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justzawe · 2 years

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‘I said, put me in a corset asap’: Zawe Ashton on period dramas, pregnancy and embracing silliness

After a series of harrowing roles, the former Fresh Meat star is rediscovering her ‘joyful side’, with a Bridgerton-esque romp – and a baby on the way with Tom Hiddleston

by Liv Little

It’s the day after Zawe Ashton’s 38th birthday when we speak. She’s wearing a bright red, Regency-inspired, rose-covered headdress; she’s had it on since her celebrations with friends and family the night before. “I’ve worn this all weekend. And I thought: ‘Shall I act cool and take it off for Liv? Or will she appreciate it on some level?’” she says with a laugh.

Ashton is still buzzing from the birthday love – as well as, perhaps, the early praise for her leading role in the period film drama Mr Malcolm’s List. She insists she avoids looking at reviews or engaging with what the public think, but it’s impossible to remain completely in the dark. “Obviously, you end up hearing things … That’s the thing I’m hypersensitive to, what that means for the film-makers especially,” she says earnestly.

This year marks the start of a new chapter for Ashton, both personally – she’s expecting her first child with her fiance, Tom Hiddleston – and professionally: alongside Mr Malcolm’s List, she has a villainous role in superhero blockbuster The Marvels on the horizon. Both developments will bring a level of attention she’s unused to; despite starting out in showbiz when she was just six years old (she appeared as an extra in the beloved British-Caribbean sitcom Desmond’s), Ashton has managed to avoid the chaotic life of many who find themselves in the spotlight from a young age.

I ask if she deliberately keeps what is most sacred to her private. “I’m not Gwyneth Paltrow. I don’t know how to do that thing,” she says, by which she means broadcasting the most intimate parts of her life for the world to dissect. Although, let’s be real, that is already happening without Ashton’s permission: ever since she and Hiddleston were first linked in late 2019, after they starred together in the London revival of Harold Pinter’s Betrayal, the internet has been full of feverish speculation about their relationship.

Still, she doesn’t mean to cast shade on Paltrow. “I mean, I love the Goop of it all,” she adds, referring to Paltrow’s Netflix series Sex, Love and Goop, which takes couples on a journey of sexual and spiritual awakening. “I binged it in one night,” she says. It’s an admission you could never imagine being made by the character she’s best known for – the achingly edgy Vod from Fresh Meat, the cult TV comedy set in a Manchester student flatshare. In contrast to Vod’s take-no-prisoners attitude, Ashton is all jokes and smiles, radiating warmth.

Though Ashton closely guards her private life, during the recent press tour for Mr Malcolm’s List she was unable to hide her very visible pregnancy. “That’s the hysterical thing,” she says. “No one wants to go on a press tour at the same time that they want to keep their personal life private, but that’s my ‘contractual professional obligation’,” she says, partly serious, partly making light of the situation.

Ashton landed in New York for the film’s premiere just as news broke that Roe v Wade had been overturned. “I thought: ‘Oh God, there’s nothing more tone deaf I could be doing right now than promoting a lighthearted movie.’ I was also very aware that my presence in that promotion would be as a pregnant person.” She argues that it’s more important than ever that the different journeys of child-bearing people are acknowledged. “We’re having very important conversations about the autonomy we have over our bodies. What better autonomy could I have than just doing it how I wanted to do it?” Ashton is conscious that not everyone has had the same experience. “I have so many friends who have been through real grief, with regards to pregnancy and conception. I hope I can represent anyone on this journey, in whatever way they’re on it. Cos it doesn’t get more ancient than this,” she says jokingly, nodding to the fact that she’s having her first child in her late 30s.

Ashton grew up in east London in a tight family unit with her Ugandan mother and English father, both teachers. She started acting when she was a child and has never been short of work; as well as her breakout role in Fresh Meat, she had parts in films ranging from St Trinian’s 2 to Nocturnal Animals, and more recently appeared in the fourth season of The Handmaid’s Tale. Yet before Mr Malcolm’s List, she had never starred in a period drama.

The film, set in 19th-century Britain, follows the hilarious and often devious character of Julia Thistlewaite (Ashton), who is in her fourth season of seeking a match in high society and at very real risk of being labelled past it. Her character plots revenge against the eligible bachelor Mr Malcolm (Sopé Dìrísù) after he rejects her for failing to meet all the criteria on his list of attributes for a prospective wife. She enlists the help of her cousin Selina (Freida Pinto), with whom she hopes he will fall in love, only for her to break his heart or at least massively embarrass him. It’s a role that makes the most of Ashton’s comic timing, and it’s unsurprising that her performance has been the most talked about of the film.

It wasn’t until watching Bridgerton that Ashton imagined finding a place for herself within the period genre. After falling in love with a world filled with romance, gossip and high tea, she sent her team an email saying: “‘Put me in a corset asap’ – but I didn’t think of it as on course to happening!” With the serendipity of the best romantic comedy, it wasn’t long before the call for Mr Malcolm’s List came through. The actor who had previously been cast in the lead role had dropped out, and Ashton was given just 24 hours to decide whether she wanted it. Despite being second choice, she accepted enthusiastically. “You mustn’t have any ego about this as an actor,” she says. “Film-making is intricate, it’s difficult, it’s expensive, it’s weird. And wherever you end up is wherever you end up. So I was just stoked to do it, because I had just watched Bridgerton, and I’m not going to lie, I thought: ‘The door is open!’”

That wasn’t always the case.

Ashton tells me that when she was studying acting in Manchester, teachers adopted a white-centric approach to period drama. “There was this terrible time when you had to do period pieces where the reference, or sometimes the explicit message, was that anyone of colour in the cast had to imagine themselves as white,” she recalls with dismay. “That’s actually what a director said to us as a group when we were doing a Restoration comedy. And you can imagine the comedy immediately left the bones of the seven people of colour.” Ashton, of course, is far from the first Black actor to share the traumas of being a minority within a majority-white acting class, which is why she’s now taking the time to deliver talks and connect with other students. “I’ve decided to dedicate myself to that this year,” she says.

As a self-described “creative chameleon”, it didn’t make sense to Ashton that the artistic fantasies of others didn’t stretch to seeing Black people step into worlds or characters unknown. “I couldn’t understand why the imagination I had as a reader of classic pieces was not being interpreted on screen.” She finds it absurd that it has taken almost 32 years of acting for her to be tasked with putting on a bonnet. “Sometimes there’s this undertone, like: ‘Well done for retaining enough energy to wait for this moment to happen.’ And that’s a little bit how it feels to step into period drama.”

Many of the roles Ashton played before Mr Malcolm’s List had been harrowing (with the notable exception of Fresh Meat). Earlier this year she starred as a survivor of sexual assault in Lucy Kirkwood’s urgent 25-minute BBC drama Maryland, a work filled with the collective anger of women fed up with a failing criminal justice system. In Dreams of a Life (released in 2011, the same year Fresh Meat premiered), she played the near-silent role of Joyce Carol Vincent, the north London woman whose dead body lay in front of her television for three years before anyone noticed she was gone.

The intensity of those characters’ worlds sits in stark contrast to the jubilance of Ashton’s latest part. She revelled in the chance to go light. “The process of getting into this character was like allowing myself to feel joyful, silly, tender, clumsy, goofy, soft.” These are, she suggests, states of being that Black women are often assumed not to experience. “I thought: ‘Why would anyone think that my peers and I were incapable of this joyful, tender thing?’ What’s that about?”

You’re allowed to play a fun role, I point out. “I am absolutely allowed!” she says. “I realised that for myself at some point in filming. That was a huge penny that dropped.”

She reflects on a protest she attended in east London recently, in response to the story of Child Q, the 15-year‑old schoolgirl who was strip-searched by police officers in 2020 after school staff falsely accused her of having marijuana in her possession. Child Q was menstruating at the time. Teachers and officers didn’t contact her parents before she was searched, and no other adults were present. As Ashton speaks, it is evident just how much the abuse experienced by Child Q disturbed her. ‘‘I went to the protest with a placard bearing a slogan that the writer Bonnie Greer had given me. She was like: ‘Why are people trying to take tenderness from young Black children?’ And I thought that was such a poetic way of putting it. So instead of something very boldly antagonistic, which is where your mind goes when you write a placard for any type of protest, I wrote: ‘Stop killing young Black children’s dreams’. Then I scrubbed that out, and put: ‘Let Black children dream’.”

Ashton might be starring in period dramas and Marvel movies these days, but not long ago she was on the verge of giving up acting altogether; she was worried about being typecast after five years of starring in Fresh Meat. “There are strange things that happen when you leave episodic television, and I think this applies in the UK and the US. There’s a really weird chunk of time where everyone wants you to do the same thing again.” She points to the example of Friends. “Look at the stalling Joey spin-off. Look at the subsequent difficult realigning of identities that someone like Matthew Perry, who played Chandler, went through.”

She briefly moved to the Kent seaside town of Margate in 2018 to clear her head; it helped her return to the industry refreshed. After years of navigating entertainment, she had been on the verge of burning out. “I think it’s because I started young, before any pendulum swing in the industry. I’ve seen it all at this point. The stories I could tell – I mean, that’s the reason I wrote Character Breakdown,” she says, referring to the book she published in 2019, which explores the horrors of the TV and film industry through a mix of fiction and memoir. It’s both shocking and humorous, and includes imagined scenes that reflect the power plays between film-makers, actors and agents. After her brief hiatus from the industry, the role to reel her back into the world of entertainment was, fittingly, that of a gallerist in 2019’s Velvet Buzzsaw, a horror-thriller situated in the world of fine art that asks the question: who is in control – the artist or the industry?

Reflecting on the Ashton of now versus the Ashton who rose to fame in Fresh Meat (the show turned 10 last year), she is more focused on the parts of herself that stayed the same rather than the elements that have changed. “I’m still someone who wants to create interesting characters,” she says. “I’m also someone who loves being part of a loving ensemble – that’s where I always feel most alive. I still love Manchester. I’m not that person any more, but I don’t really know in which ways I’m not – that’s so weird, isn’t it?”

It has been intriguing for Ashton to witness the ways people have seen themselves reflected in the character of Vod. “A student said to me: ‘You are the first person of colour I saw representing any sort of flavour of non-binary or punk or queerness on television.’” She recognises the huge responsibility that comes with that status.

Part of the reason Vod has chimed with so many young people who find themselves occupying a space outside the norm is Ashton’s unwavering determination to create complicated characters over likable ones. “The show’s brilliant creators Sam Bain and Jesse Armstrong wanted me to play it like Vod’s really cool. I said, early on: ‘I won’t be able to create someone cool for you, but I will be able to create someone who doesn’t give a fuck.’”

There is a widespread sense that, because there has been so little representation of marginalised perspectives within the film and TV industry, each character who does make it on to the screen must represent every minority experience, which, of course, it cannot. It’s something that has long frustrated Ashton. “Reading Toni Morrison taught me from a very early age that the personal is universal. Anyone who tries to tell you it’s not has to think about that. That’s also just the way art works. You know, it doesn’t need to be liked all the time. This is what I can’t bear! I don’t care.”

Someone who instilled this mantra within Ashton is the groundbreaking Black artist Lorraine O’Grady. During a series of documentaries she recorded with the artist ahead of the Tate exhibition Soul of a Nation: Art in the Age of Black Power in 2017, Ashton learned that O’Grady had been shunned by some of the Black artist networks in New York because her work extended beyond the concerns of Black struggle. Yet, at 87, O’Grady continues to create the art she wants to see. “Is she someone who goes to bed at night feeling a bit sad that she was outcast by certain communities? Yes. Has she let it take her away from her gut and her heart, and her own experience? No, she has not.”

Having taken inspiration from O’Grady, how have Ashton’s own personal struggles affected her professional life? “They say the same things you struggle with as a person are the same things you struggle with as an actor,” she says. “There was a point when I couldn’t cry on cue. I was like, ‘God I’m just a crap actor, everyone else seems to be able to act loads of stuff, and it’s just me.’ And, actually, it was me. I had a lot of unprocessed sadness and trauma that wasn’t ready to come out in my own life, let alone when someone snapped their fingers and said to cry on behalf of someone else.”

What eventually allowed Ashton to process her own trauma was her writing. In 2019, she wrote a play called For All the Women Who Thought They Were Mad, exploring how workplace dynamics affect Black women. “There is an instant feeling of writing from places that need releasing, writing about something that was traumatising me. So I’m changing the world and changing myself at the same time, and that’s still how I write now.”

And when Ashton isn’t making sense of the world’s traumas, past, present and future, what does she do for fun? She really has to think about this one, not because there isn’t joy in her life – it’s full of it – but because her life’s enjoyments are in many ways tied up in her work. “I feel attacked,” she says through a giggle, as I list some possible activities that she could do for fun outside of the classic film club she joined during lockdown, or the books she reads (she hosted last year’s Women’s prize for fiction podcast).

“I want to get back to the sea,” she says. “It changed my whole headspace. And I should take up gardening.” A day later, she sends me a follow-up email, concerned I might think she’s forgotten how to have fun. “I gave the most post-Covid answer to my free-time question. Forgetting that I love art galleries, live music, yoga and pilates, acupuncture and painting. Sometimes I’m still operating from a place of captivity!”

It’s time for Ashton to go. Hobbies or not, she has plenty on the horizon: she is a woman on the verge of everything from Marvel to motherhood. But, amid the upheaval, she appears to have found a new equilibrium. “I think over the past five years I’ve realised that the only way to do anything in this industry is to be anchored in myself,” she says. “As long as I have that, everything else will fall into place.”

Mr Malcolm’s List is released in the UK on 26 August and is out now in the US.

#zawe ashton #the guardian saturday #interview #article #mml promo

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spicedhcrt · 5 days

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BRIAR JENKINS ⸻ the influencer

APPLICATION !

( HALSTON SAGE, CIS WOMAN, SHE & HER ) BRIAR JENKINS the THIRTY year old is known as THE INFLUENCER within the group. they are known to be AMBITIOUS and STUBBORN which makes sense when you think about how SHE'S FAKING HER LIFE ONLINE TO HIDE HER ADDICITON. but i guess we’ll find out for ourselves.

AESTHETICS !

the smell of an expensive perfume always leaving you wanting more. the feeling of being in love without actually being in love . never doing anything unprepared and looking effortless while doing it, big eyes filled with mischief and wonder and an even bigger smile that follows. a camera following your every move and documenting eveything. a life so perfect it can't be real.

MINI PLAYLIST !

i. PASSAGES - three laws . ii. LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO - taylor swift . iii. LONG WAY DOWN - tom odell . iv. MY MISTAKE - gabrielle aplin .

STATISTICS !

full name : briar jenkins nicknames : B, Bri, blondie, birthday : february 14 zodiac sign : aquarius age : 30 sexual orientation : bisexual romantic orientation : pan romantic relationship status : single occupation : influencer

Briar Jenkins was born and raised in the picturesque landscapes of Michigan, where the whispers of the forest and the gentle caress of the lakes shaped her childhood. From an early age, Briar possessed an innate magnetism that drew people to her, a quality that would later propel her into the spotlight as a well-known influencer.

At the age of 25, feeling the pull of ambition and adventure, Briar made the bold decision to leave her hometown behind and embark on a new chapter in the bustling city of London. With her captivating presence and eye for aesthetics, she quickly carved out a niche for herself in the world of social media, captivating audiences with her glamorous lifestyle and curated snapshots of her life.

Despite the outward success and admiration she garnered online, Briar struggled beneath the surface with her own demons. The pressures of maintaining her image and the relentless demands of social media took their toll, leading her down a dangerous path of addiction to pills. Behind the carefully crafted facade of her Instagram feed, she battled the darkness within, using her fame and platform to conceal her struggles from the world.

Periodically, Briar would return to Michigan, seeking solace in the familiar embrace of her roots and the unconditional love of her family. These trips served as a respite from the frenetic pace of her life in London, a chance to reconnect with the simplicity of her childhood and find a moment of peace amidst the chaos of her addiction.

Now, as Briar finds herself once again preparing to journey back to Michigan, she feels a mix of excitement and trepidation. The invitation to a cabin retreat with a few close friends offers her a much-needed escape from the relentless pressures of her busy schedule, a chance to unwind and reconnect with those she holds dear. But beneath the surface lies the ever-present weight of her addiction, a secret she carries with her wherever she goes.

PERSONALITY !

personality traits + : empathic , magnetic , determined , ambitious, friendly personality traits - : impulsive , quick-tempered , stubborn , brash , reckless , naive moral alignment : Chaotic neutral temperament : Sanguine

HEADCANONS !

Despite her outward confidence and glamorous lifestyle showcased on Instagram, Briar harbors a deep sense of vulnerability that she struggles to confront. The pressure to maintain her image as a successful influencer exacerbates her feelings of inadequacy and fuels her addiction.

Briar's Instagram feed isn't just a curated display of her life; it's also a form of artistic expression and a means of coping with her inner turmoil. Through photography and creative captions, she channels her emotions and struggles into her content, using it as a cathartic outlet.

Despite the geographical distance, Briar maintains a close relationship with her family back in Michigan. They provide her with unwavering support and serve as a constant source of strength and comfort, even as she grapples with her addiction.

Behind the glamorous facade of her influencer lifestyle, Briar longs for genuine connection and understanding. Despite her large following and social circle, she often feels isolated and alone, yearning for someone who can see past the facade and accept her for who she truly is.

Despite the challenges she faces, Briar is determined to overcome her addiction and find a sense of inner peace. She recognizes that true healing requires vulnerability and courage, and she's slowly learning to let go of the fear that holds her back from seeking help and support.

Briar is a perfectionist by nature, constantly striving to maintain the flawless facade she presents to her followers. This drive for perfection fuels her addiction, as she feels the need to keep up appearances at all costs, even if it means sacrificing her own well-being.

More tba.

CONNECTIONS !

other : i’m basically open to every thing so let's do all the plotting

#lake:intro #a mess and unfinished but i wanted to get this outtt

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sliverpelt-cats · 1 year

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Journey of Oak and Red || Chapter 4 || Warriors AU

AU Prompt: Oakheart and Redtail survive the Battle for Sunningrocks, and leave the forest territories for a life out of Tigerclaw's threats.

Characters: Oakheart, Firepaw, Brushstorm, Redtail, Honeyspot, Panthereye, Dawnstar

Warnings: Slight panic, fight, Redtail gets snappy

Author's Note: I did warn you guys that there would be Hamilton references, and the next chapter will be full of them.

Timeframe: About the first few chapters of Fire and Ice, about 6 to 7 moons since Redtail and Oakheart left their clans

°°°

Leafbare was getting worse. While the creek was still running, the fish from it were slowly being taken by any bird of prey that dared to touch the freezing water.

During the many other moons since he'd joined the clan, Oakheart used the shrubbery of the forest to disguise himself from the threatening birds. They were unable to detect his presence, especially during newleaf when the forest was rich with prey of all kinds.

Now Oakheart returned with a skinny vole and what was barely a rabbit. It had all the parts just fine, but what the large warrior assumed to be juicy meat was simply long fluff that no cat would prefer over a fat meal.

"Cut your losses and tuck your tail between your legs, Oakheart?" A snide comment entered the tom's ears as he dropped his hunt in the fresh-kill hole. "Dawnstar ought to hear about this."

Honeyspot hated Oakheart, and Redtail, ever since they joined the clan. Always commenting that they didn't need more mouths to feed, when in actual fact, Redtail and Oakheart had been catching twice as much prey than the ginger she-cat had in the last moon.

"Go on, tell him then. Tell him that a warrior that has been catching more than you cut his losses." Oakheart challenged, turning in the thick snow to warm himself in the comfort of the warriors den.

As he pawed his nest, Oakheart's ears strained to hear the elder speak. "I haven't seen a Leafbare like this since I was a kit. Has StarClan spoken to you?"

"Not very clearly," the clan's priest replied. "They've been incredibly vague with their messages as of late."

"Do you think they're angry with PantherClan for attacking a doctor on our land?" Silkstep's purr wondered aloud.

Crabstorm grunted. "'Dunno. Now keep still, your fur won't be any less matted if you don't stop moving."

Oakheart hadn't thought of StarClan's involvement. He licked over the scarring wound on his shoulder, reminiscing on Honeyflight's last words before a PantherClan warrior tore at her belly.

Tell Dawnstar I'm sorry.

"Hey, you're back early." The ginger point apprentice meowed from outside the den. "Brushstorm and I thought you were still out hunting. Honeyspot said you gave up."

Oakheart hummed, "the eagles are getting an ego on them, I swear on StarClan."

"No, she said you gave up in the battle." Firepaw sat in front of Oakheart, who'd moved from his nest to groom himself at the den entrance. "Did you?"

He watched as the apprentice's eyes flickered with curiosity. "Sometimes, a warrior has to pick their battles. Your mentor made me in charge of that patrol - my only motive was to get Honeyflight and Panthereye away from the intruding warriors without a thought for myself." Oakheart raised his chin. "I had fought valiantly, if I say so myself."

"I knew you would! You're so big and strong, that you wouldn't run away from a battle!" Firepaw's eyes lit up with excitement, as the tom jumped up and got into his fighting stance. "If I'll ever be as great a warrior as you, the other clans should fear me!"

Oakheart chuckled nervously, his green eyes wandering to Redtail leaving the doctor's den. Had he been injured when he took Mintpaw hunting? Did one of the eagles attack them?

"I'm going to go see Redtail, you should go play with Mintpaw and talk about your battle training. I'm sure she'd love it." Oakheart absentmindedly said his bye to the apprentice, and padded over to his friend. "Are you okay?"

Redtail hummed, as Oakheart checked over his tri-coloured pelt. "I'm fine. I was just seeing how Panthereye's doing."

"How is she?" Oakheart had been curious about the independent she-cat lately, as she'd been spending more and more of her time in her den, and less of it in the leafbare sunlight. "Is she taking care of herself?"

"She's eating and drinking just fine, but she's been spending Mousepaw to gather herbs with Finpaw. Last time she found out Mousepaw left camp on his own, she chipped his ear." Redtail blinked a few times, before looking over to Dawnstar sharing tongues with Wheateyes. "I need to check on Wheateyes for her. I'll see you later, Oakheart."

He watched his friend push his way through the snow, the cold white powder almost past Redtail's shoulders. The poor, smaller tom would have to start jumping to get around if there were more snowfall.

"Oakheart, can you take Firepaw on a border patrol?" Brushstorm asked, stopping by the large tom. "I have to stay in camp, so I can't take him out."

He nodded at the she-cat, dipping his head to the apprentice and led him out of camp. "You know, I think you'd be a pretty great warrior, Firepaw. You have the strength and drive to protect your clan."

"Thank you, Oakheart." The young tom purred happily. He walked alongside him with joy in his eyes, obviously taking the warrior's compliment in stride. "Do you think I could catch one of the eagles? I've gotten bigger."

"And while that's true, they wouldn't hesitate to snatch you off your paws." Oakheart reminded the apprentice, walking down the side of the riverbed and wading into the rushing water. The stream was much colder than the snow, but it only pooled around his knees. Plus, Oakheart had grown up in an island camp. He would be fine.

Firepaw, maybe not. "Oakheart, the water's almost at my belly." The apprentice whined, shivering.

"Can you jump to me?" The warrior asked, standing on the opposite side of the creek by now. "I promise I'll catch you."

The ginger point tom nodded, flexing his paws at the creek's edge, before taking the leap. He narrowly missed the edge, before Oakheart clutched the scruff of Firepaw's neck in his jaws and hauled him up the side of the riverbank and into the sunlit snow. "Thank you, Oakheart."

"I'm sure you could have swan that if the water wasn't rushing so quickly," Oakheart frowned, staring down at the chilling water. "It was calmer at dawn... we'll get back to camp the other way."

When he returned to camp, Oakheart sent Firepaw to take some fresh-kill and warm in the apprentice's den while he informed Brushstorm of the patrol.

"PantherClan's scent is more faint than yesterday, and there's been no pawprints that don't smell like one of our clanmates. The eagles and birds of prey seem to have been hiding in their nests, too."

Brushstorm nodded her thanks. "How was Firepaw? I hope he wasn't too much."

"There was a current that almost toppled me over. Firepaw was a little afraid to wade in, so he jumped over instead." Watching Brushstorm nod about her apprentice, Oakheart added. "He'd make a fine warrior, Brushstorm."

The she-cat purred with a curt nod. "I'll have his assessment soon then. Thank you, Oakheart."

He nodded his head, turning to take a fat rabbit from the pile and sit in the warmth of the warrior's den and away from the snow. As he started to eat, his ears caught the sound of Redtail's paws breaking the twigs underneath the snow padding covering the camp. "Where have you been?"

"Helping Panthereye and Mousepaw." Redtail murmured, stretching as he reached his nest. The smaller tom curled into the moss, tucking his tail over his paws. "What have you been doing?"

"Hunting, I took Firepaw out for a patrol. How's Mintpaw's training?"

"I sent her to clean the elder's bedding and take ticks out of Silkstep's fur."

Oakheart frowned. "Did she do something wrong?"

"Not at all, but no cat else was going to do it. And she needs to learn basic chores." Oakheart hummed, taking the excuse since Redtail clearly didn't want to argue. The tortoiseshell rested his chin on his tail and closed his eyes. "Panthereye is pretty, but I wouldn't neglect my responsibility as Mintpaw's mentor. Bluestar made me her deputy for a reason, you know."

The hissing from the tom was new as of late. It had been moons since Oakheart and Redtail had come to heads over anything, and the old hostility returned. Was Redtail still holding a grudge because of Sunningrocks in their former territories?

He hoped not; Redtail was the closest he had to family now. Oakheart's kits were, hopefully, still in RiverClan and his brother was leading that clan. With his parents long gone before he left the clan, Oakheart only thought about his only sibling and kits.

The rest of the day flowed slowly, contrary to the creek, and Oakheart readied himself in the middle of the clearing for Dawnstar's announcement.

"We won't be attending the Gathering, this moon. We lost one of our very best, and cannot afford to leave the camp unguarded. Both Crabstorm and Panthereye, as well as Mousepaw, will require a bodyguard. That leaves us down two warriors from attending the Gathering, and two less to protect each other on the journey."

Honeyspot stood to argue with her leader. "But we can't just not go. The Ancient Warriors will be furious if we're not there, not to mention StarClan."

"They will understand. StarClan allowed for one of our own to join them, and the Ancient Warriors guided her spirit to them." Dawnstar excused. "Crabstorm and Panthereye mentioned such."

Hushed murmurs blended through the camp. "Panthereye blames StarClan for Honeyflight's death?" Silkstep's raspy voice croaked in question.

"As well as the warriors who attacked, of course."

"Is she okay?"

Dawnstar was silent for a moment, glancing at the she-cat watching from the safety of her tree. "Panthereye is the greatest doctor TigerClan has ever had. We all know she is fine."

"No, she's not." Redtail muttered, his teeth blaring.

Honeyspot hissed, looking around the other warriors at him. "What did you say, rogue?"

"I said that she isn't." Redtail hissed, his hackles rising at the ginger she-cat. "I've spent the last half-moon with her and even a mouse-brain like you can tell she's in pain."

"What did you call me?"

"Redtail, Honeyspot enough."

"You heard what I said, clearer than a thrush's call." Redtail retaliated.

Panthereye's slim figure stood, her ears twisted back. "Redtail. Meet me inside." When the tortoiseshell didn't move, the silver tabico hissed, "do I have to drag you into my den like a disobedient kit? Get inside."

"Yes, ma'am." He didn't ignore her a second time. Only StarClan knew what would happen if he did.

#warrior cats #warriors #warrior cats au #warrior cats fanfiction #redtail and oakheart live au

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thejakeformerlyknownasprince · 7 years

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#26

Short opinion: This is the best book. Not the best Animorphs book, just the best book of all time. Period.

Long opinion:

This is one of those books where plot and character are difficult to sort out, because the plot is so character-driven and the characters are so influential to the plot that they are irreparably wrapped up in each other—and the entire story is driven by the protagonists’ agency. This book opens and closes on Jake’s dreams, and in that first dream sequence he’s this tiny, helpless human in the face of this ginormous cosmic power. I love that this scene draws attention to the fact that Jake first encountered Crayak under circumstances when he was literally the most helpless he’s ever been in his life: Jake is literally paralyzed because of the dying yeerk inside his brain when he suddenly finds himself facing down this malicious all-knowing deity. In that scene Jake describes himself as the “keeper” of his brother’s memories (Have I mentioned the Cain parallels recently?), foreshadowing both the fact that by the end of the book he’ll be the only being with Howler DNA or memories in the whole universe, and the fact that by the end of the series he’ll be the only being with Tom’s memories in the universe.

The next scene with the kids watching a production of Lion King (funny how that plot hinges on the villain killing his older brother…) in a way that makes them utterly themselves: Rachel is pretty much daring a guy to try and hit on her so she can release a little pent-up frustration on a harasser, Marco is pulling ridiculous stunts to get Jake to laugh, Cassie is totally zoned out because let’s be real she doesn’t give a crap about the fine arts, and Jake is enjoying the peace and quiet for a bit while also not giving a crap about the fine arts. When Ax shows up he’s totally confused but goes into hyper-protective mode toward his team anyway, and when Tobias pops up he figures out in two seconds flat what it took everyone else a few minutes to catch on to: this is the Ellimist at work.

One of my favorite subtle moments in the series is when Marco snarks at the Ellimist about the pinnacle of ketran evolution being the ability to look like a teenager with braces, and then almost immediately has a silent freak-out because he just sassed a divinity. I really love how Marco’s quick thinking gets him in trouble almost as much as it gets him out, and how it shows that even his clever one-liners are a coping mechanism rather than a calculated attempt to appear cool. His inability to get through a stressful situation without making dumb jokes literally almost gets the kids killed in #30 and #42, and here he has the good sense to realize that the Ellimist is the absolute last person he should be mocking—about ten seconds after he’s already gone and done it.

Also, Jake and Rachel’s relationship in this book is heartbreaking and awesome. When the kids first learn about the conflict with the Iskoort they’re understandably reluctant to get involved in yet another cosmic war but Rachel especially argues that they shouldn’t get themselves killed needlessly in a conflict that has nothing to do with the yeerks… Until Jake admits that Crayak has been harassing him in his dreams. Rachel does a one-eighty to “No Crayak space monster is gonna beat up on my cousin” the millisecond she finds out (#26). Marco also jumps sides of the argument immediately with an eye to defending Jake, and before they know it they’re already off to the races. Later on, just before the final battle, Rachel literally holds Jake in her arms in grizzly morph while he becomes a Howler for the first time, because she’s the only person Jake trusts to kill him without hesitation if he loses control of the morph. These two share a level of trust—Jake trusts Rachel to defend his life, but also more importantly to know when to end his life when the cost of defending it would be too high, and Rachel has exactly the same level of trust in Jake—that we don’t see with any other pair on the team. It goes way, way beyond their simple shared willingness to get their hands dirty; it’s about trusting each other with their lives but also with their deaths.

This is also the book where (if he didn’t already have it) Jake definitely earns the title of “war-prince.” Not only does he fight a battle against two infinitely more powerful beings and win, not only does he outmaneuver the most deadly alien species the kids ever face using the power of love, but he also plays the part of Team Mom throughout this nightmarish field trip while just as scared and lost as everyone else present. He takes the time to check on Cassie in the middle of the night while also terrified the Howlers will attack at any moment. He gently talks Marco down when Marco’s about to panic at the sheer foreignness of the situation. He not-so-gently calls Erek on the fact that Erek is lying by omission for large parts of this book. All the while he also weighs and balances everything he knows about the Howlers and the Iskoort, constantly gathering more information (frequently at risk to his own life, as with that awesome-nutso gambit with jumping off a cliff to acquire Howler DNA) until eventually he figures out the motivations of everyone else jerking him around. He describes himself as “an ant on a chessboard,” but that doesn’t mean he can’t learn how to play. By the end of the book he’s thinking on the same level as the Ellimist and Crayak, while also viscerally understanding the ordinary Howler or Iskoort. As Rachel’s bulletin board says: ’“If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the results of a hundred battles.’ - Sun Tzu” (#4).

Jake also verbally embraces the title of “prince” for the first (possibly only) time in the series during this book, twice ordering Ax to defend his own life against the Howlers. Jake doesn’t totally get andalite culture, evident in the fact that he’s not sure why Ax cares so much about having run from an unwinnable battle. But he also knows and understands (and cares about) Ax, enough so to grasp that what Ax needs is the reassurance of his prince that he didn’t do anything wrong. Jake has to practically step on Rachel’s toes to stop her from volunteering for the suicide mission (because of course) but he does it, aware that Ax will view this as a chance to reaffirm his place on the team and regain what “honor” he lost by running from the Howler. Jake is never comfortable with the leadership role, and least comfortable of all when someone puts a formal title on his leadership. However, he also understands that when Ax is literally ready to die in order to affirm his place on the team, the whole “prince” bit is not about him; it’s about helping Ax. And so he calls himself Ax’s prince, not once but twice, in order to save Ax’s life. Because it’s what needs doing in order to keep the team alive.

In addition to the spot-on characterization and the mind-bogglingly huge plot, this book also has some vicious commentary on philosophy of war. Marco actually calls Erek on the fact that, when the Animorphs are about to be slaughtered by a far more powerful enemy, Erek’s decision not to act is an action in and of itself. Maybe Erek doesn’t have a choice about not causing harm, even at the expense of preventing a murder, but Erek also sure as hell does not have the moral high ground. Pacifism is not a righteous course of action in the face of atrocity, and Erek standing by to watch his friends get slaughtered—knowing all the while that the entire Iskoort species also hangs in the balance—is not the moral high ground. Jake actually feels loathing for the Pemalites as he frantically flies back toward the hopeless battle that might have cost Cassie and Rachel their lives, thinking that he’ll never forgive them if they got his friends killed with their short-sighted, obsessive nonviolence when they programmed the Chee.

The social comment in this book isn’t a particularly comforting or comfortable one (but then when are they ever, in Animorphs books?) but it is an important message: that the world is an ugly place in which simple neutrality is the prerogative of the privileged. One cannot call oneself moral simply by standing by and refusing to fight back while evil triumphs (X). As Cassie points out to Jake, only slave owners and Nazis have ever had the luxury of branding entire groups of people as uniformly evil and one’s own cause as uniformly good (#26). In order to stop a terrible wrong, the kids have to commit a terrible wrong. The war is not won through anything as easy as standing on principle, because no lofty abstract principle ever works in 100% of cases in the real world. Erek is no better or worse than any of the kids because he is held to a certain standard of behavior by external constraints; even an idea as pure as “do no harm” does not stand up when one has the chance to stop genocide and cannot.

Crayak understands the idea better than the Pemalites did, when he designs the Howlers: the opposite of love isn’t hate; it’s indifference (X). The Chee aren’t programmed to hate—or to love—any other species.

More specifically, this book also calls Erek out on his tendency to consider himself above the Animorphs because of his nonviolence. Erek is every bit as vengeful (bloodthirsty, even) as Ax or Rachel throughout this whole conflict, but he also refuses to acknowledge that fact. He conveniently forgets to mention the fact that the Howlers are innocent (relatively speaking) in their childish indifference to death and ignorance of failure until Jake also discovers that fact. Years before the Animorphs use Erek to do their dirty work in the fight against Tom’s yeerk, Erek uses them to do his dirty work through setting up the fight with the Howlers and letting them annihilate another species without even having all of the facts about who they’re fighting.

The motif is writ large throughout the series: war is won through sacrifice, and most of those sacrifices are not as clean or glorious as simply dying for one’s cause. Erek stands by, choosing to give up the fight after only one battle turns too ugly for his liking (#10), and as a result the entire species of Howlers gets wiped out by Crayak. As a result of his later actions, both Tom and Rachel get killed and the Blade ship remains free to conquer another planet (#53). And yet this is a being who (allegedly) never hurts anyone for any reason. Erek is self-righteous, vengeful, and morally hypocritical. That fact gets a little lost in books like #20, #32, or #45, but here Jake makes the contrast between his friends—who are running headlong into a deadly battle for the sake of some yeerk-descendants—and the Chee—who are forced to stand by and risk nothing with nothing gained—painfully clear.

This book offers no simple answers, and it shows that in war, there are no simple answers. However, it also ends with Jake surrounded by his friends, taking triumph from the fact that he’s just a helpless little human facing down a malicious all-knowing deity whose ass he just kicked. USING THE POWER OF LOVE. Have I mentioned that this is the best book ever written?

#thewanderingdelusion #asks #answers #animorphs #animorphs reviews #tiger mommy #jake berenson #26 #the attack #erek king #the only thing that could possibly make this book better #would be more of tom's presence in the early chapters #SHUT UP AND LET ME HAVE MY BIASES

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wizkiddx · 3 years

Note

Hiii I really love your work! Could you write about Tom secretly or not secretly watching yoi have a Zoom Uni class? And maybe he teases you in a way, trying to make you laugh or he sends you text messages or something? And later when you're done and he has a meeting,you tease him right back?

Hope you're having a lovely day 💞

a/n hey anon!! this was a really cute idea but I have another req for the vice versa bit, so only did the first half in this- I hope u don't mind :)

warnings: implied smut at the end but rlly just a fluffy cringe fest

////////////////////////////////////////

Early mornings where never you’re favourite and this one wasn’t an exception to the rule. The LA sun was flooding through the curtains that had been hurriedly thrown almost-closed last night as you huffed into the duvet. You needed to get up - but you definitely didn’t want to. To be fair, you’d only arrived the day before and were still acclimatising to the jet lag - though Tom’s presence certainly made everything alot easier.

Especially as you’d been without him for so long, the pandemic meaning you hadn’t been able to make the long-weekend trips you usually would’ve. So when at the beginning of may, Tom had offered for you to come out and stay with him for half the summer (while he was busy working). There was only really one answer…. free holiday with the absolute specimen of a human who you call your boyfriend? Yes please.

It did mean though, that you had flown out before the end of the semester. Only by a week and it didn’t make much difference because you only had a few zoom lectures - but they were compulsory. So even if you were living in the US, you had to follow your UK school timetable. Hence why you had to get up at 6:30, to make your UK time 14:30 lecture.

The arms around you seemed to have other ideas, huffing and only pulling you tighter when you tried to wriggle out of his embrace. You groaned in annoyance, mainly because he was making it more and more tempting to stay huddled up against him.

“Toooooommm I gotta get up” Clearly not agreeing, he just squeezed you to his chest tighter, whilst emphatically shaking his head - all with his eyes still firmly pressed shut.

“Let go! I have a lecture!” Still not letting up , he just shook his head once again - making his bed hair especially wild as it dragged against the linen pillows.

With a sigh you turned in his death grip, now being able to see his puffy morning eyes pressed firmly shut. First you arched up and pressed a soft kiss to his chin, then jaw and then nose.

“Seriously T, I need to show up to this one.” Because yes, you might’ve already had an absence from yesterday, where you had both slept through the alarm.

“-o it-’” Croaking so much so you couldn’t even puzzle out what he said, the man cleared his throat before trying again, the sound reverberating in his chest. “ uhmm do it from bed, don’t go.”

That had you pouting at his cuteness. Ever since you’d arrived he’d been unbelievable clingy to you, barely letting you out of his sight. You showered together; he sat and stared whilst you did your skin care routine; even at restaurants he insisted on sitting next to you with his hand on your knee. When you had asked him, the only reasoning you got was a shrug and a muttered ‘I missed you’. Never, ever would you complain about Tom’s attention. But…. you really needed to get to your laptop.

“I can’t babe thats not very profess-“

“-wont even be able to tell.”

As much as you tried, you couldn’t ever really deny Tom anything. Not when he cracked his eyelids open, revealing the softest warm brown eyes, coupled with a lazy smile. So yes, you ended up quickly getting changed into one of Toms old burgundy tops, running a brush through your frizzy hair and then clambering back into bed. You balanced your laptop on a tray on top of a box, so the angle was less obvious that your backdrop was a headboard. Instantly Tom had half-asleep turned over to lay his messy head on your lap. And with a half sigh half laugh, you logged on- once in the waiting room bringing a hand down to trail your nails through Tom’s hair which made him groan with delight.

It was all going so well too, up the point where breakout rooms were announced and you had to talk - your chipper voice and laughs with your course mates rousing Tom from his sleep. Every time he almost lifted his head into the view of the webcam, you were very quick to slam it back down, forcing him back onto your lap.

Eventually he got bored of the restrictions, as well as not being very into the history module you were all puzzling over- so slid out of bed into the shower. Once he was gone you did almost sigh in relief, you had thought that Tom in his friendly-idiot manner would end up getting you caught at some point. Especially as our relationship was so secretive, none of your course mates knew you weren’t single - imagine their shock if an a lister popped up in the zoom class.

But oh, the relief did not last long at all.

The issue was Harry had gone out for the day. It was just you and Tom in his fancy rented LA house. And, as mentioned, Tom was being clingy as hell. It couldn’t of been more than 20 minutes before the fluffy haired brunette was back in the room - pouting when he saw you still on the computer.

Even though you shooed him away, Tom just cocked his head to one side, a small smirk on his face. And you knew. You knew he was going to be a little shit. He slinked over the bed, perching at the foot next to where your feet lay.The warning look you shot him, metaphorical daggers coming out your eye did absolutely nothing - you watched his hand pin your right ankle down before stroking the sole of your foot. Familiar shivers shot up your leg and it took everything in you to not kick out, launching the laptop across the room as tickled you.

Soon though he stopped, you pulled yourself into a cross legged position, readjusting the laptop and trying to concentrate back on the lecturer. Seeing your disinterest, Tom hopped up off the bed and you thought he was leaving. But no. No you were wrong. He just stood at the foot of the bed, hands on hips as he appeared to listen intently to the lecturer too.

Clearly Tom was an actor, he was pretty good at accents. You should’ve known he wouldn’t be able to resist the impersonating your academic staff - who happened to have a strong Somerset accent.

Pretending to ignore Tom as he hunched up and widened his stance - to imagine the physicality of your lecturer- you narrowed your eyes at the computer screen. Then though, a deep booming farmer-like voice came out your well spoken south london boy - god you were glad you’d stuck the mute button on as soon as he had entered.

“And then as your reading in chapter twel-“

“And then as yowr readinf in chapter twelve….” Tom echoed the lecturer loud and proud, making it completely impossible for you to attempt to concentrate. As much as you wanted to be furious at him- well, all it took was one look.

He was holding his face in some sort of duck pout and all the movements were extra pronounced and exaggerated. You couldn’t help it- instantly you burst out laughing, having to turn off the video for fear of anyone noticing.

Seeing he’d got a rise out of you, Tom was only spurred on, continuing the dramatic acting with a new found confidence. That was until you got yourself under control, face turning like a switch from joy to fury.

“Shut the hell up!”

And he did, for a few minutes, whilst pouting like a told-off toddler. In a strop, he sat down, shoulders slumped at the edge of the bed. Oh how wrong your were, when you thought you’d won - with a satisfied smile concentrating back on the laptop screen. Just in time to hear the lecturer FINALLY starting to rounding up the lecture.

“Alright so next session we’re-“ Before he’d even stammered his way to the end of the sentence, Tom’s face had switched up once again - into one of mischief as he started crawling up the bed either-side of your legs. One strong arm reached out to touch the back of your laptop lid and before you could protest he was pushing it down, till it landed with a small ‘clunk’.

“You did not just do that!” Yelling at him, you sat up so now he was kneeling across your lap.

“But I just did.” He mimed a mic drop which had you cringing hard, staring at him in disbelief. Okay the lecturer was beginning to round off, but that conclusion could’ve gone on for 5 minutes at least!

“Oh you are so in for it Holland.”

You’d meant it as a threat, as a sort of ‘I’m-going-to-make-your-life-a-living-hell” but the bright eyed boy before you had other plans. Wordlessly he nodded, then placed your laptop on the bedside ; then pushed you down on the bed. His legs either side of you, his arms like rockets to pin yours either side your head.

“Ah but you see my love…” he tutted, with a wide smile, hhis breath fanning down onto you as he took your breath away. “That is exactly what I want.” Immediately his lips were on yours, the both of you fighting for dominance as you arched your head up to get extra purchase on him.

“I hate… I hate you… so bloody much” It was hard to talk when his intoxicating lips were moving against yours, melting away all your resistance.

“Hmmm… well its… its a good thing… that I love you.”

He was impossible and no doubt you’d missed the prep work for tomorrows lecture. But having him there, body pressed against yours, after months apart.

Well, you wouldn’t mind failing the module for him.

~~~~ let me know what you think <333~~~~

tag list : @thefernandasantana @lovehollandy12 @hallecarey1 @crossyourpeter @hollandfanficlove @msmimimerton @thegirlwiththeimpala

#tom holland #tom holland fluff #tom holland smut #tom holland x reader #tom holland blurb #tom Holland imagine #peter parker #tom holland x y/n #tom holland x you #tom holland angst

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333sth · 3 years

Text

dove. (frankie morales)

chapter i. previous.

pairing: frankie morales x ofc (’dove’) no use of y/n.

warnings: mention of ptsd/military service, language, violence, brief mention of torture/kidnapping, injury detail, fighting.

summary: frankie was going to propose, until dove found the ring and ghosted. even santi can’t track her down.

rating: mature. wc: 1.6k

Dove was a nickname coined by an old general during her training. He was a traditional man, though not disrespectful. It was a term of endearment that probably softened the influx of powerful women breaching into the male territory. He’d drawled, ‘I ought to call you Dove – I ain’t never seen a girl so swift, yet so fuckin’ lethal.’ She kept the boys in line too, he’d noted. When Benny got too reckless, or Tom’s temper ran away with him, she was the first to snap them out of it. In environments where peace was a very distant concept, she played the peacekeeper.

One time, during a two-month deployment in Nigeria, the group was shoved in the back of an ancient pick-up truck for six hours. Dove was wedged between Will and Frankie, sweltering in the humid air. The stale smell of sweat mixed with blood and diesel was permeating the air, and they were three hours from the nearest checkpoint. To pass the time, she asked them what they’d do if they weren’t special forces.

That was easy for Will – he’d be a teacher of some kind. Benny waffled about sports, making some brash comment about how he’s got to channel all his aggression somewhere. Tom and Santi couldn’t come up with anything that suited them more than the forces, which was not surprising. Frankie would still be a pilot somehow. Dove had never seen him more comfortable than in the pilot’s chair.

Dove dreamed of owning her own bar or café, somewhere relaxed and laid-back. A beach perhaps, somewhere quaint and peaceful, where the air is warm well into the late evening and the waves are gentle, collapsing onto the sand like white noise. She imagined the hum of conversation meeting tinkling music, beach lanterns dotted around the decking to cast an ambient glow beneath the stars. Maybe a chef on weekends could make bar snacks. Tom had snorted at that, throwing a jab about how she can burn the water they use to make their dried food sachets.

The men had recalled this conversation, desperately trying to fathom where Dove might have taken off to. It was met with an aching nostalgia for the type of teammate she was too. That conversation had been a tactic, a peaceful one, to prevent the terrible concoction of adrenaline, exhaustion and heat forming an argument in that truck. She was a natural tactician as well as a good friend.

Frankie had recounted each country they had been stationed and exactly how Dove had felt about them. She had loved Argentina, even when she got shot and Will spent three hours with his finger crammed in the wound to stop the bleeding. But she also liked Jamaica, Brazil and Hawaii. None of their contacts in the forces had any trace of her, not even Santi’s in South America. Her family were none the wiser – they brushed it off, her dad mumbling something about it sounding like her usual antics.

All he had was a scribbled note that read, ‘I need space. I’m safe. I love you.’ It was folded neatly in his wallet, like he was carrying the last piece of her that he had.

Mexico. That was where she was. A small town on the West coast that had enough life to keep her occupied, and the guarantee of anonymity.

If people asked, she was a retired nurse, which wasn’t entirely untrue. She told them she spent a lot of her career in humanitarian aid, to explain the occasional jitters on a rowdy Friday night and the nasty scars. There was a particularly gruesome one leading from the base of her throat up to her bottom lip from a knife fight. She told them it was shrapnel, flung from a collapsing building, and she was lucky it didn’t catch her jugular. The locals had gasped in awe at her heroism. She’d flinched against the memory of how her own knife buried into her attacker’s throat instead.

A few days into her move, Dove had found what could only be considered a derelict shed on the beachfront. It was probably the remains of an old boathouse. With some help from the locals, she had restored the ageing planks of wood. What was spare formed the bar and some rustic furniture. She pieced together a jumble of second-hand bar stools, chairs and lanterns that made for an eclectic combination. It had character and history in its walls, rather than some swanky, expensive build devoid of any personality. It was exactly what she had dreamed of, huddled in hypothermic temperatures or insomniac in her cot at base, sleep beyond her reach.

It didn’t change the fact that every time she entered her bedroom, the old polaroid of Frankie pinned to the wall hits her like a ton of bricks. Frankie knows she took it – it was pinned to the fridge at their home before she left. It’s quintessential Frankie, sat with his arms folded to his chest, biceps straining slightly against an old denim shirt that was getting a little too snug post-retirement. It was at a barbecue, his skin tanned and flushed from a day in the sun drinking, tousled hair peeking out from the sides of a dog-eared cap. Every time Dove glances at it, she wonders if he still has that hat.

‘Of course he has,’ the voice in her head snaps back. Any piece of clothing she’d suggest replacing would be countered with, ‘over my dead body’. The man was sentimental, a little too attached to his home comforts. She’d also bought it him in a seedy gift shop in the middle of nowhere as a joke.

“To add some variety,” she’d said. He would never let it go now.

Once, Veronica had eyed the photograph on her mirror and asked, “Who is he then? An ex?”

Veronica, or Roni for short, had lived in the town her whole life until university. When she graduated and moved home to save money, she needed a job. Dove needed a friend, so she took her on as a bartender. She was young and giddy, but harmless. More importantly, she was too self-absorbed to notice or even care that her thirty-something year old boss had bullet holes in her back.

“Something like that.” Dove had replied, rifling through her sorry excuse for a makeup bag. She’d closed the bar early to have a rare night off in the next town over, which had considerably livelier nightlife.

“You never talk about relationships. Or men.’ Roni observed, peering over Dove’s shoulder to eye another photograph. It was a group picture of the boys, huddled in the same fraying booth in their favourite bar back in Florida. “Looks like you were spoilt for choice.”

Dove scoffed, meeting her friend’s twinkling gaze in the mirror. “Shut your mouth. They were friends from work.”

“Were? Does that mean you can’t set me up now?”

“They’re almost twice your age. You’d tire ‘em out.” Dove set down the lip-gloss she dragged out for special occasions. “Come on, I’m not getting any younger either. It’s already passed my bedtime.”

Thankfully, that was enough to amuse the younger girl into linking her arm and hauling her out the door to the taxi, no more questions asked.

The hollering of spectators and thudding of skin slapping against the mat was reduced to a distant buzzing in Frankie’s ears. It was dimmed by the incessant ramblings of Santiago and Tom, discussing the files Santi had put together on Lorea. He could feel the reawakening of his rusty military senses as he follows the familiar tactics, mentally registering his agreement or noting what he might do differently. He doesn’t vocalise it though, because he hasn’t even agreed yet. Joining the debate would inadvertently signal his agreement. He didn’t want that.

There was a shadow lingering in the space on the bench beside him. It was an empty presence, not Will, who was hooked on the cage of the ring yelling encouragement to his brother. Not Benny, thumping his leather gloves together with his teeth pulled harshly over his mouthguard, judging his competitor with a predatory glint in his eye.

The opponent was a monster, but he lumbered like his limbs were filled with lead. Frankie notes that Benny, nimble and tall, will have a breeze tiring him out. Dove would have joked that it wasn’t worth coming, that they’ll be sat here until their asses are numb watching Benny play cat and mouse. His chest twinges. Sometimes it’s too easy to remember what she’d do, what she’d say. He wished he knew what she’d make of Santiago’s proposition. She always saw through Pope’s glamourisation and Tom’s greed.

What Frankie misses while he observes his pitiful surroundings is Tom and Santi descending into a hushed conversation. Tom nudges Santi, “You got anything on Dove?”

Santi sighs, long and solemn, “Maybe.” As Tom’s face quirks in interest, he holds up his finger, “It’s just a hunch.”

“A hunch is better than what we’ve had in the last year.”

Santi takes a sip of his beer, casting a glance at Fish, whose eyes are trained on the floor and the swirling contents of his cup. He knows him well enough to know his thoughts are the only thing that have his attention.

“I worry about him. We all do.” Tom whispers. “Getting busted just made things worse.”

“Don’t get his hopes up, man. It’s nothing solid. It’ll crush him if I’m wrong.” Tom nods solemnly before Santi continues, “A friend of mine saw an ex-Delta in a bar, a woman. He knew ‘cause of a tattoo she had on the nape of her neck.”

Tom’s eyes widen. In front of them, Benny lands a sickening punch on his opponent’s nose, complimented by an audible crack. He’s barely breaking a sweat, dancing around as the guy heaves and stumbles forward.

Santi’s gaze doesn’t break from the ring. “Mexico. I think she’s in Mexico.”

#Frankie Morales #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier imagine #frankie morales imagine #triple frontier fic #francisco morales #Triple Frontier #frankie catfish morales #Frankie morales fic #Frankie Morales x OFC #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #benny miller #will miller #Santiago Garcia #santiago pope garcia #ben miller #dove fic

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henryobsessed · 3 years

Text

The Veterinarian and the Werewolf - Chapter 16

Word Count: 1634

Warnings: none

A/N @sillyrabbit81 and @amberangel112 - you guys are so important to getting this story finished - Thank you.

and to my beautiful readers, your encouragement, engagement, and cheeky comments fill my day with Joy :) So here is another chapter.

Chapter 16 – Jessie

The soft translucent steam wafted up from the cup of coffee warming up Jessie's hands. She had been called out in the middle of the night to a cattle ranch to help with the birthing of a cow in distress. She was grateful that Joe was still staying with them as she had been able to wake him to go with her. Together they had helped the cow deliver twins, one had been breech, and they had to help manipulate it to turn.

That had been 5 hours ago, and on returning, Joe washed up and went back to bed. But Jessie had too much adrenaline rushing through her system. Instead, she used this time, the stillness of the kitchen, the soft early bird calls outside, and the clicking clock on the mantle to help her calm down. To process what had happened over the last few days.

Yesterday had been so eventful, full of fear, anxiety, joy and then sadness. Henry had finally managed to change back to his human form and just in time mind you. Her fear that they would make her kill him had driven her to desperately call to him. When he turned the relief that flooded her body had been enormous. It was followed, however, with another kind of fear, this Henry didn’t recognise her, or where he was. In fact, she had surmised this consciousness was still that young man that fifteen years ago had come searching for her. In one way that was great, he recognised she was his mate and was not fearful in her presence. But she was left with the horrible task of reminding him that his family were all dead. That his nephew was living with another pack, and unless he remembered where the pack was, there was no way of finding him.

On top of that, she had a young man to worry about. When the trio had returned last evening after shopping for clothes for Henry, she noticed that Tom was very quiet. Joe was his bratty self, proclaiming that he had told her that Wolfy was a were all those weeks before. Dillon was accepting of this unusual event more than she thought was right to be. But Tom, he was quieter than normal. He didn’t run away or hide in his room, but his body language was closed off, he held himself aloof no longer playing with Joe. The whole evening and night Henry had slept, so the boys had not been able to question him. But she knew it would happen and wondered what the conversation between Tom and Henry would look like. They had been so close when he had been in wolf form, that she was worried that the young man would struggle now that Henry was a 31yr old man.

She heard a creak on the stairs and looked up just as the man in question walked into the kitchen. Tom’s hair stuck out at all angles, his skinny yet toned chest and arms were bare, giving him an almost manly look, if it had not been for the Pokémon PJ bottoms he was wearing. He walked to the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup before he turned, leaning his bottom against the bench. He took a sip of the black brew and almost dropped the mug when he recognised Jessie sitting at the table. She chuckled at his sleepy self. “Didn’t sleep well, Tom?” He shook his head and then lowered his eyes, staring into the mug as if it held all the answers to life and the universe.

She went back to her own coffee, she wasn’t going to push the young man to talk, it wasn’t her place. The only thing she wanted to do was give him a safe place to land, and a family to belong to. Now that Boyd was dead, the ranch was safer, but his father was still an unknown part of the equation. She wasn’t really sure even of his mother who had made no contact since he had been staying with them. It broke her heart to see that the young man had not grown up in a loving home, instead one dominated with proving you were good enough for affection.

He pushed himself off the bench and placed the now empty mug in the sink. “Are you going into the clinic today?” his soft voice seemed hesitant in the stillness.

“I will yes, but not before I get some sleep. I’ve been out most of the night at the Happy Saddle’s Ranch. Helping birth twins.”

He nodded at that. “I’ll stay here with Henry when you do so you won’t have to worry.”

She smiled a small soft smile. “I would like that, thank you. I don’t think he is ready to get out of bed for too long yet. His shoulder will take longer to heal… Well, that’s what all the were books say. They take longer to heal when human. At least that’s what Joe was talking about all the way to the ranch and back again this morning. And Tom, don’t push him on his memory. Just give him what he wants ok?”

A big yawn caught Jessie by surprise. Tom walked forward and took her empty mug. “Ok, Miss Jessie. Why don’t you head back to bed? I will field any calls that might come in. You just rest.”

Standing she yawned again before handing him her phone. “Thanks, Tom, you really are amazing, don’t let anyone tell you any different.” She lent up and kissed him on the cheek, red blossomed across his face at her action and he coughed a little.

“Thanks, Miss Jessie, I’ll remember that.” She touched his arm to affirm her words, then headed upstairs for bed.

As she reached the top of the stairs, she heard a whimper coming from her room. Inside she found Henry had tossed around claiming her side of the bed, burying his head in her pillow, and now his body was star fished on his stomach taking up the whole bed. Lack of sleep created anger in her chest. Agitated she stiffened her shoulders and wondered how the hell she was going to get into the bed. A new whimper interrupted her frustrated thoughts. Deflating, she slumped and walked over to where his head was, gently running her hand through his hair, then the tips of her fingers down his furrowed brow. His eyes slowly opened. There she saw a lost empty look before recognition and then peace. “Hey,” his deep rough voice broke out. “You were gone.”

“Sorry, I had to go to work. How about you scoot over and I’ll tell you about it.” He rolled onto his side and moved back as she wearily slid between the sheets. Just as she was about to lift her arm and invite him into a hug, she felt her body being pulled into his hard warm physique. Her face tucked into his furry chest, the familiar scent of his musk, and his thick arms wrapped around her. She didn’t want to, but in that moment all her memories of their time at the tree came flooding into her brain, causing her to begin to weep. She had missed him, missed his touch, missed his confident warmth. As she began to unravel his hands soothingly ran up and down her back. Eventually, she wore herself out, the comfort she felt lulling her into a deep sleep.

A few hours later she awoke in the same position, soft voices speaking around her. “Are you sure she has to be woken? Can’t we just cancel her work for the day?” his voice rumbled softly.

Before anyone had the option to answer she spoke up, “I’m up, it’s ok.” She tried to push out of his arms, but he held fast growling at her movement. “Henry, Love, you have to let me go. Tom will stay with you while I’m at work, it will only be for two hours then I will be back again.” She felt the hesitation at first until Tom’s name was mentioned.

“You mean the tall boy?” she stifled a laugh by burying her head in his chest.

She made a move out of his arms. Looking at his face, irritation laced across his brow. “Yes Henry, the tall boy. When I get home, I will cook you up some nice large pieces of steak, ok?”

That bought a smile to his face. “OK.” Chuckling at the now boyish look on his face she climbed out of bed, grabbing some clothes then left to shower.

Joe was in the car ready to leave. Dillon had left to get more clothes from their house as it seemed Joe was unwilling to miss out on any werewolf interaction. Tom stood at the front door, Henry leaning gingerly against the door frame holding his head high even though she could see the strain on his face. “You two be good, ok? Why don’t you watch a movie? By the time it finishes, I will be home.”

Tom smiled and reached an arm around Henry, helping to prop him up, his tall lean body towering over the shorter, well-built man. “Don’t worry Miss Jessie, I’ll take good care of him.” An odd look crossed Tom’s face as he spoke, and Jessie felt a niggle in the back of her head. But she had to leave, and until now Tom had been trustworthy, he had put his body on the line for Jessie and Wolfy. Dismissing the thought, she smiled back waved at Henry and jumped in the truck. Only a few hours she mused as she looked in the revision mirror at the two men waving at her as they drove away.

Chapter 17

#The Veterinarian and the Werewolf #werewolf #henry cavill

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sirensmojo · 3 years

Text

“KINDRED”, 2 - Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Tommy meets a librarian that he discovered to be the chief of an underground organisation. Needing man enough allies to dirty their hands in the battle against Oswald Mosley, he shakes hands with the devil. Feelings intertwine with business, a mix that leads to unalterable ends...

Warnings: Swearing, romance, fluff.

Word Count: 6K+

❰ Previous Chapter

(...)

Several days later.

You were walking London’s street with the confidence of someone that ruled the place. Your back, straight, your head high as the air moved your hair gently, as if you were starring in an old Hollywood movie.

Your suit fitted you perfectly, a little loose so you were comfortable. You were wearing the jacket closed, one hand in your pant’s pocket as the clicking sound of your high heels resonated against the cobblestones of the empty streets.

It was early in the morning, so early the thick mist nearly extinguished the cigarette hanging on your red painted lips, but your gaze was already as determined as one can be.

‘This day will be great’ was the mantra you were singing in your head. You were supposed to open the library in less than an hour now, and you had to meet with your new employees to discuss the rules before opening.

You thanked God some of them were already a part of your organisation, which made it easier as they knew the way things needed to be done under your management.

Entering the building, the women were already waiting, in uniform and standing in a perfect line side by side.

You offered them a warm smile coming closer to them as you took your woollen coat off.

“Misses and Madams, let me welcome you to the Bridgehead Library. Now, you may or may not know me, I’m Y/N, you, strong fighter for women’s rights & aspirant to a world where we would walk the streets unafraid of any danger. Because we know how it is, for those of you that are single moms, for those of you that were disowned by your own family, those of you who don’t want to get married.”

You paced back and forth in front of the aligned women, looking at each one of them straight in the eyes, as talking with a firm and confident tone.

“You’re not taken seriously, you’re misused and abused. You fear the barmaid will not serve you a drink cause no man stands on your side, you fear the man that is staring at your body will be lurking in the shadows, following you, and rip off your clothes when you’ll be in an empty street.”

You stop in front of a face you saw in the files of Thomas Shelby while doing some research on him. You identify the individual as Ada Thorne, born Shelby, Tom’s sister.

“Well, you should know, for as long as you're willing to work here, none of the things mentioned before should ever happen to you. And your family will be fed and more... I guarantee you fifteen pounds a week. If anything… A-ny-thing may happen to you due to your gender, consider turning to Bridget, we will find a solution.”

You motioned to a blonde-haired woman sitting legs crossed at the principal desk to their right. Her hair was middle length and perfectly waved to one side as the other was tucked behind her ear.

The named Bridget glanced up to you before colliding her lit matchstick with her cigarette.

“You’re under my protection, use my name for doing whatever pleases you, whenever you want. This is your ticket to a brand new life, for all of you. And all of us, together, we can achieve great things. If the counsellor job isn’t enough for you, I invite you to turn to Ana.”

You pointed a brunette on your side, her facial expression was passive & aggressive, but for some reason, it was comforting. As if you knew you were in security in her presence.

“Now, as for the library…” You gave your instructions.

As soon as you finished your speech, it was 7, the hour of the opening.

The day was slow at the beginning, but soon enough the library was packed. Not only by people here to find a book, but packed with numerous women, all in a single file that led to a small room at the back of the first floor that had been designated as Ana’s office.

It was almost impossible for Ada not to wonder what was going on.

Were all these women wanting to find another job than counsellor?

All employees tried their best to keep quiet the visitors, following your orders, but as Ada was passing by the single file to pick up and put back books, she could hear murmurs.

The individuals were talking about politics, but something so far from what she had ever heard.

Some were talking about the tragic death of a certain Emily Davison before the war at the Derby Epsom and how they rallied the WSPU(Women’s Social and Political Union).

Others were talking about a recent speech by Emmeline Pankhurst to which they couldn’t assist due to coppers. The Shelby sister surmised that woman must be the leader of the political party given the amount of respect they paid her.

No need to say Ada was drowning in a tide of data and names she vaguely heard of before.

She didn’t pay that much attention to the women’s cause. Even after the death of her Freddie, after which reality smacked her back into the world she was living in.

It was either her family or her convictions, as being a Shelby meant drifting from the oppressed to the oppressor. But she was so focused on not being a Shelby that she closed herself to other opportunities.

She wanted to be a part of something bigger and better to help those in need. But she ultimately admitted to herself she needed her family in order to survive, which led her to jump off the communist boat.

But a part of her was always keeping her beliefs close to her heart.

(...)

*The library, fourth floor*

You turned the keys in the lock, opening your door’s office. You switched on the light and when turning back, stumbled on a man sitting crossed legs, at the edge of the sofa.

When he was sure he made his presence known, he lied backwards, extending one of his arms on the armrest, his head held high.

He was dressed in an elegant dark blue suit, white shirt, the chains of his watch knotted around one of his buttons with a fine red & blue tie around his neck.

Right above his upper lips was a full mustache, and as your gaze reached his dark eyes, you glimpsed the stranger’s neat hair flattened backward.

“What a surprise.” You let out, walking to the desk as if it was normal for him to be here. You then hung your coat on the coat rack, turning your back at Mosley.

“A good one, I hope.” The man put on his fake smile, lying eyes everywhere he could on the woman’s silhouette in front of him.

“Always, Mr Mosley. How could you be any other thing than a pleasure to see,” you came back to where he was and sat in one of the armchairs ahead “and meet.” You added, offering him a smile.

“It’s a shame we never had time to properly exchange--”

“That’s why you crept into my office.” You cut him and nodded to herself, your knuckles hitting on her thigh.

A chuckle escaped the man’s lips before he stared even more at the light-haired woman.

“It is to be said, your name doesn’t get quite unnoticed in society or amongst politicians.”

“So you’ve heard of me, even more charming.” Your voice dripped with sarcasm.

If he thought he could cajole you that easily, he was wrong.

“Not only have I heard of your deeds, Miss you, but I’ve been reported daily about the people you keep company with.” He stated as if it was normal for him to send people spying on whoever.

You remained silent, waiting for the man to say more.

He was gauging your reaction towards his words, lurking at any sudden change in your expression, but you kept on an unreadable face. Mosley tilted his head to the side, curiosity animating his iris.

“Leading me to question the nature of your relationship with Mr Thomas Shelby.” He continued, squinting his eyes.

“Perhaps socialists are your thing?” He spitted that last part with all the distaste he felt toward both the worker class and Tommy.

By the way your piercing eyes didn’t flinch a bit at his sneaky comment, Mosley surmised you weren't impressed, which eventuated in him smiling while keeping up the stare.

“Did you come all the way down to my library to give me a lecture on your inauthentic Dasein, Mr Mosley? There are doctors for that.”

A rictus at the corner of your lips distracted the eyes of the man in front you, who unwittingly broke the stare.

You won.

You took great delight in the void of Mosley’s expression that surely didn’t understand what you just said.

“Oh, beg pardon. Perhaps I’m using concepts you don’t understand.” You didn’t even cover the fact you were making fun of his ignorance, your eyes still as sharp as razors.

“Don’t you know Heidegger, Mr Mosley? He discusses a neat difference between what he calls Sein, that covers what Is, what constitutes human existence with the Dasein that covers the phenomenological analysis of human existence. In other words, he says there is a gap between how things are and how we perceive them.”

You got up and walked to your desk, making sure to pass by him pretty close so your perfume would meet the man’s nostrils.

You then opened the ceramic piece in which you kept your cigarettes, and as you grabbed one, you concluded.

“When it may seem to you something is occuring, that doesn’t mean it’s actually happening. It just means your senses want to believe it is happening for numerous reasons, but the main one is almost always the fear of something. You don’t believe it wittingly of course, it’s your inconscient working. But still, you just confided in me an unconscious worry named Thomas Shelby.” You ignited your cig.

By using a psycho-philosophical reference, you were showing him your hand, how studious you were, which meant he couldn’t look down on you or intimidate you easily.

His attempt to pressure you wasn’t working. And you were setting the standards high.

Mosley didn’t miss any of your movement since you got up. Eyeing you top to bottom. It was crystal clear your monologue satisfied him the most. He, that considered you as illegitimate of the high-society status you had been given.

Perhaps he was wrong?

“May I add, no offense here, that whatever concerns him, or me doesn’t concern you a bit? I’m afraid you came here in vain.” You smacked her lips at the end of her sentence, faking to be annoyed by the fact he lost his time coming here.

“I found you, Miss Y/L/N, I found you.” He repeated, fluttering his eyes as tilting his head to the side.

His way of intensely eyeing the individual he was speaking to would be quite uncomfortable for you if you hadn’t been a woman in a man’s world for so long.

No wonder why this man was so feared and yet adorned. His whole character emitted mysteriousness while arousing wonder and curiosity. It was hard, nearly impossible to read his face or even get in his mind, but you didn’t need that to face him head-on.

“And to answer your question, no. Socialists aren’t my thing, Kings are.” His brows raised at the end of your sentence.

You stared at each other some more, Mosley trying to discover the implied meaning of your sentence as you were internally laughing seeing him struggle.

“Anyway, I hope you’re finding our city to your liking. You’re from Birmingham after all.” He paused and got up, walking closer to the door with a hand in his pants pocket.”Talking of which, may I ask why not opening in a library there?” It was obvious the displeasure he felt towards your decision.

“I’ll call it ‘modern conquering’.” You responded with enthusiasm.

(...)

Ada poured wine into two cups when hearing the keys turning in the lock of her house. She first thought it was Ben, her lover coming back from his office, or wherever he was working as they weren’t truly speaking of work when together.

Her eyes widened at the sight of her brother when she turned back to the entrance of the living room. “Tommy?” Her high pitched tone expressing her surprise.

“Let’s sit down, Ada.” The man always looked worried and thoughtful, but this time it was different, his eyes were actually reflecting emotions, which usually never are.

“What’s happened”

Tommy came nearer the table and pulled a chair for his sister, without looking at her. “Sit down, eh?” He repeated before sitting down himself.

Ada didn’t stop looking at her brother, she knew him too well. Something wasn’t right. She pulled a chair for herself.

Tommy tried his best to look at the face of his sister while talking but he just couldn’t, his eyes kept drifting away. “Ben younger is dead. Someone put a bomb in his car.”

As the brunette wasn’t talking, her mouth slightly opened in shook, he kept on talking, “I don’t know how you felt about him or how bad this is going to hurt, but whatever happens just remember you have a baby inside of you.” He pointed to her tummy.

His sister let her back hit the chair noisily, searching the void for answers. “God.” She hardly sighed. “Anyone you touch. Which means anyone I touch. Which means anyone any of us touch. He never knew I was pregnant… I hadn’t told him.”

Tommy that was looking at her to support her pain, once again looked down hearing the hard truth.

“God, I didn’t love him.” She sighed heavily. “But I liked him. He was decent and good. And I wasn’t gonna marry him. The baby was a mistake but that’s okay… because I didn’t ask anything of him. God he didn’t deserve us.” A tear rolled down her cheek before she exhaled loudly again.

“Well I’ve spoken to his family. They’re going to take care of the funeral” Tommy said as Ada sniffled. “It will go down as an IRA assassination of a British military officer.” He felt the need to divulge her all he knew.

“But what was it really?” She calmly asked, looking intently at him her head tilted to the side.

Tommy smacked his lips and breathed deeply. “It was… a consequence of good intentions. My good intentions.”

She scoffed.

“I pushed him to report on the fascists. I thought it was the right thing to do. And as a result, Section D or the Branch or intelligence had him killed.”

She scoffed again, looking away this time.

He abruptly took back in hands his beret he previously dropped on the table and started fidgeting with it, looking down. “There was a kid, died in the explosion. He was ten years old. It’s funny isn’t it, how it works?” He cleared his throat and got up, starting to move forward the door.

“No, Tommy.”

He stopped, his back still turned to the woman.

“Don’t give yourself this excuse. “ Ada’s eyes were filled with tears, some of which hurtling down her face to her chin.

“He was ten years old. if I would stuck to what I do, he’d still be kicking a ball in the street. It’s funny isn’t it?” The meaning of his words was amplified by the thunder rumbling outside.

(...)

Days later.

It was the end of the day, employees had started to leave when Ada came to the entrance.

“Can I get the changing room keys?” She asked Bridget, who was sitting behind the desk, lost in a book.

“Ada Shelby? Miss you would like to borrow you a moment.” She pointed to the stairs behind her. “She’s waiting for you.” The desk lady invited the woman standing in front of her to get on her way.

Ada rolled her eyes at the mention of the Shelby name. “It’s Ada Thorne.”

The light-haired woman smiled at Ada’s comment.

She got up to the second floor and then to the third one before she wondered what her boss had to say that somebody else couldn’t tell her.

Ada rapidly caught sight of the wooden door at the end of the long corridor. She stops walking when hearing voices, a male and a female one. She stops, not wanting to get into their intimacy, but the door wasn’t completely closed, which allowed the voices to slip out pretty clear.

Not too long after she heard steps approaching and moved backward, so it didn’t look like she was eavesdropping. The door ultimately opened, and the fascist man she saw only once before with Tommy passed by her, without even glancing her way.

She knocked on the door and cleared her mind.

“Come in.”

She cleared her throat. “Miss Y/L/N, am Ada Thorne, you asked to see me?” She peek into the room.

“Yep, come in. Take a seat.” You motioned your hand that was holding a cigarette to the chair in front of her.

Her back flat against the backrest, your E/C’s eyes entered those of the Ada’s.

You were searching for the same light that was twinkling in Thomas’ eyes, in vain.

“Do you know who I am, Ada? I can call you that, right?”

“I heard about your achievements in Paris. What you did for women.” The brunette answered, uncertain of where this discussion was going.

“Do you know what I do?”

At the question, the woman ahead of you didn’t know what to answer.

Was there even a correct answer for that?

Of course, she knew part of her activities was illegal, she wasn’t blind. And, come on! She was a Shelby too, she could feel those things thanks to her brother’s choice of life.

But what her boss wanted her to say, exactly? And for what reason?

“You’re talking about the illegal part?”

“The criminal one” You snapped back.

Ada’s eyes widened.

“I surmised you didn’t. Why did you think there were that many women in here today? I offer them jobs in my London’s counterfeit money’s enterprise.” You leaned forward to Thorne, squeezing the cig into the ashtray.

You crossed the fingers of both your hands together. “You don’t really want to work here.” You forced out the words as if to convince Ada.

“Understand this library covers an underground organisation that is beyond you. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re not particularly involved in the “business” of your own family. Tommy gave you a title in it but still, you’re here, working in a library to prove yourself something.

Why would I want someone like you in here? Someone that is unsure of what they are, what they want.”

The venom entered Ada’s ear going directly to her chest, depriving her of oxygen for a short instant. But her eyebrows surely knitted in anger.

“Stop acting like you know everything when it is clear you understand nothing.” She gained composure again.

“I heard, you didn’t even want to be a Shelby in the first place, running away from your home and your family.” You nodded, your eyes still deep into Ada’s.

“You ‘hear’ things and you take it as the absolute truth? And you’re the leader here.” Thorne chuckled to herself, her eyebrows raised high.

You sneered at the comment.

“What is the problem with my family anyway? If you want to fire me because I’m a Shelby then just do it. I’ll not come burning your library if that’s the matter.”

The librarian cackled, putting your head into your joined open hands, elbows on the table. “God! No! That’s not that. It is more about the fact that the first time you’re getting involved in that kind of organisation it’s not your brother’s. Not your family’s.”

Ada looked away, realizing what the light-haired woman meant. She, who never was included in the family business, rather by choice than by abandonment of her family, was employed in a pseudo library that was covering for dirty activities.

“It’s ironic indeed. But what makes you think I wouldn’t want to work here knowing the truth?”

You shrugged. “You never worked with your brothers. Even your aunt, Polly is actively working there.”

“It was my choice.”

“So you’ve changed your mind.”

Ada dismissed the talk, another question seeming to be more urgent:

“But why didn’t you just let me be unaware of all this and be like the others.” She retorted.

“Because you’re not ‘like the others’. You’re a Shelby and a Thorne. Your brother is sitting at the House Of Commons amongst politicians while getting his hands dirty here and there, and your deceased husband was a very known communist leader. You’re everything but random, understand that.”

“So you’re telling this to me out of goodness?” She laughed at you without even hiding her reluctance toward this eventuality.

“Respect.” You rectified with a solemn tone.

The brunette stops laughing, her expression becoming serious again. She didn’t quite get your the true motives, but she had other questions.

“What are your relations with my brothers, are you enemies?”

“No.”

“Allies, then?”

“No.”

Even if you told Ada about the true roots of this library, she wouldn’t talk about the arrangement between her and Thomas. It wasn’t your place to do so, and you didn’t think Ada needed to know, at least for now.

“It’s not like you’re going to get your hands dirty anyway, but if anything should happen to me, they will associate you with me, so they’ll come for you.”

“Who’s they?”

“Coopers, I don’t have them in my pocket.”

Thorne seemed to be in her head, probably rethinking her intention to keep working here as a counsellor.

“You were already working here with the old owner so I’ll let you choose rather you want to stay or leave. But don’t stay because you want to prove something to yourself, or your family. I don’t need a crybaby. If the communist cause you defend isn’t matching with the cause I fight for, leave.”

Your words cut in pieces the thick atmosphere that had settled between the two women.

(...)

Thomas convened a family meeting.

Everyone was already waiting for him at the pub. Charlie Senior and Curly were sitting at a table drinking from the bottle, while Johnny Dog and Jeremiah were sipping on whiskey at the counter, next to Aberama Gold, too occupied looking at his future wife Polly.

She were sitting at a table with her son and his wife, Gina.

As Arthur and Finn passed the door, the oldest Shelby got behind Michael and didn’t miss the occasion to stumble wittingly on his cousin’s chair, pulling away the younger’s back from it.

Next, he hassled to sit near the counter, pouring himself some liquor that he drank in one go. Finn reluctantly came and sat at the table between Gina and Polly.

Tommy finally arrived, walking around the table to place himself in front of everyone.

“First of all, an apology from Lizzie. She can’t be here. Charles has a violin concert. Also, welcome to Mr Aberama Gold. He and Polly are to be married in three weeks with my blessing. From now on, Aberama will be welcomed at our meetings. First item: business. A bereavement. Colonel Ben Younger, who may perhaps have become a member of this family, was taken from us, four days ago, by dark forces. We’ve made some investigations, we think we know who planted the bomb. In the meantime, our thoughts are with Ada and the baby inside of her, who may one day, sit at these meetings but… Hopefully under happier circumstances.”

“Let’s drink to happier circumstances.” Pol’ offered while pouring some whiskey in her and Tommy’s cup.

“Yeah.” Arthur agreed, raising his glass. “To Ada.” He added, soon joined by all the people in the room.

Tommy coughed at the burn of the whiskey and continued his speech, “Item number two: an announcement regarding Michael.” He coughed again as if to release some tension in him, his hand rose toward the younger Gray.

“Before you go on, Tommy, there’s something I’d like to say, to the whole family directly, regarding finances and the future of this company.” Michael stated, getting comfortable in his chair, and from the corner of his eye, he could see his mother glaring at his wife.

Gina ignored her, looking down and smoking a cigarette.

“According to your own estimations, this new venture of the delivery and shipment of opium will bring into the company around £2 million per year. Therefore, due to the amounts involved, I think this company should be restructured.” He continued, looking fearlessly at a pissed Tommy.

“Michael. I think this can wait ‘till outside the family meeting.” His mother tried to postpone the confrontation.

“Restructured in what way?” Tommy asked, not because he was genuinely interested, but because he needed to know if Michael’s betrayal had limits. Which it didn’t have.

“Because of the amount of money involved, shipment and dispatch will become the primary source of income in the company. It’s simple mathematics.” Gina proudly announced, deciding to match her husband’s audacity as she looked Thomas the wrong way.

Her husband got up, going behind her as he placed his hands on both her shoulders rubbing them gently. “With the help of my wife, I will organise an expansion into America, where the narcotics business is just beginning to grow. I have very good contacts in Detroit, New-York, Boston, who I’ve already spoken to about this. And Gina has family who are very experienced in this kind of business.”

It seems like the woman surely gained composure thanks to the assurance in her husband’s voice because she finally decides to look back at Polly, who was staring at her the whole time with an unpredictable longing to plant her butterfly knife in her.

Gina, quickly glanced away as if to snub her husband’s mother.

“According to the conversations I’ve had with them, with a regular supply of pure opium from China, within a short space of time, the American narcotics business will bring in $20 million per annum. Enough money for you to enjoy an easing burden you all now feel. See, I know that the scars and the wounds, they’re on the inside, not on the outside. And as a member of the new generation, I am able to take that burden off your weary shoulders. A new decade is coming. There’ll be new opportunities and new territories, more money than we’ve ever had before.”

He stops looking around to everyone to pause on his cousin only.

“Tommy, you can still do the good work that deep down you want to do. Mum, you can get married and live in that big house.”

Polly happily glanced at Aberama, letting herself dream of a good life for a second.

“Arthur, you can be the man that Linda wants you to be.”

“Fuck Linda.” Arthur interrupted.

Michael turned to Finn, walking toward him to rest behind the seated man, grabbing his shoulder and shaking it proudly.

“Finn, you’ve proved yourself. You’re part of the new generation. You could come to New-York with me.” Michael finished his speech. His wife handed him a file that he gladly took in hands. He walked to Thomas and dropped the file on the table that rested between them two.

Tommy’s eyes went to the file before lifting to Michael’s determined face.

“Here is my proposal. A full restructuring of the company. I will be managing director… and you can be non-executive chairman. But under an assumed name to protect your reputation. I found the name of a dead man. You will be registered as Mr Jones.”

He turned toward the other people in the room. “You will each receive a percentage of the profits as an annuity. And you will no longer have to engage in any of the associated activities.”

Michael then grabbed the file to hand it to Tommy.

“Take a look at the future, Tommy. At least read it with an open mind.”

The head of the Peaky Blinders paused, looking at Michael intensely before taking the file. “It’s cold in here, Michael.” He finished, turning to the fireplace and throwing the catalogue there.

Johnny Dog let out an excited laugh, surely due to the heavy atmosphere the two cousins had settled.

“Tommy the Americans want to deal with me.” Michael’s jaw tensed as his voice raised with impatience.

“Item number three--” Continued Thomas as if nothing happened. But he was cut off by Gina’s venom:

“Tell him the truth.” She seemed unsatisfied with the way his husband chose to handle the situation. Tommy’s eyes hassled toward the young woman, speechless. “Go on. He can take it.” She continued.

His eyes went back to Michael that looked away, immediately, as if he didn’t want to come to this end.

“Tell me the truth, Michael.” Tommy encouraged, exasperated by this whole scene.

“The Americans don’t want to deal with an old-fashioned backstreet razor gang. Those days are done.” Michael gained composure again, looking blankly at Tommy.

The latter couldn’t even correctly react that some men entered the pub, needing some help to handle Bartley, who was convinced he was still at war. Everybody got out of the room in a hurry except for Michael, Gina, Tommy & Pol’.

Passing by Michael to get out, Arthur leaned to his ear slowly, “Fuck the Americans.”

Tommy turned around, hand on the wooden piece as he was leaning above the fireplace, looking intensely into the orangish flames.

“I’m doing this for you Tommy. It’s time… And you know it.”

The concerned one, closed his eyes taking a deep breath in and tried to calm his nerves and think. But nothing came to him, he couldn’t even properly swallow how much Michael’s betrayal had extended, the worst was that he was sure, it wasn’t the end of it. His cousin probably wanting to take everything from him slowly he surely voluntarily omitted things.

“Tommy, Mum’s leaving. John’s dead. Arthur needs help. Ada’s man was killed in your own backyard because you fucked up.” Now that there weren’t people to impress, Michael let the anger he felt toward his cousin’s actions.

The elder blue-eyed man couldn’t stay calm a second more, he abruptly turned around, grabbed the bottle of whiskey that was on the table and violently threw it in the fire, creating the flames to only grow bigger. Gina was scared, she held her chair with tightened hands and Polly and she jumped with surprise on their chair.

He turned again to Michael as the latter held him a butterfly knife already open.

“Go on, Tom. Go on cut me. Like the good old days. Or… See this for what it is. A natural succession that someday must happen” His arm going down again.

At this point, the Shelby brother had calmed down, finding funny the proposition he was offered. His lips smacked and breathed deeply, looking at anything but his opposant. He shook his head in disbelief, “I gave you an opportunity, Michael. You betrayed me. Don’t be here when I get back.” He looked at his younger cousin, deceived by him and angry at himself.

After losing $2 millions in the Wall Street crash., Tommy gave him an opportunity to come back to England and pay him what he owed him, but even there, in the boat, Michael met with people that are Shelby’s family enemy. When that happened, Tommy gave him the benefit of the doubt. And now this? Michael went too far, and this time Tommy will not close his eyes on it. The only reason his cousin was still breathing was that he's Polly’s son.

He walked around the table and addressed Gina, smacking his fingers as he pointed her, leaning forward. “You. You can tell your family--”

“Let me guess.” She interrupted him, the same satisfying face she had at the beginning of the meeting. “Don’t fuck with the Peaky Blinders.” That wasn’t a question.

Michael grinned, as Tommy quickly got out of the pub.

“Right?” Gina mockingly asked.

(...)

Tommy was spending most days at the House Of Commons lately doing speeches in favor of fascism to the greatest pleasure of Mosley.

That day, he was there from early in the morning to the evening. It was already around 10, but his assistant opened the door to his office, saying someone was there but without having an appointment.

“Who it is?” He asked, raising a brow, one of his hands went in his pocket to check on his watch.

“The librarian.”

It’s been nearly two weeks since your last meeting and at the simple mention of you, he would find his blood boiling in anticipation of the wave of feelings you brought him.

His pulsions talking for him, the Shelby brother ordered to let you in without questioning why you were here that late.

“Mr Shelby, you asked me to get information about a certain Michael Gray?” You came in like a tornado, your voice filled with sarcasm mixed with enthusiasm as you were the one pushing him to act on his cousin’s betrayal weeks ago.

How ironic was it that he had to learn the hard way you had been right since the very beginning, you surmised something must’ve happened between the younger gray and him given the determined words he’d written on the note he left at the library sat in one of the two chairs facing his desk. “No time for formalities.” You agitated the folder in her hand.

He almost gasped at your movements, he had forgotten how sensual you were.

Whenever they would meet, you would succeed to arouse something in him, maybe even igniting a fire that couldn’t be found when you weren’t around.

“You might want to read that!” You nodded to yourself, your brows raised high as if you detained the most important information of the decade.

“You do me the lecture.” His playful tone made you look up to him. Your head tilted at the sight of the glasses hanging on Tommy’s nose as you released a little “huh” from your lips.

He squinted his eyes, not knowing why the actual fuck did you do that. Did you just judge him or was he dreaming?

He took off the glasses and placed them on the table, not wanting to deal with that face you just made again, all while remaining silent and invited you to begin.

You clicked your tongue in disapproval. “Do you think it’s going to be free, Mr Shelby?” You looked intensely at him, your own eyes devoid of emotions.

He hated the fact you were able to just erase your emotion from your face and your eyes as he desperately wanted to see things in them. But him being him, he too put on an expressionless face.

“What do you want?”

“Everything, but you can’t give that to me. So I’ll just answer ‘whatever’.”

He frowned, not understanding her point.

“When I’ll need something, you’ll be answering present without the option to say no.”

He remained silent, quite taken aback by how forward you was. His jaw clenched, tension building up in the room. If stares could send lightnings, they’d both be nothing but a pile of ashes by now.

Reading his silence, you deduced it means he was alright with the deal and proceeded to answer his previous wish, do him a lecture.

“It is written here that Gina Gray’s family isn’t rich, but they weren’t starving either…” You begins. You then allowed a sweet “bla-bla-bla” to come out your lips as passing over the words searching for a specific part.

Tom didn’t miss your deeds a bit. From the enthusiastic tone in your voice to your serious face. He looked at the way your were sitting, legs crossed with the file on your thighs as you was slightly leaning forward.

No wonder your were excited to show him your findings while handling business like a boss. He caught himself thinking your were cute.

It was the first time he’d seen your that commited. He’d seen you focused, but you were always passive whereas now, your seemed completely into what your were talking about.

“The part that interests us is this one ‘Has an uncle that meets up at the docks several times a week with a group of people being a part of the drugs industry. It seems they cover their activities by the image of a protestant group and illegally sends rifles under God’s cause to our beloved Scottish friends, in other words, the Billy boys. And this, on a daily basis.”

You patted the paper.

“It is written here, they counted around 6 boats per month, Tom.” You raised your kindling gaze to the icy blue-eyed man.

He paused, his lips slightly opening before sliding a hand on his face and looking down.

It seems Tommy didn’t believe what he was hearing.

He leaned on the desk and opened the wooden box where his cigarettes were.

His back harshly met his chair as he stared at the woman, blinking.

“I’m serving it on a plate, to you, Thomas.” You”d serenely let out, as if you understood him without having him saying anything. “Just deal with it.”

“How much do you trust this contact?”

“I trust him with my life.” You responded.

With this partnership, he didn’t proceed the same as usual by offering something in return. He didn’t have the time to give you a proper offer that you'd already started to work in favor of his plan against Mosley, so this relationship was more based on the trust they have into each other rather than a commun exchange of services.

Today was the first time you’d ask him to return the favor, and it was today as well that the man had to wittingly choose to trust her blindly.

He coughed and lighted his cig, and put an elbow on the wooden desk as he was still deeply in thoughts.

You got up, moving slowly and leaned on the desk, hands flat on it, her face not even a centimeter away from his. “If you don’t trust that,” you pointed at him and then at you, “end it.” You finished.

The mood automatically shifted due to the tension that has quickly installed between the two individuals.

Not for even one second did you imagine things to get this sensual. Here you were, desperately searching other's eyes out of each other’s grip.

Tommy’s eyes hungrily drifted to your lips, and stayed there more than it should’ve.

You moved back and turned your heels, leaving the room.

Too much in too little time. This. What that even was, and what did it mean?

This was the reason why you never got emotionally involved in business . But that was different now. But for you, that always kept the idea that the past wasn't supposed to repeat itself, the present was slapping maybe too hard.

Thank God you succeeded at getting out, not because of Tommy, but utterly because of yourself. If you had stayed so much as one second more, you didn’t know what you would’ve done, or maybe you did know but preferred to bury it away.

It was easier that way.

Following Chapter ❱

#Tommy Shelby #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x y/n #thomas shelby #thomas shelby fanfic #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby x y/n #Peaky Blinders #peaky blinder #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinder fanfic

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liptonsbabe · 3 years

Text

Chains of a family [B.W]

Bill Weasley x Grant! Reader

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4

Summary: The reader has left the burrow trying to hide from Molly’s harsh comments. Bill’s mom doesn’t want his son near you cause she thinks you’ll hurt him judging you for your family reputation. Arthur thinks differenly so he’ll try to make amends between you two

Word count: 3.4 k. Too long I’M SORRY

Warnings: none

English not my mother language so pleeeeese tell me if something’s wrong

A/N: Hey! Another chapter for you’all. Thanks for keep reading this. The next part will be updated soon and yeah, hope you like it! If you want to be tagged just tell me and i’ll do so :D

Chapter 3: Expectations

It was bitterly cold outside the burrow, and you wondered if winter had come early. Your icy hands clenched your sides, refusing to go back inside even if your knuckles burned and your bare feet began to crack from the hardness of the grass on your soles.

You walked on the grass feeling the dew wetting your fingertips. On the other side of the garden the gnomes were burying one of Molly's ornaments with what, you guessed, the woman would be very angry when she found out, but no more than she already was. Molly's words were harsh. Even if her intention was not to make you feel bad, she had managed to put a huge weight on your stomach after the fight.

You didn't blame her, it was almost certain that Molly would react that way, however, you hoped that within her there was a bit of empathy for the situation you were experiencing with your family. It wasn’t easy for anyone to go through a war that could have been avoided in one way or another, however, for the Grants it was an even more difficult challenge knowing that the trigger for such a war was grandpa Tim Grant's half brother.

You walked around the house, crossing the barnyard, watching the chickens peck at a rubber boot on a very rusty cauldron. The cornfield grasses moved with the wind at the same rate. From right to left, right to left, right to left and then they changed the rhythm from left to right, left to right, left to right ...

The barn was just behind the thick grass rising into an old stone sty, which had several crooked stories attached to it. Four or five chimneys dotted the roof of the cellar, and most likely the entire building was held up by magic due to its crazy bolt-on construction. You took a look back at the main entrance of the house where you could hear the voices of Bill's brothers next to Molly's, deciding to get away from the Weasleys before starting a new fight.

You crossed the cornfield finding a pond full of frogs that you dodged with a little scream and a ballerina jump. Then you came across an old broom shed that was half stowed and a pervasive smell. You headed there, thinking of helping out with the cleaning and wasting some time in the process until William came home from the ministry in the early afternoon.

The brooms were on top of each other in a corner of the shed where the garden gnomes used them to play with each other. One of the gnomes had gotten a match with which he had managed to light a couple of strands of the broom of one of the twins -You knew it because each of the brooms had the initials of Molly's children painted on the base. That one had a huge G in the center - which soon expanded into the rest of the broom's dark fibers. You immediately turned it off earning yourself a tiny kick from the gnome.

The smoke from the fire mixed with dust, and the foul smell of expired wax made your eyes water . You wondered vaguely when was the last time that place had been cleaned up, however, the density of the raised dust and the rottenness of the broom wax on the floor told you about the nonexistence maintenance of the shed. The orchard was contained within a paddock, so you assumed there would be no problem cleaning it up later.

You collected each thing by hand placing them where you thought they should go. You finished cleaning the shed earlier than expected, securing the door when exiting to prevent the gnomes from entering and destroying everything again.

You continued your way in a straight line until you reached the barn where a thick layer of dust hid the doorknob. You opened the warehouse with your wand finding the worst scenario ever imagined. The walls were hidden in ghastly cobwebs, the shelves were clothed in huge mountains of dust, and Muggle stuff were strewn everywhere. Mr. Weasley's old Ford Anglia was on the left side of the barn, storing certain flying objects that you couldn't recognize from the cloud of dust that rose and entered to your eyes.

Well, that seemed like an even bigger challenge than the shed on the other side of the garden. You started by washing the car using your wand to launch several aguamentis causing a waterfall of mud falling from the roof to the fender. Then the car doors flapped open like a pair of wings, letting out the flying objects. You raised your wand by closing the barn door blockig them the exit and initiating a chase that lasted a couple of hours to catch each object, throw it inside the Ford Anglia and finish polishing the hood before the flying, spoiled car got upset.

You forgot the last time you helped your household servants clean a simple fireplace ornament. Years before, when you were little and your brothers liked to spend time together, you helped the butler to clean some objects in the house because it was more fun when you formed competitions between you, Anthon and Margaret to know which of you cleaned the house ¿faster . You had fun and old Alfred got less tired. But that was a long time ago and in the present you didn’t remember what was the proper order of cleaning.

You were lugging box after box for several hours getting a terrible allergy in the process. The last box was made of recyclable paper where you put Mr. Weasley's old newspapers and Molly's worn recipes. You carried them to the fourth shelf from the right, previously cleaned, raising it with both hands. A speck of dust flew across the room, stopping on your nose causing you to sneeze so hard you fell backwards with the box on your face. The papers flew around the corners causing a disaster worse than the initial one.

“Shit”

You stayed lying on the floor taking the box off your face staring at the ceiling. Undoubtedly that would be a difficult life without anyone to help you doing the things more than yourself, however you were willing to try ‘cause you didn’t want to return home where things were simple but with a high cost. You weren't sure you wanted to trade your freedom for a few extra comforts. You let out a sigh ready to stand up when a singular sheet of a recent newspaper flew towards you, stopping on your chest. You caught a glimpse of a fairly familiar photograph in the ink, so you took the paper and read:

"Dark Mark sparks panic." Muggle family murdered. Death Eaters numbers grow” Your hands trembled over the paper, caressing each of the words, reading them over and over again. The weight on your stomach grew and grew, as if it were suddenly going to explode. A huge picture of uncle Tom stood in the middle, with that toothless grin and throbbing nostrils “Merlin’s beard”

Your fingers tingled, and you couldn't help but run your touch over your uncle's face trying to think how he got to that point. Grandpa Tim never talked so much about his half brother and you never had the courage to ask him even if the curiosity was eating your insides. There were few times where Tom Riddle's presence was in the family conversations and if that happened, then your father changed the topic from one second to another. It was annoying living in the shadows, but it was even more to be tied to a cause that no one sympathized with, not even his own brother. But Tim Grant was reserved, perhaps too reserved. Maybe that was the reason why he allowed the actions of his little brother to escalate to those levels and allowed too that his only son had choose the wrong side. However, you didn’t understand - or support - Voldemort's ambitions, neither did your grandpa and that cost you to be rejected by the rest of your family.

Your eyes watered and you didn't know if it was because of guilt or if the damn dirt had entered your eyelids. You looked at the ceiling in the haze. You searched your mind and realized that the situation affected you too much. You weren't welcome with the Weasleys, nor with the Grants. You felt desolate, as if the barn walls were closing in on you.

Molly's reaction was valid, you repeated yourself as many times as you could, because anyone who had lost a large part of it’s family to a member of another's would have done the same thing or something so much worse. You shook your head, once again feeling the rejection you were used to.

The barn door opened suddenly, letting in a gust of wind hitting your body directly on the ground. Your skin prickled from the cold causing the newcomer to laugh.

You looked up to find yourself face to face with the distorted figure of Arthur Weasley who was holding a couple of drinks along with a weird smile that made you laugh. The man sat on the floor next to you leaving the glass next to your face.

"I'm sorry I scared you. it’s freezing cold out there and in my defense, nobody comes to this place”

“It’s okay, I wasn't expecting visitors”

"Fine, then" Arthur took a sip of his drink licking his chapped lips, but still showing you that smile so much like Bill's. You folded the newspaper on your lap, nervous. "So ... what are you doing lying in my barn?"

"I ... I was trying to clean this place up”

"Is that so? ‘cuz It seemed like you were about to take a nap."

“Yeah, i had a little mishap here”

"I see, do you want to get up?"

"Yes, thank you." Arthur held out his hand, slowly pulling you up to leave you sitting in front of him. He offered you the drink and you clinked glasses before drinking. It was hot chocolate, you guessed, made by Molly. Your stomach churned.

Mr. Weasley glanced around the barn, surprised to see more than half perfectly arranged

“This place hasn't been so clean since Bill was born”

“Sorry?

"No, no, it's okay," he mentioned, waving to play it off, "Molly had been asking me for a long time to do it, so I think you just made my job easier."

"It's nothing, Mr. Weasley

"Did you see something you liked?"

"Uh, yeah," you answered wiping your lips. "Ignoring the fact that your car almost killed me, I noticed that you have a lot of muggle stuff."

“Ah, yes. They are fascinating, don't you think?”

"Certainly, but I also realized that most of them are useless, why do you still have them here?"

"I like to collect them," he replied, taking another sip of his drink. You mimicked his action “to be honest, I don't even have a clue how these things works, but I suppose I'll find out in time. Muggle devices are not as advanced as ours, much less functional, however, I find them entertaining and special somehow, did you know that they use a subway to transport themselves underground? And they must leave coins in a machine so that they give them a little ticket. A ticket! The first time I used one I was deadly excited!

You smiled, imagining how it would to see Mr. Weasley that happy

"I could help you understand how they work." You winced when Arthur looked at you with wide eyes. "My ... my grandfather lived with Muggles for a while and knows a lot about this artifacts. Several times he spoke of his usefulness to my brothers and me”

“Fantastic!” He replied cheerfully. You smiled “It's wonderful (Y/N), thank you”

“No problem”

Then a silence settled between you, being cut off only by the babble of the gnomes outside the barn kicking the timbers trying to get inside. Arthur cleared his throat as he ran his little blue eyes over each of the walls of his newly renovated barn. He smiled again placing one of his hands on your shoulder

"I found out what happened with Molly in the morning," he mentioned. You nodded “My children told me what you said to each other and ...”

"I'm sorry I spoke badly to your wife, Mr. Weasley" you interrupted, sipping your glass all at once, leaving it on the floor. "I know after this I'll have to talk to William and find another place to stay."

“She is not like that. She rarely has such behavior with the people and I can only think that my Molly has a lot of mixed feelings. The war has us all nervous and the fact that the memories of the past have arisen again ... they make her have reactions that are not very usual in Molly.”

"I'm not blaming her. I think she's right”

“Why?”

"What I did to my family ... running away, betray them..." You started playing with your fingers on your lap, embarrassed. "It's not something a trustworthy person would do."

“What are you talking about?”

“For the Grants, it’s very important to support the family in their endeavors without stopping to think if that could be harmful to the others. With uncle Tom becoming the most dangerous dark wizard of all times ... people would think that his relatives would follow his steps and they did “Mr. Weasley listened attentively, ignoring the screams of his wife announcing that the food was ready “At least most of them. Now all of us are tied to the He-who-must-not-be-named, whether we want it or not. It ruined our lives and I couldn't stay in that place forever

"Why aren't you on his side?"

"Because I can't see my brothers make a wrong decision" You crumpled the newspaper with your hands looking at how the pic of Lord Voldemort turned into a streaked stain "I have my own convictions, even if you don’t believe so”

"I don't believe anything of you, (Y/N)" Arthur's voice turned stoic as he stared at you harshly. "Neither the good nor the bad. I am a believer that you should judge someone by what demonstrates, not by what it’s said about them. Right now you aren’t showing me anything but that there is something in your family that you don’t like and that the dirt in my barn is intolerable to you”

You smiled

"We're all here waiting to see what are you capable of. Good or bad, you get to decide who (Y/N) Grant is from now on. Starting over. Forget that the Grants' actions make you worthy of the consequences”

Warmth attacked your chest. It was comforting to feel for the first time the acceptance of someone who wasn't doing it out of mere compassion or that it was Bill. That Arthur gave you the benefit of the doubt encouraged you to continue as before: trying, trying, trying.

"I think his wife doesn't think the same."

Arthur Weasley patted your shoulder.

"I'll talk to her, she'll understand. Meanwhile let's go home, it's time for lunch”

"Did Bill come back?"

"Yes, my son and I came back from the ministry a while ago.He wanted to find you, but I asked him to let me do it. You know, because sometimes it's good to have the daughters-in-law on your side”

Your cheeks heated up and then the rest of your face turned completely red. Arthur studied your reaction, smiling as he realized you were just a kid looking for approval. He patted your shoulder again, inviting you to leave the rest of the mess and accompany him to the burrow.

"These aren’t a good times to trust the Daily Prophet," Arthur mentioned, noticing the crumpled newspaper in your hands. You skipped the pond and skirted the cornfield until you reached the garden entrance where Bill's brothers and Bill himself had set up a long table near Molly's apple tree where they planned to spend the afternoon. One of the twins raised his wand putting the cuterly across the table, one set for each of the family members. You wondered if there would be a place for you at the table “Honestly, these are not good times to trust anything or anyone, so if you accept my advice, don't worry too much about reading the newspapers, they will leave you more questions than answers, Hey, you will break that!

Arthur scolded his twins when they fiddled with forks in a battle to find out which of them would wash the dishes after eating. Arthur ran towards them while Bill approached you greeting you with a kiss on the cheek. He frowned, watching you closely and then removed his coat, draping it over your shoulders.

"What the hell were you doing outside without a sweater?" It's freezing!”

"You worry way too much," you told him, pressing the faux fur against your shivering body. The truth was that, after the exchange of words with Bill's mother, you didn’t have the time to get a sweater before leaving and of course your wounded pride wouldn’t let you get dressed again before going to hide in the barn. Bill clicked his tongue rubbing your arms. "I'm fine, I just lost track of the time cleaning your father's barn and I didn't feel the cold until now”

"You're bad at lying, did you know that?"

"You should stop asking so many questions." You smiled at the grimace on the older Weasley's face. "Nothing happened."

"That's not what the twins told me," he suddenly mentioned. You felt the tension in Bill's body when Molly passed by him giving you a dangerous look, however you decided to ignore it for the good of both of you “ What my mom said ...”

"It’s okay, it doesn't matter I discussed it with your father and we worked it out”

“Are you sure?” You nodded “I hope so. Not because she’s my mother I will let her offend you in any way”

Your smile widened. You couldn't possibly love that man more than you already did. You approached his body, throwing your arms around Bill's neck, having to stand on your tiptoes to reach only to kiss his chin. He lowered his head, managing to bring his lips together.

“Help your brothers set the table, I'll go take a bath”

"Don't you prefer i help you instead?" You laughed

"I can do it by myself, thanks”

"Hmm ... you sure?”

"William ...”

"Okay, okay, okay," he urged you leaving a couple of kisses on the corner of your lips. "Don't be gone too long. i’ll miss you, love."

“I will not. Wait for me just here, yeah?”

You went upstairs to the room you shared with Bill and jumped into the shower enjoying the warmth of the water above your head. You leaned against the tiles thinking that your first day in the burrow had turned out very bad, but better than you had thought. Even if Molly didn't believe your words, you would do your best to fullfil the expectations of the others members of the Order. You would be loyal to them, to the Aurors, and you would fight whoever you had to to prove that your actions were worth more than the rumors surrounding the Grants did.

You were going to prove how wrong they were with you and, incidentally, you would forge a reputation of your own, one of which you would proud of

Tag:

@purple-vodka-99

#bill weasley #bill weasley imagine #bill weasley x reader #domhnall gleeson #domhnall gleeson imagine #harry potter imagine #harry potter cast #harry potter x reader #domhnall gleeson x reader

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songtoyou · 3 years

Text

Tempting Fate - Part Two

Paring: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Warnings: Nothing major, but there is lots of smoking.

Word Count: 2,080

Story Summary: Tommy is not a believer in fate or destiny. However, a new resident in Small Heath will question his beliefs and push his boundaries outside his comfort zone.

Chapter Summary: As you continue to live in Small Heath, you develop a strong camaraderie amongst its residents. The only one who continues to give you the cold shoulder is Mr. Tommy Shelby. Polly has a conversation with you and her nephew. She seems to know more than she may be letting on about the connection you and Tommy may have.

A/N: For this story, Esme uses her maiden name and married name, so she goes by Esme Lee-Shelby. This story takes place during season two of the show. May Carleton is mentioned in this chapter and might be making an appearance in later chapters. I like May; she has never bothered me, and I like her “relationship” with Tommy. I did include a Romani phrase in this chapter, which translates to, “Go with God and in good health.” I found the phrase online and hope it is correct. If it isn’t, then I am profoundly sorry and do not wish to offend anyone. That is never my intent. Remember, there is no Grace or Greta in this fic. They do not exist in the realm of this alternate universe.

Please do not post any of my fics to other sites without my permission.

Tag List: @owenniasstars

You settled into Small Heath nicely, even making some friends along the way. Esme Lee-Shelby was one of those friends. When the two of you met, there was an instant connection. Both reminded the other of home, which helped with the homesickness both women tended to feel now and then. Being friends with Esme meant you were around the other Shelby’s, particularly at the family’s company headquarters. You most hung around the betting shop when it was not too busy and when Tommy was not around. You were not naïve to see that the man was not too fond of you for some reason.

Arthur and John would tell you not to pay too much mind to Tommy and explain that he was under a lot of stress.

“Tommy means well, love. He will come around eventually,” John reassured you one day while visiting Esme.

“It is because he likes you, and that probably scares him,” Esme would say, but you merely scoffed at the idea.

“I can admit that Tommy is cute, but he is not my type. He is too frigid. The guy is always so serious. Plus, I can tell he cannot stand the sight of me,” you replied, but Esme waved off your concerns.

“Trust me, Tommy will eventually come around to the point where he will seek out your presence because he will crave it. I have a feeling about it, and I’m never wrong,” assured Esme.

On another day at the betting shop, you stopped by; however, no one was around except for Aunt Polly. At first, the woman intimidated the hell out of you but soon saw the wonderfulness she possessed. She did not take shit from anyone, particularly the men who stopped by the betting shop. She kept everyone in line, including her nephews. You saw how Tommy would confide in Polly on specific business matters whenever the two murmured amongst each other.

“Where is everyone?” you asked, looking around the empty betting shop.

“Slow day,” Polly said, taking a sip of tea and reading a book with her feet up on one of the desks. “John and Esme are currently preoccupied with activities involving the expansion of their family if you know what I mean.”

“Well, that is…wonderful,” you stated sarcastically. “Will you tell Esme I stopped by and that I will see her tonight at The Garrison?”

Before you could leave, Polly called out to you to stay for a little while.

“Come sit with me, let’s talk,” Polly commanded and pointed to a seat for you to take.

You followed her orders and took a seat across from the older woman. She passed you one of her black cigarettes, and you happily accepted. The nicotine of the black cigarette had a pleasant taste to it, you noted.

“So, Tommy informs me that you are part of the Young clan in Cambridgeshire. I’ve met the Youngs; they are good people. Very dependable when one needs help. However, my nephew also shared that you aren’t a Young by blood, is that right?” Polly questioned the other woman.

“That is correct. My mother and father found me when I was a baby, so I am very much a Young,” you replied earnestly.

“Oh, that I can see. Especially in how you have taken it upon yourself to help out most of the Small Heath residents. From menial tasks such as making sure Ms. Wallace gets her weekly groceries, to assisting Old Man Pete and his family in finding their lost dog, and even going so far as to help out at the Yard with Charlie and Curly.”

“I only help with horses. I don’t do any of the moving of equipment or anything if that is what you or Tommy are worried about,” you reassured Polly.

“I wasn’t worried, but of course, Tommy was. You put him on edge,” said Polly with a smirk.

You took another drag of the cigarette, “That is not my fault that your nephew has his qualms about my mere presence in this place. All I am doing is trying to make a living, like everyone else. He has no reasons to doubt my intentions. I am not here to bewitch anyone or partake in any criminal activity that would undermine the Peaky Blinders. I may not have a proper education, but I am not stupid. I don’t have a death wish.”

“No, you don’t have a death wish. You have good intentions that Tommy will see that eventually. He always comes around. Someday, he will come to you because he will need your help,” shared Polly. “I can see things, my dear. I have the gift. I know why you are here. You are looking for your soulmate. Is that correct?”

You let out a sigh, “It is one of the reasons why I am here, yes. I only want to know who this man is; I don’t expect to fall for him. The idea of soulmates doesn’t ring true for me. It is a fabled concept.”

Polly let out a laugh, “Do not be so pessimistic, my girl. You have already met him, but I will let you figure out who it is; that is the fun part.”

As you were about to ask Polly for clarification on what she was talking about, in walked Tommy and stopped when he saw the two of you sitting together.

“Speaking of the devil, here he is, the man of the hour,” teased Polly, at least that is what you thought she was doing. She gave you a wink and put out her cigarette.

“Miss Young,” Tommy stiffly greeted you.

“Mr. Shelby, nice to see you.” While you may tend to put Tommy on edge, he did the same to you, but you were determined to make friends with the man.

When Tommy didn’t reply to your polite phrase, you knew it was your time to leave the premises. “Thank you for the cigarette and the chat, Polly.”

“Any time, dear,” Polly smiled and waved as you exited the betting shop. She saw that you did not say goodbye to Tommy, which she could not blame you.

While Tommy took off his cap and coat, Polly got up from the table and lightly smacked the back of the head. The move completely caught Tommy by surprise as he turned to face his aunt.

“What the hell, Pol!” yelled Tommy, perplexed.

Polly merely shook her head. “Do not have any manners, Thomas?”

“What are you on about?”

With a shake of her head, Polly grabbed her teacup and took a sip. The tea was long since cold. “She is a nice girl, Tommy. Why can’t you see that when everyone else can? What is it about his girl that has you so afraid?”

Lighting his cigarette, Tommy let out a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. Everywhere he turned, he saw you. Not only at The Garrison, Uncle Charlie’s Yard, or the streets of Small Heath, he saw you in his dreams. The dreams where you were present brought him peace. He felt protected, which unnerved him since he was not used to the feeling of being safe, not after France.

“She’s me, Pol,” answered Tommy.

“What do you mean she is you, Tom?”

“Before the war. She was exactly how I was before everything changed,” Tommy replied honestly.

“Well, that should be viewed as a good thing. You two match. Why so cold towards this girl?” Polly asked again.

Tommy turned towards his aunt to bluntly say, “Because if I get close to her, then I will ruin her. I don’t think I could live with myself with that thought. I’m damaged goods, Pol. Nothing can save me. No one can save me.”

“Tommy, that is not true,” remarked Polly. “I still see the good in you.”

Tommy got up and headed towards his office, “Then you are wasting your time.”

Later that night at The Garrison, you were filling up drinks and talking to your regular patrons.

Noting was too out of the ordinary, except for the absence of the Shelby brothers. Typically, they would make an appearance, but not tonight.

“Harry, since it is rather slow tonight, do you mind if I head out early?” you asked.

“Sure, no problem, but do you mind coming in early?” Harry asked, which you agreed to do.

You waved goodbye to Harry and left the premises. You bundled your coat higher to offset the cold air and walked towards Charlie’s Yard. Curly mentioned they were getting a new horse for the races, and you wanted to see it. You loved horses, always have since you were a kid.

As you walked down the street, you saw the Shelby brothers exiting the betting shop.

Arthur called out your name, and you turned around to greet him. He asked where you were headed to and answered the Yard. When all three gave you a look, you told them that you wanted to see the new horse Curly kept boasting on about and, therefore, needed to see for yourself.

“I have to see for myself,” you commented.

Before John and Arthur were about to wave goodbye, Tommy spoke up, “I’ll walk you.”

His announcement took his brothers and you by surprise. “Come again?” you asked. You wanted to make sure you heard him correctly.

“I said I’d walk you to Charlie’s.”

Before you could as Tommy ‘why’ he told his brothers, he would see them later and motioned for you to follow him. The walk to the Yard was quiet, with neither knowing if they should saying anything. Both opted that awkward quietness was probably the best outcome.

You bit the bullet as the quietness was beginning to drive you mad and spoke up. “Where did you find this horse? Curly mentioned you were going to train him for the races.”

“I got him at an auction, and I won’t be training him. I enlisted someone else to do the training to get him the horse ready for Epsom,” explained Tommy, lighting a cigarette. He offered you one as well, but you declined.

Finally arriving at the Yard, you continued to follow Tommy towards where the horse was residing. When you caught sight of the dapple-gray horse, you immediately picked up your speed to get a better look.

“He is beautiful, Curly,” you professed while rubbing your hand across its muzzle. The horse responded positively to you as it licked your hand. “Does he have a name?”

“No name, as of yet,” it was Tommy who spoke up to answer you. While you continued to pet the horse, Tommy quietly stood next to you. He reached over and began stroking the horse’s mane.

“May Carleton is expecting us to bring the horse for her to train in the coming days ahead, we need to get him ready for transport, Charlie,” declared Tommy while continuing to pet the horse. He then walked over to his uncle as the two men began to talk about how to transport the horse.

“It is a shame this horse has to leave,” you said to Curly, who quickly agreed.

When Charlie called Curly over to him, it left you alone with the horse. As you continued to pet the horse’s muzzle, slowly and softly, you placed your head against his, with no objection. The horse remained calm in your presence.

“Zhan le Devlesa tai sastimasa,” you whispered to the horse.

“Go with God and in good health,” translated Tommy as he stood next to the horse once again. “He’ll be fine, Ms. Young. This horse is going to be taken care of; I will make sure of that, I promise.”

You looked over at Tommy and smiled at him, “Oh, I know, Mr. Shelby. Pyramus knows you will make sure he is in good hands.”

“Pyramus?” Tommy asked, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s his name. Pyramus. It is a mythological name meaning ‘fire.’ It fits him perfectly, don’t you think?”

At that moment, Tommy was taken back by your attentiveness of his horse. He was impressed by how you showed so much care for the creature. He saw how your smile brightened your face and appeared to stir something inside of himself. Something he thought was long gone, his heart.

“Yes, it is. Perfect,” Tommy expressed, but he was no longer talking about the horse.

It was at that moment, where Tommy knew he wanted you.

#tommy shleby #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #peaky blinders #peaky blinders fic

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away-from-anthills · 3 years

Text

chapter two-

(prologue) (chapter one)

“Let all cats, old enough to catch their own prey…”

“Already?” muttered Stoatslink. A dash of doubt sat behind the white tom’s yellow eyes. “It’s been almost too soon for Shalestar to make a decision…”

Stoatslink’s tone stuck on Antstep like a burr. Had it been too soon? No- Shalestar had to know what he was doing. Antstep knew of Shalestar’s wisdom more than he knew of his own nest.

“Who do you think it’s going to be?” Russetfoot padded up next to him, his red tabby shoulder touching Antstep’s solid dark brown one. “I’d bet on Shadeflower, personally-“ -he beckoned with his tail to the dark gray tabby molly that sat at the edge of the nursery- “-but I think my brother could do a good job. My mate, too- but she wouldn’t want to follow her brother’s footsteps.”

Stripedwing and Rainleap had been close as kits, but had naturally drifted apart over time. She wanted to be a tunneler, and lacked ambition; he wanted to be a moor runner, and had had his sights on leadership since apprenticeship. There were no hard feelings between either of them- and Antstep recalled a dawn patrol not long ago where Rainleap said he intended to share tongues with his sister more.

Antstep had felt an envy towards Rainleap then. Rainleap, at least, had a sibling. Antstep had none.

Snapping out of his thoughts, Antstep realized Russetfoot was waiting on an answer from him. “So? What do you think? Did Shalestar tell you anything when he asked for you?”

“I- uh-“ Antstep tried to stall the conversation- but thankfully, Shalestar was already about to begin, and Russetfoot’s eyes had left Antstep to focus on the old scarred blue-gray tom.

“I realize it has been only a short while since I announced the loss of Rainleap to the Clan. However, we must follow the Warrior Code- even in unprecedented situations like this. I promised a new deputy by moonhigh, and my Clan shall get one. I have come to the conclusion of which WindClan member shall become your next deputy. I ask only that you be kind to him. He may not be an obvious choice, but with a bit of experience as deputy, he will learn quickly.”

It felt as all the Clan were eyeing each other. Half of Antstep wanted to puff out his chest with pride. The other half, meanwhile, wanted to shrink inwards and disappear.

“I say these words now, before StarClan, so our ancestors- Rainleap among them, now- may hear and approve of my choice. The new deputy of WindClan… is Antstep.”

There was a silence of deliberation for a moment, and then a gasp or two. Molethroat and Cherrycloud, who were near the back of the sandy hollow by the nursery, seemed to approve. Rockscratch and Russetfoot seemed to be in what Antstep could only assume was awe. He had never felt what it was like to cause awe before.

But there was a tense feeling among some of the others. Talonscar, their eyes still dimmed from mourning their former apprentice, sat in silence, shifting their weight from one paw to another. Sandwhisker looked pleased, but even she seemed to have some doubt about Shalestar’s choice, despite being particularly close to him. Antstep flattened his ears against his chestnut-colored fur as he scaled the rock to stand besides his leader.

“Again, I know he is perhaps not what you expected. But I mentored him myself, and it was I who brought him to WindClan when he was but a kit. I feel like I know Antstep particularly well- he reminds me of myself, when I was about his age. And I was about his age when Marigoldstar elected me as deputy, back before many of you were even born. It may take him a while to learn the ropes as deputy- but when he gets the hang of it, I promise you, he shall be a great deputy- and, perhaps… a great leader, once I pass on.”

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” Antstep felt his spine coil. That sharp voice belonged to only one cat in the Clan- Sparkthistle. The ginger molly, with bright stripes and a snout that turned slightly upwards, pushed her way to the front of the hollow. “You’re telling us, Shalestar, that you’re replacing Rainleap with this sad sack? He’s not even a proper WindClan cat! He’s just your pet project! There’re so many cats in this Clan- and you choose that excuse of a warrior? He can’t even manage his own apprentice, let alone-“

“Sparkthistle, I am your leader,” Shalestar commanded, a fleck of anger on his tongue. “If you have any complaints, you can talk to me or Whitetooth in the morning.”

Sparkthistle opened her mouth as if she had something more to say- but, she began to flounder, and the shrewish molly backed away into the crowd. Cherrycloud rather embarrassed on Sparkthistle’s behalf, slinking back into the nursery den with Molethroat beside her.

“Meeting dismissed. Webwhisker, Stoatslink, remember it is your duty to keep guard over the camp tonight.”

As WindClan retreated to their dens, and Webwhisker and Stoatslink climbed the walls of the sandy hollow to assume the night watch, the coiled nervousness in Antstep’s belly began to loosen. He left the Tallrock and flexed his claws into the sand below. The moon- which was at the very center of the sky- looked downward upon him, and the hollow was filled with a certain stillness. The cicadas and crickets sang in the distance, and a curious hope began to flow through Antstep’s veins as his amber eyes locked with the moon’s pale one.

I’m WindClan deputy now… it’s my chance! They’re going to finally love me! I’m going to be the best deputy I can be…

It dawned on Antstep that he was not the only one there. He turned to see Whitetooth. The WindClan medicine cat seemed as if they were still analyzing him. They were nearly all white- the color of slightly stale milk- except for their ears, a spot or two on their back, and their tail, which was plumy and brown like a female pheasant.

“I look forward to our partnership and- if you’ll allow me to say it- friendship, Antstep,” they said simply. “As deputy and medicine cat. If you ever need anything- all you have to do is ask.”

Antstep nodded. Even the medicine cat wants to be my friend!

As Whitetooth slunk into their medicine den, where Marblepaw was already fast asleep, Antstep contemplated. He climbed the edge of the sandy hollow- away from Webwhisker and Stoatslink’s positions- and looked towards the east, where the sun would rise and where the marigolds grew.

As sunlight crept into the clearing the next day, Antstep immediately began to try and plot out what his first patrol would be. This was, after all, one of the most important deputy duties. He had to get it just right. Suddenly, the confidence he had had earlier dissipated. What will the Clan think of me if I’m not able to plan this out right? They already hate me, don’t they…

“Well, you may be a good hunter- but I’m far better!”

“You’re not!” “Am too!”

There was a squeal as Twigpaw, in the heat of this little spat, launched himself onto Spiderpaw, grabbing onto her shoulder. However, she was too quick. The dark gray tabby molly shook herself, and Twigpaw let go as soon as he had latched on. She then jumped over and pinned the smaller brown tabby tom onto the sandy earth. As he grunted and tried to free himself, she stood triumphantly.

“Spiderpaw, let him go,” Antstep instructed. She gave it a moment of thought, and- after pushing down on Twigpaw for a moment- let him go. He stuck his tongue out at her.

“Well, just remember, Twigpaw- my mom’s the leading queen and my mentor’s the deputy.”

“Don’t let it get to your head,” warned Antstep, curling his paw around her feet to make sure she didn’t jump back out at him. “If I mess up too bad, you wouldn’t want to even look at me, now, would you?”

“Depends,” she said slyly, her lips curled upward like the biting adder. “But it means I have two on Twigpaw.” She grinned. “Hey, maybe when you’re leader, you could make my mom Shadeflower your deputy! Then Twigpaw won’t even be able to lay a paw on me.”

“Don’t get too ahead of me,” said Antstep. “It’s my first day. …Say, would you like to go on the dawn patrol this morning? You haven’t been out on it in a while.”

Spiderpaw nodded enthusiastically. Antstep felt proud of himself- but then the worries began to nip at his paws again. There’s no way that’s going to work! They’ll all think I’m favoring my own apprentice over the others! What other apprentices are there… Goldenpaw was on patrol just yesterday… Maybe Milkpaw or Coalpaw?...

“You’re up early,” yawned a sleek blue-gray tom. His shadow was identical to Shalestar’s; however, he was a tad shorter and far younger. A white bib-shaped marking covered his chin and chest.

“Oh. Hello, Toadpool,” said Antstep, nodding to acknowledge the blue-and-white cat’s presence.

“I think you’re going to do just fine as deputy.”

“Wh- what makes you say that?” said Antstep. Was his anxiousness that obvious already?

“Deputy jitters,” explained Toadpool, shrugging. “Everyone gets it. Even Grandpa told me that he had them. You’ll do just fine- I trust his choices, after all.”

Toadpool was right. Shalestar had a good head on his shoulders, and neither of them had a reason to doubt him.

“I’m trying to figure out the dawn patrol,” explained Antstep. “I was thinking Spiderpaw and your apprentice Milkpaw could take it this morning. Would you- uh- like to come along?”

“Sure! But you don’t have to ask, you know. Deputies usually just kind of say who’s going on patrol or not.”

Right. Antstep already felt hot embarrassment on his face.

“I have an idea. I can come with you and try to calm your nerves a bit. We can bring our apprentices, too. Maybe you could also take Rockscratch and Sparkthistle? I know you don’t like Sparkthistle and she doesn’t like you, but maybe you could talk it out…”

It was a naïve suggestion. But Antstep didn’t have the heart to tell Toadpool that.

“Sure.”

“Great! I know Grandpa will give you some tips and stuff, but I can tell you if there’s anything I know. And we can train our apprentices together.” He looked over to where Spiderpaw was- she was busy chasing down a centipede that had weaseled its way into the den. “Be careful of her,” he joked. “She’ll eat you alive.”

“Takes a brave one to be her mentor,” Antstep joked back, puffing out his chest with pride.

The sun’s lazy red eye began to peer over the earth, and Antstep’s first patrol slithered through the WindClan grass. It was a quiet morning, and the world seemed as though part of it had stood completely still since Rainleap’s death. Dew stuck to their pelts as they schlepped themselves along the trail.

“If Rainleap were here…” said Sparkthistle in the back of the small group, muttering something off-key to herself. Rockscratch, who was just in front of her, distanced himself.

But Antstep tried to keep his worries behind him, crowded around Sparkthistle instead of wandering to his head. It was his first day, after all. Anything could happen. He could worry later, with the comforts of Shalestar and Whitetooth there to listen.

Spiderpaw ran up to him with a fat mole in her mouth. “Look!” she said, in the muffled way cats do when their mouths are crammed full. “Milkpaw showed me how to catch it. You have to feel their tunnels beneath your paws, and you gotta have the right timing. She told me it’s a tunneler skill. Maybe I should show you how, someday…”

Antstep watched Toadpool sign a joke to Milkpaw, who responded with throaty laughter. He didn’t get the punchline- it was something to do with tunneling, which he had never been familiar with- but he began to think. Why hadn’t Shalestar chosen Toadpool? Shalestar was also fairly close to Toadpool, and had watched him grow up in a similar way as he had with Antstep, although the leader had not mentored him. Toadpool even had something Antstep did not: Toadpool was the son of one of Shalestar’s children, who had perished in that forest fire around the time Antstep had been found by a WindClan patrol.

But then it truly sunk into him, as he watched Toadpool and Sparkthistle converse. He was trying to let her on in the joke, but she responded with overdone apathy, flattening her ears tight like they were strapped to her skull to get him to shut up. Toadpool was too ineffective; too naïve. Tatteredstar and Pigeonstar could tear him apart with one word.

He would make for a great friend. Perhaps a deputy- but as a leader? He would fall apart like dried leaves in a fire, up there on that Great Rock.

Antstep knew Shalestar had to have chosen him for a reason.

But he couldn’t think of what that reason was.

The next few days went by with little incident. Patrols were organized; patrols were sent. Occasionally, when he was out with them, Antstep would see the wandering eye of RiverClan or ShadowClan cats, from deep within their own territories.

Did they notice a change?

Could they tell something was different?

Antstep did not know what he wanted the answer to those questions to be.

The camp was quiet. Besides his few friends, Antstep found himself once again a stranger in his own- or was it ever his own?- land. Perhaps the death of Rainleap weighed his Clan down too much still- this is what Antstep wanted to believe. But there was always this great, nagging feeling that sat on Antstep’s haunches- do they like me enough? What if they hate me? What if, on the night I become leader, they’re all going to kill me together? What if-

But Antstep tried to take solace in the fact that Shalestar was always there. Shalestar knew what he was doing. Shalestar would teach him all he needed to know. He’d learn.

It was a briar that shattered that thought.

It was an overcast day- the kind of overcast where the clouds look like a big, unraveling blanket; the kind of overcast that makes your head feel heavy with the promise of an oncoming storm. Antstep was taking a few of the apprentices out into the heart of the moors to learn some hunting techniques.

“Now, the key to catching a good rabbit is to know what way to chase it,” Antstep said. “Some of you have caught one of them before. And that is very good! But you need to have a plan.”

“You could raid a rabbit nest,” said Spiderpaw, in that sort of smart-alecky way that was practically her second language. “Bunch of little rabbits in there right for the taking.”

“Ah, but what about rabbits who live in burrows? And what about getting the proper taste of grown rabbit meat?” That- and Antstep always felt a bit of pity, raiding nests and newborns like that. He assumed an almost exaggerated posture and tried to project his voice towards them. “What you have to have is a plan. You have to know how to corner it. The rabbit’s always going to run away from you, and it’ll outrun you nearly all of the time. What you have, that the rabbit doesn’t, is strength in numbers. You need to drive it towards your Clanmates and pounce from all sides.“

The apprentices nodded in unison.

“Now- look, there’s one now. All of you, position yourselves here. Crouch down and hold steady. I’m going to chase it here, and when I give the word, leap.”

Antstep hunkered himself down into the grasses and slunk around it in a great circle. The rabbit turned its head, and for a short moment there was stillness between the two. Then it bounded away, slowly gaining momentum as Antstep broke into chase. Faster and faster, becoming rhythmic with the land below and the sky above- until Antstep recognized the shapes of the apprentices ahead, hiding below patches of Queen Anne’s Lace.

“Now!”

Goldenpaw and Twigpaw leapt from one way, and Spiderpaw and Coalpaw from another. Goldenpaw grabbed onto its chest and pulled it to the earth, Twigpaw grabbed its head by the front of its throat and pushed it back as far as he could. Spiderpaw grabbed its midsection, and Coalpaw pinned the legs to the earth to prevent the leporid from kicking further. There was a struggle, there was a finality, and then it was gone, as if the soul had slipped straight out of the meat.

“Very well done! Now, you see how I made sure to go in a big circle around it? That’s so it’s tricked into running this direction. If I went right towards it, it’d run away. If I went at it from the side, it’d run away. I’m going to show all of you how to chase rabbits one by one. Hopefully, we’ll make more successful catches, and we’ll have plenty to restock the fresh-kill pile with by the time we return to camp around sundown.”

He took the corpse of the freshly-killed rabbit with him, straddling it with his front legs, and the group quietly moved to another location a bit north of where they initially where. “Now, be careful,” said Antstep. “There’s a briar patch over there- the rabbit’s going to be smart enough to avoid it, so we must plan around it.” He pointed his tail towards where a big, bracken-colored mass of twisted thorny branches lay. The apprentices nodded- but not without Spiderpaw whispering a joke to Goldenpaw about how likely it’d be that Coalpaw or Twigpaw would get themselves tangled in it.

They can handle it.

There was the sound of a soft crunching of plant stems in the distance.

“There’s another,” said Antstep. “Here. Coalpaw, come with me.”

Coalpaw was bigger and heavier than the other apprentices- a cat built for fights, but not so much the hunt. Antstep figured he could go first, as he might take longer to learn the speed and stealth involved with rabbit-hunting. Antstep hunkered down again, Coalpaw followed, and carefully, slowly, the circled back around to the rabbit. Just like last time, they gave chase, and the two cats started to herd the rabbit. Antstep felt his paws go faster and faster, his muscles slowly easing to let sheer momentum swing his feet, the earth moving below him.

“Now!”

He leapt onto the rabbit, and again the other three apprentices leapt, there was a moment of struggle, a moment of release, and then Twigpaw and Spiderpaw declaring victory.

Antstep felt very, very pleased with himself until he heard a voice behind him.

“Help me! Antstep! Help!” He turned to see Coalpaw. Evidently, during the chase, the young tom had tripped himself on a pebble and sent himself flying into the briar patch, where he lay now. He was not particularly stuck, but Antstep could see he needed someone to pull him out.

“Hold on, Coalpaw, I’m…” He got a good look at the briar patch. The earth below it was lower than the rest of the ground, and there was a definite incline between the two surfaces. If Antstep were to pull out Coalpaw, he’d need to watch his step.

“I’m coming. Here, Goldenpaw, hold onto my back foot.”

He felt Goldenpaw grip his back ankle with her teeth. He grimaced at the feeling for a moment, and then leaned over the edge into the briar patch. He grabbed onto one of Coalpaw’s legs.

“Shut your eyes and make yourself go limp, so the branches don’t scratch as much.”

Coalpaw did so, and then Antstep thrusted him out in one quick motion. But as he did, he felt Goldenpaw suddenly let go of him on accident. Coalpaw managed to scramble out onto the grassy pathway as Antstep plunged into the briar patch backwards and belly-up.

Dammit!

Antstep wriggled himself back and forth to try and get back upright, but the briars further tightened around him. He clenched his teeth, trying to thrash himself free, but he only slunk deeper and deeper into the briar patch. Panic seized him as he watched the apprentices crowd around to watch their own deputy make an absolute fool of himself.

And then, finally, he gave up.

“Twigpaw, can you send for a patrol?”

“Well, well. Look who got himself stuck,” said a familiar unenthused voice. It was Sparkthistle, accompanied by Webwhisker and Emberheart. “Our own deputy can’t even get himself out of a stack of twigs.” “It’s a bit more than that,” said Webwhisker, cringing with sympathy.

“Here.” Emberheart slowly nosed her way into the briars and grabbed Antstep’s right foot. “Sparkthistle, you get the other one. Webwhisker, help us pull him out.”

Sparkthistle hesitated, and then grabbed Antstep’s left foot. The two mollies yanked him free- Sparkthistle a bit more forceful- and Webwhisker pushed him as soon as they had pried out his torso. Antstep flipped over onto his feet, his head dizzy from having been upside down.

“You’ve got a lot of scratches from it,” said Webwhisker. “You should see Whitetooth, I think.”

“For just that?” snarked Sparkthistle.

“I worry about it getting infected, that’s all.”

“It is rather bad,” Emberheart said as she inspected Antstep’s flank. “He’s lucky his ears and eyes are in one place.”

Great- I’m not even leader yet and I’m already incompetent enough that I nearly lost my eyesight!

“I can continue on with the apprentices,” offered Webwhisker. The two mollies waited to see Antstep’s reaction; he responded with a nod after some contemplation.

And so, Antstep, Sparkthistle, and Emberheart walked back to camp.

“’Tis not too bad,” said Whitetooth, inspecting Antstep’s myriad of scratches as they wrapped him in cobwebs. “You shall be on your feet within a couple of days. But it is important you rest so infection does not begin. Lie down on the nest Marblepaw prepared for you on the right. Avoid Shalestar, you don’t want him to give you illness.”

“Illness? Shalestar?” Sure, Antstep had noted the leader was a bit slow the past few days, but he hadn’t ever noticed he smelled of sickness. He watched as Marblepaw- a little brown tabby molly, nearly identical to her brother Twigpaw- carefully inspected the sleeping leader, who’s eyes were crusty and who’s fur had became oily from a lack of cleaning himself.

“Mild whitecough, with fever. We have enough tansy for it, but it is worrying given his age. …May I talk to you in private?”

The two cats exited the medicine cat den and sat on the edge of the sandy hollow. Droplets of rain began to fall from the sky, speckling the earth.

“…I suspect that Shalestar may not be long for this world. He may leave us sooner than he expected to.”

Antstep felt something inside himself, black and shivering, begin to coil. “You mean-“

“…This is mild whitecough, and it’s wrecked him. If he doesn’t pass of this- something else is going to come along, and it will be far, far worse.”

Antstep felt like he was going to vomit. He couldn’t even match wits with briars- and now, less than a moon since Rainleap died, less than a moon since he had become deputy at all, before he had even attended a Gathering, here he was. It felt as if a great shadow stood over him, one that only he could feel, who bristled the fur on his spine and clamped its paws on his shoulders.

“… What shall we do? I- I can’t be leader now! I barely got to be deputy! What will the Clan think? What will the other leaders think? What if they think I killed him? I can’t have that on my record, I can’t-“

“Calm yourself, Antstep.” Whitetooth’s voice was deep but smooth, like thick greenleaf tree-sap. “Take heart. You are not the first or the last cat to become leader on such short notice, and I am sure the other leaders will understand as will our Clan. Elsewise- I will be here for you. You know me to be very compassionate.”

The first thunders of a storm began to rumble in the distance.

“Please trust me, for the good of the Clan. …Now, rest. If our beloved leader passes within the next few days from this illness, take solace in that you will be there for him.”

Anstep nodded, and as the rain developed into downpour, the two cats headed back inside.

Shalestar slipped away, later that night, long after all but Whitetooth and Antstep fell asleep; his last words were faint mumblings too obscured by the thunder outside to understand. It was a slow and very peaceful death- the eyes closed, the breathing stopped, the muscles suddenly went limp. Whitetooth placed two leaves over his eyes and positioned the body flat and compact, like he was crouching forever, so when the Clan would visit his body before the burial the next day he would not look too ill. When he died, there was a moment where the clouds unweaved themselves, and a small patch of starlight lit the center of the sandy hollow.

It was over now, and it had begun.

Antstep awoke as Antstar two days afterward.

#warrior cats #warrior cats ocs #story #ayyyyooooo

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latenightcinephile · 3 years

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#703: 'Marketa Lazarová', dir. František Vláčil, 1967.

Marketa Lazarová is a slightly unusual film for me, because its effects go slightly beyond my ability to articulate or explain them. I originally saw it at a Film Society screening in 2015 or 2016, back when I was able to go to movies at 6 p.m. on a Monday evening, and it enthralled me then, splayed wide across the screen at the Paramount in crisp black and white. I knew very little of Czech cinema at the time and, embarrassingly, still haven't seen very much. Coming back to it five years later, it still holds a lot of that arcane power that it had. Marketa Lazarová is simultaneously a meditative experience and a gut punch.

František Vláčil was one of the Czech filmmakers who was originally trained with the Army Film Division, which surprisingly became a breeding ground for avant-garde filmmaking styles. Vláčil became disillusioned with the types of historical films that were being produced at the time, which seemed to him to feature contemporary people pretending to be characters from the past. What was needed instead, he argued, was a more immediate form of historical cinema that made audiences feel like they were witnessing history rather than a lacklustre interpretation of it. In order to achieve this, he frequently joined his cast and crew on long-term shoots where they lived in the types of conditions that the characters would. Sets were built using traditional methods, and scripts were written using archaic dialects to avoid that common experience of characters speaking in a recognisably modern way. The shoot for Marketa Lazarová lasted almost two years in these conditions.

The film's plot concerns three groups. The Kozlík clan, a family under the helm of a robber baron, robs a noble entourage and takes Kristian, the son of the bishop, hostage. Before Kozlík's sons can return to claim their loot, a neighbouring clan led by Lazar steals the spoils. Lazar is saved from being killed when a vision of a nunnery on a hillside appears. One of the chief themes of this film, alluded to early on, is the conflict between paganism and early Christianity. The two worldviews are muddy and indistinct, but the difference between them is what drives a lot of the retribution in the film. Kristian falls in love with one of Kozlík's daughters, Alexandra, while Kozlík's son, Mikoláš, falls in love with Lazar's daughter, Marketa, whom he has taken as a hostage in retaliation for Lazar refusing to side with Kozlík against the king and the bishop. In addition to the religious dimension, then, there is also an ongoing theme of where one's loyalties lie - with existing morals (family, God) or with the person you love. Over the course of this epic, the fates of all three groups trend downhill: members of each of these bands are slaughtered and betrayed; Kozlík and Alexandra are imprisoned; Marketa is released by Mikoláš but rejected by Lazar. The film's conclusion seems to suggest that it is Marketa, and the future generations she helps to bring into the world, that will be able to overcome the divisions that affected the clans so catastrophically, but also acknowledges that these types of conflicts are part of the human experience.

As vast and interwoven the plot of the film is, it's not what makes the experience of watching quite so transcendent. What makes this film feel like an out-of-body experience is Vláčil's use of non-linear and non-realistic techniques. Parts of the film's story are told in flashback, but without any explicit indication that this is happening. At times we see disconnected, hallucinatory images that only make sense when they are contextualised later on. One example of this is an erotic scene between Alexandra (Pavla Polášková) and a young man, who we assume to be Kristian (Vlastimil Harapes). It's only later that we discover that this is a flashback to an abortive romance between Alexandra and her brother Adam (Ivan Palúch) - a man I had initially disqualified from appearing here because Adam only has one arm in the current scenes. Revealing that it is Adam propels the story forward in traditionally linear fashion, but also causes the viewer to reassess the film's earlier scene to determine why these images are included there. These images are made further alien by their unexpected visual qualities: the sex scene takes place in a field of summer grain, but most of the film's 'present day' takes place in winter and early spring. Rather than ascribe them to an unmotivated flashback, it seems easier to read them as a poetic hallucination, and then Vláčil returns to reorganise what we had previously believed of the narrative.

As well as the narrative structure, Vláčil frequently employs long periods of silence and a seeming mismatch of cinematography, where figures are either oddly close to the camera or absurdly far away. On a deep level, it feels like nobody, even the director, has total control over what is being portrayed - like we've entered a kind of fugue state in which cinema just happens regardless of how legible its results are. Although its filming process was so long, the resulting scenes feel accidental or improvisational, culled down from a vast amount of footage.

While many of these techniques give us the experience of watching a dream of an imagined past, these techniques are also quite violent and confrontational. Even when the shots are distant or filmed in long takes, they're cut together in a jarring way, and the lack of a straightforward narrative makes it difficult on the viewer too. The activity implied in this method of editing, a complicated soundscape and opaque narrative combine to make Marketa Lazarová a film that feels very immediate and present. As Tom Gunning put it, writing for Criterion about his early encounters with the film, "an energized mobile camera and abrasive editing peers into a primitive era of human history." Just as the characters of the film are quick to anger and quick to act, the film also lacks temperance. This is a film of life and death in its most vital forms, and so it makes a certain kind of sense that Vláčil would, in defiance of the typical historical film, try and remove any layer of modern logic or reason that would prevent us from experiencing the film's events in a visceral way. This is also why the myth of the werewolf hangs so heavily over the film - invoked a few times by Kozlík's wife, and present in the appearance of his children and their uncanny survival abilities - it both defies modern logic and refers to a particularly corporeal type of monster.

Vláčil structures Marketa Lazarová with sudden intertitles that refer to the events and themes that we are about to see, in a poetic way that recalls the chapter titles of a 19th-century novel. 'On the Lot of Widows' and 'Who in the Past Brewed with Hops' provide the vantage point of someone placed about the action, narrating it to us in a distant sort of way. The music is similar: both ancient and modern, it frequently uses atonal incantations. Taken together, it feels like this story is being shouted at us from a distant time when things were more tactile. "The presence of animals and plants, the textures of stone and tree bark, of snow and marsh water," Gunning writes, "cling to us as we watch, often overriding the narrative."

The grand experience of watching this film is partly contradictory, then: this is a film that feels very modern, tells a story from the past, alludes to contemporary struggles, and when situated in Czech film history is wildly experimental. Gunning sees this film as being, in some respects, a statement about what Vláčil thought cinema could be, in those days of the 1960s where most national cinemas were experiencing their own variations on the New Wave that had developed in France. The experimental aspects of the films of Godard and Varda would be subsumed into the traditional toolbox of cinema and lose some of their vibrancy as a result - either directors would use them for blockbuster films or extend them into a new type of experimental film that was sterile and aloof.Considering this, it's worth appreciating exactly how daring Vláčil was being here: under a Communist regime, making a film about paganism, bestiality, sadism, incest, and torture. With all this darkness, Marketa Lazarová is a bright film, even funny at times. Humanity is a fallen, self-destructive thing, but there is something about this way of life, before it was layered deep underneath civilisation, reason and enlightenment, that was exciting and vibrant.

Does civilisation mean we lose something of our potential? The final narration of Marketa Lazarová tells us that these cycles of mistrust and anger are likely to repeat through the generations, but is that a price Vláčil thinks is worth paying? The urgency and difficulty of life in the distant past was inseparable from the superstitions of the time, but the urges were easier to sate, at least temporarily. The taming of these clans, like the taming of the avant-garde techniques Vláčil employs here, might have been inevitable, but this film shows that there is something valuable there nonetheless.

#1001 movies #František Vláčil #Marketa Lazarová #Czech film #epic

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villainousshakespeare · 3 years

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Putting it Back Together Chapter 3

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

Adam/OFC

Rated M (will probably change to E) - Grief, angst, eventual smut, mention of characters dead before the start of the story, blood, slow burn

Summary: Since the death of his beloved Eve, Adam had been barely living, only alive due to a promise he made to her. Then one night he meets his new neighbor, a woman dealing with grief of her own. Will they help each other heal or drive each other crazy?

@yespolkadotkitty @just-the-hiddles @hopelessromanticspoonie @wine-and-whines @arch-venus25 @caffiend-queen @devilish–doll @enchantedbyhiddles @hiddlesholic @i-do-not-fangirl-i-fanwoman @kellatron55 @ladyoftheteaandblood @latent-thoughts @gorgeous1974 @maryxglz @myoxisbroken @nuggsmum @nildespirandum @pedeka @redfoxwritesstuff @sinfully-lustful-darling @vodka-and-some-sass @wrathkitty @kingtwhiddleston @wolfsmom1 @poetic-fiasco @shiningloki @dangertoozmanykids101 @bookworm-christina @thecutestlittlebunbunfairy @amwolowicz @delightfulheartdream @frostbitten-written @what-a-flammable-heart @tom-hlover @nonsensicalobsessions @myraiswack

For six nights Lilly didn't hear so much as a note of music coming through her walls. Were it not for the occasional banging sounds of large something or others being moved about, she might have thought her surly neighbor had relocated to get away from her. More likely, she realized, was that he had put on head phones to keep her prying ears from his precious compositions.

That being the case, Lilly did her best (which in all honesty was lousy) to put him out of her mind and get on with her life. She continued her late night foraging through her grandmother's belongings, pausing at regular intervals to sob when some unexpected jogger of memory was discovered. By the time she had worked her way through the main bedroom, where she happened upon a collection of love letters that Gran and her ill fated fiancé, Lilly's Grandfather though she had never met him, had written during WWII, she was surprised that she had any tears left. No wonder Grandma Lillian had never married, when she had found and lost such a great love while still in her college years. The paper was well worn, and Lilly could just imagine the older woman returning to read them again and again.

Less romantic but no less special was a photo Lilly found where it had fallen behind a bureau. The picture showed Grandma Lillian, glamorously beautiful in a long, sleek sheath dress and beads, singing on stage in front of a three piece jazz combo. Lilly smiled, naming each of the musicians in turn. The original band had long since gone their own ways professionally, but they had remained close friends regardless. The drummer had taken his savings and invested in a small blues and jazz club not far from here. Grandma Lillian had stopped in their on a regular basis to belt out a tune or two, always to great applause. Lilly's nights there, originally under age and smuggled in, were some of her favorites.

Impulsively, Lilly sprang to her feet. There was no reason she had to stay stuck inside all of the time. Gran would want her to get out and savor life; beyond a doubt she had always done so. Rummaging through her belongings she managed to find a simple black skirt and a red top that she had always liked. She brushed out her long hair with defrizzer until she could tolerate the way it looked billowing around her and applied a touch of lipstick and eye makeup to make her look "less like the walking dead" as Gran would have said. All and all she didn't look half bad. Throwing on a wool coat and pair of boots and putting the photo lovingly in one of about seventy gift bags she had found squirreled away earlier, Lilly made her way out into the cool night air.

It was after eleven, late to be heading out but still relatively early for a Friday in the city. A drifting of clouds obscured and showed the moon at intervals, adding occasional light to the dim streets with their burnt out lights. She would be out of the residential blocks soon and into the more bright and crowded nightlife that teemed nearby.

"It's not wise to be out alone at this hour," a low voice spoke in her ear as a hand descended to her shoulder.

Lillian let out a scream and turned around, bottle of pepper spray pulled from her pocket ready to douse her attacker. Before she could press the button the bottle was knocked from her hand to roll down the street as her wrist was locked in the tight grip of a large, leather encased hand.

"Don't," her assailant said calmly.

Looking up, far up, she confronted a pail face beneath a shock of wild, dark black hair, eyes obscured by sunglasses despite the lateness of the hour.

"Sorry if I frightened you," her neighbor said with a slight smirk, taking off the ridiculous glasses.

How had she not recognized that sinful purr of a voice? She heard it often enough in her fantasies.

"I wasn't frightened," she lied automatically, only to add as he continued to stair at her "well, maybe startled."

"Just imagine if I had been someone else. It might not have been so pleasant."

"Yes, because you are the soul of congeniality," she sniped back.

Slowly Lilly's heart beat was returning to normal, or at any rate as normal as it was like to get with him still holding her wrist. She startled easily at the best of times, and in a dark side street when by herself was far from optimal. He seemed to realize this, and was obnoxiously amused by it. Lilly did her best to glare at him, only too aware that she most likely looked like a little yippy dog.

"Fair enough," he agreed, finally letting go of her hand. "My point still stands though. It's not safe out here. All kinds lurking about."

"Monsters waiting to kill me and gobble me up?" she quipped lamely.

"You'd be surprised."

Bending down, he retrieved her pepper spray from where it lay on the street. He examined it as though he wanted to take it apart and put it back together again.

"Not very well constructed," he said at last, surrendering it back to her. "You'd be more likely to spray yourself by accident? Have you?"

"No!" she said indignantly, putting it back in her bag.

He looked at her knowingly and a tell tale blush spread over her cheeks.

"I did spray a date once," she admitted. "In the back of a cab. I was looking for something else in my purse, I pulled it out, and it went off right in his face."

She could not be entirely sure, but she thought she might just detect the hint of a smile twitch his lips. Well, wonders would never cease!

"Dare I ask if there was a date number two?"

"There was not," she sighed, beginning to walk again in the direction she had been going as he fell in beside her. "As it turned out, he deserved the dousing, though I didn't know it at the time."

"Well then," he said, long stride forcing her to trot, "it was all for the best."

"I guess. He was a broker, had a ton of money but was still rude to the waiter and left a horrible tip. I slipped an extra twenty in while he was in the bathroom."

"Fucking zombies. You're right, he did deserve it."

Lilly walked in silence for a few moments, wondering what on earth was happening. He had never seemed to particularly like her, in fact he had all but run away the previous two times she had come into his presence. So what was he doing now, walking next to her and talking as though he might actually not wish to be anywhere else?

"Where were you going?" she asked when she couldn't stand it anymore.

"Out," he said, jus the one word again.

"Oh, I used to go there all the time!" she said, making her eyes go wide and vacant. "They have horrible service, but the atmosphere is to die for!"

"Sorry, I'm not used to...."

"Talking?" she supplied helpfully as his words trailed off.

"Yeah," he agreed, not seeming to take offense.

Lilly watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was so odd. Handsome beyond question, talented, and clearly intelligent. One would think he would be out with a different partner every night if he wanted. So why did he spend all his time alone in a rundown brownstone? Why was he so closed off? She loved and hated puzzles, and he was one just begging to be solved.

"Where were you going?" he turned the tables on her.

"A club down on Avenue A."

"Ah, going to do what passes as dancing these days?" he said with a curl of his lip. "Grind against someone mindlessly to tuneless music?"

"Well, aren't we the old snob," she mocked him. "No, as a matter of fact it's a music club. Jazz and blues mostly. Small acts, lots of musicians stopping in when home from a tour, that sort of thing. Nothing fancy, but it has character."

"Really?" his interest seemed to be captured as she described it to him.

"Do you want to come?" she asked, careful to keep her voice neutral while she willed him to say yes.

"I suppose it's better than anything else I have to do," he grimaced.

"Wow, thank you so much," she said, pulling a face.

"I... I told you, I'm not good at this. I don't get out much, or see people."

"It's okay," she told him, fighting an exciting flurry in her stomach. "That's the good thing about music, you can just listen."

"Yeah," he agreed, eyes curiously bright as he looked at her.

They walked in silence the rest of the way. Lilly was hyper aware of him next to her, towering over her diminutive height. She did find that she felt more safe with him beside her. Whenever they neared a group of people on the side walk one look at him was enough to move the loiterers scurrying out of their way. She also caught quite a few glances being thrown their way, particularly after he had walked by. He did have a noticeably nice rear view, she allowed. Scampering after him did have an upside she supposed.

They arrived at the club and Lilly smiled at the portly man sitting on the stool by the door. Sidling up behind him, she reached out and pulled his suspenders, allowing them to snap back into place. He spun around, face breaking out into a huge grin when he saw her. The next moment she was swept into a bear hug that left her breathless.

"Lotus blossom!" he grinned at her. "You're looking all grown up! Haven't seen you around here in years!"

"Not all of us are frozen in time, Q," she said with a laugh. "How long have you been wearing those suspenders?"

"Since you were first sweet talking me to let you in," he smiled back. "You and that Gran of yours. Get me in all kinds of trouble!"

"You found enough trouble all on your own."

"True that, but you always added just that extra dash. We were all sorry to here about Miss Lillian. She was a real special lady, and no mistake."

"Thanks," Lilly fought back tears as he swallowed a lump in her throat. "Is Ossie here tonight?"

"You know he'd never miss a Friday," Q rolled his eyes. "Who else would let him play besides his own bar."

"Thanks, Q. Talk to you later."

"This tall fella with you?" he looked her neighbor, once again sporting his sunglasses, up and down protectively.

"Yeah," she said, once again feeling that butterfly sensation.

"Well, alright then. You be nice to her, or big guy or not, I'll take you down."

Adam didn't dignify that with a comment, merely giving the doorman his usual stare.

"Tell the barkeep I'm buying your drinks tonight," Q added as they started in.

"Do you really want to do that?" she asked with a laugh. "You know how I am."

"Damn girl, just try not to bankrupt me," he chuckled.

Lilly laughed and walked into the dark club, sense memory falling over her like a warm blanket. Music, friendly faces, and a handsome man to escort her. What more could she ask for? She just hoped she could keep from saying or doing something stupid for the rest of the night.

***

Adam was convinced that his new neighbor destined to drive him to distraction.

It had never really occurred to him how thin the walls of his home were. If it had realized he would have never bought the damn place. Of course, until she had moved in it didn't really matter. The old woman who had been her Grandmother would never have been so gauche as to interfere in his composing. The granddaughter though...

And what galled Adam most of all was that she had been right. The minute her barked out suggestion came slamming into his creative space he knew that she was dead on. He played the piece, hoping against hope as he came to the end that her contribution would prove just as off as his useless attempts had been. And yet he knew before he struck the chord that it perfectly completed his work. It was humiliating!

After that he made sure to plug in his headphones before turning on his instruments. He didn't want to rude after all, he told himself. It had nothing to do with the streak of embarrassment he had felt at her correction. Adam just didn't want to intrude on her piece.

The way was she was intruding on his. He could hear her all the time. Moving furniture around, cooking in her kitchen, even, to his horror, running her shower. He tried not to think about what she might look like under a stream of hot water, body soapy as her hands slid along its curves. Tried to keep the memory of the taste of her out of his mouth as the vision sprang unbidden into his brain.

It was almost worse when he would hear her crying, which was often. Adam had avoided such open displays of emotion even when he was human. His own tears were only ever shed in private now that Eve was gone. Why then did he feel the urge to break through the walls separating them and wrap the girl once more in his protective embrace?

It must be because he had fed on her, he decided. It was only a few drops, true, but it had still managed to spark something within him. It was such an intimate act, drinking someone's blood. He should have just rinsed it down the drain and been done with it. But it was so sweet, so hot and delicious on his tongue, that would have seemed like a sacrilege.

He was so attuned to her puttering around next door that he was starting to track her movements through the house. It was therefore a start to his system when he heard her front door open and realized that she was going out. At this late hour, with the streets dark and nearly deserted nearby, what was she thinking? Grabbing his coat, glasses, and gloves with a snarl, he was out the door before he could think.

She was not hard to catch. One of his steps could account for three of hers. She made an enticing picture as she ambled down the street, swinging a little gift bag as she walked. Red coat and bright hair caught the light from the moon when it cut through the drifting clouds above. Her skirt displayed a tantalizing stripe of bare leg above a pair of black boots, and he found his mind drifting to how easy it would be to access her femoral artery in such an outfit.

Had she no idea what a tempting target she made? Quickly walking up behind her, he clamped his hand down on her shoulder and growled into her ear, careful to keep his voice as calm as possible.

"It's not wise to be out alone at this hour," he said.

She was predictably flustered by his approached, and he took a kind of pleasure in making her squirm even more. After all, she was responsible for his discomfort over the past week; it was only right she should feel a little back. He was actually rather enjoying bandying words with her, he realized, until she confessed that she was on her way to a club.

Adam could see it clearly in his mind. Her coat over some chair, she would be clad only in the short black skirt and the tight red satin top he could make out underneath. Her hips swaying as her cloud of hair moved around her, she would catch the eye of any man there. Some zombie or other was bound to come up to her, predatory and drunk most likely. His hands would roam her as they danced, on her bare leg, or sliding around her waist, brushing against her breast, her ass, pulling her close to his sweaty body as he ground against her his hardening dick.

"Ah, going to do what passes as dancing these days?" he said with an angry curl of his lip. "Grind against someone mindlessly to tuneless music?"

"Well, aren't we the old snob," she relied, rolling her eyes. "No, as a matter of fact it's a music club. Jazz and blues mostly. Small acts, lots of musicians stopping in when home from a tour, that sort of thing. Nothing fancy, but it has character."

"Really?"

That sounded... not terrible.

"Do you want to come?"

Adam opened his mouth to say no. He never went out, not to clubs or bars or any other place filled with mindless hordes of zombies. But as he looked at her, trying not to let him see how hopeful she was, something inside him softened while another part had completely the opposite reaction altogether.

"I suppose it's better than anything else I have to do."

"Wow, thank you so much."

He honestly hadn't meant to poke her with that comment. It was himself he was frustrated with, not her.

"I... I told you, I'm not good at this. I don't get out much, or see people."

"It's okay," she told him. "That's the good thing about music, you can just listen."

"Yeah."

The comment took Adam aback. That was exactly how he felt. So many people wasted time with needless babble. It was so much easier to just listen. Let the atmosphere and the music take you over and move you. Why didn't more people realize that? The thing he hated most about seeing music live were all the people who insisted on talking over it.

He had an odd moment when she hugged the doorman at that club, fighting back the urge to rip the man's throat open and soak the street in his blood. He managed to fight it back once he saw that the relationship was clearly more paternal than romantic. Not that he cared if she had romantic relationships, of course. He just felt protective over her. Because of the blood.

They entered the establishment and Adam looked around with tentative approval. It was dark, not overly crowded, and those that were there sat and listened attentively to the band playing on the stage. She led him over to the bar, where she leaned in to say hello to the woman working behind it. Evidently she knew this whole place well. Not at all where he would have pictured her hanging out.

"Hey, Ivy," she said, just loud enough to be heard but not so loud as to disturb the crowd.

"Lilly! So sorry to hear about Lillian. We all miss her around here. The usual?"

"Yeah, thanks. Oh, and Q says he's paying for it."

"Oh, big spender," the bar tender laughed. "Hi, I'm Ivy. And you are?"

"Adam," he supplied tersely.

"What can I get for you, Adam?" she asked, eyes flickering to his companion and back.

"Nothing, thank you," he answered.

Ivy moved away to make her drink and Adam sighed in relief. It would be much easier to hold himself back from fantasizing about drinking his companion's blood if she were intoxicated. He tried to not let his relief be tinted by disappointment.

"Adam?" she said, looking at him with a half smile. "That fits, I guess. I'm Lilly."

Lilly, he thought. That fit her as well. She was dainty and pretty, although it was sometimes obscured by her clumsiness. Vaguely he noticed the band had just ended a set and applauded automatically, but his attention was focused on fitting Lilly's name with her person.

"Here you go, sweet heart," Ivy interrupted, setting a pint glass filled with light pink liquid down in front of her. "Don't drink it too fast."

The women laughed and Adam raised his brow in question.

"Cranberry and seltzer," Lilly said with a grimace. "I don't drink. Doesn't interact well with my anxiety meds. I know, it makes me a bit of a drag, but -"

"No," he interrupted her. "I prefer it, actually. I don't drink either. Alcohol."

"Oh, well thanks. Or something."

She looked down shyly at her drink, playing with the straw. Adam gave himself a mental shake. She was a human. A zombie. And an annoying one at that. She had cried on him, pried into his wiring project, intruded on his music. Why was he so fascinated with her? Was it just that he longed to taste her again? But if so, then why did he imagine tasting other things than just her blood?

"My Grandmother used to sing here," she told him out of nowhere. "That's her photo over there, behind the bar. Lillian Bell. The owner was her drummer for a while back in the 60's. She would bring me here to listen to what she considered real music. She was a bit of a snob. You would have liked her."

"I'm sure I would have."

Adam scoured his memory, trying to think if he had ever heard of the woman. He thought he might have, actually. He had a vague recollection of a small woman with a big voice that looked not dissimilar to the photo she indicated.

"That's how I know music," she continued, chewing on the straw and drawing undo attention to her mouth. "I don't sing myself, or play much of anything well, but I have an excellent ear."

"Much to my gratitude," he said, realizing at that moment he did feel grateful to her for her assistance.

"Sorry about that," she turned the shade of her shirt. "It sometimes is physically painful for me to hear the wrong note. Or, I mean... not wrong wrong... I meant... oh gosh..."

Adam let her squirm for a few more minutes before putting her out of her misery. She was rather delightful twisting on her stool, looking for a way out of the trap her mouth had gotten her into. He had the feeling it was not an uncommon occurrence for her.

"It was wrong," he said at last, taking pity. "I was stubbornly trying to force a finish that didn't belong. I can be arrogant that way at times."

"No, not you!" she protested mockingly. "I never would have imagined!"

Against his usual nature and inclination, Adam felt a smile begin to raise the corners of his mouth. She was incorrigible, this woman. He could tell that she was intimidated by him, hell, he had cultivated that in her, and yet she still said whatever popped into her head, fear be damned. She was brave, and that was a rare quality it seemed to him.

"Well, if it isn't my little Lilly!"

Adam looked up to see the drummer from the last group sauntering over. Lilly jumped off of her stool and hugged him warmly, but this time Adam had no fear it was anything other than familial affection. He was ancient, if not compared to Adam than to other humans, easily in his late 80s at least. Still, he had held a steady beat. The musician in Adam had to respect that.

"Ossie, it's so good to see you!" Lilly gushed. "I'm sorry I haven't been by in so long."

"We all know why, Lil," the old man sighed. "Lillian didn't want you to see she was failing, so she made up lies to keep you away. I yelled at her for that, don't think I didn't!"

"I can only imagine," she said with a watery smile.

"And who is your young man, missy?"

Adam inwardly rolled his eyes at the moniker, not so much because it assumed they were together but that he was young.

"My friend," Lilly corrected him hastily. "Adam. He's a musician too."

"Good set," he nodded to the drummer.

"Well, I'm not sure how I feel about that," Ossie looked at him appraisingly. "You can do a lot better than one of us."

"Friend, Ossie," she stressed again. "And while you might be my almost Grandad, you are not my father!"

Adam wondered why it bothered him that she was so quick to disavow any serious connection to him. It must be his pride, he decided. She had seemed taken by him that first night on the roof, and certainly the evening he had knocked her over and she had proceeded to stare at his bare chest. He had rather liked the way her eyes lingered on his muscles, to be honest. But perhaps his churlishness had put her off. If so, good for both of them

"You watch what you are saying, Lilly," Ossie scolded her. "You know your Gran had eyes for no one but your Grandpop. When you find a love like that, you can get buried in the grief of it when it's gone, it and forget to let yourself move on. Don't make that same mistake."

"I have to fall in love once first, before I can move on to a second," she said.

Adam leaned back against the bar. Is that what he had been doing? Getting buried in his grief? Eve had made him promise to live, but was he really holding up his vow to her? It made him nervous to even think about.

"I have something for you," Lilly handed the bag to Ossie. "Open it after I'm gone, I can't deal with crying again tonight."

"You are such a sweet pea," he said. "And that reminds me, I have something for you, too! I was cleaning out my office, and I found some master tapes of one of our old recording sessions. And there's Miss Lillian, singing to make your heart break! You got an analogue player at the house? One of the old type, mind you?"

"I don't know," Lilly bit her lip. "I haven't seen one, I don't think."

"I have one," Adam offered, before he even thought about what he was saying. "We can listen to it at my place."

"Well, you might just be worth something after all," Ossie beamed at him.

Adam looked back and forth between Lilly and Ossie, both smiling at him as though he had hung the moon. Inside where his heart once beat, he felt an ever so slight easing that was almost a pain.

What, he wondered, had he gotten himself into?

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boop-le-snoot · 4 years

Text

PARTY FAVOURS | CHAPTER 3

Rating: Explicit.

‼️TW: Reader is EIGHTEEN! Recreational drug use, smoking and alcohol consumption, deeply internalised self-loathing, very questionable moral standards. Daddy kink taken half-seriously. BDSM themes in later chapters - explicit content will come with it’s own TWs. FIRST PERSON POV.

Summary: You’re Peter’s classmate, a child of rich and famous but uncaring parents. Getting paired up for a lengthy project with the boy was an interesting turn of events and you don’t know whether to feel blessed or cursed when you develop, seemingly, a perfectly normal, harmless crush on Tony Stark. Fueled by feelings of inadequacy and boredom, your life spirals out of control - and you’re lucky your newfound friends are there to pick up the pieces even if you cannot find it in yourself to believe these amazing human (and not so human) beings voluntarily give you more than a fleeting glance and an offhanded thought. And they brought cake!

A/N: Peter always unapologetically stealing all the uwus. It’s the MCU law, sorry, didn’t make it. Tony Stark can ✨rail me✨. Enjoy, deviants.

THE TAG LIST IS NOW OPEN! @another-stark-sub @mostly-marvel-musings @vozit @littlegasps @pilloclock @shereadsinquiet

Beta read by the lovely and patient @miscmarvelwritings ! She deserves THE WORLD! I’m not kidding. Please visit her and show her some love, my homegirl is stressed 💖✨

I didn’t see Bruce nor Tony for a week. The doctor was away on some science conference (he sent me one dorky selfie next to a whiteboard full of barely intelligible equations as proof), Tony was in California, having some sort of a board meeting. How do I know? Peter, out of lack of better things to do, constantly texted me updates on his science patron’s whereabouts and what-abouts.

In times like these, it took me for a loop - I was on a first name basis with Tony Stark and Bruce Banner. In the beginning, I was intimidated - I avoided them both like the plague and tinkered in the lab with headphones on whenever I could, until Tony made a comment so snarky I couldn’t resist joking back. That’s not to say Bruce was a social butterfly, but even he gave into my tomfoolery after seeing me stand calmly throughout several of Tony’s hissy fits.

What amazed me even more so was that despite Tony being literally an insufferable little brat, I still longed after him. Sure, the man was hot as hell - but his physical traits were much less significant when it came to my feelings towards him than the amount of sheer drive and willpower he possessed. He was stubborn - that’s another trait we shared - and unapologetically himself in every damn situation.

I could write poetry about the million expressions in his face, about the shine in his eyes.

But I won’t. He’s a technical guru. Ever since I started hanging around the tower, I became much more conscious about what I posted online. Not to say I had a Stark fan blog or anything, but I’d stopped scrolling through the tag, even if I didn’t actually click on any articles. I dutifully reblogged pictures of Tom Ellis instead - while he was a very fine, distinguished man, he wasn’t Tony Stark. I enjoyed looking at the first and enjoyed being around the other. And even though my feed still had the occasional “I love arm” shitpost, I focused on aesthetic pictures and quotes instead - things I had an active internet presence for.

My personal life wasn’t very interesting. I didn’t have any close friends and any and all sex I’ve had was just a bunch of one night stands, fueled by alcohol, selfish lust and the occasional joint. Despite having a fair share of kind, generous lovers, the morning after left me feeling a little bit emptier every time. I thought about getting a boyfriend or something… But quickly became totally clueless as to where I could find one. Men under twenty-five could barely hold my interest long enough to have a casual chat and I wasn’t naive enough to think there were a lot of honest, well-intentioned thirty-somethings that wanted to date my high school ass.

Peter had a crush on me, I knew that. The boy developed one or another kind of feelings for anybody who showed him the tiniest bit of kindness and it alarmed me. In any other case I would have bailed on him, gently, of course, to spare him the disappointment but my selfishness got in the way. I regretted it every day. A wave of desperation rose in me every time I thought about moving on without seeing Tony or Bruce, without Peter shyly smiling at me as he explained how the things he created worked. A faint hope that one day, his schoolboy puppy love will grow into a brotherly kind of regard was the only thing that kept me afloat in my sea of guilt.

As the Fall rolled around, so did my gloomy mood. It was hard to be sad when the sun was shining and the birds were chirping outside, but with clouds hanging over the city like a lead curtain, the bottled up negativity rose to the surface uninvited. Mother had returned from her business trip, adding an uncomfortable, hollow sort of chill to the house wherever she stood. I don’t know what was worse - the hours we spent in one room ignoring each other or the immaculately structured questions she asked me about my studies and extra-curriculars. Mother didn’t ask me about my friends, or my feelings or any of the other things a mother was supposed to give a damn about.

I was an asset to her company and that was that. If you would have asked her, she would tell you I’m old enough for her to mind her own business - which was technically true. Yet according to her, I’ve been old enough since seventh grade. My dad answered his messages sporadically, sometimes with a two-word answer and sometimes with a cocaine and booze fueled rant eleven texts long. I felt sorry for him. I really did.

My phone was blowing up. Party invitations, likes from people I saw once or twice (“oh my god, you’re, like, so hot, what’s your Insta”), DMs from guys looking to score an easy piece of ass. I never answered. If I wanted to party, I just sort of showed up and everybody went along with it. I took care of my appearance and it showed - never once was I turned away from a party. Everyone wanted to dance, to share their drinks, to light up and get faded together and fade into the city, into the cold air and grey sky.

Skirt swaying and top clinging to my chest, I danced. The sweaty, heated bodies around me did the same. Not one of us cared, it was a Tuesday night and the place packed way too many people. An arm snaked around my waist, startling me. I had to begrudgingly crack open an eye to see the bastard in the dimly lit room.

“I saw you at the bar, you looked bored. Maybe you need something to cheer you up?”

So not a creepy rapist. Just your friendly neighborhood drug dealer. At house parties like these, there was always The Guy. He never danced, he sipped on the same drink all night yet always looked like he was having the time of his life. I was no stranger to the occasional joint, or even something more stimulating…

“I got the good stuff, sweetums, you’ll be fine and dandy in no time.”

Eh, what the hell. I inconspicuously danced with the guy to the middle of the crowd, exchanging a few crumpled dollar notes for a baggie of two pills. In no time, I chased one down with a hastily poured Jack.

The world did become better, as the drug dealer promised. People were nicer, friendlier and I almost didn’t believe mother was a useless, stone cold bitch. I almost didn’t care that I was deeply, madly in love with a man as unreachable as Olympus. If I squinted, the guy sitting at the bar looked kind of like Tony, tan, dark hair, worn jeans and a band tee.

So I danced. I danced and I stared right at him and then we danced some more. I closed my eyes, letting his arms grab me and pull me, I let his beard scratch my neck where he sucked a mark on me, I let his rough palms choke me against a wall in one of the bedrooms on the second floor of the house. It felt good to be wanted. It felt great to be needed as he rutted inside of me, hitting that sweet spot with every twitch of his hips.

It felt lonely when he left, pressing a kiss to my forehead and saying something dumb like “Be good, kid.”. I don’t remember what exactly it was, only that I had to turn my face away from his breath that reeked like weed and vodka.

To shake off the void that made home inside of my chest, I went to the roof to get some fresh air. The house had a nice patio on it - I actually knew the owner - that hosted more plants than I’d care to count. There was an ashtray and an abandoned pack of cigarettes. I greeted the faintly blooming sunrise surrounded by a cloud of smoke, shivering in the autumn mist.

Sounds of the party became less prominent with every passing minute as people geared up to go home and get a few winks of sleep before going to work. New Yorkers weren’t really thoughtful partying on a Tuesday, but then again, neither was I. The city always was busy - even then, at the crack of dawn, the dull throb of a bassline was rudely interrupted by a blaring car alarm followed by dogs barking in aggravation.

The more I sat there, the bleaker everything became. I had enough common sense to know I was just coming off the drug but for once, I had been happy and content for several hours without a care in the world. It had been too long since I felt that way and what’s a little low after a good high?

Mother left for her early conference at five AM sharp, I entered my house at five-thirty, making a beeline in the shower and immediately dumping my alcohol and cigarette soaked clothes into the wash with the smelliest detergent I could find. I gave similar treatment to my body and my hair, using the chemically-smelling products on my body and on my hair, brushing my teeth multiple times.

By the time I was leaving for school, only a faint smell lingered in the air where I’d previously entered, so I set the air freshener to automatically spray the obnoxious mist every ten minutes. Mother gets home at twelve for lunch, that should be more than enough time for any remnants of my partying to disappear into the lilac and lavender fumes.

The Valium I��d popped to deal with the aftermath of Molly made my brain sluggish. One look in the mirror and I hastily put my sunglasses on - the ashen colour of my face and the slightly crazed look wasn’t very complimentary to my complexion. The teacher didn’t give a damn. I stared blankly ahead of me for most part of first period.

“What happened to you? You look like hell!” Peter’s exclamation, while usually would’ve alarmed me, barely made a dent in my stupor.

“I feel like shit, too,” Admit what you can’t deny. Deny what you can’t admit. “I didn’t get any sleep. Like, at all.”

Peter frowned, the crease between his eyebrows growing deeper with every passing second. I flinched when his hand tentatively touched my forehead - the pounding in my temples slowed to a dull throbbing but it was still unpleasant when someone was all up in my space.

“Jesus, you’re as cold as a corpse. Maybe you should go see the nurse,” His worry bled into me too. Like hell I was going to the school nurse! They were specifically trained to recognize the signs of substance abuse.

“I’ll head home straight after school, I think we’ll have to skip our sciencing,” No way also I’d be letting Tony and Bruce see me like this. Oh my God, I was a mess. “Mother’s home.” I added. Even the emotional frostbite I’d get from being around her was more tolerable than being a downer for Peter and Tony.

Peter’s face immediately softened in sympathy. He knew almost everything about my relationship with my family, including him actually seeing my mother that one time. He told me she gave him the creeps and I don’t blame him at all. The stoicism that was required for her work made my mother an unbearable person to exist around outside of her fancy office on the top floor of a glass high-rise building.

“Okay, but promise to text me if it gets worse. You might have caught the autumn bug that’s been going around,” He obviously said the last part to calm himself down. Sweet little Peter, naïve child. I solemnly nodded nonetheless.

When I got home, I went straight to bed. Tony was being Tony, as usual, but in a strangely kind way. I suppose it should’ve made me feel better and it kind of did, but then it went downhill from there. I couldn’t explain why I started crying. I bawled my eyes out at how unfair this god-damned world was and when the doorbell rang… Let’s say, the delivery boy hightailed it out of there once the bag of takeout was deposited into my arms. I looked and felt ghastly.

I ate as much as I could and dropped into a restless nap, drifting in and out of sleep with exhausted exasperation. There had not been a time where I felt so low after popping a pill and I was equal parts alarmed and satisfied. For one, the drug dealer didn’t lie like they usually do - the stuff was good and I still had the other pill hidden away in a bottle of painkillers, inconspicuously mixed with other white pills but shape distinctive enough for me to recognize should I have need in taking it again.

The thought of well, taking it again, was fleeting. I had school tomorrow and a missed science bender to make up for. A few buzzes of my phone later, I felt happier. Better. Not so down anymore. I meant every word that I said - Bruce was very precious, kind and gentle. And so, warm and soft. And totally kissable.

Well, fuck. What do I do now?

#bun writes #party favours #tony stark x reader #tony stark x y/n #bruce banner x y/n #bruce banner x reader #stephen strange x reader #Stephen Strange x y/n #I've already got a room in Hell y'all welcome to book one nearby

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the-lady-writes-what · 4 years

Text

Training Secession

Summary:

You finally get your boyfriend Shouta Aizawa all to yourself. What else were you supposed to do today besides teasing him relentlessly?

Shouta Aizawa/Eraserhed x Reader

Contents: teasing, finger fucking, slight BDSM, restraint without handcuffs/rope, spanking. Mild fluff

It wasn’t often that you got Shouta all to yourself. Between teaching and working as a pro-hero, you saw little of your boyfriend. It didn’t help matters that you also worked as a pro from time to time, but your quirk wasn’t nearly useful or impressive. Shouta never pointed out the noticeable difference in your power levels. You admitted that he took things too seriously sometimes, and you wished he’d lighten up, even just a little. Still, waking up next to him was the best thing in the world as far as you were concerned. It was pure bliss to be able to wake up next to him.

You glanced at the clock. It wasn’t early in the morning. However, you wondered if you should let him sleep a bit more. When you peeled your eyes open, you saw his hair tousled around his pillow.

You sat up a little to get a better view. Shouta slept like a rock, unable to hear giggling at his snoring. You took a lock of his hair and twirled it around your finger. Surprisingly, and despite rumors, he took care of it. Of course, you insisted that he use your conditioner and it worked wonders. It was much nicer to run your fingers through while you two were fooling around in bed.

You checked to make sure he was still sleeping. Shouta snored like a fat cat. His hair slipped through your fingers as you laid down again. You were rarely the big spoon, so you liked being able to hug him, even if your arms weren’t nearly big enough to wrap around him properly. You gave him a good squeeze. Shouta shifted, and you stilled your movements. But then, you had a naughty idea.

You brought your hands to his shoulders. You kneaded his shoulder blades with your palms until you heard him groan.

“What time is it?” He asked.

“About nine,” you answered.

You continued to knead the muscles in his back and shoulders. You stopped for a minute just to see what he would do. You smiled cheekily when he turned with that grumpy look on his face.

“Did I tell you to stop?”

“Okay, Mister Grumpy Gills. But you’re going to have to get on your stomach.”

Shouta rolled over at your request. You straddled his hips and sat on his lower back while you massaged his shoulders. There were kinks galore that the man never bothered to get rubbed out. He worked himself to death and didn’t think about himself. On the one hand, it was a quality you could admire. On the other hand, it made the relationship much harder for you since your boyfriend didn’t like to take of himself. Which meant you could spoil him whenever you wanted.

“Goddammit, Shouta. You’ve got kinks in your kinks. What the hell are you doing all day?”

He only groaned into the pillow. You continued working at the knots the best you could. Truth be told, you had no idea what you’re doing. Let’s be honest, you did it mostly because you wanted to feel up those muscles. The first time you saw Shouta undressed, your jaw dropped to the floor. Beneath his dark hero’s costume and capture weapon, you had no idea about the heat your man was packing underneath all that. Every time you could get him to take off his shirt was extra time to get your hands on him and his muscles.

Whether or not he knew about your fascination with his well-built form, Shouta didn’t shame you for it. Hey, if he got a free massage out of it too, you could put your hands on him any time you wanted.

“Those kids are going to kill you one of these days, right? Maybe not in a villain attack, but just stressing you out.”

“You have no idea.”

Shouta let you go on for a few more minutes. He rolled over much to your disappointment. With you still straddling him, Shouta lifted the both of you off the bed. He secured your legs around his waist and made sure that your arms were wrapped firmly around his neck. He kissed you. For a second, you thought he was going to toss you back into bed or slam you into the nearest wall. You were mildly disappointed that he took you into the kitchen. Putting you down, your hands lingered on him as you ran your hands down his arms.

“Ah, Shouta,” you whined. You pouted.

Shouta put an end to that real quick with a kiss and pushed you against the fridge. His tongue distracted you long enough for his teeth to catch your bottom lip. Shouta gave a little tug, not much, and never to hurt you. When you left you against the fridge, you were panting. Shouta turned on the oven and started heating some eggs. He gave you a sideways glance that said more than words could ever hope to. If you pressed your luck, you’d find yourself bent over the kitchen counter again.

You didn’t pout as you helped him with breakfast. Mornings with Shouta were rare but full of moments that showed him the side you often see in him while you were out in public. He was still reserved and no-sense, but when it was just the two of you together, he could be sweeter. If his class ever saw him in the matching couple’s pajamas you bought for each other last Christmas, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. As much as you wanted him, being able to make breakfast and sit at the same table was the perfect way to start today.

However, it was hard for you to keep your hands to yourself. Shouta knew about your slight kink for feeling up his muscles or his body in general. You were one of the few people who got to see it. You felt privileged. So when your hand wandered down his back and took up position on his ass, you couldn’t help but give a little squeeze. Naturally, he did the same thing to you. His hand was much bigger than yours, and even his hands were stronger. When he grabbed something of yours, he made sure you’d feel it hours after his hands left you. He firmly grasped your cheek with twice as much power as you’d done to him.

“I can give as good I get, little lady. Don’t tempt me,” said Shouta next to your ear.

You grew red in the face, but you liked it. If you heard anyone calling your Shouta a submissive, you could show them the bruises on your ass to confirm the contrary.

Even on vacation days, Shouta didn’t rest for a minute. He hung around you until after lunch before he excused himself. He was going to work out for a while. You huffed at the man’s persistence on working even while on holiday. You didn’t feel like walking to the other side of the house where you knew Shouta would be working out. Despite your more powerful instinct to follow and watch him build up a sweat that glistened on his skin, you prowled through your small library of books on the shelf. Guests could tell which books belonged to whom. Shouta owned a few works of fiction, but he was mostly interested in more practical knowledge. Your shelves were dedicated to romance and some cleverly hidden erotica. What? You were an adult, and so was Shouta and all your friends. You had nothing to be ashamed about. Out of boredom, you picked a random novel and took it with you back to the couch. You vaguely remember the plot, so you skip ahead to the sexy bits.

About a couple chapters in and you were rubbing your thighs together. It grew harder for you to finish reading even a passage knowing that Shouta was somewhere down the hall working out.

"'His lips caressed her moistened lips. He nestled between her legs and kissed each thigh before returning to her core. She trembled as he kissed her there, lashing his tongue against her swollen clit. Her back arched upwards. She felt his bruising hands grasp her hips to keep her from moving away. His greedy mouth tasted the dew and suckled at its source. His tongue laved the outside of her walls, testing her waters, so to speak.

“M-Milord…” The serving maid blushed like a rose. Her petals began to weep as she felt his tongue dive into the most secret part of her.'"

You toss the book aside. Quite literally. You don’t see where it lands as you’re preoccupied with the heat between your legs. You leave the living room and go off to find Shouta. Sure enough, you saw him in the midst of his push-ups. You didn’t dare disturb his counting but stood in the doorway. You licked your lips and gnawed a bit at them. You watched the sweat trickle over his skin, still unaware of your presence. For now.

He looked good with his hair pulled back. You didn’t know why, and you didn’t ask questions. Shouta eventually caught onto your peeping Tom behavior, though he said nothing. You couldn’t tell for sure, but you’d swear up and down that a smirk tugged at his lips. You had to take a seat on the floor before you dripped.

At one point, Shouta stopped to look at you. He almost sneered at the playful look on your face. He probably suspected that you had something dastardly planned. You pretended not to have an evil thought in your brain, all the while wanting nothing more than to tackle him and ride his cock till kingdom come. Pun very much intended.

“Come here. If you’re going to stare, you might as well do something useful with your day.”

The scenario played out in your head. You’d get him riled up to the point where Shouta would have no other choice than to pin you on the mat and have his way with you. It was unfortunate that wasn’t the game he was playing today. Shouta never gave you the chance to tease him. He was much more interested in kicking your ass in a few sparring rounds. Being built stronger and having more experience than you in the field, it was all but natural that he had you panting for breath for all the wrong reasons. You figured this out too late when he had you smooshed against the mat, face first, and your arms pinned against your back. Other than his hands on your wrists, he wasn’t touching you in the way you wanted him to. Now you were horny and cranky.

“Is that all you got?”

You couldn’t stand that smug look on his face right now. You immediately kicked up your legs and threw yourself back. Shouta didn’t plan for you to be so reckless and fell with you. You climbed on top of him, pinning his wrists above his head.

“How you like it, huh?” You mimicked his smirk.

Shouta had you pinned on your back in no time at all. His hair came loose from the elastic band holding it together, blocking your view of anything else but him. Being stronger than you, moving your hands out of his grasp was easier said than done. Before you could kick him, Shouta shoved his knee between your legs. At this point, you were sensitive enough that his knee against your core was enough to make you moan.

“You’ve been needy all day,” said Shouta.

“Maybe I am? So what? What ‘cha gonna do about it?”

You teased him with a kitten lick on his nose of all places. In your defense, that was the only place you could reach.

Shouta tensed for a moment. He took his time deciding what to do with you. The moment he did, you knew you were in for it. Shouta released your hands, but not for long. He stood up and admired you briefly as he stood over you. You wore sweatpants and a tank top, no bra. Your top was thin enough to see your nipples peeking through. You couldn’t stop the shudder rolling through you as you watched him lick his lips. You tried to get up on your own only for Shouta’s hands to find your waist, throw you unto his shoulder, and carry you like that. His hand held you tight.

“S-Shouta!” You laughed and playfully kicked him in the ribs. Only playful, you didn’t mean any harm.

All your play-fighting did was rouse him more. His free hand swatted you on the back of your thighs, stopping you from further fake protesting. He dragged you back the bedroom like a caveman—minus the hairpulling cliché—and you loved every second of it. The world spun for a second after he dumped you on the bed. He let you sit up long enough to get rid of your useless top. Once it was gone, you were on your back and lifting your hips so he could take off your pants too. You smirked when he found your little surprise. Shouta’s eyes widened.

“You…didn’t put on underwear today?”

“What of it?” Your smugness vanished when he crammed two fingers at once inside you.

“Is that you’ve been teasing me all morning? You wanted to show me how much you wanted it?”

His fingers plunged inside you fast and hard. His other hand gathered both your wrists and pinned them above your head on the pillow. Shouta was a through man; you could count on him to get the job done. You should have known better than to tempt him, yet you couldn’t help yourself. Only you got to see the kind of face he was making while finger fucking you.

“S-Shouta!” You shivered around his fingers. Shifting your weight didn’t help either. He just caged your legs so you couldn’t move.

“Mmm?” He hummed. “I thought you wanted to be teased. I told you earlier, I give as good as I get.”

“Please,” you whined.

“Please, what? Give me a good reason to let you come.”

“I’ll. I’ll do anything, please! I need you…I need you so bad right now.”

He curled his fingers inside you and sped up. You thrashed around, but the moment your eyes found Shouta’s, you became very, very still. His face hovered above yours as he watched your every move. Your juices sloshed around as he pumped wildly. Your backed arched off the bed as you came around him. Once you came down from your high, Shouta wiped your forehead. However, if you thought you were done, you couldn’t get more wrong. His hands tangled in your hair and pulled your head back.

“Open,” he said, upholding the fingers that just finished you.

You obediently opened your mouth and suckled on him, tasting yourself. Shouta pumped his fingers deep inside until he reached your gag reflex. He pulled them out quickly, leaving behind a string of your saliva in their wake. His tongue tentatively lapped at his fingers.

“Do you want more?” His gaze never broke away from yours.

You glanced at his hand, which thumbed the hem of his sweatpants. Looking back up at your boyfriend, you nodded.

“Greedy girl.” Shouta took off his tank top that had his sweat running down the front by this point. He tossed it over his shoulder and chucked off his sweatpants.

You hadn’t been able to notice before because your view had otherwise been blocked. Shouta sported a monster of an erection, and it was all for you. You were still seeping wet when you plugged you up. Shouta pulled you onto your side. He wrapped your legs around his hip and trapped your hands above your head once more.

“Would…you…say you’ve been…a good girl today?” Shouta asked while drilling you.

You didn’t have a thought in your brain. This angle made you dizzy, too dizzy to think of anything other than Shouta’s cock. You couldn’t form syllables if you tried.

“I think …you’ve been rotten. Do you think…a bad girl like you…deserves my cock?”

Shouta was nestled deep inside you. This was your favorite position for a reason, and he was using it against you.

“P-please, Shouta! Don’t stop!”

“And why shouldn’t I?” He pulled almost all the way out. “You’ve been a fucking tease since we woke up this morning. Didn’t think I’d noticed how you kept getting your hands all over me?”

Shouta thrust a few more times, then stopped again. “Have you anything to say? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself right now?” He went back to pounding you. “All you…had to do…was beg for it. Instead, you tease me…walking around without panties. Trying to…get my attention like the fucking cock-hungry, needy girl…you are.”

He flipped you onto your stomach. Your hands were against your back. Unable to resist him, your legs were shoved open wider for him to inspect your sopping cunt. You screamed into the mattress when you felt the first swat of his hand on your ass. You were stone-cold sober after four more. Tears bubbled in your eyes.

“Shouta!”

He was inside you again. His pounding was more furious than before. Your ears were filled with the sound of wet skin slapping against skin and his grunting. His hands left your wrists in favor of groping your breasts. His sweat drenched your back, and you felt his hot breath in your ear. Shouta ground his hips into yours.

“Fucking tease. Tell me…tell me when you want to be fucked, so I don’t have to punish you. Unless you like this shit?” He tweaked your nipples.

You screamed. You could no longer tell the difference between pleasure and pain.

“Such a needy girl,” said Shouta. He straightened up.

He let your arms fall where they may. Your hands tightened around the sheets, clenching and unclenching, depending on how hard Shouta gave it to you. His grip moved back to your hips, where you were firmly rutted against him.

“Don’t you dare cum before I do. That’s your punishment.” He growled before smacking your thigh.

He was asking something almost impossible for you. You wracked your brain for anything to keep your mind off of orgasming right then and there. Shouta never moved with reckless abandon; he loved to be lost in you. His movements were always precise, calculated, and sure to drive you up the wall. His cock was reaching deep within you to the point where you lost all sense. You could feel nothing but him moving inside you, driving in and out.

“Stop clenching if you don’t want to come before I do.” He smacked your ass this time. “Next time, I’ll slap your needy cunt since you enjoy punishment that much.”

You took his threat seriously. You tried to think of anything to break you out of the moment, for now, to stave off coming. Frog legs. Midnight’s cooking. Paperwork….

Suddenly, a warmth washed over you. Shouta’s hands flexed on your hips. He grunted as he unleashed himself. You screamed and clenched around him. His cum filled you deep inside. You couldn’t stop crying as he filled you up. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head.

You two remained in that position for some time. When Shouta finally pulled out, you groaned aloud. The absence of him left you wanting more, and you felt hollow inside. Shouta tried not to smother you with his weight. He moved onto his side and did the same to you so that he could look you in the eye. You had your eyes closed so you could only feel his hands moving your hair out of your sweaty face.

“Are you alright, Y/N?”

You meekly nodded your head. Shouta didn’t mention the fact that you technically disobeyed him by finishing at the same time. He kissed your forehead nevertheless.

“I’m going to draw us a bath. You sit tight, okay?”

Again, you nodded. Shouta left you in that blissed-out state. From across the hall, you could hear the water running. You smiled to yourself; you should wear panties less often.

If you’d like to see more content like this, please consider going to my AO3 here

#my hero academia #mha #mha fanfiction #mha smut #boku no hero academia #bnha #bnha smut #bnha fanfiction #shouta #shouta aizawa #aizawa #reader fic #aizawa x reader #eraserhead #Aizawa/Eraserhead #Eraserhead x Reader #minors begone

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