#I’ve been gazing at this lovingly for FOUR MONTHS waiting for it to finally be time to share it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

the-insomniac-emporium · 3 years ago

Text

Serenade (Daniela Dimitrescu/Reader) Pt. 9

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for language + mentions of sensitive topics Warnings: Referenced past abuse. Does not go into detail. Notes: Longest Serenade chapter yet at 4k+ words! Bit of angst, majority is fluffy fluffer fluff though. Next chapter is maximum h*rny, with two versions depending on reader, uh, equipment. EDIT: Forgot to put title, like dumbass. Past Chapters: Pt. 1: Nocturne, Pt. 2: Overture, Pt. 3: Accelerando, Pt. 4: Toccata, Pt. 5: Poco a Poco, Pt. 6: Elegy, Pt. 7: Harmony, Pt. 8: Obbligato

Chapter 9: Berceuse

(Berceuse: A lullaby. Generally slow and undulating.)

One moment you’re playing the piano, lovingly demonstrating a song you’d like Daniela to learn, the next you’re blue screening as she places a teasing kiss to your neck. It takes all of your willpower to keep playing, improvising a way to end the song right then and there. Then you’re turning to Daniela, eyes wide, blushing hard. She’s giggling. When she regains her composure, you give her a confused expression.

“I’m pretty sure this is the first time you’ve made real eye contact with me all morning. What gives?” She asked, frowning slightly. Awkwardly rubbing the back of your neck, you avoid her gaze, doing little else than proving her point. This frustrates her, and she lets out an aggravated sigh. I should probably tell her what happened, you think, dreading the idea. Still, the two of you had been making an effort to communicate better. What kind of partner would you be if you didn’t tell her about her mother’s intervention?

“Okay, okay… I wasn’t sure how to bring this up, but if I’m being this obvious about it anyway…” You started, trailing off anxiously. In response, Daniela places one of her hands over yours, giving you a reassuring squeeze. Though your face somehow gets even redder, the action gives you the courage required to continue. “I had another progress update meeting with your mother yesterday. I was worried, since this was the first one where you weren’t present, but I didn’t- I mean, er… Fuck it, she knows you’re interested in me. Doesn’t think we’re already together, thank God, but she told me, and I quote, that my response should be ‘swift and uninterested’. What are-” before you can finish you’re cut off by a loud groan, followed by your girlfriend cradling her head in her hands. Yeah, you think, this is about what I expected.

“Of course she did! I can’t have anything nice,” Daniela snapped, having gone from ten to sixty real quick. You’re just glad that she wasn’t taking it out on the piano. “How would she even know about us? I only stare at you when she’s not looking!” Oh? Since when did she stare at you? Certainly if Lady Dimitrescu had noticed, you would have as well?... Then again, the few times where all three of you were in the same room usually involved you working while they chatted or ate together. Still, the idea of Daniela making heart eyes at you from across the room was enough to make you blush again. “Look, she’s probably making some assumptions. There’s no way she knows as much as she thinks she does, at least not about us. So let’s just be careful- ugh, I sound like Bela- and otherwise keep doing what we do. Alright, songbird?”

“If you’re sure, then so am I. Let’s try to focus on our lesson for now, though,” you replied, doing your best to sound confident. Hoping to add in a little reassurance, you give Daniela a quick peck on the cheek. Unsurprisingly she ‘dodges’, instead kissing you on the lips, but you hardly mind at all. When she pulls back she’s got a huge grin on her face.

“Lesson now, fun later, got it. Speaking of later… You and me, inside the library, right after lunch. I’ll tell mother we’re going over theory and key recognition, but really-” she leans in close, mouth barely an inch from your ear “it’s a date. Don’t worry about getting caught, I’ve already made sure that neither Bela nor Cassandra will interrupt.” Your heart skipped a few beats at her suggestion, and you had to admit… you were beyond excited for this. When was the last time you had gone on an actual date? Years ago, just a month before you left your hometown and moved to the village. That had been a date you’d spend the rest of your life regretting… then again, it was what made you leave in the first place. And if you hadn’t left, you’d have never met Daniela.

Maybe it hadn’t been that bad after all.

————————————

Four minutes past one in the morning, you shuffled nervously towards the library, with note cards in hand. Even if you weren’t really going to help Daniela study, you wanted to be prepared in case you bumped into anyone along the way. After all, this was the night shift, when most of the servants were up and about, accomplishing any tasks deemed ‘too noisy’ to be done while the manor occupants slept. Thankfully, the fact that lunch had just finished meant a fair amount of workers would be busy cleaning up the dining hall. In the end, you only passed one other servant, but it was the only one you hadn’t felt confident about running into: Daphne.

Despite your long-standing friendship (having known each other in the village, and being brought to the castle within the same week), you had yet to tell her about your relationship with Daniela. Which by itself wouldn’t have been too bad, if not for the fact that she could tell you were hiding something from her. This had, understandably, put a damper on your friendship. From her perspective, there was nothing you shouldn’t be able to tell her. Even you weren’t sure if you should be more honest, all things considered. There was no way she’d ever tell someone else about your situation. But if one day you got in trouble for lying to Lady Dimitrescu… and somehow someone figured out that Daphne knew too, well, she’d be just as fucked as you, if not more so. After all, there was a chance that Daniela’s affection for you would lead to a lighter punishment. Not that being exiled into the forest was much better than being flat out killed.

So when you saw Daphne heading towards you, you tried to get by with a simple smile and a brief wave.

“Aren’t you even going to say hi?” Daphne asked, tone stiff but filled with disappointment. It catches you off guard, to the point where you drop your note cards. Immediately you’re squatting down, gathering them up, taking the excuse not to look at your friend. She doesn’t move to assist, instead pausing in the hallway to watch you. “We were supposed to stick together, you know? But it’s like becoming Lady Daniela’s little plaything made you think you’re better than the rest of us. Better than me.” That last part was barely more than a whisper, and you freeze in place, hand still hovering over one of the cards. “I shouldn’t have said anything, it doesn’t matter. Just try not to get yourself killed, alright? I don’t want to be the one to clean up your corpse.”

“Daphne, wait, please!” You said, finally moving to your feet, blocking your friend’s path. When she looks at you, you can just barely make out tears in the corners of her soft blue eyes. “I’m sorry, really. I… I can’t tell you what’s going on because I can’t risk getting you in trouble. You’re my best friend, Daph, and I don’t want anything happening to you just because I was doing something reckless.”

“Do you really think I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you?” Daphne questioned, with a bitter laugh. She’s shaking her head in disbelief, even as you stare at her, shell shocked. “Maybe the others haven’t caught on yet, but I’ve seen the way she looks at you, and I’m not oblivious to the way you talk about her. I figured you’d tell me eventually… It’s been weeks, though. More than that, I mean seriously, don’t you think I’d go down for you in a heartbeat? There was a time where I was sure the two of us would do anything for each other, ride or die when the dying part was a guaranteed end to all of this. Something tells me that’s not the case anymore.” Now she refuses to meet your gaze, instead staring down at what few note cards still lay on the floor.

“That’s still the case, I promise. It’s hard enough to look past what our employers do to strangers. If they hurt you? I’d never dream of forgetting, let alone forgiving them,” you explained. It’s enough to make her look back up, but she’s far from smiling.

“If that’s the case, maybe I’m looking at the wrong signals. But I’ve got to go, and I assume you do too. Take care,” she said, before slipping past you as quickly as she can. Then you’re left to gather the last of your note cards, mind whirling. Cruel as the thought may be, you hoped that this wouldn’t ruin the mood for your date. The best your mind could do to cope was focus on one thing at a time…

————————————

“Are you sure this is safe? I can’t even remember how many times I’ve been told to keep this door shut, under the threat of, you know, losing my life,” you called out, hanging out in the doorway. Beyond you by a few meters was Daniela, who twirled about with laughter, reaching out to catch a few falling leaves. This was the entrance to the garden, as far as you could tell. Not to be confused with the vineyard, which was larger, as well as on a completely different side of the estate. You had never been to either, seeing as only a select few servants were allowed to leave the manor. If Daniela hadn’t made it seem like you’d be staying in the library, well, you probably would have protested a little, regardless of how badly you wanted to go on a real date. Even when you had met up with her, she hadn’t told you any details, just laughing and asking you to follow her.

“Don’t be a baby! We’re still a few weeks away from autumn, and besides, you’re here with me! What could possibly go wrong?” Daniela asked, sending you a cheeky grin before dashing off into the garden proper. For a moment you’re left on the threshold, a picnic basket in your arms, wondering what the season had to do with your safety. Then you sigh, figuring that it couldn’t be that bad. Hadn’t your girlfriend mentioned this to Bela, anyway? Certainly the responsible older sister would have stepped in if something genuinely dangerous had been suggested? Well, you hoped as much, at least. With that in mind you close the door behind you, then dashed towards where Daniela had gone. Even as you round the corner, you don’t see her, and suddenly you’re nervous as hell. Before you can call out to her, the sound of rustling leaves catches your attention. Suddenly something jumps out at you! “Rah! Gotcha, babe!”

Ah, of course it was your girlfriend, clearly pulling a leaf from Cassandra’s book. You playfully smack her arm in response, trying to ignore the way your heart pounded. Humorous intentions aside, she had legitimately scared you, and you had nearly dropped your basket in response. Before you can say as much, Daniela’s hooking her arm in yours so she can pull you further into the gardens.

“You’re lucky you’re so fucking cute, firefly,” you muttered, a tad grumpy now. Most of your irritation was false, however, intended to tease your girlfriend. For a moment she doesn’t seem to realize that, and she stops in place. Once her eyes meet yours she understands what’s going on. Then she’s grinning, sticking her tongue out at you, and continuing down the path. Soon enough you’re approaching a paved brick circle. All around it, minus where it meets the walkway, are various flowers in bloom. Past the flowers are bushes, and past those are trees, whose branches provide a canopy for the circle. “Wow… and I thought you were pretty,” you teased, admiring the view.

As soon as the words leave your mouth, Daniela lets out an offended scoff, before taking the basket from you. Wordlessly she opens it up to grab the blankets within, spreading them without sparing you a glance. Now it’s your turn to wonder whether or not her anger is just a joke. Hoping so, you help her smooth out the blankets, making sure the two of you have ample space to spread out. At one point both of you reach for the basket at the same time, and she just grabs your hand instead, squeezing it. Next thing you know she’s pulling you down onto the blankets, rolling on top of you.

“Come here often?” She asked. Then, unsurprisingly, the two of you kiss. Both of your arms wrap around her waist, holding her as close as you can. One of her hands cups your cheek, the other resting on the ground to support herself, for ‘optimal makeout angles’. It’s a minute of bliss before she has to pull back for air. Instead of pulling away entirely, she shifts down a notch, resting her head against your chest. “Mmm… so comfortable. I could just… fall… asleep…” Daniela murmured, pretending to be sleepy. You can’t help but laugh, chest obviously shaking in as you do. “No! Pillows aren’t supposed to vibrate.”

“Are you sure about that?” You asked, only laughing harder.

“They don’t talk, either,” Daniela replied, huffing as she does. When you keep laughing, she rises to a sitting position, much to your disappointment. “So you have chosen death? So be it. I’ll just eat these candies myself, then.” With that said, she digs into the picnic basket, retrieving a bag of chocolates. Pouting, you reach out to try and yoink one away from her. Rather deftly, she pulls them away, sticking her tongue out at you before tossing a couple in her mouth. Determined, you surge forward, trying to catch her off guard, only to (somehow) end up face down in her lap. “Exactly like I planned, songbird. Now get comfy, alright?”

One of her hands trails fingers through your hair as you semi-awkwardly roll over. Now you’re facing up, watching your girlfriend practically inhale a few pieces of chocolate. But now she seems more inclined to share. She plucks one more from the bag, offering it to you by holding it in front of your mouth. Gladly you open up, and she drops the chocolate, before giving you a small ‘boop’ on the nose. Both of you laugh, then, a sound that sparks warmth in your chest. This was… nice. Relaxing. Not only were the two of you allowed to be as open with your affection as you wanted, it was the first time in ages that you had actually been outside, able to enjoy the sunlight.

Several minutes pass by like this, with Daniela feeding you (and herself) candies, both of you taking time to appreciate the scenery. Eventually the bag of chocolates becomes close to empty, and you see your girlfriend have an ‘oh crap’ moment.

“I was going to save some of these for you to smuggle into your quarters, damn it… guess you’ll just have to refuse to share, babe,” she said, shrugging a little. Then she sets the bag aside, now devoting both of her hands to playing with your hair. “Guess I’ll just have to find something else to keep my tongue occupied. Know any volunteers?”

“Hmm… I would, but it’s reeeaaaaaallllllly comfortable down here,” you teased in reply. Suddenly her hands are taken out of your hair, and you can just barely see that they’re positioned on her hips. She’s pouting at you, very similar to how you’ve seen her mother do, yellow eyes betraying her mischief. What exactly did she have planned?

“Really, songbird? I take you out, give you a wonderful place to rest, hand feed you chocolates… and you won’t even kiss me? When was the last time you even got to do something like this?” She asked, perking an eyebrow. The question is innocent enough. The answer, however, is not. Even with your head in her lap, you cannot fight off the brief sense of panic as your mind flashes into the past. It takes a deep breath, a few blinks, and a reassuring touch from Daniela for you to calm back down. “Songbird?... Hey, hey, it’s okay, I didn’t- I don’t know what happened. But we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, we can just…” She trails off, sounding unsure of herself, and you feel a pang of guilt. Was it finally time to come clean?... Yeah, yeah it was.

“It’s fine, I promise. I just… I need to sit up for this,” you explained, begrudgingly rising out of her lap. But she doesn’t let you pull away entirely, a hand guiding you to sit right up against her. Then she gently wraps an arm around you. Leaning into her touch, you rest your head on her shoulder, closing your eyes for a few seconds. “It’s kind of a long story, firefly… But this has happened often enough that I need to tell you. At least part of it. So, well… When I was younger, I, uh, I read a lot of romance novels, watched a lot of movies. Not even the good ones, really. And I didn’t- I couldn’t think through them. Couldn’t analyze it the way I needed to. So I didn’t get a good grasp of what a healthy relationship looked like. My, uh, my folks weren’t keen on demonstrating one for me, either…

“Before I came to the village, I was, well, uh, the thing is you might not like this part? And you’re not gonna like the next part, either. Just… listen to the end, please,” you pleaded, waiting for an acknowledgment before continuing. “I was engaged, as in to be married, to a woman I had known for most of my life. We were neighbors, and had gone to school together, and everyone thought we were the cutest couple. Hell, for the longest time I thought that. We weren’t, though. She was-” Daniela tenses a bit, though remains silent- “manipulative, sometimes aggressive. Anytime there was an argument, she made herself into the victim, told me that I was crazy. She wanted to make all the decisions about our relationship for me, and I just… I didn’t question it. Not even after she proposed, when my only reason for saying yes was because we were in public, with friends, and she clearly assumed that I’d agree. I tried to tell her that I wasn’t ready, that maybe we were going too fast, but she tuned me out.

“I didn’t even think about running until our final date. That was the first, and the only, time that she ever… that she ever-” a few tears spill from the corners of your eyes- “got physical with me. She’d broken things before, for sure, but I never thought she’d hurt me.” Daniela rubs your back gently, her breathing a little shaky. Evidently she hated hearing about this as much as you hated talking about it. Somehow that made it a little easier to talk through. “The next day she had to work early, so I just packed up my things, went over to my parents’ house and told them what happened. For once they actually agreed, if you can believe it. Told me to get the hell out of town, said that they’d deal with my fiance, and our relatives, so that I didn’t have to worry about anything when I came back. It was less than a full day before I drove away from everything I had ever known, promising my folks that someday I’d be back. Didn’t settle down until half the continent was behind me, not ‘til I was here at the village.”

There were a couple moments of silence as Daniela waited to make sure you had finished talking. Then she’s kissing the top of your head, shaking a little more noticeably now, murmuring reassurances that you can’t quite understand. Again you lean into her touch, indescribably thankful for her comforting presence. Fuck, you think, I probably ruined the date… so much for spending quality time with my lil firefly. When the silence breaks, it does so softly, slowly, a careful opening rather than a forceful push.

“Why would you give me a second chance? After what I did to you?” Daniela asked, voice barely audible, her head still resting atop yours. It’s not the response you expected. Not in the slightest. You pull away slightly, to look her in her eyes, heart aching at the tear stains on her cheeks. Even though you want to give her an answer that will bring her peace, your mind draws little more than a blank. Why had you given her a chance? You had wanted to be with her, without doubt, even before Cassandra and Bela intervened. Even after every time that she reminded you of your past…

“I-I don’t know. Maybe I haven’t learned anything from what’s happened,” you started, uncertainty clear in your tone. “Or maybe it’s because you looked… regretful. You didn’t enjoy what you did, and I saw it in your eyes. And… and then you did something about it. If you hadn’t shown remorse, or if I genuinely believed that you might do something like that again, we wouldn’t be here right now. I mean, in that case your sisters probably would have killed me for turning you down, but that’s not entirely relevant right now, is it?” You’re rambling a little, stuttering over your own words. Still, somehow it makes Daniela laugh, and relief floods your chest. Soon enough you’re curled up against her once more.

“Hey,” she said, after a minute of comfortable silence. “Thank you for showing me what romance is supposed to be.” Then she’s leaning in for a kiss, and you’re responding eagerly, unable to stop yourself from smiling. This time it’s your hand that runs through her hair as you pull her in as close as you can. To your surprise, she does pull away a tad earlier than usual. But there’s a grin on her lips, and she looks satisfied as hell. “Definitely more of that, soon. There’s just one more thing we have to do, to make this date perfect, you know? I may or may not have, kind of, written you something? You’re not allowed to laugh, though!”

“When have I ever laughed at you?” You asked, teasing, literally laughing as you speak. In response, Daniela scowls, making a point to look away in feign protest. “Joking, joking… I’ve just, you know, never had someone write me something before. Kinda don’t know how to react, really. Other than blushing real hard-” which you were doing- “and trying to play off my excitement with humor. But I promise I won’t laugh, even if you start with something like ‘roses are red, violets are blue’ or end with something like ‘just us in bed, doing the do’. Please tell me that’s not what you wrote, though?”

“Now that you mention it, maybe that should be what I recite. Sounds exactly like the sort of thing that would get me laid,” Daniela joked, rolling her eyes at you. Then she’s tugging a loose piece of paper out of the picnic basket, unfolding it to reveal a well-worn surface and hand-written text. She hesitates for a moment, glancing up at you, before taking a deep breath. When she speaks it’s clear just how nervous she is. But with every line she gains a measure of confidence, by the end acting her usual confident self.

Step from the shadows, weary corners of my mind Encased in old thoughts, brought into new life Like ashes rising from tombs housing the divine

Spinning webs as I descend, from the cradle of heaven From the dead I have risen, blessed be the gift I’m given Only from your haunting call do I embrace living

Catching the corners of my lips turning up All my years I’ve felt, but never this much Quietly writhing, begging for your softest touch

The pursuit of unintentional romance left abandoned Whispering love-locked tales to be consumed Sweeter than every facade I have ever imagined

Come closer now, into my arms, heart embraced Trailing fingers over scars, sewing lines traced Tell me love, “we shall last until the end of days”

At first, all you can do in response is stare at her, expression filled with affection. Inside your chest your heart was racing, and you couldn’t remember the last time you felt this warm. Reaching out, you take one of Daniela’s hands in your own, grinning as soon as her gaze meets yours. Both of you are blushing rather hard. Then she sets the poem down, eyes never leaving yours for even a second. You try to stutter out a few words, but find your tongue tied, and so you settle for placing your forehead against hers. The two of you stay like that for a few loving moments. When you part, it is only to come back together, this time in a tight hug.

“One helluva date, yeah?” Daniela asked, looking incredibly proud of herself. You can’t help but nod enthusiastically in response, honestly happier than you had felt in years. “Well, I will have to let you get back to work soon, unfortunately… but we have a few minutes, at least. Besides, having to part will only make tonight all the more sweeter.” At that you pause, confused, tilting your head to the side. Realizing that she must have gotten ahead of herself, Daniela blushes before elaborating. “You, me, my room. Tonight, right after your shift ends.”

You could hardly wait.

#daniela dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu x reader #resident evil: village #re8 village #please tell me if the poem is any good #seriously pleaaaaaaseeeee #or just tell me what your favorite line from the whole chap is #that's always what I want to know #feedback wise

202 notes · View notes

moss-lyman · 3 years ago

Note

Heeeey! Could you do JD and “Your lips are really warm.” for the last prompt list?

so, I thought I posted this when I finished it months ago, but apparently not! here is some intoxicated Donna for your Saturday pleasure. set post-series. :)

(rated T. they get a little handsy.)

Donna is feeling very light and only a little floaty.

She’s got a cocktail in her hand and the White House holiday party is slowly winding down around her. She and Josh are going to Florida to see his mom in the morning, so she doesn’t feel bad when she downs the rum punch and asks for another, giving the bartender her best smile when he sets her refilled glass on the countertop.

“Thanks,” she murmurs and fumbles with the straw in her mouth as she scans the room. She hasn’t seen her boyfriend for a few hours now and she really hopes he just got caught talking with people rather than being summoned to the Sit Room. This weekend vacation will be the first time in awhile that they can sleep in the same bed for consecutive nights in a row and she doesn’t want that taken away because Russia decided to go rogue or something. She gets a little nervous when she can’t find him for a full 5 minutes until she finally spies him talking with Lou and Sam. She grins in relief and grabs her drink before making her way over to them.

“Sam, I need you to monitor this thing in Georgia over the weekend. Leak the memo that I gave you this morning and Lou—”

“The speech will be done before you land tomorrow.”

“Will it?” he presses and Donna smirks from behind him as he tries to stare Lou down. “Because last time—”

“Last time won’t be happening again.”

“Good. Send it to me as soon as you’re done.”

Lou sees Donna come up behind Josh. “Oh thank god. Can you please get him away from me?”

“Hey,” he interjects, but Lou is already walking away while Sam chuckles. “I’m your boss, you know! I could fire you!”

Lou only waves. “See ya Monday!”

Josh huffs and Donna slips her hand into his. “Hi,” she murmurs and he turns toward her.

“Hi,” he drawls pointedly when he gets a good look at her. “You havin’ fun?”

She smiles without meaning to, the alcohol swimming happily through her veins, and she lifts up her drink. “I am.”

“How many of those have you had?”

Donna holds up four fingers. “Three.”

Sam laughs again and claps Josh on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about anything, alright? Spend time with your family, I have it under control. And Donna?” She whips her head toward him, giving him an innocent look. “Don’t let him work this weekend.”

Her grin grows wicked. “I’ll distract him,” she murmurs, dropping his hand and pinching Josh on the ass.

Sam only shares an amused look with Josh before squeezing Donna’s shoulder and excusing himself.

Josh turns to his very tipsy girlfriend who’s hand has now snuck it’s way into his back pocket. “How ya doin’?”

She hums and pulls on his tie. “I’d be better if I was doing you.”

“And that’s enough alcohol for the First Lady’s Chief of Staff,” he says quickly and snags her still full drink out of her hand.

“Josh,” she pouts when he finishes off the rum punch himself and tosses the cup in the trash. “I wasn’t done.”

“Your friendly hand on my ass tells me otherwise.”

She giggles and squeezes him once. “Haven’t you ever seen an 80s movie? A hand in the back pocket is a romantic gesture.”

“So you have romance on your mind?”

“Maybe,” she murmurs and leans in closer to him. “Or maybe it’s my subtle way of telling you to take me home.” He checks his watch as she slowly drags her fingers up his back and over his shoulder to his chest. She smiles when he swallows heavily, unable to resist her, and she tips his cheek over so he’s looking right at her. “Take me home, Josh,” she whispers.

He can’t stop himself from closing the distance and kissing her right there in the corner of the east room, his hand landing on her waist and pulling her closer. He tastes the liquor on her tongue and a throaty groan escapes him when she presses against him fully.

“Donna,” he warns, painfully aware of the party going on around them. “We’re still technically at work.”

She ignores him in favor of kissing him again, humming happily when his hand sneaks a squeeze on her own ass. “Your lips are really warm,” she mumbles, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, making it look like they’re dancing despite her tongue being firmly planted in his mouth.

He gently pushes her back and grins at her pout. He kisses her deep red lips one more time and puts a hand on her back to usher her toward the door.

“Let’s get out of here.”

“I’ve convinced you?” she asks excitedly.

“You have. Let’s go.”

She turns in front of him, walking backwards, when she says “but wait, I need to go say bye to – Josh!”

“Now,” he demands, picking her up and carrying her over his shoulder toward the side doors.

“Put me down!” she yells, laughing drunkily. “I can walk.”

He pauses and lets her feet hit the floor, steadying her as she sways. She smiles at him while throwing an arm around his waist as they walk and he smiles at her. “You’re a very beautiful woman,” he states, caught up as he gazes lovingly at her. “Did you know that?”

“You think so?” He nods. “‘Cause I get a lot of ‘cute’s or even the occasional ‘pretty’s, but ‘beautiful’ has been pretty rare.”

“You’re all of those things.”

“Am I hot?”

His mouth quirks and he squeezes her waist, turning his mouth to her ear so only she can hear him. “Did the 3 orgasms the other night not convince you of that already?” She bites her lip and stops walking, causing him to stumble a little as she tries to direct him on a new path and he gives her a confused look. “Did you forget something?”

“I don’t want to wait until we get home,” she murmurs, gunning for a supply closet, and Josh laughs before turning her back toward the circle drive.

“Not a chance.”

“Come on,” she pouts, slumping a little when he opens the door for her. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

He cozies up behind her so he can speak softly in her ear, his voice dripping in honey. “I plan on taking my time tonight,” he murmurs, internally smirking when he feels goosebumps raise on her skin. “To make sure you know exactly how beautiful and pretty and hot I find you.” He kisses right behind her ear and she shivers. “And you won’t be able to be quiet.”

Donna’s blood thrums and she smirks as he opens her car door. She slides in front of him, letting the back of her hand brush his groin, and he twitches before she pulls him forward by his tie, Donna’s lips waiting for him as he shuts the car door behind him.

“Well, if you insist.”

#my fic #josh x donna #the west wing

39 notes · View notes

capsized-heart · 5 years ago

Text

l’ incendie

Pairing: Hal x Reader

Summary: You grew up as witness to the atrocities committed under the British crown. Lord Grey is your father and newly pledged councilman of the royal court. Now, England has a new boy king, one who is set on keeping peace in Europe. You are determined to see England burn, even if it means corrupting the lionhearted boy of Eastcheap.

Word count: 10k+

Warnings: explicit smut, strong violence, sacrilegious imagery a blowjob in a chapel lmao

A/N: l’ incendie ; French translation for fire

..so..I watched The King back in November and have had this idea in my brain for the past 2 months now?? It literally consumed me. All throughout my last few weeks of classes and final papers, this is honestly all I could think about, like I’ve been bumping the soundtrack and rewatching the film to plan this, I looked at Lord Grey’s true lineage (he aint Scottish btw I made that up..but he really was related to King Edward lol).......I’ve just had to get this out of me for so. long. and I’m so happy that I finally have! It feels like this huge weight is gone, but I’ve enjoyed this creative process so much, like it’s so exciting when you hyper-fixate find a new piece of media that you enjoy so much that you dive completely and utterly into everything about it that you can get your hands on, and this is my piece for this!

And my boy Timmy?? Had no fucking clue who this guy was before I saw the film, now I’m writing fics about him a;sdkfjskj but you’re here reading this so. we’re both guilty.

I love story arcs like this where you see a character’s slow descent into corruption and having it revealed that someone was talking in their ear the whole time....i eat that shit right up. Reader’s character is heavily inspired by Lady Macbeth. Using wiles, using sex, etc. Ooh baby. I had fun with this.

gif credit to @michonnegrimes

Scotland was once your true home. Moors, lochs, rugged mountains, biting cold, all. You remember the endless mist and gloom, the wet winters of your childhood that made the creaking wood of your cottage whistle and moan. Summers were warm and mild and the highlands bursting with rich green and sunlight, running through fragrant fields of heathers, bluebells, myrtle with your skirts damp with dew, shrieking and choking on laughter as your older brother, Callum, chased you all throughout your little village of Kirkcaldy. Laughing himself, grabbing at you and wrestling you down into the mud, blossoms, and river water.

“Yield! Yield to the English crown or perish, wretched witch!” Callum would boom in mock play, tickling your sides until you’re gasping for air and tears stung your eyes.

“Aye! I yield!”

“What? You mad girl! Take it back! We are Scots!”

And then Callum would descend on you with all the wrath of England and you’d be howling with giggles and screams.

Returning home at nightfall smelling of wind and rain with vibrant wildflowers tangled in your hair and dirt streaking the skin of your cheeks, still plump with baby fat. Scarce food, but stomach full of adventure and blissful naivete. You were happy.

Your father would scold you promptly before his voice would soften a touch, smoothing back your hair from your face. Round, curious eyes and missing teeth. A feral, untamed child.

Daughter of Lord Thomas Grey. His precious girl. So much of your mother in you, the same fight, the same spark and love for life. Until you had ripped her body from the inside out and she had lost too much blood, the wet nurses unable to stop the bleeding and she had given her last breath cradling you lovingly against her naked chest.

You had killed your own mother.

In your early years, Callum and your father gave you nothing but warmth and protection, the sole surviving daughter of Grey lineage. But a child can only be sheltered for so long. Your world is a man’s world. Your country is no stranger to bloodshed.

The Anglo-Scottish Wars have endured for as long as you can remember, rebel leaders beaten down by English captains and more Christian blood staining the lush lowlands with every day. Robert the Bruce. Percy Hotspur. Blood all the same.

You are bleak, wild, uncivilized in the eyes of the English.

It’s all your people have ever known. Weary, resilient Scotland.

You have no memory of your mother, your earliest memory being the image of William Wallace’s torso strung up in the village square and the ensuing riots that had truly put the fear of God in you, mounted soldiers and civilians clashing in a fury of slick, gory steel, longswords and blacksmith daggers, a fear so raw and primal it struck you frozen and you’d soiled yourself in the midst of chaos. Callum had grabbed you and raced the four miles home as you bellowed atop his back with great, ugly heaves, snot and tears dribbling down your chin.

You didn’t need to understand the politics of rebellion or Wallace’s stake in it all to understand a massacre.

You have no memory of your mother, only murder in the name of the English king.

But you’ve learned to nurture that little glowing kernel of survival, of the fighting spirit and grit inside you that had evidently cost your mother her life. You’ve kindled it, watched it ignite with every passing year of war, your body flourishing into the figure of a young woman with embers in her soul. A stable simmering of flushed coals beneath your skin, glistening in the pools of your irises, ready to flare up and burn all you touch should you choose to.

You feel it now as a jostling carriage takes you to Northumberland, England. You sit quietly, watching the hills of Scotland tremble by, eyes hungrily drinking up as much of its strong landscape as you can.

Your father and brother have already gone ahead to England to make arrangements for Callum’s recent engagement to Isabel, Countess of Essex and only daughter of the Earl of Cambridge. You are reuniting after a lonely week, perhaps your last, to ever see your homeland.

Callum’s betrothal didn’t come as much of a surprise, rather, you’ve been counting down the days until your village lifestyle was doomed for inevitable change; for years, your father has been preparing the two of you for noble life outside of Scotland. Son and daughter subjected to the arts of chivalry, proper etiquette, gentility. The best that your little village could accommodate.

Your father and his maternal ancestry have interestingly long influenced the English courts, as his title of Lord would suggest. Through his grandmother’s side, you are distant descendants of Margaret, Duchess of Norfolk.

King Edward himself. Now cold and buried in London’s Westminster Abbey.

The coals jump, flames twisting at the idea of relatives long dead sitting idly on the opportunity and resources for a coup d'etat, instead choosing to line their own pockets and watch your country crumble from the comfort of their English estates.

The carnage and murder of monarchy feel that much more personal to you.

With your brother’s new marriage, Callum will acquire lordship and be gifted property in Essex. Your father will be secured a seat in the king’s council. You will be given rooms and hospitality in the castle as a noblewoman available for marriage. As Lady Grey.

A lick of fire coils up your throat.

God save the king.

The switch cracks so hard against the skin of your knuckles that your lip draws blood when you bite back a scream. Pain diffuses up your arm in fractured, ringing jolts and your eyes flood with hot tears. You hazard a look at where an angry welt has already started to flush, red and pulsing on the back of your hand.

“Again.” Says Miss Hunt.

Your gaze falls to the open manuscript in front of you, to the passage that you’ve rehearsed aloud for the past two hours. Your tongue works nervously in your mouth, swallowing. Sweat glistens your brow. You think you may even be trembling.

You draw in a quick breath and begin again:

“Time and tide wait for no man.

The life so short, the crafts so long to learn.

People can die of mere imagination.

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche-”

Another crack and this time you can’t restrain the cry that leaves you. You blink back the heat blurring your vision, set your jaw when Miss Hunt clasps her hands coldly behind her back and looks down at you over her hooked nose.

“Your voiced consonants are absolutely horrid, girl. Don’t close up your mouth. If you are to perfect the King’s English, you are to completely forget that savage dialect before I cut out your tongue. Am I understood?”

Miss Hunt gives you a smart swat to your cheek.

You nod quickly.

Another stinging swat.

“Am I understood?”

“Yes, Miss Hunt.”

Satisfied, she turns on her heel, granting you a few precious moments of quiet, of rest. Afternoon light filters into the chamber in dusty, silvered shafts, hueing the book’s pages in a drab of diluted grey. The inked words of Chaucer bleed back up at you as you settle your breathing.

This English sits like gravel in your mouth, low and rough and choking up your throat. Sharply iambic, as if everyone is talking down to the other.

England’s English sounds slow and stupid.

You wonder if Callum had this much trouble mastering the accent. You wonder if Callum, as a Lord, has ever been slashed with a switch.

Since your arrival to England and for the better part of a year, Miss Hunt has dissected every syllable of your speech through bodily punishment and repetition, ripped out any trace of Gaelic, any remaining trace of Scotland on your tongue and sutured it back together with mouthfuls of Chaucer and pompous, exaggerated vowels.

But pain, degradation, and humiliation are wonderful motivators. And to your horror, it has worked.

Your father recently introduced you to a few councilmen out of courtesy and as the sister of the soon to be Lord Grey of Essex. You politely discussed politics, entertained banter and jests of marriage proposals. None questioned your status as an English noblewoman.

Masquerading with voice and poise.

But that hasn’t stopped your secret, unseen resistance.

Miss Hunt may have taken your language and cadence, but her practices have only shown you the true powers of speech, knowledge, shown you just how intimidated and afraid all of England is of the bold north, of any European empire threatening its legitimacy.

A cowering dog with raised hackles and snapping teeth, but only so out of mad fear.

The harder Miss Hunt pushes, the deeper you dig into your own studies. By day, you are her sole pupil. By night, by candlelight, you are the pupil of Cicero, studying rhetoric and the power of spoken influence. You’ve also begun to study French as a means to bolster your wiles and mental arsenal.

You are already a so-called savage by blood. Learning the language of England’s arch rival will do nothing to hurt your reputation.

You feel a bead of sweat slide down the base of your spine as the switch swishes impatiently in Miss Hunt’s clutches. Oral recitation and the simultaneous reduction of your accent demands every ounce of your concentration. You know already that if you are hit again, the skin will break and you’ll only be reprimanded harder. Miss Hunt is sadistic and cold with her beady eyes and that ugly high starched collar.

“Again.” Her voice clips evenly.

So, you inhale a strong, supportive breath and begin again, pushing down the smolder in your chest.

The day of the wedding is cloudless and full of sunshine, a rarity for England. Callum has been bustling about the chapel’s back rooms in nervous energy all morning, fixing his hair and dress shirt over and over. You send your father to go and calm him down as you tend to Isabel, shooing him away quickly so your father’s mirrored jitters won’t affect her before the start of the ceremony. She gives you a small smile of thanks.

Isabel looks beautiful sitting in front of the mirror as her maids finish arranging her hair. Back straight as a board, plump lips and cheeks the color of a rosy, coral pink. You help to pull the veil over her face and the thin fabric does nothing to mute her radiance.

You see the flickering range of emotions in her eyes as she sees her own reflection. The life that all women are fated to live. Her last moments of true freedom, uncertainty for the future, and that small, significant trickle of vanity at having a perfect day of her own.

You see it all. After all, you are a woman.

She relaxes a bit when you lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her gaze finds yours in the mirror.

“You and I will soon be sisters,” she laughs softly. You give her a pleasant smile.

“I would want nothing more.”

Her throat works as she swallows tears, gives you another radiant laugh. “Someday, you will be sitting here, too.”

The truth of her words causes your smile to weaken, but you quickly hide it by busying yourself with her skirts and lace. Your world is a man’s world, even outside of war-torn Scotland. One man’s world, to be exact.

King Henry IV.

“And I expect you, my dear Isabel, to be at my side when that day comes.” You say to her. She nods kindly.

Your brother and Isabel are married a few hours later beneath the rainbowed, iridescent wash of stained glass and chiming church bells. And as the newly wed couple beam at you and their close company of friends and family, as you see Callum hold his wife proudly on his arm, you think that the bride and groom may truly love each other despite their arranged marriage. The possibility of such a happiness makes you grin wide and the familiar coals to simmer down ever so slightly.

The reception then moves to the chapel’s outdoor gardens. Ornately trimmed hedges, chirping birdsong, bubbling marble fountains, and the sweet fragrance of daisies and roses perfume the budding spring air.

The sun is warm on your skin, the air brisk and comfortable. You keep your fur lined mantle draped around your shoulders, your embroidered sleeves catching hints of daylight, the jeweled metalwork glittering about your waist. And with your hair twisted with ribbon and pinned back with a light linen caul, even Isabel herself murmurs that you look as refreshing and incandescent as the flowers surrounding you. You smile back teasingly, whisper that no one could possibly compare to the blushing bride.

As sister of the groom, you mingle politely, accepting congratulations and kind regards.

You see familiar faces, lords and fellow council members alike, and some of those not yet well acquainted. You meet Cambridge, Isabel’s father and a bird of a man. Gangly limbs and a flittering that accompanies his quick movements, but cordial and gentle. He tells you the union of your families will be prosperous, benign. You agree.

Then, Cambridge is pulled aside by a young man. Cambridge seems to recognize him instantly and clasps him into an embrace, chuckling heartily.

“Hal! You made it!” he exclaims. The two talk together briefly before the young man turns to you.

He’s tall and lean, broad chested with sloping shoulders. The angular planes of his face are undeniably handsome, a strong nose, full dark lashes and brows that frame his bold complexion. Black, unkempt curls and soft, hooded green eyes that hold an undertone of vigor, like his very gaze has commanded attention his entire life. They flicker over you quickly, as if you’d imagined it yourself, a trick of the light.

You don’t miss the way they linger at the exposed dip of your neckline, however.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” He then asks of Cambridge, his voice a soft murmur and his eyes never leave you.

Cambridge looks quickly between the two of you, as if acknowledging your presence again for the first time since this young man’s interruption. He burns bright red, stammering, then gestures to the stranger beside him.

“Of course. My lady, may I present my cousin, Henry. Prince of Wales.”

The suddenness and sheer absurdity of it all almost makes you burst out in laughter.

Cousin? King Henry IV’s eldest son is the cousin of your father-in-law?

With this marriage, you realize your family is now tied to the most powerful family in all of Britain. Yet, no one in the wedding party seems to have even acknowledged the presence of the boy prince dressed simply in dark cloak and tunic.

And then you remember. Prince Hal is a drunk, a dangerous playboy from Eastcheap. His claim to the throne is as illegitimate as the probable dozens of children from his bedded girls.

And asking for a formal introduction from his cousin? It’s utterly laughable, pathetic even.

Hal’s gaze is unwanted, skin prickling from where his eyes trace the curve of your chest in a way that makes you feel vile.

So, you wet your lips, pretend to wordlessly accept his flirtations and give him a slow flutter of your lashes. The reaction he so craves from you as his chin tilts back in delight, hungry to see more.

“Your reputation precedes you, my lord.” Your words drip with venom. Flowery girl with a serpent’s sharp tongue.

The barb makes Hal’s features tick in surprise, shock before settling back into a cool demeanor.

“Then you’ve heard of me.”

Your mask of amour stays firmly in place.

“It is hard to be deaf against such defamatory gossip.”

Hal hums softly with a hint of a smile, breaking his gaze to look out over the reception, ego obviously bruised. Cambridge goes pale as a sheet.

Isabel suddenly swoops in with the apology of wanting to introduce her father to a newly arrived guest and excuses him, hauling him away by the arm. Cambridge looks relieved to go.

And then it’s just the two of you beneath the halo of rose-tinted light.

“Beautiful ceremony.” He says simply. Hal is incredibly soft spoken for a prince and you find yourself unconsciously leaning in to hear him speak. Part of the intimate charm that makes him so alluring to women, you think. A whispered promise only for you.

“I thank you, sire.”

He takes a step forward. It startles you, enough for him to crowd you against the garden trellis wall. Ivy and lavender press into your back, dancing in the same breeze that peppers goosebumps down your spine. You shiver softly. Hal steps closer.

“I pray this is not the last of today’s festivities?” His words ghost over your throat, tickling the shell of your ear.

“No, sire. There will be a dinner tonight,” you reply just as quietly. You understand the game perfectly because it is the same one you have been playing your whole life. You indulge him, fire sparkling behind your fluttering eyelashes. “Surely your cousin will be expecting your attendance.”

Hal leans over you, hair tickling your face, green eyes glimmering. Up close, you see that freckles and beauty marks dot his skin. “I’m sure he will.”

You think you see him incline his head as though to kiss you. For a moment, you’re frozen, entranced.

You turn your cheek and his lips brush your temple. He hesitates with a low chuckle, keeping his close proximity.

“Then, I will see you tonight, my lord.” You whisper. Your fingers graze his arms as you sidle out of his reach. You can feel his eyes on you as you go and rejoin the other guests.

You leave him burning.

The tavern teems with merriment and the sound of fiddle, fife, and drum. You feast on broiled meats, roasted potatoes, greens, sweet breads and cakes until your stomach is full to bursting.

The glow of candlelight is lush and sensual, throwing shadows over the faces that only hours before you had shared with in prayer and communion in the church of God. Now, every attendant indulges in debauchery.

You’re drunk, blood pounding with mulled wine and spiced ale and cider. Pleasantly warm and head swimming, watching Callum and Isabel and friends and family dance about the room as if possessed, twirling in swirls of colored fabric that make you laugh and clap along in breathless euphoria.

You catch a glance of a figure standing in the doorway. You see the motion of a glass moving to lips, throat working to swallow drink. When the glass falls, you lock eyes with Hal.

You beckon him forth with a crooked finger. He grins wickedly and sets down his cup.

Despite the obvious wine in him, his steps towards you are sure and true and his hands feel good against you when they caress your waist, pull you against him.

You play coy and twist out of his arms. He groans.

He follows you like a dog until you’re in the midst of spinning bodies and then you turn to him. Giving him the permission to finally touch you.

His eyes ignite. He splays a hand on the middle of your back, perfect pressure, authoritative, the other gripping you tight and then you’re both cackling with drunken mischief as he guides the two of you across the creaking wooden floor.

You let him support you, lean against his chest, enjoying the sensation of being held so close. The thrill of feeling wanted.

Even if it is all a charade.

The strings and beat of thumping drums careen to a crescendo that has the entire tavern whooping and hollering in delight. You break apart from Hal to join in as the music flows through your limbs, absolutely enchanted, throwing back your head like that feral child from girlhood.

Hal looks just as wild, the rumored wayward prince. Long, dark locks falling in his eyes, tunic unbuttoned and disheveled. Light and shadow dancing across his face in a manner that makes him look devilish.

He pushes a glittering goblet into your hands, eases his strong fingers around your own to help bring it to your lips. You see the unmistakable red slosh of wine and wordlessly drink. He watches you tip back the goblet, watches rubied jewels of crimson spill down the sides of your mouth and down the skin of your throat.

“That’s it. That’s a good girl.” He cooes.

The flames feel desperately hot, flushing your skin and cheeks, burning bright behind your lips. Or perhaps it's the alcohol? Or the prince’s wandering touch that now seems to be cupping your breast, tongue lapping at the trails of wine…

The heat is suddenly too much and you push away to a secluded corner filled with empty tables to catch your breath. Hal slumps beside you. His head lolls, dipping to press another whisper of a kiss to your jaw and his weight feels comfortable against your side.

You don’t know what comes over you. Perhaps you truly are possessed.

You turn into him and then your hand is reaching between his thighs.

Hal exhales sharply in your ear. You harden your touch, feel him widen his stance to accommodate you. He braces an arm behind the small of your back, supporting himself on the space of the wooden bench as your fingers slip below the waistband of his trousers.

He gives a strangled sigh when you grip him tight and begin to coil your hand. His head lolls once more, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, panting, bursts of hot breath fanning over your throat. You feel your own breath quicken, feel yourself getting excited.

You mesh your other hand into his curls and pull him closer, press your body flush against his. Hal moans, keening, his arm now around your waist. You shush him quietly, tightening the hold in his hair.

To any patron, you look as though you’re only consoling a drunken boy, simply talking in the muted light. The shadows hide you both but the flames shine in your eyes.

“Enjoying the festivities, my lord?” You sigh into his cheek.

“Please don’t stop..” Hal whimpers.

You chuckle through a half-lidded gaze and work him harder. It’s delicious, erotic.

You hold all power, all of England in your delicate grip.

You watch his mouth fall open, dark brows furrowing, feel him tense against you before the eldest son to the crown spills himself onto your fevered palm with a sharp gasp, chest heaving.

“Good boy..” you murmur with a cheshire smile, running your fingers soothingly down the line of his jaw. Hal shudders with aftershocks, eyes closed, forehead glistening with sweat.

Before he can attempt to try and reciprocate the favor, you wipe your hand on his cloak and stand to fetch another drink.

You avoid Hal afterwards and don’t see him again for the remainder of the night. You think he must have gone home with another girl to satisfy himself and it makes you smile knowing you are responsible for laying that trap, for letting him taste pleasure, driving his desperation and taking it all away just as easily.

Your brother and Isabel spend their honeymoon in London before returning to her home in Essex. They write to you, informing of their safe arrival at the new estate and that you will have to come visit in the very near future. It warms your heart. You already miss them terribly.

Soon after, your father is awarded the scarlet, fur-trimmed peerage robes of the House of Lords and with your new rank, you experience the privilege of wealth for the first time.

Rich foods, dresses and flowing silk skirts, cosmetics, more books and manuscripts than you can imagine. You glow with health, beauty, pride, and sharpened wit.

But you have not forgotten your burning flame. Aided by money and status, your little light only grows stronger.

King Henry IV dies of sickness on a warm March morning. It had only been a matter of time, the stubborn man had been calling your father and the other lords to his bedside for the past several months to continue to discuss the politics of his own wars. In his dying breath, Henry IV saw that his empire had fallen to civil strife.

Court and kingdom are called to witness the coronation procession and as you stand with the lords and ladies of the crown inside Westminster Abbey, inside the church containing the tomb of your distant descendant King Edward and the generations of his forefathers, the same Gothic abbey where British monarchs have turned men into rulers and tyrants, you watch the archbishop anoint Prince Henry of Wales with holy oil.

His curls have been trimmed clean, his bare skin and body presented to be blessed with the sign of the cross. All old ritual, old prayer and Latin incantations that have been performed for over a thousand years.

So what is a new boy to wear the crown?

Beneath the arched stone cloisters, baptized in the sunlit streams of stained glass, you watch that same ceremony unfold again with burning heart. And harmonized by the tolling of bells, Hal is dressed in royal robes, regalia, scepter and all, shedding the title of prince as you all pledge homage to your new King of England.

“All hail King Henry.” The archbishop calls out to clergy, God, and country.

“King Henry!”

Neither you nor Hal feel the heat of embarrassment when the court is ushered into the dining chamber and you meet again in candle and firelight. The feast is an intimate setting, shared by the company of Hal’s new council, clergymen, and close family. Your father is seated alongside Cambridge, Chief Justice William Gascoigne, and the archbishop; even his sister, Queen Phillipa of Denmark, is in attendance.

Hal’s appearance and demeanor is surprising to you.

He looks striking, handsome as ever in his new robes and you can sense that familiar aire of charisma and confidence you remember from the wedding as Lord Chamberlain presents gifts from the monarchs of the world. A jeweled vase from King Wenceslas of Bohemia, a trinket of a mechanical bird from the Doge of Venice. Hal is jovial, good humored and merry.

The presence of his cousin and sister seems to comfort him greatly. And rightfully so, considering he now sits on the throne of his dead father. Dead as well is the alter ego of the delinquent prince.

Like a spoilt child opening wrapped packages at Christmas. The privilege of royal blood.

When the final trunk is presented, a gift from the Dauphin, you quite nearly let out a low snicker.

A ball for the boy king.

You see Hal hesitate before picking it up and the silence throughout the chamber is long, uncomfortable. The entire court seems to be holding its breath. Yet, you know there is an aspect of truth to the Dauphin’s gesture.

A boy indeed. You recall Hal’s touch and him gasping into your neck, his muffled begging, how quickly he had finished in your hand…

Then, the cool magnetism returns to his features. He locks eyes with you and you wonder if he is thinking of the same moment. You are both proud challengers, wielders of personal charm.

You wonder how long it will take to break him completely.

There’s a glimmer in his gaze you think to be from the blazing hearth as he tosses the ball once against the chamber’s stone wall, then catches it deftly with youthful poise.

After the coronation dinner, the court is dismissed and you find yourself to be one of the last remaining patrons as guests trickle out into the adjacent hallways and disperse through the rest of the castle. You deliberately hang back, watching your father, Cambridge, Phillipa, and William slip through the doors, slowing your step so that Hal can catch sight of you.

“Lady Grey,” you hear. His voice is galant, hushed with that same temptation of seductive promise. With your back still facing him, you can’t help but smirk.

You feign surprise and turn.

“Yes, my lord?”

Hal beckons to where he stands by the fireside. You gather your skirts and join him in the welcoming nimbus of light and warmth. When you bend to curtesy, his fingers find your chin, tilting your eyes to his own and forcing you to rise to your feet.

“None of that is necessary, my dear,” he whispers. He keeps your face cradled between thumb and forefinger, a delicate pressure, one that makes you feel precious as he holds you close. “Tell me, did you enjoy tonight?”

“Immensely.” You smile. Indeed, you have. The Dauphin might as well have spoken on your own behalf.

Hal hums, pleased. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, then eases in between the petals of your pink lips. You purse them ever so slightly and watch his self-control start to simmer. The candles burn low around the two of you, the only source of light emanating from the hearth itself. You are reminded of how the shadows flickered on the planes of his face the night of the wedding. Now, you see the same shadows again, but as king.

“I want you to have something.” He says finally.

He looks reluctant to break his touch from you, but you see his hand disappear within the folds of his robes. He then produces a glittering pendant with a golden chain, a necklace that looks ablaze.

Amber, you realize.

The surprise that crosses your features is genuine. Baltic amber set into teardrop sterling silver and gold, a gift from Rupert of the Palatinate and the kingdom of Germany. An extraordinary piece.

Hal’s hand finds your waist and you turn to offer him your bare neck, pulse pounding. You have no say, no power to even deny this token of affection.

His caresses against your skin as he fastens the chain are soft and featherlike and you can feel his breath on the top of your spine. The pendant is heavy, rich with precious stone and gilded metal, settling between the valley of your breasts. It feels cold, but shines like an inferno.

He lingers, tracing your shoulders when his mouth presses to your ear.

“Turn. Let me look at you properly.”

When you do, the weight of Germany itself, of foreign and fallen kingdoms and countries, conquered and pillaged and burned, simultaneously settles between the tender skin of your sternum.

Hal’s eyes cloud with dark delight when he sees the flaming amber. He takes your chin back in hand, angling your face every which way, studying how the firelight glints off the pendant with a sensual curiosity.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs.

Your body begins to react on its own accord, chest rising and falling with faster breaths, your cheeks blooming.

“I thank you, my lord.”

Still cradling your jaw, he brings himself closer with only a whisper between the two of you. His crimson robes seem to swallow you completely, like the gaping maw of Britain’s lion, a mantle of blood. He speaks into the gap between your mouths, yet you feel every word upon your lips.

“With this gift, I expect to see you more around my court, Lady Grey. Am I understood?”

The tension he commands is unbearable. He watches you carefully, dark eyelashes fluttering. Trapped like a pinned butterfly. Then, you understand he’s waiting for a verbal response.

“Yes, my lord.”

He releases you.

The pendant suddenly feels more like a collar.

You’ve underestimated Hal. He is just as much the player as you.

You keep your promise. You see Hal daily in passing, often dressed in full regal attire as he comes from the council chambers, your father, William, and the rest of his train tailing close behind. The twinkle in his eye when he sees you is discreet, reserved only for you. The amber pendant remains fastened around your neck at all hours of the day, even while you sleep and bathe, like fire and ice between your breasts. A piece of Hal always with you.

The two of you are a queer, twisted pair of sweethearts. You’ve yet to be fully intimate since that wedding night, but the pressure that ripples with every fleeting glance, every grazing touch of lips and skin is enough to prove your attraction for each other. Or rather, the attraction to the game.

You keep Hal on his toes, never fully give in even when he invites you out for evening strolls in the palace gardens and the safety of darkness envelops you both. It is your nightly ritual to walk the grounds together amongst hushed breezes and chirping crickets, you as a means to unwind before bed, and a way for Hal to clear his mind of the day’s tolling demands.

And tolling they are. Despite his bravado, he is easily irritable, tense. You listen when he speaks to you plainly about his frustrations for the court and archbishop, how they all expect from him the same swift retaliation of his father.

You find Hal’s consciousness of this want to break tyranny quite curious. Sons are typical to idolize their fathers and see past faults. It is why you know how cruel kingship has endured in Britain for generations; learned behaviors become expected and change more difficult. You’ve even seen that same behavior in your own brother.

And Hal’s trust in disclosing even this to you is telling. The thread to unravel the boy king.

Tonight, you dare to pull at it, heighten your girlish wiles and offer him a lingering kiss and soft words. You tell him that Christendom is damned and tease that it’s his own fault his council is made up entirely of old, graying men, your father included, when he could have anyone else.

Hal’s spirits seem to lift a little with a ghost of a smile, understanding you perfectly as his arm snakes around your waist. He pulls you into a secluded labyrinth and settles into the stone seat of a fountain, pulls you atop his lap. The kiss he returns is fierce.

Without the burn of alcohol to subdue your senses, every touch is intensified tenfold. Hal feels it too, his breath coming ragged as he breaks the kiss to mouth down the skin of your neck, the dip of your collarbone, your chest. His hands wander beneath your skirts.

“It is only polite that I return the favor..” You hear him say.

Your mind is reeling. You knew this moment would eventually come, yet you feel ill-prepared when his fingers brush your core, his other hand gripping the back of your neck. You gasp, finding his lips in another tangled kiss, straddle him completely.

It’s strange, exhilarating to be on the receiving end of your little game.

If you are to truly break Hal, you are to first make him believe that he holds any sort of power over you, to reverse that dynamic you had set the night of your brother’s wedding.

You are to let him touch you.

And like the flaming sword of Raphael, Hal’s pendant, it is time to finally draw upon your fire.

You hate how good Hal is at this. He knows just where to caress inside you, the right amount of pressure, the weak spots at your throat and just below your ear. Your competitiveness takes over and you push him back against the fountain, start to circle your hips, grind yourself down on his hand and grip at the rich fabric of his tunic to better anchor yourself.

His eyes pool with lust with every sigh from your lips, watching you closely. He rolls his thumb, picks up the tempo of his fingers, relishing the sight of you slowly falling apart on top of him.

But it isn’t enough. You lean in and wrap your arms around his neck. He responds in tandem, gathering you close as you rock against him, the friction of his thighs sending you closer and closer to that threshold of pleasure.

“Please..I need t-to…” you whisper into his neck, into his mouth.

Words of magic. Hal’s expression flares with masculine pride, the delight of pleasing a woman.

The last of the day’s golden hour spills over you both in glowing, peached splendor and with the sound of the fountain’s rushing water as your only witness, you muffle your final moan with a desperate kiss, bliss pulsing behind your eyelids. Hal keeps his fingers where they are, coaxing the last waves of your orgasm out of you, cradling your chin with his other hand as his lips part yours, slipping tongue as you come floating back down to earth.

You’re dazed, flushed, lazily kissing when he removes his fingers. Slick when you suck them into your mouth and taste yourself. The velvet of your tongue makes him shiver.

“Now, what ever are we going to do about your council, my lord?” You murmur once you catch your breath. You gently kiss his fingertips.

Hal only smirks and pulls you to him.

Your plan begins to take motion. With each passing month, you worm your way deeper into Hal’s heart with honeyed words and empty promises. He confides in you more and more as he grows wary of his councilmen, trusting only the pretty face he sees in the privacy of his bedchamber each night. Graced against silk pillows.

You sense the crushing pressure upon him, his own doubts and fears. You slowly leech away his magnetism, his charisma, and take it for yourself. His eyes dim, harden with resolve. Gone is the assurance for peace. Hal instead grows cold, timid, questioning his every move.

You only burn brighter.

There is talk that a French assassin has breached the castle.

You hear the conversation for yourself when your father and William are called down to the dungeons, hear Hal speaking directly to this assassin as you linger at the top of the stone staircase.

“Qui êtes vous?”

“J'ai été envoyé par le roi de France pour vous assassiner.”

Hal’s voice is cool, calm as he pries for details. The assassin’s responses are noticeably vague. You infer it to be out of his own self interest.

Then, nothing. Days go by with no direct action from Hal.

You grind your teeth. War with France would be the perfect fruition of your schemes, the final act in a tragedy deemed to be an epic of British monarchy. War with France would show Europe and the rest of the world the extortion and murder of the English crown; not that these neighboring countries needed such a reminder. But England and her king have been blind for too long.

Previous attempts at quelling war had caused Percy Hotspur to rebel, Prince Thomas of Lancaster to push on and die alone on foreign soil.

Is Hal not trying to prove himself in this same way? Proving he is not like his father? Just as Thomas had wished for his peers to see him as a commander and better equipped to bear the crown despite being the youngest son, is Hal not guilty of this same charge of public approval?

And having the privilege to sit idly atop a throne amidst all this makes your blood boil. Idleness is instability, you’ve learned this years ago.

You will be the one to push Hal to war.

You are sewing one afternoon in an empty chamber when the strained voices of your father, Cambridge, and William reach your ears. Hushed and argumentative, it draws you to your feet, possesses you to lean against the frame of the door and just out of sight.

You hear the disgust in your father’s tone when he speaks of the king. The weakness in forgiving France, the lunacy of Hal’s ascension. It amazes you, grips you tight at hearing such passion and loathing; you’ve never heard your father speak this way about anyone, let alone the head of England’s monarchy. Slander and defamation carry swift punishment.

You learn that he and Cambridge have been approached by French agents. The three men debate quietly as you stand against the door, nearly panting. A coup d'etat? The idea excites you more than it should. But you perish the thought quickly before you can get ahead of yourself.

Why only approach the two of them? Surely to turn England’s people against their ruler, a greater number of conspirators would prove to be more efficient? You know distrust is not uncommon among Hal’s council, so possible traitors would not be hard to find.

This approach means your father and Cambridge have been judged weak in character by the French. Insecure, lacking, most likely to bend at the knee for candied prospects in exchange for loyalty.

And now as you eavesdrop on your own father, you know Lord Grey does not have faith behind his king and is too afraid to do anything with it. You know that if you had not gathered this knowledge for yourself, you would never have been told so, unseen as all women are expected to be.

These French agents and councilmen think they hold all power with their debates and their meetings in private, oblivious to the fact that it is women who move the world. Women like you, wielding their very sex to push these men as pawns.

Are men not born into this world by women? Do men not seek a woman’s tender embrace for love and comfort and to carry on long, unbroken lineages of royal blood?

Your own father, as all his peers, are blind to the influence you bear over Hal. Even Hal himself.

You find yourself in the king’s private quarters one cold night, sitting in front of the hearth and watching the crackling, shimmering flames that warm the room. The soft silence is comforting to you as you sit bathed in orange glow, wrapped in furs and waiting for Hal’s return.

Your mind wanders. You think of the French assassin still held captive in the dungeons beneath your feet, how the man had been granted asylum in exchange for a confession.

“Quel était le l'ordre?”

“Que je devrais tuer le roi d'Angleterre.”

And with the French approaching Cambridge and your father, it is certain, undeniable that tension is thick and stakes high for all of England.

You are standing on the very brink of war, standing flush at the edge of a swallowing cliffside with dragging winds and dark, inky waters swirling beneath you down below. Waiting to embrace you, like the jagged shores of St Kilda, the northern shores of Scotland. Calling you home like a siren’s song.

And Hal only needs one final pull before you both fall together.

The chamber door opens and the king steps inside. His presence is stormy, like a cold wind blowing into the room.

He’s dressed handsomely in a navy tunic and dress shirt, a mantle that drapes over his burdened shoulders. Yet, his hair is mussed and disheveled and you can see the tightness around his eyes. His once youthful glow now gone, but a sharpness to him that you think resembles a pike; diligent, wary, and still capable of hurting you if you’re not careful.

You pretend to quickly wipe away tears before you stand to greet him. Hal sees this and his brows draw together in concern, further contorting his expression into one of pain. He comes to the fireside.

“Good evening, my king,” you say as he takes your hands.

“What upsets you so?” he asks you directly. His voice is strained, sets your pulse aflutter more than it should. You give a small, breathless smile, a shake of your head.

“Nothing of your concern, just innocuous thoughts, my lord. Let us go to bed.”

But you do not move in the direction of the luxurious canopied bed, one you have grown intimately familiar with. You stay exactly where you are and let Hal’s mind race.

His fingers grip your chin and when you meet his eyes, they’re bold and smoldering, the first touch of life in them you’ve seen for sometime. His grasp is strong and a muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Speak freely to me. Please,” he whispers. “Of all people. My dear, speak true.” The last word falls like a plea from his lips. You suppose it is one as he pulls you closer. A boy desperate for truth, constricted and poisoned by a council of vipers.

Unknowingly turning to the girl with the pretty mouth as she pours poison into his ear.

At this, you bite your lips and summon tears that spill forth, pool your vision. You let the familiar sensations take over, the shortness of breath, the depleted posture, and pretty soon you’re trembling, weeping in Hal’s arms.

“This assassin. It frightens me,” you say finally, broken. “If he had fulfilled his order and taken you from me, left me here all alone…oh, Hal. I’m so afraid.”

His thumb circles your cheek, silent. You sense that dangerous cocktail of anger and darkness simmering just beneath his skin. Anger at the world, anger reserved for his dead father.

“France means to have you killed, Hal. Then what of us?”

Us? England?

Tears drip down your neck and onto your rising chest. Where you’ve left the first clasp of your blouse carefully unbuttoned. You press yourself to him ever so slightly, look up through tear-soaked eyelashes and embered iresis.

“Then what of me?” you whisper.

Hal’s lips are crushing against yours. You feel every ounce of his anguish, every bit of tension wound tight in his frame, every doubt, every fear. You feel the restraint as he cradles the back of your neck, his other hand finding your waist as he pushes you flush against him. The dichotomy to feel love, to feel comfort and safety and to relieve and dispel just a hint of the pressure building inside him. The dichotomy to conquer, the urge to channel this animosity in a way he must be familiar, to ravish you completely.

With your bosom rising and falling so sweetly, eyes glittering with tears, looking almost divine with firelight circling the shine of your hair in a golden halo, you watch Hal’s walls collapse. You let him succumb to that mirage of safety and warmth, to ease his conscience. You will both get what you want, eventually.

You break apart to kiss the line of his throat, his pulsepoint, where you know he’s weakest. Hal gasps as you thread your fingers through his curls, bring your lips to his ear in a soft lull.

“May I have you tonight, my king? Completely?”

His response is immediate, yet wordless when he tilts back his head and feels your mouth against his jugular, the hand at your waist tightening.

At last, you lead him to the bed with the intent of christening it.

He pulls you atop him, helps you unthread the bodice of your nightgown. Despite the blazing fire behind you, the air chills your shoulders, your chest as you slowly expose more and more skin, finally letting the thin fabric pool around your waist. The feel of his bare hands cupping your body fuels you, act as your catalyst. Soft, firm.

The amber necklace swings like a golden pendulum when you stoop to kiss him again, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your back. Hal’s desires are plainly stated as you feel him harden against your inner thigh.

There is no time for coy deception tonight. You make quick work of his tunic, leave his trousers and instead unfasten and pull him through, positioning where he wants you most. Hal is already nearly panting.

You arch as he settles inside you, a biting stretch that has both of you sighing when you bury yourself into the crook of his neck. Something long-awaited. You stomach the discomforting pressure and set a rhythm, one that has Hal cursing into your hair.

“You must protect the women of England, my lord,” you whisper. “Who will do so if you are gone?” You punctuate your point with a well-timed swivel of your hips and Hal moans low and guttural. “Your wives and children. Can you protect me?”

Hal’s arms wrap around you, nearly choking on pleasure. “I will. Anything for you. Please...”

Unseen by him, you grin. You can practically hear the crashing ocean waves, to feel the quench of water at long last! You think you could make him do anything in this moment with how enthralled he is in bliss.

You sit back and Hal’s hands glide over the smooth expanse of your stomach, watching his eyes grow dark, the amber pendant swinging between the two of you. The discomfort in your belly is gone and you start to mirror Hal’s pleasure, head falling back, sighs growing louder.

And as the two of you finally fall from the cliffside and towards the waiting waters, Hal gives a soft cry, vision rolling and you feel his heat spill onto your inner thigh. You kiss him until the strength drains from his body, a true succubus as Hal at last descends into sleep, relaxed.

You have the king’s word.

You awaken the next morning to find the bed empty and cold. Surprised, you dress alone and return to your chambers to call for your breakfast. When you send for your father to share his company, the servant returns and tells you Lord Grey is currently engaged and his presence cannot be requested.

“A meeting, you mean?” You ask the servant rather crossly. Why must everyone speak to you in riddles? You obviously did not sleep much the night before and had trouble long after Hal had finished, like a slumbering babe beside you. Typical.

Your mood sours further in that you won’t be able to share this meal with your father. You despise spending mornings in solitude. It seems like it’s been ages since you’ve last seen each other in private, with no councilmen lurking about.

“No, my lady,” the servant stammers slightly, the words stumbling out of his mouth. “Lord Grey is condemned and is forbidden from taking meals before tomorrow morning.”

“What?” You growl at his vagueness. Your anger and irritation rise hot and fast and you’re tempted to hurl the glass cup of strawberries at this blubbering young fool.

“Lord Grey and Cambridge await execution tomorrow morning for treason, by order of the king.”

Your world stops. You send the servant away with a ghost of a whisper.

When the door snaps shut, you laugh mournfully. So the gossip had come to naught. Hal had indeed kept his word. Your stomach turns in nausea. Food is suddenly the last thing on your mind.

You rush to your writing desk, overturning bottles of ink, hands shaking when you retrieve quill and parchment, attempt to pen a desperate letter to Callum with a fevered hand. But before you can draft a single sentence, your blood turns cold.

You have not heard from your brother, from Isabelle in weeks. Have your worst fears already come true?

Glass and fruit explode against the far wall.

You tear out of the room like a bloodied banshee in search of Hal, fingers tinted crimson from cut glass and mashed berries.

And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and

cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee

that one of thy members should perish, and not

that thy whole body should be cast into hell.

One of Miss Hunt’s chosen passages from the book of Matthew comes crashing into your mind. You are like Eve, you think. Bearing the burden of Original Sin with lust and curiosity. You have tasted the fruit and have seen the evils of mankind. Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined your plan backfiring so horribly.

Now, hellfire awaits your father, for you when you draw your final breath your last day on this earth. Suddenly seeming to loom that much closer.

You approach Hal like Samuel’s ghost did to King Saul on the eve of war, the Philistines instead of the French. Interchangeable, cycles of warfare that have dawned for milenia and will continue until the end of time.

He looks terrifying, colder and more severe than you’ve ever seen, outfitted in those horrible blood red robes that one coronation dinner long ago you had once thought he looked becoming.

You know with one wrong word you could be joining the two men to die at first light. Your mind races.

“My lord, to think my own father had been plotting against you sickens me,” you speak slowly. The sentence stings like venom in your mouth, damning your father. Hellfire burns brighter. But it is the only way you can protect yourself. Your grisly appearance, your quick breaths, it is all to sell your story. “May I accompany you tomorrow morning as witness?”

Hal’s lips twist into a hint of a smile, the shadow of his former self. “Of course, my dear. Lord Grey may have failed his fatherly duties as protector, but I will not.”

And so, with your hands wrapped in fresh bandages and stitchings, you stand in a courtyard with wind whipping around you, the only Christian woman among councilmen and knights as you watch your father lay his head upon the chopping block. His hair has been shaved off to ensure the killing blow will be swift and true. Shivering, pale, and damp with sweat, he looks like a ghost. Soon, he will be one. You want him to see you in these final moments, for him to know that you will utterly destroy this king, but you cannot risk the danger.

Like the coronation, Latin prayers are recited, only this time they are prayers for your father and father-in-law to find peace in the afterlife. The last time you, Hal, Cambridge, and your father had shared company like this had been at the wedding. You know now that Callum and Isabel are truly dead. In the blink of an eye, Hal has slaughtered your entire family.

Weary, resilient Scotland.

You do not cry. You must show your loyalty.

“Requiescat in pace.”

Weak, fragile as Lord Grey starts to whimper aloud. No daughter should see their father, their protector through girlhood, like this.

The axe glimmers in the sunlight and is brought down with deadly precision. Your father’s head rolls grotesquely off of his shoulders in a wet gurgle. His body is shoved aside and Cambridge is pushed onto the block next, now slick with fresh blood.

Neither you nor Hal flinch.

You are now fatherless, Hal, kinless when you enter the neighboring chapel alone. You sit in the first pew respectfully, head bowed as Hal crosses himself and kneels before the altar. With his back to you, you study the firm line of his spine, his clasped hands with the beaded rosary held firmly between. Unmoving, statuesque. He prays for a long time.

Thou shalt not kill.

You wonder if God is so forgiving.

The images of angels, of Mary and Joseph and flawless purity are what drive you to march up to Hal and kiss him hard. He hums in surprise, brows furrowed, the pressure behind his mouth mirroring yours when you grip the back of his head.

You want to kill him the same way he had murdered your father. But you settle with digging your fingers into the back of his neck and relishing in the way he hisses against your lips. You fumble blindly with the fastening of his trousers.

“What are you doing?” he growls.

“Shut up.” You bite back.

You’ve never been afraid of Hal before today, you’ve had no reason to be. You’ve been so careful to build the reputation and the facade he sees, using words and sex to push him like the chesspiece you had thought him to be. And he’d pushed right back.

You want to hurt him in the only way you can.

He cries out when you suck him into your mouth with teeth and harsh pressure. You’re anything but gentle, taking him as far as you can so that you’re choking and Hal is grunting and pulling at your hair and the lewd sounds of your lips and tongue echo to the tops of the vaulted ceiling.

You’ve both lost family today. You are both selfish and full of quiet rage. The consequence of Hal’s choice is evident in how hard and wet you mold your mouth around him, how his hand tightens and pushes you farther down, wordlessly ordering you to finish him off in this holy church.

Like Christ Himself with bandaged hands, you twist and work at whatever you cannot fit between your lips. His hips snap forward, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes with burning throat, your scalp stinging from where he yanks back your hair, your linen caul disheveled. Saliva dribbles out of your mouth.

When his moans grow high and desperate, you take him out of your mouth and Hal’s release splatters white on the skin of your cheek, mouth still agape. He slumps forward on his knees, panting, as if still in prayer. The rosary dangles between his fingers.

Thou shalt not commit adultery.

The cross looms before you, silhouetted by candlelight. It is too much and you turn away.

If the change in Hal’s nature had not already been felt by all, it is seen in his dress. No longer does he donn the regalia of red cape and sceptre, but dark tunics and jackets that fit snug over the expanse of his chest. No more are the billowing robes, now replaced with tight military clothing and jackboots. A captain preparing for battle.

Hal recruits John Falstaff and countless other marshals for his campaign. It’s truly happening, you think. France will soon feel the wrath of England as your homeland and countless other countries have.

The amber necklace sparkles.

Tomorrow, Hal sets sail across the English Channel. Another crusade to add to the Hundred Years’ War. You wonder if French women are just as lustrous as the rumors suggest.

This is the last night you will be together like this for some time. The thought of Hal with another woman makes you quicken the hand you have around him and he gasps into your chest, spilling onto your thigh like that wedding night centuries ago. You’ve already made love countless times tonight, your bodies fitting together because it is only natural for two corrupt souls to find solace in the other.

Masquerading with voice and poise. A boy from Eastcheap and a Scottish girl.

As Hal shudders against you, kissing your throat and twining his fingers into your hair, he tells you he loves you.

You think you may love him too, in that twisted way of how fire craves oxygen. You need each other to fuel chaos.

You understand better than anyone the burden of a child forced to grow up, the weight of decisions and the toll it takes. Only the strong can endure such hardship, only the strong can triumph and come out on top. It has been so forever, a law as old as the world.

The speed at which Hal is already hard again makes you chuckle darkly. He pins you to the bed, hovering, eyes bearing into you before he enters you just the same.

“You were made to be beneath me,” he rasps, gripping your face with a single hand. His eyes glitter in the low light. The double entendre of his words make you rake your fingernails down his back in angry lines of red. He sucks a bite into the skin of your collarbone.

You know that when Hal returns from France, he will no longer be yours. He will be changed, most likely to marry a foreign princess to ensure peace. You think of Isabel and how she had evidently been the one to put you in this position of status, how a marriage is a man’s means to gain power. A law as old as the world.

Do you want him to be yours? The same way the English crown has raped and pillaged for the thrill of conquering the barbaric? A trophy? A prized kill? Still, the thought makes you bitter.

You say you love him back when he finds the spot below your ear, pushes your legs apart to drive into you that much harder.

There’s a bit of you that prays he will be victorious, that he will return to England and be yours again. But even if your paths do not cross in the future, you know you will see him again where the flames grow hot. Be that in his chambers or down below.

4K notes · View notes

aphroditestummyrolls · 4 years ago

Text

i wrote a fairytale au moment

my country has reached a terrifying level of disarray and i am scared. so i wrote some escapism (literally) for Joe and Nicky. i was even inspired by this to write a whole fairytale au fic!!! it is long-- like, my star wars fics level of long, and im very excited about it. it feels good to be excited about something lol.

Folks that wanted to be tagggged: @ilostmyothersock, @littlerosetrove, @antukini, @sunriseseance, and @polarcell <3333 i hope you enjoy it! let me know if you do.

His heart pounded in his chest, the nighttime’s dewy grass sending him slipping and sliding as he darted between the trees. He didn’t dare take his usual, well-trodden path. Not tonight— not if his father had sent anyone after him.

The gardener’s cottage was on the edge of the palace grounds, where the lush, even lawns, sculpted shrubs and elaborate floral displays gave way to the foothills of the mountains. The ancient groves of chestnut trees were wilder, monuments to the artistry of a natural, unpruned life. Silver blue moonlight shone on their trunks, guiding Yusuf’s frantic steps as he dove deeper into the woods. He had slipped out of his chamber window without a sound that night— just as he had many nights before. There were no guards stationed out this far. He’d left the last of them blissfully ignorant, back by the last of the rose trellises— he knew it, but the urgency of tonight was twisting him into knots. He had to be sure. He had to take all precautions.

He couldn’t live with himself if he accidentally exposed this secret.

Finally, the endless shadowy forest gave way to a familiar clearing. The iron fist clenched around his heart loosened some, and he heaved a deep breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

The cottage was small. The roof leaked when it stormed, and the front door had gone crooked with age, providing a gale-force draft that rattled the windows on windy nights. The stones used to build it were near as old as the trees around it, starting to crack after weathering centuries of snowy winters and sun-baked summers.

It was small, yes. But he knew that the bed was warm, that the verdant rows of growing vegetables smelled like earth and honey under the sun’s heat, and that he felt relaxed there. It felt more like a home than the Palace of Genoa, where he was all but trapped under the constant gaze of gossiping strangers. It was even more comforting than the silks and spices of home, across the sea where his family and his people ruled.

His father had told him that he was accompanying him to Genoa to discuss trade imports between their kingdoms. He had said that they were to spend the year solidifying their connections with the Genoese royal family, drawing up important contracts— it's time you learned a thing or two about compromise, Yusuf.

That was what he said.

Yusuf rapped desperately at the door, a ragged half a sob punching out of his throat when he realized that he was finally there, on the flagstone threshold of someplace warm and safe, and—

“What’s happened? Yusuf?” The door opened to the smoldering orange light of the hearth, the brightest lantern hastily lit by the sleep-ruffled man blinking owlishly at him. “You said it would be too dangerous to meet tonight, while you met with your father…”

Yusuf would have laughed at his sweet face, if he weren’t about to cry from relief.

“He means to marry me to her.” He said, shaping the words outside of his panicked head for the first time. They felt too loud in the quiet night, too starkly horrible against the pristine haven of the trees. “The Princess, she—“ Yusuf choked.

Only now did he notice how his hands trembled, the way his vision was going steadily blurrier— he blinked against the heat building behind his eyes. The summer night was cool, but not cold, yet he still shivered. He shivered until a work-rough hand took pity on him. Nicolo reached out and pulled Yusuf into him, like he had all those months ago, back when everything changed.

He pulled him through the threshold into the cottage, the floorboards creaking and the door swinging shut behind them as Yusuf spun around to immediately throw his arms around his love’s shoulders. The fog of sleep was gone when Nico’s pale eyes locked on his, suddenly and horribly awake. A hot tear broke ranks and burned a track down Yusuf’s cheek.

Nico made a sad little noise. It rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest, a hum and a moan, the quiet syllable of no hidden in behind his teeth— like mourning. He cradled Yusuf’s face, his thumb brushing the wetness away.

“When are you to be betrothed?” He asked, his voice hoarse, like the sentence had to be yanked out of him.

Yusuf just shook his head, the thought of it flipping his stomach. “They intend to announce the engagement by the end of the summer.”

Something broke behind Nicolò’s eyes, and Yusuf knew what he was thinking. They had barely a fortnight left. The arm around his waist squeezed tighter, pressing their chests flush.

He could feel their hearts, pounding in time with each other. Usually it was a comfort, but it was a ticking clock between the two of them now. Their moments together were numbered.

Nicolo shuffled them around after a few tender seconds— breathing each other’s air, stroking over each other’s backs, existing in shared space— and maneuvered Yusuf to sit on the edge of his bed. It was still warm, the covers rumpled.

“I’m sorry to wake you. I just… I had to see you.”

Nico shook his head, “No apologies, Tesoro.” He puttered around the room, stoking the fire from embers to flames before setting the kettle over the highest heat. He settled on his knees, knelt at Yusuf’s feet to study him face to face.

He brushed Yusuf’s tousled curls off his forehead, and gazed into his eyes. His love’s eyes were a pale, silvery green, but tonight, they looked darker. In the dim glow of the cottage at night, they were bluer than usual, contrasted with the amber firelight. Yusuf leaned into his palm as it traced his hairline, down over his beard and jaw. Nico sat in silence, watching him with the gentleness of someone patient enough to watch the flowers grow. He was waiting.

“I…” he didn’t know where to start, what to say, “She’s so… She’s so old.”

Nico’s smile was unmistakably sad, little more than a quirk of lips, but his nod of agreement spurred Yusuf on.

“It has nothing to do with her looks, really. She’s just so old, and so wasteful, and her gaze on me is so… I just… I understand that I’ve put off marriage as long as my father can take. But she’s 25 years my senior. Her children are my age, Nicolo!”

He had told these things to his father— he had begged him not to go through with the arrangement, not to agree to the Genoese king’s proposal for his daughter’s hand. It’s already done, he’d said, it was arranged months ago.

Yusuf had no choice in the matter.

“I suppose it’s stupid that I was surprised.” He groused, his throat feeling tight and his voice thick. “It’s been so long since any of his children were more than bargaining chips to him— I’m not his son, I’m a new trade route.”

The kettle on the fire began to whistle, but Nico was sure to take his hands and kiss his knuckles before standing up to fix their tea.

Left to drift in his mind, Yusuf chewed his lip and floated through his memories, mentally listing the siblings that he’d lost to distant royal families. Only his eldest brother, Farouk, would never leave home. The throne was his, but what about the rest of them? What was the point of having children, of lovingly raising a family, if only to scatter them to the four winds in exchange for trade routes, dowries, and peace treaties?

It would be different if Mama was alive, he thought with a despairing little whimper. She wouldn’t let him do this…

“Yusuf, breathe.” His love’s voice broke into his thoughts, calling him back from the tangle of his mind. A steaming mug of rosehips, mint and honey was pressed into his palm, and Nico took it on himself to mold his hand around the warm pottery. “D’you have it?”

“If I say no, will you keep holding my hand like that?” Will you never let me go? he added silently, sure that his eyes were saying it all for him. Nico’s grip was warm and solid, and the calluses felt rough against him. It tethered him to reality, right there on his love’s bed. His pale gaze was soft and glimmering a little. Like he was going to cry. Like he couldn’t imagine saying goodbye to Yusuf anymore than Yusuf could bear the idea of letting Nicolo go. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, reaching out his free hand to card into his long hair. “Don’t let them take me, Nicolo— come away with me.”

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. He didn’t mean to spring this half formed, half delirious, half perfect plan on him so soon after waking him up in the middle of the night. The words fell from his lips, unwarranted and chaotic, but suddenly he was desperate to go, run, and be free.

Before he knew what was happening, the hot mug was lifted from his hand and Nico’s were on him, cupping his cheeks to slam their lips together. His waist was wedged between Yusuf’s thighs, his arms slipping down to wrap around him and tug his hips closer while Yusuf twined both of his hands into his love’s hair, desperate and trembling with the need to have him as close as he could be.

He nearly gasped with the need for air by the time they dared to pull away, but he missed his love’s lips the second they weren’t on his. Nico pressed their foreheads together, drinking in deep gulps of air, tear tracks wet on his cheeks and clumping his lashes as he fisted his hands in Yusuf’s tunic.

Yusuf’s hands in his hair slid down to stroke gently along his cheeks, feeling the wetness and studying how it gleamed in the glow of the hearth.

He held tight to Yusuf, fingers flexing in the fine fabric of his sleeping clothes. His jaw worked, jumping the way it did when he was holding his tongue. Everything about him was grim and elegant, as still as a statue.

He was so beautiful, and so sad.

“Why d’you look at me like that, Hayati?” He sighed, his own heart gripped in a terrible vice.

Nico swallowed, lips twisted with concern for a moment before he finally sighed and said, “I cannot ask you to leave your life, Yusuf. You are of such importance—“

“I am the sixth child of the Tunisian King. Farouk is his heir, and he already has three children of his own. I am nothing more than a mountain pass into the north to my father. My people barely know a thing about me— to them I’m simply the handsome, unmarried oddity of the royal family. My love, you know the wealthy trappings of royal life have never been something I need— but I need a life where I am appreciated and loved for who I am! I need simple comforts and a partner to walk hand and hand with through life. I need you, Nicolo.”

The fire crackled, and the cottage was quiet. Yusuf’s chest heaved, and tears streamed down Nicolò’s face. His bright eyes shone with a reverent light, like he had in the early days of falling in love— like he still did, in the pale morning hours when Yusuf was still half asleep by his side. It was as if he was falling in love all over again. Awestruck and grateful, his eyes looking like glimmering, full moons as he beheld Yusuf like a fallen star.

It took a long moment for Nico to find the words. Yusuf stroked his hair, hands still trembling from the adrenaline, even as the knots in his gut began to loosen.

“Yusuf, you…” he trailed off, rose back up on his knees and kissed him like an act of worship— firm, tender, salty with tears and trembling just as much as Yusuf was. Nico pulled slowly back, just far enough to nuzzle their noses and look him in the eyes. “I have never loved anyone the way I love you.”

“Will you come with me?”

“To the ends of the earth. Yes, Tesoro.” He sucked in a breath and let it out long, in a sigh that seemed to clear out all the corners of Yusuf’s cluttered mind. And then, he smiled.

Nicolo was a man of intricate reactions. There was beauty in each and every one, but it was a private, special thing to see that broad, happy grin.

“Drink this while it’s still hot— it’ll help your heart calm itself.” He fussed, pressing the mug back into Yusuf’s palm, and this time, he took it gladly. Nico stood to his full height, standing over him where he sat for a brief moment while Yusuf didn’t dare take his eyes off of him. Looking back down at him with the glow of something divine in his eyes, Nico bent himself down to press a soft kiss to Yusuf’s brow.

“Well, my Prince— where shall we go?”

Yusuf grinned back, something bright and hopeful growing in his chest.

They had planning to do.

********

Yusuf gazed up from where he laid in the glen, soft grass and wildflowers under his feet. The sun dappled the forest floor, streaming down into the parting of the trees where the cottage sat. Nico flickered his lips into one of his barely-there smiles as he gazed down at him where Yusuf had pillowed his head on his thigh.

Summer was nearly done. The full, green leaves were burnished gold around the edges by the hot sunlight; the garden smelled heavy with ripe harvests and vibrant flowers; and— on the far side of the palace grounds, beyond chestnut groves and manicured lawns, and terraces— the home of the King was glittering with silk flags and banners for the harvest ball. The last days leading up to the festival were certain to be wildly busy— there wouldn’t be a single moment where Yusuf could slip by unnoticed. Nicolo would be fussing about in the palace gardens with last minute preparations from dawn to dusk.

Usually, Yusuf would be tearing his hair out from the stress. He couldn’t stand the pomp and circumstance, the endless preparations of a ball. He spent hours per day, standing stock still and poked with pins while he was fitted for another itchy, Genoese costume. King Vincenzo was seeking out any opportunity to discipline the palace staff, and the courtiers got particularly insufferable as the long awaited date came to peacock around at the height of their finery. Even back at home, festivals were terrible, but in Genoa, Yusuf’s father had become even more strict. You are representing our kingdom! Act like it! was the most common phrase, hissed into Yusuf’s ear for the most minor infractions. He was constantly watching him, his shrewd eyes looking for any moment to say stand like royalty, Yusuf— shoulders back.

He hated standing on ceremony and the never-ending scrutiny— but, this time was the last time. His escape was in sight. He didn’t complain a single time about the drapes of scratchy, heavy fabric piled on his shoulders, or the way standing with such rigid posture made his back ache. He took each new indignity with a smile so gracious that even his father was smiling back.

Thinking of Nicolo made every pinprick more bearable. Lying there in the sun, eyes closed to bask in the warmth, he thought about the expertly packed saddlebags under his love’s bed. He listened to his soft humming— a tune Yusuf had only heard when he was rearing his most delicate seedlings, or on their quietest, gentlest mornings together— and the way it blended into the sounds of the birds.

Yusuf had never felt so certain of his path.

He was so content that he didn’t notice that the fingers twining their way through his curls had gone until they must have been missing from him for quite a while. He cracked open one eye, peering up at his love with mild accusation. Nico wasn’t paying attention to his pouting lips, though.

Sitting up to get a better look at him, Yusuf found Nico’s deft hands full of colorful flowers. He weaved their stems back and forth, his steady gaze flicking over to Yusuf with a sparkle in them.

“If I didn’t know you like I do, I’d have thought you’d fallen asleep.” He chuckled.

Yusuf sat close to his side, able to look over his shoulder and study the intricate bouquet. “What a beautiful braid.” He murmured, awe in his voice.

Some of the blooms were the small, wild ones that grew in the glen, poking out between the wide circles of bright blue coneflowers and puffs of golden orange chrysanthemums that Nico must’ve pulled up from the garden bed beside them.

“Let me show you how?” Nico replied, phrased as a question even as he handed over his work for Yusuf’s inspection. “It’s not as hard as it looks, I promise.” He said, tiny smile tilting his lips again.

Perhaps it was his imagination, or his own excitement, but it seemed as if Nicolò’s smiles had gotten wider, his eyes gone softer. The rod of nervous tension that always clung to his spine in the days before a ball wasn’t as unyielding and stiff.

Nico was more at peace. He weaved the stems of his beloved flowers in, out and under each other, dutifully guiding Yusuf’s hands as he collected his own flowers. He was right— it wasn’t as difficult as it had looked. The rhythm was steady and relaxing, a balm on the last of his nerves as he tucked flower after precious flower into his braid of grass. The crickets chirped, the birds sang, and the sun fed the earth— Yusuf sat side by side with his love, and it felt right.

“You know, I have been thinking.” Nico murmured, his rich accent nothing more than a purr into the summer breeze.

Yusuf chuckled, knocking their shoulders together, “Dangerous.”

Nico huffed an indignant sound, but his eyes rolled playfully when he met his gaze, “Of course, of course— thinking is only for those supremely educated, princely philosophers. How dare I—“

“No, no no no!” Yusuf shook out his curls, letting out a full, genuine laugh, “Tell me every thought that has ever passed through your head, Hayati— it is my privilege to be your audience.” He was grinning, laughing, cupping Nico’s sunkissed cheek and basking in the light of his eyes. “What were you thinking about?”

Nico licked his lips, swallowing like his throat had gone dry as he maneuvered himself to face Yusuf, sitting on his knees like he had not so long ago. Something about it squeezed at Yusuf’s heart, his smile fading into seriousness as he waited.

He carefully took and set down their braided flowers on the grass, scooping Yusuf’s hands up into his own.

“If we are to truly leave this place, I want to do this properly.” He said, eyes clear and trained on him with an unwavering focus. “I love you, Yusuf, but I can’t promise any royal comforts, or an easy life. I have no ring or dagger to give,” his breath came out long and slow, intentionally calm even while his fingers squeezed around Yusuf’s hands. He let go, then, picking up his circlet of braided flowers to hold in his lap. “I can only promise you the kinds of beauty I can make grow. Would you…”

His voice stuttered, his gaze dropping down to his lap and the blue flowers there, as if Yusuf was too blinding to look at. He could feel his smile splitting his cheeks, bright and unabashed, the cry of yes on the tip of his tongue, nearly jumping from his lips.

But he waited, patiently holding space for his love. He reached out and cupped his hand over his wrist, feeling his pulse race under the delicate skin, just to make Nico meet his gaze again.

“Would you marry me, my Prince?”

Yes. “Yes, my Gardener. I will marry you.” He replied, whispered like a secret, but more resonant and proud than anything he’d ever said. He was grinning, “Though, I’m not sure how much of a Prince I’ll be by the time we wed.”

Nico huffed one of his little laughs, meeting Yusuf with one of his rare, open smiles as he lifted the circlet of blue and orange and braided white to rest gently on top of his curls.

“No, but you will always be mine.” He said, swiping a tear from Yusuf’s cheek, not unlike he had done so recently, for such different reasons. It was more breath than sound, matching Yusuf’s hush.

I’ve never been so proud to wear a crown, he thought.

With his chest feeling expansive and warm, his cheeks hot with a pink flush, Yusuf hastily reached out for his own circlet of flowers. Their wide, fragrant petals and little sun-yellow centers felt silky under his fingers as he lifted it to Nico’s brow.

“If I maintain such royalty, then, my husband must, too.” He replied, voice nearly lost in the birdsong. “King of my heart, my true love.”

Nico’s face had gone soft and slack with a familiar expression— as if Yusuf was the sun itself, as if his warmth and light had singlehandedly brought him to life.

Yusuf let himself be held as Nicolo took his face in his hands and leaned in close. He pressed his lips to his tear-stained cheek, and then the other. He peppered the smallest, gentlest kisses across the freckles on his nose, and Yusuf wrapped his hands around his love’s wrists to keep him close. The last kiss was softly, loving left on the crest of his brow bone, tender enough to bring the forest to a standstill.

#joe x nicky #immortal husbands #kaysanova #yusuf x nicolo #yusuf al kaysani #nicolo di genova #the old guard #the old guard fanfic #fairytale au #escapism for the struggling #schmoopy schmoopy sappy fluff and some tears (cuz i always make joe cry-- not sorry)

128 notes · View notes

readingonpluto · 4 years ago

Text

16 Days of Nessian - Day 1/16

2 + 5 = 7 ~ Nessian Modern AU

*If you have any ideas for fanfiction or headcanons, leave them below!*

Word count: 2242

There they are.

I clutch the envelope in my hands, heart racing in my chest. I knew… I already knew, and yet somehow getting it confirmed makes it that much scarier. The doctor gave me a blurry photograph of our child, slipping it in an envelope to keep it safe so I could show Cass.

I have to show Cass. He’s going to be excited, and yet I’m scared of how he will react. He has always wanted children, sometimes telling me about dreams he has had about our family. The moment is now here… A source of his joy, and yet… And yet I’m terrified.

I unlock the door to our home, the house seeming quieter than usual.

Cassian pops his head out of the doorway to the kitchen, a smile immediately playing over his face. He comes over to me, planting a kiss on my forehead, and then my mouth, holding me close.

“You’re late.” His breath dances over my mouth, just before he kisses me again.

“I had a doctor’s appointment,” I say, hugging him tightly, hoping that if I hold him long enough he will just know.

Of course, that isn’t the case. He pushes me away just a little bit, arms still gripping my waist, but now concern lights his eyes as they search all over me.

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“I wasn’t sure if it would be worth mentioning…” I hold the envelope to my chest, heart pounding in my ears.

“But it is…” I nod. “Is something wrong?”

“No… No. Nothing is wrong.”

“Then--”

“Can we sit? Please.” He nods once, leading me over to our small table. I let him sit down in front of me, before taking my seat.

“I’m going to need you not to be angry if you’re angry at all.”

He tilts his head slightly. “Do you think I’m going to be angry?”

“I don’t think so.”

He stays silent, letting me take a few breaths before continuing.

“I’ve noticed that I’ve gained some weight,” I start, weighing the options in my head. “And then I noticed I have missed two of my cycles.” His eyes flash, his gaze firmly on mine. “So I went in today to get an ultrasound. I did a few pregnancy tests beforehand, but I just wanted to make sure…”

Cassian’s leg is bouncing and I can see he is trying to fight back a smile. He is truly trying his best to let me talk before saying anything.

“I’m going to tell you, before I show you this,” I hold up the envelope. “That all three pregnancy tests I did were positive.” I hand him the envelope.

He is brimming with joy as he gently opens it, pulling out the small blurry photo.

“Is this…” He trails off, eyes fixed on the image, tears building up in his eyes.

“We can’t know the gender until about four months in. But the doctor said that they’re healthy and everything is going fine.” I keep my gaze on him. I don’t think he is breathing. “I have another appointment in a month. I have the date so you can book it off work--”

Finally, he stands, making his way over to me before falling to his knees in front of me.

“There is a baby inside of you. My child.”

I nod, not sure what to say. His eyes are so bright, his tears so joyous that I don’t want to break the moment. Why did I ever think he was going to be angry? He pulls me forward just a bit, nuzzling his face into my stomach.

“I’m going to be a dad.”

My fingers find his hair, lovingly playing with the ends. “You are.”

The next time, the house is much louder as I step into it. I can hear Fin giggling and Cass telling him a story of a time he, Azriel, and Rhysand all got food poisoning. I have no clue why Fin finds it so funny, but it is one of his favourites. His second is the time Cass met me for the first time. That’s one of my favourites too.

I step into the living room, watching my two boys smile, pure joy radiating off of them. Finlay is the first to see me, pointing his chubby finger at me and reaching upwards. I immediately sweep into the room, picking him up and kissing him all over, causing another wave of giggles to erupt.

I shift him to one arm, reaching for Cass with the other. Just as swiftly, he kisses my cheek, hugging me close.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hi, Sweetheart.” His eyes flick to the clock. “You’re a bit late.”

“I was picking up a few things.” Fin wiggles in my arms, a clear message to put him down. He half crawls, half walks over to his toys, already bored with our conversation.

“Oh?”

“Oh.” I reach into my bag, pulling out a small envelope. Cassian’s eyes snap to mine before he takes it gently.

“Should I be scared?”

“Nope,” I smile. “Maybe. Just open it.”

He grins, slowly--just to annoy me--pulling out the photo. Immediately, his eyebrows furrow. I knew he would be able to tell it was different this time.

I step up next to him, gesturing at the photo. “That’s baby A, and that is baby B.”

His eyes find mine, making sure I’m serious, before sweeping me up into his arms. He kisses me hard, grinning from ear to ear. We had been trying to have another kid for about a year, and I knew he wasn’t expecting this.

“Twins?” I nod, smiling hard. “Are they okay? Nothing is wrong?”

“Nothing yet. They’re healthy so far, we just need to keep an eye on them.”

“Of course,” He kisses me again, setting me down only to pick up Fin and kiss him just as much. Our son had come over to see what the fuss was all about.

“You’re going to be a big brother,” Cass tells him, showing him the photo. “You’re going to have two siblings to look after.”

Fin points at the photograph, smiling at his father. “Wittle brother.”

I swear it gets louder and louder every time I walk into this house. From the sounds of things, Cassian made the kids some food, and Fin is babbling about what he did at school to the twins.

I slip into the kitchen where Cass is finishing up their meal--animal crackers for a treat. I wrap my arms around his waist, pushing my face into his back.

“Hello, Sweetheart,” He says, placing a hand over my own. “How did it go?”

“You’ll be happy.”

“Yeah?” He smiles, and turns to me. “Do I get an envelope again?”

Laughing lightly, I hand him the folded paper containing our fourth between its pages. “You do.”

He takes out the photo, smiling at the image. “Quinn will be wanting a little sister. At two she knows exactly what she wants.”

“And Caspian will want a little brother, just to spite his twin.”

Cass grins. “They’re going to be way too powerful when they’re older. I almost feel bad for their teacher.”

He hands the photo back to me. “What do you want?”

“I’m just excited for a fourth.” He kisses the top of my head, animal cracker in hand. “I’ll be happy with anything.”

“Same.” I trail after my husband into the loud dinner room. Quinn is flipping through one of Fin’s work books, as her older brother eats his sandwich. Caspian on the other hand is frowning at his food.

I slip into the seat next to our youngest. “What's wrong?”

“No like crust,” He mumbles out.

“You like the crust.” He shakes his head. “Just try it.” Again, he shakes his head. I look to Cass, and he shrugs, setting down the crackers.

“Baby, you need to eat it.” He says.

Caspian crosses his arms, looking more cute than mad. “Why?”

“No animal crackers otherwise.” He shakes the bowl for emphasis.

Caspian frowns, looking at his sandwich again.

“I’ll eat crackers if he no want them,” Quinn says, looking up from the workbook. Caspian immediately starts eating his sandwich.

I smile at Cass, standing to slip up to his side. “That's one way to do it.” “What’s the photo mummy?” Fin asks, pointing at the ultrasound in my hand.

“Another surprise.”

Finlay’s eyes light up, and he changes his pointing to the twins. “Another one?” I nod, laying the photo in front of them. I point to the little dot so Quinn and Caspian know what we’re talking about.

“That there is either a little boy or a little girl. Right now they’re in mummy’s belly, but soon they will be there to meet you.”

“When?” Quinn asks.

“Seven to eight months.”

“Oh…” Quinn points to my stomach. “Can I feel?”

With animal crackers forgotten, Fin tells the twins all about how he became an older brother, and the wait, with each of them taking turns feeling their new sibling even if there is hardly anything there yet.

“I’m happy they’re excited.” Cass whispers to me as I close the door to the twins’ room.

“Me too.” I lean into him. “I was worried little Cas would be unhappy.”

“He seemed okay after Fin explained. I think he fed off his and Quinn’s joy.”

“Better than explaining that we can’t go back now.”

Cass laughs, nuzzling into my shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to anyway.”

This time, I am truly scared. Every time we talked, it was always four kids. Four kids, and then we were happy. Ezra is now four, two years older than everyone else when a new sibling was brought in. Finlay is now eight and the twins are six. Will they be happy or sad or even angry?

They’re all watching a movie. I can hear the cheerful song playing from the television and all of them singing along, probably even acting it out. I smile, stepping into the house. However, before I can make my way into the room Cassian steps out of the kitchen, flour all down his apron and smile already on his face.

“How was your check up?” He asks, as I lean up to kiss him.

“Good,” I say, trying to keep the anxiety out of my voice. “Are you baking?”

“Yeah, I thought I would make some cookies for a treat.”

I nod and Cass’s eyes roam over me, missing nothing.

“What’s wrong?”

Swallowing, I hand him the envelope. His eyes look up at me as he takes it, before flicking down again and pulling out the blurry photograph. He lets out a shaky breath, smiling.

“Really?” He asks, looking up at me.

“Yeah…” I swallow again. “You’re not… You’re happy?”

“Of course I’m happy!” He pulls me to him, squeezing me tightly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

A small smile of hope plays on my lips. “We only talked about four kids, never five.”

“So?” He holds me at arms length, grinning from ear to ear. “If you are happy, then I am too. Adding one more to our family is amazing!” “Adding?” We both turn to find Fin, Quinn, Caspian, and Ezra in the doorway, all looking slightly confused. They must have come over when they heard Cass shout.

I walk over to them, kneeling on their level, holding out the photo which Fin takes. He smiles passing it to the others.

Ezra jumps up, shifting from foot to foot. “Is this a baby?” He asks. I nod, smiling. “I’m not going to be the youngest anymore!”

He runs over, wrapping his arms around me, followed by the twins then Fin. Not soon later, I feel Cassian’s arms hold all of us.

“I’m so excited,” I hear Fin whisper.

She comes out the hard way. It was a rough pregnancy, but she is okay, and in my arms, and breathing.

I’m shaking and crying, brushing wisps of hair from her face. Cassian left to get the kids, and I finally let myself crumble.

“You alright?” Feyre asks from where she sits not too far away.

“Yeah,” I breathe. “I was just… I was so scared…”

She stands, wrapping her arm around my shoulder, Elain coming up on my other side.

“It's okay now.” Elain whispers. “She is safe.”

I nod, trying to breathe as my daughter sleeps soundly on my chest. We sit like that for a few seconds, before I finally have a clear moment and look up at my sisters.

“Eleanor.”

“Pardon?” Elain asks, confused.

“Eleanor. The name means light, or shining one.”

Feyre smiles. “Cassian will love it.” “Nelly for short?” Azriel asks, looking up from his book.

I beam. “Nelly for short.”

“Mummy!” Ezra’s voice rings out, stumbling over to me. “Is she okay?”

“She is okay,” I shift so he can see his little sister better.

Cassian helps Ezra up onto the bed, so the twins and Finlay can also see her.

“Does she have a name yet?” Fin asks, his gaze never leaving his young sister.

“I was thinking of Eleanor.” I look up at Cass just in time to see the smile spread across his face.

“Nelly for short,” Quinn says, and this time Azriel smiles softly.

“I love it,” Caspian says, looking up at his dad.

“I do too.” Cassian agrees.

“Eleanor it is.” I smile.

“Nelly for short,” Ezra grins.

“Nelly for short,” I confirm.

#nessian #nessian fanfiction #nesta archeron #cassian #sarah j maas #cassian x nesta #a court of silver flames #a court of silver flames countdown

52 notes · View notes

sylvie-writes · 4 years ago

Text

Lonely Weekend

a/n: this one is quite the rollercoaster. also a quick psa.

A. I’ve never written for Ari Levinson nor have I seen the movie sooooo...

B. I just wrote this to give y’all a little something and it’s not rlly proofread.

C. And finally, yes this is another Kacey Musgraves song. Just feedin my addiction.

It's a lo, it's a lo, it's a lonely weekend

It's a lo, it's a lo, it's a lonely feelin' without you

It had been a few months since you’d seen Ari. Almost every night, you’d try to call him despite the crazy difference in time that separated you both. Unfortunately, four out of the seven times you would call, the answer dial would echo in your ear. With a defeated sigh, you’d place the handset back on the receiver, going back to whatever was keeping you busy at the time.

About a month ago, Ari had called you, catching you off guard as he was never the one to initiate the call.

“Guess what, sweetheart! I’m coming home!”

His words brought tears of joy to your eyes, causing your pitiful sniffles to travel through the phone.

“Oh sweet girl, don’t cry! I’ll see you soon, okay?”

After the longest four days of your life, you dashed out of work and straight to the airport. You waited and waited at the terminal for an eternity, puffs of smoke suffocating your nostrils and loudly spoken words surrounding your mind. When you caught sight of Ari’s gorgeous face, all of the nuisances from before didn’t matter, and you practically ran through the crowd of exiting passengers just to run into his arms.

Ari chuckled and dropped his bags, spinning you around in his arms and ignoring the annoyed huffs of the remaining passengers who were trying to pass you both. He pressed his lips against yours in a kiss you both savored.

For a good month, everything seemed right as rain between you and Ari. Things honestly couldn’t have gone better, yet when you and Ari started to fall apart, it happened in small and unnoticeable increments.

Monday, I was gone, and Tuesday, you were working late

Wednesday went to hell, and Thursday kinda had the wait, yeah

So far everything imaginable that could go wrong, went wrong this very week. Reality hit you like a freight train, knocking you out of your blissful little bubble with Ari.

Monday, you had left for a business meeting a few hours away, something you honestly didn’t want to show up for. You spent more time driving than you did in the actual meeting, which was aggravating as they could have sent someone else in your place. You went home that night, hoping to have Ari hold you in his arms, yet he was knocked out cold in bed and you didn’t want to bother him.

The next day, Ari had gone into work as you stayed home, the two of you switching places pretty much. Around noon, Ari had called, saying he’d be working late. It did hurt you just a bit as you had planned a nice dinner for the man. You had even spent all morning preparing food and such. On the phone, you acted as if everything was okay, but this was the last straw and you broke down into tears.

Wednesday, you got some news that you had been laid off. It seemed so surreal and you were just a walking zombie for the rest of the day. The most you had said all day was “yeah.” Ari was a bit worried, but he gave you your space and allowed you to carry on. If only he had seen how broken you were before he rushed out to work.

You spent a majority of Thursday in a weird funk, after all you had been laid off for heaven knows how long. It wasn’t that you were displaying anger or sadness, you were just numb, a blank expression on your face as you went along. Ari had left early that morning and you hadn’t even noticed to be honest. Actually, you hadn’t even noticed it was Thursday yet.

Friday, you were leavin', goin' out of town again

I should see what's goin' on, only got a couple friends

“Hey sunshine, how are you feelin?”

Ari kissed your bare shoulder as you continued to wash the dishes, a small smile on your face. The man wrapped his arms around your waist, placing kisses up your neck, his beard tickling you slightly. Yesterday, you eventually cried out all of your feelings and just accepted your fate as it was handed to you on a silver platter. Now, you were just happy to spend some time with Ari.

You quickly dried your hands on a dish towel and turned in his embrace, running your hands through his long hair.

“Oh Ari. What are we going to do, my love?”

He sighed and placed a gentle kiss on your nose.

“We will figure it out, Sweets.”

Ari pulled you closer to his chest, resting his lips by your ear.

“Oh honey, I hate to do this to you, but I have to leave. Tonight.”

Your heart stopped for a minute and you just nodded, some silent tears streaming down your face and onto his neck. Ari felt terrible, but there was nothing he could say or do that would help. Instead, he just rocked you in his arms until you started to nod off on his shoulder. Gently, he scooped you and took you to bed. Ari had to leave in a few hours, so he dedicated to join you under the covers, spooning your fragile body, much tinier in comparison to his broad physique.

It's a lo, it's a lo, it's a lonely weekend (so lonely)

It's a lo, it's a lo, it's a lonely feelin' without you

Ari left that night as he had said, kissing you with a passion and then leaving, being pulled away by work. You stayed curled up in bed, even changing into Ari’s most recent tee shirt, snuggling up into his pillow as well. Needless to say, you wished he was there with you. Being in his arms felt like nothing could get to you, whether that be bad news or bad friends. You felt protected and loved when you were with Ari.

Guess everybody else is out tonight (out tonight)

Guess I'm hangin' by myself, but I don't mind (I don't mind)

Saturday rolled around and you were yet to hear from Ari. He should have called you as he was still in America, just a week long business trip, that’s all. You moped along, pulling yourself together even though there was nothing to do. Your friends that lived in town were most likely busy, after all it was the weekend and you should have been busy too. It did get a bit depressing when your negative thoughts were the only thing keeping you company. They made you realize that you were going to be all alone when you needed people the most.

It's a lo, it's a lo, it's a lonely weekend, yeah

I got a million things to do, but I haven't done a single one, no

And if my sister lived in town, I know that we'd be doin' something fun

Some would say you had responsibilities to take care of, but you honestly didn’t feel like doing any of them. None of those chores involved seeing your loved ones, instead leaving you subject to the degrading voices in your head. One thing was for sure, and that was you weren’t going to be tending to those at the moment. With nothing to do, you tried calling your sister, the one who always made your day, just by a simple phone call. Unfortunately, just like Ari, when you needed her most, she wasn’t there to answer.

I keep lookin' at my phone, puttin' it back down

There's a little part of me that's got the fear of missin' out, and

It's a lo, it's a lo, it's a lonely weekend (so lonely)

It's a lo, it's a lo, it's a lonely feelin' without you

You sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the phone as if it would ring from intimidation. Minutes passed and no one called. The little part of you that had hope was crushed and you just leaned back onto the bed, sighing that no one called. Maybe they had forgotten about you. At least that is what your thoughts left you to believe. You knew they weren’t most likely true, so you just shut your eyes, hoping to take a nap and drift off to some lovely dreamland.

I guess everybody else is out tonight (out tonight)

Guess I'm hangin' by myself, but I don't mind (I don't mind)

Everyone was gone, out having fun. You had yourself, and that was enough for now.

You could manage, you’d done it before. But it was different now. Things were tough and you wanted someone to talk to.

But all you had was you and that was enough.

Right?

It's a lo, it's a lo, it's a lonely weekend, yeah

Even if you got somebody on your mind

It's alright to be alone sometimes, sometimes

Ari was on your mind, even when you woke from your nap, he was still there. His adorable smile engraved into your mind. You woke up, seeing the sun had set and it was not around nine. With a bit of a fresh mindset, you left the bed and moved to the couch. To pass time, you decided to learn solitaire. It was a last resort, but it was better than taking another nap.

It's a lo, it's a lo, it's a lonely weekend (so lonely)

It's a lo, it's a lo, it's a lonely feelin' without you

I guess everybody else is out tonight (out tonight)

Guess I'm hangin' by myself, but I don't mind (I don't mind)

After spending an hour attempting to learn solitaire, you tiredly gave up and turned to the tv, flipping through the channels looking for any form of entertainment. As you did so the front door creaked open, although you had just assumed the sound was on tv. Suddenly, a warm hand ran over your sweater clad arm, making you jump in your seat. You snapped your head in the culprit’s direction, your stern expression softening when you saw Ari’s bright smile. His face was illuminated by the tv’s light giving you a clear pathway to his lips. In no time, you crashed your lips against his, grabbing at his shirt and practically pulling his upper half over the back of the couch. Ari pulled back laughing, taking one hand to smooth your hair as you lovingly gazed up at him.

The man swung his legs over the couch in a swift jumping movement. You giggled at his actions, pulling yourself into his lap for a much needed hug.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m here now.”

It's a lo, it's a lo, it's a lonely weekend

Or so you had thought...

#ari levinson #ari levinson x reader #chris evans x reader

50 notes · View notes

miracleonice87 · 4 years ago

Text

Say You Won’t Let Go

a Sidney Crosby wedding series

Part Two

a/n: here’s part deux! read part one here. this will have at least one more part, probably 2! worth noting that I know next to no French and am relying heavilyyyy on our pal Google Translate in this story.

summary: a little more background throughout, as Juliette and Sidney meet up with their families and hockey star-studded bridal party for a rehearsal at their iconic wedding venue. if you’re not familiar with the location (it’s honestly incredible), click here for a look!

warnings: mention of deceased father. otherwise, so damn fluffy it’s practically cotton candy.

_____

Sidney and I arrived at the church exactly on time, much to Lauren’s satisfaction, with two cars carrying Mario’s crew pulling in at the next moment. I closed the passenger door of Sidney’s steel grey Range Rover and turned to take in the sight of our wedding venue, Heinz Chapel on Pitt’s campus, reaching a hand up to shield my face from the early evening sun as I gazed. Sidney did the same, coming to stand next to me and snaking an arm around my torso.

“Not a bad place to get married, eh?” he teased, kissing the crown of my head. I smiled and shook my head. “I’ve dreamed of this since the moment I first saw this place,” I told him. “It’s perfect.”

He took a step forward, offered his hand to me and grinned, quite pleased that we had been able to reserve the coveted location last summer despite it typically being booked three or more years in advance. I didn’t often request many special favors in the name of my uncle or fiancé, but this was one that seemed a necessity. Taking Sidney’s hand and walking toward the cathedral-style landmark, I said a silent prayer of thanks that I’d gotten even more than what I always dreamed of, in so many ways.

My family and Sidney walked into the chapel to find his parents and our bridal party already mingling near the pews, excitement palpably buzzing beneath the magnificent arches and towering stained-glass windows that decorated the exquisite interior. As we stepped through the doors, they turned our way, and I let out an echoing, very French-Canadian-sounding, “Allooo!” making them all laugh.

I first greeted Troy, Trina, and Taylor with hugs and warm hellos. Sidney’s parents were staying at his former townhome on Mt. Washington, which previously served as his bachelor pad and now housed Taylor in light of her recent move to Pittsburgh. We had spent much quality time with the elder Crosbys since their arrival from Nova Scotia a few days ago, helping us with final preparations and enjoying each other’s company ahead of my official entrance into their family.

Both Trina and Nathalie had accompanied me earlier in the week to my final dress fitting and pickup appointment at the bridal boutique where I had selected my gown. Though my mother did plan to attend the wedding ceremony as a guest, she was uninterested in playing the traditional mother of the bride role and joining me for such commitments, which hadn’t surprised me but still stung sharply, especially when I was fastened into the gown and presented by the salon attendant to a waiting Trina and Nathalie.

Bitter tears pricked my eyes as I allowed myself to feel robbed of sharing that moment with my own mom. My sadness was quickly overcome, however, when the women, sensing my sadness, warmly embraced me and fawned over me, admiring the perfect fit of the gown, both becoming emotional when Nathalie tucked my headpiece and veil tenderly into my hair.

The three of us stared at my reflection in the mirror for a few moments as we let tears of many complicated emotions fall, with joy prevailing above them all. I couldn’t keep the enormous smile from my cheeks when Trina squeezed my shoulder and whispered, “Oh, sweetheart, just wait until Sidney sees you.”

Now, we were less than 24 hours away from that moment, with our bridal party and family bustling around us in the chapel.

As our officiant, Father Antonio, announced that we would be lining up for the rehearsal momentarily, Lauren approached me with a grin, extending a bouquet she had made of the countless ribbons and bows from my bridal shower gifts acquired a couple of months ago. I giggled at how cheesy yet adorable the arrangement looked, thanking her as we huddled at the back of the aisle with my bridesmaids and Sidney’s groomsmen.

“This place is a little beat up,” Nate MacKinnon, our best man, ribbed Sidney from between the two of us. “I don’t know why you guys picked this dump,” he added, pulling me to his side. Sidney shoved lightly at his chest before the two of them laughed and embraced.

“Yeah, the old barn in Cole Harbour was booked this weekend, so we kinda had to settle for the next best thing,” Sidney played into Nate’s teasing, as his longtime best friend Mike, also a Cole Harbour native, approached us.

“Kind of a shithole,” Nate whispered, earning a warning glance from me as Austin tried to hold in hysterical laughter. “You can’t say shit in church!” Austin forced out from under his breath. “Oh, we’re going straight to hell,” Mike commented softly. Sidney gave me an apologetic look and I smiled up at him.

“It’s fine. These are our people!” I said to him, flicking Nate’s elbow as I passed him. “Besides, we’ve already been living in sin,” I added, winking at Sidney. He gave me a look of mock disbelief and insisted, “No. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a nice Catholic boy.” I giggled and pushed onto my tiptoes to kiss his cheek, which smelled of his fresh aftershave.

In addition to Nate, Mike, and Austin, we greeted Sidney’s other groomsmen as we prepared for the rehearsal — his current teammates Kris Letang and Evgeni Malkin and former Penguin Marc-Andre Fleury. They had all graciously accepted the invitation by Sidney to play this special role in our day, with Geno flying in from Russia and Kris and Marc-Andre from Quebec.

Marc-Andre had brought a few other important components to our day along with him — not the least of which was his wife and my best friend, Veronique. She and I had first met when Sidney and I were only casually seeing each other, and she had predicted this wedding long, long ago. She had been one of our biggest cheerleaders since the day we met, and despite her and Marc’s eventual move to Las Vegas, the four of us remained the closest of friends, visiting each other when the men’s respective teams played and whenever else possible.

With Lauren as my maid of honor and Stephanie, Alexa, and Taylor as three of my other bridesmaids, my friend Jacqueline, a Pittsburgh transplant with Canadian roots whom I met while studying at Duquesne, rounded out my crew of six ladies who would stand by my side on this long-awaited day.

To up the cuteness factor, Sidney and I had selected Marc-Andre and Veronique’s daughters, Estelle and Scarlet, as our flower girls, with Geno’s son Nikita and Kris’s son Alex as our ringbearers. Nikita was still a bit young to understand his role, but grinned broadly when Sidney told him when they arrived just how important he was to our day. On the other hand, Kris told us that Alex had cried after his parents had asked him to be in our wedding, because, as much as he adored and was attached to Sid, Alex had been under the impression that I was his girlfriend, not Uncle Sidney’s.

Eventually, after Sidney and I made the rounds to greet them all, the entire bridal party was grouped together to begin the walk-through. The venue’s wedding planner wrangled the children as the priest noted that Sidney needed to leave my side to approach the front of the church alone, in preparation for his emergence from one of the side doors at the front of the sanctuary tomorrow.

Playful “oooh”’s erupted from our groomsmen, who teased Sid about having to pry himself away from my hip. Sidney rolled his eyes, nodding and smirking, before turning his full attention to me. He tucked some hair behind both of my ears before caressing my cheeks with his thumbs.

“You gonna be okay, Jules?” Sidney asked, eyes wider than normal as he searched mine carefully.

I knew he wasn’t asking if I would be alright once he left my side to stand twenty yards away for the next five minutes, but rather if I would be able to contain my emotions as Mario walked me down the aisle, even during a practice run, in place of my father.

We had talked about this specific part of our day a number of times, with Sidney even pondering aloud whether he should walk me down the aisle himself because walking with anyone except my dad felt impossible to me. His sweet dad had even offered to do so, should I desire. After each conversation, Sidney and I both kept arriving at the same conclusion — that the best and most appropriate plan of action was for Mario to give me away and also to join me for the traditional father-daughter dance at the reception.

I nodded, holding onto Sidney’s wrists. “Yeah,” I whispered. “I’ll be okay,” I promised. He nodded solemnly in return and kissed my forehead before pulling back with a wink.

“You can do this,” he encouraged. “I’ll see you up there.” I gave him my best smile as he turned and walked to the front of the chapel.

As our wedding party lined up in front of me to take their positions, Nate stopped me for one of his signature bear hugs, resting his chin on top of my head just for a moment before releasing me. The rest of our group squeezed my hands and rubbed my arms lovingly as I walked to the back door of the sanctuary where Mario waited, hands folded in front of his hips and a tentative smile on his features. He, too, gave me a sweet kiss on the forehead before holding my shoulders at arm’s length.

“Listen, princesse, it was one of the greatest honors of my life when you asked me to walk you down the aisle,” Mario said, soft enough that only I could hear. “But if you’ve changed your mind and would rather do this some other way, please, just say the word.” I shook my head and wrapped my arms around his waist just as the piano music began.

“No, you are exactly the person my dad would want doing this if he couldn’t,” I told him confidently. Mario let out a small exhale, and I could tell he was trying to remain composed. As we parted, he said, “Then let’s go make him proud.” He offered his arm to me and I wrapped my hands around it firmly, leaning my head into his shoulder briefly.

We watched pairs of our party head down the aisle toward Sidney and the priest at a relaxed pace: Jacqueline and Geno led off, followed by Veronique and Marc-Andre, Taylor and Kris, Alexa and Austin, Stephanie and Mike, and finally, Lauren and Nate. Alex walked down the aisle in a near-skip, holding a fake pillow very carefully just as his mother, our beautiful friend Catherine, had instructed him, with Nikita by his side mimicking his every move. Their fathers gave them thumbs up and everyone clapped lightly when they reached the end of the aisle.

Next, after a bit of prompting from both their parents at the front, Estelle and Scarlett followed the boys’ path, scattering fake rose petals in place of the real ones they would have tomorrow, earning their own quiet round of applause. As the children were seated at the ends of the front pews on either side, the music shifted, and our wedding planner turned and gave Mario and me the nod.

“Ready, Juliette?” he asked softly. My eyes traveled down the long red carpet in front of us to the steps where the love of my life stood centered in between our closest friends and family, waiting for me. He gave me a warm, adoring smile and at that moment, I felt my unease melt away, just as it always did when Sidney was near.

“I’m so ready,” I whispered.

65 notes · View notes

helloprettybb · 4 years ago

Text

made a mistake

Here’s a prequel to “bring me back.” I was thinking about how interesting it would be to see what made Steve want to come back.

bring me back

warnings: angst, racism

word count: 3.7k

Steve knew when and where to be. Even without the super-soldier serum, he would never forget the date. Stepping into 1945 Brooklyn felt surreal especially since he thought he’d never see this again. It’s quite different than the 21st century, but just as he remembered.

No electric screens like when he first stepped foot outside in 2011. It’s nice and comfortable Steve thinks. He looks at the clock and realizes it’s 7:55. He knows where he has to be.

Entering the Stork Club, Steve reads that it’s 7:59. Sitting at the bar is Peggy. “Ready for that dance?” he asks. She turns and can’t believe her eyes.

“Steve, how did you?” she begins. He doesn’t answer, sweeping her in his arms and placing his lips on hers. It’s nice and sweet, nothing like the kisses you two would share. He doesn’t know why you appear in his mind. He came back for a reason: her. So he pushes you into the back of his mind and gazes down at Peggy. She’s as beautiful as he remembered.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, eyes never leaving hers. He still can’t believe he’s really here.

It starts with one date and then another and before Steve realizes, he’s getting married to Peggy. Only a few months of coming back, Steve is already preparing to walk down the aisle. It’s all rather fast, but she’s his love.

At the altar, Steve takes a subtle look to his left and the corners of his mouth go down just a little. Not only his Bucky not here, but his other friends like Sam and Clint.

Before he could dwell on his old friends, Steve sees the doors open. Peggy walks down the aisle in a modest, yet beautiful dress. Steve smiles at the sight of her. She’s radiant, but he’s hit with an intense flashback.

“How do I look?” you ask, bursting out of the changing room. Steve looks up and laughs. You’re dressed in a big, dramatic wedding dress, even sporting a long veil. As ridiculous as it looked, Steve had to admit that you pulled it off.

“I’m pretty sure that’s a bit much for the gala.” Steve jokes. You ignore him and do a slow twirl in front of the mirror.

“I know! But that doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun.” you jab back. Tony was having a charity gala, which meant the whole team had to dress up. You practically jumped Steve and forced him to drive you to a boutique. You told him you needed his input, but five minutes in the store made it clear that he was only there to keep you company. Since Tony was paying for the clothes, you didn’t even look at price tags before grabbing everything you could and running into the changing room.

For the last half-hour, Steve sat on a chair too small for him as you occasionally popped out from behind the curtains. After the first fifteen dresses, the rest seemed the same. You could sense that he was getting bored so you slipped on a wedding dress to grab his attention.

You sigh as you look in your reflection. “It is a nice dress, though. I think for our wedding, I’d go for a smaller skirt.”

Steve’s ears perk up and his eyebrows shoot to his hairline. You notice Steve’s shocked expression and quickly explain, “Oh no, Steve. I didn’t mean it like that. I know we’ve only been dating for four months and saying our wedding sounds really weird, but I just meant that in the future, like far, far future. Because I really like you and want to spend the rest of my life with you and I really should stop talking.”

Steve eases into a smile at your nervous rambling. He stands and walks over to the mirrors. Your face is in your hands and you keep mumbling out of embarrassment. Steve wraps his arms around you from behind and whispers in your ear, “It’s okay because I want to spend the rest of my life with you, too.”

Steve snaps back to the present when Peggy is only feet from the altar. The ceremony proceeds and Steve is happy. He gazes at Peggy lovingly and when the minister finishes, he kisses his bride. He closes his eyes, but for a second, your face appears. His heart skips a beat at the thought of you, but he pushes you away. It’s his wedding day after all and he’s marrying the love of his life.

Relationships took work. Steve knew that, so when Peggy started leaving him alone to go on missions, he wasn’t mad. Hell, he’d done that to you how many times. But the days turned to weeks and then months and sometimes, Steve would only see her for a day before she had to leave again. He understood because he’d been there.

She offered him a job at SSR, but after all his years of fighting in the 21st century, he figured he’d retire. Although confused, Peggy didn’t pry. She continued her life as normal, going on missions frequently. She didn’t realize it was an issue.

Steve paces the floor as he waits for his wife to come home. He hasn’t seen her in three weeks since she went to god knows where. Steve hates the secrecy but would feel very hypocritical if he complained. After all, he did the same for you.

Oh, you. The more time that Peggy is away, the more often he thinks about you. It started with little things, like waking up in the morning. With Peggy, Steve wakes up on one side of the bed while Peggy wakes on the other. He realized early on that Peggy wasn’t as fond of physical touch as you. Steve told himself that it didn’t bother him and he definitely didn’t miss the way you would doze off on his chest. Steve also most certainly did not miss how your small hands would grab his face and comfort him after a particularly bad mission.

Still, Steve wonders how you are doing (as a friend of course). Do you miss him?

Steve hears the door open. He lifts his head and sees a very tired Peggy walk into the house. “I’ve missed you, doll.” he says, walking up to give her a hug. However, she stops him before he could wrap his arms around her.

“Sorry, Steve. I’m just really tired. I need to get some rest. They’re placing me somewhere else tomorrow morning.” Peggy quickly explains before heading towards the bedroom.

Steve frowns slightly and asks, “Where are you going?” Peggy shakes her head, having had this conversation multiple times.

“You know I can’t tell you, dear.” Peggy responds, already getting ready for bed. “All I know is that I’ll be undercover for two months.”

Two months! Steve can’t believe that he just got her back and now he barely sees her. His frustration finally taking over, he groans, “Are you serious? Why can’t you just stay?” The last part sounds more like a plea than a question.

Peggy, too tired to argue, sighs, “Steve, it’s my job. I told you when we got married that our life would be like this.” Steve thought he was a fairly patient person, but his anger finally gets a hold of him.

“If I knew it was going to be like this, I wouldn’t have come back!” Steve shouts louder than he wanted. He realizes what he’s said but it’s too late.

Stone-faced and very much awake, Peggy replies in a tone that’s too calm, “Then leave.” Steve tries to think of something to say, but it seems that his mind is blank. He doesn’t even grab anything before leaving the house.

He’s such an idiot. He sacrificed everything, his friends, the internet, and you, for Peggy. He knew what he was doing when he took that detour. He weighed all the pros and cons, yet he thought he made the right decision. Was he wrong?

Steve’s feet seemed to have a mind of its own as he walked around the streets of New York. Troubled with his thoughts, Steve blocked out most of the city’s noise until loud shouting pierced his ears. Running towards the noise, he ends up in an ally behind a drugstore.

The closer he gets, the more slurs he hears and it disgusts him. When he’s close enough, he yells at the two white attackers, who are beating up an African American man. The man’s head is bleeding and it looks like he’s drifting in and out of conscious.

Steve acts before he thinks and throws a punch at the larger man. He immediately collapses to the ground. His friend tries to hit Steve, but he’s too slow and soon enough, he’s also on the ground. He didn’t mean to knock them out, but he brushed it off, determining that they deserved it.

He turns his attention to the injured African American man and crouches down by him. “Hey, you okay?” Steve asks nicely. The man struggles to open his eyes, but when he finally does, he widens them with shock and fear.

Still severely injured, the man attempts to scramble back and cries, “Please, stop. I didn’t mean to be here. I got lost.” Steve’s heart hurts at the desperate plea. He holds his hands up to show that he means no harm.

“I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. Let me take you in there so I can patch you up.” Steve replies sincerely. The man still looks a bit scared, but Steve can see that he’s easing up a little. He moves a little closer, but this time the man doesn’t scoot away. “Do you need help getting up?” The man nods and Steve helps him on his feet.

He starts to direct him into the drug store when the man speaks up, “They’re not going to let me in.” Steve furrows his brow in confusion.

“Why wouldn’t they?” he asks rather innocently. The man lets out a bitter, resentful laugh.

“Are you serious? Do you know where we are right now?” he asks, tone as disgruntled as his laugh. Steve thinks for a second before he realizes. He couldn’t believe he was being so naïve, but spending over a decade in the twenty-first century made him realize how much he took for granted.

“I’ll take you home, then. Did you come in a car or anything?” Steve asks the man. He nods and points across the street. Steve supports the man while they cross the street to his car. He hands Steve the keys and he starts the engine.

“Where do you live?” Steve acts as he pulls the car out of the spot. The man rolls his eyes at Steve’s cluelessness.

“Harlem.” The man groans as he sits up, he continues, “You’re not from around here are you?”

Steve lets out a short laugh and responds, “Well, I grew up here. But I haven’t been around for a very long time.” It was the truth. The twenty-first century made Steve forget about the bad parts of the 40s. He used to look back fondly, but now he feels like a fool for excluding the extreme racism and segregation.

He pulls up to the man’s house and helps him to the door. A woman, who Steve assumes is his wife, opens the door and stares at Steve. She cowers a little behind the door until she sees her battered husband. She quickly moves out of the way as Steve moves in. He places the man at the kitchen table. His wife quickly jumps into action and searches for the first aid kit.

“Where did you find him?” she cries, seeing the condition he’s in. He tells her and the woman’s eyes well up in tears. “Oh, Robert, you didn’t have to do that! I already told you. I bought candy from the store in Harlem.” She’s scolding him, but Steve can tell that she’s just worried beyond belief. It reminded him of you whenever he came back from a mission with anything more than a scratch.

“I know, honey, but she loves the candy from that shop in Brooklyn.” Robert replies, slurring his words a bit. Steve’s about to ask who they’re talking about when a little girl walks out from the hallway.

“Mama?” she asks, staring at Steve. She’s small, probably five or six. She catches sight of her father and asks, “Daddy, what happened?”

His wife is about to reply when he interrupts, “Daddy got in a fight, but this nice man saved me.” Even though he has a bandage wrapped around his head, he still has a comforting smile on his face when he talks to his daughter.

The young girl starts to walk towards them when her mother springs up and starts, “No, young lady. You’re supposed to be in bed.” She delivers a little pout before turning around and heading down the hall.

Robert’s wife sits next to her husband and grabs his hand. They lock eyes and share a look that Steve could only describe as true love. She turns towards Steve and states, “Thank you, sir. If it weren’t for you, I don’t know what would have happened.”

“Oh, anyone would have done it.” he replies but realizes that it isn’t true, at least now.

“Please, if there’s anything we could do to repay you.” she insists. Steve doesn’t want anything for just being a decent person, but then he remembers his situation.

He sighs and asks, “Can I stay here for the night? My wife kicked me out.” He hands his head a bit at that last sentence. She easily accepts and fetches some pillows and blankets for Steve.

“Why did you do that?” Robert asks, still confused why a person like Steve would help him.

Steve simply shrugs and replies, “I don’t like bullies. There’s no reason to be so hateful towards someone different, someone who’s done nothing.” Robert simply laughs at his response, but it isn’t as bitter.

“You’re really not from around here then.”

Steve knew he had to go home at some point. After staying the night at Robert’s and thanking his family for the hospitality, Steve returned home. He expected an empty house since Peggy was on a mission, but when he opened the door, he was greatly surprised.

“What are you doing home?” was the first thing out of Steve’s mouth. Peggy’s arms were crossed and she was staring daggers at Steve. He closed the door behind him. Zeroing in on the carpet, Steve found that he couldn’t look Peggy in the eye.

“I didn’t go.” Peggy replies, stating the obvious. Steve finally looks up at her and all he sees are cold, brown eyes. When Steve doesn’t say anything else, Peggy continues, “We need to talk Steve.”

“What about?” Steve asks, too much sarcasm slipping into his voice.

Peggy huffs a sigh and starts, “It’s not working out Steve. I know it and I hope to god you do, too.” Steve can hear the frustration and anger in her voice. He doesn’t answer, not knowing if he could control his temper. The two remain in an uneasy silence for a couple moments.

In a softer voice, Peggy asks, “It’s because of her, isn’t it?” Steve didn’t know how to answer that. Was it really all about you? Clearly, Peggy thought it was and in a cold, professional manner, she states, “I’m meeting with my lawyer Friday.” Steve just nods and Peggy moves towards the door. He moves out of the way and Peggy leaves.

The entire process took six weeks since both of them agreed to keep the court of it. After all the paperwork was filled out, Steve Grant Rogers was officially divorced. He knew it had to happen, but Steve still had difficulty processing it. The day after the divorce finalized, Steve went out for coffee with Peggy.

“So...” Peggy starts, struggling to find something to talk about. Steve felt the same, opting to take a sip of coffee instead of striking up a conversation. The two of them had grown increasingly distant since the day Peggy filed for divorce. It got to the point where they didn’t even share the same bed. It wasn’t just because they didn’t love each other. It was because of you.

Apparently, the stress of the divorce process restarted Steve’s sleep-talking habit. At first, they were just quiet whispers of your name, but they evolved to full-on conversations with you. Steve couldn’t blame Peggy for being irritated at his love confessions toward you so he volunteered to sleep on the couch.

Peggy taps on her mug while Steve looks around the shop awkwardly. When Peggy offered to go out one last time, Steve saw it as a form of closure. The two of them have mostly moved on, but there were many things left unsaid. Peggy clears her throat and finally says, “Let’s talk about it.” Steve focuses his eyes on her and his heart hurts a little. Although his feelings are mostly gone, he still sees the woman he came back for.

“Okay. I’m sorry.” Steve states bluntly. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for specifically since it seems there is so much. He continues, “I left everyone I knew and cared about to come back for you. I think I expected too much.”

Peggy nods and replies, “Steve, I didn’t ask you to come back for me.” He can tell she’s trying to remain calm, but her tone wavers enough to tell him that she’s on the defense.

“I know and I’m not mad at you.” Steve sighs. “It’s just... all those years in the twenty-first century made me long to go back. Even when I met her, I still thought I’d want to be here.”

Peggy takes in his confession and finishes his thought, “But you don’t belong here.” Steve averts his eyes and gives a tight smile. At least she’s understanding and not upset. “You need to go back.”

He looks up at Peggy. Her tone is calm, maybe even a little sanguine. “Excuse me?”

Peggy shrugs and replies, “You should go back. To the twenty-first century, to your friends and to her. You can do that, right?” Steve smiles a little at her curiosity. It’s ironic that this conversation started with her wanting nothing to do with him, but now, she wants to help.

“Well even if I could. I don’t have enough particles.” Steve reasons. Peggy raises an eyebrow slightly confused. Steve remembered that he didn’t tell her exactly how he came back. “I had these Pym particles that allowed me to travel in time. I used them all already.” Peggy thinks a little then comes up with a solution.

“Well, maybe you could find a way to communicate with your friends.” she suggests. Steve searches his mind for any opportunity, then it hits him. His realization must have reached his face since Peggy laughs lightly for the first time in weeks.

“So, I figure you discovered a solution?” she jokes and Steve laughs a little.

“Yeah.” Steve replies, smiling at the way everything is coming together. She starts to get up and he states, “Thank you, Peggy.” She gets that he meant for everything and she smiles.

In a tone that completely contradicts her words, she says, “I hope I never see you again.” She gives him a final kiss on the cheek and leaves for the last time. Well, that’s one way to say goodbye.

Steve laughs to himself at how lax the security is at Stark Industries. If it were like this in the twenty-first century, missions would get done much faster. He drives around the complex until he spots it in the distance. Standing tall and proud is The Tree. Although rather younger, it looks like it did on Steve and your first date.

You are beautiful. Steve can’t help but stare as you grab a strawberry from the picnic basket. You notice him looking and blush a little, “What?”

You laugh a little out of embarrassment and Steve replies, “Nothing, t’s just you’re so beautiful.” Your eyebrow quirks a little out of surprise and you smile brightly.

“Thank you, Steve. If it’s any consolation, you’re very beautiful, too.” you laugh and Steve beams. Everything about you is so perfect that Steve can’t believe you agreed to go on a date with him. When he asked, he had to conceal his surprise at your acceptance. He waited for a nice day so that the two of you could go on a picnic.

The two of you talked for so long that Steve lost track of time. A large shadow began to cast over the sunny field. Steve looked up and saw giant storm clouds roll it. He mentally cursed himself and his poor technological skills for not checking the hourly forecast. Picking up the basket and blanket, Steve started toward the compound when you grabbed his hand. Before he could ask any questions, you pull him toward the old tree that sat in the middle of the field.

He followed and the two of you make it just in time before the rain starts to pour. Protected by the tree, you say sheepishly, “I didn’t want the date to end yet. I knew that if we went inside, the others would pester us.” Steve laughs in agreement and sets everything down. He looks down and notices that your hand is still in his. You seem to notice it too and with a sly smile, you pull him away from the tree.

Steve follows and in a matter of minutes, the two of you are drenched. Neither of you cares and he jokes, “So much for nice weather.” You laugh, running your hands through your soaked hair. Steve doesn’t know why the simple gesture gets his heart going, but instinctively, he asks, “Can I kiss you?” He immediately worries that it was too forward, but you smile even wider.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

It’s drizzling lightly when he gets out of the car. Steve’s hair slowly grows damp as he walks toward the tree. Tracing his fingers over the bark, he looks for a place to carve. He stops halfway around and takes out his knife.

Stepping back, he’s relieved to see that it’s readable. Now he prays to god that you get the message.

#steve rogers #steve rogers imagines #steve rogers angst #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #marvel #marvel imagine

113 notes · View notes

royalcordelia · 4 years ago

Link

Summary: Anne and Gilbert embark on their journeys, but stay close to each other at heart. Courting across 1000 miles isn’t easy, but they’re more than willing to step up to the task. (A post s3 story).

Note: Much love to @withlovegilbert and @js589 who gave me their thoughts about this chapter. You guys rock! ♥

At first, Gilbert thought he was dreaming of feathers—silky feathers trailing down his nose with effervescent softness in long strokes. Once, twice, three times...He scrunched his nose at the tickling sensation, unwilling to move away from whatever warmth he was encased in. The feather smoothed over his brow, trailing down in deliberate slowness to his upturned lips.

“Gil,” a familiar voice whispered, breaking into his dreamless slumber. “I’m loath to wake you up, but I have to get ready to go.”

Gilbert’s eyelashes fluttered on his cheeks as he stirred awake. His dopey grin was sunshine in the dawn-less room when he peered down at the young lady sharing his pillow. For a moment, he could forget that just an hour from now Anne would be gone. Her fingers still caressed the apples of his cheeks, lingering for a long moment. When her touch vanished, she tried to push out of Gilbert’s arms, only to be held against his chest.

“Anne, it’s four in the morning. Lay with me awhile,” he said, his voice hoarse with sleep.

“I have to make the five o’clock train,” Anne replied softly. “Thirty minutes to get dressed. Twenty to walk to the station. Leaves me a few minutes to spare to buy my ticket and board.”

“Take a later train,” suggested Gilbert.

“If I don’t arrive home at a decent time, Mrs. Blackmore will think I’ve been killed, or worse, eloped. Even then, she believes I’m visiting a female cousin on family matters.”

“It’s not too late to elope,” he teased, his lopsided grin finding its way to her jaw. His breath was warm against the morning chill, nearly enticing enough to convince Anne to throw caution to the wind and slide back into bed. Instead, she pressed a good morning kiss to his waiting lips and moved in search of her luggage.

“You should rest a bit longer. I’ll wake you before I leave.”

“If you think you’re walking by yourself to the station, then you are sorely mistaken,” grumbled Gilbert. He dramatically swung his legs out of bed and grimaced at the cold air.

“I don’t mind going to the station by myself. You’re probably still exhausted from the party,” Anne argued, but Gilbert heard none of it.

He grabbed some trousers and a fresh shirt from his dresser, then spoke in a gentle voice, “I’ll wait downstairs for you. Take your time.”

When he was gone, his essence still lingered about the room in the way it smelled and felt. Lovingly, she caressed the soft surface of his quilts, then the smooth wood of his table and dresser. The mirror hanging on the wall had already collected a few month’s worth of dust, but instead of wiping it away, she drew a heart and labeled her initials with her pinky. There might never come another time she could return to the comfort of this room, and as she crossed the threshold, she gave it one last indulgent look.

By the time she was presentable, Gilbert had cracked open one of his textbooks, reading it with sleepy eyes. When he heard her footsteps creak down the stairs, he gently closed the book and smiled wistfully. Anne fell by his side, giving his hand a squeeze.

“Can’t keep Queen Anne away from the island too long, can we?”

Gilbert was quiet the entire walk to the station. Any light topics Anne tested out failed miserably to lighten his mood. He met each of her hopeful smiles with unconvincing attempts of his own, every time turning his face away to the street lamps. The sky was still obsidian in the fresh hours of the morning, unpleasantly starless and cloudy, making Anne glad Gilbert had insisted on accompanying her.

He waited on the platform as Anne purchased her ticket, shoulders slumped. With the ticket in her purse, she came to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder. Anne’s heart dropped when his heavyhearted eyes met hers. His strong facade had finally fallen, leaving a troubled frown unveiled.

“Gilbert?” Anne asked gently. She couldn’t bring herself to ask what was wrong, unsure if she’d be able to leave if he told her. Gilbert’s gaze fell down to where she was reaching for his fingers.

“I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” he admitted. Despite the bitter taste in her mouth, Anne schooled her features and nodded in encouragement.

“That’s okay. You can tell me now.” She meant it.

Behind him, a high whistle resonated within distance as the train slowly screeched began to screech to a halt. Gilbert caught Anne looking over his shoulder and a flash of panic washed over him. He followed her gaze where a handful of tired passengers boarded the train, but when he felt a soft caress touch his cheek, he whirled back to Anne.

“Go ahead,” Anne prodded gently.

“I really miss you,” he confessed breathlessly. Anne scrambled for something to say to ease his heart, but he rambled on before she could find the right words. “Bash asked you to come because he figured out how homesick I’ve been. It was never so bad because I’d always traveled to escape the realities of home. But now, with Bash and Delphine in Avonlea, and you in Charlottetown…”

Anne’s stomach twisted. “I...had no idea.”

“I tried really hard to hide it in my letters,” Gilbert muttered. “But one of them to Bash was too vague. He made me tell him what was wrong.”

“I should’ve been able to tell,” Anne lamented.

“No, Anne, I made sure you wouldn’t be able to tell. I didn’t want to worry you. You’ve got too much going on.”

Anne felt like she was caught in the undertow, floundering desperately for something to say that would take the cracks in his heart and mend them instantly. Yet she knew that nothing she said could change the fact that in a few moments they’d begin another month and a half of painful separation. She wished she had thought to bring a token of home, anything from the island that she could’ve stuffed into her luggage. All she had was a parting embrace, one that she wrapped around him like an old heirloom quilt. As Gilbert’s desperate arms came around her, she hoped that her warmth would linger enough to give him the strength he needed to see his heartsickness through. Anne could feel Gilbert’s breath on her throat as he heaved a sigh of relief, dissolving into her touch and allowing her to hold him up.

“Remember what I said, alright? You’re intelligent and brave. You’ll get used to life here. If last night was any indication, you already have,” she said, determined and kind.

He nodded against her shoulder, running his fingers over the softness of her hair with tender reverence. Behind him, the train master gave her the Time’s Up glare.

“I have to go,” Anne lamented. Gilbert squeezed his eyes shut.

Instead of asking her to stay, as he so desperately wanted to, he pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded. “Alright.”

A month and a half suddenly seemed like an insurmountable mountain, the end of which was deathly out of reach. Even though her limbs were weary with lack of sleep, she found the strength to pull away from him to memorize the lines of his cheeks and jaws. She’d never forget the way he looked the day she met him, or the day when he first kissed her, but she wanted to burn today’s Gilbert into her memory and save it for days that were stormy and punishing. Gilbert seemed to be doing the same.

Ever so slightly he tilted his face to her, and she met him, crashing a month’s worth of kisses to his lips until the feeling of it was unfading. His hands were under her cheeks, holding her to him until he had tasted enough of the sunshine on her lips to hold him together.

When they broke apart, Anne leaned down to grab her carpet bag and gave Gilbert one last beaming smile.

“How’s two letters a week sound?”

Gilbert let out a chuckle that was rough with stifled tears. “That sounds perfect.”

She took one step away, then two.

“See you at Christmas.”

“Safe travels.”

As she boarded, the door closed behind her blocking away the fresh air for the duration of her day long journey. When she found her seat, though, she found Gilbert was still there, watching and smiling.

Anne watched her beloved until the sight of him turned into a silhouette of shadow against the train station. Her eyelids grew heavier and heavier, but hope sparked in her chest as Gilbert heaved a sigh and stepped off the platform with a renewed strength in his shoulders. She imagined him trailing up the Toronto streets like they were Avonlea hills, sheltered in warm dew and residual moonlight. And then, she fell asleep.

It was the last days of November and several love letters from Anne later when Gilbert began to feel like he could actually imagine a future for himself in Toronto. It could never be a permanent future, but it seemed less daunting to imagine another four years in the city—maybe even seven if he wanted to obtain his licensure here. It also meant that he decided to stop living like each day was a battle to survive until Anne and Bash’s next letters arrived. He would have to start doing things here that he liked and turn this loud, boisterous city into a home away from home.

Gilbert went to explain all of this to Dr. Sullivan, who bid him to sit in a stiff leather chair upon seeing the young lad in the doorway. November had brought with it many dreary days of cold and early snow, but today the sun made a much needed reappearance. It filled Dr. Sullivan’s office through two small windows, drowning away the light of a small electric lamp.

“I bet you caught a few perplexed stares on your way here, a medical student wandering the humanities hallway,” Dr. Sullivan teased. He pulled his glasses from his nose and folded them into his breast pocket, peering at Gilbert curiously.

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. I was wondering if I might beg your help for something?” Gilbert replied, dropping his leather bag onto the ground beside him.

“No begging will be necessary. Your visits are always welcome. Besides, I’ve been marking freshman essays for nearly two hours and could use fresh company. What has you on the wrong side of school?”

“When Anne was here in October, you told her about the Women in Literature class you’re offering next semester. I wanted to add it to my class schedule, but the registrar refused. She said the class is already full, and even if I got you to sign me in, she’d refuse to forward the application to the dean of the humanities college.”

“That’s absurd. Did she give a reason?”

“Only that with fifteen medicine and biology credits, the last thing I’ll want to do is spend my nights reading George Eliot and Jane Austen.”

Dr. Sullivan leaned back in his chair.

“She does make a valid point. The class is a lot of reading—one or two texts a week. Emily tells me you’re already studying more than any other student she’s had. Are you sure you’re prepared for the extra coursework?”

“Anne is back home taking on two fields of study. What good would I be if I couldn’t handle one extra class? I’m determined to do it. I only came because there’s the matter of the class being full.”

“And Miss Eaglen in the registrar’s office taking your fate into her own hands.”

“That too.”

Pushing himself back from his chair, Dr. Sullivan ambled over to his filing cabinet and pulled open a raggedy drawer. He retrieved a stack of type-written pages and turned them toward the sunlight so that he might see more clearly.

“The class is indeed full, but half the seats will be free by the time we finish introducing the syllabus. If you come on the first day, you’ll have nothing to worry about. I’ll speak with Miss Eaglen.”

Gilbert blinked. “Pardon, did you just say that half the class is going to withdraw?”

Dr. Sullivan didn’t look up from his roster. “I did.”

“People can’t hate reading that much.”

“No, but they can and will despise a black professor enough to drop the class.”

Gilbert’s face fell. He couldn’t imagine being accepted into the University of Toronto, only to reject a member of its faculty based on such...asinine prejudice. A faculty member with a PhD, campus wide acclaim, and a kind disposition, at that! How could anyone claim to have gotten the fullest extent of their UofT education if they closed off their minds and only listened to viewpoints of people just like them?

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a student so upset on my behalf,” noted Dr. Sullivan, interrupting Gilbert’s mental tirade. Gilbert looked up, only to feel his cheeks locked in a tight scowl. He straightened his chair, expelling his frustration with a small sigh.

“It just hits a bit close to home.”

Dr. Sullivan sat back down at his desk, waiting patiently for Gilbert to elaborate.

“My entire family is black,” Gilbert clarified softly. “My brother, my niece, his mother, my late sister-in-law, her son. It’s not the same, but it breaks my heart to watch them struggle in my hometown, the home that I shared with them. I had hoped that the cruel behavior they encountered could be blamed on the small-town mindset of our community. I didn’t expect to cross the country and find it here in the city too.”

“Every corner of the world has its own brand of enmity and unfairness. You won’t be able to escape it. You could take your brother and his family across the Atlantic and you would find this to be true.”

“I have,” Gilbert chuckled bitterly. “The states, Cuba, Trinidad, Spain. And you’re right, in each country they looked at Sebastian like he was living on the wrong planet.”

“I know the feeling.”

Gilbert wasn’t sure what to say next. Part of him wanted to apologize, but for what? What was some fruitless apology supposed to fix after a lifetime of enduring injustice? It wouldn’t make Dr. Sullivan’s students stay, it wouldn’t make it easier for Delly to go to school, it wouldn’t erase a lifetime of service from Bash or Hazel.

He shook his head. If Anne was here, she’d know what to say.

He must’ve looked particularly defeated, because Dr. Sullivan only smiled and said, “Alright, Gilbert. How about a proposition?”

“A proposition, sir?”

“I propose an independent study. You’ll complete the same assignments as your peers, but will report for class with me in my office twice a week. You’ll have to come prepared with topics for discussion and you won’t be permitted to cut class. And no asking Anne to summarize the books for you. You must complete all the reading yourself.”

When he was done, he extended a hand across his desk and waited for Gilbert’s approval.

Gilbert only had to ponder his options a moment before a grin blossomed on his face. He shook Dr. Sullivan’s hand more excitedly than was permitted for a gentleman and said, “Yes, I think that arrangement sounds wonderful. Thank you so much!”

“Don’t worry about the registrar. She’ll only change her mind with your advisor’s approval, but I’m sure Emily will be more than happy to give it.”

Hurriedly grabbing his things, Gilbert clutched his bag to his chest.

“I’m thrilled, sir. Thank you again.”

Dr. Sullivan chuckled, sliding his glasses back onto his face and leaning forward over the stack of freshman essays before him. As Gilbert rose to leave, he called out, “Gil, one more thing.”

Gilbert paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder.

“Yes?”

“What’s the real reason you wanted to take the class?”

The lad shrugged. “You know I love to read.”

Dr. Sullivan was not wholly convinced.

“And?”

“And it’ll give me something to talk to Anne about in my letters,” he confessed. Dr. Sullivan threw his hands in the air and Gilbert let out a loud laugh. “She’s an English major, I have to stay on my toes! But I really do like to read, I promise!”

“You better. You’ve got a lot of it next semester!”

There was no other explanation, except that she was in trouble—so much so, that she was about to be reprimanded by the oldest and sternest professor in the entire English department. Professor Wood was due any second and would no doubt deliver a fierce verbal lashing. Why else would this particular group of schoolmates be summoned into this dim classroom so late in the day? Anne scanned the room, counting three faces that she had...stated an opinion at. Sternly. Perhaps a bit loudly. It had only been a matter of time before her classmates banded against her and the day had finally come.

But who could blame her? It had long been established that Anne was anything but timid and demure, so certainly if they said obtuse things in class, it had to be someone’s job to correct them. If her professors were planning on merely nodding and humming “Hmm, yes, interesting point,” the task would just have to go to her.

“Do any of you know what this is about?” murmured Janie Paul, the only person in the group Anne hadn’t corrected in class. Mostly, though, this could be attributed to the fact that Janie Paul rarely said...well, anything

“We all know what this is about. Or who, ” lamented another classmate.

Four sets of eyes slowly turned to Anne, who leaned against one of the desks with crossed arms.

“It could be about anything!” argued Anne. “Unless you all have been conspiring.”

“Oh please,” scoffed Anne’s worst nemesis. “Like we’d even need to. I bet right now the entire faculty is gathered in the conference room deciding whether or not they want to allow you to remain enrolled at Queens. We’re only here because they want witnesses.”

“That’s preposterous!” Anne snapped.

“Why? You’re a disturbance to class and detrimental to the distinguished education we’re supposed to be receiving.”

“Having a bright mind and a quick wit is not a detriment, Georgie Beckham. Nor is having your opinions challenged. In fact, I’d say it’s rather good for you.”

Anne wondered that there were many things that would do Georgie Beckham some good. A change of heart, a swift kick to the behind, a bath. He was a shortish young man with flat yellow hair that stuck his head with sweat, grease, and dirt. The bottom of his chin was tan from always walking around with his nose pointed up, and he glided about as if he were Queen Victoria herself. Anne had decided with a fury that of all the disagreeable people she’d met, Georgie Beckham was by far the worst. She hated him more than she hated Gilbert the first time she met him, and Georgie wasn’t nearly as handsome or charming.

Georgie’s snobbish nose crinkled when Anne spoke, as if her very essence smelled too strong, like stale perfume or a full garden.

“When they kick you out of Queens, you’ll have to get married to escape ruin and there’s no way you’ll find someone who’ll want you,” he sneered.

For the briefest of moments, Anne wondered what would happen to her if Georgie was right. She supposed she wouldn’t have the money or credibility to attend a different school. Instead, she’d just help on the farm until Gilbert graduated college, then they’d get married. For an even briefer moment, Anne pondered what it would mean if Gilbert decided not to marry her. Such imaginings were too painful, and she pushed aside her doubt.

“I suppose I’m fortunate you’re full of hot air, then,” Anne stated bitterly.

Just then, the classroom door swung open and in walked Professor Agnes Wood, a creaky woman of ninety who still had the energy to teach British Classics and Senior Shakespeare twice a day. Upon stepping into the room, she sensed the restive atmosphere and gave Anne a wary look.

“Stirring trouble already, Miss Shirley?”

“No ma’am. We were just anxious to uncover why you’ve called us all today.”

“All will be revealed presently. Take a seat.”

The five wary students did as they were told, Georgie taking the seat furthest from Anne. Professor Wood moved to the front of the class, commanding attention in its rawest form with a domineering scrutinization.

“Thank you all for arriving in a timely manner. I’m sure receiving this summons has made you curious to the reasoning.” She paused, as if waiting for nods of agreement, but was met with five frightened faces—one especially freckled and pale. To prevent further trepidation, she continued.

“It is my pleasure to inform you of a potential opportunity that has befallen you. You five have been chosen from the entirety of the Education program’s long list of pupils. As you know, Queens is a traditionally education focused college. Many of Canada’s greatest educators have earned their teaching certificates within these walls, though the best of the best were granted this offer. Anne, you look as though you’re a second from keeling over.”

Anne’s head snapped up.

“Oh, I’m just full of suspense,” she admitted eagerly. “Please, continue!”

“Two of you will be granted the opportunity to assist real teachers in their classrooms for the duration of a month. As student teachers, you’ll be expected to aid the instructor in their daily lessons and perhaps lead a few exercises yourself. The assignment is planned for September of next year, however the application process may take some time. The chosen candidates will be announced finals week in May. ”

“If we’d be teaching in the fall, won’t that put us behind in credit hours?” the classmate at Anne’s right asked. Anne rolled her eyes. What were credit hours when there was real actual teaching to be done?

“As a full time hands-on assistant, you would be granted nine credits of your recommended fifteen. Your remaining two classes would be completed via correspondence until you could resume them October 1st. Though only two of you will be chosen, the rest of you needn’t fear. Other opportunities may arise in the coming years and you all are model candidates. I’m sure you have questions, however, and I’ll endeavor to answer them.”

Questions exploded out of the students the way volcanoes erupt after years of boiling. Yet, of the students bursting at the seams with questions, there were two who remained painfully silent. Anne was one, lost in the whirlpool of her thoughts. But in the madness, she realized with narrow eyes there was one more person who was just as quiet and determined as she was—Georgie.

My dear man, who is here with me in spirit and heart,

I would like to begin with a disclaimer: Your last letter had me blushing as much, if not more, than you surely intended. I see through your little tricks, Gilbert Blythe, and let me say, I delight at turning to mush upon reading your words. I will acknowledge them in due time, but first, a matter of utmost importance.

I. HATE. GEORGIE. BECKHAM. I can’t recall if his name has snuck its slimy way into one of my letters before, but here it has made a most unwelcome appearance. And yes, I know hate is a term that Marilla would reprimand me for, yet it cannot and will not be denied that he is the worst person I’ve ever met. Gilbert, I cannot emphasize this enough. I know that in the past, I have not been an excellent judge of character of the male sex, but Georgie has done more than tug my braid and call me carrots. He’s bitter towards women, worships himself in class, and once, I heard him say the most atrocious things about the people of the Bog. Billy Andrews has met his match. And worst of all, Gil-est of Gils, we’re competing for the same student teaching position!

I see I am getting quite ahead of myself. Allow me a moment to compose myself. There.

I have been chosen along with four other students to compete for an opportunity to assist a teacher in an actual school. Professor Wood even thinks that if our progress is satisfactory enough, that we’ll be permitted to lead exercises all on our own. Think of how much I could learn, how ahead of my classmates I’d be! Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, a bona fide teacher! Or, very nearly one!

Of course, there is the chance that Georgie could win the other slot if I receive the first. Oh, this troubles me almost as much as if he were to get the position instead of me! I would fail at the assistantship miserably if he were there, always criticizing every little thing I did. It can’t happen, Gilbert!

It isn’t entirely up to chance. I’ll just have to work very hard to put forth the best application Queens has ever seen. It’s quite involved too—essays, interviews, observations of my character. I’ll have to be on my very best behavior from now until May. Oh, and could I send you my first application essay? I’m writing about integration of community and its positive impact on children. I know you have plenty of reading of your own, so please don’t put yourself out.

Now! That is quite enough about schoolmate nuisances. How are you, my darling love? I’ve had the most peculiar feeling that you’ve had a very pleasant week since your last letter. Is that because Christmas holiday is very nearly upon us and it’s a mere fortnight until we’ll be reunited? That means we have precisely one week to devise our disguises, and I don’t mean fake mustaches and hats! My brand of deception is the flirtatious sort, involving carriage rides with you and promises to Marilla to not wander from Lover’s Lane. Except! We’ll wander off the road and find a place where even the most wandering eyes cannot amble. The falling snow will cover the evidence and I will have some much needed quality time with my ever-captivating suitor. How many kisses shall I reserve for you?

Oh, how easy it would be to spend the rest of the evening writing the world’s longest letter to you. Ten pages on the sweetness of your eyes, another twenty on how divine it is to be wrapped in your warmth, tucked tightly into your arms. Instead, I must direct the vigor in my hand to many drafts of this application essay and begin planning on the second. When the application process is over in May, I’ll have all summer to venerate every ounce of you. And remember, sweet one, I don’t do a thing half-way.

So for now, I’ll sign off. As always, I miss you dearly. I feel like Mr. Rochester did when he thought Jane was going to leave him. If I tug this cord around my rib, will you feel it in Toronto, tugging on yours? Are we still connected in heart, mind, and spirit? I believe we are.

Reader, I love you.

Anne

The two weeks until winter holiday passed with surprising ease. The winter sun, which had gained a habit of suspending over the sky for long hours at a time, seemed to make the days pass at a bearable rate. Anne was relieved to find that finals week wasn’t nearly as dreary as the sophomores had cautioned. She studied long hours by her window, and found her concentration honed to perfection under a bright sun. Exams came and passed, and though she was confident she’d championed them all, she couldn’t feel complete freedom until she was home at Green Gables. When the Carmody-bound train screeched off toward home, Anne leaned her head on Diana’s shoulder and let out a soft sigh.

“Tired, Anne?” asked Diana, leaning her head onto Anne’s hair.

“A bit. That sigh just now was one of relief. American Literature and Geometry may distract one from the strains of homesickness, but college is nothing compared to being home.”

“I daresay I could weather any sort of sickness if you were beside me. I’m so glad I’m only taking a forty minute train ride and not a forty day trek across the ocean.”

Anne hugged Diana’s arm, bringing Diana’s piano-playing fingers to her lips.

“If you had gone to Paris afterall, I’m certain I would have perished. Now we have all month to revisit our old haunts and relive at least some of our youth.”

The train pulled into the Carmody station, pulling Anne out of her light sleep. The world outside moved by slowly as Anne nearly leapt across Diana’s lap to look out at the train platform. Among the many faces of the waiting and leaving, Anne couldn’t find Matthew or Marilla. For a moment, she wondered if something had gone wrong.

“Is that Sebastian?” asked Diana, pointing to the far left of the platform.

Anne grinned. Sure enough, there was Bash talking to Diana’s father in a casual manner. He wore two scarves wrapped around his face to block out the chill, but his eyes were unmistakable and he was wearing one of Gilbert’s old hats.

Knocking into some disgruntled passengers, Anne scurried as fast as she could off the train and over to Bash. He caught sight of her fiery hair among the crowd and stopped what he was saying mid-phrase.

“Now there’s a sight for sore eyes! Hello Anne,” he beamed.

Before she could think better of it, she jumped into his arms and pressed a warm kiss to the scarves over his cheek.

“My, Anne, you’re still quite public about your displays of affection,” commented Mr. Barry, who glanced nervously around the scowls of nearby travellers.

Anne pulled back with a chuckle.

“I do wish you would forget you ever saw that, Mr. Barry. Your family is far too close to Rachel Lynde.”

“Forget what?” Bash asked, but Anne waved her hand.

“Nothing! Nothing!” Before he could argue, she picked her bags back up. “Are you here to pick me up?”

“If you need a ride back home to Green Gables, I’d be happy to drive you, but no, I’m not here for you. I’m here for Gilbert.”

Anne’s heart jumped into her throat.

“Gilbert isn’t due back until tomorrow,” she stated, failing miserably at getting her hopes up.

“No, you weren’t due back until tomorrow. Gilbert was due back today.”

“But I marked my calendar as soon as I got his letter. I wrote to Matthew and Marilla and told them today.”

“Your calendar can say what it wants,” interrupted Bash. His gaze drifted behind her shoulder. “But he’s right there.”

And he was. Marching through the crowd was a young man with snowflakes crowning his curly head and a blush from the chill on his dimples. The sight nearly brought Anne to her knees. She hadn’t realized how desperately she needed to see him, how dull the ache in her heart had grown in their separation. Because she was a woman of very little self-control, she cried out his name above the noise of the chatter with a delighted laugh. His attention snapped to her and he fumbled with his bag. He matched her elated laughter, walking as fast as he could through the web of people.

Anne shoved her bag into Bash’s arms and rushed to meet Gilbert halfway. When he was within reach, he made no greeting or polite salutations. Instead, he grabbed her face in his hand and kissed her in front of the entire train platform. He must’ve felt Anne’s knees go limp the second he tasted her bottom lip, because he quickly wrapped his arms across her back and held her to him.

Claiming the last bit of propriety she could, she pushed his chest and forced herself away. Gilbert chased her mouth, but sighed in resignation when she stuck a finger to his lips.

“Sorry, can’t help it,” he murmured. His breath was steam against her lips. “You just grow more beautiful by the day. Takes a lad off guard after a month.”

“Gilbert!” Anne chuckled, blushing.

“I’m serious! Exponential growth. I may have to start writing my will.”

“Stop,” reprimanded Anne, but her sweetheart knew she meant quite the opposite. “Where did you come from? You said you were coming tomorrow!”

“No silly, I said I was coming today . You were the one arriving home tomorrow. I even planned to pick you up tomorrow and surprise you.”

“Well, you’ve done that.” She froze. “Does that mean we were on the same train the entire time and didn’t know it!?”

“Probably,” Gilbert smiled, kissing her knuckles and earning a few doey-eyed looks from passing ladies. “We have nearly all month to make up for it. I was promised disguises and secret trysts.”

“So far, you’re getting the secret part all wrong,” a voice chimed in behind her. Gilbert rolled his eyes at Bash’s knowing smirk. “Say Anne, is this what Mr. Barry meant about public displays of affection?”

Anne tugged his hat clean over his eyes, making Gilbert laugh so loudly, someone beside him jumped.

“Alright lovebirds. Let’s fly on home to our separate nests.”

Christmas was a jubilant affair, the Cuthbert dinner table growing by two members for the third year in a row. When they realized that Hazel and Elijah filled the last available seats, Anne wondered who would stumble into their family this year and if they’d mind sitting at a separate table. With a child, a courting couple, and a spirit of song, the home was filled with endless moments of noise and joy.

But there were some quiet moments too. Anne and Gilbert particularly tried to find as many as they could together, but often found themselves interrupted by the baby, or by Bash’s halfway-intoxicated teasing. By the end of the night, Marilla had sensed her daughter’s frustration and taken her guests into the parlor where they could sit and converse. Anne stayed behind, tugging on Gilbert’s sleeve before he could walk away. He turned around, a happy smile on his face.

“Could you give me my Christmas present now?” asked Anne timidly. Gilbert’s face fell. His eyes focused on the cracks of the floorboards, as if he couldn’t bear to look at Anne’s disappointment.

“Love, I uh...I spent all my money on the ticket to come home. I don’t have anything for you, I’m sorry.”

But Anne shook her head, lifting his chin with a few fingers.

“I didn’t mean like that. You know I don’t mind if you don’t have anything for me.”

“Then what—?”

Anne revealed a small velvet pouch from behind her back. For a split second, Gilbert’s heart stopped, thinking that it was his mother’s ring she had found. For an even shorter moment, he realized if she had asked him to propose to her, he would’ve done it without hesitation and against his logical reasoning. There was a different swell in his heart when he realized that the bag didn’t contain a ring, but several scraps of paper.

“My letter,” he realized.

“What’s left of it, at least. Do you suppose you could piece it together?”

“I think so. I may not remember it verbatim, but the sentiment is impossible to forget.”

He spilled the torn pieces onto the floor, sorting out the words so he could see them all at once. Anne waited eagerly at his side, her hand finding its way to his hair as he began to piece the fragmented letter together. She tried not to read it as he strung sentences together, but couldn’t help but be drawn to the words affection and desire.

“You really did a number on this, didn’t you?” teased Gilbert when he found a few pieces with a stray letter or two, detached from its word.

“Whatever you did to mine must have been worse since it disappeared. ”

“Hey now,” protested Gilbert, smirking. “I can hardly be held accountable for something I never knew existed.”

“For all you know, it was on the bottom of your shoe, trekked into the mud and turned to mush.”

“Good thing it was short enough for you to remember it. I keep the second edition in my bedside drawer and read it before I go to sleep.”

“ Second edition ,” laughed Anne, leaning her head onto his shoulder. She turned her face to the fire and let her eyes fall close. Beneath her, Gilbert’s arm moved as he worked.

She didn’t realize she was dozing off until she heard, “Alright, Anne-girl. All finished.”

Rubbing the haze of sleep out of her eye, she peered down at the letter before her. It was pieced together like a puzzle with careful consideration with a few pieces from the sides missing. A quick surveyance of the writing told Anne that she’d still be able to read it, regardless of its inadequacies. With a steadying breath, Anne moved her eyes to the first line.

Dear Anne…

Gilbert pressed his lips to her cheek and rose to move into the other room.

“Where are you going?” asked Anne. Gilbert gave a small smile.

“I mean every word of that letter, but I’m still a bit embarrassed to watch you read it.”

“You write me love letters all the time.”

“But this is the love letter. The first. The ones I write you now are different because I’m well-practiced at it. But this one...It was my swan song, a last move of desperation.”

Anne bit back a smile at the rosy blush on his cheeks, anxious to finally see what all the fuss was about. Still, she mustered up some patience and reached out her hand to him.

“You don’t have to watch me read it, but stay by my side, will you?”

She didn’t have to ask twice.

“Alright.”

He settled beside her and took her hand in his, running his fingers over her knuckles and palm while she read. Anne, on her part, moved through the letter deliberately, letting every wash of emotion and reaction occur as it would. She’d forgotten that Gilbert had been longing like this, even during his involvement with Winifred. When the words became blurry with her tears, Anne read even slower and squeezed Gilbert’s hand in hers.

With love, Gilbert.

She read that line over and over, before glancing briefly at the postscript, then bringing herself back to the top. Gilbert was quiet beside her, letting her take the time she needed.

Anne’s heart was heavy, saturated with a million feelings she couldn’t quite place. She wanted to say that things would’ve been so different if she had read the letter when she’d found it in the first place, but what-if’s didn’t do her any good now. What mattered in this moment was the person beside her, whose heart seemed to beat in unison with hers. A person who was waiting very patiently for her reaction, even though it left him vulnerable and exposed.

Her palm found his face, and the second his hesitant eyes found hers, she kissed him slow and purposeful. She hoped that he could feel the years of longing she’d felt for him, the same way her letter had made her feel. She hoped it was electricity from the top of his head down to the soles of his feet, long and warm, unrelenting in its ensnarement.

When they broke apart, Anne gazed intently down at her hazel-eyed boy and counted the freckles around his nose. His heart was wide open on his sleeve, in his eyes, in his smile—beating and loving on full display without fear.

“I feel like I could take on the world just now,” Gilbert admitted blissfully.

“There’s two of us now,” noted Anne lovingly. “Let’s do it together.”

I hope you enjoyed! ♥ Thanks for reading!! Below are those individuals who asked to be tagged upon updates. If you’d like to add your name to the list or remove it, please let me know!

@pterparkcr @be-feminine-be-unique @firehaireddeamer @annabel-lee23 @beinmyheart @forcordelia @ladyofhousewaters @brookie-cookie3 @peculiarly-deactivated @mrs-shirley-cuthbert-blythe @lexfangirls @amoraeternusforyou @pastaismysignificantother @spellsandbells @instantknightartisanwagon @noctislightning @lonelyscreaming @lbhmoon @findurhappy @mynameisbluenotjane @sarahisatotalgeek @takemetoavonlea @shrillrule @doodlesfan @noctislightning @awaeforlife @neomikaha @cresmix @miacherries

#anne with an e #anne of green gables #shirbert #shirbert fic #tessa writes

47 notes · View notes

worryinglyinnocent · 4 years ago

Text

Fic: A Spark of Life and Hope

First fic in a brand new fandom. I always forget how nerve-wracking it is to start playing in a new sandbox. Enjoy!

Summary: There’s longing and desperation in his kiss, the pain of a parting almost but not quite upon them, wanting to draw this moment out as long as possible…

“Please,” she whispers as he finally lets her up for air. “One last time before you go.”

When Hohenheim leaves, he doesn’t know he’s left behind a spark of new life in Trisha. When he contemplates the possibility of having done so a couple of months later, it changes everything.

Hohenheim returns, Trisha lives, and as the years pass, hope and peace come to the Elric family as light comes to the shadows of Xerxes.

Rated: Mature – there’s some brief sexual content at the beginning, but it’s not the focus of the fic.

A Spark of Life and Hope

Hohenheim isn’t asleep. Trisha can tell. He’s staring up at the ceiling, thinking of tomorrow morning and what he’ll leave behind when he goes. He’s all packed ready, suitcase standing in the corner of the room like an ill omen, and she sees his eyes slide over to it every now and then.

She doesn’t know exactly what he’s leaving to do. He’s been open with her about his past and his nature and everything surrounding it, wanting her to know the truth before she committed herself to him, but she’s never pried too much into the work he does.

This is about more than just regaining his mortality, though. He’s left looking for leads on that before, but what he’s about to do is more important, more all-encompassing, and it will take him away for a lot longer. He’ll be away for years this time. He’s covering Amestris in its entirety, looking for something to prevent a crisis that only he, with his unusual traits, can prevent.

Trisha just wishes that it didn’t have to be him on this one-man mission to save the world.

She rolls over and pushes herself up on her forearms, leaning over him.

“Don’t think,” she says. “Don’t think about tomorrow. Just kiss me now.”

Hohenheim obliges readily, pulling her down with strong arms around her shoulders. There’s longing and desperation in his kiss, the pain of a parting almost but not quite upon them, wanting to draw this moment out as long as possible. Trisha gives in eagerly, shifting to straddle his hips.

“Please,” she whispers as he finally lets her up for air. “One last time before you go.”

They don’t do this very regularly. After so many years of people warning her that men were only interested in this one thing, Trisha was rather surprised to find that this is the one thing Hohenheim really isn’t interested in. She assumes its because of the souls, although she’s long since accepted that they’re there, and they can’t help being there, and she’s told him over and over that she doesn’t mind that they’re there. He’s still affectionate, with kisses and cuddles and soft touches; it’s not that he’s not intimate with her at all. Just the act itself he can take or leave.

He’s happy to participate when she wants it though, and now he nods, slipping his hands up under her nightdress and skimming his fingers over her breasts as she tugs it off over her head. His pyjama pants and undershirt go in short order too, and then he pulls her down to kiss her again, one hand slipping down between them to the apex of her thighs. He brushes over that sweet spot with his thumb, and Trisha gasps against his mouth, rocking her hips into his and feeling him begin to twitch and respond under her. She remembers their first time together: awkward, clumsy, fumbling and altogether wonderful.

They’ve come a long way since then, and they know how to make each other fall apart.

When Hohenheim finally pushes into her wet heat, they’re so close that Trisha can’t tell where she ends and where he begins. There’s almost no space between them, and yet they’re still not close enough for a goodbye that will last such a long time…

She comes with a cry, pressing a hand over her mouth in case she wakes the boys, and she feels Hohenheim’s fingers dig into her backside as he follows her over just a moment later. They stay panting in the afterglow for a while until Trisha sits up again, letting him slide out of her and grabbing a handkerchief from her nightstand to clean up with.

She’s going to miss this. She’s going to miss pondering the marvel of his unchanging body whilst he gazes lovingly at her scars and stretchmarks and fluctuating weight, all the things he says make her human and remarkable. She’s going to miss the way his hair looks when it’s loose and spread out over the pillow, the way that it shines in the moonlight showing its colour as truly gold instead of blond. She’s going to miss mapping him with her hands and lips.

The comparative infrequency of their love-making makes each time all the more beautiful and passionate, and it’ll be lost to her for a long time.

Maybe that will make their reunion sweeter.

“Trisha?”

Hohenheim reaches up to touch her face, and Trisha realises that she’s weeping. She twines her fingers with his, keeping his hand pressed against her cheek.

“I don’t want you to leave.”

“I don’t want to leave.” He brings her hand down, kissing the palm before pulling her back down against his chest and holding her tight, face buried in her hair.

If only they could stay like this forever.

Eventually she slips off him, curling in close to his side and getting comfortable for sleep, but she doesn’t think it’ll come. Not tonight, and not for either of them. There’ll be time enough for her to sleep once Hohenheim is gone. For now, she just wants to savour this time that they still have together.

“Just promise me that you’ll come back, ok?” she whispers. “Don’t get yourself killed in your quest to save the country and your own mortality.”

“I promise. No matter what, I’ll make it back here. I promise we’ll grow old together.”

They lie together until the grey dawn chases the shadows into the corners, and Hohenheim sighs.

“I want to leave before the boys wake up. I don’t think I’ll be able to go through with it otherwise.”

Even as he says it, neither of them move for a long time afterwards. Eventually, though, Hohenheim unwraps his arm from around her and untangles their legs. Trisha watches him get dressed and pull his hair back, the couple of strands escaping at the front like they always do.

“Promise me you won’t cut your hair, either.”

He laughs. “I’m not likely to change my style after four hundred years.”

Once he’s ready to go, he comes back over to the bed and leans in to kiss her forehead.

“Wait for me. I’ll be back, I promise.”

She nods, and he’s just about to leave the room when she scrambles up, pulling on yesterday’s clothes.

“Wait. I want to see you off at the door.”

They walk through the silent house hand in hand, but Trisha’s fingers are shaking as she goes to unbolt the front door. Hohenheim’s hand closes over hers.

“It’s ok. I’ve got it.”

He hands her the suitcase and unlocks the door, but he doesn’t open it. For a long time he just looks at her, as if he’s trying to drink in the sight of her as much as he can, a mental photograph to cling to whilst he’s away.

Then he’s kissing her again, a final frantic kiss, his hands on her face and his legs bumping the suitcase awkwardly against hers. Trisha doesn’t care, letting go of it with one hand and pulling him in closer.

“I love you,” Hohenheim whispers.

“I love you too.”

It can’t last forever, as much as they might like it to, and eventually they have to break apart.

Trisha sighs. “Take care of yourself. Don’t get into trouble.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“And…” Trisha trails off as she sees movement out of the corner of her eye and the boys come into view. She sees Hohenheim freeze when he realises they’re there, sees him withdraw into himself. The very reason he wanted to leave early, and now they’re here and he’s here on the threshold.

She’s not surprised that he leaves the house without a word, not when she can see the tell-tale little tremble in his throat and the set in his shoulders that means his stoicism is only hanging on by a thread.

The fact he didn’t say goodbye still hurts, though.

When she gets back to the window after sorting the boys out, she can just about see him in the distance on the path down towards the town, head bowed and shoulders drooping. With the boys safely back in their own beds, Trisha crawls back into hers, burying her face in the pillows that still smell like him and crying her eyes out.

Two weeks after Hohenheim leaves, there’s no blood in Trisha’s underwear when there should be, and a few days after that, she feels the same kind of distinctive, curdling nausea in the pit of her stomach that she’s felt twice before.

Something has been eating at Hohenheim ever since he left. Whilst at first he put it down to the pain of leaving his life behind him, the more that he’s gone on and the more that he’s been unable to let go of it, the more he’s been thinking about it and the more he’s fixated on it.

That last morning, that last kiss at the front door… Something was different about Trisha and he hasn’t been able to put his finger on it. He keeps telling himself that it’s just her sadness at him leaving, but that feeling that something was off about her, not wrong per se as different to normal, won’t let him go.

He’s dozing on a train to Western City when it hits him, and he jerks into full and very aware consciousness.

He’s felt that same kind of oddness around her before, he just didn’t register it properly at the time, not until a lot later.

Alkahestry relies on being able to feel the flow of life through the body and the earth - the chi, as the Xingese call it. Hohenheim has spent so long helping to develop alkahestry and tying it up with alchemy; he’s become so used to feeling it that it’s just second nature to him, like the hum of the souls in his veins.

During that last desperate kiss, pressed in so close against Trisha, his hands on her face, there was something different about her chi. It was just a little bit more forceful, just a little bit hotter. Barely noticeable, but there.

He’s noticed it about her before, a couple of times, but not usually until it became much more obvious, until the balance was very clearly tipped.

It was more forceful and hotter because there was more of it.

There was more of it, and it hadn’t split off to become someone separate’s chi yet. It was still a part of Trisha’s. A part of his, too.

Trisha is pregnant.

He’s glad he’s on a train in the middle of nowhere when he realises, because his first reaction is silent panic, and at least he has until Western City to think what to do next.

On the one hand, he intended to leave and not return until Homunculus was defeated, and everything would be well in the world, and he could return knowing that he wouldn’t have to leave again.

On the other hand, that was before Trisha was pregnant with a child he might not get to meet for years. Trisha did not have easy pregnancies with Ed and Al, and he would never want her to go through a third on her own.

By the time he gets off the train in Western, he has at least some semblance of a plan. The change in Trisha’s chi was so small that it could be that it never took and never became a pregnancy; she might be none the wiser that it had ever been there in the first place, so maybe he should check first before he starts panicking afresh.

He doesn’t have to go far to find a payphone, and the ringing as he waits for it to connect is far too loud in his ear.

“Hello?”

“Edward, it’s me… It’s Dad.”

“Dad! Where are you? Are you coming home?”

“I’m… Is your mom there?”

“Mom’s sick.” There’s a shuffle on the end of the phone as Al comes over to investigate on hearing that AWOL-for-two-months-Dad has resurfaced.

“Ed, how is she sick? Fever, flu, throwing up?”

“She’s throwing up all the time. Granny Pinako says we won’t catch it though.”

Well, no, they’re definitely in no danger of that.

“I’ll get Mom!” Hohenheim hears Al’s footsteps patter up the stairs and out of earshot.

“No, if she’s sick just let her rest…” He knows it’s fruitless, and just listens to Ed chatter on about everything that’s happened since he’s been gone until he hears Trisha’s voice.

“Love?”

“Trisha.” It’s such a relief to hear her voice that for a moment he can’t say anything else.

“Boys, could you go into the other room please so I can talk to your father in private? Thank you.” She returns to him. “How have you been?”

“I’m fine. I was calling to see how you were.”

“I’m…” There’s a long sigh. “I’m ok. I just miss you.”

“Are you sure you’re ok? The boys said you were sick.”

“It’s nothing, I’ll be fine, and it’s not catching.”

“Trisha, are you pregnant?” He hadn’t intended it to sound so blunt, and there’s silence at the other end of the phone for a long time.

“Yes.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Yes, I am. It had to have happened that last night before you left. I… It’s your baby, my love, I just didn’t want you to worry, or feel like you had to come back before you’ve finished what you’re doing…”

“Oh Trisha, I never thought for a moment it wasn’t mine.” He leans against the side of the phone booth, resting his forehead against the glass. “I’ll be home in three weeks; I’ll need to pick up some research materials from Central.”

“You need to do what you set out to do.”

“I will. I’ll just have to go about it a different way.” He paused. “I want to meet my third child when they’re born, Trisha. I’m selfish like that.”

She laughs on the other end of the line, soft and musical.

“I want that too.”

There’s such wistful yearning in her voice, and it makes something inside Hohenheim clench to hear it.

“I love you, Trisha. I love you, and I’ll see you soon.”

Three weeks later, he’s halfway up the lane to the house when he hears a long shout of ‘DAAAAAAAAD!’ and Ed and Al come barrelling down the hill towards him. He tries and fails to brace himself for the impact and they all end up in a pile on the path.

“You’re back,” Al says triumphantly.

Hohenheim nods, winded. “Yes. I’m back.”

They let him up and Al attempts to drag the suitcase up the hill. In the end it takes both of them, and Hohenheim trails after. He hadn’t intended to be back so soon, but if there’s one thing that has always been certain in his life, it’s that nothing ever really goes the way he plans it. This is just another one of those things. The fight to stop Homunculus will continue, but for now, it’ll continue in theory and calculation only, in things he can be here in Resembool to do.

“Mom, Mom, Dad’s back!”

As he enters the house and closes the door behind him, Hohenheim hears retching from the kitchen, and he goes through to find Trisha hunched over the sink.

She glances over her shoulder at him as she turns the taps on hard.

“Not exactly the romantic reunion I was planning,” she says lightly. “It’s ok, the sickness is getting better. It’ll have gone in a couple of weeks.”

“Oh, Trisha.”

She melts into his arms, squeezing him tightly.

“Thank you for coming back,” she whispers. “I know that…” She tails off. “Thank you.”

Later, when they’re curled up together in bed, Trisha pressed in close against his chest, she voices the thought that will go on to change everything.

“I think you should tell the children your story.”

“I think you’re insane.”

“Maybe not the overnight death of the entire country and the accidental immortality and the half a million souls sharing your headspace. Maybe not yet. But I think you should tell them about your life before. About Xerxes.” She pauses. “The boys kept asking me about you when you were gone, and it made me realise just how little they really know you. It’s their heritage as well. It’s their culture, their language. They’re a part of you, and so it’s a part of them. You used to speak Xerxian to them all the time when they were babies.” She laughs softly. “That’s how I knew just how deeply and unconditionally you loved them. You did it without even thinking.”

“That makes it sound like I don’t love you deeply and unconditionally because I never speak it with you.”

“That’s because you met me long after I learned to talk and understand Amestrian, silly.”

“I love you,” Hohenheim says in his mother tongue. It feels odd to be speaking it to Trisha. He’s so used to not using it with anyone, in any situation where it might mark out his otherness. Everyone is wary of people who speak what they can’t understand, and a long-dead, completely unrecognisable language is even more suspicious.

But Trisha knows him and knows his story and knows where he’s from. Why shouldn’t he be himself with her?

She raises an eyebrow. “Can I guess what that was?”

“Probably.”

She leans in and kisses him. “I love you too.”

There’s silence for a long time, and Hohenheim thinks she’s fallen asleep until she speaks again.

“I mean it. The children are half-Xerxian. They deserve to know where they come from.”

Many years later, Hohenheim will think back on this conversation and realise that of Trisha’s many good ideas, this was definitely the best one she ever had.

Although Trisha feels a little guilty for pulling Hohenheim back from his quest when he’d only just got started on it, the sheer relief at him being back more than cancels it out. The last two months of morning sickness, trying to remain upbeat and look after the boys at the same time, have been awful, and him being here just makes everything so much easier.

The sickness goes, replaced with aches and cramping and general discomfort. Trisha is not one of those ladies who enjoy being pregnant. She felt lousy the entire time with both Ed and Al, and she knows she’s going to feel lousy with this one, too.

But in return for suffering through it, she’s going to get a beautiful son or daughter, and that’s the thought that keeps her going.

It takes some persuading for Hohenheim to come around to her idea of telling the boys about himself, but one night, when she’s already in bed feeling even worse than normal and Hohenheim has been in charge of the evening routine, she hears him settle on the floor in the boys’ room to tell them their bedtime story.

“Edward, Alphonse… Do you know I’m not from Amestris? Well, this is the story of the country I was born in. This is the story of Xerxes…”

He weaves his tale into their bedtime stories for the next few nights, and the boys lap it up eagerly, voracious in their desire to learn more about the country that might have been theirs if history had turned out different. Trisha listens equally spellbound, tucked up in her own bed, nursing her aching baby bump and feeling too feverish and breathless, more so than the previous two pregnancies.

It’s only the woozy next morning, when she can’t quite wake up despite Hohenheim��s panicking voice sounding far too loud in her ears, that she realises this isn’t just the baby making her feel horrible. She hears him call the Rockbells, hears him pack Ed and Al off to stay with them for a few days, hears the words isolation, infection, quarantine, hears him argue with Yuriy and Sarah and Pinako, hears the vague but true affirmation I’ll take care of her, I don’t get sick.

She doesn’t remember the next few days. She remembers broken, fitful sleep and fighting for breath. She remembers the red crackle of Hohenheim’s alchemy.

She remembers waking up properly conscious at last. Still very much unwell, still feverish, but with clear lungs. She remembers Hohenheim taking care of her until the boys come back – safe, well and unaffected. She’s on bed rest for the next month, and in the dead of night, Hohenheim sleeping the sleep of the completely exhausted beside her, Trisha dreads to think what would have happened if he had not been there.

There are no secrets between them, but even after years have passed, she will never breathe a word of that fear – that she would have died and left the boys on their own – to him.

Like the first two both did, their third child arrives at night.

The boys are in bed asleep, and the evening is wearing on. Trisha has been uncomfortable all day, unable to find a position that doesn’t cause her aches or pains somewhere, and she finally nods when Hohenheim asks if she wants to have a bath. He helps her into it, says he’ll come back in half an hour, and goes back downstairs thinking nothing of it, going back to his study and the reams of paperwork spread out all over it. He’s nearly at a breakthrough, he can feel it.

All thoughts of alchemy and solar eclipses go clean out of his head when he hears a loud splash from above him, a splash much louder than Trisha just moving around in the tub, and he takes the stairs two at a time, knocking on the bathroom door.

“Trisha? Are you all right?”

There’s a whimpering groan in response and he goes in. Trisha’s on her knees in the tub, gripping the edge with white knuckles, forehead resting on her hands. There’s water all over the floor.

“Trisha? What’s happening?”

“I’m nine months pregnant and due in three days, what do you think’s happening?”

Oh good grief.

“The pain’s been coming ever since I got in the bath, but now it’s really, really coming, and I felt my water go as well.”

Oh good grief.

Considering that this has happened twice before and he was definitely around both times, Hohenheim feels completely clueless in that moment. He crosses the room to the tub and closes his hands over Trisha’s, prising her fingers away from the metal before she breaks all her nails. She latches on to him instead.

“It hurts more this time,” she says. “With Ed and Al it was more gradual, I had more time to get used to it. This time it’s…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, her words becoming a high keen of pain, and Hohenheim hears the boys waking up and talking to each other about the noise. He tries to move away, but Trisha’s hold on him is like iron.

“Don’t leave. Please don’t leave, I’m scared. It’s all happening so quickly.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“You ran off and hid when Ed was born.”

“I’m not doing that, I swear, but we need to call Pinako.”

“Not enough time.”

“We can’t do this by ourselves.”

“We’ll have to.”

Outside, the boys are still whispering urgently. Hohenheim pushes Trisha’s damp hair out of her face.

“I won’t leave the room, ok?”

She nods, letting go her limpet grip. Hohenheim goes to the bathroom door and peers around it; Ed and Al are looking out of their room.

“Boys, I have an important job for you. I need you to go downstairs, call the Rockbells, and say that Mom is having the baby now. And stay downstairs, please.”

Ed drags Al down the stairs, and Hohenheim returns to Trisha, settling on the floor beside the tub and offering her his hand to squeeze again.

“It’s coming,” she pants. “Pinako warned me that it gets quicker every time.” Her nails dig into his palm to the point of pain. “Don’t leave me.”

“I’m right here.”

“Van Hohenheim, don’t you dare leave me now!”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He means it, although he can well understand why Trisha needs the reassurance considering the last two times. It’s strange how comparatively calm he feels now. For Ed’s birth he’d been so frantic that he couldn’t stay in the house, let alone the room, leaving it to the Rockbells to get Trisha through it whilst he dealt with half a million panicking souls not including his own. For Al’s, he hadn’t panicked quite so much, but he’d been watching Ed so again, he hadn’t been in the room.

Now the boys are old enough to look after themselves for a while, and he’s here with Trisha whilst she’s labouring, and although there’s an undercurrent of panic, he’s objectively calm, because Trisha’s body has done this twice before, and she can tell him what she needs, and he knows he has enough medical knowledge through alkahestry to be able to help him out if necessary.

He really hopes that it won’t be necessary.

It’s nice having Hohenheim here with her. With Ed, he was a nervous wreck and vanished off somewhere until Yuriy went and found him and brought him back after Ed was born and safely tucked up in Trisha’s arms and Pinako had dealt with the clean-up. With Al, he was much calmer and more collected, but also looking after an inquisitive eighteen-month-old, so he didn’t really have a lot of choice in the matter. Now, with this little one, he’s here with her, one hand rubbing her back whilst the other one offers itself up to her vice grip on him.

She really doesn’t think that Pinako will get here in time. The pains are faster and stronger than she remembers them from the last two times. Everything is quicker and more intense this time around, and she heaves a shuddering breath as another contraction pulls through her belly.

You’ll know when the baby’s coming, Sarah says in her mind, preparing her for Ed’s birth, almost six years ago now. She’d just had Winry, so she’d know. There’ll be so much pressure that you just have to push it out; it’ll be the only thought in your head.

It was like that the first two times, and it had been at this stage that Pinako had told her to push. It’s like that now.

“It’s coming now,” she says, digging her fingernails into Hohenheim’s hand and feeling the crackle of his innate alchemy fixing him when she scratches and draws blood by accident. It doesn’t seem to bother him.

“Ok.”

“You’re so calm. Oddly calm, for you.”

Hohenheim laughs nervously and pushes her butt back down under the surface where she’s shifting and wriggling in her discomfort. He must be covered in water by now. “Oh, I’m screaming on the inside.”

Another pain comes, the pressure is unbearable, and Trisha goes with her gut, howling as she pushes the baby down.

“It’s coming, it’s coming NOW!”

“Ok, it’s ok.” Hohenheim doesn’t sound quite as calm now. “Just go with your instinct.”

Instinct is telling her to push the baby out by any means necessary. Instinct is telling her that it feels like she’s being torn apart from the inside out. Instinct is telling her, in the midst of the pain and the pressure and the tears rolling down her face, that this baby is a girl.

“I’ve got to get her OUT!”

The pain is blinding, just like it was with Ed and Al, and Trisha screams.

“I can feel the head. Keep going, my love, you’re doing so well.”

Pain, squeeze, pain, push, pain, scream, blessed relief.

“I’ve got her.” Hohenheim sounds as if he’s about to faint. He guides the baby between her thighs and Trisha flops down onto her back, sending water careening over the side of the tub.

Then a new-born’s cry is echoing around the bathroom tiles, and Hohenheim is placing their third child on her chest, tucking in a towel around her.

“Girl?”

“Girl,” he affirms. Trisha checks for herself just in case. One perfect little girl, pink and loud and angry.

“Hello, baby,” she coos, stroking the hot little cheek. “Hello, my little one. Open your eyes for me, baby. Let’s see if you’ve got your daddy’s eyes.”

Her daughter does not oblige, but she does quieten down as she latches on to Trisha’s breast. She looks up at Hohenheim. He’s completely drenched, and he looks like he might keel over any moment, but he’s smiling, and Trisha can’t remember the last time she saw him express such unbridled joy since he first met Ed and then Al.

Trisha hears the commotion downstairs as Pinako and Sarah arrive, Ed and Al exclaiming that they’ve heard the baby crying, but it doesn’t really register with her until they come into the bathroom.

Pinako takes a look at the scene and raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t know which one of you is wetter. Is there any water even left in the tub?”

Trisha just laughs, and Pinako gives a good natured sigh. “All right. You’ve done very well, all things considered. I’m surprised he hasn’t fainted yet. Let’s get the cord cut and the afterbirth out, and then we’ll deal with this mess.”

Sarah takes the scissors out of her medical bag and offers them to Hohenheim. “Would you like to do the honours?”

“No, I don’t think I should be trusted with sharp objects right now.”

Sarah fails to smother her snort of laughter at that. Within minutes, the cord is clamped and cut and Pinako is massaging her belly to encourage the afterbirth out. Hohenheim leans against the side of the tub beside her, and Trisha nudges her forehead against his.

“Hey. You did good.” He did more than good, but she’s too addled to think of a better word right now.

“I think we can safely say you did all the work.”

Baby finishes nursing and Trisha looks down into her eyes, now open and glorious Xerxian gold like her father’s and brothers’.

She barely notices delivering the afterbirth, and everything afterwards becomes a bit of a blur. Sarah takes the baby to weigh and measure her and check her over so she can make notes for the birth certificate, and Pinako finds a mop and tells them she’ll deal with cleaning up the room, whilst Hohenheim carries Trisha to their bedroom wrapped in a towel. She only really comes back to herself once he’s dried her off and tucked her up in bed in a clean nightgown, and Sarah brings their wiped down and tightly swaddled daughter through to them.

“I told the boys to wait downstairs, but I can see that they’re literally on the bottom step,” she says. “They’re very eager to meet their sister.” She looks Hohenheim up and down. “You should probably change before they see you though.”

Considering he’s still soaked to the skin in slimy bathwater, Trisha has to agree, and Sarah leaves them alone to go and help Pinako.

Baby settles into Trisha’s arms and closes her eyes, and Trisha can’t help brushing a finger over her little nose and puckered lips, so small and perfect. “She needs a name before we introduce her to her brothers.” She pauses. “Come here.”

No longer looking quite so dramatic, Hohenheim comes over and sits on the edge of the bed as he finishes buttoning his shirt. Trisha doesn’t mention the fact he’s buttoned it skewed.

“You haven’t held her yet.”

“I caught her as she was being born. I held her before you did.”

“That’s not the same and you know it.” She carefully passes the bundle of blankets over, and although for a moment he looks like she’s given him a live hand grenade, he relaxes and tucks baby in close against his chest, gazing down at her in wonder like he did when he first held Ed and Al. He’s lived for so long and he’s seen so much, some good and lots more of it bad, but the miracle of life is still a miracle. Creating a brand new person with a brand new soul is something alchemy can never do.

“Ada,” he says softly. “It means noble, like her mother.”

Trisha smiles. “Ada Elric it is.”

She knows that Ed and Al are champing at the bit to come and meet the baby, but for now she wants a few more minutes to enjoy this time that’s just the three of them, her and Hohenheim and the little girl they made. Hohenheim is murmuring to her in gentle, sing-song Xerxian, and Trisha doesn’t understand enough yet to know what he’s telling her, but she recognises I love you so much.

He drops a kiss on her forehead and passes her back to Trisha. “I’ll go and get the boys.”

Trisha glances at the window as she strokes Ada’s pink cheek. It’s the middle of the night and they’re all still awake and heaven knows what tomorrow will bring, but it’s all right, because tonight is a momentous night.

The door opens carefully and Ed and Al peer around it, Hohenheim shepherding them inside.

“Come in, boys. Come and meet your baby sister.”

They creep over to the bed, clambering up onto the mattress and leaning over to take a look. Ada squints and crinkles her face up. She’s so little she probably can’t even see them, and definitely not to take notice of them.

“She’s tiny,” Ed breathes. “What’s her name?”

“This is Ada.”

“Was she really born in the bath? How didn’t she drown?”

Trisha laughs. “You’ll learn that when you’re older. But she’s here, and she’s perfectly well.”

“Can we hold her? Please?”

“Not tonight. She’s had quite a big adventure already and she needs to rest nice and snug. But you can meet her properly and hold her tomorrow.”

They’re all so caught up in their admiration for the little one that no one notices Sarah step in with her camera.

The picture she takes becomes one of Trisha’s favourites, and one of the few pictures she has of all five of them together. Hohenheim tends to shy away from photos, knowing that they provide an indelible record of his unchanging state. It’s just a simple candid snap, none of them looking at the camera, and it's beautiful in its honesty.

Ten years later, it’s the one picture Trisha will put into her bag when they travel. Just in case they don’t make it back to Resembool. Just in case the children never see their father again.

It never fails to amaze Trisha how quickly they settle into a new routine after Ada’s birth.

Hohenheim still spends most of his time in his study, but now the door is open a lot more and the boys dart in and out, practising alchemy in the corner under the watchful, empty gaze of the suit of armour. They continue to learn bits and pieces of Xerxian, and Trisha’s privately impressed with how much she understands now, as well. They’re starting to teach it to Winry too, and the three of them conspire in the garden, perhaps not realising that Trisha can interpret more than they anticipate, absorbing it by osmosis.

She notices that Hohenheim is not quite as distant with them as he was before. Beginning to teach them about himself and where he comes from, and where they in turn can also claim their heritage from, has been good for his relationship with them, bringing them closer together.

Trisha always remembers with fondness the first time she left Hohenheim alone with all three children. She had been so nervous at the time. She’d had visions of coming home to find the house burned down. Not that her husband is a complete disaster - he managed to fend for himself for hundreds of years, after all - but to say that he’s absent-minded at times is an understatement.

Sarah had laughed at her as they walked down to the village. “How much trouble can they get into when one of them is only two months old?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.”

When she had returned, the house was still in one piece and blessedly quiet, and she’d entered the living room to find the floor completely covered in paper where the boys were drawing basic transmutation circles. Ed waved at her to be quiet, and she’d looked over to see Hohenheim dozed off in his chair in the corner, with Ada sleeping soundly on his chest. It was one of those moments where she really wished she had a camera handy.

Trisha can tell when Hohenheim is reaching a crisis point in his research, because the study door shuts and there’s a worried frown line between his brows that won’t go away. He withdraws into himself again, pulling away from them, and she wishes she knew why.

It’s just before Ada’s first birthday that she sits him down and asks him to tell her everything about what’s going on.

He tries to demur, but Trisha already knows that what he’s planning and plotting against is something so far-reaching she might not even be able to comprehend it. He had planned to leave them for a very, very long time to accomplish his goals, and although she knows that his perception of time is all over the place due to having lived so long already, she knows that he knows the significance of a decade in their lives. He’s been back, away from his quest but still working tirelessly towards it, for almost eighteen months. Eighteen months that he could have been away doing things in other parts of Amestris.

Finally, he gives her the whole story.

It’s almost too large to comprehend, and it certainly takes a long time to tell it.

Trisha agrees that the children shouldn’t hear a word of it. Not now, at least, and maybe not even when they’re older.

At least she understands the immense gravity of the situation now.

(She already felt a deep sense of dread when Yuriy and Sarah were called up to the Ishval front and now she feels sick, knowing what the conflict is truly for.)

After Ada turns one, their routine changes.

Hohenheim starts to travel again; it’s unavoidable in what he has to do. He has to follow the path that his strange nemesis has already taken. He tries to be regular in his habits though. Three months on the road, one month back in Resembool. He misses Ada’s first word, only learning in a phone booth on the Cretan border that it was ‘dog’, but more poignantly, that it was ‘dog’ in Xerxian, not Amestrian.

It startles him when he actually hears her speak for the first time. She’s scared of the telephone and won’t come near it to talk to him when he calls. He’s only just come in the front door and put his suitcase down and kissed Trisha when he hears daddy daddy daddy babbled in the language of the sun and Ada toddles over and grabs his leg.

“She is, without a doubt, your daughter,” Trisha says smugly.

Time goes on. Months pass. Years pass. Hohenheim has to spend longer and longer away, but everyone is always pleased to see him when he returns, no matter what’s been going on in the meantime. Gradually, the children learn more and more of his history and of the work that he’s doing as he trails around the country leaving souls in the ground.

Then, all of a sudden, it’s four months until the Promised Day, and Hohenheim knows he won’t see his family again before that dread event.

It feels like only yesterday he left for the very first time. He’s missed so much of his family’s lives. He’s missed almost all of Ada’s milestones. At least he had five uninterrupted years with the boys.

At least, once this is all over, he’ll have time to make up for lost time.

He hopes he will.

Edward comes into the bedroom as he’s packing to leave for this final time.

“I want to go with you.”

It’s the fact he’s speaking Xerxian that convinces Hohenheim of his unyielding sincerity. Both he and Al are fluent now; Ada’s been bilingual since she could talk and prefers her father’s tongue to her mother’s. Trisha knows enough to get by comfortably and she understands far more than she speaks or writes; she can always follow Ed and Ada when they get into motormouth mode even though she replies in Amestrian.

Hohenheim looks at his eldest child. He’s fifteen, and he’s just as fiery and headstrong as Hohenheim himself was when he was fifteen, before he became Hohenheim. Before everything happened. His mastery of alchemy is paralleled only by Al’s. Hohenheim could not be prouder of his son, but he can’t say yes to him.

“Edward, I appreciate your offer, but no.”

“Why not? Surely you need all the help that you can get against this bastard.”

“I do. But not you. You are my son, and I love you, and I will never put you in danger like that. I need you to take care of your mother, and your brother and sister. I need you to follow the plan and keep them safe for me.”

The plan was put in place a while ago, after Hohenheim had travelled through the smouldering remains of Ishval and learned that some of the refugees had made their way to the ruins of Xerxes and found shelter and peace in a place with such a bloody history. The survivors he had met had known he wasn’t Amestrian, had known he was something… other.

He had helped them, and they had said that his family would be welcome in the sanctuary that had once been his home.

Ed nods. He’s not happy, Hohenheim can tell, but he’s accepting.

Hohenheim does not expect the hug. Ed is not tactile in the same way his siblings are. Sometimes Hohenheim wonders if that’s because he never really hugged his son when he was younger.

Whatever the reason, Ed throws his arms around his father and buries his face in his shoulder.

“Don’t leave us.” He knows he’s not talking about this latest trip, but a far more permanent departure. “Please come back. You’ve always come back before.”

“You have my word.”

For someone who has never left Resembool, the prospect of a journey to a ruined city in the middle of the desert is a daunting one. Nonetheless, Trisha knows what she has to do. She feels terrible to be leaving her country on the brink of disaster – especially a disaster that they don’t know is coming. She feels awful to be leaving her friends and neighbours. She feels awful to be leaving Pinako, although Pinako tells her to stop being silly and take care of Winry on their journey.

“Everything will be fine, and you’ll be back before you know it,” she says as she helps them pack up. “You’ve always had faith in Hohenheim before, haven’t you?”

Trisha nods. She still has faith in him now. She doesn’t want to leave; it feels like a betrayal of her trust in him, but he had insisted. He would not be able to live with himself if something went wrong, if he didn’t succeed, and if his family was caught up in the crossfire. So, for his peace of mind, knowing that he doesn’t have to worry about them whilst he does what he has to do, Trisha and the children will leave Amestris before the Promised Day. They had tried to persuade Pinako to come with them, but she steadfastly refuses, saying she’s needed in Resembool. She concedes to let Winry go away with them, though.

The trip to the ruins of Xerxes is a tense, nervous one, the vastness of what’s at stake making everyone jumpy and irritable. The Ishvalans are expecting them, and although they keep their distance, there’s definitely a mutual curiosity there.

It’s the language that brings them together, that first evening. Trisha and the Ishvalan elder who welcomed them, Miriam, speak Amestrian to each other, but within the family group, they lapse into Xerxian without thinking – Winry’s been part of their extended family for long enough to be able to follow in the same way Trisha does. It just seems natural to speak it here.

It’s the language of this place, Ed explains to the Ishvalan boys who venture to ask about this strange tongue they’ve never heard anyone from Amestris speak before. It’s the language of Xerxes, the language of their ancestors. The language of their father.

There’s so much enthusiasm and just sheer pride in Ed’s voice as he explains. This place may not be their home, but it is their homeland, and although the circumstances that have brought them here are bleak, they’re excited to explore it, to match it up to the bedtime stories that Hohenheim told them when they were small.

Then, the Promised Day comes. Despite telling herself that she’s not going to, Trisha can’t help but stare over at the horizon in the direction of Amestris, towards where Hohenheim is facing his destiny. She sees the shadows of the eclipse, the swirling storm of alchemy. It’s so far away, and yet it still takes her breath away.

Miriam comes over to where she’s keeping up her vigil and squeezes her hand.

“I’m sure your husband will be all right.”

Trisha has every faith in him, but that doesn’t stop the gnawing fear from eating away at her insides.

Four days after the storm, Trisha thinks that she sees something moving in the heat shimmer on the horizon, and she keeps glancing across at it all day. By lunch time, Ada sees it too and stations herself at the edge of the city, keeping a stubborn watch despite everyone’s best efforts to get her to move. Eventually, Trisha comes and sits in the shade beside her, and they keep their eyes on the figure until its shape emerges; a person on horseback cloaked against the desert sun, leading a packhorse. Trisha’s heart leaps to her mouth.

On the one hand, Hohenheim promised that he would come and meet them in Xerxes after the Promised Day. On the other hand, horses hate him because of the overabundance of souls.

On a third, purely hypothetical hand… Trisha doesn’t even dare to hope.

“It’s Dad,” Ada says firmly, and Trisha has to physically pull her back from running into the desert to meet him.

“We don’t know that yet, sweetheart. We need them to get closer.”

Al comes over with a telescope borrowed from one of the Ishvalan kids, and he peers through it.

“I can’t tell,” he says. “They’re too bundled up against the sand.”

“It’s Dad.” Ada’s so confident, and Trisha’s heart goes into overdrive.

The sun’s started to go down by the time the figure gets close enough for Al to make out features, and Trisha doesn’t hear Ada’s smug assertion that she knew she was right. She just throws her arms around her son, crying with relief.

It’s another couple of hours before he reaches them, and this time Trisha doesn’t stop Ada from running out across the sand, with Ed, Al and Winry hot on her heels. She watches Hohenheim dismount and get lost in a group hug; she hears the strains of their voices in rapid Xerxian but can’t make out individual words.

She sees Al point across towards the city, to where she stands silhouetted against the worn down sandstone walls.

Trisha can’t help herself, and she runs out to join them. The children part like a wave and she throws herself into Hohenheim’s arms, clinging to him like a limpet. She feels him bury his face in against her neck.

“Is it over?” she asks.

“It’s over.”

“Did you win?”

“We won. It’s all over. It’s all done. Everything’s going to be all right.”

She kisses him then, pouring all of the worry and fear and sheer relief that he’s alive into it, her fingers tangling in his hair and trying to get him even closer as his hands cup her face, brushing away her tears.

There’s a slight commotion beside them, and when she finally lets go, Trisha sees that Ed has clamped his hands over Ada’s eyes, Ada is complaining about this, and Al and Winry are just killing themselves laughing.

“I think we should… go.” Ed shepherds his siblings back towards the city and Hohenheim chuckles, putting his glasses back on where they were knocked askew in the exuberance of the reunion before resting his forehead against Trisha’s with a sigh.

As Trisha untangles her fingers, she notices that there are strands of Hohenheim’s hair shining silver in the moonlight, contrasting against the gold. Stepping back and looking at him more closely, she sees the beginnings of lines around his eyes that weren’t there before.

He’s aged.

“The souls…”

“Just one left,” he says. “Just mine. Everything’s very quiet now. I’d forgotten what it felt like.” He kisses her again. “I promised I’d come back and grow old with you.”

“Yes. Yes you did.”

They walk back to the city holding hands as they lead the horses. Trisha still can’t quite believe that it’s all turned out for the best. She can’t believe that it’s all over, that Hohenheim is back and he won’t have to leave again. After seeing to the horses, they wander through the city, Hohenheim pointing out all the places he remembers from his distant youth until they reach their campsite.

It’s a long time before anyone sleeps that night, everyone too excited and overwhelmed by everything that’s happened, Ed and Al pressing Hohenheim for details of the final battle that he won’t give.

(Maybe later, when they’re adults and they can fully grasp the horrific reality of everything that went on, but Trisha thinks that Hohenheim will take those secrets to his grave.)

Even when they finally cuddle up together under their blankets, Trisha still has to press her hand over Hohenheim’s chest to feel the steady thump of his heart to reassure her that it’s not just a fever dream brought on by the desert sun.

“You’re really here.”

“I know. I can’t believe it either.”

She bats his chest. “Don’t start. I knew you could do it.”

“That makes one of us.”

“Oh, you.”

“You wouldn’t have me any other way, though, would you?”

“Never.”

Trisha drifts off with Hohenheim’s arms around her, his breath ghosting through her hair.

When she wakes up alone, she’s not at all surprised. She gets up and checks on the children – Al is awake and gives her a little nod of understanding, gesturing the direction Hohenheim went in.

She finds him on his knees in front of what had been the palace, gazing up at the once-magnificent building with tears streaming down his face.

His home is destroyed, and his people are gone, and it’s no less painful now than it was four hundred years ago. Maybe even more so now that the souls are all gone too.

She sits down beside him and takes his hand in hers, and there’s a profound silence between them for a long time.

“I think it’s good that you’re here,” she says eventually. “This is where you lost your mortality, and this is where you regain it.” She touches the silver in his hair. “This is your absolution.”

Hohenheim nods.

“It’s not just that.” His voice is quiet, choked with emotion. “It’s the knowledge that despite it all, despite the devastation and the loss, it’s not all gone.”

“I don’t understand.”

“This place is a home again,” Hohenheim says. “The Ishvalans have made it into a home again. They’re the new Xerxians. This place is theirs now, and in time they’ll build it up and make it beautiful again. It’s not my home; it hasn’t been since I left it. My home is in Resembool with you and our children. It’s theirs, and I can’t think of anything more fitting. And my people… My people are still here too.”

Trisha wonders if he even notices he’s slipped into his native tongue.

“They’re still alive. Edward, Alphonse, Ada… They’re alive and they know about this place and its people, they know who they are. It’s not all gone, it’s not all lost. Even after I’m gone, they’ll still be here, and they’ll still remember.”

Now, Trisha understands.

“I love you, Trisha. Thank you for everything.”

“I love you too. It’s been a pleasure.”

As the sun begins to rise high over the desert, Trisha knows that true peace has finally come to her family.

#FMA Brotherhood #Fullmetal Alchemist #FMA fanfiction #Trisha Elric #Van Hohenheim #AU #Trisha lives #unplanned pregnancy #some discussion of asexuality #I seriously considered calling this 'The Law of Inverse Fertility'#Fic: Spark

5 notes · View notes

feistypaants-archived · 5 years ago

Text

Between The Pipes [Chapter 25]

Rating: M Words: 2008 Pairing: Kristanna Summary: When a new owner takes over the Arendelle Ice Breakers, Kristoff isn’t sure about his future with the team. That is, until a PR nightmare throws the newest member of the media team, who also just so happens to be the daughter of the new owner, right into his arms. Kristoff and Anna can’t even stand the interviews they have to do together… how on earth are they going to fix this mess? Hockey!AU.

[Chapter Index]

Where To Read: [AO3]

Notes: even slow progress is progress right? This might be a big step for them :)

Enjoy!

Kristoff was struggling to find Sven in the crowd of people, but sighed with relief when he heard his name being hollered from behind him. He clenched the three drinks just a little tighter in his hands before turning to face his captain.

“Hey baby!” Sven hollered, slinking across the floor with his fiancée under his arm. Kristoff couldn’t help but chuckle at the pink flush across both of their cheeks. Clearly they had wasted no time in finding the bar and downing more than one drink. “More?”

Handing off something pink and sweet to Jelissa with a smile, Kristoff held up two beers in between his other fingers. He hoped it would help slow Sven down just enough that he wouldn’t have to carry him home, but still let his best friend keep his buzz going. “Drink this for now, I think Anna is going to come join us in a little bit -”

“Oh man, okay,” Sven grabbed the beer before grinning as he spun his cane haphazardly up to rest on his shoulder. “So… wait hang on.” He turned to whisper something in Jelissa’s ear before she rolled her eyes and turned to find some of the ladies who were here with their hockey playing significant others that she knew. “Okay, boy talk.”

“Boy…?” Kristoff felt his face scrunch up just a little in confusion before he felt the sting of a three foot long metal pole colliding with his upper arm. “What the fuck!”

“Will you just,” he did it again, and Kristoff winced as he stepped back. “Tell her how you feel?” Sven was winding up for another whack when Kristoff reached up to place a firm hand on the stick.

“I don’t think hitting me is helping!”

Sven’s eyebrows furrowed as he threw his hands up in defeat, spilling a little of the beer onto the floor. “Well it can’t be hurting! Clearly I need to actually smack some sense into you, you moron!” Tearing the can from Kristoff’s grip, Sven slammed it back on the ground. “You’re in love with her, man. We can all see it. Why can’t you?”

Letting a heavy sigh pass over his lips, Kristoff couldn’t help but avert his gaze. He knew Sven was right, and that made his heart speed up under his ribs. He thought about her bright, loving eyes and her glowing smile and her warm laugh that made him feel safe and shit shit shit.

He fucking loved her, didn’t he.

“Fuck.”

A knowing smile stretched over Svens lips as he reached over with the cane again, tapping it lightly against Kristoff’s cheek. “You’re so dumb. But I still love you.”

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

—

Anna loved the time she spent with her sister, but it was almost mortifying to learn of everything she had missed while living by herself these last few months. Apparently their father had somehow gotten worse - she supposed due to the stress of actually having to make decisions - and their mother wasn’t handling it well. In fact, Anna had seen her at the bar, three drinks in, and when she tried to say hello she had been dismissed, almost as if she hadn’t even been recognized.

Elsa said she was doing her best to help, but their mother refused to admit she had a problem. There really wasn’t much that could be done right now.

“Anna, this isn’t something you need to worry about, I promise. I’ve got it handled. I want you…” She squeezed at her shoulders lovingly, a smile growing on her face. “I want you to live your life, all right? You seem so happy here. You were never happy in LA.”

Nodding and biting at her lip, Anna sighed. “All right, if you’re sure.”

“I am.”

“Then,” she said with a grin, shrugging her shoulders. “You should probably let loose a little tonight, huh? Why don’t we…” Her eyes landed on Honeymaren, laughing alongside another member of the media team. “Meet my friends.”

Grabbing her sisters’ hand and pulling her eagerly over towards her coworker, Anna practically leapt to stand between them. “Honey!” Her eyes turned up to face them.

“Wait, what --”

“Honey this is my sister, the one I’ve mentioned…” She winked and snickered, the cosmo clearly already loosening her up. “You know.

“Anna.” Elsa’s voice was heavy with warning.

“Elsa,” she smiled, blowing one huff of air out. “This is Honeymaren -- Honey -- and I think you guys might get along great.”

Anna couldn’t help how toothy her grin got as the two women looked at one another and laughed, as if they both knew exactly what Anna was up to.

That was fine.

Because now she really wanted to find Kristoff.

After giving them just a few minutes to introduce themselves to one another, Anna could feel herself starting to get anxious to move, her heels tapping on the ground repeatedly as she bounced up on her toes. “Okay!” she practically exploded, reaching for both of their hands. “How about a round of shots and then we go find Kristoff and Sven?”

Anna missed the way their eyes connected with laughter before she skipped off towards the bar, dragging them behind her. She ordered her favorite shot - the pink starburst - and grinned as she held them out for the other two women. “I think we all deserve this.” Elsa rolled her eyes with a smile and Anna bounced happily before throwing her own back and immediately ordering six simple kamikaze shots before leading the way out to the dance floor where she assumed the three would still be.

It didn’t take long for her wandering eyes to find him, tall and broad and hovering over most of the other attendees. He had lost his hat and his hair was falling out from the slick do, and Anna couldn’t help but love the way small bits of his fringe fell into his eyes as he smiled and laughed along with his best friend. And as if he could sense her, his head turned her way, his eyes locked onto hers, and his grin widened. He practically pushed people aside to come meet her halfway, offering his hands to help with the six drinks they had been carrying.

“I brought shots.” Why was she so nervous right now? Obviously she brought shots!

“I see that.” But his smile was genuine.

She heard Sven and Jelissa’s vocalizing for them to come closer over the jazzy decade-appropriate music and laughed, gesturing their way. “I suppose they’ll start a riot if I don’t bring these to them, huh?”

Kristoff shrugged but kept smiling. “They’re already pretty drunk. They’ll probably forget you even have them in a minute.” His free hand reached for her, settling on the bare skin of her lower back before applying just enough pressure to encourage her to move forward.

“We’ve got some catching up to do, I think,” Anna sighed, glancing at the measly shot in her hand.

“Or,” he rolled his neck, leaning back towards Honey and Elsa. “The four of us can just stay semi-sober and enjoy the show they’re bound to give us.”

Anna enjoyed the laughter from her sister and her friend that bubbled up behind them, sneaking a glance at the two girls before tugging gently on Kristoff’s jacket to make him lean closer. “I’m setting them up,” she whispered, a glint in her eye. “I think they’ll be so good together, you know?”

She hummed happily as he risked one glance back at two women, and Anna noticed a recognition in his eyes she wasn’t wholly familiar with. “Oh, yeah, I think… I think that’ll go well.”

They reached Sven and Jelissa who hollered at a probably obnoxious level before they grabbed two shots from their hands, throwing them back without question.

“Oh boy.” Anna looked up at Kristoff who was practically grimacing as he watched the couple, who were now dancing in a manner that was definitely bordering on inappropriate. “That’s not what you want.”

Anna felt her whole face flush as four hands reached out to pull her and Kristoff into their rambunctious dance circle.

—

The night was finally starting to wind down, and Anna felt the exhaustion in her bones. As fun as dancing and singing and letting loose with her friends and sister was, she was absolutely on her last leg. She loved parties, and loved how they wore her out but energized her at the same time, but she was also just about ready to take her very handsome, very tipsy, fake boyfriend home and enjoy some much needed alone time with him.

Most people had left by now with the exception of a few stragglers who were looking to buy whatever was remaining, and some others who clearly wanted to milk the event for all it was worth. Sven and Jelissa had settled onto a couch in the corner, curled up together and practically sleeping while they waited for the night to end, while Elsa and Honey were sitting in the dining area, knees brushing as they talked and ignored the mostly untouched glasses of wine resting on the table between them.

Most surprising of all to Anna was that Kristoff was still out on the dance floor with her, holding her close as slow music played to cool off the rest of the attendees. She relished in the way he held her now, his hand settled low on her back while fingers stroked softly at her skin, as his other one grasped hers, their intertwined fingers partially wedged between their chests. Anna couldn’t help but use her other hand to play with the hair at the base of his skull as they swayed back and forth, his eyes rarely leaving hers.

“So…” she hummed, at the same time as he blurted out “I need to confess something.”

“O-oh?” She wasn’t sure what he was going to say, but she thanked the soft encouragement of alcohol as he smiled through the light flush on his cheeks. Anna tried not to let her imagination run too wild - for all she knew he was going to tell her that he didn’t like cats. This could mean nothing. But…

He laughed, just a little one, and spun her slowly to the beat of the music. “You’ve ruined me, you know that? For good.”

Anna felt her smile drop just a little, but she did her best to play it off. “What do you mean?”

“I…” he shook his head, breathing out a heavy sigh. “I mean… No one is ever…” He blinked and his face dropped and she felt him stiffen beneath her. “Don’t take this the wrong way, all right?”

He seemed to relax just slightly when she let out a breathy laugh and shook her head. “I won’t.”

Nodding, Kristoff continued. “I will never be able to date anyone else. Even if I wanted to.”

His hand tightened around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer as he pressed his cheek against hers. “I’m… I’m still not ready. I’m sorry. But when I am…”

“Kristoff…” She let go of his fingers clasped between hers before wrapping her arms around his neck, smiling when his now free hand pressed comfortingly against the back of her head. “I’m…” her heart was hammering beneath her ribs and she could almost see her blood pulsing behind her eyes. “You’re it for me.”

He squeezed just a little tighter.

“I will never… I will never feel this way again.”

She heard the soft exhale of breath through his nose as he turned to bury it behind her ear.

“I’ll wait as long as you need me to.”

It didn’t take long for him to pull back just enough to look into her eyes and decide if she was telling the truth. Then faster still, he pressed his lips to hers and kissed her deeper than he ever had before.

She loved him.

She would wait forever if she had to.

#btpfic #feistypantswrites

55 notes · View notes

nitannichionne · 4 years ago

Text

His Own, Chapter Four: The Alpha’s Way (Chris Evans/James Dornan Werewolf Fan Fic)

CHAPTER 4: AN ALPHA’S WAY

You can’t believe this. This man--this wolf--is trying to take over your brand new house! “How dare—”

Chris raises an eyebrow at you. “No thanks necessary, they mean well, you know.”

“You didn’t let me answer—”

“You didn’t need to,” he shrugs. “They want to meet me, know me. They will. They wanted to know things were under control. They are.” He throws you over his shoulder. “and now, I’m going to have you one more time before we head to Canis.”

“Wait!” You kick, and he slaps your ass. You reach down and slap his. “Let me down!”

He gets all the way up the steps and up your bed before doing so, except you land on the bed with a small thud. “Yes?” He starts crawling toward you.

“You’re unbelievable!”

“I was thinking the same thing,” he says, his gaze roving your body appreciatively. “I honestly could eat and drink you all day.”

You frown at that. “Chris?!” You start backing toward the head of the bed.

“What?” His eyes start glowing. “And it couldn’t be better. You’re ready for me.”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

His hand goes straight to your sex and he dips a finger in. Your breath hitches at how bold he is, but also at the fact that you truly didn’t mind what he did. He licks the wetness. “Two weeks till your menses.”

“Menses?” you repeat. “What does my time of the month—”

He shakes his head as he crawls over you. “You won’t make it.”

“What?” He is on his hands and knees over you, licking his lips. Is he planning to eat you alive?

“By then you’ll be carrying offspring,” he grins, his canines showing. “Mine.”

Your whole body freezes as the words sink in, and you shake your head. You watch his hand grow short claws as he hooks the top of your nightshirt and slashes it open without touching your skin. With a flick of the wrist, they’re gone.

Suddenly your phone rings. “Uh—wait.” You scoot toward the side of the bed, rolling to your hands and knees to pick up your cell, clicking on as he crawls behind you. Your knees are balanced on the bed, but one hand is still on your nightstand. Chris is right behind you, kissing up your spine, hips aligning with yours and holding gently. “Hello?”

“Is Chris there?” a male voice asks.

You blink and Chris stills. “What?”

“Put Chris on the phone, please?”

Chris takes the phone, but pulls you back on top of him. “What?” he pauses. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He laughs softly. “My mate found me.” He smacks your ass. “I’m really, really busy, Zac.” You try to get on your hands and knees, but he pulls the night shirt and grabs your hips. He pulls you back and takes a long lick at your slit, wasting no time. You bite your lip, trying to stifle a moan. “Mmmh, what? Well, I got to her first and yes, she’s claimed now. Mine.” He pauses. “I’ll bring her for lunch…after.” He clicks off. “The pack wants to meet you.”

“Meet me?” you exhale as you feel his tongue tease you from behind. “Chris, ah—what was about—first—and uhhhnnnn….”

“That’s a good girl,” he says softly. You hear him smack his lips. “mmmmh….” He pulls your hips down on his erection and you cry out, melting around him. You try to crawl forward, but he catches your arms and folds them behind you. “I’ve got you, babe, I’ve got you.” He starts moving and you helplessly move with him, one of his hands holding your arms behind you as you lean forward, the other gripping your hip. Your head bows as you pant, in your wolf’s clutches.

He feels good….so…damned…good. You climax around him and he slows for a few moments only to build the rhythm again. As you move together, panting and moaning, you realize your thoughts. Yes, you might be his, but he is also yours. You roll your hips, slowing that reverse cowboy you’re in, and build a rhythm of your own.

“Fuck!” He pants and cries out your name. The hand on your hip squeezes you as his hips start to thrust upward and hard, the only reason you aren’t off balance being his other hand holding your arms behind your back. He releases your hands and you reflexively lean forward, but his body moves forward as well, his member only slipping out partially as he grabs your hips and pushes you forward enough to come up on his knees. “Now, mate…” His cock fills and stretches you in one move, making you cry out. Your body clasps him the only way it can from this position instinctively.

You cry out, down on your elbows and your hips up to meet his. His hands smooth over your skin lovingly, over your shoulders and down the sides of your back. “Chris…” you don’t know what else to say.

“Like I said,” he growls and exhales a breathy and completely male chuckle. He smacks your ass for good measure. “You aren’t going to make it.” At his command and under his power, you tremble. He rocks you against him and you arch your hips reflexively. “Good girl…take it, take it…”

The pace is overwhelming. Your climaxes are intense, and you stop counting how many times he brings you there, only to start again. At least three times you felt him spill into you, and he only begins again, slowly at first, and then building to tempos that have you screaming and squirming in surrender until orgasm brings you relief. That’s not natural, that’s inhuman, you think, and your thoughts disperse again as your memories of last night and earlier this morning flash in your mind and disappear in a haze. Your mind tries to wrap around this. This is real. He is real.

Finally he begins to tremble. This time is different. You arch your hips invitingly, breathlessly crying out and clawing your sheets. He has claimed you, you realize. Any sign of any other male has been wiped away and imprinted with his essence, he fills your present so much all others are a distant memory. You are branded by the bite and light scratches on your body, a sign to humans that you are marked, a sign to wolves you are claimed. It has happened so quickly and yet, you can’t seem to hold on to anything else. He leans forward over your body, one hand by your elbow on the bed, the other encircling your waist, and heaves his last into you. You both emit mixtures of soft cries and pants. He finally stills. And pulls you onto your side, holding you and still pulsing inside of you. You are still catching your breath.

“Canis Creek,” he whispers. “Canis Creek has been wolf country for centuries. The population is about two-thirds werewolf.”

You thought it would be more— “Why—”

“Some wolves found human mates, and that one third includes half breeds.”

“Why me?”

“I picked up your scent last year, but you disappeared.”

You remember last year, you visited your uncle and aunt for your uncle’s birthday. You spent the weekend, and loved the place, hiking in the woods and writing in your notebook on the riverbank. You were at peace, which is why you had your small house built and came back this year.

“When I picked up your scent again, I went after you,” he says, thinking aloud. “Not many knew that, but someone who didn’t want me to find you came after me.”

“So the glass isn’t full on that, huh?”

“I want it to be,” he growls stroking your body. “I think that’s why I was attacked. There are others who do not feel as I do.”

“So I’m in danger?”

“Yes…and no.”

“But if I carry your heir?”

“Then,” he exhales. “you may be, but those who back me, or are loyal will protect you.” He kisses your hair. “And so will I.”

@mistress-of-ward

#chris evans fan fiction #chris evans #chrisevans #chris evans fandom #captain america captainamerica #werewolf #halloween

8 notes · View notes

kindofcashton · 5 years ago

Text

𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕟𝕖𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕕 • chapter 2 (Calum Hood AU)

THE REST OF dinner was much more enjoyable once Calum left. Luke, Michael, and Ashton had no problem making me feel at home, and soon I was laughing and free from the stress of the day.

From what I'd gathered, Luke and Michael about a year younger than Ashton. They'd all finished high school and decided against university, much to their parents' pleasure. Ashton however had landed a pretty lucrative gig at an advertising firm, even without a degree, and he said that it was the kind of job good enough to support him as long as he needed. Luke and Michael had odd jobs here and there, preferring the care-free bachelor life to a scheduled, overworked routine. I envied their easy-going attitudes; if only I could afford to live as freely as they did.

"We're not total bums though," Luke defended himself, blue eyes smiling. The five us were sipping beers around the table, lights dimmed since it was so late. "Mike is wicked good with video games and is helping this guy with his startup. And I work down at the music shop, but the manager says he's gonna try to hook me up with an internship at a record label."

Michael snorted. "I can not imagine you fetching people coffee. And they'd probably force you take out that lovely lip ring."

Luke rolled his eyes and took a swig of his beer. "You work for a guy with a purple tiger tattoo, of course you can keep your eyebrow piercing."

Ashton waved his hand dramatically, other arm slung over Hannah's shoulder. She'd moved her chair so close to his she was practically on his lap.

"Yeah yeah, you're little startup and you're little internship are cute, but I am working on the next campaign for Fido Feed."

Everyone burst out laughing, and I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion. "What's that?"

Hannah slid her hand down Ashton's cheek lovingly, and said, "It's a dog food brand, and he is single-handedly pioneering their success." Ashton grinned and gave her a kiss.

"Hey, Ash, what happened to the wheat crackers ad? I thought you were killing it with the cracker game." Michael bat his lashes innocently.

Ashton flipped him off and I took a sip of my beer, happy and buzzed. This was the most fun I'd had in a long time, and only hoped it would be like this every day. Leaving university had been a difficult but inevitable decision, and I'd feared I wouldn't be happy for a long time. Anxieties still plagued the back of my mind, but right now I found it easier than ever to ignore them.

"Alright, I don't know about you morons but I'm pretty tired." Michael stood up from the table and motioned to me. "How about I show you you're suite now, madam?"

I smiled and nodded, as Luke reached over to throw away my empty beer for me. His blue eyes were so warm and kind, and I think I was most grateful for his calming presence.

Michael led me up the stairs into a darkened hallway, and I noted four doors upstairs. One was partially open, revealing the bathroom. One at the end of the hall was shut tight, with quiet music reverberating softly from it. I guessed this was Calum's room, and as Michael led to me to his my stomach sank. I'd be right next to Calum, bumping into him as we went downstairs or tried to get to the bathroom.

Great, more opportunities for him to hate me.

The room was fairly small, but not cramped. The bed was big with dark blue sheets, and the gray walls were plastered with posters of all different types. A closet had been cleared out for me, as well as a set of drawers and desk in the corner. It was definitely a nicer place than I thought I'd be staying in.

"I don't know how to thank you," I admitted, still embarrassed at Michael's charity.

He crossed his arms, goofy smile on his face. "You'll figure something out. I like anything with cheese or frosting, so maybe start there?" I laughed, and he gave me an encouraging thumbs up before turning out of the room.

"Night, Scar!" he called, and I closed the door gently behind him.

My bags were all arranged in one corner, and I reminded myself to thank Luke later. Blowing out a sigh, I fell onto the bed. The events of the past couple months truly felt like bricks on my shoulders, and every day was a struggle to get by. The ache in my heart never seemed to subside, even during happy times like tonight. Pulling the blankets over my shivering body, I simply hoped for a good night's sleep to be able to tackle tomorrow.

Unfortunately, my prayers were not answered. I tossed and turned all night long, partly because of the unfamiliar atmosphere and partly because of my never ending anxieties. Pale dawn light was peeking through the curtains when I finally opened my eyes, and I frowned.

Quietly getting up, I checked my reflection in the mirror and yawned. My hair was tousled, the hoodie I wore nearly covering my shorts. I didn't look too great, but I decided it was better for people to see this me early on, seeing as she'd be around a fair amount.

Padding down the stairs, I didn't notice anyone awake. Ashton had stayed the night with Hannah, both of them down in the basement on the futon. Michael was passed out on the living room couch, red hair disheveled.

Suddenly a sound from the kitchen made nearly jump out of my skin. I whirled around to see Calum fishing through the cupboards, clad in only sweatpants. He must have heard my surprised gasp, because he turned to me with a scowl.

"Of course you'd be up this early." He faced away from me as I entered the kitchen, pausing as I gripped the back of a dining chair. His back muscles were taut and tan, his bare shoulders rimmed with shadow in the dim light. His hair was curly and messy, laying just over his eyes.

"You're up this early," I countered innocently, meaning it more as a joke. He gave me a distracted glance.

"Never really went to bed, I guess," he grumbled, moving to set up the coffee maker. His movements were clumsy and confused, and I could tell he had no idea what he was doing.

"Here, let me," I offered softly, striding over. His brown eyes tracked me as I dumped the ground coffee into machine, once again completely unreadable. I worked quietly, my movements automatic as I had done this a million times at college in order to survive late nights and early classes.

"Ashton usually does this," he mumbled, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. I shrugged, flipping the lid down and setting the timer. I turned so I was leaning against the counter, arms folded. Calum backed away from me, choosing now to busy himself in the fridge.

I sighed, but was thankfully saved by Michael waking up over on the couch.

"I really hope that racket was coffee being made," he said, voice thick with sleep.

"Shut up, we weren't that loud," Calum snapped, finding the milk and grabbing some frosted cereal. Soon Luke was awake and joined us in the kitchen, followed shortly by Ashton and Hannah from downstairs. She looked lazy and happy, glowing almost. Luke rolled his eyes and shot me a smile; we all knew why the two of them looked so content.

We all sat at the table, Calum included. He ate his cereal silently, and didn't look up when I poured him a cup of coffee. I took my mug and sat down, letting the warmth of the coffee seep into my cold hands.

"Cream and sugar?" Luke asked, but I shook my head.

"No, this is fine."

"You take it black? Damn, badass." He grinned, and I chuckled. Calum snorted, and everyone turned to look at him.

He reddened at our stares, and said curtly, "What, she's some brave hero for drinking black coffee? Please."

Luke didn't take his comment to heart, his expression amused. "Right, I forgot no one is cool in your eyes. You enjoy vodka straight out of the bottle." Calum met his eyes, and for the first time I saw a spark of humor in the brown orbs. Little flashes of the boys' friendship peeked through sometimes, and I knew despite his rough exterior the guys really loved Calum.

"What are we doing today?" Michael asked, stuffing some toast into his mouth.

"Some of us have serious jobs to go to," Ashton joked, and Hannah giggled as she ran a hand through his curls. I was jealous of how close they were, wishing I had someone like Ashton to support me. He would walk through fire for Hannah, and she for him. Their bond was unlike anything I'd ever seen let alone experienced, and I wondered if I'd ever be lucky enough to discover that feeling.

"Ha-ha," Michael said dryly. "Reggie doesn't need me today since we're waiting for a streaming service to get back to us, so I'm free."

Luke nodded. "Same here, the Jared doesn't need me since he's training a new guy. Looks like we'll all have the day together, eh?" He shot me a wink, and I smiled. I'd hoped to be introduced to the area, and what better way to do it then with all of them? It would give me even more time to get to know the guys.

"Why don't we give Scarlett here a tour? She's gotta know about all the good spots," Hannah proposed, and was met with sounds of approval. The only one who didn't reply was Calum, who's eyebrows hung low over his eyes as he ate his breakfast.

"Count me out, I've got some shit to do." No one questioned his vague answer, and I guessed this was routine around here. Calum did what he pleased and no one pushed him. To me it was peculiar, because I'd always been the kind of person to appreciate communication. Clearly I had a lot to learn if I was going to stick around here.

They parted ways to get ready, but I stayed behind to clean up the dishes. Small things like this made me feel better about staying at the house. Calum was last to leave the table, and was watching me with steely eyes as I rinsed out the mugs. Wordlessly, he stood up and stalked over to the sink, halting. I stopped what I was doing and glanced up at him, intimidated when I met his gaze. A beat went by, and then he set his bowl down and promptly left.

I let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding.

Soon after I'd changed and put on a bit of makeup, glad that my appearance looked slightly more acceptable. I was nervous and excited for the day ahead; seeing a new city was always fun, especially one I'd be living in for a while.

Between the guys they had three cars, the nicest belonging to Ashton which he'd bought after his first promotion. Luke and Michael shared an old station wagon since their jobs were fairly close together, and Calum drove a vintage mustang. I whistled under my breath, wondering how he afforded such a nice car. He climbed in and sped off within seconds, and I watched him disappear from view.

The rest of us piled into the station wagon with Michael behind the wheel and Luke riding shotgun.

"Alright, where to first ladies and gentleman?"

"We gotta show her the music shop," Hannah proposed.

"Oh yeah, it's a real exciting place," Luke joked. "Dusty, too."

We drove off, and Michael lowered the windows. The sky was sunny and blotted with clouds, a small breeze cooling down the warm air. I rested my arm on the window, and leaned out to look at the trees blurring by. Michael drove fast but controlled, and I could feel my heart flutter as we flew down the street.

The music shop was actually pretty cool, and Luke even took us to the back to show us where they stored the vintage and expensive stuff. Guitars, basses, even a dismantled drum kit were hiding in the back room. Michael and Luke were like little boys around all the stuff, itching to play and show us their chops.

"For a while we wanted to start a band," Luke explained, strumming a simple tune on an acoustic guitar. "But life got in the way, I guess. Besides, our parents basically told us we'd amount to nothing, so here we are."

I frowned. "You shouldn't let someone else tell you what you should do." He looked up, smiling sadly.

"Yeah, but when that someone pays for your entire life, it's pretty hard to say no." I nodded, understanding what he meant. Money was the ultimate decider in life, as I knew all too well.

After the music shop we drove by Michael's start-up, which he claimed was the "most legit garage in the whole city." It was quite literally a garage attached to some guy's house, but Michael insisted all the geniuses started out small.

As we continued driving around, I briefly thought about Calum and where he could possibly be, and I even kept an eye out for his mustang. But he was nowhere to be seen, and by lunch the thought of him had completely evaporated from my mind.

Lunch was at Michael's favorite place, which served the best cheese fries I'd ever tasted in my whole life. As I was eating a thought occurred to me.

"Hey, do you guys know any places hiring? I've gotta get a job now that I'm not spending all my time on school." Back at university, I'd thrown all of my energy into schoolwork since my scholarships depended on it. Now though, a job was a necessity.

They were quiet for a minute, thinking. Then Hannah said, "Oh, I think the cafe on fourth street is looking for someone. You have any experience?"

"I worked retail when I was seventeen back home, so I guess not. But I think I'm a quick learner."

"Wanna swing by right now?"

"Nah, I'll go tomorrow. Today's been too fun, I want to keep it going."

We finished lunch, and perused around town for an hour or so more, showing me various shops and places I'd want to know about. When we finally got back home, the driveway was still empty.

"Think you're in the mood for a beat down in Smash, Lukey boy?" Michael goaded, and Luke shoved him good-naturedly.

"Nobody's getting beat down here except you, my friend."

Hannah and I rolled our eyes, but followed them into the living room nonetheless. We wasted the afternoon watching them play video games and arguing over it, until Hannah got so sick of it she begged me to do something else with her.

"How about we organize your closet? I want to go out later, so we've gotta find outfits."

I readily agreed, excited at the prospect of going clubbing. Hannah had been my partner in crime and always made sure to drag me out of my dorm so I had some fun instead of always staying in and studying.

We began to sift through my bags, and after emptying all of them I realized how little I actually owned. Hannah didn't comment; she knew the reality of the situation, and gave me an encouraging smile.

"Don't worry, we'll go shopping once you get that job and fill this closet right up." I knew I wouldn't be wasting my paycheck on party clothes, but I appreciated her idea nonetheless.

"Where are we going tonight?" I asked.

"Where we always go, it's a place Ashton discovered. It's big, so it never feels cramped. They have a killer DJ, which is rare in this town." She pulled out a black skirt and long sleeved black crop top with a lace up back.

I raised my eyebrows in slight surprise. "Kinda dark, no?"

Hannah rolled her eyes. "Trust me, black is the way to go. You look sultry and dark, and with the lights in the club it looks great."

I laughed but accepted the outfit. "Who am I trying to look sultry for?"

Hannah put her hands on her hips. "Scarlett, you're hot, you're single, and you've got nothing better to do. Get yourself some."

I flushed, embarrassed at her confidence in me. I'd never been the outgoing type of girl to go after guys I liked. I'd been pursued only a few times, mostly by guys I found repulsive. I'd had two boyfriends my whole life, one in high school who had no idea how to kiss with tongue, and one in the beginning of college who left me alone at a party where I knew no one and got thrown up on by a drunk guy. Needless to say, I wasn't crazy about either of them.

Hannah left to get changed herself, and I sighed as I looked at the outfit on the bed. You might as well let loose, I told myself. Hannah was right; you have nothing better to do.

I pulled the skirt on and tied up the crop top flipping my hair over my shoulder as I combed through the reddish brown locks with my fingers. Frowning in the mirror, I swiped some eyeliner on and curled my lashes, sticking out my bottom lip in a pout. Hannah was right; I looked dark, but sultry was still up in the air.

Realizing I had no idea what shoes to wear, I went downstairs and saw Michael and Luke waiting to leave in the living room. They both had dark jeans and leather jackets on, looking like hot bikers. Luke whistled as I walked by, blue eyes tracking me.

"Looking good, Scarlett."

I blushed and thanked him before running into Hannah, who actually had boots in her hand. They were the black knee high kind, and I snorted at her insistence of keeping to a black theme.

"Wear these, I'm going with heels tonight." She looked hot herself; her black skirt was leather, and her shirt was off the shoulder and very low cut. A wave of appreciation for her washed over me; I could always count on Hannah to make me feel good about myself.

We were all ready, and the sky was dark with only a few stars dotting the black canvas. Michael had ordered a cab, and it was waiting for us as we descended the driveway.

As Hannah and I slid across the back seat, the driver glanced in the rear-view mirror.

"And how are you ladies doing tonight?" he asked suggestively, making my face redden.

"Seriously, dude?" Luke said, glaring at the guy from the passenger seat. "Just drive the car and don't say anything, please. Or do you not want to get paid?"

He met my eyes in the mirror, and I hoped my expression showed my gratitude. I knew I could rely on Luke to defend me if I needed it, and that was a comforting thought.

"Ashton and Calum are already there," Hannah told us, and I was slightly surprised to hear that Calum was coming. He'd blown off the day with us, but I guess he couldn't turn down a night out.

When we arrived, I saw how big the club is and my jaw dropped. I could hear the hammering music from outside, and watched as bodies waded in and out of the door. Hannah stuck close by my side, with Michael and Luke leading the way. I smiled nervously at the bouncer, who met my eyes with a blank expression.

Bright lights danced across bodies glowing with sweat, and a crowded dance floor pulsed with the heartbeats of dozens of people. Girls hung onto guys, guys held onto girls. Tables were piled high with empty glasses and bottles, and everyone's eyes were dull with a buzz.

I couldn't help but smile, and Hannah grabbed my hand as she led us through the throng of people. My body itched to join them and dance, the music almost as intoxicating as the alcohol at the bar.

We found our way to the back, where Ashton and Calum were at the bar drinking. Ashton spotted Hannah and grabbed her for a big kiss, whispering something in her ear that made her giggle and grip his bicep. Calum emptied his glass and turned to greet Michael and Luke. His dark eyes raked down my body, face barely illuminated by the roving lights. He looked good; black jeans and boots, his staple apparently. But today he had a leather jacket hugging his broad shoulders, and the glint of rings showed on his fingers. He looked like a shadow ready to melt into the background.

"How was your tour?" he asked, leaning back on his forearms against the tabletop. I couldn't tell if his question was genuine or mocking, so I decided to answer honestly.

"It was great, I think I'm really gonna like it here."

He didn't react to my response, instead motioned to the bartender to get him another drink.

"You good here?" Hannah yelled over the music. "I'm gonna go off with Ashton for a bit, but I'll be back to dance with you later, okay?" I nodded, and the two of them soon dissolved in the crowd. Michael and Luke recognized someone, and went over to talk. I was fine with being alone, and took a seat at the bar.

The bartender had a kind smile and bright eyes. "What can I get you?"

I drummed my fingers on the table, thinking. I don't know, what's good?"

Someone scoffed next to me, and I glanced over at Calum. I hadn't realized he was still here, and suddenly regretted my juvenile question.

"Get her a juice box or something, Joe," he said, knocking back his second glass of dark liquid. He was probably already drunk, but I knew he'd be mean even if he was sober.

Feeling like I had to prove something, I straightened up and said firmly, "I'll take a tequila."

Calum didn't react, much to my disappointment. I wasn't a crazy drinker, but I could handle my alcohol. I actually quite liked getting drunk; the buzz made me happy and loopy, and everything was funny when I was drunk.

Joe poured me the drink, and I inhaled deeply before taking a sip. It burned as it slid down my throat, but I didn't wince. Calum's empty glass was refilled, and he lifted it in mock cheers.

"Where were you today?" I asked, voice getting slightly drowned out by the music. Calum scowled at my question.

"Why?"

Shrugging, I replied, "I don't know, you missed a fun day."

He took a big gulp of his drink. "Why do you care?"

I blinked, deciding to be candid. "I don't, I was just trying to be nice." My answer must have surprised him, because he actually shifted to face me.

"What makes you think I want you to be nice to me?" His freezing stare sent chills down my spine, and I took another swig for some liquid courage.

"Generally speaking people are supposed to be nice to one another, but I can see how you wouldn't understand that concept." With that, I finished my drink and flipped my hair behind my shoulders.

"See you later, Calum," I said before striding off onto the dance floor to find Scarlett. I spotted her dancing with Ashton, and she gave me a big drunken hug before jumping around with delight.

As my hips began to sway and I danced along to the music, I could feel the heat of someone's stare on me, but it only made me dance harder.

60 notes · View notes