknownst to her, it would come sooner than she expected.

When she let herself out of the common room, she had to stop herself from letting out a shriek of terror. A ginger boy stood, back against the wall from where he had seen the Slytherin's disappear into occasionally. "I figured you might come out at this time. You can't stay locked up forever." Fred said, gently. She hid her face from him. "What are you hiding from, Addy?" He reached out to grab her hand, but she backed away. She hoped that maybe if she pushed him away for now, he wouldn't find out about what had happened. "Did I do something wrong?" He sounded hurt as he asked. Her eyes finally lifted to meet his. He couldn't make out much in the darkness. Her hair was still covering her cheeks.

"No, Freddie. You didn't do anything." He took a step towards her. She wanted to go back into the common room, she thought maybe it would save him the heartbreak of knowing the truth. She couldn't make herself do it, though. Being this close to him was something she had craved for the whole week. "It wasn't you."

"Then tell me what's happening. I haven't seen you in days, and now you're sneaking out of your dorm at nearly midnight."

"You're the creep that was waiting for me." She felt a smile etch onto her lips. It was the first one she mustered in a while. "I've had nothing but you on my mind all week." She let him grab her hands.

"Why don't we take this to the room of requirement?" He whispered. She let him lead her off into the darkness. They stopped only when the familiar wall came into view, and the door showed itself. He ushered her inside, following closely after her. The room, it seemed, had transformed itself into a whole house. There were couches, a bed, miscellaneous items littering the walls. She laughed at sight. She wished she would've stayed in here instead of her bedroom. The bed looked much cozier. "Are you going to look at me now?" Fred asked from behind her, taking in the sight around him.

"You'll be upset." She told him.

"Come on, Addy." He walked up behind her, leaning down and resting his head on her shoulder. He kissed her cheek. She flinched at the action. His heart ached at her withdrawal. "Seriously, what is up with you?" He asked. She finally turned to face him. At first, he didn't notice. Then, she pulled her hair away from her shoulder. What he saw made him sick to his stomach. "He did that to you?" Fred asked, reaching a hand out to her. He let his fingers gently caress the skin that had been marked.

"It was a mistake." She explained. Fred shook his head.

"That was no mistake, Ad." He took her into his arms. "You have to leave him." He said as she let herself melt into his body.

"I can't leave him. It might put you in danger if anybody found out what was going on between us."

"Well you're in danger if you stay, sweetheart." He lifted her chin and placed a kiss on her lips. He didn't want to show her how angry he was. He knew he had to be the comforting person she needed in that moment. Underneath that, he wanted to kill the Slytherin boy. He wanted to do so much worse to Adrian than what he'd done to Addy. Addy might not have seen it, but Pucey had been walking around school laughing and joking while she hid in her room. While she wasn't present, he flirted with all of the other Slytherins. She was protecting a reputation with a man that would destroy her. He had no remorse for what he'd done to Adalinda, and he would do it again given the right chance. Fred did not want to tell her this, afraid it might hurt her even more. Adrian was ruining her reputation when she couldn't defend it. People were starting to believe Addy wasn't as powerful as she held herself because the boy wasn't scared of her.

"Let's not talk about him," she ushered him to take a seat on the couch. He obeyed, taking to the furniture without another word. She sat next to him. She had been so close to going insane, close to not believing anyone could truly love her. Adrian made her feel less than human. When she found herself with Fred, he brought everything back. His grace gave her salvation. He let her piece together the scraps and make her into a person again. He pulled her into his arms. She rested her head on his chest, closing her eyes. Her overworked mind was exhausted. She wanted to shut everything out and focus on the feeling he was giving. "I just want to cherish you." She whispered. His fingers traced over her back, giving her a shiver. "I don't want this to be a mistake, Fred."

"You could never be a mistake. I've never felt this way before."

"I don't want to get attached and have you realize you want a simpler life. I'm not giving you what you deserve." She looked up at him.

"You're giving me everything I could ever want, and more than that." He kissed her forehead. The two had maneuvered into a lounging position rather than sitting. They were wrapped in each other's arms. "I would wait forever if it meant I could be yours." He promised. She tilted her head up, connecting their lips.

"I can't wait until it's just you and I." She whispered, her lips still grazing the boys. He kissed her cheek.

"Take as long as you need," he murmured. "But I really don't like the thought of you with Adrian." She had to laugh.

"Because you know he kisses me too?" He scoffed.

"No, I know you only think of me when you kiss him." Fred laughed.

"Cocky, much?" She let her head fall back to his chest. "You're right, though."

"I know I am." His hands caught in her loose hair, twirling it between his fingers. "But that's not what I meant." His mouth turned into a frown. "I don't want him to hurt you anymore."

"I'm a big girl, I can handle it." She closed her eyes again, letting comfort seep into her pores.

"You shouldn't have to."

"The pieces will fall together eventually." She assured him, letting her body relax. She felt at home with the ginger boy. He gave her peace of mind that she couldn't seek on her own.

"I don't want them to fall in the wrong place." He said, resting his head on the arm of the sofa. He felt his eyes close, too. He couldn't help but revel in the feeling of holding her.

"Everything that's meant to work out, will, Fred. That's the way it is." Those were the last words they spoke. They drifted into a slumber, and did not wake until early the next morning.

When she finally stirred, stretching her legs, she was confused. She didn't remember where she was. The couch struck her odd, but the body below her was worse. She nearly screamed when she saw Fred sleeping under her. She couldn't believe they had slept through the night. She prodded her lover, pulling him from his sleep. He grunted at her first contact, not wanting to wake yet. "Fred, wake up." She whispered. "We fell asleep in the room of requirement." She searched the wall frantically for a clock, hoping the time was early enough to allow them back to their common rooms without notice. She was more worried about herself, she had nothing to cover her face. Fred could lie, say he woke early. If anyone caught her, her week of absence would be easily explained.

"What are you on about? It's Saturday, it doesn't matter." He grunted.

"It matters because you didn't go back to your dorm last night!" She said, shrilly. "Don't you think your roommates will become curious?" She questioned. He waved her off.

"I'll make up an excuse. Go back to sleep." He opened his arms, wanting her to come back. She tried so hard to resist it, knowing she couldn't.

"Freddie, I can't. I have to go back to my dorm." She kissed him on the cheek, standing from the couch.

"If everyone thinks you're in your dorm, nobody will notice you're gone. You don't have a roommate, dummy." He grumbled, pulling a pillow to his chest. She took him into consideration. He remembered she told him she didn't have a roommate. It was comforting that he remembered her small details.

"What happens when I have to go back? Somebody will catch me in the hallway." She told him.

"Ad, look around. This place turned itself into a whole house. Why would you need to go back? We have a bathroom, a bed, there's probably food around here if you get hungry. It's the room of requirement! It has anything you could possibly think of. If you're going to hide, you might as well do it with me." He finally opened his eyes. "You can go back tonight after curfew if you're so scared. This place is probably much nicer than your dormitory, anyway." He was convincing, she had to give him that.

"What if somebody finds out?" She asked.

"You didn't care any other time we were in here." She looked around. He had a fair point. She'd much rather spend her time in here. If she left now, some early risers might catch her.

"At least move over to the bed then, you tosser." She teased. He looked awfully uncomfortable with his tall body scrunched up on the small couch. He gave her a grin, standing up and stretching. He nearly sprinted to the bed the room had presented. The two climbed in and found themselves falling back asleep.

Tags: @play-morezeppelin @peachy-lalisa

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its-sixxers · 4 years

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OC Interview - Tin Lizzy

name ➔ “Elizabeth. Dad liked to call me Tin Lizzy, so that’s what my friends call me.” She smiles. “What most people call me. I don’t mind, whatever you prefer.”

are you single ➔ She laughs, somewhat bashfully. “No, I’m spoken for.”

are you happy ➔ “As happy as I can be, I suppose. Work is tiring, but fulfilling. We all have our bad days.” Her smile remains, but her eyes are sad.

are you angry ➔ A shake of the head. “No. Too late for that now, I think.”

are your parents still married ➔ “As long as they were alive.” Her eyes dart to her feet for a moment. “Dad never remarried, so...”

NINE FACTS

birthplace ➔ A sigh. “The Memorial, I suppose. D.C. Raised in the vault, though. That was home.” There’s emphasis on was.

hair color ➔ There’s a little wrinkle in her brow at that. “It used to be auburn.” She takes a few strands of thinning hair between her fingers. “It’s... duller, now. I don’t mind it! I prefer this-” She gestures at her face. “-to the alternative.”

eye color ➔ “Blue.” Her right eye is clouded, darkened around the edges. It won’t be for long.

birthday ➔ “July 13, 2258.” She recites it as if she’s done so many times.

mood ➔ “Now? I suppose anxious. I’m waiting for test results to process.”

gender ➔ “I’m a woman, whatever Butch tells you.” Another laugh.

summer or winter ➔ “Summer! My birthday.”

morning or afternoon ➔ “I’ve never been a morning person.” The dark circles under her eyes seem to attest to that, though you’re not certain if they’re from sleeplessness or the radiation.

EIGHT THINGS ABOUT YOUR LOVE LIFE

are you in love ➔ Her smile is wide and genuine - and a bit mischievous. “Yes. It’s a secret, though.” A wink.

do you believe in love at first sight ➔ “It hasn’t happened to me, and I think it’s best to know who you’re giving your heart to, but - that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen to people, I suppose.”

who ended your last relationship ➔ “I’ve never had one before this.” she confesses, lowering her tone. “I asked Freddie Gomez out once. I think I scared him.”

have you ever broken someone’s heart ➔ She bites her lip. “Maybe. I think I made it better. I hope so.”

are you afraid of commitments ➔ That gets a good belly laugh out of her. “I thought you knew who you were talking to. Isn’t that why you’re doing this? Wouldn’t have done what I’ve done if I was afraid to commit - to anything, not just relationships.”

have you hugged someone within the last week? ➔ “Mhm.” she purrs, looking quite self-satisfied.

have you ever had a secret admirer ➔ “Maybe. I got a few notes slipped in my locker, but those could have been pranks. I never put much weight on them, to tell the truth.” A finger - skin mottled - taps against her lips thoughtfully. “Hm.”

have you ever broken your own heart? ➔ A nervous laugh that turns into a slight wince. “Yes. We’ve all been young and stupid. Don’t look so sad! It didn’t last long.” She pats the interviewer’s knee reassuringly.

SIX CHOICES

love or lust ➔ “Love.” It’s exhaled dreamily. “The second part comes with the territory.”

lemonade or iced tea ➔ “Lemonade. Dad never put sugar in his iced tea, and I’ve got a terrible sweet tooth.”

cats or dogs ➔ “Don’t make me choose.” A frown. “I keep both.”

a few best friends or many regular friends ➔ “I’m not very good at these if I keep wanting to say both, am I? Oh, fine. A few best friends.”

wild night out or romantic night in ➔ “I’ve had enough wild nights to last a life time. I’d much rather stay in.” A sidelong glance to the terminals and machinery filling the room. “Not here, of course. I don’t like to mix work and play.”

day or night ➔ “Day. It’s safer.”

FIVE HAVE YOU EVERS

been caught sneaking out ➔ Her smile’s a sheepish one. “Amata and I smuggled a bottle of wine into the maintenance tunnels at night when we were seventeen. Jonas caught us.”

fallen down/up the stairs ➔ “My eyesight’s not as good as it used to be.” she admits. “And I was never graceful to begin with. So - yes. Yes I have.”

wanted something/someone so badly it hurt? ➔ “That’s a... strange question to follow up with.” Lizzy swallows and smooths out her labcoat nervously. “Yes. Several things. All impossible.” Her expression softens by a degree. “Except one. That gives me faith.”

wanted to disappear ➔ “Of course. I still do, sometimes.” A shy sort of smile. “No offense, but - the attention I’ve received, the influence I’d had - I never wanted it. It’s a terrible burden to bear. It’s also why I happen to have my clinic in such a remote area-” she raises a brow. “-though not remote enough, it seems.”

FOUR PREFERENCES

smile or eyes ➔ “Oh, eyes, definitely.” She’s clearly thinking of someone as she says this.

shorter or taller ➔ “I don’t see too many people shorter than I am.” A shrug of her shoulders. “Not outside of Big Town, anyways, so - taller.”

intelligence or attraction ➔ “I don’t care about appearances, if that’s what you mean.” Another vague gesture at her face. “Don’t think it’s just because of this, didn’t bother me before either. A sharp mind’s rare. I appreciate it.”

hook-up or relationship ➔ “I’ve never really had the former, so I can’t really speak properly on the matter. I see why people do it. But... I like stability. Hard as it is to find.”

FAMILY

do you and your family get along ➔ Those sad eyes return. “We did.”

would you say you have a “messed up life” ➔ “I’ve had much better than most in the Wasteland.” she stresses. “I’ve had my share of tragedy - terrible tragedies - but the majority of my life has been a calm one.” It sounds like she’s trying to convince herself more than the interviewer.

have you ever ran away from home ➔ “I got upset when I was five. Dad wouldn’t let me have another bowl of Sugar Bombs. I packed my toys into a little blanket and dragged it to Amata’s doorstep. Took one look at her father and changed my mind.” Her smile’s more of a wince.

have you ever gotten kicked out ➔ Silence for a few moments. “Yes. You must know. Can’t ever go back.” Another glance at her surroundings. “But home isn’t a place, it’s people. I learned that.”

FRIENDS

do you secretly hate one of your friends ➔ Lizzy blinks, opens her mouth a few times as if considering her next words carefully. “Hated.” she clarifies. “Amata. I... it was hard to forgive her. I did. Have. But...”

do you consider all of your friends good friends ➔ “There are people I know better than others. Trust better than others. Time decides if we grow closer or drift apart. That... doesn’t answer the question, does it?” A short exhale. “No. No, I don’t.”

who is your best friend ➔ “Butch DeLoria, though I don’t see him as often as I’d like to anymore.”

who knows everything about you ➔ The mischievous smile returns. “That’s a secret, too.” A shadow shifts against the wall, gone unnoticed until now. “Is that all?”

#wanted to do this for lizzy since she's the one with a fleshed out childhood n stuff #well #a childhood she's willing to talk about anyways #the others don't like the subject #oc: tin lizzy / lone wanderer #feelin like giving her some love lately sry

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hockeybabestars · 4 years

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New Year, Same Us - Auston Matthews - Ten

a/n: guys, we’ve come to the end. apologies for not going on schedule with this chapter, i had break and then i was back at school studying for finals. i hope that you guys enoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it! this is the longest story i’ve wrote that i’ve actually finished so i’m proud of it! i’m gonna finish up my winter prompts (and maybe write a few more for funsies) and then im going to focus on stories i have in progress/ coming up! thank you for sticking with this story ! last but not least check out my wattpad for a bonus/alternate scene from this story!! same username : hockeybabestars

April 14, 2019 : Epilogue

“Babe?” Auston yelled from our room.

“What?” I popped the toast out of the toaster and mashed up some avocado on top, doing so with a little pep in my step. It just felt like a good morning. It was decently early, and the open concept windows of our apartment helped me wake up a little better as I put on my favorite playlist. The giddy smile that hadn’t left my face since we got together was still on full display.

“Come backkkk.” He whined. I was almost like I could picture him plopping down onto messy white sheets and groaning in annoyance- oh wait I can actually hear that.

“No you come here!” I smile knowing that he will. He can’t say no, so I wait. There was a pause and then I hear the padding of his feet as he comes into the kitchen where I’m making breakfast. His t-shirt falls to my mid thigh but rises up higher as he wraps his arms around my waist from behind. He nuzzled his face into my neck and I squirm a little as it tickles, especially with his scruff of a mustache.

“Good morning.” He plants kisses across the exposed skin on my collar bone as I turn to face him, properly greeting my boyfriend.

I kissed his lips, lingering a little before replying, “glad to see you’re up.”

“Yeah well we both could’ve been back in bed just saying.” He playfully shrugs and I laugh, “your loss.” He goes to the fridge pulling out some orange juice as he pours us a glass and I make some scrambled eggs. It was peaceful, being with him like this. Things weren’t really all that different, except now we got to kiss each other and sleep in the same bed.

“I’m not really missing out.” I joke.

“Oh really?” He smirked, sitting down at the island and I could already sense the competitive nature coming out in him as I finished making breakfast.

“What?” I grinned.

“Get over here and I’ll show you what you’re missing.”

“Bring it on Matthews.” I sauntered over to him, teasing him as he placed his hands on my hips and looked up at me, “go ahead, show me what I’m missing.”

He yanked me down into his lap and I yelped as he peppered light kisses all over my face and neck while simultaneously tickling my waist. I giggled and leaned away, “stop!” I laugh, “seriously stop before we topple over- eek!” The bar stools were anything but steady as we swayed over it. “You secretly love it.” he said as we caught our breaths. And I did, secretly love this, the lazy mornings with him, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. I only smiled as I went to grab the eggs and toast I made before he interrupted the productive groove I was in.

I set our plates down but before I took a bite I gave him one last kiss, just because I could. And it’s so good, so sweet, so right, I’m still not used to it. The butterflies were alight in my stomach as I pull away and sit down before he looks at me funny.

“What?” I asked finally taking a bite of my avo toast.

“I can’t believe you’re mine.”

“Don’t be cheesy Aus.” But the blush on my face probably gives me away. And maybe the slight smile too.

He sticks his tongue out at me and I laugh at his childish nature. “I love you.”

“Love you too.” I stick my tongue out too.

He hums in acknowledgement, and kisses me on the cheek this time before muttering a “thanks for breakfast” and digging in.

It was weird at first, to say the least. When Mitch invited a couple of us to have a bonfire at his parents house I really didn’t know what to expect. It wasn’t at least half the team and their significant others that’s for sure.

The fire was blazing as I zipped up my coat, going to find Auston in one of those adirondack chairs talking to Freddie in an identical one next to him. He smiled as I walked up and sat down in his lap facing Freddie. Freddie just grinned and I could feel Aus looking at me and whatever they were talking about before I got there seemed to cease.

“What?” I looked at him and he was already smiling, his gaze glancing down to my lips. “Nothing.” He leaned in and gave me a sweet peck.

“I always knew you guys would end up together.” Freddie stated. He let a little half smile grace his features.

“You did? Cause I didn’t.” I grinned. Auston swatted my hand lightly and then let his hand rest on my upper thigh.

“You two were so obvious before you both even realized that you had feelings for each other. I’m just glad you put yourselves out of your misery.” He gave the two of us a side smile, “or at least everyone else out of theirs.” We both had a chuckle at that.

“It wasn’t that obvious.” I tried playing it off but apparently Kappy caught wind of our conversation as he was passing and decided to invite himself in. “Yes it was.”

“Kap!” I whined, turning my mouth into a pout.

“Oh you weren’t too crazy.” He leaned up against Fred’s chair and gave Auston a little point, “I was talking about him.”

“Oh shut it.” He laughed and wrapped my arms around him and hugged him to me tighter. “You had a wittle crush?” I taunted, laughing as he tried to shake his head no and Kappy and Freddie were shaking theirs violently yes.

“(Y/N/N) the last month before New Years was the worst! He was all, ‘I wonder what (Y/N) will think about my outfit, I wonder what she’ll think of my goal, I should call her, when is she gonna call me?’ Blah blah blah.” Kap rolled his eyes and I looked at Auston to see his face was a little flushed.

“Alright detective we get the picture.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m gonna go find some stuff to make s’mores.”

“Kappy wait!” I called and he turned around raising a brow. “What was that bet you and Willy made at the bar that one time? Christmas I think?”

He laughed and gave me a little ‘tsk‘ , “I told you (Y/N/N)!” He crosses his heart and my eyes were already rolling, “I know, I know!” And we simultaneously said “leafs honor.”

Auston looked at me confused but I just patted him on the shoulder, “I know as much as you do dude.” And he snorted at that.

“It’s cute ya know.” I continued, running my fingers through his hair, twirling the ends, “That you care that much. I never knew these things so it’s nice to hear.” An easy smile fell on my lips as those brown eyes looked into mine.

He leaned in and gave me another kiss on the lips, and just as I was about to pull away he pulled me back tighter and I smiled against his lips. “Get a room you too!” Mitch yelled.

“Are you sure it’s okay in your parents house?” Auston chirped back and I burst into a fit of giggles along with everyone else at the look on Mitch's face.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Your childhood bedroom have a lock on it?” He smirked and elbowed him maybe a little too hard on that one. “Auston!” Although the laughter ricocheted around the backyard.

“Baby ow!”

“That didn’t hurt, and that’s weird!!”

“I’m only teasing.” But the smirk was there all the same.

“Sure you are.” Steph laughed.

It was nice having everyone gathered so close. It felt like a home away from home, but I knew I had already found mine long before we came to Toronto. It took forever but the build ended up being worth it in the end. No matter where we go, or how far along we get on our journey, we’re always going to be the same us.

#auston matthews #auston matthews imagine #toronto maple leafs #maple leafs #tml #friends to lovers #friends to more #new year same us #nysu #nysu fic #hbsimagine #hockeybabestars #hockey boys #hockey stories #nhl players #nhl stories

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freddiesaysalright · 5 years

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Peace Like A River Part 1

A Gwilym Lee x Reader Story

Summary: Reader is a stand up comic with a pretty dark past. She has a three new lights in her life: her daughter, Violet; her anonymous correspondent, Dear Friend; and Gwilym Lee.

Word Count: 3.4K

Tag List: @psychosupernatural @someone-get-a-medic @bensrhapsody @deakyclicks If you’d like to be added, let me know!

A/N: Sorry this took so long! I had like the snippet of an idea for this and then needed more for a plot, but I think I’ve finally got it together lol. Hope y’all like it!

Part I here we go!!!

Grinning, you read over the letter once more from backstage. His words in that graceful, loopy handwriting warmed you from your heart to your toes. You sighed contentedly, stuffed the paper into your back pocket for luck, and waited for your cue.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage, Y/N Y/L/N!” the host cried.

You shook out the last of your nerves and walked out on the stage, waving and grinning at the huge crowd that stood and applauded for you. You had never done a show for an audience this large and it was both intimidating and exhilarating.

“Thank you!” you said, as you waited for them to stop cheering. “Thank you. Thank you all for coming. Really, I appreciate it because whenever I have to go out and do things, I think about killing myself.”

A nervous titter went through the crowd and you smiled again.

“Seriously, I do. I’ll think about killing myself over nothing. Like, the other day, I was in the car on my way home from the store and my sister called me and asked me to stop by her place and help her and her husband move furniture. And I actually thought ‘If I crashed my car right now and died, I wouldn’t have to go move any fucking furniture.’”

They laughed.

“It’s crazy, I know, but I casually think about it any time I’m even minorly inconvenienced. But what stops me from doing it - like, my next line of thought - is something equally meaningless. Like, in that scenario with my sister, the thing that held me back was like, I thought ‘But fuck, Bohemian Rhapsody is coming out in like two months and I really wanna see that.’”

A couple cheers came through the laughter and you smiled.

“Oh, we got some Queen fans in here tonight?” you said.

More cheers.

“Yeah, cheer, clap, fuck yeah!”

A swell of shouts and whistles went through the crowd and you joined them.

“Fuck yeah, y’all were raised right,” you said when it settled down. “Queen is a great band. Just four sexy dudes making banger after banger. They’re legitimately my favorite band. I’m not gonna lie, they really got me through some shit, but we’ll come back to my trauma later.”

You paused for a small bit of laughter.

“Now normally, I don’t like when comedians talk about Queen. And by that, I mean, I don’t like it when comedians talk about Freddie Mercury,” you said. “And it’s not for some pretentious reason like they’re not real fans or something. It’s literally just that when people joke about Freddie Mercury, they joke about the same two things - his teeth and his sexuality - two extremely fucking boring things to joke about.”

You took a sip of water.

“Not only are they boring, they’re just rude. Like, these are things this man was born with and couldn’t change about himself - he had no control over that. What he did have control over - the fucking ridiculous lyrics of Under Pressure.”

A giggle went through them. You smiled.

“I’m serious. Have any of you ever looked up the lyrics to that song? Most of it doesn’t really bother me, it’s just those weird scat-like shit Freddie does between verses. Like, they have these great, meaningful lines followed by Freddie going ‘Um, bah, bah, bay.’ What the fuck?”

They laughed.

“That shit is in the official lyrics of that legendary song and I think about that every goddamn day. That and fucking ‘dee, dah, day - ok!’ Shit like that is how you know these dudes were on drugs. One of those guys came up with that, pitched it to four other people - if not more - and they all went ‘fuckin genius’ and bam! Under Pressure is one of the greatest hits of all time.”

They laughed harder.

“I guess I’m not as disturbed by that as I am by the fact that the people ate it up like they did. It’s one thing for those guys to say it’s genius, but then for us as the public to say it as well just fucks me up. The first time I heard that song I was like ‘what the cinnamon toast fuck am I listening to?’ Shit was weird.”

You took another drink as they laughed.

“But honestly, I don’t understand why people go for Freddie’s sexuality when there are clearly much more roastable things to talk about. I don’t care how rich and famous he was, if you’re a straight white guy making fun of gay brown guy for being either or both of those things, you’re punching down, dude, and that’s not comedy, that’s just being an asshole.”

For that, they applauded. You continued on through your set, and this audience was great for you. They were responsive and you held their attention throughout. You were almost ready to close the show.

“I always like to end my shows with the most important person in my life,” you said. “I’ve talked about her already tonight, and she’s my daughter, Violet.”

The tech guys put a picture of her up on the projector behind you. You beamed at it.

“That’s her. She’s three years old and she’s my everything. She’s the reason I get on stage and in front of cameras. She’s the real reason I don’t crash my car to get out of moving furniture.”

With one final laugh, you bid them goodnight. You took a little bow at the roar of applause and smiled widely. You said a few more thank yous before the spotlight dimmed and you walked off stage to the sound of cheering and clapping. It never ceased to amaze you how far you had come.

Someone took the mic for you as your assistant approached. She was a recent hire, and something you initially resisted. But now that your name and brand had grown, you really did need the help. Her name was Stacy, and she was incredibly efficient. You liked her, as did Violet, which sold you on hiring her.

“Great show,” she said with a smile. “Vi is asleep in the green room. We’ve got a couple VIP guests for you to meet before we take you both back to the hotel.”

“Alright, lead the way,” you replied.

You followed her to another room backstage where you saw a group of men. Most of them had their back to you, but one face, you recognized. Gwilym Lee, who you considered a friend, even though you hadn’t spoken in a while.

Before you had really thrown yourself into standup, you did a bit of acting. You and Gwilym shot a pilot of a sitcom that unfortunately never aired, but while filming, you had become really close. You even felt like he was flirting with you a few times, but back then you were nowhere near ready to start a new relationship, so you’d kept things strictly platonic. Nowadays, you mostly liked each others pictures on Instagram as your main form of communication. But life was busy for both of you. You were on tour and he had gone on to films.

You started to smile but then froze when the man next to Gwilym turned his head. You grabbed Stacy’s arm harshly.

“Holy shit is that Brian May?” you wondered.

She chuckled. “Yeah! The VIP guests are Queen and the cast of Bohemian Rhapsody.”

“Shut the fuck up!” you cried. “Really?!”

“Yep,” she assured you. “Go on in and say hello.”

Your stomach dropped with nerves. Again, you shook yourself free of them and donned your stage personality. Slipping into that mask was where you were most comfortable. While you talked about the things you had endured in your comedy, there it was lighthearted, and you did not have to face it head on. You could throw a joke out and dodge it.

“Well, hello!” you said brightly as you entered the room.

They all turned eyes on you and smiled as you were introduced. Brian May and Roger Taylor were without a doubt the most thrilling to shake hands with, but Rami Malek, Joe Mazzello, and Ben Hardy were also exciting. When it came time to shake hands with Gwilym, you offered a warm, friendly smile.

“It’s great to see you again,” you said. “It’s been two years or so now?”

“Just about,” he replied. “You were wonderful.”

“Thank you!”

“Gwil was the one who convinced us to come tonight,” Joe explained. “He said you were hilarious on set when you filmed before.”

“That’s sweet,” you replied. “It is a shame that show never took off, it was a good one.”

“I certainly loved it,” Gwilym said.

You chatted with them for a bit. They all were calming to be around. Brian and Roger were complimentary of your bit about Under Pressure, which eased some of your nerves about the set. Even though you were, you didn’t feel like you were putting on a show for them. In minutes, it felt like they were your friends.

The door opened shortly after and in walked Stacy, hand in hand with your very sleepy daughter. She clutched her stuffed dog close to her chest as she ran right to you and crawled into you lap. You wrapped your arms around her and held her close, kissing the top of her head. She eyed the guests warily.

“What are you doing awake, sweetie?” you asked gently, stroking her hair.

“She woke up for a little while,” Stacy explained. “I tried to get her back down but all she wanted was Mommy.”

You smiled. “That’s okay. You can have Mommy whenever you want her.”

She snuggled into your chest, turning her face away from the strangers.

“You don’t want to say hello?” you wondered, and she shook her head. You looked at the guys. “Sorry. She’s kinda shy.”

“That’s alright,” said Brian.

“She’s grown up,” Gwilym said. “Last time I saw her, she was just learning to walk.”

“Oh, yeah,” you remembered. “She actually walked right into you during a scene.”

You both chuckled at the memory.

“The director was almost mad, but she was so cute,” he continued.

He knelt down in front of you and gently touched her arm. She turned her face to just barely peek at him.

“Hi, Violet,” he said sweetly, smiling at her. “It’s been a while.”

Her brow furrowed.

“You were still a little baby,” you explained to her. “But you’ve met Gwilym before.”

She relaxed and looked between you and him.

“Daddy?” she questioned.

You stiffened and cleared your throat uncomfortably. Then shook your head.

“No, baby,” you told her. “No Daddy.”

She pouted at you and then hid her face again. You looked apologetically at Gwilym, who shrugged it off. He started to get up, but hesitated to pick something up off the ground. It was your letter that had been in your pocket. He held it out to you.

“Is this yours?” he asked.

You quickly took it, your face flushing with embarrassment. Even though there was no way he knew what it was, you still felt really shy about the whole situation.

“Yeah, thanks,” you said, not meeting his eyes as you stuffed it back into your pocket.

“A letter?” he questioned.

“Just some particularly touching fanmail,” you lied.

“Not enough people write letters anymore in my opinion,” said Roger.

“Why sit and write a letter when you can send a text?” Ben replied. “It’s much faster.”

“Yeah, but I sort of miss the anticipation involved in letter writing,” Brian said in agreement with his bandmate.

You continued to visit with them as Violet slowly fell asleep again against you. For a while, you felt Gwilym’s eyes on you intensely. His expression was odd. It appeared he thought he knew something more about you. It made you shift in your seat a few times before at last, he seemed to let go of whatever question was burning in his mind.

They visited for about another half hour before you really did need to get back to your hotel, and so did they. You said fond farewells to all of them, reassured them that you would see the movie, and then it came to Gwilym.

“We’re in New York for a few days,” he said. “Let me know if you’d like to get coffee or something and catch up.”

“That would be great,” you replied with a smile.

You gave him a side hug since you had Violet on your hip, sleeping soundly. Her stuffed dog slipped from her hand but Gwil caught it before it hit the ground and handed it to you.

“Can’t have that,” he said lightly.

“Thank you,” you returned, taking it. You looked at all of them. “Have a wonderful night, guys. It was so great chatting with you.”

They all bid you one final farewell. Gwilym was the last to leave and you shared a lingering look with him before he closed the door. You continued to stare at the spot where he disappeared, realizing now how much you had missed him these last couple years.

“Ready to go to bed?” Stacy asked.

With a yawn, you nodded, and she ordered an Uber to take all three of you back to the hotel you were staying in. It wasn’t far from the venue, since you would be doing three shows there this week before moving on Boston. Stacy eyed you with an odd smirk as you stared out the car window. Finally, you looked at her.

“What is it?” you asked, a bit snappier than you intended.

“You and Gwilym Lee seemed to have a little something going on,” she said with a sly smirk.

You rolled your eyes. “We just knew each other a couple years ago. Besides, you know I’m...involved with someone.”

“Ah, right,” she said, rolling her eyes now. “The ever elusive Dear Friend.”

“Hey, if anyone’s elusive, it’s me,” you said. “I was the one who made the arrangement what it is.”

“Y/N, you write letters to some mystery man,” she replied. “He could be anyone. Gwilym Lee is a real person and right in front of you.”

“Dear Friend is a real person,” you argued. “I’ve just never met him.”

“And yet you’re convinced he’s your soulmate,” she returned. “I just don’t get it. How can you fall in love with someone through paper?”

“You don’t understand,” you said. “You’ve never read his letters. He’s so...eloquent and smart. And I can be myself with him. I can share my deepest thoughts and desires without any fear of judgement. He does so with me as well. It’s a real connection. The strongest I’ve ever felt with anyone.”

“You don’t know anything real about each other,” she insisted. “Not your names, not your jobs, where you live-”

“Those things don’t matter,” you cut across her. “The real stuff is deeper than that. And that’s where Dear Friend and I meet.”

“Whatever,” she said dismissively, weary of having this discussion yet again. “You’ve got your family reunion on your last day in town. I suggest you find a man in person to go with you. If you show up without someone again, I think your mother will actually lose her mind.”

You considered this. She was right, your mother absolutely hounded you about your romantic life since Violet was born. You told her you weren’t ready since your marriage had left you so scarred. You didn’t tell her about Dear Friend, though, since you knew she could never understand something like that. Plus, you had only been corresponding for a year.

“I think Gwilym would go with you,” Stacy said, nudging you with her elbow.

“I was thinking more along the lines of hiring some actor to be my boyfriend,” you replied. “I don’t want to expose Gwilym to my family. He’s been nothing but nice to me.”

She chuckled. “At least take him up on the coffee. I really think you should explore your options in case this Dear Friend isn’t who he says he is.”

“I will take him up on the coffee,” you assured her. “But it’s not a date. In the meantime, find some poor struggling actor to go with me and get my mother off my back.”

“I’m on it,” she assured you, already looking through her phone to get started.

You reached the hotel at last. You took Violet to your room, bidding Stacy goodnight as she went to her room next door. You tucked your daughter into bed and kissed her on the forehead before heading over the desk. You pulled out the letter from Dear Friend that was still in your pocket and read it once more. Then you pulled out your stationery and pen to begin your reply. You were halfway through your letter when you remembered Gwilym.

You opened your phone and pulled up his number, which you had from your days of being coworkers. You opened up a text to send to him and found yourself blanking on what to say. You had written paragraphs to Dear Friend, but when it came to asking someone to get a simple cup of coffee, you had no idea how to phrase it. It made you all the more certain Dear Friend was your person. Words came easily when talking to him.

You went with your stage personality. You sent a casual, “Is tomorrow too soon for that coffee?” with a silly emoji. Then you returned to your letter. Gwilym texted back almost right away and suggested meeting around nine in the morning, which you agreed to. Then you finished writing your letter and sealed it in an envelope for Stacy to send off in the morning.

The letters always took some time. One thing you knew about Dear Friend was that he was from the UK. The PO box you sent the letters to was in London, but you could also tell from the way he spelled things. You often teased each other about these differences. So of course, they took longer to send and receive. But, you agreed with Brian May that the anticipation of getting one was one of the most exciting parts of the experience.

Another benefit of him being across the pond meant that your opportunities to meet were few. In fact, you hadn’t had one since you started writing. It was a bit of a relief. You knew you loved Dear Friend, but keeping him at arm’s (well, ocean’s) length felt safest. And after your brutal marriage to Violet’s father, Henry, being safe was of top priority for you. And yet, the desire to be with Dear Friend grew daily. It just terrified you to face the reality of it.

The next morning, you dropped the letter and Violet off with Stacy while you went to meet up with Gwilym. You went to a local coffee shop and ordered. You paid, and he protested, but you insisted, and assured him that he could get it next time. You grabbed a table and started talking. You told him you were still living in Los Angeles and that you were mostly doing shows out in California. You tended to avoid New York, since Henry and his friends and family were still there and he was still an NYPD officer. You couldn’t avoid it on tour, though, nor your family reunion. You told Gwilym about the reunion, but not the part about you ex-husband.

“You’re hiring someone?” he asked, baffled. “A stranger?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Some guy that was rejected from Broadway or something. I’ll pay him, and we’ll come up with a story for my mother, and then the next time I see her I’ll tell her how we tragically broke up.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he said with a laugh. “I’ll do it for you.”

You blinked. “You really don’t have to-”

“I don’t mind,” he said. “We’re friends. I know meeting strange men is difficult for you.”

Gwilym knew that Henry had abused you because you talked about it in your sets. You never got into gruesome detail, although you had confessed a few things to Dear Friend. You talked on stage about not dating because of what you had been through. It was extremely kind of Gwilym to offer this, and you weren’t sure how you could thank him. Your comedian mask slipped on again.

“I’m not sure I can afford your rates, Mr. Lee,” you teased.

“How much was my coffee?” he returned.

“Five dollars,” you told him.

“Well, it turns out, for friends, I offer a discounted price of five dollars,” he joked. “So, consider it payment for the coffee.”

Your brow furrowed. “Are you sure about this?”

“Really, it’s fine,” he reassured you. “It’s just one day.”

“I can’t tell you how grateful I am,” you said, seriously.

He raised a curious eyebrow at your tone.

“I mean, it’s just one of the nicest things,” you continued, blushing once again under his gaze. “You’re a very generous person, Gwilym.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “Or you’re just still getting used to kindness.”

You smiled, unwilling to go any deeper.

“Let’s chalk it up to a combination of both,” you said lightly.

You finished your coffees and headed to the door. He had to go to an interview and you were going to take Violet around the city since the weather was nice. As you hugged goodbye, you smiled up at him.

“See you Saturday?” you asked.

“Saturday,” he affirmed.

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