#This sort of meandered all over the place but I did try to stay on topic. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dirtwatchman · 6 months ago

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PARTIES: Caleb (@dirtwatchman) and Wyatt (@loftylockjaw) TIME: Current (May 18th) SUMMARY: Wyatt brings Caleb a present. He's not home right now but Aesil is happy to accept once they see what it is. WARNINGS: None

How the hell this guy had a lover, Aesil would never know. From what they had observed over the short time they had followed Caleb they knew the guy was as awkward as awkward could get. Not to mention, he smelled. It was like death had warmed over and latched on to his skin…which should have made people want to stay away, right? Was this normal now? It couldn’t be, right? They’d been getting looks all morning when they were out earlier. Either Caleb’s nose didn’t work well or he was noseblind to whatever waves of stench would roll off of him because it was making the demon’s eyes water as they waited for some guy named Wyatt to show up. Apparently bad hygiene didn’t deter someone from wanting to have some sort of relationship with the husk he’d taken over.

They so wanted to blow their cover so that they didn’t have to pretend to like these people any longer. The ancient woman roaming the halls of this place was enough to deal with, did they really have to add another person to the mix? Right, they had to keep up appearances. At least until they had everything they needed to raise Andras and watch everyone suffer under their cruel thumb.

Fortunately, this town was rich in the occult and the supernatural, a melting pot of all the ingredients they’d need to do this, so they’d at least ended up in the right place when they were summoned. Unfortunately, that meant they couldn’t disappear into the woods to never be heard of until it was time for Andras to squish them all like the bugs that they were.

Almost forgetting that they were waiting for someone to show up, they were slightly startled when there was a knock on the door. Eyes rolling, they did their best to mimic the nervous boy, which wasn’t too hard as waves of Caleb’s anxiety started to appear beneath the surface of their hold. “Uh, the door’s open!” The question was; did Caleb usually make food for this person? What were their normal activities together aside from the fun ones? There was no hope of the boy giving them any sort of answer as they were sure he was trying his best to protect Wyatt so they grabbed Caleb’s phone to quickly scroll through the text messages between the two. “This is nauseating…”

Aesil looked up as this Wyatt approached and quickly had to wipe the surprise from their features. Okay…Caleb had good taste. Why was he with this dope? “Hey, I was about to pull up some kind of take out if you want to order in?” Because they didn’t want to go out unless they knew it would be a fun time and they had a feeling that the two of them would have different versions of fun…

Stepping into the home after hearing Caleb calling out to him, Wyatt switched the container he held from one hand to the other, taking care to make sure the door was clicked shut behind him. Meandering his way toward the source of the voice, he made note of the brief look of surprise on the other’s face, but it was gone so quickly that he wondered if he hadn’t imagined it. Take out? “What, you find a place that delivers offal? Color me surprised.” He wore a smile as he strode into the room, pausing as a peculiar smell hit him. After taking a second to adjust, he realized where it was coming from and frowned ever-so-slightly.

“Oh, Firebug… I ask this in the kindest way possible, but when's the last time you had a proper meal, darlin’? You're lookin’...” and smelling… “a bit more dead than usual.” Concern flashed over his features as he walked up to the zombie, not finding the smell horribly offensive (he'd eaten dead things before, after all), but it would wear on him after a while. Hell, it'd wear on anyone. “Ain’t a problem, though! I got a surprise for you here that ought to fix you up faster than a knife fight in a phone booth!” He lifted the container in his hand, angling it so Caleb could see the brain matter through the glass. “Got it fresh for ya n’ put it on ice til I could make it over—and before you ask, no, it wasn’t responsibly sourced. I’d say the hunter that thought she could take me on was bein’ pretty irresponsible.”

Offal? Shit, maybe they would have a good time together if they went out. There were downsides to this body but they were starting to find the good things as well. Watching the boy dig up bodies was a reason they had made the final decision to overtake him, after all. This also explained the treasure trove of body parts stored in the basement. But Aesil had to be careful from now on. They’d already messed up at playing Caleb with this person and being what they were to each other the demon knew it was only a matter of time before Wyatt knew something was completely off.

It did come as a relief to know that this awful smell wasn’t normal. The dead comment was a surprise though as they hadn’t noticed that the heart hadn’t been beating inside Caleb’s chest until Wyatt said it. They’d lived without a heart for so long that it had seemed so normal not to feel the blood pumping through the boy’s veins. Still, they should have recognized the stench immediately. “I guess it has been a while.” The demon ran their fingers through Caleb’s curly hair the way they’d seen him do on occasion when he was anxious, trying to look embarrassed that Wyatt had to endure the smell coming off of the body.

Curiosity hit them like a brick as Wyatt continued on, but when he held up the container and the brain came into view, everything started to click into place for the demon. He needed brains so the body wouldn’t rot…zombie. This man was a zombie. No wonder it was so easy to possess him, even for a demon who didn’t have much experience with it all. Was it normal for the undead to walk the earthly plane like this? More importantly, would Caleb enjoy that his lover brought over a fresh brain for him?

The answer was an overwhelming ‘no’ as they let the man’s emotions bleed through their thoughts. Which was so stupid to them. This man should have been elated but he was more worried than anything. That’s alright, Aesil was in a generous mood after seeing the gift, they would show gratitude for the both of them. They let his lips pull up into a grateful smile, eyes shining. “And you thought of me?” He was liking this Wyatt more and more, even with the stupid pet names he enjoyed using. Anyone who brought a brain to someone he enjoyed spending time with was worth their time as well. “But what are you going to eat, love?” The word felt like acid on their tongue and they fought the urge to blanche at it. They had to butter him up though. They hadn’t even gotten to the hunter portion of this tale and they wanted an explanation. “We can cook something up while you tell me this story because it sounds like a…doozy. But I should probably eat this first.”

Wyatt smiled appreciatively—he was glad for Caleb’s response to the fresh organ, having worried that it might have crossed a line too far, even if it had been acquired in self defense. “Sounds good! And don’t worry ‘bout me… the previous owner of this here thinkin’-meat was plenty of food for the rest of the week.” Truth told, he could have had more, but human food wouldn’t sate the hunger that kept him in fighting shape. No, that would require another reptilian romp through the wilderness and raw meat and bone. “But! Lemme saute this thing up for you, yeah? Warm it, give it a little kick with some spices…” He knew how Caleb liked it, after all.

Leading the way into the kitchen, Wyatt made himself comfortable in the workspace, already familiar with the layout and where things were kept. Fetching a skillet from the cabinet, the lamia set it atop the stove and started rifling through the spice bottles. “You won’t believe it, actually… I met two hunters in the woods not that long ago! One was there specifically for me, she’d been tailin’ me for weeks, pardon the expression. She thought she had me cornered—” she had “—but she wasn’t ready for my particular brand of whoop-ass.” He turned, spices in hand and grinning gleefully. “Made quick work of her once she came at me. Saved the head for last so I could make her death worth twice the trouble it’d cost. But then wouldn’t you know it, some other jackass arrives on the scene and gets the same idea in his head that he’s gonna ‘take care of me.’” He worked as he spoke, oiling the pan after it had had a minute or two to heat, plucking a few bits of brain from the glass container and dropping them onto the pan, enjoying the sizzle that followed. “Didn’t get to do much before he was gettin’ all wrapped up by vines. Me too, actually. Dragged us both underground, wouldn’t you know it.” Spatula in hand, Wyatt pushed the brain matter around in the pan and started adding spices with the other. It didn’t smell half bad… “Had to team up to get out of there, which was probably the worst part of it. That guy was a real piece of work. What was his name… Emilio?”

Aesil would have preferred the brain raw and bloody to preserve the integrity of eating the organ that fueled a human. But they had a feeling that Caleb preferred it the way Wyatt was suggesting so they didn’t protest the idea. Fucking zombie was pathetic. Their interest peaked even higher though when Wyatt mentioned eating the rest of this person, eyes plastered to the man. Was he a zombie too? No, he wouldn’t have offered the brain if he was or would have least wanted to share, they thought. However pathetic he was, at least Caleb’s life was becoming more interesting to them. “I’d love that, actually. Thank you.” Again, they had to swallow down the irritation that came with having to use those words but they smiled through it.

All they could think about was whether Wyatt was something they could use. The ritual they needed to prepare required many different ingredients so there was plenty of opportunity to put whatever he was to use here. In the meantime, they were glad that the man knew his way around the place because they sure didn’t. That would have been awkward.

There were no hints to his particular brand of supernatural as Wyatt told his story but Aesil was thoroughly enjoying it. He took pride in his kills, something they believed everyone should do, and they appreciated that fact. Turns out, they wouldn’t have to kill the lover after all. At least not yet. “Vines? What type of vines?” They let a quiver of worry slip through in their words, eyes dragging over Wyatt to feign concern. Caleb would care if he had any wounds that needed to be patched up, they knew that much. But then they lead into the next question with a hint of excitement in their voice, believing that the zombie was all in on this murder thing. “Is he still down there with the vines or do we need to take care of him?”

A curious expression crossed Wyatt’s face then, one of bemusement. “Not sure, really…” he answered the first question slowly, still considering the second. It wasn’t really like Caleb to jump so quickly to violence. Strange, that. Maybe it was a side effect of not having had a proper meal for a while? That made sense to the lamia. The hungrier Caleb got, the more violent and unlike himself he became—he’d basically said as much some months ago. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise, so Wyatt just smiled and shook his head.

“Now now, firebug, don’t be hasty. Idjit’s well gone from that place, off to bigger n’ better things… woulda killed ‘im, if not for him helpin’ me outta there.” He was a hunter, after all, and what kind of hunter didn’t really matter to Wyatt. It wasn’t a distinction he cared to make, they were all equally as shitty as the last. At least, that’s what he was telling himself. He wasn’t going to admit that some small part of him had kind of felt bad for Emilio, and maybe even ended up liking him. “Maybe next time, though, ah? He was a grumpy sort, can’t imagine he’d be happy to see me if our paths ever crossed again. Would probably give me good reason to bite his stupid head off, too.” Happy with the state of the brain matter (and not wanting to overcook it), Wyatt fetched a plate and scooped the viscera onto it, taking a fork out of the drawer with his free hand once he’d set the pan back down and sliding it over to Caleb. “Eat up, you wily thing,” he said with a smirk. “Maybe we oughtta start huntin’ together. I know you’ve been makin’ due with corpses from work, but… we could get you fresher. Even if it ain’t always human, you know? Brain’s a brain, gotta still be good, right?”

They’d said something wrong. They knew it as soon as Wyatt made that face. Did Caleb have any fun or was he just content with letting his friends get all of the danger? Frowning at the words, Aesil tried to think back on any gestures the man made when he was nervous, the demon starting to pick at the table cloth next to them. It was a delayed reaction and Aesil knew it but maybe Wyatt wouldn’t see through it. “I think I just wanted to do something for you, you know? Since you’re risking a lot being so thoughtful to me. Plus, I don’t like that he went after you at all.”

The bloodthirsty part of Aesil came out as they eyed the brain, eyes glinting. Just the idea of turning a human into a meal for themselves was enough to bring their spirits right back up. Getting rid of the smell of this body was a very big bonus. They were already mid bite before Wyatt spoke, mirroring his smirk. He didn’t have a clue, did he? They wondered how far they could push this now. Maybe Caleb should know how much this man actually knew him, or didn't in this case.

Again, things started to fall into place with Wyatt’s words. That was why the zombie was digging people up, he didn’t want anything fresh. The panic that Aesil could feel at the suggestion was enough to clue them in to that. Another bite was had, the demon not caring enough to compliment the chef, before they responded. “Actually, I think human might be good for me. I should probably try to prevent…this, from happening again.” They gestured to their body before they looked up, Caleb trying to fight this agreement every step of the way, but Aesil only smiled. “I think I would like that though. I’m starting to come around to the idea, anyway. This is becoming a lot to handle.”

The sentiment, despite probably being gruesome to the majority of audiences, warmed Wyatt’s heart. And again, it surprised him. Not that Caleb wanted to do something for him, or that he disliked that the shifter was hunted and threatened by others, no—those things made perfect sense. It was the offer (or desire?) to willingly maim another person that struck him as strange. Or, not strange, for he wasn’t exactly an upstanding, moral citizen, but rather out of character for Caleb. Caleb, who was for all the world a soft spoken, soft hearted man. So unlike the types that Wyatt usually consorted with, and perhaps that was the very reason he kept coming back, disregarding everything he’d ever said about not wanting to commit to anyone.

Not that this was commitment, but it was more than he’d ever tried before.

Maybe that was the reason he was finding it so easy to justify these new behaviors in his head. He wanted Caleb to like him, and not just the socially acceptable persona he often wore. He wanted Caleb to like all of him, the parts of him that devoured his child siblings and often beat and butchered other supernatural creatures to the brink of death and beyond. It was folly, he knew, but he wanted it… so he chose to accept this new truth of the zombie sitting in front of him, hoping that it was real. The idea that there could be something nefarious at work had not yet crossed his mind.

Wyatt sat down beside him, nudging him with his shoulder. “Oh yeah? Well don’t worry, mon cher. We can definitely hunt the types that deserve it.” To hunt a truly innocent person would be too out of character for Wyatt to accept as real, he knew that much. And frankly, he didn’t really enjoy the idea of that. He generally liked people! It was just the ones that wanted him or people like him dead that he took issue with. And if Caleb was willing to take that at face value and get himself some better food in the process, well, what was the harm?

As Aesil watched Wyatt they felt a smug sense of accomplishment as Caleb’s disappointment became clear. Either the man didn’t know the zombie at all or something else was at play here. They had seen the gears turning in Wyatt’s mind, witnessed the multiple emotions that flit across his features, it wasn’t hard to surmise that the acceptance of his suggestion meant something to him. What it was, Aesil couldn’t begin to guess. It was the satisfaction of proving something to the man lying in wait under their skin that kept them happy though, knowing the chaos it could cause if Aesil ever decided to choose another body.

If they let Caleb live, that is. Which was unlikely. Right now they were enjoying torturing him enough to keep it up.

They took their last bite, realizing how much the food was affecting the body now. The stench wasn’t gone but it was easing up a little as their energy levels rose significantly. But the suggestion of only going after people who deserved it was boring, draining in itself. “Deserve it, of course. I wouldn’t imagine it going any other way.” Because saying otherwise was far too obvious. Aesil wanted to play a game with the two of them, not completely blow their cover. It was too early on to do that. “When are you going to be hungry again, love? Maybe we can go as soon as you are? I have to take the plunge sometime…”

Maybe a little eager. It seemed that even the one who deserved death wasn’t enough for the regular occupant. Caleb was angry now, the hint of a smirk playing on their lips as that emotion came to the surface even if they didn’t understand why. Bonding time with Wyatt should have made him happy.

“Ah! Well…” Wyatt only needed to eat once a week or so, but that was assuming the rest of his time was spent rather relaxed. Because of his fights at the Pit, which could be multiple times a week sometimes, he often required a much heartier diet. So, in spite of the fact that he’d recently consumed the majority of at least one human being, he knew he was going to need more again after his upcoming fight.

“A few days, probably?” He noted that the side effects of not having eaten seemed to be easing up for Caleb already, glad that the man’s body seemed to always go to work so fast. He wished he had a healing ability like that, honestly… it would certainly lower the stakes in the Pit fights, anyway. He was a quick healer when full, but nothing like Caleb.

Wyatt stood again to clean up the dishes he’d made, pausing first to press a kiss into Caleb’s soft curls. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss, but he was far from clever enough to figure it out, so he just chalked it up to his own bizarro adventures over the last few days. Setting the container of the leftover brains in the fridge, he gave it a shake of his finger before moving on to hand wash the skillet he’d used. “What’s left there ought to get you through until then, yeah? If we need to go sooner, we can.” He was a little thrilled by the idea, strange as it seemed.

A few days, they could handle that. Even if they were itching to get their hands on some of these humans, patience was key here. Caleb probably would have been pathetic and tried to put it off as long as he possibly could so it only made sense. The idea of it though, the very thought of being able to put their teachings into practice, was so enticing. Enough so that when Wyatt placed a kiss to the top of their head, Aesil was almost ready to say fuck it all and start right away.

They stood to their feet, coming up behind Wyatt silently as they listened to him speak. They were thinking about taking one of the knives in the sink and plunging it into his throat but two things stopped them; the idea of that blonde wench coming in before they could clean it all up and the longing to know what exactly Wyatt was. If he was dead too, a knife to the throat would only be an inconvenience but somehow eating most of a human didn’t scream zombie and vampires only wanted blood. The other undead fed off of feelings. Which meant he had to be something else.

When Wyatt turned, Aesil plastered a smile to Caleb’s lips, pretending that they weren’t just thinking about murdering him in cold blood for a simple romantic gesture. “It should be, yes. But if not I have stock down in the basement.” Or so they thought. That had to be why the lock was on the door, right and why the wench stayed away? “Just let me know when you’re ready and maybe we can go out to the same area. I want to get a look at this hunter if he’s still around.” Tilting their head, they looked down at the sink that was almost completely empty now. “Do you want some help? You’ve been doing all the work here and it’s kind of my house.”

“Don’t worry about it, cher. I work in kitchens all day, s’what I’m used to,” Wyatt laughed. “But! Will do. About the hunter, I mean. I’d say he was cute, if he didn’t have the personality of Oscar the Grouch. You know, that muppet that lived in a garbage can.” Scrubbing clean the last of the utensils, Wyatt set them on the dishrack beside the sink and turned fully to meet Caleb’s gaze, pulling him in close. A smile danced over his lips as his thumbs hooked through the belt loops of Caleb’s pants, leaning himself back against the countertop. “Now, see? Those are rapid results I can get behind.” He gave the other a wink before elaborating. “You’re smellin’ fine as a tulip, my dear. Indulge me then… what do you say we make use of the time we got before your roommate gets home, ah?” The weariness from lack of sleep was threatening to catch up with him again, and he’d do just about anything to chase it away… granted, this was the most fun, preferred method.

There was a flash of irritation in their eyes as Wyatt pulled them closer but Aesil hoped he would misconstrue the why, maybe think Caleb didn’t like him saying another was cute or something. The demon didn’t know how far their relationship was at this point but jealousy had to come into play at some point especially if they were sleeping together. They brought a hand up to rest on Wyatt’s collarbone, an attempt to keep him from leaning in further but also a reason to have their hand close to his neck in case this started to get too intimate. “Maybe not fast enough to be honest. I’m still feeling a little…gross.” They tried to look apologetic but weren’t too sure if they were conveying it well. How did one screw their face up into that sad little puppy dog stare that made them sick? “Next time I promise I will more than make it up to you.”

But there would be no next time. After being in this man’s arms Aesil was sure they would be avoiding contact with him as much as possible and Caleb would be dead when they tired of this body. Poor little Wyatt would have no one to play with soon. “You look a little off yourself now that I’m not so ravenous. Maybe you should lie down…”

Hm. Disappointing. But valid, he supposed. Wyatt shrugged, releasing Caleb and putting his hands on the sink’s edge instead. “No worries,” he said half-heartedly. It wasn’t that he wanted to push Caleb into something he wasn’t feeling right now, he just… needed distraction. He needed things to keep him awake, and the zombie’s suggestion that he might need to lay down was the exact opposite of what he was looking for. This disappointment was likely reflected in his expression and the way he pushed himself off of the counter, eyes downcast while he moved away from Caleb. “No, it’s…” He couldn’t outright lie, or Caleb wouldn’t understand. But he couldn’t share the whole truth, either. Ugh. “I’m fine. Uh. I was really hopin’ to…” His voice trailed as he glanced around the kitchen, trying to pluck an excuse out of the air. “... this… isn’t about you, cher. I promise. I just need to… be… around people. I don’t want to sleep.” The why, he couldn’t say. “It’s a whole thing, it’s complicated, but… look.” He finally turned back to Caleb, looking apologetic. “Maybe I oughtta go. Again, this ain’t your fault, yeah? I just…” He huffed out an exasperated breath and put on a lopsided smile, stepping closer to Caleb and putting a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t wanna annoy you. I’m glad you’re feelin’ a little better, but I’m not gonna ask you to come with me or do anythin’ you don’t got the energy for. So… I’m gonna go, okay? I’ll text you.”

Oh, did that offend him? Aesil raised an eyebrow as Wyatt stepped away, the ghost of a smirk once again making an appearance. Was this supposed to be a transaction of sorts? Intimacy for a cooked brain brought to them by a man who was supposed to care, right? Of course, the demon didn’t care, preferred that they keep this distance until they could justify killing one or the other…or both. But Caleb’s sadness was leaking through their mental blocks and it was delicious. They wanted more.

“Ouch.” They whispered it, letting the hurt they could feel lace into their voice. If nothing else had been convincing that day, they knew this was going to be the winning performance. Even if Wyatt was trying to explain himself and Caleb’s emotions started to turn to worry, Aesil made sure to take another step back from him to cause more of that anguish they had felt seeping in.

They shrugged his hand off their shoulder and shook their head slowly. “No, you’re right. Maybe you should go. Thanks for the food and everything, I’m sure I’ll feel better soon.” Arms crossed over their chest, the demon tried to school Caleb’s features into feigned indifference all while letting some emotion shine through. They should win a damn Oscar. “How about I text you instead?”

This was a familiar scene, wasn't it? Wyatt had been here many times before, trying to bridge a gap that had formed swiftly with his careless words. He was so good at saying the wrong thing, at holding back the parts of himself that would be better at explaining these things… Just tell him the truth. Tell him you can't sleep, tell him you're afraid and it's only getting worse, tell him that you just need distractions, that it doesn't matter what form they take—

Instead, the shifter pushed a hand into the pocket of his jacket and stood a little taller, matching the indifference on Caleb's face with his own. Even though it hurt, deep down in places he dared not touch. It was always going to be this way.

“... yeah. Sure. You text me.” He knew Caleb wouldn’t. He knew that if he walked out that door, it would be the last time he ever saw him, spare maybe the rare run-in in town. Was he okay with that? Did he want to just let the pieces lay where they had fallen on the floor, arranged to discreetly spell out their tumultuous fate like sopping clumps of tea leaves in the bottom of a mug?

That was too many fucking metaphors.

With pain in his bright eyes, Wyatt turned and left the kitchen, not speaking another word as strode towards the front door, gripping the knob tighter than he should have and closing the door a little rougher than he would have liked.

Whatever. Wasn't the end of the world.

#Threads #Thread: Wyatt #Stench of Death

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ineffablymanic · 1 year ago

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Crowley didn't know why he kept coming back to the bookshop. [AO3]

Muriel listened to his advice, no books were being sold. Her oddly polite "Kindly sod off!! Thank you!!" delivered with a hearty smile made Crowley's mouth twitch every time. He started sorting the books Jim had moved around, back the way they used to be, according to the order Az- he had last put them. Crowley replenished the fire extinguisher supply. He scoffed at the yellow duster and just miracled any dust he saw into the close proximity of customers who he could sense being nasty to the staff in the surrounding shops. Enjoy coughing for the rest of the day, jackass.

Crowley avoided the messy writing desk. He avoided plenty of things. Couples. Certain genre movies and music. Bentley, on days when hissing it to shut up shut the fuck up with the certain genre songs didn't work. He had plenty of thoughts he avoided like a professional.

But then he saw Muriel actively defiling the desk.

She had moved the once dispersed yellowing pieces of paper into one pile and gathered old tea cups to be taken to the kitchenette. There was a large leather bound notebook in her hands that she was maybe moving to a shelf.

"Leave. It," Crowley snarled, regretting his too harsh of a tone the moment the words spat out of his lips, but Muriel just seemed surprised. She'd gotten too used to his presence, he thought absently.

"Oh, is the mess intended? Is that another human thing?

"It's his mess. He doesn't- didn't-" Crowley tried not to groan in frustration. "Humans, people, don't like it when their personal stuff is touched."

Muriel's brows furrowed as she considered the revelation. "I guess that makes sense. I've never owned anything, angel's aren't supposed to crave possessions you see, but I do suppose if I did... I'd be upset too."

She let out a little nervous chuckle. "I'd rather like to give a permission first! I don't know what that would be like, I've never been asked." Her eyes widened and suddenly she looked like the book had burned her, and she quickly put it back down on the desk.

Crowley's irritation melted away. He couldn't stay mad at Muriel over anything. He'd forgotten how cruel Heaven was. Well, he hadn't, but spending such a long time with one angel had skewed his memory- Nope. He forced his mind to look for something else to think, anything else than that ecstatic smile when he’d obtained a rare book, or the pure, unfiltered delight when he ate or drank something delicious, or-

Crowley shook his head vigorously and started sauntering towards the door. He needed fresh air. Or a bottle of Aerstone, he wasn't sure which.

"It's okay, glad we cleared that up. Leave the desk be, uh, yeah. Bye."

In all earnestness he considered finally going on a trip of some kind. Somewhere warm and dry, Australia maybe. Maybe he'd just keep driving and see where he ends up. Few years of Wanderlust might do him some good.

He was back at the bookshop in three days.

Irked out of his mind, Crowley acknowledged Muriel's cordial greeting with a grunt and started meandering around the bookshelves, glaring at anything that could possibly be out of place. If he focused hard enough, he could make the old plant essence in the books shiver under his scrutiny.

With a sigh, he sprawled on the sofa like a deflating balloon. Muriel left him be, in some round about way she'd learned when he wasn't in a talking mood. Apparently she'd been taking 'Demon Crowley Behavior' notes and refused to show them to him. He didn't want to compel her, in fact he was appreciative of the silence. Trying to ground himself, Crowley took in a deep breath, taking in the slightly stale scent of ancient books, leather and glue and regretted the act immediately. Another thought to avoid.

He didn't feel like leaving, no matter how often the thoughts get up, get out, why am I here kept repeating in his head. Maybe reading could distract him for a while. He lurched upright and slunk around, browsing the ever so slightly trembling book spines.

A Change in the environment caught his attention and he glanced at the writing desk. Right, Muriel had touched it so it didn't look the same as before. Crowley hadn't seen the book she'd dropped on the table before, it must've been buried under other notebooks. There were multiple pages jutting out, and he saw some colorful markings on them. His curiosity won and he picked up the book, unwrapping the leather string and started to browse it.

His eyes widened until they almost bulged out.

Crowley slapped the book shut, snatched it and staggered towards the stairs. When Muriel inquired where he was going, Crowley tried to answer something akin to "just visiting the bathroom", but what came out was mostly unintelligible garble. This apparently didn't bother Muriel.

"... Is there a bathroom? Do demons need to use the toilet? Or is your corporation different from mine? Mine didn't come with an active digestion tract, at least to my knowledge, I haven't consumed anything yet and..."

Muriel's prattling died out when Crowley crashed into Jim's (Gabriel's? Who cares) old room and slammed the door shut. The door had enough sense to lock itself. He sucked in a preparatory breath.

Crowley plopped the book on the bed, waved it to flourish open and spread his hands and fingers, moving them in an 'arise' gesture. All the loose sheets of paper spread around him in the air in a half sphere. Crowley forgot breathing existed. His heart worked overtime, seemingly pumping all the blood to his cheeks and neck.

Tens, no, more like hundreds of adept drawings. Of Crowley, and Crowley only. Various ages of paper, he could sense the trace of power that kept the older ones pristine. Ink, pencil, charcoal, watercolor. Vibrant red and yellow colors used to depict his hair and snake eyes in great detail. Worrisome amount of drawings of him sleeping in various locations. Drawings from multiple eras, of countless of his different looks and styles. Drawings of his wings. None had his glasses. He was drawn smiling in most of them (Crowley didn't know did he really have that bright of a smile or was it just drawn like that).

Aziraphale doesn't- didn't draw, Crowley thought, numbly. He kept grabbing one paper after another, staring at the details. Some of them had text next to the drawings, proving him wrong. It was Aziraphale's small, tidy handwriting.

I miss his curls.

I miss seeing his eyes glint in the sun. Like flawless, yellow garnets.

Why did men's stockings have to go out of fashion?

He looked stunning in a hanfu. Oh, who am I kidding, he’d look stunning in a jute sack.

Attractive messy bun. Perfection.

He looks so peaceful while sleeping. Some day I wish to see him as calm and content while awake.

Crowley grinned madly. Why was he shaking? A hysterical laughter was trying to tear its way out of his throat. Oh, this was rich. What a weirdo. When that bastard came back, Crowley would needle him about these till the end of time. Absolutely ridiculous. Incredible. Straight up beyond belief…

To his horror, his grin twisted into a grimace and his silent laughter warped into sobs. Before he knew it, he had dropped down on his knees, tears rolling down his cheeks. He managed to pay enough attention to not get any on the drawings.

Well, fuck. Fuck. The overpressurized bottle holding his thoughts and emotions burst open.

I miss you, you bastard angel.

#in which crowley finds aziraphale's drawing notebook #we know aziraphale is a talented drawer. it's basically canon he has a notebook like this #1300w #post s2 angst #good omens fan fiction #ineffable spouses #good omens #manic writes things #Ineffable husbands #Aziracrow

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shadowqueenjude · 10 months ago

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Auntie Gwyn and Uncle Eris part 2

Part 1: https://www.tumblr.com/lorcanisdabest/737441037448036352/uncle-eris-and-auntie-gwyn?source=share

You guys loved part 1 so much so I decided to make a part 2: Nesta tries to be a nanny.😂This is not anti any character so just enjoy!

Nesta cursed herself for rashly agreeing to babysit Nyx for a day. Cassian and Azriel had work in Illyria and Feyre and Rhysand were out sorting out some nonsense in the Hewn City. Mor was once again trying (and from what Nesta could figure, failing) to form an alliance with Vallahan. Elain had finally left the Night Court and from her last letter, Nesta figured she was meandering around the Day Court with her mate, Lucien. She should’ve insisted that one of the bats stay behind because this baby was staring into her soul with those gigantic purple eyes. Also, he smelled of shit. But Nesta had no idea how to change a diaper. She cursed a stream of colorful words that would’ve made her mother faint. A perk of being Fae- decorum was not the same. A low snort came from behind her. “Nesta Kingslayer, who stole from the Cauldron itself, defeated by a baby bat.”

Nesta started. She whipped her head around so fast it was a miracle her neck didn’t roll off her head. A handsome male was lounging in a couch near her like it was his personal throne. His short red hair had perfect waves, and his amber eyes gleamed in amusement as he watched Nesta glare at him, hands behind his head and legs spread before him. Effortlessly casual, yet elegant and distractingly handsome.

Nesta snapped out of it. The last time she had spoken to Eris Vanserra, she’d rudely turned down his offer of marriage. She had been sorely tempted to accept for a moment, she had to admit- but that was all over with now. “What are doing here? How did you get in?” Nesta demanded. “Tut, tut. Is that any way to speak to important allies?” Eris’s full lips twisted in a taunting smirk, and for the first time, Nesta noticed he had dimples. Damn him. A snake that venomous should not be so tempting. "Answer my question."

"I'm important. I can get in wherever I want," was all he said. "Now, are you going to ask for my help with Nyx or not?" "I don't need your help," Nesta snapped. She stomped away, willing herself to just appear at the House of Wind to get away from this male who was getting on her nerves.

Nesta blinked. In a few moments, she had appeared directly in the House of Wind. How had she done that? Pure luck, she supposed. Anyhow, she'd ask Gwyn for help. She would know what to do better than her.

"You mean you've never handled a baby?" Gwyn asked incredulously as Nesta begged her for help.

"Of course not! When would I have had time for that?"

"Did you never handle Elain or Feyre?"

"...No?"

"Well, there were plenty of babes in Sangravah. We used to have a nursery for all the little children. I used to volunteer there sometimes, clean them up, maybe feed them. I can help. Do you have a clean diaper?" Nesta handed it to her, and Gwyn gently took off the dirty diaper. Almost immediately, Nyx released a torrent of shit, half of which landed on Gwyn's face. "Oh my god!" Nesta cried. But although Gwyn winced, she cleaned the baby and placed the clean diaper on like it was normal. "Ughh, I was hoping that wouldn't happen. I have to go take a shower and then practice for a ceremony tonight. You can handle the rest, right?"

Wrong. Just a couple of minutes after Gwyn left, Nyx began crying. Ugh, damn the little thing! Why was he crying?

"I don't understand baby language," she hissed at Nyx. She frantically tried to rock the infant, hoping he'd fall asleep. He only cried louder.

"Wow, I suck at this," Nesta muttered.

Eris's trademark insufferable smirk returned as Nesta huffed and puffed her way back to the main palace. She had tried to winnow again but had failed. Just a lucky try, as she had expected. And now she was absolutely exhausted.

"Please-help," she gasped. Eris, thankfully, did not make a snide comment, simply took the infant from her arms and muttered soothing words. Nyx cried back.

"He's hungry," Eris said, as if he was an expert in babyology. Perhaps with six younger brothers, he was.

"How do you figure?"

"Just trust me, Nesta Archeron," Eris said smoothly. "Do you know where the kitchen is?"

Nesta led Eris to the kitchen, and Eris briefly returned Nyx to her hands while he mixed some ingredients together: milk, a variety of oils, yeast flakes, some kind of powder Nesta didn't recognize but thought smelled vaguely of cherries, etc. When he was done, he carefully poured the mixture into a bottle and took Nyx back into his arms. He placed the bottle at Nyx's mouth, and the little bat happily began chugging the substance. Eris periodically stopped Nyx to rub his back, prompting a few burps from him before putting the bottle back in his mouth. He fed Nyx with as much grace as he had when dancing. Nesta had the distinct feeling that the male would've made a very good father had he been given the chance to do so. The thought sent an unexpected wave of sadness through her. Did the male ever desire children but fear having any under the cruel hand of Beron? "There you go," Eris said when he was done. Nyx was looking pleasantly sleepy now, his eyes nearly closed. Nesta gaped at Eris. "Thank you," she forced out. Grateful as she was, it was still an effort to thank the male for anything. That insufferable smirk returned, and he mockingly bowed to her.

"It's an honor to be of service. Though when I told you we'd play later, Nesta Archeron, I didn't quite imagine that we'd be playing house."

Nesta blushed. "I thought I could handle taking care of a baby for a few hours. I was wrong."

A hearty chuckle. "Are you admitting you needed my help, Nesta Archeron?"

She scowled. "You already know the answer to that."

"I do."

And Nesta watched as Eris Vanserra strolled out of the palace kitchen, as smug as you'd expect a pampered High Lord's heir to be.

#gwyneth berdara #pro gwyneth berdara #eris vanserra #pro eris vanserra #uncle eris #auntie gwyn #nesta archeron #headcanon #fanfic #nyx archeron

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imakemywings · 9 months ago

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Fandom: The Silmarillion

Relationship: Maglor/Thranduil, Maedhros/Maglor

Summary: All is not as it seems when Thranduil enters the ancestral Feanorian estate, but he fails to fully comprehend the scale and nature of the risk. If he’s very lucky, one day he might even get to leave.

Response to this kink meme prompt.

AO3 | Pillowfort | SWG

Photo credit to Zach Lezniewicz on Unsplash.

Previous chapter | Next chapter (TBP)

VI. Chapter V

Maedhros, in absence of any real staff in the house outside the one caretaker, took on many of the roles which might have been filled with maids and valets, and that included the laundry. Yet somehow, coincidentally, it always seemed to take him three times as long to get to anything of Thranduil’s, and so he had started doing it himself not very long after his arrival.

But when he meandered towards the side room behind the kitchen where the laundry tub was kept and where most of the laundering took place, he could hear shuffling about that was not merely rats or beetles scurrying about business of their own.

He slowed down and was able to approach the door silently, a trick he had perfected in childhood for no reason other than his own entertainment (he had then nursed a desire to sneak up on a deer, something he never did achieve to his satisfaction).

Maedhros was there, sorting through a bin of laundry, and as Thranduil observed him, he withdrew one of Maglor’s unwashed undershirts and pressed his face into it for a long moment. When he drew back, he breathed deeply, as if to calm himself, at which point Thranduil was seized by a coughing jag. Maedhros’ attention snapped over to him and his expression promptly dissolved into a subtle scowl.

“Is there something you want?” he asked.

Thranduil gestured to the laundry, but was wracked with coughing once again and had to grab the doorframe to stay upright. He had left the chair upstairs, thinking he could sit to do the laundry and so it would be alright, but he regretted now, clutching at the doorframe for support, that he hadn’t brought it.

“You should go upstairs,” said Maedhros, and then, horrifyingly, approached.

“No,” Thranduil wheezed, but he was not in a position to effect that desire, and Maedhros grabbed his elbow. That great, clear jewel at his forehead glimmered even in the dimness of the room. Thranduil thought he heard the house wailing in the wind, or the long-lost echo of some ghost’s scream.

“Let me help you.”

“N—” Thranduil broke off choking and the violence of his body’s convulsing forced him away from the doorframe; Maedhros grabbed him more firmly and held him up.

“You should be in the chair,” said Maedhros. “I’ll get you there.”

“No,” Thranduil’s feeble protest was barely audible and he found himself desperately wishing Maglor would arrive and interrupt. Maedhros’ fingers were just as cold as his prosthetic and his nails dug in as if he were a hawk securing its prey.

“I hear Maglor has finally been overnighting in his room,” Maedhros said with a thinly conversational tone, pulling Thranduil back into the hall. He felt dizzy, trying to suck in air around coughing fits, but even so, had a sense that he did not want to share any information about Maglor.

“I know not where he spends his nights,” he rasped, swallowing against the sticky feeling in his throat, stumbling against Maedhros as the taller man continued to guide him forcefully away from the laundry room. “Working on his opera, I imagine.” It took him a few tries to get this short sentence out.

“He’s always been a bit flighty,” said Maedhros, his fingers tightening on Thranduil’s arm until his grip felt bruising. “Prone to running after the most recent shiny thing he’s seen. Someone must keep him focused. He breaks things, otherwise.”

Thranduil realized Maedhros was leading him towards the elevator, and he had a sudden vision of the red, red ghost and her accusing finger, pointed straight at the elevator gates. The dread that overtook him swamped the bounds of reason; he could not have even articulated what he was frightened of, only that he felt sure he could not allow Maedhros to put him in that elevator.

“No,” he gasped, throwing his weight back against Maedhros’ encircling arms. “No—”

“It will be easier than going up the stairs,” Maedhros soothed, pushing him forward.

There was blood spotting his lower lip and his muscles seemed unwilling to obey as he tried to dig his feet in, to lean back, to do anything to stop from being propelled into the elevator, but none of it mattered. It took a moment for his panicked animal mind to realize he was not going to be successful no matter how much he wanted to be, and if he did not determine an alternative strategy in short order, it wouldn’t matter anymore.

So rather than continue to fight against Maedhros’ forward momentum, he let all his muscles relax. Maedhros was not expecting it, and Thranduil dropped right out of his grasp and landed on his hands and knees. Unfortunately, he had not planned much beyond that, and simply tried to crawl away towards the foyer, blood dripping from his mouth onto his hands.

“It will be much easier if you go into the elevator,” Maedhros said, grabbing his shoulder.

“I can walk,” Thranduil gasped, flailing out to grab the wall and drag himself back up to his feet. His gambit, albeit successful, had already run its course; he needed something else. Part of him was tempted to call for Maglor, but he did not want to make Maedhros panic, and he was not sure he could raise his voice loud enough for Maglor to hear him anyway.

“You never said,” Thranduil panted, his breath starting to come back to him, “why you went to war.”

Maedhros seemed to consider this and Thranduil dared a modicum of relief when he answered instead of making another bid for elevator.

“Revenge, of course,” said Maedhros. “What else does one go to war for? Revenge or greed. Perhaps it was a bit of both columns.”

“Maglor told me of your grandfather,” said Thranduil. He took a few deep breaths, reaching for both air and words.

“Mm. Did he say that’s where the name of this place comes from?” Maedhros said. Thranduil nodded. Maedhros looked up at the ceiling, and then around them at the hall, coolly appraising. “Father built it. After his exile. We all came with, naturally, and Grandfather too—felt he needed to take a stand in support of Father. Everyone gravitated around him, whether they loved him or hated him, so when he went mad, well…” Maedhros smiled a humorless smile.

“He went mad?” Thranduil supposed Maglor had made some implications to that effect, but neither of them had ever said it so plainly.

“Of course. After Grandfather was killed he lost his mind. I don’t know that he ever slept again. He had always been prone to fits of mania, particularly with his work, but this one seemed to consume him entirely. That’s the thing with love,” said Maedhros, and Thranduil hadn’t a prayer’s chance of reading his expression. “It consumes, it burns, and when it has nothing left to swallow, it combusts. He raged against the gods, defied anyone who would advise him against his course of conduct. No one was innocent in the path of his force; not bystanders, not our allies once he decided they did not see eye-to-eye enough with him, not even our family. You were either with him, or you were against him and had to be destroyed.

“He loved my grandmother so he hated and betrayed his half-siblings to prove it. He loved my grandfather, so he set fire to the world to prove it. Allegedly, he loved us too. He was killed very soon after we first saw real combat. Refused to retreat.”

“Is that when you came back?”

Again, that sickly, venomous smile. “No. Then we were left to prosecute his war for him, which we did. Unsuccessfully. I wonder how many family graves we can attribute to my father?”

Thranduil finally felt he had caught his breath again, but he was not convinced he could make it back up the stairs without a chance to sit down. He would have to try.

“You have my condolences,” he said, and he meant it.

“It’s rather late in the day for those,” said Maedhros.

“I should lie down.” Thranduil made himself move away from the wall and shuffle into the foyer. Maedhros loped along behind him.

“Are you worried about the safety of the elevator?” Maedhros asked. “It’s quite stable. More than the rest of the house. It wouldn’t be much use to us if it was too dangerous to function.” Thranduil did not believe any of that.

“I prefer the stairs,” he said, as if he wasn’t exhausted by the time he reached the halfway point. Maedhros was still watching him from the ground floor when he sank down onto one of the steps to catch his breath.

“You seem to be feeling poorly. Let me make you a pot of tea.”

“Yes, thank you,” Thranduil muttered, relieved for anything that took Maedhros away from him. When Maedhros had vanished into the kitchen, Thranduil hurried up the rest of the stairs and into the library, where he collapsed gratefully into an armchair. He pressed the back of his hand to his forehead, but he could feel no sign of a fever.

He had a sudden vision of himself as just one more ghost of Formenos, and the thought of being forever bound to this place so far from home was like a weight on his chest, and yet if there were some way out of it, it seemed to recede further every day, like he were on a boat being borne from shore with no way to reach back.

He wanted to sleep, but he made himself sit up and dig out some loose papers from one of the library desks. It was time to write a more forthright letter to Elrond, and be honest about his grim prospects. In the past, he had not wished to worry his friend, or seem to complain too much, but now he felt he was losing the chance to tell the full truth. If he perished of this illness and Elrond knew he had never even mentioned it, he would be terribly hurt.

When Maedhros came in with the tea, Thranduil directed him to set it near the edge of the desk.

“Make sure you drink it all,” he said, pouring a cup of it for Thranduil.

“Thank you.”

“I will see if we have any medication which might serve,” Maedhros offered.

“I would rather have just the tea,” said Thranduil.

“As you prefer.”

When he was done with the letter, he sealed it to give to Maglor to send, as he had with the past letters. And then he wrote a letter to his father too. Oropher was gone, and could receive nothing from him anymore, but Thranduil wrote anyway, and once he started, he could not stop. He filled more than a dozen pages double-sided with everything that had happened since his father’s death, including the job of identifying the body which had fallen to Thranduil, and had to take several breaks to keep from spilling tears on the page and smudging the ink.

There were times he felt his grief for his father was under control, abated, but it often took only a quick look under the bandages to see that it was still there, as raw as ever.

He even mentioned his mother’s ghost, about which he had never spoken to his father, and her warning about Crimson Peak.

I fear there was merit in her concerns, he wrote. But the time with which I made have made use of her warning is past.

How he wished there was someone waiting across the Sundering Sea to receive this letter. There was not much his father could have done for him where he was, but it would have comforted him to know that Oropher was aware of his situation. It would have comforted him to know that Oropher was there, that somewhere on Arda, his father was there, writing his papers, going on his hikes, running his business. That his thread continued, even if Thranduil were not there to see it.

Instead, once Thranduil had finished the letter, he stoked a fire in the hearth and dropped the pages into it, watching his words curl up and dissolve into ash, never to have an audience. No ghost of his father appeared—it was not like Oropher to linger on when his business was done. It was the first time an absence of a phantom had made Thranduil feel alone.

***

Maedhros seized upon him in the music room. Not that it was hard to know that’s where he was—Maglor retreated there most of the day. It was centrally located within the house, which meant while the rest of the building became increasingly unlivable, the music room was spared the worst of the ravages, and was often warmer than the extremities. This was, of course, in addition to it containing the objects in the house with the most interest for Maglor. Maedhros had left him alone with it, allowing him to arrange it as he liked, which was not the case with the rest of the house.

“This is taking too long,” said Maedhros as soon as he swept into the room, the door banging shut behind him. Maglor jumped at his harp, and his brow knit at once, aware of where this conversation was going.

“It hasn’t been so long,” he protested.

“It is taking too long,” Maedhros insisted. “We should be done with it by now.”

“It will be over soon,” Maglor pleaded. Maedhros fixed him with a hard stare, and Maglor knew he was in danger of signing the go-ahead order simply by being too concerned. “Everything will play out as we planned, dearest. Please, let’s not…let’s not make it messy.” This was an excuse he was sure Maedhros would take, and he did.

“Don’t I always clean up our messes? Your messes?” Maedhros said. “I will take care of it.”

Maglor rose to his feet, his eyebrows pulling together, unable to stop the frown which etched itself into his expression.

“Maedhros, no…”

Maedhros, still believing in Maglor’s lie, attempted to soothe him through it, as he had done successfully in the past. He came over and took Maglor’s upper arms. The great jewel gleamed at his forehead and made Maglor feel queasy; he looked away.

“I will take him down into the cellar first,” he reassured Maglor. “You will have to see none of it.”

“Maedhros,” Maglor tried again, giving Maedhros the most beseeching look he could, and then, on impulse, added in a much softer voice: “I don’t want to see you that way.”

At this, Maedhros relaxed his mania, rubbing Maglor’s arm with his good hand.

“Alright,” he agreed at last, though Maglor could see his reluctance. “If it upsets you so much. But I will not wait more than another fortnight. And I will increase his dosage.”

That was…not ideal. But it was also the best deal Maglor was likely to get; if he pushed harder, he would only arouse Maedhros’ fatal jealousy.

“Thank you,” he said, leaning forward to rest his cheek against Maedhros’ chest. Maedhros’ good hand touched the back of his head, massaging the base of Maglor’s skull.

“Of course,” Maedhros murmured. “Anything for you, as always.”

***

Maglor found himself incurably restive lately. He hadn’t worked on his opera in days, even when he meant to (and what he did write, he despised and destroyed). He couldn’t sit still long enough to read, and even harping only barely occupied him enough to keep him from getting up to pace.

On one such day, he wandered into the library, thinking he might find Thranduil there, which he did. Thranduil was slumped over in his wheelchair, dozing, and Maglor hesitated, deciding perhaps it was best not to disturb him, when Thranduil opened his eyes, and seeing Maglor, straightened up.

“Maglor,” he said, beckoning him over. Maglor came at once, pulling a chair over to sit beside Thranduil. “I need to talk with you,” Thranduil said grimly.

“Of course, my darling,” said Maglor, reaching out to take his hands. “What is it?” Thranduil drew in a wheezing breath.

“My illness,” he said, and there was strain in his sweet voice which had not been there when they met in Greenwood. “It improves not a bit. There are things which must been seen to. The paperwork, from the bank. Have you received it yet?”

“No…” Maglor frowned deeply. Admittedly, it had been some time since he’d checked the post office. Thranduil broke off coughing, and Maglor reached up when it subsided to wipe a smidge of blood from his chin, but Thranduil caught Maglor’s hand and clasped them both in his lap.

“You must retrieve it as soon as possible,” he said. “I would sign you on now, as soon as we can. You must have access to my account.”

“Why?” Maglor whispered, clutching at his hands.

“The money,” Thranduil said, and turned his head away to give a single, sharp cough. “From my father. It must be yours.” Maglor felt like someone had punched him in the throat. “It would have been regardless, were I to live. But as that seems now unlikely, I wish to make sure there are no questions over to whom it belongs.” Even this small speech seemed to have wearied him. The bruises under his eyes were perpetual, and those beautiful green eyes had grown bloodshot and dull. “I will not be able to make the improvements to the house we discussed before,” he apologized, his voice barely more than a ragged whisper. “Nor the garden. But this I can still give to you.”

Maglor realized he was shaking.

“It can fund your opera,” Thranduil went on. “Then you will need no backers. Or at least, I imagine not. I confess I know little of how much capital is required to fund an opera. This will give you a considerable start, I hope. When I have gone, you can pay others to do the work I might have done. Make the house livable again.”

“You still think it can be saved?” Maglor asked, his voice breaking.

“Of course,” Thranduil murmured. “Anything can be saved, with enough love and attention. Isn’t it so? You require only the resources, which I can give to you.”

Maglor’s self-control broke, and then he was weeping openly.

“You won’t die,” he lied.

“I am afraid I very likely will.”

“No, you can’t,” Maglor wept. “You just need more fresh air. I’ll take you out more. I haven’t done it enough, I’m sorry. You aren’t dying. I won’t allow it!” Thranduil reached for the dove-tree teacup and Maglor snatched it out of his hand. “Stop drinking this!” he wailed. With a flick of his wrist he emptied the contents into the fireplace. “It’s no good for you! It hasn’t helped at all! I’ll get you something else. I’ll make you some chamomile. It’s so bloody cold in here!” he cried. “Are you cold? Where’s the damned cat? She should be with you! Are your feet warm enough? Wait here, I’ll be back soon.”

Maglor ran off and returned later as he’d said he would, with a tray of hot chamomile tea, and a blanket for Thranduil.

“Here,” he said, pouring a cup and setting it in Thranduil’s hands. “Warmer now? Is that better?” Thranduil nodded, and Maglor was almost certain he was being placated, but it didn’t matter. He arranged the blanket over Thranduil’s lap so that it hung down over his feet. “What were you reading?”

Thranduil closed the book to have a look at the title and said: “A History of Artistic Movements of Tirion.” Maglor settled into the chair he’d pulled up next to Thranduil and leaned in against his arm, so he could lay his head on Thranduil’s shoulder.

“Read it to me?” he said.

Thranduil took a long drink of tea, flipped the book back open to the first page, and began again, this time aloud for his audience.

***

That night after dinner, Maglor did not go up to the master bedroom. Instead, he went into Mother’s old studio, in which no one had set foot in what felt like a million years. Her old discarded projects were still there, along with about a jumble of things he and Maedhros had shoved into the room from other parts of the house in their first days back at the estate, and about a foot of dust. He was sure no one would disturb him there. He lit up a candelabra, took up one of the creaky stools, and bawled.

It was going to go on as it always had. Maedhros would keep dosing Thranduil with tea and even if Thranduil had given some consideration to Maglor’s warning not to drink it anymore, he might not heed it, and even if he did, the damage might be done. Were he not to take another sip of it in his life, his internal organs might have already sustained such damage as was irreparable, and death was inevitable.

Thranduil was too weak now to flee, and he did not understand the danger he was in, or that there might be still time to avoid it. He had no idea of the bodies bricked underneath the cellar, no comprehension of the harm Maedhros truly wished on him. He wishedto give Maglor what Maglor had planned take from him since first they met. It was astonishing, that anyone could be so naïve as to the cruelty which truly existed in the world, and the thought that he would be the one to teach Thranduil how terrible the world could be made Maglor sick to his stomach.

There was no one who could save Thranduil—no one but Maglor.

But doing that required confronting Maedhros, and exposing himself and the horrors he had committed for this place, for his relationship with Maedhros, to Thranduil. It was Maglor’s worst, most closely-held fear: that anyone other than Maedhros might see him for what he really was.

So Thranduil would die, thought Maglor, wiping with his hands at the tears and snot that dripped down his face. Die because Maglor was so ashamed of what he had allowed himself to become that he refused to undo it.

Maedhros’ words echoed inside Maglor’s head: I am the only one who could love you. Maedhros had said these exact words to him only once, but so many other things he’d said seemed to return to this central thesis: that Maedhros was the only one in the world who could truly know Maglor, and still love him.

And maybe he was right.

Maglor did not see a way he could be honest with Thranduil without making Thranduil shrink from him in hatred and disgust. So maybe Maedhros was right, and there was no love for Maglor outside of that house. But this was also true: none of that changed that Maglor loved Thranduil, and if Thranduil hated him forever, it would not stop Maglor from loving him for a single day.

He was not foolish enough to believe in the absolution of this one act—but he also could not believe it would make no difference at all.

***

Thranduil’s illness grew worse, and Maedhros pushed pot after pot of tea on him, followed by watery congee when Thranduil tried to turn down the tea, insisting he would fix it, but nothing helped. Thranduil’s head felt like it was full of lead; most days getting out of bed at all took concerted effort, and he spent most of the day yearning for sleep. His garden plans had been left by the wayside, and when he had started coughing blood into his handkerchief, he had realized with a distant awareness that he was likely dying.

He spent more time in the library, but he often fell asleep at the desk or in one of the musty, moth-eaten chairs, waking sometime later to realize with resigned disappointment he simply did not have the energy to be doing what he wanted to do.

Maglor was much more present than he had been in the earlier days of their marriage, which was a comfort, although he still often felt he understood very little about his chosen spouse. Thranduil had been too ill for much physical intimacy between them since their first encounter in the house, if there was anything about him that remained appealing to Maglor. Bloody lips and bony shoulders were not wonderful enticements. Not that it would matter long—whatever Maglor said, Thranduil was sure he would not last a few more months. He would never see spring on Crimson Peak.

Maedhros had promised to get him a key to the house after he had familiarized himself with it more, but he had never done so. He had also told Thranduil never to go into the cellar, but Thranduil did not think much of Maedhros’ edicts, and so one day, after waking in the library and feeling particularly spiteful, he broke the rule just because he could. Maybe, he thought bitingly, the ghost had not been warning him away at all. Or perhaps it was useless to live one’s life based on messages from the dead.

Fitting the chair into the elevator was always troublesome, but Thranduil managed to back it in, at which point he became closely aware of how cold it was there (particularly as he had not bothered to dress that morning, and so was clad only in his cream-white nightdress and a thin shrug). That was why it startled him but little when a ghostly arm reached through the right wall of the elevator, clawing at the lever that moved it from floor to floor. A low moan rattled the elevator, and Thranduil looked at the groping hand.

“Have you a warning for me as well?” he asked. “Shall we see what’s at the heart of that?” He pulled the lever down to take the elevator to the basement, and the ghost withdrew.

It was clear that while the rest of the house had gone uncared for, the cellar had suffered neglect in the extreme. Thranduil was at once amazed the entire house hadn’t collapsed; there must have been three inches of water on the floor in some places. Moss and mold covered the stone walls and water dripped around like he was in a cave (he frowned as turning the wheels of the chair smeared his hands with the foul water). The rank smell of rot which pervaded the entire estate was so powerful he gagged. It appeared to play host to an assortment of random, unrelated junk.

What a colossal disappointment.

Thranduil had suspected Maedhros was keeping him out of parts of the house simply out of ill will, and here was the proof. There was nothing down here. Maedhros was simply bitter that he was no longer the unquestioned master of the house now that his younger brother had wed.

To make the rickety elevator trip worth it, Thranduil poked around some of the things. There was what must have once been a very fine dress, abandoned to rot into the floor. There a delicate crown of golden flowers terribly bent out of shape and appearing to rust. There was a steamer trunk, emblazoned with a name: Elwing Dioriel.

E.D.

Thranduil hunted around for a tool, found a shovel with a broken handle, and used it to bash open the lock on the trunk. It took him a few tries, but when he did get it open, it was mostly empty, except for a necklace—its large setting pried open and empty of any jewel—and a small, leather-bound journal. Picking it up to leaf through, he was surprised to see it was not written in the common Tengwar, but in the archaic Cirth, also known as Daeron’s Runes. It was not something taught anywhere outside of Doriath, where Thranduil had grown up, to the best of his awareness. More interesting still, Elwing’s recollections began in Tengwar, but abruptly shifted to Cirth perhaps two-thirds of the way through the journal.

His curiosity piqued, Thranduil opened to the first page properly to read.

#rocky writes

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casspurrjoybell-19 · 6 months ago

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Does it Matter? - Chapter 61 - Part 1

*Warning Adult Content*

As the morning sun crept over the horizon, Maric led the group on their journey, with Bug trailing behind.

Bug had hoped his visions would guide them but they hadn't offered in direction.

Did that mean they were heading the right way?

Bug wished he could say so, that he could act as the wise and powerful guide but all he could offer was uncertainty.

Despite the lack of a clear path, the group's spirits remained high.

They seemed unfazed by the fact that they were being led by a walking skeleton who sometimes struggled to put one foot in front of the other.

He was starting to look a little less frail, though.

He'd looked his body over carefully before he dressed this morning and he had definitely put on a little weight.

The group had just resumed their trek after a brief lunch break when they encountered a fork in the road.

One path wound its way upwards, disappearing into the mountainous terrain, while the other meandered through at a lower elevation.

Braydan brought the procession to a halt and all eyes turned to Bug, seeking his guidance.

"Do you have any insight into which way we should go?" Braydan asked.

"Um..." Bug closed his eyes, allowing his mind to flash through brief glimpses of their near future.

The visions were unhelpful, as he had expected.

When he looked on his own, he saw every possibility, every potential outcome.

It had already been clear that both paths were viable options.

"I'm not sure."

"We'll take the higher path," Maric decided.

"The visibility is better and the road is wider."

They had barely turned onto the chosen track when Bug's mind was violently pulled away, thrown into a vision.

He saw the group turning down the lower path and then, in a flash so brief he nearly missed it, the image of a structure appeared.

It was a building of some sort but the vision was too fleeting for Bug to make out the details.

Reality came crashing back and Bug found himself leaning precariously in his saddle.

Brayan, equally off-balance, grasped Bug's shoulder, preventing him from tumbling to the ground.

Thayne had dismounted and stood between them, providing a central support for both.

"Sorry," Bug murmured, using Thayne's shoulder to right himself in the saddle.

"I think it wants us to go the other way and..." he hesitated, shaking his head.

"What is it?" Maric prompted.

"I saw..." Bug paused, trying to recall the fleeting image.

"A house, maybe? It was some kind of larger structure. A big house or... I don't know. I only saw it for a moment."

Maric considered this information.

"Do you think that's where we're supposed to go? Or a warning?"

Maric nodded, his decision made.

"Well, we know which way to go now, anyway," he said, turning Padriac towards the other path.

"Let's keep going."

As they rode on, Bug found himself lost in his own thoughts, the excitement and chatter of the rest of the group fading into the background.

His legs ached, the constant riding taking its toll on his fragile body.

Exhaustion seeped into his bones, making even the simple task of staying upright a challenge.

He remembered a time not too many years ago when such things had been trivial for him but it felt impossible now.

Though not for anyone else, of course.

They all seemed to take it in stride.

Dara was naturally untouched by such physical bothers and the others were well-accustomed to long days in the saddle.

Bug was alone in his fragility.

He couldn't help but wonder if he would ever truly recover when each day pushed him to his very limit.

Bug felt a twinge of discomfort as he found himself riding at the front of the group.

It was a position he had never anticipated but Laurent's quick bond with Luce had led them there once Bug grew too tired to pay attention to their surroundings.

As he rode, his status lingered at the back of his mind.

What even was his place now and did it actually matter?

He was their guide.

It made sense for him to lead, even if he didn't feel entirely confident in the role.

Fatigue tugged at his eyelids and Bug allowed them to drift shut, seeking a moment of respite.

It was during one of these fleeting rest periods that he sensed a shift in the energy around him.

Brayan drew Laurent to an abrupt stop, jolting Bug back to alertness.

As he opened his eyes, he saw a woman mounted on a horse the colour of red earth, bearing a striking resemblance to Farah, ahead of them.

The other rider had also come to a halt and Bug half-expected her to ride off in search of reinforcements.

Instead, after a moment's hesitation, she seemed to gather her courage and continued towards them.

As she drew closer, Bug realised with little surprise that the woman was Eth.

Apart from Maric, he had never heard of anyone else riding a yenkarth.

The woman's horse was visibly agitated as she stopped in front of them and her own demeanour was far from pleased.

The wind whipped through her long, wavy dark hair, lending her a wild appearance as her eyes locked onto Farah.

"That's a nice horse you have there," she remarked, her tone laced with an undercurrent of tension.

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bandedbulbussnarfblat · 1 year ago

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Remembrance chapter 12

here on ao3 or read it below. beware there is smut, so probably don't read at work

The interview continues in the living room. Daniel sits on the couch, listening to Louis speak while an IV feeds him medicine. There’s a doctor standing by that they’re supposed to be ignoring. Armand is sitting in a chair farther away, but Daniel is pretending he isn’t there. Louis' voice is far away, like he’s lost in thought.

“A few shattered vertebrae, a punctured lung, blind in one eye for five weeks. Two months, was it? I took naps at night then. I would feel the air against my skin as though I was still falling. And then I would land all over again. Excruciating pain was the proof I was still alive.”

If Daniel hadn’t seen Armand fly, he might get hung up on that bit. The idea of a person flying sounds insane, but Daniel knows it’s possible. Armand had called it the ‘cloud gift’. From what Daniel remembers, it’s more like floating than flying.

“Excruciating pain as proof of life,” Daniel says, and glances at the IV. “Sounds practically human.”

Louis smiles a little.

Daniel looks over to the doctor. “Hey, Doc, did you know there’s a flying vampire apocalypse coming your way?”

The doctor is a handsome man in an expensive suit. Long dark hair frames his face, and sharp brown eyes peer Daniel’s way as he packs up his medical bag. He looks slightly amused, but he doesn’t speak.

“Most vampires do not possess the cloud gift,” Louis says “With few exceptions, only the most ancient of us have it.”

Daniel knows that already. He once thought Armand was the oldest there way, back when he was young and naive. It had been not long after they had officially become lovers that he learned it wasn’t so, on one of their whirlwind trips. Armand had taken him to all sorts of places back then. They had been in some country in South America, though Daniel can’t recall which one. They had been taking a sort of meandering tour of the continent.

They had been out walking, taking in the sights when Armand had taken Daniel by the hand and practically dragged him back to their hotel. “What? What is it? Daniel had asked, but Armand hadn’t answered until they were in the safety of their room.

“I sense the presence of others like me,” he had explained once they were back inside. He was already pulling clothes out of the dressers and putting them back in their suitcase. Apparently their presence warranted them leaving. “I’ve thrown my shield around you, but I worry. You must stay by my side.”

“You wouldn’t have to worry if you made me like you.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Armand had said. “Now you’re one of a billion faceless humans. If you were one of us, you’d be a candle burning in the dark.”

“So?”

“They’d spot you without fail,” Armand had said. “The old ones kill the young ones out of hand.”

Daniel shrugged. “You’ll protect me.”

It had been such a simple thing to say, to believe, back then.

Something had flickered over Armand’s face, some expression Daniel couldn’t read. He stopped packing and crossed the room to Daniel and took his face in his hands. He looked into his eyes intently. “But I’m not invincible,” Armand stopped speaking for a moment, as if debating whether to continue.

“I’m like any beast on the prowl. I have enemies who are older and stronger who would try to destroy me if it interested them to do so, I am sure.”

“Older than you? But I thought you were the oldest!” Most of what Daniel knew about vampires had come from the night interviewing Louis. Armand didn’t like to talk about the undead.

“No, of course I’m not the oldest,” Armand had said. “Only the oldest Louis knows.”

His hands dropped from Daniel’s face. “There are others. I feel them, at times. We feel each other. We send signals to keep away.”

Of course, Daniel had pestered him with questions. Who were these other vampires? Did he know their names? Were they ever friends? What were they like? Armand had avoided answering, eventually luring Daniel into the embrace, into bed, to distract him.

But those are old memories, and Daniel can’t get caught up now.

“You know he’s a vampire, right?” Daniel says to the doctor.

“I do not discuss my patients with anyone but the patients themselves.”

“That’s the voice of Dr. Fareed Bhansali,” Daniel says, just to get it on record.

“That is not my voice.”

Daniel continues “He’s the personal physician to the deputy prime minister and-”

“And I am not here,” Fareed interrupts.

“-the vampire Louis de Pointe du Lac.”

Armand stands. His ipad is clutched tightly in his hands and his voice is terse. “He’s officially off the record.”

Armand hasn’t bothered with the contacts and gloves, so he must trust this Fareed. At least enough to let him know he’s a vampire. Since when did Armand trust like that?

“NDAs signed by any and all who cross the threshold, eh?” Daniel says. He doesn’t even know why he’s trying to provoke Armand.

“Is your medicine taking?” Louis cuts in. He always was good at keeping the peace.

“It’s cold and itchy. Thanks for asking.” Daniel glances back over to Armand. Why is he so pissy anyway? Probably something to do with the interview. He’s mad that it’s happening at all. Daniel feels a pang of sympathy for Louis; Armand could be prickly when he didn’t get his way.

He doesn’t feel bad enough not to tear his story to shreds. “So, for twenty years you lived with the vampire Lestat, and you didn’t know he had the flying gift?”

“The cloud gift,” Louis corrects. “And yes, it was a remarkable bit of restraint he managed.”

“Why would he do that?”

There’s a far off look in Louis’ eyes. “I suppose he thought if he exposed all his power to me, I would never feel his equal and the relationship would suffer.”

Well, that’s bullshit.

“‘He only beat me the one time, Officer. It’s not his fault,’” Daniel says and looks over to Fareed. “Classic Stockholm, eh, Doc?”

“I am not here.”

Daniel looks back to Louis, who says “Are we the sum of our worst moments? Can we be forgiven if we do not forgive others ourselves?”

He remembers hearing Louis say the same thing to Armand after the second time Daniel had left him. Armand had been relieved to have him back the first time. He had let Daniel kiss apologies into his skin, pledge his devotion with his hands, whisper his love into his ear. They’d spent a weekend in bed and Daniel had promised never to leave again. Then he did.

Armand had been furious. Of course he was; he probably felt hurt and rejected. Daniel had felt like the world’s biggest jerk. He hadn’t bothered calling; he just showed up. He’d even brought flowers. That was what you did when you fucked up, right?

Louis had been the one who answered. “Wondered how long it would take you to be back.”

Daniel had blushed at that, all the way to the roots of his hair. “Yeah, uh, is Armand here?”

Louis had laughed and pulled a face. “You sure you want to do this?”

Daniel winced. “That bad?”

“He’s in rare form.”

Armand had come stalking from around the corner to the door. He eyed Daniel like an insect caught to the bottom of his shoe. “What are you doing here?”

Daniel stupidly held out the flowers. “I came to apologize.”

Armand gave the flowers a wilting look. “And now you have. You can leave.”

“Come on, baby. I’m sorry, okay?” Daniel said, then looked desperately toward Louis. “Forgive me. Louis forgives me, don’t you, Louis?”

“Can we be forgiven if we do not forgive others ourselves?” Louis answered. Daniel figured that meant yes.

Armand had only glared. “Forgiveness has to be earned.”

Then he slammed the door in Daniel’s face.

Daniel shakes himself out of the memory and casts his gaze back to Armand. “Forgiveness has to be earned.”

Armand looks away from him. Of course, after Armand had said that he had still forgiven Daniel. Daniel had come back the next day and pleaded his case at the door, because Armand wouldn’t even let him inside. By the end of the hour he had Armand’s fangs back in his neck and his cock up his ass.

Armand always had forgiven him, hadn’t he? For anything. It’s like once Armand loved someone, nothing they did was unforgivable.

It explains a lot, actually.

“Lestat had disappeared after that awful night,” Louis continues, “vanished out of a profound sense of shame he would later confess to. Which was just as well, since Claudia and I were in no mood to receive his apologies.”

His eyes are far away again. “I made pride my blanket. And she dedicated all her energy to my rehabilitation.”

Louis begins to talk about the gifts, how Lestat had called his silence cruel. “For six years in all, these raw and desperate mea culpas came like the tide. And for six years, they were greeted with silence or fire. We burned more gifts than bodies that decade, but they would not stop coming.”

Daniel thinks he knows where this is going. While Louis talks, Fareed prepares an injection for Daniel.

“And Lestat’s relentless determination began to crack my considerable armor,” Louis says. “Perhaps it was the modesty of the gesture…But in the spring of 1937, one broke through. He had written it himself in the music of the hour. His first composition in one hundred years.”

Fareed injects him and puts on a band aid. Louis turns to Armand. “Could you play the song for Daniel and the doctor?”

“I’m not here.”

The music starts to play and a masculine voice rings out.

“He had engaged a local record company. And when the musicians they hired proved unsatisfactory, he played all the instruments himself.”

“That’s his voice?” Daniel says, shocked.

“Yeah.” Louis says, “He pressed only one album. Had the master recordings destroyed. You’re listening to an inferior rerecording now.”

“The audacity of it all was matched only by its sincerity. He had made the near-perfect valentine, with one flaw. One perfectly premeditated flaw.”

Daniel listens to Louis tell about Antoinette’s voice being on the record. How he had swam the Mississippi to get to Lestat. Fareed finishes up giving him his fluids.

Yeah, he definitely knows where this is going. Dumb bastard.

“Alavida, Dr. Bhansali.”

Armand moves to walk out the doctor. Fareed gets his stuff and looks to Daniel “Pleasure never meeting you, Mr. Molloy.”

“He said to no one.”

“Quick and clever, despite two bags of fluid,” Louis says, and there’s a hint of that old fondness there.

“Legal dope makes me constipated, but the wit flows like a river,” Daniel says dryly. “You took Lestat back.”

Louis drops his eyes a moment. “The vampire bond. There is no human equivalent.”

“Lover. Murderer. Maker. You took him back.” His disappointment is clear in his voice.

“It’s a bond that can never fully be severed,” Louis defends. “A bond like that makes you believe there are only two of you on the planet. Freedom and chastity wrapped in one person.”

“But there were three of you.” Daniel doesn’t know if he means Antoinette or Claudia. Either way, both of them are screwed.

“Yes,” Louis says, “Yes.”

He goes on to talk about him and Claudia instating rules for Lestat, of Lestat opening up about his own creator. “Years accumulated in the small city were catching up to us. Our home was often vandalized. Cowardly warnings suggesting we were no longer welcome. ‘Please return to the dark place you came from’.”

“It was an awkward time, but I loved Claudia with all my heart, and I loved Lestat with a wounded one. The work would be convincing the two to find room again for each other.”

Louis talks about making concessions, about agreeing to feed on humans. This Daniel gets. There were times when the three of them were together that Louis had gone off humans. Times when Armand would have to see to it that Louis ate at all. Times when the way to get Louis to drink at all was to for Daniel to beg him to bite him while they fucked.

Daniel remembers one time in particular that the three of them had been together. Armand was sitting over in a chair in the corner, watching with blazing eyes. Daniel and Louis were together on the bed, and Daniel was riding him like a goddamn demon. Louis sat up and kissed all over Daniel’s neck, sucking and biting with blunt teeth. Daniel had clenched around him and said “Come on, bite me. Bite me, please.”

Louis took a ragged breath and shook his head. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Daniel said and kissed him before he could argue. He pulled Louis’ face to his neck. “Give it to me, baby, he pants, rocking down harder on Louis. “It makes me feel so good. Don’t you want to make me feel good?”

Louis didn’t crack, so Daniel had thrown back his head and tilted his neck invitingly. “Louis, I need it.”

Louis caved and sunk in his fangs, sucking hard at Daniel’s neck. Daniel had moaned and clung to him, riding him frantically. Louis flung him off and onto his back, and bit him on the other side of his neck. Over his heart. Across his hip bone. On each inner thigh. Then while Daniel was still caught in the swoon, he slid back inside him and drove his cock into his ass. Louis barely had to touch his cock and Daniel was coming, moaning at the hot splash of Louis’ own release inside him.

Daniel is pulled out of the memory by Louis’ sharp inhale. When he looks over at him, his hands are clenched around his knees.

“Did you know that an increased libido is one of the side effects of your medication, Daniel?”

Daniel doesn’t pay so much attention to the words as to the look in Louis’ eyes. It’s a look he recognizes; the one Louis would get before they fucked. Desire. “Yeah? What’s your excuse?”

“Touche, Mr. Molloy,” Louis says with a small smile, as flirtatious as possible.

Daniel is going to lose his mind.

“Let’s focus on the story,” Daniel says, trying to get back on track. Louis is probably just playing with him, like a cat with a cornered mouse.

“We could take a break,” Louis says, voice teasing and smile coy. Daniel remembers feeling so fond of that smile.

“Yeah, I could use a smoke,” Daniel says, grateful for the excuse. He’s not touching what Louis is implying.

He goes to the balcony and lights up a cigarette with a shaky hand. Daniel is just starting to relax, when he feels someone step beside him. Daniel turns his head. Armand.

Fuck.

“I’d like to speak with you.”

Double fuck.

Daniel takes a deep drag of his cigarette. It’s nearly half gone. “You have until I finish my smoke.”

Armand sweeps closer to him and plucks the cigarette out of his hand. He snuffs it out on the balcony. “What the fuck, Armand?”

“These things are horrible for your health, Daniel,” Armand says, holding the cigarette out of reach when Daniel tries to grab it. “Besides, if it isn’t lit, how can you finish it?”

Daniel sighs. “Alright, smartass.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and looks at Armand. “Let’s talk.”

#iwtv fic

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tembusugrandhere · 2 years ago

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When It Comes to Stately Homes, Norfolk Is a Grand County

At the point when you fly over Norfolk, something you notice are the glorious properties spotted across the scene. It is the best view you get of them as a number are set in huge grounds from the street or tucked behind screens of trees, Some, obviously, are exclusive yet particularly family homes.

ALSO VISIT:-Grand Hyatt New York Hotel's $130 Million Renovation

Others are the homes of Norfolk's nobility while a number are in the responsibility for Public Trust and are available to guests.

Assuming you stay in quite a few the North Norfolk lodgings, you are inside simple reach of some of the better known dignified homes that are controlled by the Public Trust, including Blickling Corridor, Felbrigg Lobby or Oxborough Corridor, other stupendous homes that are close to a portion of the Norfolk lavish inns incorporate Houghton Lobby and Holkham Lobby, which is as yet the home of the lord of Leicester.

The majority of the dignified homes of Norfolk can be visited, however it is ideal to check opening times as they truly do fluctuate on certain days and some of the more amazing properties are not completely open in the cold weather months. Check with the gathering at your Norfolk lodgings and they will actually want to give you more subtleties or point you in the correct heading for data on opening times.

As well as being fabulous structural manifestations, each with a long and brilliant history of their own, they are likewise set in staggering grounds which you can meander around at your relaxation, like the superb walled garden at Felbrigg Lobby. The vast majority of the inns North Norfolk has are near these properties and some are close to the point of trekking to along the peaceful dirt roads of this piece of the region.

Confirmation costs fluctuate yet in the event that you are hoping to visit various them during your visit in Norfolk it could merit making requests with the Public Trust to sort out the most ideal way of getting round them all, notwithstanding these properties, there is likewise the Sandringham domain to visit in west Norfolk, which is the illustrious home where the Sovereign likes to enjoy Christmas with her loved ones.

I thought a ton preceding posting this. Not in light of the fact that it's embarrassing to get shielded (it is) however since we put individuals' lives in peril to look for us and made others stress since we hadn't gotten back home. The two of which are unforgivable. In case we have any security, I figure we did a ton right; we left nuances of where we were going, we stopped when it was exorbitantly perilous and we had abundance pieces of clothing and safe-haven to last a colder season's night. However, we didn't get down safely as expected and as we couldn't contact anyone, others arose to get us. Which is deplorable and not something I really want to go over. Recording what happened helps me with acquiring from it yet furthermore offers me the opportunity to thank uninhibitedly people that helped us. Preferably the additional insights on the unit we had offers some authentic experience on the genuine elements of present day 'emergency' gear.

Last weekend, a sidekick and I slid a shaky, snow-covered incline on a 937m (3074ft) Scottish Munro. Following plummeting through different steep banks, we hit a place to pause as night fell. Recognizing it was excessively risky to try and consider continuing or speak our means in haziness, we went through the colder season's night perched on a little snow edge preceding being nonchalantly winnowed from the mountain 11 hours sometime later by a RAF Sea Master helicopter, call-sign 'Rescue 137′.

This happened.

6.15am

It was snowing when I went out in Edinburgh before dawn and walked around the essential road to meet Jonathan. Out of Edinburgh, our most significant stop for the day was the Green Welly bistro at Tyndrum. A bistro exhibits the explanation 'region, region, region' and is an ideal spot to stop for those expecting to visit one of the famous Scottish glens, Glencoe.

We were going south of Glencoe, and west of Tyndrum, to a Munro called Beinn Sgulaird. Over the Munro, though by a hair, qualifying level of 918m (3,000ft), Beinn Sgulaird sits high above Loch Creran, just inland of the west coastline of Scotland. I've walked around the mountain already, in summer, and was delighted to reiterate it with Jonathan and pack it in another season.

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haddonfieldwhore · 2 years ago

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richter tcm(2022) x oc | imagine (part 4/?)

‼️SPOILERS‼️ texas chainsaw massacre 2022

warnings: age gap, language, violence, mentions of death, blood, mentions of death

i was still sort of panicking as richter lead me back into the auto shop and sat me down on a bench, his hand gently resting on my shoulder trying to calm me down. melody and dante had gone back into the orphanage to look for the deed to the property.

“ric, that old lady died because of us- me and my friends…” i mumbled. he shook his head.

“hey- you didn’t do anything. ain’t your fault,” he reassured me.

“if we hadn’t of come here she would still be alive.” he looked at me sadly.

“if you ain’t’ve come here i wouldn’t of met you, and i’m glad i did,” he pulled me closer to him and i rested my head on his shoulder. we stayed like that for a while, the sky outside now dark as heavy rain fell against the ground.

a figure stumbled down the road, walking funny as the person meandered past the door to the garage.

“i’m just gonna go see what’s going on,” richter explained, placing a kiss on my temple before getting up and walking towards where the person had been. i decided to follow him and i heard his voice call out to the person. as i got closer, i realized the figure was dante.

“hey, i’m talking to you!” richter called over the sound of the rain. i felt in my stomach that something was wrong, and i put a hand on richters arm as i caught up to him. “hey.. you okay man?” richter asked, his tone changing from anger to concern. he turned dante around by his shoulder and i backed up at the sight of his face, stumbling and landing on the wet gravel road as i stared up at him.

his face (or what was left of it) had a huge gash, his jaw seemingly barely hanging on as blood poured down his chin. it looked like someone had swung a hatchet or something into his head.

“what the fuck .. what the fuck?” i muttered, staring at him in disbelief as richter tried to get him somewhere safe. leaving him against the side of a building, and awning at least partially shielding him from the rain, richter returned to me. extending a hand to help me up, i stared straight ahead, frozen in place. where were the others? lila, melody, ruth?

i hadn’t even noticed catherine, one of the people involved in the auction, had come over to see what was happening, her clothes untouched by the rain as she stood under a clear umbrella.

“help her up, get her to the bus and lock the door- don’t let anyone in,” he demanded to catherine. she pulled me up by my arm but i stopped.

“ric what are you gonna do?” i asked. he armed himself with the gun from his holster and gestured to the orphanage.

“your friend might still be in there- i’ll meet you at the-“ i stopped him, my hands clinging to the now soaked fabric of his shirt.

“no- no i’m not letting you go in there alone,” i stammered, my voice shaky. richter placed a kiss on my forehead.

“please just wait in the bus-“

“i’m going with you,” i insisted. he sighed in defeat.

“miss, go back to the bus- and remember- lock the door.” he spoke to catherine. she nodded and timidly ran back to the bus. richter looked back at me. “stay behind me.”

////

we tiptoed into the abandoned orphanage, richters gun pointed in front of him and i did what i was told and stayed behind him. following him up the old wooden staircase, past a pool of what i assumed was dante’s blood on the floor, i winced each time the floorboards creaked under the weight of our careful footsteps. a noise drew out attention to one of the bedrooms, richter cautiously took a step into the room. i watched as a familiar shoe came out from under the bed, slightly turning an old floor mirror to reveal a huge figure behind the door. was it a …. man? it looked like a man at least, but his face was all kinds of wrong, and he held a chainsaw in his hands. he must’ve seen our reflection as well since he emerged from the corner, swinging the chainsaw towards richter, who i narrowly managed to pull out of the way, my fingers tightly gripping the material of his shirt as i yanked him back out of the room.

as we stumbled to the ground, richters gun went off, shooting and breaking the window in the bedroom. his head hit the floor rather hard, not enough to knock him unconscious but surely enough to disorient him for a few minutes. i’m really screwed i thought. the huge man now stood in the door way, chainsaw revving as the two of us scrambled to get out of reach. i wasn’t quick enough and our attacker grabbed my ankle, pulling me towards him, my hands failing to grab the stair railing to prevent it. his hand released my ankle to hold the chainsaw above me, and i barely avoided the teeth of it as a scramble through his side spread legs and i to the bedroom. he turned and charged towards me, backing me up against the broken windows my hands gripping the jagged frame al causing blood to drop from my hands. he seeing the chainsaw at me again, and i ducked just in time, my hands finding a large glass shard on the floor.

my eyes caught sight of melody, shaking under the bed. oh fuck, we’re all really screwed i thought. the chainsaw blade grazed my arm as it wedged itself into the floorboards next to me, causing a scream to erupt from my throat. i stabbed the man in the leg with the large piece of glass i held and he stumbled backwards a little, giving me the opportunity to run out of the room and back to a now more alert richter. i helped him up as the man followed after me, thankfully not noticing mel hiding in the bedroom. he stoned after us, richter sending a shot flying towards him and into his shoulder. unfortunately it didn’t slow him down very much, and he managed to stomp on richters foot, surely breaking his ankle. he yelled in pain, and the chainsaw man revved his weapon in response, swinging it at me again, this time grazing my calf. i let out another scream and desperately tried to get myself and richter down the stairs. the man grabbed my arm, causing me to effectively drop richter, sending him tumbling down the stairs and landing with a groan.

“ric!” i yelled, as the man lifted me up by my throat, my fingernails hopelessly clawing into his hand in an attempt to get him to drop me. melodys voice from behind him distracted him long enough for richter to sent a few bullets flying towards my attacker, one of them lodging into the man’s other shoulder, causing him to drop me to the floor. “mel, run!” i screamed. the man seemed more interested in her as he followed her into on me of the other rooms, melody screaming as he pursued her. i stood up, wobbling a little when i felt someone crash into me, sending us both flying down the stairs and through the floorboards. melody and i, now crumpled heaps at the bottom of the stairs, watched as the man stalked towards us down the steps, his chainsaw idling as he grew closer.

#richter texas chainsaw massacre #richter one shot #richter imagine #richter tcm #richter #texas chainsaw massacre imagine #texas chainsaw massacre 2022 #texas chainsaw massacre

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outshinethestars · 2 years ago

Text

Say No to Child Vigilantism (Daredevil and DC)

The new kid is all spitfire fury and curses in languages Matt hasn’t even heard before. He’s barely nine years old and tiny and the first thing he did when he came here was charm sister Agatha the uncharmable, and the second thing he did was pick a fight with a kid twice his size, and now he’s climbing out of his window. He’s one room down from Matt and they’re on the second floor.

“What are you doing ?” Matt hisses from is own window, quietly so that they don’t wake up anyone else.

The kid, he goes by Dick and Matt’s gonna respect that and be mature about it, his parents didn’t speak English and didn’t know any better. Anyway, Dick startles, and for a terrifying split second Matt’s sure he’s going to fall, that Matt just inadvertently caused his death. But then he catches himself and hisses back, “What are you doing?”

“Trying to stop you from falling out your window,” Matt says.

“I wasn’t going to fall ,” Dick says, like the very idea is ludicrous, “I’m going out, and you can’t stop me.”

This is patently untrue in multiple ways.

“All I gotta do is yell and the nuns will come running,” Matt says.

“You wouldn’t,” Dick says, with far too much confidence for a kid who’s only known Matt for about a day and a half.

“How about you tell me why you’re going out and we’ll see,” Matt says.

Dick hesitates, but then he says with conviction, “I’m finding the guy who killed my parents. I’m gonna make him pay.”

“Are you insane?!” Matt says, just barely managing to keep his voice down, “That’s not— you can’t— Tony Zucco is a mob boss and you’re a nine year old who doesn’t know the terrain!”

“Killing people isn’t as hard as people think it is, there’s hundreds of ways to fall wrong, people have important blood vessels all over the place. He’s not expecting me, I could do it easy.”

Dick sees mortality from the perspective of a person used to dangerous jobs, not the perspective of a soldier. It’s easy to kill someone on accident, killing a person on purpose is harder. It’s important for a knife thrower to remember that just the slightest slip could kill a person, it’s important for a knife fighter to remember that the human body is very hard to kill and even harder to stop. And all of this, of course, ignores the fact that however easy or hard it might be for Dick to kill Zucco, it would be trivial for Zucco to kill Dick.

The smart thing, at this point, the correct thing, would be to tell the nuns. But Matt doesn’t want to bother them, and if Stick knew Matt was tattling to nuns to fix things for him, he’d call him a sissy.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Matt says, just so that they’re on the same page here.

“I know what I’m doing,” Dick says, truthfully. That’s a nicely ambiguous phrase. It could mean, “I have a plan that will make it so that I don’t die,” or it could mean, as Matt is fairly sure it does in this case, “I know that what I’m doing will probably get me killed”. Either way, though, Matt can tell he can’t just argue Dick out of this.

“Alright, fine,” Matt says, “But I’m coming with you.”

“What, so nine year olds going after crime bosses is insane, but eleven year olds can do it just fine?” Dick asks. He doesn’t point out the blind thing, which is nice of him.

Matt starts climbing out of his own window, and something about the way he’s balanced on the sill must reassure Dick that Matt at least sort of knows what he’s doing and isn’t going to fall to his death himself, because Dick shrugs and says, “Whatever, good luck keeping up,” before launching himself into the air with some sort of complicated acrobatic flip.

Matt cannot, in fact, keep up. What he can do is keep track of where Dick is, and since Dick doesn’t seem to have a very strong idea of where he’s going it’s fairly easy to follow his meandering course in a straight line and stay close-ish behind him. He’s beginning to think that of course Dick isn’t going to find the mob boss, and they’re going to spend the whole night running around the city aimlessly.

But then Dick’s heartbeat speeds up and there’s a man with him, and Dick’s snarling at him in Italian.

“Shit,” Matt says, and runs.

The thing is, Matt thought about how he needed to protect Dick, he thought about the fact that Dick was too damn fast and Matt was too slow. He was all prepared to fight Tony Zucco and probably a bunch of his cronies too.

He didn’t consider what he’d do if Dick actually got the upper hand.

He’s panting, his heartbeat fast from running, and Dick doesn’t even notice that he’s there. Tony Zucco is hanging onto the roof by his fingertips, his heartbeat pounding, fear sweat staining the air. Dick stands over him, heartbeat rabbiting, shaking with fury and fear and Matt doesn’t know what. They both just stand there, and all Matt can think is that he doesn’t want to hear someone die. Dick stands over his parents’ killer, and he isn’t pushing Zucco over the edge, and he isn’t pulling him back up either, and Zucco’s fingers are slip—

Dick curses and grabs for Zucco’s hand, and Matt lunges forward and grabs his other arm. Zucco is flailing, and they both almost get pulled over the edge with him, but they manage to pull him onto the roof. As soon as he has his feet under him, Zucco goes for a knife and stabs at Dick. Matt kicks him in the head and knocks him out.

“What an ungrateful bastard,” Matt says.

Dick laughs, the sound breathless and a little hysterical.

“What do we do now?” Dick says in a small voice when he stops laughing.

This is another thing that Matt hasn’t considered. He shrugs.

“We can’t call the police,” he says, “He could have people on the inside.”

“We can’t just leave him here!” Dick says, “He’ll just wake up and hurt someone else.”

That or one of his rivals will find him injured and alone and take advantage of his vulnerable position, but Matt doesn’t actually want that either. It does give him an idea, though.

“Call the police, but ask for Detective Miller,” Matt says.

“Is he a good cop?” Dick asks.

“Ha, no,” Matt says, “He’s with the Irish, and those guys would like nothing better than for Zucco to get arrested.”

So Dick finds the street address, and then they both find a pay phone, and Dick talks to the asshole that “investigated” Matt’s dad’s murder. Matt listens to make sure that Zucco doesn’t wake up and wander off before the cop cars get there, but it all seems to go down without a hitch.

“So,” Dick says, as they’re making their way home, hopefully walking in the right direction.

“I actually am blind,” Matt says.

“That wasn’t what I was gonna ask, but cool,” Dick says, “So, do you have superpowers or something?”

“Do you have superpowers?” Matt asks. It’s a genuine question as well as a deflection, the way Dick moves is insane.

“I’m a Flying Grayson,” Dick says, “I have talent and lots and lots of hard work.”

“That’s what I have too,” Matt says, though honesty makes him add, “Mostly.”

Dick hums, only a little skeptically.

“We should do this again,” Dick says, “Beat up bad guys.”

“What? No, ” Matt says, “Once was crazy enough.”

“It worked out well this time,” Dick says.

“I have no idea how we didn’t die this time,” Matt says.

“We didn’t die because we’re total badasses, come on you know you want to.”

This is a low blow and totally unfair, because it’s absolutely true. But one of them has to be the sensible one here, and apparently that duty falls to Matt.

“No,” Matt says.

“We could be real life superheroes,” Dick says.

“Superheroes aren’t real,” Matt says, “And even in comic books, they’re not a couple of preteens with no powers.”

“You totally have superpowers, Matt,” Dick says, sounding deeply unimpressed.

“I don’t have Captain America superpowers,” Matt says, “And anyway, I’m eleven and you’re literally the tiniest nine year old I’ve ever met. The criminals of Hell’s Kitchen are so, so far outside our weight class, and most of them have guns .”

“I bet you could take them,” Dick says, bouncing cheerfully on his toes, “You’re not scared, are you?”

Matt is not scared, that’s the problem. And a part of him bristles at the insinuation that he might be. He has a suspicion that Dick knows this full well. But Matt is trying desperately to be sane about this. When the nuns talked about the dangers of peer pressure, they meant, like, drugs. Nobody ever warned Matt he could be pressured into underaged vigilantism.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a menace to society?” Matt asks.

“It’s been mentioned once or twice,” Dick says, sounding far too smug, “You know, if you won’t agree to be my sidekick, I’ll just go out on my own.”

“We’re going to die,” Matt says, resigned to his fate.

“Is that a yes?” Dick asks.

“I hate you.”

“Wow,” Dick says, “Who knew the English language had so many words for “yes.’”

#Matt Murdock #dick grayson #Daredevil (TV)#dc #fic and fic-like things #my stuff

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nationalharryleague · 4 years ago

Text

Diplomacy

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

Genre: Enemies to Lovers Royal AU

Word count: 12K (I may have gotten carried away)

Warnings: Parental Death, an American writing about monarchies she doesn’t understand

A/N: Hi everyone! I have been working on this one for a while and it’s by far the longest thing I’ve ever written and I am so proud of it (please be nice)!! I also made a Pinterest board with all the outfits from this if you want to check it out here!! SO SO SO much love to @meetmymouth @bfharry and @hardcandy-harry for helping me out when I needed it and being the most wonderful people in general :) As always, thank you so so much for reading!! More of my writing can be found in my masterlist and feedback/reblogs mean the world!!!

****

Y/N knew from the day she could understand the concept of marriage that she would one day be married to the little prince with wild brown curls her mother always forced her to play with. She still vividly remembered the first time he told her that she was ugly and that he hated her. She was only five years old at the time.

Fortunately, she hated him just as much as he hated her. He was rude, somehow always sticky, and seemed to have no filter or manners, letting every nasty thing he could think of fall past his lips in daggers aimed at his future wife.

As they grew older, their animosity only grew, from petty to school yard quarrels to attacks on their personalities and who they were as people. Despite her pleas to her mother to be sent to a different boarding school than the one he was already attending, she was shipped off.

She studied judiciously, what was expected of every future queen, while she watched Harry meander through his schooling. He never seemed to listen in class, never studied, and seemed to only care about football and girls. She watched with jealousy and contempt as he flirted with every girl at their school, every girl except the one he knew he was to marry; while every boy in the school knew Y/N was off limits, direct orders from the crown.

It made her uncomfortable how much she disliked him. She was not a hateful person, having been trained well to treat everyone with dignity and respect, she was a princess after all. But something about Harry just got under her skin. She barely was able to control the instinctive eye roll whenever his name was mentioned and she often pretended to gag when discussing him with her friends, especially when one of them would inevitably call him ‘dreamy.’

The happiest day of her life was the day she watched him graduate, knowing she had been awarded years of peace without having to listen to his taunts or watch him flirt with everything that breathed. During those years, she flourished. She grew from a timid girl in line for power to a confident young woman preparing for the crown. She knew her country through and through, her constitution front to back, and had even begun studying Harry’s country as well. Whether she liked it or not, she knew she would have to pick up his slack in governing his kingdom eventually, she might as well be good at it.

Four more years of education at Cambridge, brought four more years of growth and being free from Harry, but the deal she had made with her mother was quickly coming to a close. As soon as she finished her education, their engagement would be made official and wedding planning would commence. While she was tempted to beg for some sort of delay or escape, she understood this was her duty. She owed this to her people, and soon to Harry’s as well; her mother was counting on her.

For the first time in too many years, she stood inside her former and future home. She remembered running through the halls of the massive palace under the ornate ceilings that now hung above her again; reality was sinking in. Through the massive wooden doors that sat in front of her, she knew her fate awaited; a fate named Harry. With a deep breath she steeled herself and smoothed the blush pink lace skirt of her dress, preparing to see the face that had haunted her for so long.

The first thing she noticed was the playful smirk that she associated so closely with his taunts from when they were children. It was the smirk that made her stomach drop; she could only imagine the nasty things that could come past those lips now. He had years to practice.

He stood confidently next to her mother, who had a bright and triumphant grin on her face. He was dressed in an impeccably tailored forest green suit, decorated with his coat of arms pin on the lapel. She wished for the vibrance of his green eyes to lessen but the tone of his suit only made them more intense than she had remembered.

“Harry,” she breathed, as diplomatically and with as much confidence as she could muster. “It’s good to see you,” she lied, reaching her hand out for him to kiss in the antiquated custom that always made her deeply uncomfortable. He delicately grasped her hand and slowly brought it to his blushed lips, the kiss lingering longer than what could have been considered friendly. His snake-like eyes locked with hers, still containing the mischievous glint she had nightmares about. She couldn’t help but notice the hysterically hopeful smile on her mother’s face as she watched them interact.

“It’s always a pleasure, your highness,” he hummed. He must have remembered how uncomfortable that title made her. She was honestly impressed at how he managed to lie and antagonize her in the first sentence he had said to her in over six years.

“Please call me Y/N,” she instructed as politely as possible.

“As you wish,” he said with a conniving smirk on his face. She had been with him no more than two minutes and she already wanted to run for her life. But this wasn’t about her, her country would need a leader soon, and unfortunately, that had to be her.

Her mother rushed over excitedly between the two, breaking the contemptuous silence that had built between them. “Oh children, it’s so nice to see you two back together again. I remember when you used to play when you were little. Always teasing, like you had the biggest crushes on each other.” ‘Teasing’ is a nice way to refer to torture, Y/N thought to herself, never daring to verbalize a thought like that.

“We did always have fun didn’t we, Y/N?” Harry asked her, a thin glaze of politeness coating his malice.

“Oh yes, we did. I still have a scar on my thigh from when you pushed me off the monkey bars.” Her tone was tight lipped and curt, her politeness beginning to give way to the verbal lashing she was dreaming of giving him.

“You’ll have to show me sometime.”

Y/N’s jaw nearly hit the ground. She knew he was a dirty good for nothing flirt, but in front of her mother? If her mother hadn't gently grasped both of their hands, she would have stomped out of the room. Her mother’s gentle touch brought her mind back to what this was all about once again.

“Harry is going to be staying with us from now on,” her mother interjected, clearly sensing the animosity between them. “Oh, and I nearly forgot! Harry, I believe you have something for Y/N, correct?”

“Of course.” He flashed his charming smiles at her poor mother, “How could I have forgotten about that?”

She watched him intently as he reached for the pocket inside his suit jacket, pulling out a small indigo colored velvet box. He opened the box with delicate hands to reveal one of the most gorgeous engagement rings Y/N had ever seen. A deep green emerald sat inside a ring of crystal clear diamond florets, all placed meticulously with care into a gold setting, the color of the velvet intensifying the emerald stone. “It was my grandmother’s,” he spoke softly, the first time she had ever heard him speak with any emotion or genuine feeling. “Before she died, she said she wanted you to have it. She was the mastermind of this arrangement afterall,” he said with a slight chuckle. “For formality’s sake,” he began with a sigh, “will you marry me?”

No, passed through Y/N’s head, but “Yes” fell from her lips. While her heart broke for herself and any chance she had of finding true love, the smile and happy tears in her mother’s eyes reminded her why she was doing all of this. She needs me to do this, Y/N thought to herself, my country is going to need a leader.

Their engagement was announced later that day by royal decree and their wedding was scheduled for the next month. There was no going back now.

The palace was in a flurry of planning and plotting for the big day. Y/N was rushed from meeting to meeting, instructed to make decisions about everything and anything she wanted for the wedding. She stared at floral arrangements until her eyes hurt and flipped through magazines looking at bridesmaid and flower girl dresses until her fingers felt like they were about to fall off. Unsurprisingly to Y/N, Harry was there for almost none of it. Although, she wasn’t exactly complaining about his absence.

He only surfaced when food or his suit was involved. In one vile incident, he arrived at the cake tasting with a wad of gum in his mouth, which was not only strictly prohibited for royals because it could be perceived as being too casual, but Y/N almost called off the entire wedding when she watched him stick chewed bubble gum to the bottom of a 200 year old handcrafted dining table.

“Were you raised by wolves?” she asked through gritted teeth while scolding him and desperately trying to remove the mess.

“Nannies, actually.” She knew by the smirk on his face that he wasn’t done with whatever antagonistic taunts that were planned to fall from his lips. “I’m pretty wild in the bedroom too, wifey.”

His crude comments were meant to hurt her and make her uncomfortable. He knew from their time in school together that she was constantly watched and kept far away from the gaze of any peaking boys, shining a spotlight on the massive double standard between the pair of future rulers. She wore a cloak of inexperience and innocence given to her against her will that embarrassed her to no end, and he knew that the easiest way to pinken her cheeks was to mention sex in any way. He aimed to fluster the poor girl and he got away with it anytime he flashed his dimples in a devilish smirk.

Y/N’s cheeks flushed red in embarrassment and furry before she got up from the table and stormed out of the room, muttering “pick whatever fucking cake you want,” before flying down the hallway to her bedroom and slamming the door behind her.

She felt frustrated tears pricking at her eyes as she slid down the back of the heavy wooden door to the floor below her. She let the fabric of her once perfectly steamed dress crumple beneath her and before she let the floodgates of tears open, she looked down at the dainty silver watch that sat on her wrist. You have five minutes until your appointment with the dressmaker, she thought to herself. Three minutes to cry, two minutes to change into a new dress and fix your makeup.

For three minutes, she let all her anger, frustration, and heartbreak fall out of her in loud sobs that anyone on the other side of the door was sure to hear. For three minutes, she let herself feel every angry emotion she had ever felt towards Harry. For three minutes, she didn’t care about her country or her mother needing this wedding. For three minutes, she didn’t care about anything other than her hurt. But only for three minutes.

Then she wiped the tears away, picked herself up off the floor, dressed herself in her favorite navy blue dress, fixed her mascara, and pressed a cool cloth on her cheeks to quell their angry heat. And then she went to see the dressmaker.

The only joy Y/N got out of this whole ordeal was getting to see her dressmaker, Agnes. Agnes was a kind and quiet old woman who was one of the most talented people she had ever met. The pair would sit together for hours discussing styles, the only time her schedule allowed her to relax, and the woman was in the middle of crafting the gown of Y/N’s dreams. It was a lace long sleeved gown with a cathedral length train. The top portion of the lace was sheer, making a strapless neckline visible, before the delicately crafted lace moved crawled up Y/N’s neck into a high collar neckline. It was reserved, but elegant and unique; “just like you,” Agnes once said.

The first time Y/N was able to try the dress on was bittersweet. The dress was stunning and it made her feel like the princess she was, but she did shed a tear thinking about how this moment was tainted with Harry. She wouldn’t be wearing this dress while walking down the aisle to marry the love of her life, she was marrying someone she would consider an enemy.

She bowed down reverently when her mother placed a veil and tiara on her head. The tiara was encrusted with diamonds and speckled with emeralds that happened to match her engagement ring. The tiara was an heirloom and every woman in her family had worn it while getting married for the last two hundred years.

Her mother wept softly before her, a proud smile on her lips. “I’m so happy I get to see you in the wedding tiara before I go, sweetheart,” she said leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Y/N’s cheek. “I know you and Harry aren’t always a perfect pair and neither were your father and I, but we made you.” The queen’s eyes flashed over her face trying to take her in, “And you turned out to be my proudest achievement and the savior of a nation.”

“Thank you, Mama.” She hadn’t called her mother by that name since she was a young girl but it just felt right at that moment. She felt like a child, needing someone to take care of her while she waited for a country to fall on her shoulders.

“I will always guide you through whatever I can,” she said tenderly. “Even when I’m not here, I will always be with you.” Y/N watched as her mother’s eyes welled with more tears, excusing herself quickly before they grew more intense.

Not more than five minutes later, she heard the obnoxious whistling that she had begun to hear in her nightmares from down the hall. What she didn’t expect was for Harry to burst through the door, not only interrupting her fitting, but seeing the dress before the wedding day.

Like all members of traditional royal families, Y/N was extremely superstitious. Her heart immediately broke as she watched his eyes look her up and down, like there was a little piece of her that thought if they did everything right and didn’t break any traditional rules, maybe they would work out. What hurt her even more was that he didn’t even try to leave. He just sat down on a chair, smacking his gum, and stared at her like he was doing nothing wrong. Her eyes were still filled with tears from the emotional moment with her mother and they continued to flow, no longer out of love, but out of anger and frustration.

“Agnes,” Y/N finally spoke, voice cracking as she tried to hold back her tears, “will you excuse us for a moment?”

“Yes, your highness,” Agnes took delicate steps backwards like she was expecting a bomb to go off, before turning around and scurrying out of the room. Her instincts were correct, because at that moment, Y/N exploded.

“What did I ever do to you Harry?” she questioned angrily. “Why are you so determined to absolutely ruin my life? It’s bad enough that I am having an arranged marriage, not even one that I have the tiniest bit of say in.” She watched Harry’s eyes grow wide, like he had never expected her to stand up to him. “I have spent my entire life being watched and guarded, and avoided by every man I’ve ever gotten close to because I was already claimed by someone who wanted nothing to do with me.” She couldn’t remember the last time she had raised her voice like this at someone; she wasn’t sure if she ever had before. “You can’t even pretend that you like me or that we won't be miserable for our entire lives.”

“Y/N, I don’t want this either,” he spoke after a moment of silence, the quiet only broken by Y/N’s heaving breath. “Why can’t you just calm down?”

“Why can’t I calm down?” she repeated. “Maybe because my country is looking to me to become it’s queen. I can’t give myself to my people when I am worrying about you and your incompetence. You may not become king in your country for another 30 years; you have time to learn and grow into a ruler because you’re in my monarchy and you get to learn here first. You’re playing king with my people. Millions of people rely on us the second I am crowned and you act like your irresponsibility doesn’t have far reaching consequences.”

“I’ll be perfectly fine,” he spat back at her, rolling his eyes with his arms crossed in front of himself as he sat back in the chair. “I can’t believe I have to marry you and into this family.”

Y/N felt like she had been punched in the gut. She was stuck with this man for the rest of her life and here he was, disrespecting her, her people, and her family. “Get out,” she said under her breath. When he didn’t move from his seat, she began to yell once again, “Get out! I mean it!” She dropped her voice once again, and spoke more seriously than she ever had before. “I have never hated anymore more than I hate you, Harry. I am doing all of this because I love my country and my people, but I want you to know, I will never be happy because of you.”

For a moment, through her tears, it looked like he had been hurt because of her words, but he was gone from the room before she could confirm it.

She fell to her knees on the dress platform, surrounded by the piles of pure white fabric. She was a perfectly dressed ball of furry and sobs, angry at the world and her predicament. Leaning over and putting her head in her hands, she felt the tiara as it began to slip off her head, falling into her lap.

Y/N picked up the tiara, using gentle reverent hands, examining it closely. The tiara represented the monarchy and every female ruler in her family that had come before her. It shined and dazzled in the bright lights of the room, its crystal clear and emerald stones reflecting multi colored light onto the crisp white of the dress below her. “I’m doing this for you,” she whispered quietly to the tiara like it could answer, tears still silently rolling down her face.

***

They didn’t speak again for almost a week. They communicated solely through their royal secretaries, sending the poor men back and forth with angry messages, almost gossiping about what was happening with each member of the pair when they returned to the sender. Y/N hated Harry, Harry hated Y/N; the same sentiment sent back and forth over and over. The two were driving fast towards a brick wall, and the brick wall was their wedding.

When she woke up one morning about a week before their nuptials, there was a small envelope sitting on the ground like it had been slid underneath her bedroom door. We have to talk, was all it read. It was not lost on her that the stationary had a small olive branch illustrated onto the page.

Later that afternoon, they met in the garden. It felt like a neutral place to talk, the palace obviously being her territory. She had worn a casual flowing white dress, like she was raising a white flag; and she carefully walked with a mug of black coffee, a peace offering of sorts, careful not to get any of the dark liquid on the fabric of her dress.

She found him along a bed of purple Hyacinths, their sweet perfume enveloping them both, sitting on the soft ground dressed in the most casual clothes she had ever seen him in. He was wearing a simple lilac button up and a pair of jeans. He seemed more approachable this way, without the tailoring and the coat of arms that always sat on his lapel. The golden highlights in his curls came out in the sun and his tanned skin seemed to glow. He held a rose colored leather bound notebook in his hands.

“Hi,” she said softly, a sharp contrast to her screaming the last time they spoke. “I brought you a coffee. The nice ladies in the kitchen say you take it black.” The corners of his mouth turned up slightly and he gave her a friendly but unenthusiastic smile.

“Thank you,” he breathed, as she handed him the hot mug.

“Can I sit?”

“I’m not in charge of you,” he mumbled into the cup taking a sip. It wasn’t until she noticed how his eyebrow shot up and how his eyes had a playful gleam in them, that her offence washed away. “Of course, you can sit down.”

“What’s the book for?” she asked gently once she settled on the ground a safe distance away from him. She decided a few grass stains were worth being on speaking terms with the man she was supposed to marry.

“Um, it’s actually for you.” He reached over and placed the book in her hands. She ran her hands over her initials that had been embossed onto the leather cover. “I’ve been meaning to give it to you for a while,” he said quietly, “I remember you used to write a lot when we were in school together. I thought you would like it.” She felt a confusing mixture of thankfulness for the book, guilt for her outburst, and all the frustration that she still held towards him.

“Thank you, Harry. That was really thoughtful of you.”

A silence hung among them, neither of them sure of the next steps this conversation had to take.

“Can we talk?” Harry asked, finally breaking the tension between the pair.

“Yes, please,” she answered just as quickly as he had asked.

“I wanted to apologize for interrupting your fitting like that. I didn’t know all the traditions meant so much to you and I never meant to make you so upset.” She had never heard Harry apologize before, to anyone else, and definitely not to her.

Before that moment, she had always thought of him as an impenetrable force, wondering if there even was a soul or a conscience in his body. But here he was, vulnerability and all, offering an olive branch and an apology.

“Thank you,” she said cautiously, wading into the almost friendly waters she had never been in with him. “I’m sorry for screaming at you like that. I said some very hurtful things to you.”

“So have I.”

“I want you to know that I don’t hate you and I shouldn’t have said I did. But, I don’t necessarily like you either, Harry,” she said, deciding now was the time they needed to open the line of communication. One of them would eventually combust if they continued on with their hatred like this. “You have tortured me since we were little kids and it’s going to take me some time for me to get over that.” She watched as he nodded his head along with her words, seeming to listen intently.

“I feel like that is also something I should apologize for. No offence, but I didn’t want to get married to you either- still don’t, but I was much more of a dick about it then,” he let out a light laugh, flashing one of his famous dimples before releasing a sigh. “I took out not having control of my life out on you and I’m sorry.” She never thought she would receive validation for all the hurt he put her through for so long.

“Listen, we are getting married as part of a diplomatic partnership,” she began, “I feel like we should at least act diplomatic towards each other.”

“Does that mean that we have to be friends?”

“Definitely not. Just not enemies.”

“I think I can do that, wifey.”

***

The next week passed in a surprisingly civil blur for them both. Y/N was still in the throws of getting ready for a wedding and Harry was off doing whatever Harry usually did. She didn’t expect him to be doing much but she was just glad he was out of her hair. But when they did run into each other, usually at some sort of meeting surrounding the menu, they had a new found respect for the other.

The pair hadn’t been fighting which was nice for a change, even though it did raise some eyebrows in both of their staff. At her final dress fitting two days before the wedding Agnes had asked her if she was ready to be a married woman. “Absolutely not,” Y/N had laughed, “but it’s my responsibility to my people and my country. I have lived the most privileged life imaginable up until this point, it’s time for me to begin my duties.”

“You’re a good girl, your highness. You’re going to make a great queen when the time comes. Even with a husband you may have to wrangle sometimes.” She ended her compliments with a giggle as she zipped Y/N into the dress, and she felt her heart warm. Agnes placed the final touches of the veil and tiara on top of her head, giving her a nod of permission to finally look at herself in the mirror.

The dress fit her like a glove. The delicate lace ran the expanse of the dress, starting at the very back of her immensely long train and crawling its way all the way to Y/N’s throat, and the fitted top half gave way to a full ball gown skirt. Y/N’s eyes followed the intricate lace patterns down her arm, eyes eventually landing on her hand and the ring that sat upon it. For the first time since it had begun to sit on her ring finger, she didn’t want to throw it across the room in frustration. It really was gorgeous and the tiny inkling of respect she had for Harry now made it much less painful to look at.

Staring at the mirror, she noticed the blurring of her vision and the wetness on her cheeks.

“I really am getting married, aren’t I?” she asked with a disbelieving laugh.

“Yes you are, your highness.” Agnes looked up at her through her thick lensed glasses with a proud smile on her face. “Now, let’s get you out of this contraption so you can go rest up for the big day.” Anges’ skilled hands freed Y/N from the beautiful layers of fabric and tulle and sent her on her way back to her bedroom.

Y/N was finally almost asleep in the early hours of the morning when she heard a gentle and almost timid knock on her door. She could have ignored it, rolled back over and let her dreams take her, but for some reason it felt important for her to get out of bed and answer the door. Her bare feet hit the cold wood floors and she tip-toed her way to the door.

When she grabbed the knob to open it, she heard a familiar voice say “don’t open the door! I don’t think I’m supposed to see you,” in a hurried and hushed tone.

“Harry?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” His voice was gravelly with exhaustion and had an apprehensive, almost nervous quality she had never heard from him before.

“Why are you here?”

“I just wanted to talk to you.” He said it so softly she wouldn’t have been able to hear him if her ear wasn’t pressed up against the doorway. The sentiment brought a smile to her lips and she wasn’t completely sure why. She was quiet for a moment, deciding if she wanted to turn him away or not when she heard him sarcastically ask, “What? I’m not allowed to talk to my wife?”

“I’m not your wife yet,” she reminded him with a tired chuckle. “But we can talk,” she assured him. “I’m going to sit down, okay? My legs are tired from my heels all day.” She kneeled down and leaned herself up against the hard wooden door.

She had been in this same position only a few weeks before, angry at the world and wanting to kill the man on the other side of it; but here she was, speaking to him willingly, even joking with him. She listened close as his own body rested against the floor and leaned on the opposite side, mirroring her own position.

“Those heels really hurt, don’t they?” he asked, voice still hushed. If she wasn’t so tired, she might have even said she heard a smile in his voice.

“Yeah, they are like little death traps for your feet and legs.” He let out a small laugh on the other side and her lips pulled into a smile that she hadn’t given them permission for.

“How many pairs do you have? You always match your dress to your shoes so you must have a ton.”

She was gradually learning that he was much more observant than she had originally thought. He apparently wasn’t the dumb boy that she remembered from school anymore.

“Too many,” she said with a soft laugh and a shake of her head. “I’m wearing my favorites tomorrow.”

“And which ones are those?”

“They’re white, obviously; they have to match,” she smiled. “They have a green gem at the toes. They match the tiara I’ll be wearing.” She stopped for a moment before continuing on. “And your grandmother’s ring.” She played with the gold band that sat on her ring finger, still somehow dazzling in the very limited light of her dark room. “Thank you, by the way. It’s gorgeous.”

“You’re welcome. She wanted you to have it.”

“Did she really?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said confidently on the other side of the door. She imagined him nodding along with his words to emphasize his point, as he often did while speaking. “She kept tabs on you while we were growing up. She was always talking about how smart you seemed and that you would be a good queen one day. If I didn’t know better, I would say she liked you more than me growing up.” Y/N felt her cheeks heat up with the information. She was flattered by his grandmother’s opinion of her, but her heart also ached for Harry.

“I’m sure that's not true.”

“I think it was. I was always screwing up in one way or another; always creating messes that her and my parents had to clean up.” He paused for a moment and she heard him let out a long sigh. “Always running around with other girls and making the one I was supposed to marry feel like shit.”

She wished she could see his face. She wished that she could get a read on his emotions. But there was, literally and figuratively, a wall between them.

“Y/N,” she heard his voice squeak out through a voice crack, “I really am sorry for everything I’ve done to you.”

“I know. I forgive you, Harry.”

Saying those four words, lifted a weight she didn’t know she had been carrying off her shoulders. This moment felt like an absolution, a time to wipe their long and complicated slate clean. There was no better time for them to start anew than the night before they began the next chapter of their lives. But this chapter would be together, as a pair and a team.

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry too, Harry. I know this all had to happen so fast so I could take the throne, but I know you thought you had more time. I thought I did too.”

“What do you mean? Why did it have to happen so fast?” he asked.

First, Y/N was confused. There was a very obvious answer. Then her heart began to break for him. He wasn’t ready at all for what was coming. No one must have told him.

“Harry,” she said softly, “Do you know about my mother?”

“What do you mean?” From the tone in his voice, she knew he genuinely didn’t know.

“My mom-” she began gently, swallowing the lump in her throat that always appeared when she began to talk about this, “My mom is dying, Harry.” She heard a soft gasp through the door before she went on. “She’s been sick for a while, but things are getting really bad. Her doctors think she only has a couple weeks left.”

She listened to his breathing stop, like his mouth was hung open searching for something to say. He was quiet for a few moments before he landed on what seemed like the only thing he had said over and over these last few weeks, “Y/N, I’m so sorry. I’m here for you if you need to talk about all of this.”

His offer was not lost on her. The idea of Harry being someone she could confide in was a new one, but one that she would consider.

“It’s okay.” She choked out, wiping a few stray tears that had found their way out, off her cheeks. “I have had enough time to come to terms with it. But in our archaic constitution,” she said with a biting distaste in her voice, “a woman cannot become the sovereign of the country if she isn't married. That’s why this all had to happen so fast.”

“I see.”

The pair were quiet, both curled up on opposite sides of the wall; simultaneously experiencing a unique type of loneliness that only the other could understand. In less than 12 hours, they would be married, linked by an oath that neither of them had signed up for, in circumstances with responsibilities that neither of them were ready to handle.

“Harry,” she peeped, breaking a silence that hung heavy over them both, “you should go to sleep. We have a big day tomorrow.”

She listened through the door to the rustling of him getting up off the floor beside her. “You should get some sleep too.”

“I’ll try my best.”

“So will I. I’ll see you at the altar, wifey.”

She let out a strangled laugh at the nickname he had adopted for her, her throat still tight from crying. She listened to his foot falls until they disappeared down the hallway before she mustered the strength to drag herself back to bed. Her staff was on strict orders from the wedding planner to have her woken up at 8 to begin getting ready and she wanted to get some rest before the sun came up.

And like clockwork, her curtains were thrown wide open at 8 am, sunlight blinding her as she woke up. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to her rude awakening, but soon she could make out the bustling room around her. Hair stylists, makeup artists, bridesmaids, flower girls, her mother, and some lady with an ear piece and a clip board fluttered about her bedroom with an excited chatter. Taking in the chaotic scene, it really hit her. Holy shit, I’m getting married today, she thought.

Her stomach twisted and turned in knots as the gaggle of women fawned over her, instructing her to stay still and “stop shaking” as they applied layers of makeup and fussed with her hair. Her hair was pulled into a delicately crafted low bun and her eyes were painted with neutral tones and a little bit of shimmer. Diamond and emerald earrings were threaded through her ear lobes and her fingernails were inspected to see if they needed any touch ups. Her shaky body was zipped into her dress and her feet slipped into her heels while her cathedral length veil was pinned meticulously into her hair. She was only missing one last thing.

“Your tiara, your highness,” her mother joked through the happy and proud tears welling up in her eyes. The tiara was the one last thing she needed before she was sent on her way to the cathedral. She bent down slightly, her mother delicately crowing her; when she rose, she couldn't help but grab onto her mother and hold her tight. It was hard for her not to think about the next time she would be crowned, a time when her mother wouldn’t be there to offer the guidance or support Y/N needed.

“I love you, Mama,” was all she said. It was the only reason all of this was happening. She loved her mother too much to let her down.

“I love you more, my princess,” her mother said gently, before turning away and scurrying off to do something else. Y/N tried to ignore the wince on her face when she moved too fast and the slight wheeze she made when she was speaking.

Surveying the scene around her, Y/N felt like she was about to die. Her heart was pounding hard in her ears, her palms were slick with sweat, her breathing was labored, and her chest felt tight. She had never been so overwhelmed with anxiety before. She had known today was coming her entire life, but the fact that it really was here was too much for her brain to wrap itself around.

It was like she had blacked out from fear, an hour of her life completely unaccounted for. She didn’t remember the last minute checks and touches to her hair and makeup. She didn’t remember her mother delicately resting her veil over her face. She didn’t remember getting in the car bringing her to the cathedral. She didn’t remember someone shoving a bouquet of flowers in her hands. She didn’t remember the music starting up or walking down the aisle of the giant imposing and ornate cathedral.

She was only brought back to reality when she reached the imposing altar and Harry delicately took her hand into his. His green eyes were painted with concern when he saw the worried crease between her eyebrows and the way she was chewing on her bottom lip under her sheer veil, swiping his thumb up and down her skin in an attempt to soothe her. It was the first time he had ever touched her voluntarily; it was a gentle and tender touch, full of care. She gripped back tight onto his hand, holding on for dear life as she thought over everything that was about to happen.

They were instructed to stand forward, watching the officiant as he droned on about love and duty to one’s country and spouse, but their hands stayed clasped tight onto each other, like they were being thrown into a stormy and unpredictable sea and the other’s hand was their only life line. And in a way, they were.

When they were told to turn towards each other to begin their vows, their eyes locked and she began to really look at him for the first time. She watched his plush lips closely as he recited the words fed to him from the officiant, although she didn’t hear a single word of them. Her eyes traced his strong cheekbones and landed on his adorable button nose before returning back to his eyes. She noticed the slight blue bags that sat under them, signaling he had just as much trouble sleeping as she did.

His eyes brought her a calm that she hadn’t felt in years, silently telling her that she wasn’t alone in all of this, his warm hands still holding on to hers punctuating that sentiment. There wasn’t anyone else in the massive cathedral but the pair of them anymore, just two scared kids trying to make it through the demands weighing on their shoulders together.

Shaky hands exchanged rings, her heart stopping for a moment when the ring caught and didn’t slide onto his finger gracefully. But her heart regained it’s rhythm when she heard a light chuckle coming from the man across from her, a gentle smile that was just big enough to flash a dimple at her, signaling that it would be okay.

She recited her vows without much thought, letting ‘I do,’ slip past her lips while still entranced by Harry’s intense yet comforting gaze. She watched his strong hands disconnect from hers as he lifted the lace trimming on the veil covering her face, dark lashes flickering down to her glossed lips. She let her eyes fall closed as he leaned in towards her and rested a hand on her cheek, prompted by the officiant and clapping coming from the pews, bracing herself for a feeling of disgust she hoped wouldn’t come.

He carefully connected their lips softly with a sweetness that felt gentle, tender, and caring. But there was more to the kiss than a softness, there was a respect there as well. His hand felt secure and protective on her cheek, and he pulled away with a smile after a short time, sure not to overwhelm her. The feeling of disgust in her belly that she was waiting for never came; if she didn’t know better she would say she felt an excited flutter.

They stood on the altar for a moment and just stared at each other, excited and relief filled smiles creeping into their lips, his dimples prominent. “Shall we, wifey?” Harry beamed with a sigh, extending a hand to lead her back down the aisle, now as a married woman.

“We shall, husband,” she giggled back, cheeks still a fiery red from their contact. Calling him her husband felt foreign, but not unwelcome.

Harry held her hand tight, keeping her in the moment by the warm contact. He held her hand down the aisle and all the way back to the palace, all throughout the signing of their marriage license, and all throughout the many, many photos taken of the two and their wedding party. She found comfort in his warm touch, continuing to ground her through the chaos that unfolded around them. Even when they had briefly disconnected from each other, he was always close by, only a call of his name away.

She was shocked by how careful he was around her giant dress, taking calculated steps to avoid dirtying the crisp white fabric. He was playing the role of a dutiful husband, and was seeming to enjoy it.

They spent the next hours just following orders from wedding planners, shuffled around from place to place, constantly surrounded by people. All she wanted was a moment to speak to him alone, but it seemed far out of reach.

That moment finally came in the middle of a dance floor, with hundreds of eyes staring at them as they danced. They swayed together slowly, a gentle rock to the delicate sound of strings. “Thank you for staying by me all day, Harry,” she said quietly, hoping that no one could hear them over the music.

“No need to thank me, wifey,” he said with a chuckle, his lips grazing against her ear as he spoke. She chuckled like always at the name and shook her head.

“I mean it. I don’t think I would have been able to get through all of this,” she said looking out at the crowd watching them and the giant ornately decorated ballroom they were in the center of, “if you hadn’t been by my side.”

“I quite like it, actually. I could get used to standing with you.” He said nonchalantly, like it was no big deal, while her heart just about stopped.

She wasn’t able to answer before the music slowed to a stop and they were pulled apart by their mothers and dragged off to speak to “very important” people. He seemed just as disappointed as she was when they were separated.

When they finally found each other again, Y/N had changed. She had abandoned her massive conservative skirt of tulle and lace for a creamy silk gown that she could actually move in. It was a simple a-line v-neck dress with cap sleeves, but the back held a deep V that ended at the small of her back coupled with a loosely tied bow.

The cool breeze on her back made her feel sexy. She knew she was pushing the boundaries on what was appropriate for a princess and she loved it.

“My darling, you look gorgeous,” he said, taking her hand and spinning her so he could fully take in the new dress, mindful of her tiara and trying his best not to knock it off. Her cheeks burned at his flattery, something he could surely feel when he pulled her close and pressed a delicate kiss on her cheek.

“You’re just saying that,” she said bashfully staring down at the floor, deflecting the compliment easily.

“Wifey,” he singsonged the teasing nickname that had evolved into a term of endearment. He lifted her chin to look up at him and he looked down at her with the most honest expression she had ever seen him wear. “You look beautiful. You have all day.”

“Thank you, Harry.” She spoke quietly, barely audible, unsure what to make of her husband’s compliments. He leaned in to her, layed a tender kiss on her forehead, and dragged her across the room to the dance floor.

They stayed on the dancefloor most of the night, almost always touching in some sort of way, while dancing and celebrating with their friends and family.

And Y/N was happy; a genuine type of happiness that she hadn’t felt in a very long time. Obviously, this wasn’t ideal. She was now married to a man she knew virtually nothing about, who had been a sworn enemy of hers only a few days ago, and had only begun enjoying his company last night. But happiness isn’t linear, she thought to herself.

Their night had passed in a joyous and opulent blur that went late into the night; full of food, dancing, and a swimming pool's worth of champagne.

Eventually both of them were led, by dutiful staff as they were both quite drunk and couldn’t exactly be trusted to make it on their own, to their new bedroom, or bedrooms depending on who you asked. They were led into the massive room consisting of two separate suites connected by a dressing room of sorts in a cloud of giggles, finding themselves in a fit of laughter after passing a portrait in the hall of some distant ancestor who had an amusing mustache.

“Thank you for leading us back,” she said, trying to gain a sober composure to the men who had flanked them on their way back, “you can go now.” The men shared a look between themselves that seemed to say ‘someone should be watching them,’ but followed the princess’ orders anyway.

“I just can’t understand how he got it to curl like that,” Harry cackled, beginning to wheeze from his hysterics and slightly stumbling as he was doubled over.

“Maybe it was natural like your curls,” she suggested, through her giggling hiccups that she let return when their staff left the room. “I quite like your curls, ya know? I like it when you let them grow a bit.”

They were still holding hands, despite being alone in their new found privacy, no longer needing the support from the other to shield them from the pressure of looking eyes.

“Then I’ll have to grow them out a bit,” he said, a smile still beaming at her with droopy drunk eyes. He tugged on her hand softly, bringing her body into his and setting his hand on the exposed skin of the small of her back. His hands were warm and soft and in the moment, she never wanted his hand to move from that spot again. “I can’t refuse the princess’ orders.” His voice had dropped low, not to a whisper but to a soft and lazy volume that made her feel safe.

Their faces were close and she could smell his strong vanilla and sandalwood cologne coming off him that she wanted to envelop herself in. He looked back down at her with a face that was loving, but she attributed it to the alcohol in his system. For a moment, she was overwhelmed with adoration for this man who she had spent so much of her life violently hating. Admiring and adoring him was much easier on her soul than harboring the hatred that had eaten at her for so long.

“I have another order,” she spoke quietly, letting the words tumble from her lips without her usually logical brain’s permission, “I want you to kiss me. For real this time.”

His lips were on hers as soon as the words left her own. It was sloppy and sweet, but with a passion behind it that Y/N felt in her bones. Their lips moved in a drunken rhythm, with Harry’s aimless wandering hands sliding up and down the silk of her dress before resting on her waist and pulling her impossibly closer to him. Her hands found and twirled the few of Harry’s curls that remained after they had cut his hair shorter than usual for the ceremony at the base of his neck and sunk her fingers into it, pulling him further into the kiss by his hair.

It was not long before their tongues found each other and the kiss deepened into a desperate dance of gasping for breath and soft moans into each other’s mouths. Harry’s mouth left hers and began to press sloppy open mouthed kisses down her neck while fiddling with the bow at the back of her gown that would release it from her frame.

Feeling him fuss with the bow made her pounding heart shift from one of excitement, to one of panic. This was too soon, she didn’t know him well enough. She didn’t know his favorite color or any of his hobbies. She didn’t know how he liked his tea, or if he drank it at all. She didn’t even know his middle name.

Her fuzzy mind couldn’t deny how much she didn’t know about him or the anxiety that made her want to pull away from the man and run.

“Harry,” she breathed, voicing the apprehension and anxiety that had begun to rise in her chest, “please stop.” She had squeaked out the words, a mix of embarrassment and panic taking over her slightly slurred words.

His hands froze, pulling himself back quickly from her, a mix of worry and guilt on his face. “Did I do something wrong? I just thought…” he let his words drop off, his own fuzzy mind not sure of what to say either.

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry, I just can’t.” Her cheeks grew hot and her eyes became glassy.

She was embarrassed to admit it, but the kiss on the altar that morning was the first time she had ever had another pair of lips on her own. Her entire life she had been shielded from men with any interest in her, her affection already spoken for and claimed. No man had ever held her hand romantically, or danced with her, or kissed her with the passion Harry just had.

Harry had lived a life with freedom that she had never been granted. She remembered all the times she had watched him interact with various girlfriends at school, and remembered the shame she had felt when he had ended up on the cover of tabloids after he was photographed naked and kissing a random woman on a yacht. Every article had ended with the same line that she still knew by heart.

“The prince is arranged to marry Princess Y/N when she comes of age in an effort to unify their countries.”

They had lived very different lives, with very different freedoms up until this point. It was sexist and archaic and unfair, but she couldn’t deny the impacts it had on her while she was around Harry. Even though she couldn’t deny that she was beginning to feel something real for him and she believed that he felt the same; she didn’t fully trust him like that yet. She couldn’t.

“I’ve never done any of this before, Harry. This morning was my first kiss.” Her cheeks burned in a mixture of embarrassment and shame as she spoke the words. “I like you a lot, but today has been nerve wracking and scary enough. I just can’t add another new thing into the mix, especially that. It’s just all too much. I’m sorry.”

Her sheltered and delicate heart couldn’t even bring herself to say the word ‘sex’.

As he listened to her explanation, his features softened. They were no longer fearful that he made a mistake or crossed a boundary, but they moved into a soft and caring smile.

“Y/N, my darling,” he began in a soft and sweet voice, “come here.” He beckoned her with open arms to rest up against his chest again. She had curled her arms in front of herself, holding them close to her body, as she walked into his arms and let herself be enveloped by them while resting her head on his chest. “You are my wife now, but I think we both understand that we are not exactly in this position by choice. I would never ask you to do something you are uncomfortable with and I am sorry that I crossed a boundary.”

“Thank you,” she peeped before he continued on.

“Also, I heard that part when you said you liked me a lot,” she could hear the smirk in his voice, making her cheeks inexplicably hotter. “And I like you a lot too.”

The pair stood in that hold long enough for them to lose track of time, just resting against each other in silence, listening to the other’s breathing. The silence that enveloped them was comforting, but Harry eventually spoke again, inexplicably soft and gentle in tone.

“Y/N, I really want to try to make us work.”

“So do I, Harry.”

The pair stood together in their stillness and peaceful quiet, until she let out a small yawn.

Harry released her from his grasp and began walking around the room, opening wardrobes and dressers searching for something. He breathed a small triumphant noise when he opened a drawer, spinning around with a light pink and baby blue nightgown in his hands.

“Do you need any help getting out of your dress? Would I be allowed to help?” His face was so thoughtful, carefully navigating the boundaries she had made him aware of but not set in stone yet.

She took the nightgown from his hands and slipped it over her head, the silk dress beneath it. “I just need help untying the bow.” Her voice was still low, a quiet and delicate murmur.

His hands carefully untied the bow, turning around for modesty’s sake, only turning back around when he heard the silk hit the floor.

She had begun carefully removing the bobby pins that still held her bun together, causing them both to giggle when her hair was finally released into a giant poof of curls and hair spray.

She looked so sweet to him. This was the first time he had seen her relaxed like this, no longer in a fancy dress, heels, and her hair and makeup done to perfection. She looked like a real person to him, not a princess who would soon become queen.

He moved gingerly towards the door of her room, but not before pressing one more soft kiss to her lips.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, wifey.”

“Can’t wait, my husband,” she called from under the covers, watching him close the door behind him.

***

The two were sitting on a hot beach, baking in the sun when the call came.

It was day four of their honeymoon and a week after their wedding, spending their time alone together on a small island in the sun neither of them could remember the name to. It was a paradise straight out of a movie, and she swore nothing could ruin it.

They spent their days learning each other well, often joking that they should make up trivia quizzes for each other to see who knew the other best. She had learned that Harry’s eyes lit up like a child when he saw any type of animal, especially the small lizards that would run across the deck hanging off the back of their small beach house. It was also a surprise when she found out he loved to cook, whipping up a meal that could rival some of the chefs at the palace for dinner one night.

But her favorite thing she had learned about him by far, was how he sang in the shower. He had a low and melodic voice that he didn’t know traveled into the house from the outdoor shower. She would sit by the window closest to him, often pretending to write in the pink notebook he had given her in the garden, close her eyes and appreciate the man’s voice. She swore if he wasn’t a prince, he would be a singer.

In the time since their nuptials, the pair had become lovers. Always attached at the hip and sneaking kisses; they were blissfully and unstoppably becoming increasingly obsessed with the other. The word ‘love’ often played at Y/N’s lips, seeming to always be only a drink away from letting it slip out towards him.

Every day, they would walk down a short path from their house to a pristine white sand beach, picnic basket in hand, and sit. Sometimes they would sit in silence, just staring at the clear blue ocean, and other times they would talk about everything and anything that came to mind, or they would read silently next to each other. But they were always holding onto each other; sometimes it was a hand placed gently on the other’s thigh, or fingers intertwined between them.

The shrill ring of Y/N’s phone broke their fantasy while sitting on the beach on the fourth afternoon. Her heart dropped as soon as she heard it, knowing that the palace had agreed not to bother them unless the worst case scenario was happening.

She closed her eyes and braced herself, tears already threatening to breach her eyes, as she answered the phone with shaky hands. “Hello?” she choked out.

“Your highness, you need to come home.” She immediately recognized the panicked voice of her mother’s secretary on the other end. “It’s happening.”

“Okay,” she said, trying to remain as composed as possible. “We’re leaving now.”

Harry’s face held a furrowed brow and concerned eyes as she spoke. He immediately began rubbing his thumb back and forth over the back of her palm like he had done on their wedding day, but today, it did nothing to soothe her pain and anxiety.

She hung up the phone before letting out a heart wrenching cry. “We have to go home,” she sobbed. “She is dying.”

The entire journey home was silent after Y/N had composed herself on the beach.

She sat emotionless, staring straight ahead, flinching away every time Harry moved to touch her. She spoke only when absolutely necessary, but her voice brought no tone with it. She had become a shell of herself, losing the warmth behind her eyes that had begun to appear after the wedding.

She felt empty, like she had lost the ability to think, while simultaneously feeling so overwhelmed, by thoughts of her future as queen and the loss of her mother. She had become blank, inside and outside, the happiness she had begun to build for herself with Harry, melting away and leaving the hollowness of grief and dread.

It took them about twelve hours to reach the palace from the time she hung up the phone, but it wasn’t fast enough. The second she stepped out of the car, she saw the guards outside the palace dressed in their black uniforms that were reserved only for the passing of the sovereign. She closed her eyes silently, as if when she opened them up again their uniforms would turn back to their usual blue and maroon; but they didn’t, their clothing still black as night.

Her heels clicked the pavement, maintaining her immaculate posture and steely blank expression as she entered the palace, the loving man she had been excited to have a life with trailing mournfully behind her. She watched as if she was out of her body when she passed people, all now dressed in black, in the hall. They all acted the same.

First, they would give her the saddest look, silently extending their sympathies to the daughter who just lost her mother, and then bowing their heads in respect to the now reigning queen.

“I need to see my mother,” was all she said, before being led into her bedroom.

She hadn’t remembered when her father had died, too young to understand. All she could wrap her head around was that her Daddy had an accident and wasn’t coming home. But she remembered her mother’s cries, loud and earth shattering sobs that traveled up and down the hallways of the palace for all to hear.

She looked like she was just sleeping; arms peacefully crossed over her chest and eyes shut gently. But she was cold when Y/N reached for her hand. She tenderly brought her mothers hand to her lips, and pressed a final kiss to her hand, before walking blankly out of the room.

Her mother was gone. And the country fell onto her shoulders.

She heard Harry saying something as he followed close behind her. While she heard him, she didn’t process a thing he said. She stalked towards their bedroom which was unfortunately on the other side of the palace, locked in her daze. He trailed close behind her the entire way, trying to say anything that could break through to her, and stood dutifully outside the door of her side of the bedroom for an unknown amount of time after she had shut it in his face.

***

She didn’t speak, or show emotion, or allow anyone at all to touch her for three days. Only nodding or shaking her head in response to the rapid firing of questions she was asked about planning her mother’s funeral. Harry only saw glimpses of his wife, or the shell of Y/N that she had become, usually while she shut the door to her bedroom between them.

He left his door open all day everyday.

When he awoke the morning of the funeral and found her bedroom door open, his heart jumped. He slowly walked inside to find her in a room full of black dresses. Dresses had been laid carefully over every surface for her to choose from; the dress she would wear to her mother’s funeral and her first public appearance as queen.

“Good morning,” was all he said, quiet and careful.

The person that looked back at him was someone he didn’t recognize. The light was gone from her eyes, and she wasn’t the woman he was head over heels in love with anymore. She looked like her, but emanated sadness and anxiety like nothing he had ever seen before. Dark blue bags held under her eyes from not sleeping, her hair was tied behind her head in a messy unkempt ponytail, and she was dressed in a giant and ill fitting nightgown, shoulders bent down in a fashion that made her look small. The only feature of the put together, confident, and commanding woman he was married to that remained was the bright emerald ring that sat on her ring finger.

“I can’t decide what to wear,” she said without expression, but the tears started to fall down her face before she could finish the sentence. Harry moved quickly across the room to her when he saw her knees began to shake, catching her just in time as they gave out and she fell into his arms, settling them both onto the soft carpeted ground. That was when her heaving sobs began. It was a bone rattling cry that consumed her wholly and her exhausted and hurting brain could only put together two thoughts: she missed her mom, and she didn’t want to take on all this responsibility alone.

She sobbed into his shirt, holding onto the soft and worn fabric of his t-shirt for dear life, and he held her close to his body, slowly rubbing her back and letting all of the emotion fall out of her. She cried for a long time, giving herself a pounding headache, and when the tears finally began to slow she connected her tearful ones with Harry’s ever vibrant green eyes and mumbled, “I just thought I had more time with her. And I thought we had more time to just be us.”

“I know you did, darling.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead and reveled in being able to touch her again, as his heart broke a little every time she would pull away from his touch.

“I’m not ready, Harry. I can’t do this all alone. It’s too much.” She spoke softly, shaking her head from side to side, still choking back sobs as she tried to regain her composure.

“You’re not doing anything on your own. The second we were married, your problems and responsibilities became mine too,” he assured her. He moved to grab her left hand in his own and showed her the rings that sat on their hands. “Remember these?” he breathed with a light chuckle. “You’re stuck with me for life, whether you like it or not.”

He watched as she processed the realization that he was there to lighten the load. It was like a lightbulb had gone off for her, slowly nodding along with what he said. She let her eyes fall to the dresses that surrounded her, but he gently took her chin and directed her eyes back to his. “Y/N, we are a team. I am always here for you and I always will be.”

He took a deep long breath before continuing on, “I love you.”

She didn’t think when she pressed her lips to him, she just did, desperate to be close to him again. A coldness had swallowed her for days, and his words brought back the smallest feeling of warmth, a glimpse of hope she had been desperate to find.

She had known the passing of her mother was coming for years, her illness getting progressively worse over time. She had always believed it would bring more pressure, weighing down on her heavier than ever before. But looking at their rings and the man before her, she was hit by the fact that she never had to carry the weight of the country all by herself. She had Harry the whole time. He was her partner; in life and in power.

“I love you, too,” she said after breaking the kiss, salty from all her tears. She was quiet and her voice was still shaking and unsteady from her sobs, but he was there, holding her and keeping her safe.

He held her hand, slotting their fingers together as he picked them both up off the ground and helped her pick a dress. It was a black blazer dress that fell below her knees with three crystal buttons going down the left side. Harry carefully helped her into the dress, his warm and respectful hands sliding up her bare skin as he pulled it up over her shoulders. He then sat her on her bed, and began to carefully brush out her hair, doing his best to work through knots without hurting the girl who was already hurting enough. And he held one of her hands gently while she sat at her vanity and did her makeup with her free one. He refused to leave her side.

Harry stayed firmly planted by her side throughout the entire day, not daring to leave her while she needed him. He knew that photos of him holding her hand tight during the funeral would make the press, and the photos of him wiping away her tears as they left would make the front page, but he didn’t care. She might be the queen, but she was also his Y/N.

***

Their fingers were always locked together, Harry’s thumb passing back and forth over the back of her hand in the steady rhythm he always used when she was stressed. He was there whenever she needed him, gently taking hold, to remind her that he was there and they were a team.

He cradled her hand as she crushed his, gritting through the most excruciating pain she had ever experienced. It felt like her entire body was being ripped apart from the inside out, but Harry’s hand was the light at the end of the tunnel. She was screaming and crying in the small crowded room, feeling like a science experiment as all the doctors looked on at her pain.

But it all stopped when she heard the smallest little cry.

Then shouts of “It’s a girl!”

Exhausted and elated tears flowed freely from her eyes that were locked on the slimy little baby a nurse was burredly placing on her chest. She was so small, delicate and breakable, with strong lungs that screamed out to announce her entrance into the world. And when her eyes opened for the first time, they revealed the same bright sea glass green tone that matched her father, the green she had been falling in love with and swimming around in for years.

This baby was so much more than just a little girl, not only to them, but to their countries. She would forge a kingdom united in the future, a product of peace and partnership. She was a symbol of unity and a future of kindness between their countries. She was the future.

But for right now, the tiny baby was just theirs.

She felt him press a proud kiss to her head before she connected their lips together in a tear filled kiss before they both looked back to their new pride and joy who was still screaming for all the attention.

“She’s beautiful, darling,” he whispered quietly though tears next to her, hand still grasped tightly onto hers. “You did such a good job.”

“Literally couldn’t have done it without you,” she chuckled, still staring down, entranced by the little girl who looked like her daddy.

The pair stayed with their baby, quiet and just being, long after the doctors and nurses left the room. They learned she liked to scream and sleep, about as much as you could learn about someone only hours old. But she didn’t have a name. They had been debating for the last nine months over what the little princess would be called.

“I think she should be named after your mother,” Harry would say.

“But I think she should be named after your grandmother,” She would reply.

Their roundabout banter never left the pair, only changed; from malicious and teasing, to one of loving partnership.

“So neither?” he quipped with a small smirk while holding the little girl tight to his chest.

“I guess we have to compromise; diplomatically,” she said with a giggle, alluding to how they got to this position in the first place.

“I feel like a loving marriage and a new baby is pretty good for diplomatic relations.”

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! Please send feedback and reblog if you enjoyed it!

#harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles #prince harry styles #Royal AU #Harry styles enemies to lovers #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #one direction #one direction fanfiction

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 4 years ago

Text

Humans are Space Orcs, “Unlikely Friends.”

Wrote this this morning and thought of my friend Nora :)

I hope you all like it.

The GA Biological Exploration team had not expected to have humans along for their expedition, but then again, they had hardly expected to have large carnivorous worms attack them the last time, so they supposed that extra protection was worth it. But the humans were really just there for protection, so the team mostly ignored them meandering around in a wide circle with their weapons ready.

Everyone knew that humans weren’t exactly the smartest species in the galaxy, somewhere above Drev and below Tesraki, so they were really only good for protection most of the time, or at least that is how many of the team saw it, none of them having ever really worked with a human closely before. The foliage on this planet happened to be a strange sort of blue violet color, and the sky above also tended more towards purple than it did towards blue.

There were plenty of large and unusual looking flowers, mostly red in color, though, when seen under UV light they glowed in many colors unseen by those who could only view on the visible spectrum.

The head scientist was just beginning to sample one of the flowers, when he noticed one of the humans out of the corner of his eye crouching next to one of the plants. His hand was completely uncovered, it turned out that humans were perfectly fine in the atmosphere, and it looked like he was preparing to touch the plant.

“What do you think you are doing!” He screeched, and the human drew back slightly. The head scientists wasn’t used to humans and so did not really understand the expression on it’s too- mobile face. This particular specimen of a human covered one of its eyes, and looked slightly familiar though he could not have placed it. All humans looked the same to him.

“I uh…. Well nothing.”

“You were going to touch that, weren't you!”

“Well I…”

“Because you better not try that again. We just landed on this planet and we have no idea what kind of affects the flora and fauna can cause.” He turned away before quickly spinning back in place glowering at the human, “Actually, on second thought, a warning isn’t enough for you, you have already proven that you cannot be trusted.” He pointed towards a little clearing not far off, “Go sit down and keep your hands to yourself until we are done here.”

The human went to protest, but he did not allow for that.

He had no time for people who could not follow proper safety protocols. The human looked about ready to argue with him, but one stern look sent the human slouching off.

He nodded rather pleased with himself. That is how you dealt with humans properly, a firm hand was what they needed. They were kind of slow so you had to repeat yourself a few times, but they responded well to a frm no nonsense hand.

***

Admiral Vir sat in time out.

His hands were neatly resting in his lap as he sat criss cross on an alien planet staring up at the sky. A few times the other marines would pass by and grin at him and he would smile sheepishly back. He had been put in time out for touching the local wildlife. Believe it or not, his mother used to hate taking him shopping as a kid because he just had to touch everything. He was also the reason that his father had forbade them from putting their hands, tongues, or feet, don’t ask, against the window.

There had even been a rule in museums that he had to be holding his dad or his mother’s hand while they walked around to avoid him embarrassing them by touching something that he wasn’t supposed to. He had always loved those interactive museums for kids.

Apparently this habit had not exactly gone away into his adult life.

And now here he was Admiral Adam Vir, Armada commander of the GA and UNSC combined forces….. And he had been put in time out so he wouldn't touch anything. He took it with good humor though. By all rights he should have learned his lesson by now…. Considering the incident….

He shook himself and leaned back in the alien flora, resting his head back on a big flat mushroom that was pleasantly spongy and acted as a great pillow so that he could stare up at the sky. At some point he accidentally took a bit of a nap, and when he woke up next the voices had faded as the scientists wandered off into the forest, and he was left alone with only the shuttle sitting and twinkling with metallic light.

He frowned, someone could have told him they were moving on, but that was ok.

He sat up legs still crossed and rested his chin against his hand in boredom.

He picked at the dirt below him, and then prodded one of the strange mushrooms.

Adam was bored.

He stood glancing around and walked to the edge of the clearing where one of those red flowers was sitting and, looking over his shoulder again reached down to touch it making a face in the direction that scientist had gone off.

It's not like he was hurting anything.

The flower petals were soft, and felt almost like velvet below his fingertips.

He sniffed a it to find that it smelled oddly like…. Bleach? Though he could completely have been wrong about that.

Walking over, to the nearest tree-like structure, which was very tall and thin with an umbrella like apparatus overhead, he found the bark of the tree to have a bunch of small berry like structures on it in a light blue color. He reached out and picked one. It came off with a sort of soft popping noise, and he rolled it around between his fingers leaving behind a purplish residue.

He squeezed it, and berry juice came out.

It smelled sweet, though even he wasn’t stupid enough to taste it.

He dropped what remained of the berry t the ground and was just rummaging through the foliage when…. A sound, the snap of one of those mushrooms, pulled him from his reverie. Like a deer in the headlights he jerked quickly upright and looked around his heart already beginning to hammer.

He turned his head, looking into the bushes where he had heard the sound, and as he did, he thought he caught a strange flicking sort of movement. It was low to the ground, and as it moved it seemed to… slither through the underbrush.

Adam lowered himself slowly to the ground reaching behind him and drawing his handgun.

There was a strange noise, like more of those berries popping off the tree, and then the slithering moved on.

He couldn’t help but be interested, and followed the sound to where it had been last, finding that all of the berries had been stripped from the trunk of the tree.

“Huh, you like berries do you.” He said to himself wandering over to the next tree and scraping off a handful into his palm. He could still hear the creature moving ahead of him through the brush, and he followed after it, tracking it’s movement with his ears more than his eyes. He would have used his thermal vision, but decided against it. It was much more fun this way. Of course a part of him knew that this was a horrible idea, but Adam had never really been known to listen to his own common sense, especially when it came to meeting new aliens.

A segment of dirt showed below him, and he bent down to examine the track.

It wasn’t a footprint, but a long drag mrk through the soil.

How interesting.

He heard more of that popping noise up ahead and followed after it.

When he got closer there was a sharp sound as if something was drawing back on itself.

The creature had noticed him.

He crouched down in the bushes eyes forward to where he knew the alien was.

He dropped some of the berries onto the ground leaving a trail back to his hand where he waited.

Of course he expected to see some sort of creature.

What he did not expect was a massive purple viper with a head as big around as a football if not bigger peeping through the bushes

He froze in place blood running cold.

It had one large eye in the middle of its face and weird protrusions along the side of it’s head which looked to act like whiskers as they trembled in the breeze.

It rose up slowly from the ground lifting its head into the air and then opening its mouth. Its face was segmented into three, so when its mouth opened its face became twice as large, opening sort of like the hood of a cobra. It didn’t have a tongue but many small undulating follicles across its mouth stained with purple juice.

Its mouth closed and its head lowered as it looked down at the berries he had let out.

He stayed stock still as the creatures slithered closer lowering its head and lapping the berries off the ground.

Its body was smooth, not completely like that of a snake but similar, ad strange protrusions stuck up from it’s back rising and falling as it slithered forward.

It followed his little trail of berries until finally it was not inches away from his hand.

I lifted his head again, and from where he crouched, he started the creature right in the face. One eye to one eye.

It made a sort of rattling noise ad opened its mouth again.

He imagined it striking at his face latching onto him and sucking his life out through his eyes.

But instead the creature closed its mouth again, and the tendrils moved forward at the side outfits head, almost like it was sniffing at him.

It lowered it’s head

And opened its mouth and he felt the hot humidity of it’s mouths. The creature sucked the berries frm his hand. Each of the little saccules felt like suction cups against his hand. It curled into a large coil against the ground and lifted its head again to look at him almost expectantly. He raised his hand slowly and it shied away.

He made no sound as he reached out and pulled some more of the berries from a nearby tree before slowly proffering them to the creature who sucked them up from his han.

He did that a few more times until, reaching out, he let the creature eat from his hand before gently stroking it along its underbelly. He had a feeling those protrusions on its back were sensory, and he didn’t want to overload it. The creature pulled back in surprise at his touch, but not entirely,and as he continued to stroke down itt’s neck, it seemed…. To enjoy it, pressing into his hand and making that strange noise again.

He smiled giddy and scared at the same time.

This was so cool!

He coaxed the creature with him as he went around pulling berries from trees and feeding it from his cupped hands.

The sake thing slithered at his side, and on one occasion even began to slither up his body.

He let it and it used him as a staging ground to lift it’s head into the trees and suck the larger berries from higher up in the tree. He rewarded the snake thing with more belly rubs with his hands now stained purple.

Eventually voices floated to him through the forest.

The snake thing rested its chin on his head sunning itself on top of him like he was a tree.

He walked back towards the shuttle pleased to show the others his new friend.

*** The head scientist was pleased with the samples he had taken. He had started with the ground plants and was likely to work his way up. He had been careful not to touch anything, and hadn’t seen any native wildlife so far. It would take some time for them to get to know the planet like they really wanted to, but that's how these things worked, science was slow an they had to be careful-”What in the FUCK is that!”

The human’s cry of alarm jolted him from his thoughts and he looked up in stunned shock to see the human from earlier, walk forward cradling a large alien creature in his arms.

“SHHH, the human hissed, Don’t scare Jeffry.”

“Who the Fuck is jeffrey.”

The alien creature lifted it’s head and opened its trihinjed mout.

He rubbed it’s chin, “it’s okay Jeffrey, they are being very rude.”

The aliens stood on in shock, as the human patted the alien creature like… like well like nothing they had ever seen. He was just sitting there, cuddling an unknown alien.

“W-what did I say about TOUCHING things he hissed with a squeak.”

The human lifted it’s shoulders, “Well…. About that. I sort of, got bored, and then I saw Jeffrey and I thought why not try to make friends.”

“You tried to make friends with a giant alien snake?”

“Well I would rather not have made enemies with him.’ He rubbed “Jeffry’s chin and the snake thing rattled.

The other humans gathered around in shock and awe.

“What are you doing!” He hissed, “That thing could be dangerous.”

The humans ignored him.

“Yeah just get some of those berries, and I bet he’d eat right out of your hand, and then maybe you can pet him.”

The humans wandered off to find berries coming back with their hands piled and their skin stained purple.

“Don’t Touch it!” he squalled, but the humans were hearing none of it. The snake thing leaned down and slurped berries from cupped hands before stretching its neck upwards to enjoy pats from the other humans.

The aliens stood there in shock as the humans gathered around.

He had ordered the human not to touch anything, but instead he had gone off into the forest and pack bonded with some unknown alien creature.

He would have to write to his superiors about this.

He would not be working with humans in the future.

Annoyingly, humans had to make friends with everyone.

#humans are insane #humans are space orcs #humans are weird #earth is a deathworld #Earth is space Ausralia #humans are space oddities

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talkfastromance4 · 3 years ago

Text

Flowers 4+1// ashton irwin oneshot

A/N: this is my first ever 4+1 fic so I’m kind of nervous, thank you Angie @littledrummerangie for the idea! This is also SUPER indulgent as being a birthday fic for me and a birthday fic with Ashton😅 since mine is the day before his. This has everything I love in it, flowers, hot tubs, a cabin, christmas, love… This is 4 times Ashton gives you flowers and 1 time you give him flowers

Word count: 6k

Masterlist

Enjoy!💕

*****

One

The first time they met was when Andy and Sarah invited Ashton to help her move into her new place. The movers basically set all the boxes and furniture into her house and then left her to her own devices. She called Andy and Sarah for help and if they had any reinforcements it would be greatly appreciated.

She was trying to find wine glasses when there was a knock at the door. When she opened it she had to look up at her guest. His copper brown hair fell in waves and necklaces hung perfectly down his neck, his hazel eyes were bright and friendly.

First, she noticed how good looking he is and the second thing she noticed was the mason jar filled with orange and peach flowers.

“Uh, hi can I help you?” she asks suddenly feeling very self-conscious of her ratty t-shirt and paint splotched shorts.

“I’m Ashton and I’m your honorary mover,” he smiles. “Andy called me. You must be Y/N.”

“Must be. I mean--yes, I am! And oh, right, wow. Sorry, please come in and thank you for helping,” she says, moving aside to let him in.

“Yeah, of course. These are for you,” he holds out the mason jar. “A housewarming gift.”

“Thank you so much,” she smiles, taking the flowers with both hands. Their fingers brush. “I’ve never gotten flowers before.”

“Really?” his eyes bore into hers and she’s momentarily frazzled.

“Apart from my mom or grandpa but...um, I’ll put these in the kitchen. Andy’s in the bedroom putting the bed together if you’d like to help in there.”

She escapes into the kitchen where Sarah is wiping down the fridge.

“Who was at the door? What pretty flowers!”

“Your friend Ashton and he gave me these,” you touch one of the roses before burying your nose in the plumage. The petals tickle your nose and the scent is wonderful.

“He’s sweet like that,” Sarah smiles. “Did you find the glasses?”

“No,” Y/N huffs, setting the flowers on the counter by the sink. “They’re probably in the bathroom or something.”

“We’ll find them.”

The four of them continue working on unpacking and it isn’t until about 10 o’clock when Andy and Ashton enter the living room.

“The bed, vanity, and dressers are all assembled,” Andy announces wiping at his brow.

“We’re the poor man's Avengers,” Ashton laughs. “We put the bed in the middle of the wall and the vanity next to the window. Best lighting to do make-up.”

“That’s...perfect actually, thank you guys,” Y/N smiles, balling up the newspaper and shoving it in a large garbage bag. She just finished placing her books on the shelves, she’ll sort them later in the week.

“We were thinking of getting pizza,” Andy says.

“Pizza sounds great! Here, I’ll give you some money--”

“No, my treat,” Ashton says, “you’ve been working hard.”

After eating pizza they all went back to unpacking and Ashton made comments about the art pieces she has. He asks where she wants each one hung up.

“You don’t have to do that, I’ll put them up later,” she waves her hand at him.

“It’s my job as honorary mover,” he grins.

Midnight came upon them sooner than she would like. Andy and Sarah headed out because of Pebbles, she’s been cooped up all day so it was just Ashton and Y/N. He asked questions while unpacking to get to know her better and he was very open to her questions.

He stayed until 3 in the morning but he made sure to get her number before he left. She took a photo of the flowers on the counter before going to bed.

Two

She changed her outfit about a dozen times. Her bed was covered in discarded clothes and she still had to put on her makeup. The clock on her wall ticked reminding her that Ashton would be here in a little less than an hour.

It’s been six months since he helped her move in and in that time, they became close. He showed her all of the best coffee shops and bookstores he knew of. He introduced her to the rest of his band and they accepted her kindly.

She accompanied them on outings, parties, and Ashton always made sure to stick close with her. He knew she was shy around new people so he always made sure to include her in conversation.

One night when he was walking her back to her door after going to dinner with the band and their significant others, he was acting strange. He was unusually quiet and she’d find him staring at her across the table.

“So, I’ll see you Monday, right?” she asked, shuffling through her purse for her house key.

“How about Saturday?”

“This Saturday? I thought we were going to try that new restaurant Monday with Andy and Sarah?”

“I mean, we can do that, too but I was thinking...Saturday could just be us. You and me.”

The air changed between them and she stopped looking for her keys. She turned to face him but she couldn’t quite read his expression.

“Oh, okay. Did you want to watch that new movie on Netflix?”

“Y/N, I’m trying to ask you on a date here,” he laughed nervously rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Ask me on a...you are? Oh God, and I’m ruining it. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize--”

“You could never ruin anything,” he smiled. “But, would you like to go on a date with me this Saturday?” his hazel eyes were hopeful and Y/N couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

“I’d love to Ash,” she smiled.

And now here she is, half naked and indecisive on what to wear. She shouldn’t be freaking out like this, it’s Ashton. But it’s also *Ashton. Ashton who can always make her laugh and he makes her feel safe and they always have fun together. But it’s also Ashton who gives her butterflies whenever he touches her lower back and her heart race when he gives her a hug.

Her phone buzzes and it’s Ashton letting her know he’ll be there in forty-five minutes. She lets out a loud groan and goes back to her closet, maybe a new article of clothing she’s never seen will just reappear.

To her astonishment, there was a maroon dress that she wore to a wedding.

“Might as well,” she sighs and puts it on. It really doesn’t look half bad as she looks at herself in the mirror.

She rushes to put on her makeup and by the time she spritzes on her perfume, the doorbell rings. She checks that she has everything in her clutch and moves to the door.

It’s like a deja vu moment from six months ago because he’s handsome as ever and holding a bouquet of flowers in his hand. His necklaces are perched perfectly in the V of his white button up shirt and it contrasts nicely with his skin. These flowers are full of pink and white flowers with a hint of peach thrown in there. The ivory paper crinkles when his fingers squeeze it, his eyes widen at the sight of her.

“Wow, you look...wow.”

“You’re pretty wow yourself,” she giggles then glances at the flowers. “Are those for me?”

“Um, yes,” he holds his hand out, the flowers bumping your chest. “Shit, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she laughs, taking them from him and buries her face in the center of it. “They smell wonderful, thank you so much. I’ll just put them in water and then we can go.”

He follows her into the house, she doesn’t see him glance down at her ass in the dress. He’s rubbing his neck again when she looks at him getting a vase from the counter. She fills it with water and arranges the flowers.

“So, where are we going?”

They’re sitting outside the restaurant, it’s a warm breezy summer night. The rustic atmosphere feels comfortable but when she flicks her gaze at Ashton over the drink menu, he’s drinking his glass of water heartily. His other hand is tapping against the table, it’s a thing he does when he’s nervous.

“Thirsty, huh?” She tries to ease his unusual activity and he shakes his head.

“Yeah, throat’s a little dry,” he clears his throat just as the waitress comes by.

She takes their drink order and Ashton requests a pitcher of water if it’s available. Their roles are reversed, she’s the one doing most of the talking and he’s the one who’s listening. She can tell he’s still being reserved so she takes out her phone and points it at him.

“Smiiile!” She sings turning on portrait mode.

“Why?” He laughs nervously but it makes him smile so she snaps the photo.

“Because, the lighting is perfect and you look cute,” she flirts with a smile.

Ashton laughs again but it’s his real laugh, the laugh that always gets her laughing. She snaps as many photos as she can and it seems to have done the job of making him act like himself. Even though they’ve hung out nearly everyday, the evening still had the air of a first date.

They even tried each other’s food. She stabbed her chicken and noodle with her fork, blew on it, and fed it to him across the table.

“Wow, that is really good,” he hums in approval. He swirls his own noodles on his fork and feeds her slowly.

“That sauce is amazing,” she moans, loving the lemon flavor.

They share a dessert of chocolate mousse and split the strawberry. After dinner, he took her to the art museum. They're open later in the summertime. There were only a few people meandering in the open space and standing stagnant in front of pieces.

“This is why I wanted to bring you here,” he says, taking her hand easily in his own.

Her butterflies returned and he lead her all the way to the back. It was a Claude Monet exhibit and she tried to look at the paintings but Ashton was on a mission to a certain piece. He stops in front of it and she stares in amazement at the painting. It’s of Claude Monet on his boat. She gasps, staring at it and Ashton is staring at her.

It’s the painting she tried to replicate when she was younger in her art class. It’s the painting that introduced her to Monet because the style was similar and it always stuck with her. She told him she wanted to find the painting when they first met and stayed up until 3 in the morning.

“You remembered this?” she asks, stepping closer to it. She makes sure their hands are still locked together, his thumb is rubbing her skin in soothing circles.

“Your eyes always light up when you talk about things that matter to you. They’re always so bright when you talk about him...and when I give you flowers.”

“Ashton this is…” she shakes her head at a loss for words. She gazes upon the painting, loving the visibility of the palette strokes and the blending of the colors. Tears formed in her eyes. “This is the best thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“I love it,” she wipes the stray tear that slipped from her eye.

“Hey,” he says softly. His fingers graze her cheek tilting her face towards him.

His thumb rubs at the leftover tear, his own face inching closer to hers. She closes her eyes, exhaling when his lips brush against hers. He squeezes her hand, his lips controlled and gentle yet also hesitant. As if he’s testing the waters.

They unabashedly makeout in front of the paintings and in her mind she’s thinking of what they look like to an outsider. Still life man and woman lost in each other.

Three

The holidays arrived faster than she wanted them to. She still had a ton of shopping to do for her family but at least her flight is scheduled. Ashton is accompanying her on the trip and she’s so excited for him to meet her family.

“Make sure you aren’t doing anything the weekend before the holiday,” he tells her unravelling lights from her box of Christmas decorations.

“How come?” she asks searching through the tv for the claymation movies she loves to watch.

“That’s when I’m going to give you my present.”

“You need a whole weekend to do that?” she laughs.

“I won’t say anything more than that,” he smirks at her.

“I can help with that--”

“I got it sorted,” he waves her off, “you enjoy your movies.”

“Have I told you you’re the most amazing boyfriend?” she wraps her arms around his waist. Ashton shifts the lights into one hand so he can hold her against him with his free hand.

“You’ve never told me that,” he grins and kisses her.

“I’m sure I have,” she mumbles between kisses. Her hands slip under his shirt, thumbs grazing over his warm skin causing Ashton to grunt at the contact.

His hand rubs up her back and into her hair, he breaks the kiss with a shaky breath. “Let me finish putting these lights up and we can get back to this, baby.”

“We could get to this faster if you let me help,” she stresses, pinching his skin. “You never let me do anything.”

“You do plenty, baby,” he smiles, kissing her forehead.

She sighs and retreats to the couch curling up to watch the movie and Ashton wrap and weave the lights around her tree. Two and a half movies later he was finally finished and turned the lights on. The white light reflected on her wooden floor and she beamed at his job well done.

“It’s perfect! Thank you!” she throws her arms around his neck in a big hug.

“My pleasure,” he chuckles and kisses her temple. She starts to give small kisses to his neck, featherlight and ticklish on his skin. “Get outta here, you know I’m ticklish.”

“What are you gonna do about it?” she teases continuing her small attack of affection.

Ashton shifts her in his arms making his way to her couch and drops onto the cushions. She situated herself so she’s straddling his waist. His hands smooth over the curve of her ass while his lips suction kisses along her jaw and to her neck. She shivers at the contact, tugging at his curls when he sucks a mark.

“This is what I’m gonna do about it,” he says gruffly and rocks her against his hips.

“Okay,” she sighs, enjoying his mouth on her neck and the bulge in his pants rubbing against her core with each rock he makes her do. She moans when his hands move to her thighs and gives her a squeeze.

Needing more of him, she drags his head away from her neck so she can feel his lips on her own again. She rolls her hips against his without his help and his hands slip under her shirt, moaning when he feels she’s not wearing a bra.

“Damn, baby,” he growls cupping her breasts together. He tweaks her nipples and she squeaks in his mouth. “You like that?”

“Feels good,” she nods nipping at his lip. His phone rings and buzzes in his pocket, the vibration adds another element to her arousal.

“Leave it, they can leave a message,” he pants, sucking another kiss from her.

His phone stops ringing only for hers to start on the coffee table behind them. She breaks the kiss and turns around trying to see the caller ID.

“Leave it,” he repeats, squeezing her breasts again.

“It could be an emergency,” she reaches for her phone to see it’s Sarah calling. “Hello?” She picks it up staring at Ashton and he smirks, lifting her shirt up. He takes her nipple between his lips and she scowls at him. “Oh, that was tonight? Um, yeah he’s with me. We’ll be right over. Okay, yeah…” she sighs when his teeth tug on her nipple. “See you soon.”

She tosses the phone to the couch and tosses her head back relishing in his mouth on her sensitive bud for a moment longer. Their physical relationship is progressing slowly, they’ve almost had sex three times (now four if Sarah hadn’t called) but she likes the pace they’re going at.

“We need to go to Andy and Sarah’s,” she strokes his cheek curling his hair around his ear.

“Why? I’d rather stay here,” he shifts his mouth to her other breast, his tongue rolling over her nipple salaciously.

“Mm, me too but it’s their Christmas party tonight. And we’re late by two hours,” she snickers, fingers still tangled in his hair. She has goosebumps from what his mouth is doing to her.

“I’m sick, can’t go.”

“Ashton!” she laughs pushing his head away from her chest. “We won’t see them until after the holiday. Come on, let’s go.”

She crawls off him, turns her tv off and changes her top, and puts on a bra. When she comes back Ashton is still sitting on the couch. She leans over the back of it next to his head.

“Do I have to drag you off this couch?” she murmurs in his ear.

“I need a few moments,” he huffs, shifting his legs.

“Oh,” she giggles, seeing exactly why because he still has a prominent bulge in his pants. “I’m sorry. Can I help?” she kisses down his cheek to the corner of his mouth.

“You helped make this problem,” he laughs, turning his head to kiss her lips.

The Christmas party was a hit and it’s the weekend before Christmas. Y/N was awakened by Ashton petting her hair and kissing her cheek, he used the spare key she gave him for emergencies.

“What a way to wake up,” she smiles, pulling him on top of her. His strong arms are caged around her head and his body weight makes her feel protected.

“Your coffee is all ready, now you just have to pack and we’ll be on our way.”

“No breakfast in bed?” She traces his eyebrows.

“I can make you breakfast in bed tomorrow*,” he nuzzles his nose against hers. “There’s a present by your coffee mug if that will help you get your cute ass outta bed.”

Then his weight is off her and she’s left scrambling out of bed to follow him into the kitchen where her coffee is already in her to-go mug with a card and a bouquet of red roses and cranberries inside to make it more of a holiday special. He’s standing next to the small gifts with a grin on his face.

“I love these, they’re so pretty,” she gushes, lifting the bouquet to her nose. She loves the sweet smell of a rose.

“You’re so pretty when I give you flowers,” he comments, lifting up the red envelope.

She holds the flowers against her chest and unfolds the envelope. Inside is a white card with writing formed in the shape of a Christmas tree, a star placed on top. The words read:

“TO A

KIND

STRONG

BRILLIANT

SO BEAUTIFUL

AND TRULY AMAZING

GIRLFRIEND”

Ashton wrote his own inscription inside in his nice loopy script:

‘The past year with you has been one of the best of my life. Our friendship was the perfect foundation for a relationship and I can’t imagine what my world would be like now if you weren’t in it. So this weekend, it will just be me and you in our own little cabin, no interruptions. xx Ash’

“A cabin?”

After the 2 hour and 40 minute flight to Seattle, she and Ashton arrived at the cabin where a dusting of snow covered the ground and a wreath was on the door. Y/N was floored at how beautiful it was and Ashton took her hand leading her up the wooden steps. He took a key out and unlocked the door.

It smelled like cinnamon and Ashton with cozy couches and armchairs, a large rug in front of a stone fireplace and a massive kitchen with a grill attached to a chimney. A Christmas tree was set up with presents scattered underneath and there was a large bouquet of roses on the kitchen table.

“Ash…” she begins and then can’t find more words.

“There’s more, c’mon,” he smiles, leading her up the winding staircase and into a loft area where a futon was and empty bookshelves. There were a few guitars on stands placed in the corner and some incense sticks. “What do you think?” He leans against the railing and Y/N ventures into the room.

“I think it’s wonderful, but there aren’t any books. Is this someone’s cabin and you’re renting it? I can chip in--”

“No, no. It is someone’s cabin...mine.”

She whips around from looking out the half circle window overlooking the backyard where she saw another grill and some chairs.

“This place is yours?”

“Yep. I come here when I need to get away and just let my creative ideas flow. You can fill the bookshelves if you’d like.”

“Ash this is…” she shakes her head then launches herself into his arms for a hug. “This is incredible. And we’re here the whole weekend? Just us?”

“Just us, angel,” he nods, rubbing at her back. “There’s also a hot tub.”

His voice changed at the mention of the hot tub because she didn’t bring a suit.

***

Ashton’s plan for Friday evening was to unpack and go into town for a nice meal. After dinner, they changed into their sleep clothes and snuggled on the couch with hot chocolate watching the first Home Alone movie because they’re her favorite movies. Her mind was on that hot tub and her stomach twisted with excited nerves at the thought of using it. She wanted to use it now but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth each time she tried to bring it up.

She was also thinking of how this would be their first time sleeping together. Ashton never stayed the night because he didn’t want to give her the wrong impression. She found it sweet but it also increased her infatuation for him even more.

When she couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore, he had her lean on him while they walked to the bedroom. The bed was huge with a large comforter and even fluffier looking pillows. It looked heavenly and she slipped inside willingly. She rolled over and became awake again at the look on Ashton’s face.

She tossed over the blanket on his side of the bed and patted the space below the pillow inviting him in. He crawled in carefully and shut the lights off and they were in darkness. Ashton remained sitting against the headboard and Y/N reached out for him in the dark. His forearm was warm and soft.

“Are you going to sleep like that the whole night?” she whispers, giving his arm a squeeze.

“No,” he whispers back, sliding further down the bed. Her hand now rested on his chest, she could feel his heart beating. He turns on his side clutching her hand in his. “Is it weird I’m nervous? I feel like I’m fifteen.”

“You first slept with a girl at fifteen?” she laughs.

“No, I meant--being around girls at that age made me nervous,” he chuckles.

“I’m nervous, too. But in a good way. Just warning you, I’m a kicker so I apologize in advance.”

“Why are we still whispering, we’re the only ones here,” he says, raising his voice to a normal level. That only makes her giggle more.

“I don’t know, it fits the mood with you regressing back to fifteen years old. Our parents could walk in at any moment.” She scoots closer to him, so close that she can feel his breath fan on her face.

“I hope they don’t,” he murmurs, inching closer in the dark until he finds her lips. It’s a tender kiss, the kind of kiss that took her breath away slowly and made her heart smile.

She keeps him close with her hand pressed to his cheek. They kiss and talk in hushed tones until she falls asleep and Ashton tickles up her back until sleep finally finds him, too.

Saturday morning did indeed include breakfast in bed. Ashton made pancakes, bacon, coffee and a small bowl of fruit. His itinerary for the day consisted of lounging around the cabin watching holiday movies and then he was going to make her a steak dinner. She insisted on helping him in the kitchen amidst his protests.

“I’m not a good cook but I’m a very good listener. I’m your sous chef.”

“What does ‘sous chef 'even mean?” he asks getting the ingredients out of the fridge.

“It means ‘under.’”

“Ah, so you’re under me, huh?” he winks.

“Let me help you cook and I just might be,” she challenged with a smile. Ashton shakes his head, a slight blush rising on his cheeks.

She followed his instructions with the garlic and mashed potatoes. The dinner was exquisite paired with a delicious white wine. They each had a full glass, their bellies full and face warm from the wine, they were extra giggly and extra flirty.

“How about that hot tub?” he asks, circling the rim of the wine glass with his finger.

“Did you pack a suit?” She raises her eyebrows.

“Nope.”

“I didn’t pack a suit either,” she points to her chest.

“Must have slipped my mind,” he gulps the last swallow of his wine, eyes on her.

“What a shame.”

He sets his glass on the table and takes her hands in his, his eyes looking almost apologetic. “You can wear a t-shirt and shorts. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” He kisses both of her hands.

“Go get the water ready.”

Twenty minutes later, she walks out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel and Ashton is already in the water. His arms are resting on the sides of the tub, his face even redder from the steam, his eyes hold hers steadily.

The confidence she had in the bathroom is gone. She wanted to come out here and just get in the water completely naked, but now she’s nervous because what if she was reading the signs wrong? What if he doesn’t really want to have sex with her?

“Um, can you close your eyes while I get in?” she asks.

“‘Course,” he closes his eyes.

She takes a deep breath dropping the towel. The air kisses her skin and she climbs up the steps carefully. The water is hot as she descends into the tub, she bends down so only her head is exposed above the water. Ashton remains still and she inches closer to him until their knees touch.

“Hi there,” he smiles softly.

“Hi.”

“Can I open my eyes now?”

First she nods then realizes he can’t see her so she clears her throat. “Yes.”

He opens his eyes slowly, and they look so pretty in the nighttime sky. He’s looking at her like he’s staring into the full face of the moon, his eyes are full of wonder and adoration and her confidence starts to rise within her.

The longer he looks at her, the more bold she becomes and she rises up from the water. Her breasts are completely exposed. Ashton licks his lips, his eyes lowering over her wet chest. She doesn’t want to break the spell that’s cast between them so she moves towards him slowly, her hands rest on his shoulders. His arms remain on the sides of the tub.

“Ashton.”

“Yeah?”

“Touch me.”

In a flash, his lips are on hers and she’s pressed to his chest. His large hands cover her back, one dips over her ass and she gasps when she feels his hard-on against her thigh. He lifts her effortlessly in the water so she’s straddling him.

Instinctively, she rubs herself against him groaning at how he rubs against her most sensitive area perfectly.

“Need you,” she whispers against his mouth.

“Bed,” he gasps.

They exit the tub excitedly, drying off as quickly as they can and she presses herself against him in front of the bed. Their bodies are warm from the tub and he lifts her in his arms again. She loves feeling his muscles wrapped taut around her, he knees onto the bed and stays there. Their arms are wrapped around each other and they remain kissing.

“Do you have something?” she asks, pulling away to catch her breath. She twists his chest hair in her fingers.

“Um, yeah. Shit, hang on,” he sighs, slipping her back onto the bed. She watches him appreciatively as he skimpers to the kitchen pulling his coat off the hook.

“You have a really nice butt,” she compliments when he returns with a condom in hand.

“Thanks, babe,” he laughs then stops at the foot of the bed staring at her.

“What’s wrong?” she asks suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing. You’re perfect.”

She smiles and pulls him on the bed with her again, connecting their lips. He rips open the condom and rolls it on his length. He kneels on the bed again and she’s quick to climb on top, moaning at his shaft rubbing between her folds.

“Such a pretty moan,” he praises, grasping his cock in his hand. He teases her hole with his tip, nudging it inside a few times. Her lower body meets his in a desperate way, small gasps coming from her each inch he goes in deeper.

“Please, Ash...want all of you,” she knocks her forehead against his.

He takes a deep breath and pushes all the way in, his eyes watching her as her mouth opens and her eyes close at being filled. Their bodies tremble together and they remain still, experiencing being connected for the first time.

“Good?” he asks, rubbing her nose affectionately.

“Mhm,” she nods and starts to roll her hips against him. “Ohhh…” she lets out a shuddering breath.

He follows her rhythm easily, arms wrapped around her, enjoying the way she rides on top of him. He kneads her ass as she moves, her breath picking up and when he can’t take it anymore, he rises on his knees, her legs fall on either side of him and she gasps.

He rests her on her back gently, resting his chest against hers so that they’re still touching and rocks his hips in even thrusts. He slips his tongue in her mouth just as her legs wrap around his waist. She moans when he picks up the pace, her lower half meeting his thrusts perfectly.

“Are you close baby?” he pants feeling her walls start to flutter around him. “So good for me...so perfect...taking me so well.”

“Don’t stop,” she moans tilting her head back. Ashton pounds into her faster, each time he thrusts in she clenches around him a bit more tightly.

“Fuck…” he hisses when she clenches and stays that way. Her moans are loud in his ear and he always wants to be the one that makes her sound like that. He can’t hold his climax off with her sounding like that and he’s coming with her. “I love you,” he groans loudly in her neck.

When they recollect their breathing she holds his face in her hands.

“What did you say?” she gasps out, eyes wide with lust and surprise.

“I love you,” he breathes, stroking her temple with his thumb. “You don’t have to say it back, but I wanted to tell you that this weekend, too. It’s hard for me to say out loud and with just us--”

She kisses him fiercely.

“I love you, too.”

Four

When she went to work there was a flower arrangement at her desk with a note from Ashton wishing her a great last day before her vacation for her birthday and his birthday. Hers was the day before his and everyone wanted them to do a joint party when they found that out.

“No, that’s weird,” she scrunched her nose at the suggestion.

“Yeah, we aren’t siblings. That’s gross,” he agreed.

She took the week off for their birthdays so they could maybe go to the cabin or even rent a house on the beach. She loved her birthday but whenever she made plans, they always fell through or people never showed up.

She texted him that the flowers were beautiful and she couldn’t wait to spend the day with him the next day. When she got home, he was already there wearing an all black outfit with his shirt open. He knows how much she likes seeing his chest.

“Thank you for the flowers,” she holds up the vase of pink peonies showcasing them. “Why are you all dressed up?”

“Kiss me first,” he puckers his lips at her.

“Oops, sorry,” she giggles and steps on her tiptoes to give him a kiss. They always kiss each other hello.

“Now, go get changed. We’ve got plans,” he grins.

“What kind of plans?”

“Look on your bed and see,” he nods to her room down the hall. “I’ll put these in the kitchen for you.”

She shakes her head and does what he says. On her bed is a dress she always ogled when they were at the mall, Ashton clearly bought it for her. He spoils her too much. Next to the dress is a black satin blindfold. She narrows her eyes at the blindfold but quickly changes into the dress.

“What is this for?” she asks, stepping out into the living room with the blindfold in her hands.

“For your eyes. Turn around.”

“Are we roleplaying?” she asks, turning her back to him.

“No,” he laughs, placing the fabric over her eyes.

He helps her walk to his car and she’s asking him so many questions. He refuses to answer them and laughs at her outlandish predictions of taking her away to a private island.

His hand is firm in hers when they’re walking to wherever they’re going. She stumbles a little because she doesn’t know the terrain but it feels like pavement under her feet.

“Are we there yet?” she asks.

“Almost. Okay, there’s a few steps. Up, up, up, up, and last one. Good. Okay, I’m going to take it off you now.”

She feels him move behind her. He unties the blindfold slowly and it drops from her eyes. She blinks slowly to get used to the light and is met with all of their friends and family before her. There’s flower arches behind them and they’re all wearing flower crowns on their heads.

“SURPRISE!” They shout and she gasps when they start to sing Happy Birthday.

Sarah wheels in a cake with flowers sprawled over it and her name in the middle. Y/N grasps Ashton’s hand in her own, tears forming in her eyes. His other arm wraps around her waist, his chin rests on her shoulder as he sings softly in her ear.

“...dear Y/N...Happy Birthday to you…”

She wipes at her eyes overcome with emotion from the surprise and that Ashton went through all this trouble.

“Make a wish, angel,” he murmurs in her ear.

She closes her eyes, thinks of a wish, and blows out the candles. Everyone cheers and she twists around to give Ashton a big kiss. There’s even more cheers for that and then she’s whisked away for hellos and hugs. Flowers are hanging from the ceiling like vines and she’s never been surrounded by so many flowers.

“Were you surprised?” Sarah asks as a waiter starts to cut the cake.

“Totally surprised. But my birthday isn’t until tomorrow,” she gives Ashton a side eye.

“You told me you wanted to spend it with me, so your party with everyone else is today,” he smiles.

“And all these flowers? I love it all so much, thank you.”

“Your eyes will have that shine all night,” he grins, kissing her nose.

One

“Do you even know where you’re going?” Ashton laughs behind her as they trek through the woods by the cabin.

After her surprise party, on her actual birthday they spent the first half watching movies and the second swimming at the beach. They had a late flight to go to the cabin. Upon arrival, Ashton spent the last hour of her birthday pleasuring her with his mouth and fingers. When the clock struck midnight, she flipped him over with a smirk.

“Happy Birthday to you,” she whispered and slid down his body so she could please him.

She loves hearing his moans just as much as he loves hearing hers. She loves how one hand is fisted in her hair and the other rests behind his head watching her go down on him.

“Yes, I know where I’m going. Come on birthday boy.” She ducks under a branch then sees the clearing ahead.

“I’m twenty-seven, I’m not a boy,” he grunts.

“Sorry, old man,” she teases and he smacks her ass playfully.

When they come into the clearing, there’s a red and white checkered blanket in the grass with a large basket in the center. Wildflowers surround it in purples, yellows, oranges and a few reds. It’s a magical place.

“Did you do all this?” he asks seeing the set up.

“I did. Come on, there’s more.”

They kick off their shoes and sit on the blanket. She opens the basket taking out his favorite foods and a wrapped gift.

“I told you, you don’t have to get me anything,” he sighs while taking the gift. “You’re more than enough.”

“I know, but it’s part of my love language. And it’s homemade anyway,” she shrugs. “Open it up.”

He unwraps the corners before tearing the paper all the way off. He stares at it in his hands for a long time. She made him a shadow box frame with a picture of them when they were at the beach during sunset. It was their favorite picture and surrounding it were dried flowers.

“Do you know what these are?” she asks, pointing to the flowers.

“Flowers?” he chuckles touching the glass.

“This one is from the first flowers you brought me when you helped me move in, these are from our first date, this is from Christmas and the small cranberry. These are from work and my birthday, and these are from Valentine’s Day. These are all the flowers you’ve given me,” she smiles and he looks at her stunned.

“You kept them all?”

“You’re the only one who ever bought me flowers and I loved them all so now you have them, too.”

“This is incredible, I love it. Thank you,” he reaches over to give her a kiss.

“Wait, there’s more,” she grins and reaches into the basket again. She pulls out live flowers arranged in a pretty bouquet. “These are for you.”

“Baby,” he stressed in astonishment and set the picture frame next to him.

He pushes her back on the blanket kissing her with all he’s got. The flowers get crushed and some stick in her hair but they’re surrounded by love and the sweet smell of flowers and kiss with passion.

“Happy Birthday my love,” she gazes up at him and sticks a flower behind his ear.

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