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fayes-fics · 1 year

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More Than Friends

Friends + Masterpost

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Modern AU

Summary: Sequel. Set a couple of months after Are We Friends? After a week away, Anthony missed his girl a lot...

Warnings: 18 smut. minors DNI, handjobs, masturbation (incl. with shower head), vaginal sex, wall/shower sex, touch of edging/denial, unexpected feels in the heart area.

Word Count: 4.8k

Authors Note: This is birthday request fill for @colettebronte for her recent birthday. She requested a sequel to Are We Friends? Sorry I'm a few days late, I hope you enjoy this enough to compensate. This didn’t go where I expected. I know it's Christmas Eve and this isn't remotely Christmassy. Sorry about that. Anyway please enjoy <3

You groan as the insistent buzz of your phone on your bedside table rouses you. You fumble to pick it up and squint at the name onscreen, reluctantly swiping to answer.

“What excuse do you have for calling me at…,” you pull the phone away from your face briefly, grimacing at the brightness, “… 2:13 am, and it better be because you are on fire or something,” you grumble.

“I love how grouchy you are when you wake up,” his baritone voice laced with amusement.

“Bridgerton,” your tone is a warning.

“I was hoping you’d let me in,” Anthony chuckles.

You sit bolt upright. “You are here? Now? Why?!”

“Yes, and yes, I figured ringing your phone was politer than your doorbell. To the last part, do I need a reason?” he drops almost an octave lower,

“Oh god, is this a booty call?” you mime brushing a gross substance off yourself even though he can’t see you.

“Are you going to let me in or not?” He chides but with no heat, evading the question.

“If you answer these riddles three…” you begin, your spirited antagonism still there despite your burgeoning relationship.

“Let me in, weirdo,” he chortles.

“Okay, okay.”

You throw back the covers and shuffle to your front door on autopilot, still not fully awake. Opening the front door to find a suave, suited man with no tie and two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone. You almost resent how debonair and put-together he is in the early hours. It's been a week since you saw him in person, and you are surprised as you realise how much you missed him, as he stands before you in flesh and blood.

“You look adorable,” he sighs fondly and steps over the threshold to embrace you.

It just dawns on you; you didn't even check your reflection on the way to the door. Your hair is probably a state, but at least you can usually pull off a spaghetti-strapped top and pyjama bottoms.

“Shut up, I do not; I look sexy and fierce,” you lobby as his arms wrap tight around your waist.

“Of course you do. Adorably sexy,” he placates with mock assurance, his breath warm on your neck as he rests his head on your shoulder, curling into you. On instinct, you hug him back and push your front door closed over his shoulder.

“So what are you doing here?” your bemusement muffled into the hair at his temple as he hunches over you. Up close, you can see a few greys, and it does something to you that you don't want to think about. There are traces of his cologne, but mostly he just smells like Anthony, and you breathe deep, the scent both comforting and stimulating.

“I missed you,” he says simply.

“I saw you yesterday on Facetime, weirdo,” you point out, parroting back his word but enjoying the extended embrace. He hasn't kissed you yet, which is unusual—this seems more affectionate than sexual.

“That’s not the same,” he argues, his lips brushing the sensitive skin under your ear, his hug even tighter. “My plane just landed; I had my driver drop me here.”

“Is that because Ealing is closer to Heathrow than Mayfair?” your query tinged with a touch of sarcasm.

“No, weirdo, it's because I wanted to see you,” he pulls away from your shoulder and cups your face. “But I'm glad it's closer; I'm exhausted,” he admits quieter, and you see the tiredness etched into the corners of his eyes, even in the muted glow of your hallway lamp. He moves in and kisses you, but it’s a gentle, chaste brush over your lips that makes your insides melt just a fraction.

“So, not a booty call? This is a use-my-bed-to-crash-in call?” you tease gently with a twisted pout, holding his hands and walking backwards towards your bedroom.

“If you don't mind, yeah, I just need sleep,” he says sotto voce, stifling a yawn and trailing you.

The fact that he has sought you out to sleep next to you, not sleep with you, seems like a rather profound step forward in your dynamic. But then, many things can seem consequential in the early hours, so you decide not to dwell on it.

“No suitcase?” you remark as you move into the darkness of the bedroom.

“Had my driver take my luggage home,” he explains, shucking his jacket and hanging it on the little chair you use as a clothes horse more than anything. The fact that he knows it causes a tiny flutter of something in your stomach.

“Want some help?” you offer modestly, gesturing to his hand now on his fly, testing the waters around if sex might happen despite his tiredness.

He shakes his head but with a look appreciative of the offer. Ok, no sex then.

“Why don't you get into bed? I'll just brush my teeth and join you shortly.”

You settle under the covers as he disappears into your bathroom, trying not to let your mind turn over too much about this different situation. Jetlagged and sleepy Anthony is a very sweet thing, not your usual sexy sparring partner.

After a few moments, there is a dip in the bed as he climbs into the other side behind you. An arm wraps around your waist as he shuffles into you and pulls you back into him in a spooning position. You feel a wave of body heat through the cotton of your nightwear and realise he is only in boxer briefs. His embrace is comforting, and he sighs onto your shoulder, dropping a soothing kiss there before fluffing the pillow and settling around you, his hand warm on your belly, his minty breath dusting the nape of your neck as he seems to bury his face in your hair and inhale deeply.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, almost into your skull.

“Goodnight,” you whisper back, knowing his warmth and weight will probably lull you back to sleep before you have too many errant thoughts about what is transpiring. When his breathing slows and gets deeper, you feel yourself being tugged under too.

—

Something doesn't feel right. Not in a bad way, not in the slightest. Something feels far too good, and it's distracting your slumber. Or maybe it's just a very vivid dream. Why you would be waking up within a dream seems like a strange point to focus on… Then suddenly, there is a zing of pleasure in your breast that races down your body to your core.

Your world rearranges as you dance the line between sleeping and waking. The sensation becomes sharper as a strong pull on your nipple hurtles you into consciousness with a sharp inhale.

“The lady awakens,” his bemused rumble skitters across your rapidly goose-pebbling skin. You are lying on your back, your top rucked up around your armpits, and there is a head of chestnut hair as you look down.

Anthony Bridgerton. On top of you. His mouth attached to your left breast, something hot and hard branding your thigh through his underwear, where he straddles it.

“Anthony,” your voice is rough-edged from sleep.

His lips pull off your nipple as his head tilts up—his brown eyes shining in the pastel morning light bleeding through the curtains.

“I thought waking you up this way might not be entirely unpleasant for you,” the smirk on his handsome face far too appealing. “An apology for the early hours wake-up call.”

“You are always welcome here, open invitation,” you answer truthfully, “but especially if this is your idea of an alarm clock. Please continue,” you quip, whipping off the top rucked up around your armpits and raising an expectant eyebrow.

He huffs a laugh and kisses your sternum before transferring to your right breast, climbing between your legs and settling over you in a wave of natural body scent that makes your mouth water.

He lathes his tongue wide over your nipple, lapping gently, then biting down with an edge of teeth until it is a stiff peak that he closes his luscious lips around and sucks hard. You can’t hold back the little staccato noises as your hands run over his muscular shoulders and into his luscious hair.

“Sadly,” his speech ghosts over your saliva-damp flesh, “I need to take a shower before this goes any further. I should have taken one last night, but I was too exhausted. Need to wash the journey off me,” he attests as he goes back to lightly kissing your breast.

You doubt that phrase carries as much significance for someone travelling first class as it does back in economy, where you’re usually crammed in, but you can understand the sentiment.

“I think you smell pretty good right now,” you voice without thought.

“I feel like I haven’t showered in 24 hours which, with the time difference, I probably haven’t,” he deadpans as he surges up and pecks your cheek, his chest hair tickling the stiff damp peaks of your nipples. “Care to join me?” he asks with a twinkle in his eye as he kisses over to your ear.

“Is this your way of telling me I smell bad?” You joke, but there’s a flit of concern on your face.

“Y/n,” his resonant voice uttering your name so close to your ear makes your pussy clench as he traces the shell with his nose, “of course you don’t; you always smell wonderful,” the casual compliment just slipping out. “Will you please just say yes to this obvious invitation to shower sex?”

Oh.

“Well, in that case….” you reply, running your hands into his luscious hair, “yes, Lord Bridgerton, I will shower with you.”

“Thank you. Was that so difficult?” he teases with a playful pout, pulling back the covers and hauling you out of bed topless.

His boxer briefs are tented in a delicious way, and part of you wants to just sink to your knees and take him in your mouth regardless of how much he wants to shower. In fact, something about him being a little less than fresh is a peculiar turn-on—just so very potently him.

“Why are you looking at me like you’ve never seen my erection before?” His bemused expression tracking your eye line and not missing your subtle lip bite as he moves towards the bathroom, still holding your hands.

“What? It’s an impressive one. You’ve been away for a week, and maybe I just need to remind myself,” you posit as he pulls you into an embrace.

“Oh, is that so?” His tone is light and taunting, arms encircling your ribcage. He stills in the doorway and surges his hip towards you, so you feel his rigid cock pressed into your belly. “Memory coming back yet?” Dropping his voice into a range that is sinful.

“Maybe…” you demure into his shoulder, then pull away, moving to brush your teeth before you act on the urge to kiss him senseless.

He crowds into your back as you reach for toothbrushes. There is something so casually intimate about the stolen glances in the mirror as you both brush, his chest hair tickling your shoulder blades as he spiders his fingers under the curve of your breast with a small foamy smile. As you rinse, his fingers untie the drawstring on your pyjama bottoms, and his reflection smoulders as he pushes them over the swell of your hips, falling to the floor. He presses the length of his body into your back, and you emit a faint moan as his heated flesh drags over yours; something rigid and hot nestles the upper curve of your bottom.

“Better get naked if you plan to shower,” you smirk at him in the mirror and feel a swell of triumph as he reaches down and pushes off his underwear. His cock bobbing up insistently. You whip around to face him, fisting him and squeezing reflexively.

“Fuckkk,” he stutters, and a hand rounds behind your head, grabbing with an intensity that surprises and arouses, fingers curling into the cords of your neck. “I’d almost forgotten how good it feels to have your hand on me rather than my own.”

The admission sounds like he’s not been intimate with anyone else since you last saw him. You’ve not discussed exclusivity yet, but he is a rich man travelling the world on business, and you have no delusions about the lifestyle that might entail if he so chooses. As you pump him gently in your hand, your breath catches at the mental image of him with his hand wrapped around his cock in some fancy five-star hotel room, sprawled in the middle of a plush king-sized bed.

“You should have called me; I could have talked you through my technique,” you jest, deciding to meet his statement with light humour, your hands moving to cup his balls as he hums contentedly, the hand on your neck squeezing.

“Noted for next time,” is the amused reply, and then he walks you back into the shower enclosure, flicking on the dial.

The warm spray hits your shoulder blades, and you sigh, pulling his arms to join you. He hums in satisfaction, his head tilting back as he luxuriates in the stream of water. You turn up the pressure on the showerhead, and his resounding moan of pleasure echoes up the shower walls; the deep, rich tone causes your nipples to pebble hard—you have to fight your urge to twine around him. Instead, you reach for your shower gel and loofah and scrub his skin lightly, starting at his neck.

“Mmmmm, please, can I have you in my shower every time?” his voice wistful, eyes still closed, almost swaying.

You gently and methodically bathe the skin of his arms and upper torso, enjoying swirling patterns into his chest hair as you buff him clean. As you move lower over his abs, you can't help but grab his cock with a soapy hand and squeeze lightly, cleansing it thoroughly as you tease with delicate motions. He moans and slowly opens his eyes, meeting your gaze with hooded desire.

“I'm just making sure you are thoroughly clean,” you tease, the hand still rubbing his cock long after it is sufficiently cleansed.

He grabs your jaw and pulls you in for a kiss that is all tongues and teeth, biting in intensity. Your tongues roll over each other in tandem with the movement of your hand. When he finally lets you take a breath, you quietly ask him to turn around. He whines a little as you release his cock, but does as you request. Pausing to admire the sweeping curve of his back and the expanse of muscle tapering down to the trim bum that is so irresistible, you push your body into his back, nipples catching his ribs, and he growls as you teeth the upper notch of his spine.

“Touch yourself,” you whisper into the nape of his neck, and surprisingly he does so without retort. He’s usually the one who takes charge, but his silent obedience makes your breath hitch.

He groans softly, and you can’t resist a peek over his shoulder, his body curled slightly concave, cock fisted in his right hand, moving at a languid pace. Reluctant to look away from the delicious tableau, you run the loofah down his spine and lather his back before your hands land on his pert rounded cheeks. You crouch down to wash his muscular, tanned legs, kissing a cheek and enjoying the way his bum flexes as you do. You straighten back to stand behind him, listening to his huffed little noises, watching his arm speed up a fraction as your soapy fingers slide along the crack of his ass.

“All clean; you can stop now,” you offer into his skin.

There is a blur of movement as suddenly he grabs the auxiliary shower head and flicks the spray to a different setting, spins around and pushes it between your legs, the jet expertly pummeling your clit in hot pulsing waves. You almost squeal at the intensity—the switch of power back to him in a whiplash moment.

“How is that?” His voice is velvety as he bites your earlobe. “I need to hear all your delicious sounds, don’t hold back now.”

You attempt to writhe away from the intense sensation, but a strong arm holds you in place, pushing the shower head more insistently up into your flesh. You moan, and he encourages you, a wet slippery hand smearing down your back and spanking your cheek, making you jump and squeak.

“Get inside me.” The plea tumbles from your lips. You want, no, you need, to feel him invading you, his hands rough on your body, him making needy noises, you begging for more.

He drops the shower head, so it is pulsing aimlessly into a far corner, water pattering against the glass, and walks you until your back bumps into the wall. The tiles are cool and glassy upon your heated flesh as he grabs your left leg and loops it over his slippery arm, pulling you open. All with a devastating look on his beautiful face, droplets of water skating down his cheekbones, lips parted and plush; you just can’t take your eyes off him.

Then he nudges your entrance with his tip, requesting access.

“Did you sleep with anyone else when you were away?” your concern slipping out unbidden.

He frowns, and there is a minute shake of his head. “No, why would I?”

“I wanted to know before we do this again, unprotected,” you whisper vulnerably, closing your eyes, embarrassed. Except for that first heated night, you have been using condoms.

“I would never do that,” his sincerity makes your eyes fly open. “We are together; you are the only person I’m having sex with, the only person I've had sex with since that party, and the only one I’ve done it this way with in many years.”

You rest your forehead on his cheek. “Thank you,” you mumble quietly, him answering your lingering questions and erasing doubts in a few sentences.

“Don’t thank me; you should expect that of me. You have no idea what a gift this is, what we have—this connection, this dynamic. It’s very…. precious to me,” he murmurs into your jaw. It’s the rawest and most unguarded he has ever been. Your breath catches as he does so. Something glowing and fluttering under your ribs, like it wants to break free.

“Anthony Bridgerton.” you breathe lightly, your heartbeat soaring in your veins, “are we becoming more than friends?”

“I’m afraid so,” his laugh is a precious feathered thing as he surges into your body and steals all other thoughts from your head.

He stills buried deep inside you, filling you in a way no one else has. Just this has your clit pulsing from the stretch, heat and presence of him. He shoots you an affectionate, heated look before his lips find yours. The hand not around your leg cups your jaw and directs the kiss into something open-mouthed and greedy as he rocks into your body, swallowing your little noises. This languid slow pace feels like the start of something electric, like the patter of rain that arrives before an intense storm you can hear rumbling on the horizon.

Your hands band around his bum as his thrusts grow more intense, and you encourage the movement with a press of your fingers into the muscular round of his bottom. Your teeth skim the meaty muscle where his neck meets his shoulder, and it spurs him to push deeper, piercing your hilt and tugging on that invisible string that seems to run between your hipbones and makes your eyes roll back and your brain turn to static.

“God, Anthony, please, fuck me so hard,” your voice barely recognisable to you, needy and throaty.

The corresponding noise he makes has every cell of your body on fire. This man’s ability to invade your every sense is something that might typically scare you, but with him, it just feels like something primal and earthy—a meeting of bodies just as nature intended.

You gasp as he hooks your other leg over his other arm, pressing the length of your spine hard into the wall. You are entirely at his mercy now, held in his arms, pinned, sliding on the damp, cool tile as the warm swirl of mist from the rain-head shower curls around you.

“I’ve got you,” he assures against your temple.

You nuzzle his face until he pulls back a little, intuiting you need to see his face. There’s a sincerity in his wild gaze that feels so close to authentic that it's a dangerous fire, his eyes blazing burned umber.

You transmit your trust all you can with the sincerity of your expression, and his responding smile is like warm honey settling over your bones as he starts to move again. The solemnity of the moment you just shared rapidly morphs into something hot and desperate again. Him driving up into your body with a snap of his hips that makes him grunt and you keen, wrapping your arms tight around his neck as he fucks you with a blistering pace and depth, your breasts squashed across his pectoral muscles.

Curses and a chorus of yeses fall from your lips between panting breaths as he takes you with such force you slam into the tiles; you know your spine will be sore later, but you don’t care. You want this so much. Blinding pleasure licks at the corners of your conscience as you feel him hot and steely, pounding into you over and over, your walls clinging to him as he stretches you in that delicious way.

He is panting hard from the effort and exertion right in your ear. His occasional moans and words cause a spike of lust in your body, and you whisper encouragements and pleas to not stop, greedy for what you need to push you over the edge.

His arms hitch your legs higher, and he moves down the wall, so your bottom rests on a cool metal grab bar. His hands wrap around it; your legs held up and open even more. The change of angle and leverage for him makes the experience even more intense. He can drive much more vigorously now, and he starts to push up and hit that spot inside that makes you cry out, slamming against your clit as he hits your hilt.

“Fuck Anthony,” you grit out, your teeth clenched, jaw held tight and whole body going taunt as you dangle close to the edge of your orgasm so suddenly.

He slows his pace, and you groan in frustration, taking long, languid motions, using the grab bar to propel himself up and into you.

“I’m so close,” you grit out.

“I know you are,” his voice velvety and proud, “that’s why I slowed down; I want to take you to the edge so many times. I love it when you are mindless and drunk on sex.”

“Anthony, please let me come,” you plead.

“You will,” he vows.

“I want it now,” you pant, almost petulant.

He chuckles richly into your ear “it will be so much better if you let me do this. I’ll only do it one more time, I promise. Then you will come multiple times, and I will fuck you through it.”

So aroused by that little speech, you just nod and move a hand from around his neck to slide between your bodies and pinch your nipple.

“Oh yes, that’s it,” he goads, moving quicker, spiralling you higher again. Your clit and channel burning hot and pulsing. Just as you feel the first ripple of your cunt he stills completely, and you thrash hard in frustration at the denial. You desperately try to move, but he bears you so tight onto the wall that you have no range of motion. You are pinned and impaled onto his cock as he keeps you open to the top of your channel, throbbing and denied. You feel your scalp crawl and every digit on your body flex.

“Anthony,” your voice ragged, “please, please let me come.”

He pulls back, and the mischief and arousal over his face blow you away. He holds your gaze and tilts your heads together as he starts to roll his hips, surging into you almost in a wave-like action.

“Look at me,” he commands when your eyes flutter closed, and so you do, reopening them and meeting his intense stare.

Suddenly he is moving at a blistering pace, and you start to yell with every stroke, but he won’t let you look away. His nose on yours, your mouth panting the same air.

“Touch yourself,” he orders, and your hand slips between your bodies. The moment your fingertips brush your swollen clit, you yell, and you can’t stop the tide from approaching. Your whole body convulses in strong waves as you scream, cry, and writhe on him. Yet his pace doesn’t waver. He just hisses through his teeth as your body clamps around his cock. His lips find yours and slant over each other with bruising intensity.

He was right. Twice denied, you are so overwrought that his pounding action takes you repeatedly until you are floating somewhere far away from your physical self, going limp in his arms, your mind utterly offline. The blissful state is almost ethereal as you feel him grunting and stilling, emptying himself with a guttural moan as deep as he can be inside you, his whole being twitching, his mouth open over yours, gusting hot and cursing loudly. You feel the warmth of his cum running down your walls as he slowly softens and slips out of your body.

“Holy shit,” you whisper; nothing has been as close to that intense before, and your legs feel weak and stiff as a newborn giraffe as he gently lowers you to the floor with a bemused huff.

“I told you,” he preens, reaching to flick off the shower as you just slump against the tile, grasping the railing you were perched on for leverage.

“Anthony, I don’t think my legs work,” you confess, trying to move but unable.

“Good,” he laughs, pulling you into his arms and kissing you gently over and over. “I fucked you so well you can’t walk, just like I promised on text the other day.”

“I thought that was a figure of speech” you shake your head disbelieving.

“Oh no, definitely not,” he counters with a smug but handsome smile. “I guess you’ll just have to lay with me in bed all day to recover,” he says playfully kissing your nose, “what a horrible shame.”

——

Later, entangled in bed together after a delicious brunch (where you had your usual sparring contest that somehow ended up making out roughly against the fridge), he pulls you under him and stares into your eyes.

“There is something I would like to give you,” he expresses, almost reserved.

He leans away and snags something from his trouser pocket on the floor beside the bed.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs.

“This better not be something where you put a spider on me,” you wisecrack as he unfurls your hand on the pillow next to your head.

“I promise it's not that,” he chuckles as he places something sharp and cold into your palm. “Open,” he orders softly, and you see a slim metal key in your hand.

You look up at him with a knitted brow.

“That is a key to my place,” he explains. “I would like you to use it whenever you want. Even if I'm not home, you are always welcome.”

You can’t stifle the gasp that escapes your lips at the significance of the gesture, and you push up and plant a kiss on his lips.

His voice turns even more delicate, as if talking too loud would break the moment. “I couldn't bear the thought of returning to an empty apartment after a week away alone,” he admits quietly. “That's why I came here instead. I know it's only been a few weeks, but I have known you most of my life, and I just… I like being around you.” As he finishes the sentence, his exhale has a slight tremulant quality. “There’s no one I would rather spar with on a lazy Saturday,” he adds with a winning smile that makes you huff a misty-eyed laugh.

“Anthony, I… I… I don't even have a spare key to give you,” you blurt out, a fretting look clouding your expression.

His hearty laugh at your response fills the room.

“I know a locksmith,” he shrugs with a modest smile. “But….” he elongates the last letter of the word as his hands slide down your sides and his lips find that sensitive spot below your ear. “I think that can wait until later. Don't you?” His tone turns silky and decadent as he rolls his whole body into yours, his hard cock brushing your clit.

Yes, it can definitely wait.

Anthony taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @wysteria-clad @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld

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your-friendly-neighbourh00d-fag · 11 months

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i just want to get a general consensus of tumblr's y/n thoughs. your current thoughts pls. idc if it was the only thing you read five years ago, what do you think about it now.

[p.s im tagging some fandoms bc y'all are generally who i'm asking when i do polls, and also bc i see a lot of these fandoms x reader]

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audreyhepburninblackandwhite · 8 months

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Audrey Hepburn's cover story for Illustrated's 2 June 1951 issue.

Carefree, off and on duty.

Audrey — The Other Hepburn

Photography by Joseph McKeown Story by Charles Hammlett

After four years of theatres, cabarets, and films, a young dancer takes a day off from career building

The Sphinx of Hollywood, otherwise Katharine Hepburn, actress and movie performer, recently spent a few days in this country wrapped in rain and mystery, and wearing an old pair of eye-catching, publicity-snatching slacks. As one of the country’s legends, Miss Hepburn has earned the right to flinch at the rustle of a reporter’s notebook, or to duck at the sound of a photographer’s footfall.

Even as pressmen determinedly pounded the Hepburn beat, a few miles away at Ealing Studios another Hepburn was quietly performing in front of the camera—as yet blissfully unaware of the hysterical mobs and frustrated fanatics who often make the lives of Hepburns, Stanwycks, Gables, or Turners unendurable.

This other Hepburn was Audrey—Britain’s answer to every filmgoer’s hungry dreams. Twenty-two, brainy, beautiful, tantalizing, and talented, she is a girl of simple tastes to travel to Ealing by Underground from Marble Arch, takes Sunday afternoon strolls in Hyde Park, and stops to listen to the geniuses of Orator’s Corner.

Restful spirit at Rottingdean . . .

Over a gate for home . . .

She rides on buses or browses in the Charing Cross Road bookshops. Visits to cinemas and theatres are still fun for her. Given a day off, she will rush to the coast and join countless other holidaymakers. Audrey Hepburn is also a hard and fast worker. Just over two years ago, Jack Hylton selected her from 2,000 other girls to dance in High Button Shoes. After this “break,” Audrey tripped into the chorus of Sauce Tartare. There she caugh the eye of producer Cecil Landeaus sufficiently to be given a solo part in his sequel Sauce Piquante. This, in turn, caught the attention of the theatre critics and the public.

Among the regulars who went to see Audrey’s performance was film producer Mario Zampi. He went fourteen times. Like many pretty showgirls, Audrey had frequently been told she ought to be in films. Zampi not only said it, he gave her a small part in Alastair Sim’s Laughter in Paradise. Other “meatier” parts followed in The Lavender Hill Mob and Young Wives’ Tale. She obtained a contract with Associated British Pictures and a leading part in Ealing’s The Secret People—before her first three pictures were released. During the next few months, filmgoers will be able to make up their own minds about Audrey. They will see a lithe, dark-hair, large-eyed girl who slightly resembles Jean Simmons. Unlike Jean, however, Audrey has a cosmopolitan and somber background.

Secret performances for members of Dutch Resistance were some of Audrey’s experiences during the war. Now, at twenty-two, she takes the part of a refugee dancer in the film The Secret People.

A mixture of Scots, Belgian, and Dutch, she was in Belgium at the outbreak of war. After the Belgian capitulation, the family moved to Arnhem. Their house there was shelled during the airborne landing.

It was at Arnhem that she made her first public appearance as an entertainer. Black, or secret, concerts were given in private houses by performers who had refused to join the German sponsored “Chamber of Culture.” Audrey, then fifteen, was invited to appear at one of these concerts. Her mother helped her to make costumes from old curtains and chair covers. Later, conditions became so bad that cothes and jewellery were sold to provide food for the family.

Looked at from the Mayfair flat where she now lives with her mother, these days seem unreal. Though she entered show business as a dancer, Audrey is rapidly developing as an actress. Unusually tall for films—she is 5'7"—she has passed the stage where producers can brush her off by telling her she is “too lofty for camera work.” A girl with her potential star value can be as tall as a giraffe and still get by.

Audrey Hepburn could gracefully occupy a star’s chair in Britain’s studios. She might even attract some of the international attention now lavished on “Katie” Hepburn, and enable that much harassed star to pursue her life far from the madding crowd.

#audrey hepburn #vintage #classic #style #photography #fashion #old hollywood #old hollywood glamour #1950s #1951 #readings #audrey hepburn readings #magazines #vintage magazines

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sunyandmony · 5 months

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#answered #scally-wiggles716 :p #💥#oh no #Lunar says no #then it's no....#I'M SORRY 😭#FORGIVE ME PLEASE-#💥💥💥💥💥#fnaf dca #fnaf #fnaf lunar #sams lunar #eals lunar

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aromanticautiesworld · 2 months

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I CAME BACK FOR MORE 😭

Finn and Fern x GN!Reader headcanons where the reader is a thief/robber and eventually they learn more about them and develop a crush on them (Could it be separate for each, same scenario but different brother if you get what im saying)

Finn could be like an enemies to lovers type of eal with finn thinking the reader is a little cute from the get go and feeling conflicted with hair feelings due to the reader's being a thief, eventually becoming friends and seeing different side of the reader (yk?? i feel like im yapping and not making sense 💀)

While for fern, the reader just feels bad for him because he can't do as well as being a hero and becomes friends with him, farm keeps it a secret from finn and they eventually become friends and see a different side (yappayapayappa) :)

Give em a cute hobby like a baking or crochet

SORRY IF THIS DOENST MAKE SENSE

AWH this feels like the plot of an ep of adventure time ……

////

finn + fern/thief gn reader hcs

FINN

at firstyou guys do not like each other at all (ofc)

he gets in your way all the time. he gets calls about you from people across Ooo complaining about their missing stuff

(even ice king )

Finn is a good hero though. so he ignores that you’re kinda pretty

(he thinks he might have a type of crush at this point (people who could probably kill him if they wanted to))

so one day (abt a month into your spree)

you decide to steal from Finn’s house (not knowing that it was the fucking Guy who’d been stopping you this whole time)

and you almost get away with it (stealing his hat. it was his hat you chose to steal). almost

“YOU!! YOU’RE the one that’s been stealing from all those peeps!!”

you run escape him (again) but he stops you in front of the door.

“Put it back.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Put it back.”

“Nuh uh.”

you reach an impasse.

now at YOUR end, you reeeeally dont want to admit it but this guy is a little cute (a little. you refuse to go further) with the hair he has happening.

you do eventually put it back, faced with the prospect of staying in here any longer. glob

against any of your better judgement, you decide to stay

and investigate this weird guy

and against his better judgement, he lets you stay

now you’re both at this weird little hangout

(with your enemy)

and you tell him about you

for one, you steal for the rush. and out of habit

and for two, you crochet (this is probably why you steal so much yarn)

Finn traces his finger in circles on the ground.

“d’you think you could teach me how to crochet?”

“Pshh. You’re telling me you believed all that?”

“You were lying?”

“Nono, that was the truth. im jus’ messing with you.”

“Ok…”

“Seriously!”

“Ok!”

you smile at him.

“y’wanna meet tomorrow?”

he brushes a piece of his hair out of his face. “yeah.”

as for general hcs, i think you would start stealing things just to meet up with him

like you would think in all your time thieving you would have at least one phone

but no

you don’t enter through the door either

you will just break in. sometimes in the dead of night

Finn would dedicate himself to learning how to crochet (I wonder why. it couldn’t possibly be to impress someone)

FERN

so you first meet fern when he decides to answer the banana guard’s call and oh boy

this guy

he is not doing well at Heroing

like imagine a baby kitten. now imagine it sad

And you realize, wait a minute

This thing might not be worth it

so you check in on this poor guy. in the middle of your getaway

“dude, are you okay?”

his leg was stuck in a crack in the ground

“don’t pity me!!”

“I’m not! Just let me help you—”

“Well I’m supposed to be a hero. I shouldn’t get help from thieves.”

(he’s more telling that to himself than to you.)

You help him out anyways, of course.

He brings out his sword to your neck, you sigh and roll your eyes.

“Fine..”

You give him back what you stole

The sword is still there

You dump out all of the other objects you stole out of your bag

The sword is still there

You sigh again, taking off your shoes and gloves and shaking out the other other objects you stole.

He begins to collect them into his own bag, before asking you,

“Did I do good?”

“What?”

“Was I a good hero?”

“Oh, um. Well, anyone else (because I am extremely brave and unafraid) would probably be squealing out of fear so, yeah.”

He crosses his arms, looking down to the side.

“I don’t want people to be afraid of me…”

You step back, observing him.

“Why d’you even want to be a hero so badly?”

“Because—because….because I’m supposed to be.”

Your expression softens.

“How about I be a bad influence on you, and you take a break from heroing for a bit?”

“How?”

“Y’ever learn how to crochet?”

#sorry if this is more like story bullet points than head canons…i like writing them thws way #mariner talks #adventure time x reader #finn the human #finn x reader #adventure time #mariner writes #IT MAKES SENSE ITSOK ..#fern the human #fern x reader

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thedo0zyslider · 4 months

Text

Reunited - Chapter One: Lonely Is The Mountain - 3k Words

Fwhip and Gem live alone in the new mountain home they'd made after The Rapture, and they think they always will. That is until a certain someone turns up on their front lawn, at six in the morning no less.

[Not canon to the eal universe! just a fun little idea i had :)]

A03

Fwhip wakes up, feeling groggy like he normally does. Like he has for the past however many months. There is pain in his back as well, another thing that had gradually become more and more familiar to him over time. It's like a constant friend now, his never ending pain. It has been since the…. incident . Yeah. The incident. That's what he'll call it for now, even though it does have an official name already. The incident.

He blinks again, and notices a warmth beside him. Gem is curled up in the bed as well, her face hidden in his side. Right, they'd both accidentally fallen asleep the night prior, too tired to keep doing much else. Not that either of them mind, for they probably kept each other rather warm enough throughout the coldness of the night prior. At the foot of the bed there is a pile of books, new ones Gem had found. She'd been looking for something, she wouldn't tell him what, and the half dragon had tried to help his sister the best he could.

Fwhip shifts, dislodging his sister and trying his best not to kick the books. It's a small bed, so Gem doesn't go far, and ends up in almost the same position she had been in before. He holds back a smile, and removes the stupidly big wizard hat from his twins head, lest it get any more wrinkled while she sleeps.

They were never really like this before. Affectionate, he means, they were never the most affectionate. But, well, losing everything but one person changes that. Fwhip fights back a frown at the thought, and fixes Gem's messed up bangs as gently as he can. He knows how much he hates her hair being messy, after all.

If he looks on the side of the small bed, the ginger can see Nova and Koda. The two dogs are curled up in a pile on the floor, and in the middle of said pile is the baby dragon Violet. The other wyverns seem to be hanging around outside the window, so that's all the pets accounted for. Though the three massive wyverns could take care of themselves.

Beside him, Gem finally stirs. She sits up with a small sound, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Fwhip turns his head, and gives the best smile he can manage. “Morning sleepy head.” He huffs, nudging her side gently, to prod her awake more. His sister just makes a vaguely annoyed sound at that, never having been much of a morning person.

“Morning.” She grumbles, stretching her arms upwards when she is finally upright. “We both fell asleep, didn't we?” Gem goes to stretch her legs as well, but stops herself, realizing the mess that lays on the foot of the bed; also looking like she forgot that they put it there.

“Yeah.” Fwhip answers, failing to hold back an amused snort at his sister's face. Normally, the wizard would glare at him, or something of the like for that. But she has never been a morning person, and is therefore not in the mood for an exchange like that. Instead she just ignores her brother, and finishes what stretches she can in the limited space of her bed. Because this was her room they’d fallen asleep in. The half dragon would never be caught dead with this many books in his room, especially not one's about magic.

“So much for my research.” Gem sighs, looking at the rather concerning stack of books on the bed. It’s honestly a miracle none where kicked off, with two people sleeping on the bed. Two people that were reportedly very restless when they slept, for a magnitude of different reasons. It’s also a surprise they didn’t shuffle too much and wake each other up, but maybe that shows just how bone tired the twins are. How bone tired they have been, for what feels like years now. It’s only been half of one.

“What're you even looking for?” Fwhip asks, scanning over the titles of the books once again. They all have something to do with spells or potions. Some are even written in other languages, like elvish, galactic, or even fae speak. A bunch of jargon the former Count knows he can’t read, and didn’t even know his sister could. Though he shouldn’t be surprised, for how well read Gem always was. The only languages Fwhip new were the native ones from their homes, and the ones of machinery. (He knew a fair amount of mermish languages, like codlish and whatever the salomfolk had used to speak. He ignores that fact, and the books written in those dialects, for his own sanity and peace of mind.)

“It's a surprise.” Gem says, throwing her legs off the edge of the bed. She glances around, presumably for her hat, probably very aware of its absence atop her head. Wordlessly, Fwhip reaches to wear he had put it, and goes to hand it back to her.

“I hate surprises.” He says, his sister taking the hat back from him. He felt inclined to help Gem put it back on, but knew she liked wearing it (and all her clothes, really), in a specific way. So the ginger knew it was best to let Gem handle all of that, unless she specifically asked for help with something. And Fwhip could understand, for he was often the same way with his own clothes. It was a twin thing, as their parents had always lovingly said. When they had still been around, that is.

“No you don't.” Gem calls him out in his lie. Surprises are the whole reason why he loves inventing, and making things, because there’s usually a fair amount of them in his creative process. And she had seen him get way too happy over every birthday and Christmas surprise to ever believe him on that. “Now help me put these books away.”

“Fine, oh Great Wizard.” Fwhip huffs, following the wizard’s lead as she gets to her feet. He steps over the dogs, who have surprisingly not stirred at all the noise yet. And neither has violet, which is even more surprising; but also kinda a relief. A baby dragon was always quite the handful to handle in the mornings. A glance out the window told him the wyverns had deprecated too, which meant the morning was finally, truly getting started. Even if that start was probably a little later than they both would've liked.

“That's Miss Great Wizard to you!” Gem exclaims, already carrying about five, maybe six heavy books in her arms. The former Count hurries to keep up with her, grabbing what things he can from the edge of the bed. There are a few other things, notepads and writing utensils, hidden beneath the sheets as well. Which was even more stuff to clean up. Yay .

“Excuse me. Fine, oh Miss Great Wizard.” Fwhip snorts in amusement again, tempting himself to nudge Gem once more. But he figures that's a bad idea, with all the books she's carrying. Dropping one would probably be unfun, and also wake both of the dogs up.

“Are you sure you can carry all that? Nothings gonna give out on you?” Gem asks, seeing the load he has already started to carry. Said load only consisted of the same amount of books she had, maybe one more or one less. Fwhip wouldn’t know, he wasn’t counting when he grabbed the books. He had just grabbed at random to feel like he was helping.

“I'm sure. I'll be fine.” The former Count shrugs, adjusting the weight in his arms again. To be sure he won’t drop it, and to assure both himself and his sister. Even if he doesn’t think that will do much in the way of assurance, it's better than just standing there with a loose grip on seven odd books.

Gem goes to scold him, but is quickly cut off. Partly because they have done this song and dance before, many of times since he was first injured. So much so that the half dragon has grown bored and exasperated by the predictable arguments they have. It does not help that he also has never been a morning person. Another one of those twin things they shared. “Fwhip-”

“I'll be fine.” The ginger pushes, making a point by walking several steps forward. He can feel the light ache in his arm, but that is okay. It’s only a light ache, and those tend to either stay consistent or get worse. Usually they do the former more. So he can carry this stuff a few doors down to the library easily, no problem or any pain involved!

“If you insist.” The wizard sighs, tightening her grip on her own things. She goes to catch up, to walk beside him and try to get the door. Fwhip has to hold back a smug, triumphant little grin, and the stub of a long gone limb flicks in happy success.

Right after Gem finally relents, and finally agrees to let him do something like this on his own, his body decides to work against him. Pain shoots up his arm and leg at once, the ones on the same side, and Fwhip has to hold back a swear. The pain gets to his head as well, as it often does, and he knows he’s going to fall before he even starts to do so; the sensation has become that unbalancing.

“Shit” He hisses, catching himself on the door frame. Despite his best efforts, two books do slip from his grasp and tumble to the floor. Two loud bangs follow them, and the dogs jolt awake with ear splitting barks. Their barks normally don't hurt at all, now it's just a really bad time for them to be making any noise.

Gem sees him wince at the sound, and hushes the animals as quickly as possible. They always did listen to Fwhip more than her. But Nova and Koda, as if able to sense the energy in the wizard’s voice, or how much pain their owner is in, do quiet down after a few seconds. They also keep Violet, who is now awake. occupied in their own doggy way. Somehow. Which leaves all of Gem’s attention thankfully free for her injured idiot brother.

“Are you okay?” His sister asks, at his side in an instant. Worry is clear in her tone, and Fwhip has to ignore it. If he doesn’t, the guilt of causing it will consume him whole and make this whole situation worse than it already is. If it can get any worse, goddammit.

“I'm fine.” He says, trying to lean toward his sibling. Towards her warmth and comforting, familiar presence. But if he does that he is not fine, and she will have to spend half her day helping and healing him once again. So Fwhip does not do that, instead he leans away, and ignores the flash of pain as he does. Moving hurts , everything hurts right now.

“Don't lie to me.” Gem doesn’t chastise him at the moment, even though she has more than every right too. Mainly because her brothers stupid, and have done this dozens of times. Most importantly, he will do it again. But Gem is smart and caring enough to know that lecturing will do nothing but make the half dragon feel worse. So instead she allows herself to fret and worry, and let the warmness of it wash over her stupid sibling. Even if he can’t appreciate it at the moment, they both know he will later.

“....I'm fine.” Fwhip huffs, going to stand. Instantly, he falls down again, his chest landing hard on the books he’s carrying. It knocks the wind out of him, which is just great , just another problem he needs right now. Pain shoots up his arm and leg again, and feels like it is traveling up to his back. Which is fan- fucking -tastic! Back pain, again! His favorite thing on the pain menu!

“Idiot.” Gem huffs, not meaning the insult seriously. Well, not too seriously. She crouches next to her brother, taking the books he hadn’t dropped away from him desperately. She places them quietly next to her own stack, now on the floor as well, trying to avoid making anymore very loud noises. Fwhip wants to protest, but his damaged arm is already giving out from the main, and the ringing in his ears has not subsided. And his bad leg is aching, probably because he’s so shit at taking care of it. The ginger whimpers, and feels stupid. Like some helpless child.

“You need to rest.” The wizard hums, running a comforting hand through his hair. Fwhip hates how he leans into it, like a small child leans into his mother when sick. He hates it. The half dragon hates all of this so much, and the searing pain on his right side is not making it (or his mood, for that matter,) any better.

“...J-just got up.” He protests, the half dragon’s voice sounding weak even to him. He pushes the thought away, along with the waves of self hatred that follows it. Fwhip does not need to focus on that right now, he needs to focus on breathing, so he can stand again, and not worry his sister anymore. He can focus on all those bad thoughts later, when he’s trying to sleep ofcourse.

“I know, but you’re hurting.” Gem soothes, petting Fwhip’s head some more. Finally, he allows himself to go slack, and lean into all the comfort he is being given.“I’ll get you some ice and a hot drink okay? After I clean this.” She tells him her plan, like he is a small child. And the half dragon knows this is for his own good, and that he is not being babied. He knows Gem would rather stab herself than treat him as lesser, if he didn’t do it first, but it is hard to ignore the nagging in the back of his head telling him otherwise.

“Sure. Whatever.” He huffs, moving away from her touch. Gem removes her hand from his head, resting it on his arm instead. A sign he knows well, indicating that he is about to be helped up. What can the ginger say, he finds himself randomly falling a lot more these days…like some kinda old man…

“Think you can get to your own room? It’s just a door over.” Gem says, watching as her brother stops kneeling over on the floor. The half dragon moves into a crouching possession, the pain finally starting to dull enough to move. He lets the wizard hold his hands in hers, and gets ready to go back to standing for just a few minutes.

“I can.” Fwhip says, taking a few moments to catch his breath, and lets the pain dull the best he can. Thought that probably won’t be for very long, but hopefully long enough to do what his sister is suggesting. Because as much as he hates to admit it, it is a damn good and perfectly sensible (maybe even a tempting) suggestion. “I can.”

After that, Gem hoists him to his feet smoothly, well used to doing it by now. She is also strong enough to do so as well, rather impressively. Fwhip mangoes to make it across the hall, only having to lean against a wall for a good minute, maybe too at the most, before he is able to shamble away. Gem calls that she is going to clean their prior mess, and change into some new clothes, then she can do whatever he needs. He yells back some word of acknowledgement, and lets his mind wander elsewhere for a minute as he enters his bedroom for the first time that day. Probably the only one too, since Fwhip will most likely be stuck in it for most of not all of the day, at the rate he’s going indicates anything.

They have a few villagers living closer to the bottom of the mountain, and that's it. Other than that, the mountain is very lonely. Always has been, and probably always will be. It’s what he thinks about as he looks out his bedroom window, shuffling with his good clothes. He knows Gem told him to rest, but he at least wants to change out of his probably dirty ones. Look presentable for the day, in case he needs to actually do something. If the aching in his muscles lets him.

He holds back a sigh, and quickly shrugs off his clothes from the day prior. An outfit that reminds him of his younger days. Before he was a leader of anything. Back in his early twenties, when he was a very different and more unpleasant man. Times he wasn’t very fond of remembering, for a lot of reasons. The casual outfit he was shrugging on now was more like the current Fwhip, and subsequently made him feel more comfortable in his own skin. Even if his arms did burn with a pain they hadn’t years ago, when he had truly come into his own and first adopted this style.

Fwhip catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and has to look away. He hates seeing the scars that line his face, truly he does. They bring nothing but bad memories and pain. They're all explosion shaped, a reminder of why the marks are there in the first place. A permanent reminder of what he has done.

The former Count sighs, and shrugs his coat off. He has to see the scars on his arms as well, and they are much like the ones lining his face. He sits down on the edge of the bed, one he often finds himself able to get out of, and lets all those rather unpleasant thought consume him as he looks at his scars.

The explosion banged him up pretty good, Fwhip has to admit. It leaves him unable to do much, some days. Either from physical pain or the probable depression, the former Count has found himself bed ridden more than once. He hates it, being useless while Gem works around the house and tries to carry on. He knows she understands, but he still hates it nonetheless.

Gem was hurt in the incident, but less than him. Fwhip experienced the whole blast, while his sister only got a silence of the aftershock. She had a few sprains that had long since healed, and some lingering pain. Pain that lingered in her legs and arms, but pain that could be easily managed with spells and natural healing methods. Though the emotional and mental pain did not heal as fast. Her dragon's were also okay, and had quickly healed from whatever damage they had sustained. Something about them healing quicker and being more than people were.

Fwhip, on the other hand, has had more lasting injuries than his sibling. For starters, his physical pain lasts longer, and is worse. It often calls him to fall down or lose balance, like it had barely half an hour. Which meant he couldn't do any heavy lifting, which eliminated most tasks that would make him feel helpful and like a worthwhile member of this house. Because the universe loves screwing him over as of late, it seems.

He cannot say which of them has it worse emotionally or mentally, but the former Count figures it's similar enough. They had both lost everything that day after all. Though mental illness and the emotional pain that came from trauma were never something to be compared or pitted against each other. And he wouldn't be the one to start it, Fwhip wasn't that far gone. Not yet, anyways, and hopefully never.

His injuries had been more serious, multiple contributing to his new balance and coordination problems. One of said injuries being the loss of most of his tail, the limb having been blown off in the explosion. Half dragons often used their tails for balance, to support the extra weight their wings added. Though not that that mattered anymore, because his wings were also gone, blown to bits. Well, they hadn’t all been blown up that day, only half of them having remained. But half dragons do not grow their wings back, and the tissue had been badly damaged and bleeding from multiple tears where flesh had once been. The risk of an infection was far too high for even the most experienced healers to be comfortable stitching his wounds closed. Back then, and still now, it was better for him, and their current situation, to amputate the rest of his wings. Even if it was one of the hardest things Fwhip had ever had to do.

Neither of the twins were doctors, but he was sure he’d sustained some type of nerve damage somewhere along his body, and something was permanently wrong with his back too most likely. Oh, and he had god awful headaches and migraines now, probably also there to stay forever. Or maybe all of it was fixable. He wouldn’t know, he wasn’t a healer; was never good at that sort of thing.

Fwhip figures Gem has a permanent ailment or two as well, just that they're more manageable. But she doesn’t mention them, opting to worry about her brother and his myriad of new health issues instead. And the ginger did appreciate it, really, he just wished his sister would care for herself more. He could see the pain and grief hidden in her eyes, no matter how hard she tried to mask it.

The half dragon sighed, knowing he would have to retire for the day. And it was barely even mid morning. His pains had gotten worse while he sat there thinking. So reluctantly, his limbs aching like an absolute bitch and the phantom pains consuming his whole backside, Fwhip allows himself to curl up under the warm covers of his bed. He jokingly blames this all on the studying and reading he had to do last night, his body getting revenge for doing many mundane activities he knew he wasn’t a fan of.

A few minutes later, both Koda and Nova clamber onto his bed, knowing to be gentle when he is in the state. Fwhip smiles, and gives them both plenty of rubs and scratches behind the ears, letting them know he is not bad for their earlier barking. He grabs a book from his nightstand, one on machines and redstone. He’s had enough of books in the past twenty four hours, but there’s not much else to do to pass the time.

Fwhip hums as he flips through a page, his interest somewhat peaked. He’s read this book before, many of times, but it has yet to get interesting. He hears some clinking in the kitchen, and hopes Gem will make him that magic tea. The one that works on easing pain. Or maybe just some normal tea, his favorite flavor, just to make this day go a bit better. If only to help him get through the pain, that will be enough. What she does is always more than enough, after all.

#ron.writing #ron.fic #explosions acorss lifetimes #empires smp #empiresshipping #fwhimmy #but one isnt quite here just yet #fwhip #count fwhip #geminitay #wizard gem #reunited

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softblesses · 6 months

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Winter is Here.

This is a fic created for the lovers of sickfic & some snz, mostly just created for my self indulgence. Please don’t reblog to non-kink blogs. It hasn’t been fully beta read or edited yet, but I’m impatient.

Feel free to hop into my dms to discuss and yell about N/eal Ca/ffrey & the show in general! I’m on a rewatch and back in my hyper fixate stages. I’m not done writing for these lot just yet!

~Part 1 below the line~

“Dammit, Neal. .” Was a phrase Peter Burke found himself saying multiple times a day, several times a week. His CI was late again, and hasn’t been answering his phone. Granted, it’s only been half an hour, but there’s no telling when Neal will arrive or what excuse he’ll come up with this time.

Eventually, almost two hours later, Peter spots him making his way across the bullpen and upstairs. There’s a coffee cup in his hand, of course, and his hat is slightly askew and dusted with snow.

“And what time do you call this, exactly?” Peter mutters, not looking up from his paperwork as he flicks through another page and sighs.

A pause. “I’m guessing you don’t want me to answer with the exact time?” Neal questions, removing his hat and taking a seat, tipping the cup up to his mouth to finish the hot drink up.

Peter sighs once again, simply sliding a pile of papers Neal’s way. “Paperwork day, congratulations,” he mutters, glancing up at his informant and watching his disappointed facial expression towards the task at hand.

Neal picks up a pen from the conference room desk, and scans over the pages. He flicks through them pages, click-clacks the pen a few times, and sighs heavily, followed by a yawn.

“Boring you already?” Peter hums, gaze still concentrated on the work before him as he hunches over.

“Somethin’ like that,” Neal mutters back, moving to stand.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Burke sits upright, an eyebrow quirked upwards and arms folding neatly across his chest.

“Jeez, Peter. A man isn’t allowed to use the bathroom anymore?” His hands held up in surrender, before making his way to the door.

Heading across the bullpen, his pace a little slower than usual, Neal clears his throat; once, twice. It’s still scratchy, and he’d assumed it was just lack of water whilst sleeping overnight. He sniffles next, and surely that was just the freeze in the air outside; winter has dawned upon New York with a vengeance, and the chill he feels certainly confirms that much. But, a second before he reaches the men’s room, he sneezes. Not all that unusual. . . It happens, from time to time.

He eventually makes his way back to the conference room, blinking a few times and sniffling again. He should’ve warmed up by now; the office has heating, and usually he has no issues with temperature regulation. But something isn’t quite right this morning. Neal sits, shifting uncomfortably as he stares at the page in front of him. He’s always hated this part of their deal, working the cases and having to fill in page after page of writing afterwards — especially after a particularly in-depth job. But, it’s not that bad , and usually they get pizza and coffees and he’ll complain until Peter lets him take a break or two.

Today, Neal Caffrey is almost silent. Peter doesn’t like that, because a silent Neal means something is up. He’s planning something, or working on some sort of escape out of the inevitable boredom of paperwork, surely.

“Neal?” Peter calls for a second time, staring across at his partner. “Anyone home?”

Watering blue eyes glance upwards, and a quick swipe of his hand dries them off. “What?” He doesn’t mean to snap, but he’s tired, and Peter’s bothering him for something that will most likely be a quip against him. It doesn’t usually bother him, but today he doesn’t want to hear it.

“Jeez, someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, huh?”

“I was asking, do you want pizza? My treat.”

Neal looks back down at his papers, subtly trying to rub at his nose. “No, thanks. I ate.” It’s not all a lie. He had a pastry before leaving the house, but now he really wasn’t hungry.

Squinting at him, Peter shrugs. Something was off about him today, and he’ll get to the bottom of it. . After he rounds up the others, and gets their pizza orders in. He leaves the room after a minute or two, and Neal sinks down in his chair with a relieved sigh. He reaches into his suit pocket for the few squares of tissue he’d taken from the bathroom, and pats at his nose. Neal Caffrey doesn’t get sick. He thought to himself, stifling a sneeze against his wrist and rubbing his eyes.

He gets to his feet after that, collecting up his papers and sneaking out of the room and to his desk. It’ll be easier to concentrate here, that’s what he’ll tell Peter. He’s just tired, and the weather is making his head all fuzzy. In fact, he barely notices Peter coming up behind him, and he even uncharacteristically flinches as a hand settles on his shoulder a moment later.

“Everything okay?”

“Fine.” Neal deadpans, scrawling some notes onto his sheet.

“You sure?”

“Peter, I’m just doing what I’m not paid for. Can concentrate better down here — Jones chews too loud.” He mutters, and really, it’s not exactly a lie.

“Alright. . Pizza’s gonna be up there soon if you want some.” The footsteps wander away, and Neal’s left alone again.

An hour passes by, and then another, and Peter’s keeping an eye on Neal through the glass of the conference room. In fairness, he hasn’t seen him do anything particularly strange. . . Aside from visit the bathroom once or twice, and make his way back and forth from the water cooler. Maybe he’s calling the short friend. Or, maybe he’s just thirsty. Either way, he seems grumpy and Peter would rather leave him to sulk about the paperwork day alone, if that’s what gives them some peace for the rest of the afternoon.

The day begins to draw to a close as the clock ticks closer to five pm, yet the piles of papers don’t seem to be dissipating at the same rate. Peter exhales heavily as he signs off on another report, placing it carefully on top of the other one. He’d sent Jones home a few minutes ago, and Lauren too. They didn’t have as much to do, and the weather looked to be worsening — the both of them lived further than Peter does.

His eyebrows raise as there’s a small knock at the door, and his eyes light up at the pleasant sight of his wife. Peter stands, grinning now. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He questions, stepping closer and giving her a kiss on the cheek. . . But, she doesn’t look as happy to see him as he does her.

Uh oh. What did he do now?

“Well, I was on my way home and wanted to bring you some warm treats. . .” El trails off, folding her arms with the paper bag still in hand.

“But?” Peter adds expectantly, genuinely dumbfounded.

“Have you seen Neal?”

“Oh, God, what did he —“ the agent glances over at Neal’s desk, surprised to see he’s still there. Not only

Is he still there, but. . .

“Is he asleep?” Peter scoffs out something of a laugh, shaking his head. “Working hard or hardly workin’, huh?”

“Peter!” El scolds, giving him a light tap on the arm.

“What?!”

“Have you actually paid attention to him? C’mon.” She gestures for her husband to follow her down into the bullpen, and all the way to Neal’s desk. He’s snoring, head resting against his arm. His cheeks seem to display a light flush, and the tip of his nose looks irritated and red.

Peter frowns.

“Honey, he’s sick. He must be exhausted!” El whispers, a look of genuine sympathy crossing her features. “We need to take him home. He needs fluids and rest, not paperwork and scolding.”

Peter is speechless for a moment. Neal? Sick? He’d thought he was simply up to something, and in a bad mood because of their boring day of work. He supposes it makes sense now — avoiding him, going to the bathroom more often and drinking lots of water. He must’ve been trying to soothe a sore throat, and had clearly been hiding it from Peter, too.

“He pulled a health con on me. .” He mutters, watching as his wife gently rouses his CI from the slumber he’s been in for God knows how long. Some Detective, huh?

Neal sits up fast, a sharp intake of breath causing a light bout coughing. There’s a sheet of paper stuck to his cheek, and his hair is disheveled and sweaty. Peter tries not to laugh at the sight, as bad as he feels for him at the same time.

“Contrary to popular belief,” Neal mumbles, voice thick with congestion now. “I was not asleep. I was envisioning. . Paperwork, with my eyes. Closed. My eyes closed.”

El pouts, looking at Peter, before reaching to pluck the stuck paper from Neal’s cheek. “I think you’re a little feverish, honey. Let’s get you home.” She offers Neal an arm, to which he takes without question; a dazed sort of look in his usually bright blue eyes. Peter gathers up their things, and they begin to lead the confused conman to their car outside.

“What about the paperwork?” Neal asks, frowning as he’s ushered into the elevator. “Peter always makes me do paperwork. El, did you know? Your husband. . He’s mean.” Neal ‘whispers,’ and leans against the wall for support.

“It can wait,” Peter answers simply. “And, I’m not mean.”

“He didn’t give me pizza.”

“You didn’t want pizza!”

“El, he’s shouting at me.” Neal pouts, closing his eyes and resting his head against her shoulder. She places an arm around him to keep him steady, biting against her bottom lip to keep in a chuckle. He’s clearly still sleepy, and somewhat delirious. Poor thing.

They manage to get Neal to the car in one piece, and Peter gets in the driver’s seat, whilst El sits in the back to keep an eye on their passenger. She glances at him, watching his teeth chatter and listening to him sniffle. He must’ve been feeling off all day, and the weather certainly can’t be helping anything.

“Neal?” She says softly, frowning as he flinches at the car engine starting up.

It takes a moment, but he looks at her, somewhat of a lucid gaze staring back.

“Tissue?” She smiles, offering him a packet that she had in her bag. He reaches for it, mumbling a quiet and stuffy ‘thanks,’ before plucking one out and holding it to his nose.

The rest of the car ride is mostly silent, with Neal resting his head against the cooling car window, and drifting off to sleep before they’d even left the parking garage building. Elizabeth and Peter exchange whispered conversation along the way, until they pull up outside their house and quietly argue about who has to wake Neal.

“But, he looks so peaceful!”

“He can’t stay in the car, he’ll get cold. C’mon.” Peter opens his door, and walks around the side of the car to let Elizabeth out.

She sighs, giving her husband a kiss on the cheek. “Get the stove heated and the ingredients for tomato soup onto the counter, would you? I’ll bring him inside.” He nods, giving her hand a squeeze, before making his way up to their front door and unlocking it.

“Neal, sweetie?” She’s careful when opening the car door, aware that he’s leaning against it. “We’re here.”

The chill of the air outside is enough to wake him up with a start, looking around in confusion and taking a moment to gather his surroundings. “Elizabeth,” Neal murmurs. “This is. . . Not my apartment.”

“Nope,” she hums back, reaching in to help him undo his seatbelt. “You’re staying for dinner. Come on.”

It takes them a short while, but she manages to get Neal up and out of the car, into the house and up the stairs. She brings him a pair of sweatpants Peter never wears, so that he can at least tie them up to fit a little better, and a long sleeved plaid pyjama shirt to change into.

“I’ll be just outside the door, alright?” She leaves the bathroom door ajar, so that she can listen to make sure he doesn’t fall over whilst getting changed. Thankfully, it all seems to go smoothly, and El is soon helping him downstairs and onto the couch.

Covering him up with a blanket, and giving his hair a little ruffle. “Let me get you some Tylenol for that temperature of yours,” she tells him softly, making her way into the kitchen to check on Peter first.

She brings him back a large glass of water and two Tylenol pills, carefully handing them to him and telling him to ‘drink up, slowly.’

Neal does as he’s instructed to, grimacing at the feeling in his throat as the pills slide down. His head rests against the back of the couch afterwards in defeat, and he looks at Elizabeth with an expression that could break even the coldest of hearts.

“You really are sick, huh?” She says quietly, placing his glass down on the coffee table. “Well, I’m making soup as we speak. I’ll get Peter to come sit with you.”

Neal shakes his head.

“He won’t bite,” she teases. “He’s worried about you, y’know. But, keep that a secret between us, okay?” A smile crosses her features, before she turns and makes her way back to the kitchen.

Neal feels the couch cushions get a little heavier beside him, and opens his eyes to spy Peter now sitting beside him. He doesn’t have the energy to say anything, and it hurts his throat to even try. He simply blinks, sniffles, and closes his eyes again.

“Who would’ve thought it?” Peter begins, reaching to tuck the blanket around Neal a little tighter; noting him tense up, but relax a moment later. “Neal Caffrey, famous con artist, forger and art thief,, befelled by the common cold, of all things. Why couldn’t you have been sick when I was chasing you? Would’ve saved me a damn load of time.”

“Alleged,” Neal croaks, opening his eyes again to glare at his handler.

Peter laughs, reaching out to pat the poor man’s shoulder.

“I could still beat you if I had the plague.” He mutters next, hiding his face under the blanket. ‘Hh—xght.’ Another stifled sneeze, although not all that well this time.

“Bless you, and, I doubt that very much. Looking at you now, you couldn’t run anywhere. Not even to the bathroom, I doubt.”

Neal pops back up again, sniffling and glaring still. “You don’t know that.” He whispers, reaching for the tissue box on the coffee table; Peter handing it to him, so that he doesn’t have to leave his blanket.

“Is that why you didn’t wanna have pizza with us today? Or work with me?” Peter asks quietly, leaning back against the couch cushions and grimacing slightly at the noise of Neal blowing his nose beside him.

A long pause. “Are you sure you’re FBI?” Neal quips, his voice still as scratchy as sandpaper.

Before Peter can make a comment back, El’s coming out of the kitchen, holding a tray for Neal. “Homemade soup, comin’ right up!” She smiles, setting it carefully down upon the coffee table. “No pressure to eat a lot, just have what you can.” She reassures gently, handing him the bowl.

“Thank you,” Neal mutters quielty, and it’s only for a second, but El could’ve sworn she saw his eyes get a little teary.

They leave Neal to eat his soup, fetching their own bowls and taking a seat at the table. He doesn’t eat much, but the feeling of the warm soup against his aching throat is nice. The steam is nice too, and he simply sits there for a while with the bowl held up to his face, before putting it back on the tray and curling up into the blankets.

“Do you think anyone has ever done this before?” El asks, stirring her soup absent minderdly, as she watches over Neal ftom across the room.

“What? See Neal Caffrey act like a little, stubborn kid?” Peter retorts, picking up a piece of bread and taking a large bite.

El rolls her eyes, but there’s a fond look on her face as she shakes her head. “No,” she answers. “Take care of him. You know? He looked so. . . Shocked, when I brought him the soup. D’you think he’s always been alone in this sort of thing?” She considers, her own heart feeling heavy at the notion of Neal being all alone and unwell.

Peter falls quiet, dipping his bread into his soup for so long that it falls in. “Ah, crap—“ he mutters to himself, sighing. “You’re probably right. . He probably hasn’t been looked after. I don’t know much about his past, but I don’t doubt it was lonely.” He looks up at El, a sad sort of smile on his face.

“But, he’s got us now.”

•••

Neal wakes up two hours later, to the sound of the television on low volume, and quiet voices chatting around him. He blinks slow, looking around; Peter’s sitting on the floor in front of him, with Satchmo resting on his legs. Someone’s beside him, too. . . Must be El. Everything still feels heavy, but he doesn’t feel as shivery anymore. It still hurts to swallow, but feels a little less like knives now, at least.

“Neal,” a soft, female voice breaks his train of thought. Elizabeth. “How’re you feeling?”

It takes him a minute to answer, but opening his mouth to talk somehow becomes a cough instead, and the next thing he knows someone is handing him water. Oh, Peter. Peter’s kind to him. He takes a long drink, shakily passing it back and moving to sit a little better.

“Tired,” Neal answers, voice even more hoarse from lack of use during his nap.

“Do you want to go up to bed? Guest room is all set up for you.” Elizabeth offers, reaching out to gently rest her palm against his arm.

Neal thinks on it for a moment, scrunching his nose and trying to rid of the itch whilst he does so. A shake of his head; upstairs means being alone. Downstairs means being warm, and comfortable and with Peter and Elizabeth. It’s safe downstairs.

He moves a moment later though, and both Peter and El’s gazes immediately snap towards his direction.

“‘M just going to the bathroom.” Neal informs, trying his best to escape the entanglement of blankets without any help. . Failing miserably, and having Elizabeth help him unwravel.

He denies needing help, taking quite a while upstairs, before eventually re-emerging and taking each stair very slowly and one at a time. Peter decides that as funny this situation is, he doesn’t like it one bit. Neal usually bounds down the stairs, with the same energy as a golden retriever — and the cheerfulness of one too.

“You sure you don’t want to go to bed?” Peter asks, earning a frown from Neal as Elizabeth tucks him back in.

“You know. . .” El begins, giving Neal’s hair another little ruffle and passing him his water. “When I got sick as a kid, my Dad used to let me have a ‘couch bed’ night. He’d set me up on the couch downstairs, and we’d watch my favourite movies and drink hot chocolates, until I fell asleep. How about we do the same?” She suggests, smiling at the two men beside her.

A small smile forms upon Neal’s face, and he nods. A couch bed night sounds nice. He’s never had one of those before.

•••

El and Peter stay downstairs for the majority of the evening and into the night; Neal didn’t take long to fall asleep, and only woke up once, before the husband and wife made their own ways to bed, leaving the bedroom door open incase Neal needs anything during the night. Things seem to stay peaceful, until a thud from downstairs rouses El from her slumber, and she’s quick to shake Peter awake, too.

“Did you hear that?” She whispers, sitting bolt upright.

“No, but I guess it’s my problem now. .” Peter mumbles, still half asleep as he moves to sit up.

The sound of Satchmo whining confirms to Elizabeth that she didn’t wake up for nothing, and she’s already rushing out of the room and down the stairs before Peter can even plant his feet upon the floor. But, she wasn’t expecting to find Satchmo with his paws resting against Neal’s knees, and the quiet sound of. . . Crying?

“Neal?” Her voice is soft, so as not to startle him. “What happened? Are you hurt?” She crouches beside him, and Peter soon makes his way downstairs.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. . Neal, honey? Did you have a bad dream?” She reaches out, and he flinches away, not quite lucid enough to register their company.

A soft gasp falls from her lips, and she stands. “He’s burning. I’ll get some things, will you calm him down?” She reaches to give Satchmo a pat, and turns to make a beeline for the stairs.

A quiet sigh follows after that, and Peter takes a seat beside Neal. Unsure if he’s even lucid enough to understand him, he reaches out slowly to rub the other’s arm, in attempt to somewhat comfort. “You know I don’t do so great when people cry,” Peter keeps his voice quiet. “But, I’ll make an exception here; just this once.” He gives Neal’s shoulder a careful squeeze, painfully aware of how warm he is.

“She’s gone, Peter. .”

Ah, so is he somewhat aware of his presence.

“It was a dream, Neal. You’ve got a fever — it makes your dreams worse. You’re alright now.” He reassures gently, turning his head at the sound of his wife’s footsteps drawing closer again.

“Here, Neal. It’s for your temperature. Can you open your mouth, for me?” It takes a moment of repeating herself, but he eventually complies, and Peter reaches to switch on a lamp so that they can see better.

Neal’s shivering makes it so that he can’t keep the thermometer in place independently, so Elizabeth carefully holds it in place for him. A sympathetic expression is stuck upon her face, and she gently reaches to wipe away some of Neal’s tears.

“We’ll get you some medicine and you’ll be feeling less upset,” she reassures gently, removing the thermometer as it begins to beep at an urgent pace.

‘103.6.’ Is the reading on the screen, and she turns it around to show Peter. He gives a disapproving shake of his head (which is really out of concern,) and reaches to move Neal’s blanket. But, the sound of a tired sob and the weak grip of Neal’s fingers stop him.

“Alright, he can keep the blanket. I’ll get him some water for the Tylenol.” Peter mutters, wasting no time in fetching what they need and returning to Elizabeth trying to help Neal clean up his tear stricken cheeks.

Taking a seat beside him again while Elizabeth takes the almost empty glass from him, she watches as Neal begins to lean to one side, until he’s resting against Peter’s arm. “Y—you’re not gone?” The CI murmurs, sniffling as his teeth chatter togerher.

“We’re not gone, Neal. We’re right here. El’s getting you a cool cloth for your forehead.” He wraps an arm around him, carefully guiding Neal’s head against his chest to make him more comfortable. If this is where he’ll sleep and calm down, so be it. Peter can sacrifice a few hours of rest to help his friend.

The cool cloth is placed gently against his forehead, and both El and Peter stay with him until his shivering has dissipated and he’s fast asleep again.

“Never seen him like that before,” Peter whispers. “And I don’t ever want to see it again.”

Elizabeth reaches to take her husband’s free hand. “Think you can carry him to the guest room? No use having an FBI agent completely sleep deprived, and his CI with neck ache from sleeping like that.”

“I’ll have you know, I make a great pillow.” Peter whispers back, assessing the current situation for a moment. “I can carry him.”

It takes almost an hour, but Neal’s fever eventually goes down to a low grade one again, and they can all rest easy for the rest of the night. He’s safe in the guest room beside them, his congested snoring heard in the master bedroom. But, neither of the couple in the bed mind it. It’s a comforting reminder that he’s asleep.

#w/hite co/llar #sams write/s #n/eal is so cute I cry #sickfic #snz #snzblr #fevers #he’s so stubborn and an idiot and Peter is exasperated as usual

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