We were sitting on the beach at night. We just met each other. It was dark and we could hardly see the waves rolling onto the shore, just the splashing sound reminded us how close we were to water.
He told me he was looking for the love of his life and complained he couldn't find the right woman.
We had a long sincere conversation which lasted deep into the night and involved a lot of soft touching and smiling and drowning in each other's eyes. It felt so wholesome, it seemed we'd known each other for eternity, and this night would last forever.
But then he said he was going to leave to continue his searching, and I felt like a vital part of me had been torn away.
My waking brain was like C'MON I AM THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE!!! WTF??? WHERE ARE YOU GOING???
So I followed him to let him know he no longer needed to look for someone else and I'll always be there for him and I'll love him until the end of my days.
I hope we lived happily ever after, because then I woke up 😭
Writing a crime story and making some research for realism, I get paranoid about my Google search history being monitored by security forces, and they might suspect me in plotting or committing a murder and trying to figure out how to get rid of evidences.
And when they come for me, I'd confess to any crime for only reason they'd never get to see my fic.
Not making Scrimgeour a dictator is such a waste of potential. It could have been a ruthless wartime ministry; martial law, auror raids everywhere, Harry Potter taken into custody for protection, all previously convicted Death Eaters officially wanted.
Instead of "How are you any better than Fudge?" it could have been "How are you any better than Voldemort?" — and the fall of this totalitarian Scrimgeour's ministry would have hit so much harder.
IMHO, it would be so much more realistic, considering he was basically head of elite magical military forces, I mean, even with luring Harry in the ministry, he definitely knew some psychology having worked with top magical criminals of Britain. But for the sake of Harry's pov we got him playing the "Percy Weasley came to visit his family" trick.
An autumn weekend with George Smiley. Just the two of you, far from the bustle of the city, in a secluded forest house at the lake.
Once you arrive, he takes all the troubles upon himself, gently rejecting any help you're trying to provide. He advises you to admire the nature instead, while he'd be arranging everything to make you feel comfortable. To you, it doesn't feel right, and you join him anyway, earning a soft smile and a forehead kiss.
The weather's getting colder, but it's still warm in the sun.
You set off for a long stroll. The air is fresh, and smells of fallen leaves and damp soil.
Heart-to-heart talks alternate with intimate silence. He holds your hand, and you cling to his either.
A short rest on an old log with sandwiches and hot tea, and the same long way back.
In the evening, you sit by the fireplace snuggled to each other. He reads to you, and you listen to the sound of his voice, soft and quiet, until fatigue takes over, and you fall asleep on his shoulder. He stays awake a little longer, holding you in his arms and taking pleasure of the moment, grateful to whatever force that brought you together.
A quiet evening with George Smiley. You sit at the small round table, a mild candlelight flickers on your faces. You feel comfortable with each other. You've finished your dinner but not your conversation, and keep sipping wine leisurely while he recites romantic verses of German poets of the 17th century, looking you in the eyes with a soft smile. You heed to his words with adoration for the meaning they carry reflects his feelings, and the perfect German pronunciation makes him sound seductive, so that you could listen to him forever...
Half through the first chapter, I love it so far. Remarkably enjoyable narrative intertwined with refined humour. A real pleasure to read. So happy I've taken this path!
He's so gross, there's a zero chance this could ever happen to me, I thought scrolling through Gary Oldman tag and occasionally finding out about Slow Horses, and that there were people who found Jackson Lamb... umm... likable?
“Mad-Eye” Moody was lying in bed, his body fully relaxed, same as his mind. His only eye leisurely wandered the walls of the room, dimly lit by the light of a new day breaking through the curtains, while his thoughts drifted further. He wondered if all this could turn out to be just a dream? After all, can a person feel so happy outside of a dream? And if this wasn’t a dream, how on Earth then did he deserve to draw such a lucky ticket?
He ran his hand over the creased sheets on the other side of the bed and smiled, listening to the quiet splashing of water coming from the bathroom.
He no longer felt lonely. Since the moment he met her, she had never let him feel lonely again. She accepted him with all his scars and rough edges, with all his oddities and weird traits, and - as she insisted - with numerous virtues. Although Moody thought she was exaggerating, he chose not to dissuade her. The tenderness her eyes emitted as she listed his strong points, trying to prove there were plenty of reasons to love him, disarmed him. If she wanted to consider him a hero, so be it.
The door creaked open, and a neat silhouette of a woman appeared in the semi-darkness. She seemed even more slender in his large shirt that she borrowed. The old Auror’s heart raced. Still a little rumpled after sleep, with crumpled curls carelessly sticking out of the mane of her hair, she didn’t need to look flawless for him to consider her a goddess.
She gave him a gentle smile, so familiar, intended only for him, and he returned it gratefully. They needed no words to tell how much they loved each other - their looks, gestures and touches spoke for them.
With a soft fluttering of affection spreading in his chest, Moody watched her approach the window. She drew the curtains open to let some light in, and, leaning on the windowsill, as she usually did, took a moment to look out on the street.
When she turned around, her face lit up with a wide smile.
“How’s the weather?” he stretched out his hand, inviting her back into his embrace. “Seems fine.”
“It’s perfect!”
With a playful smirk she stepped over his wooden leg - only Merlin knows how it ended up in that corner after the previous night - and returned to bed. She crawled under the blanket, and sank into the hold of a man. He stroked her shoulder, that was left uncovered, and pulled the blanket up, squeezing her tighter. She snuggled closer to him and rested her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat and absorbing the warmth of his body. She had never known a safer place than the grasp of his strong arms.
“I feel so good with you, Alastor,” she whispered.
It would never stop astounding him, how it had happened, but he knew she meant it.
“Me too, sweetheart,” he whispered back, planting a kiss on her forehead.
She looked up at him. Without that magical eye his features seemed so much softer. She reached out to caress his face, streaked with cobwebs of wrinkles and scars, but still attractive to her eyes, and he caught his breath at the tenderness of her touch. She was proud to have the privilege of seeing him in a plain and honest way - caring, delicate, sensitive. The warmth of his glance wrenched something inside of her - every time - and she felt the urge to assure him how much he was needed, how much he was loved - over and over again. She smiled fondly and leaned closer. Her lips covered his with sincerity and devotion, and he responded eagerly, just as tender, savoring her taste, her warmth, her love.
The longer it lasted, the more they needed. The sparks of passion twirling in intermingled flows of their hot breathing kept flaring with growing intensity.
Suddenly, a gust of wind hit the window with a loud clatter. They both flinched.
“So, the weather’s perfect?” Moody rasped suspiciously, displeased it made them break apart.
“It is,” she grinned, mischief dancing in her eyes. “Perfect for staying in bed the whole day!” She rolled over onto her back, drawing him along.
He laughed, doing justice to her successful attempt to outwit him.
“And what do we do then?” quite aware of her answer, he asked suggestively, looming over her.
Her arms wrapped around his nape, she pulled him closer, forcing him to press her to bed with the weight of his body. “Proceed with what we started last night?”
“I thought we left no unfinished business,” he whispered teasingly into her ear, slowly covering her neck with soft kisses, and she let out a sigh of enjoyment.
Fingers tangled into his hair, she held him close, guiding him up to face her. “You sure?”
“Well, I guess, there might be a few more different ways to do this,” he mumbled into her mouth before their lips merged together.
His grip tightened, and she gasped in desperate anticipation.
If this was a dream, “Mad-Eye” Moody wished he would never wake up.
I've been thinking about writing a detective story about the Aurors' everyday life, but ended up with some Mad-Eye one shot ideas, which contain zero detective and a tone of fluff and stuff. I'm not sure if I'll ever get to editing them for being published.
Also, I made a couple of Moody moodboards some time ago, which I'll probably share in the nearest future.
