#is now taking midday naps in his wife’s arms

[rainbow-sunshine-unicorn]

Yes Anthony is obsessed with Kate to an alarming degree but consider this from his perspective, the hottest woman he knows not only loves him back, and agreed to marry him but she also cured his insomnia

So it’s completely understandable that he’s decided to dedicate the rest of his life to worshipping the ground she walks on

[explosionkatsu]

"Age doesn't matter" 17

Dad!Bakugo x F!Babysitter!Teacher!Reader

Part 16

Your week went by unnoticed. Probably because you were too occupied with the things happening at your job, taking care of Kazui, and what happened between you and Katsuki.

Of course, you were attempting to forget about it. But every time you see him arriving home, you’re always a disaster. Like how you always turn red-faced whenever you prepare dinner. And boy let me tell you, the arguing was still present. He just wouldn’t shut up about you cooking dinner. He always tells you to order something. But as usual, you end up victorious all because the food was already there, and he can’t do anything about it but eat.

Katsuki on the other hand was grateful, alright? Since you were always buying groceries with the cash he left, purchasing food was out of his task now, which annoyed him. It made him look like he’s slacking off as a father now that you came. He must admit though, he feels comfortable around you. Way too comfortable if he may add. But he’s not leaning too much about that for he doesn’t want to get attached, yet there are his unexplained feelings.

Confusing, am I right?

It was Y/n’s break. Rest day. Day off. Whatever you want to call it. She’s relaxing inside her small apartment. All curled up in her living room carpeted floor with a blanket covering her entire body, while watching the random movie she put on. Her center table was pushed aside where a cluster of snacks was. She was dedicated to rest today and she won’t let anyone destroy it for her.

You can say she’s been there ever since she got home from shopping. Boy, she was glad she got two jobs because she was able to buy more food that would last her for 2 months.

“This is the break I needed.” You murmured to yourself. “No interruptions, no emergency paperwork, and nothing to think about.” You yawned before checking the time.

It was 3:45 after midday.

You realized you haven’t taken a bath. But who cares? No one’s coming over today and you’re living alone. I guess it’s fine if you didn’t today, right?

Yes yes.’ You nod, agreeing with your final decision while an enthusiastic smile slowly approaches your lips, and your eyes suddenly sparkle.

Ring ring ring

But that noise made those go all away.

…

After Mitsuki insisted Katsuki bring Kazui to them saying that,

“You never bring our grandkid anymore! You brat!”

Katsuki immediately took Kazui and left him with his parents. Not without a bonk from his mom.

Now there he is, driving way to his house peacefully.

Maybe he can take a nap as soon as he gets home? Since Mitsuki wanted Kazui to stay with them for a while.

Speaking of his mom.

Katsuki couldn’t get his mind off of what his mom told him.

Mitsuki found out what happened to his ex-wife, thanks to the news. He had no choice but to tell everything and how it happened.

“Katsuki,” Mitsuki called out to him before he could get in his car.

Katsuki paused his movement and straightened his posture before looking at his mom. He knew the tone she used.

“Your father and I watched the news.” She simply said before continuing. “We knew what happened.”

Of course, he saw this coming.

Katsuki looked away in response.

“You’re a smart kid and we support whatever your decision is,” Mitsuki stated staring at her son.

Katsuki grunted before speaking. “Of course, I am.”

“We can take care of Kazui while you handle that shit,” Mitsuki said.

“Don’t worry about him.” He answered. “Y/n already got it.”

���Y/n?”

“His babysitter,” Katsuki said shortly.

“A girl?”

“Yes.”

“In your house?”

“Only when I’m at work.”

“When will you introduce her?”

Katsuki’s head immediately turned in his mom’s direction. “The hell are you saying, woman.” He exclaimed. “There is nothing going on between us!”

Mitsuki smirked all of a sudden making her cross her arms over her chest. “Why are you so worked up?” she teased. “I only wanted to see her. I didn’t say there’s going on between you two.”

Katsuki’s lips turn into an angry pout.

“Is there going on between you two?” Mistuki leaned forward with a knowing look.

“Fuck off I’m leaving.”

Mitsuki only laughed. “You know, people think you’re smart, but I see you as my idiot son,” she said between laughs. “Don’t pick Kazui for days. We want to spend time with him.”

“Yeah yeah. Don’t feed him too much sweet.” Katsuki said finally getting to his car and starting the engine. “I’m off.”

Mitsuki watched Katsuki drive off with a smile on her face. She’s so gonna tell this to Masaru.

…

As soon as he got home, he went straight to his bedroom and sat on his bed.

What an uneventful day.

It was his rest day after all. What does he expect? Maybe he’ll definitely just take a nap.

The house is clean, with no laundry at all. His agency is fine. He just needs to speak to the few new employees they hired days ago. That isn’t urgent though.

“Ah, fuck that.” Katsuki groaned and lay down to take a nap. But before he could doze off, his phone started ringing, waking him. He was so wrong thinking everything was fine.

Groaning frustratedly, Katsuki stood up and grabbed his phone from his working table. Checking the caller ID made him groan more. It must be important, so he clicked the answer button. Not without running a hand over his face.

“This better be important, nerd,” Katsuki stated as he placed his hand on his hip.

“O-oh. Are you busy?”

“Spill it out.” Katsuki barked.

“W-well,” Midoriya paused. “The other wanted to know if you’re available today since they w-wanted to see Kazui-chan.”

“And who’s these others you’re talking about, hah?” Katsuki asked scowl deepening.

“O-ochako wanted to see Kazui. As well as Momo. So, we thought we could go over so that we can visit as well. Not that I don’t want to see Kazui. I do! It’s been a while as well. Maybe we can buy snacks. Oh! What would Kazui want-"

“Shut up.” Katsuki was so over this call.

“S-sorry. I was rambling. Haha,” Midoriya nervously laughed.

Katsuki can even hear Shoto’s voice in the background.

“Fortunately, he’s not here. So go elsewhere.”

“O-oh. That’s sad.” Midoriya’s voice drops.

“We can still come over, after all, it’s been a while since we last seen Bakugo.”

“Agreed. We can all catch up.”

“Mhm. It’s been a while since I last saw my friend.”

“I’m not your fucking friend, Icyhot!!!” Katsuki yelled through the call and quickly ended the call.

…

“Ah… He ended the call.” Midoriya's sweat dropped and he placed his phone in his pocket. “Change of plans?” He questioned.

“Let’s still come over!” Momo smiled. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

“Is Kirishima and the others on patrol today?” Ochako asked as she looked at Midoriya.

“Huh. I’m not sure. We can call them if you want.”

…

You glared at your ringing phone on the table, too lazy to pick it up. Someone has to ruin it, of course. But you took a quick mental note that if it’s your boss, you can just let it ring all day long.

Too idle to reach your arm for the phone, you used your legs and pushed it until it reached the edge, making it fall from the table. Once the phone lay flat on the floor, you used your toes to inch the phone closer to you and accidentally pressed the answer call.

As fast as you could, you panicked and grabbed the phone, putting it to your ear.

“Moshi mosh!” You answered too enthusiastically.

“Ms. Y/n!!”

You blinked as you recognized the voice.

“Kirishima?” You’re confused.

“Heya!” Eijiro laughed. “I’m sorry I had to call you. I asked Bakubro for your number, I am glad he gave it.” He chuckled.

“That answers my question.” You giggled. “Why’d you call? You could’ve asked me for my number instead.”

“Eh. Hahaha. It’s kinda embarrassing. But hey, we’re talking now so that’s fine!” Eijiro laughed once again.

“Yeah. Haha,” You laughed along.

“Anyway, I just wanna ask you out.”

Part 18

Here you goooo! <3

[xoxopandapanda]

Edwin Week 2022: Day 1: Reunion

@503week

Characters: Edward Elric, Winry Rockbell, Baby boy, Granny

(Hi, I’m participating lololololololol)

Day 2   Day 3    Day 4   Day 5    Day 6

Fanfiction

AO3

It was a rainy day and the sloshing of feet in puddles was the only sound that Edward heard as he stepped out of the train station. It was drizzling, but it appeared to have been doing so for a while, so the mud on the pavement was a good indicator of what kind of walk he had coming for him. Letting out a sigh, he reached down and tucked his pants into his sock, in hopes of avoiding too much debris from getting into his automail leg.

Lord knows his wife wouldn’t be impressed with him mucking it up on the way home.

Lifting his jacked over his head, he began the trek out of town and into the country side. It had only been two weeks since he had left for Central, but to him it felt like a lifetime. Sure, he had off and on gone away to research since their wedding, but this was the first time he had left since Thomas was born.

Winry had assured him that with Thomas being so young, he wouldn’t even remember that Ed had left when he grew up, but a deep part of him still worried.

Would his son remember the sight of his back walking down the road?

His mind was thrashing with insecurities and concerns about his ability to be a good father. Before he knew it, he was standing at the steps of the old wooden house, faded yellow from the sun, and shutters open, letting the curtains dance in the breeze of the rainy day. He stepped up and set his suitcase down gingerly.

It was quiet and he didn’t want to disturb what could be a midday nap for his family. He shook off as much water from his coat before taking it off and draping it on the porch railing. Sitting on the porch swing, he took off his shoes and was pleased to see that there wasn’t any mud in his leg. It was wet to the touch, but not dirty.

So the sock trick had worked. Winry had told him to do it for a long time, but he had to become an old man to take it seriously (or maybe it was to remember it).

Lifting his shoes to carry them into the house and tuck them in the mud closet to dry, Edward slowly opened up the front door and stepped quickly inside, turning to shut the door behind him.

He had just softly latched the handle into place when he heard a soft, “Ah!”.

Whirling around on his heels, he shot his gaze down to see the source of the noise sitting on the floor and holding his arms up.

“Thomas! What are you doing here?” Edward crouched down and scooped up the baby. He winced feeling the weight gain of his boy. “Doing some growing up while I was gone?”

Thomas lurched forward and grabbed his bangs with his chubby hand. He giggled with glee as Ed bounced him up and down.

Ed’s heart ached seeing his boy again after two weeks. It was such a short time and yet so much development happened while he was gone. He racked his brain to remember if Thomas was sitting up on his own before he left.

He was thinking so, but he could be wrong. It was two weeks ago.

“Where’s Mama?” Ed asked Thomas as if he could answer. “Did she leave you out here all on your own?”

Winry’s voice fluttered in from the kitchen. “Yes, I thought he was a big boy now and could wait by himself.”

“Oh, is he now?” Ed watched as Winry came into view, holding a cup of water in her hand.

She nodded, her smile mimicking his. Walking towards him, she pulled her hair over her right shoulder before giving him a quick peck on the lips. Ed chuckled into the kiss as he saw Thomas in his peripheral lurch to grab his mother’s hair. Winry was always one step ahead of her boys.

Stepping back from them, Winry made her way to the couch and sat down, patting the spot next to her. “He has learned how to stand on his own. We were watching the rain in the kitchen when he saw you coming down the road and absolutely needed to be waiting for you by the door.”

Ed dropped down beside her, holding Thomas up to stand on his legs, balanced by his father’s hands under his arm. Wiggling and kicking his legs, Thomas gleefully squealed and continued to work and develop his leg muscles.

“Is that so?” Ed’s face softened as he watched his baby. “I’m sorry to hear I missed such a big milestone.”

Winry’s head dropped onto his shoulder, and he felt her shift to sit with her legs on the couch, leaning more fully on him. “It’s not like it was his first step, Ed. Don’t beat yourself for not seeing it. I didn’t. Granny did.”

That made Ed snort. Of course, Granny was seeing more of the baby’s firsts than his parents. She was taking on the role of retired grandma with much enthusiasm. Winry taking over the shop after she finished her apprenticeship was at first a tough transition for the elderly lady, but with the addition of a new baby to keep her busy, it was going rather well.

“Did she get a picture of it at least?”

“Not one in focus.” Winry sipped her water. “Or I’m going to need glasses soon. Either is a valid option.”

Ed leaned forward to blow kissed on to Thomas’ face while listening to Winry continue to tell him all about the last two weeks. He would regale her with tales of Central tonight, once Thomas was settled, and she would feign interest as she probably tinkered with something.

But right now, all he wanted was to learn everything he had missed in his family’s life, having been called to Central unexpectedly. He wanted to know the stories of the photos Granny would later drop off in his study, since she would not stay around long enough to tell him. Just give him lip about how ‘a picture is worth a thousand words’, before huffing off to be with Thomas again.

Edward had experienced hundreds of reunions in his life time – with fellow soldiers, commanders, his teacher, even with his arm.

But coming home to his wife and child was his favorite one of all.

[babbushka]

All the recent Edwardian Kylo talk has me in my feels. I like to picture intimate family moments that just knock Kylo over with so much love and deeply felt emotions. Such as his family going out on a hunting trip together and he's just like "how did I get so lucky in life to have these boys with this amazing wife?" I know its super mushy, but he does that to me :)

A/N: Oh my gosh I adore this!! It isn’t a hunting trip, but a little sappy something for mother’s day. I hope that you enjoy it nonetheless!!

1.1k, just fluff (cw: the Lord & Lady’s children) 

It’s a beautiful Spring day, too beautiful for one to possibly remain inside. With the sun shining, and the breezes blowing to keep the heat at bay, the children had practically begged to spend the afternoon after their studies out in the vast gardens that surround the estate. Kylo had finished his work early, and you had no calling cards to respond to, so the day was decided; tea was brought out, a couple good books were fetched, as were toys for the boys to entertain themselves by. 

Although, seemingly at odds for the fashion typical of children yearning to run around, your sons have decided that staying as still as possible to catch butterflies was a more thrilling use of their time than any of the sports equipment brought out for them. 

You and Kylo are lying on a grand picnic blanket that’s been spread out on the grasses to protect your clothing, a large parasol umbrella propped up to keep the sun off your beautiful face. With your head in Kylo’s lap, he trails his fingers around your jaw softly, absentmindedly, as he watches the children giggle with their hands outstretched. 

Kylo thinks you’re on the verge of a midday nap, completely at peace, until the excited voice of your second-eldest son squeaks loudly with surprise, making you crack an eye open. 

“Mama! One landed one me!” Benjamin squeals out his excitement, your six year old seemingly successfully having caught a butterfly, his hands clasped in an almost open cage. 

“Excellent job dearest, come show me?” You call with a smile, quick to add, “Remember to be careful, they’re fragile.” 

“I’ve got one too, Mama!” Anthony, your eldest at nine years old, pipes up. 

“Me too!” It’s only a few moments later that your youngest, little Lucas’s small voice excitedly proclaims, even though he doesn’t have one at all, and just likes to feel included. In his little fist he does have a flower though, and he believes this to be a suitable substitute. 

All three of them run to you, their faces bright and happy, hands held out to you. Sitting up, you accidentally disturb Matthias, your five year old, from the nap that he was taking, his face snuggled into your chest. He only stretches, and Kylo’s heart clenches when he clings to you a little tighter, not caring very much about being moved. 

One by one, the boys reveal their lucky catches; Anthony has a bright clouded yellow, Benjamin has a small marbled white, and Lucas proudly shows off the slightly crushed purple flower. All three boys are eagerly awaiting your reaction, and as you shift Matthias in your arms to better see them, you don’t disappoint. 

“Oh how beautiful! Look at these colors. Why these have to be the most lovely things I’ve seen. You’ve all done beautifully, I’m very proud of how gentle you are with them.” You say, as the butterflies fly away, their few moments of patience gone. 

Kylo has a hard time believing those are his children sometimes, in the way that they’re so good. All three of them practically beam as you give them each a gentle kiss to their cheek, right on their dimples. They’re good kids, maybe a little mischievous at times, but they’re good to you, and in Kylo’s mind that’s all that matters. 

Benjamin approaches Kylo then, happily sitting on his father’s knee, reaching up to hug him around his neck sweetly, asking, “Might we play with the ball, Papa?” 

“Oh please, Papa, please may we?” Anthony’s face lights up at the idea, and Kylo chuckles warmly. 

Like the good husband he is, Kylo looks to you, and is struck for a moment by how beautiful you are. You’ve got Luke sitting on your lap, Mattie half-asleep in your arms, and you’re radiant there, under the spotted shade of the parasol. It could have been an hour, or a moment, Kylo doesn’t know how long he looks at you, drinks in the beautiful sight of you, before you’re nodding your head. 

“Yes of course.” Kylo replies, Benjamin unable to contain his excitement as he gives his father a tight squeezing hug, before he’s running off to the side of the large field where the sporting equipment was settled by the butler. Anthony and Lucas follow him, which prompts Kylo to continue, “Don’t be too rough with your brother now, he’s still learning.” 

Kylo had been worried, that they might pick on Lucas or shy away from him for being so young. Anthony was six years older than him after all, and Kylo hadn’t been sure if he would know how to interact with the toddler. So when Anthony picks his youngest brother up and holds him on his hip to save the boy from wasting all his energy on the steps, Kylo’s chest warms. 

“C’mon Mattie! I need you on my team!” Benjamin calls to his brother, who makes you and Kylo both chuckle when he scowls, his little face not yet learned how to hide his emotions. 

“Do I have to play?” Matthias asks you, clinging a little closer,  “I want to stay here with you.” 

“How about a compromise,” You encourage, gently prying his arms from around your neck, and Kylo feels for the boy. If he could spend every waking moment in your arms, he would too. “You go play a couple games with your brothers so the teams are nice and even, and then we’ll arrange dinner so we can sit next to one another tonight.” 

“Okay!” The promise is enough for Matthias, who suddenly gets a burst of energy, and is running to join Benjamin, who has a hand outstretched, waiting. 

The brothers run hand in hand, already shouting and jeering at Anthony with claims that they will defeat him, so silly coming from five and six year olds that you can’t help but shake your head with a fond grin. 

With the children’s attention occupied, Kylo moves to sit closer to you once again, his arm slipping around your waist as you pick up one of the cups of tea and sip on it thoughtfully. He knows he’s staring again, but he just can’t help it, already blushing like a fool from the thought that this is his family, the one he’s built with you, his miracle of a wife. 

“What are you looking at?” You hum with a knowing smile, when his staring becomes too heated to ignore. 

“Have I told you today that I adore you?” Lifting your hand that isn’t holding the teacup, Kylo kisses your wedding band, murmuring against the warm gold. 

“Yes.” You grin, “But why don’t you tell me again.” 

Kylo’s eyes crinkle, and the warm brown irises of his sparkle in the sunlight as he leans in to press a deep kiss to your lips, taking the opportunity of the boys playing away from your shady spot, to pour all of his affection into your soul. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tagging some Kylo loving friends! @mochabucky @sacklerscumrag @artsymaddie @bitchydecisions @direnightshade @reyloaddict55 @thembohux @kylorenswhxre @sunflowersinthesnow @babayagakeanu @safarigirlsp @steeevienicks @materialisthicc @lovinghufflepuffgirl @hswritingrecs @han68000 @rosi3ba3z @chapterhappygirl @schopenhauerdeathsquad @loverofallthings @groovetoob @bxnnywriting @glassbxttless @angel-bxby3 @smallgirlbigpersonality @lovelyyy-luna @2000andwhat @raddo1975 @cornmousequeen @metsienmenninkainen @caillea @painttheskylineforme @holding-on-to-starwars @kylo-ren-is-alive @caitlin-was-here

[all-things-fic]

Quarantine Begins At Home

A/N: Hi everyone, its been a long time since I’ve done one of these authors note thingys.

I know it may sound silly but I wanted to put a bit of a disclaimer in my authors note. This piece of writing is by no means encouraging people to start getting close to each other, please make sure you are social distancing and please wash your bloody hands. This is purely a way to give some of you who are in quarantine (which by now seems to be all of us) some light relief. Everyone stay safe and look after yourselves!

Please enjoy for simple entertainment and of course let me know what you think. Looking forward to hearing what you have to say for yourselves!  I’m not going to hide my phone so I don’t obsess over notifications because I’m rubbish at releasing any of my writing into the wild.

P.S. praise Beauty Papers for bringing out that one picture of Harry where he’s in his undies and socks and TPWK tee. You fed this fic. .x

***

The niggly cough that you’d been showcasing over the last three days was nothing more than annoying. Topping itself off with a fever that had you sweating unattractively the night before, had left you thinking only one thing. 

Quarantine was on the horizon. 

When you’d sat up straight in bed, 3am that morning, sporting a clammy, tackiness to your skin you didn’t even think twice about stripping off your pyjama top before dropping back down into bed. 

It had been hard to push away your husband, his own bare chest finding your back as he pulled you towards him. Hands only stilling their actions when you whined into the darkness about how you were ‘too hot for that’. 

Harry had chuckled into the back of your head and softly shushed you as you’d let yourself doze back to sleep. 

Two nights after, Harry had not so elegantly shook the bed as he kicked the duvet off his body to stop himself from sweating. 

“‘S bloody hot in ‘ere, ‘m sweating,” he grumbled, flipping over his pillow so that the cold side could greet his flushed face and offer some sort of relief. 

He turned to face you, causing you to ask him to flip back to his previous position because you didn’t want him to breathe on you. 

“It’s not you, it’s the carona,” you responded, burrowing down and pulling your blanket over your mouth.

You knew if it wasn’t so dark in the room he would appreciate the cheeky glint in your eye as you stared back at him.

“Yeah, that’s what they all say,” he groaned, rolling over and pushing his face against the pillow. You rolled your lips into your mouth, suppressing your laughter at how miserable he had become, while he huffed and puffed into his fresh bed-linen. 

Lifting your hands from under the confines of your blankets you reached up to gently rub Harry’s back, wanting to provide some form of comfort if you could. 

The two of you lay silent and awake in the dark that night. Both sprightly and in your twenties, you knew you didn’t have much to worry about anything, but you had to do your bit. 

Isolating yourself was going to be interesting.

***

If you had never felt like you were comfortable around your husband before now - the kind of comfortable that meant you’d leave the bathroom door open as you used the toilet - Harry was doing everything in his power during quarantine to reassure you otherwise.

It was in the comments he made, the way he moved. The kind that should have you wrinkling your nose at him and shaking your head, to tell him to stop. However, now you found yourself taking it all in your stride, often clapping back with a comment that had him chuckling to himself.

“I’ve not changed my pants since Monday,” his deep morning voice broke the sleep filled silence as you both lay in bed.

“Makes a change that you’re actually wearing them,” you mumbled back, weirdly not bothered at the filthy habit your husband had just revealled while you entered another day of being cooped up. 

“It’s not usually a problem,” he spoke, dropping his eyes down to look at you, as you pressed your head closer to his lips accepting the fleeting kiss he left in you hair. 

“Surprised you even know what day it is-“

“Been crossing the days off the kitchen calendar.”

He was proud of himself for that one. For helping the two of you not enter that weird period that was usually only experienced during Christmas and New Year. Where no one knows what day of the week it is; AM and PM blending together. 

Naps became scheduled parts of the day, and arguably the most important part to aid avoiding grouchy backbiting comments bubbling simply from being around each other for a little more than was bearable. Everyday was becoming more and more like a Sunday. 

“Wondered why the calendar was a day out?”

“What’d you mean?”

The offence lacing his question caused you to bite away your smile as you continued to aimlessly scroll through Instagram. “Dates have been crossed off one day out, you crossed out Wednesday yesterday when it’s in fact Wednesday today.”

There was a small amount of silence in the room as your words resonated with Harry. 

“Bollocks.”

You muffled your chuckle by pressing your lips into Harry’s forearm that was nestled securely around your shoulder and across your chest. 

“The thought was there, darling. It is appreciated. Thank you,” you whispered after leaving a chaste kiss against his skin once more. You took great delight in feeling the downy hair of his arm pressed to your lips. 

As your eyes remained on the screen of your phone, you watched the 45836 quarantine meme on your timeline cut away from Instagram to an incoming FaceTime from your mother-in-law.

“Harry,” you hummed, hearing him barely respond with his own steady grunt of acknowledgment. “Why’s your Mum FaceTiming me?”

“I dunno-“ he cut off, pressing his face to uncomfortably rest into your hair. “Quick, answer before it cuts off-“

“We’re in bed-“

Moving the fastest he had all day, you couldn’t even comprehend that Harry had accepted the call before a crackle of sound and another environment was heard through your phone speaker.

“He’s alive then,” Anne immediately spoke the minute her FaceTime screen had cleared from a blurry pixelated mess. “Yes, you young man. Trying to hide your face into your wife’s hair, like you know she’ll take your flack for you.”

You found yourself sinking further underneath your duvet as you watched Anne address Harry through the phone. Her tone was clearly abrasive but more so out of worry.

“You know I’ve been calling you,” she continued, pausing. “You needn’t look at me like that from the corner of your eye, Harry. Have you got food in your house?“

“We’re okay for food, Anne,” you acknowledged her, watching the way her eyes looked to your left, her stare holding on her youngest. As she blinked she turned to face you, her face softening. 

“Even better for loo roll,” Harry sarcastically quipped. 

Again, Anne’s eyes hardened as she skimmed them over her son’s less than impressed expression. 

“Put your face straight,” she sharply spoke. “What about protection?”

“‘Fucksake pass me tha’ phone ‘ere,” he groaned, rolling around to sit up in bed and take the phone away from you. You did nothing to fight him, slightly embarrassed at the insinuation and the current place in your house where Anne had caught you both.

Pulling at his joggers that sat low against his hips, Harry held the phone up so that his mother was no longer seeing the sweaty palm of his hand and then a quick glimpse of an unmade bed.

When her image graced his vision he noticed the way she was smiling, her face almost split in two before she sipped at her cup of tea. His eyes took in the garden behind her, one that he knew well and he knew she’d be enjoying her brunch on the nice spring day that awaited those who needed to do a quick top-up shop at their local supermarket, feel brave enough to pop outside.

Shaking his head, he raised his eyebrows at his Mum who seemed awfully pleased with herself. 

“Had yer fun now, I’m up. You’ve succeeded.”

“It’s bloody midday,” she chastised.

“Had a late night, didn’t we?,” he glanced over at you, watching the way your eyes almost popped out at his suggestive comment.

“Tell you what, this quarantine‘s gonna have a lot to answer for,” Anne started, her voice light. “Isn’t that right, Evie?” She spoke, the visual that greeted Harry being one of his mother softly showering his cat with love and affection. “‘S Daddy forgetting about you already? You made him a Daddy first isn’t that right?”

“Mum,” Harry’s tone was set as he stressed how he addressed Anne, willing her to stop her playful jibing at his expense. 

“‘M telling you, sweetheart. Baby boom is impending,” again Anne raised her eyebrows. All Harry could do was chuckle at how invested his Mum appeared to be in wanting to become a Grandmother. 

“Anyway,” she grabbed Harry’s attention again, as he bounced his way down the stairs of his home and padded his socked feet along his wooden floors. “Are you showering?” 

“‘M not a bloody sloth-“

“It’s midday and you’ve only just left your pit.”

He didn’t have a leg to stand on. You smiled as you heard their interaction, having been hot on Harry’s tails. As you relaxed against the doorframe of your kitchen, you heard Anne’s chuckling to herself before she next spoke. 

“Could do with a shave.”

“Anything else I’m not doing right?”

Pushing up off the doorframe, you found yourself drawn to Harry. Hand rubbing up his clothed back and shoulders, you rubbed at them gently and pushed your face into the frame.

“No, the beard can stay,” you turned to Harry, jokingly squeezing at his jaw and cheeks with your right hand solely, before you mischievously tapped his cheek and turned your attention to putting on your kitchen stove.

“The wife says no,” he jutted out his bottom lip in a challenge to his Mum.

“Not just the cat he’s replacing, Anne-“

Anne’s boisterous laugh filled your kitchen at your comment and it warmed you as you caught the way it had Harry softly laughing to. His body relaxing and bending down so his elbow rested against the kitchen counter, chin leaning against his palm. 

“There’s enough of me to go around,” he breathed out, cheekily looking at you from the corner of his eye. You loved the way his cheeks had started to softly glow with an endearing blush.

“You do look healthy, love,”

Just like that, gone was the cheeky smile, the glowing eyes. They were quick to be replaced by a light frown and slightly offended expression, “‘s tha’ s’pose to mean?”

“It’s only quarantine weight, nothing he can’t get rid of,” you said, leaning back into the frame and goadingly patting against Harry's little pot-belly that slightly stuck out against his t-shirt. “Can’t be having anyone else fancying him now, can I Anne?”

Again Anne laughed, eyes glittering through the screen as she watched the way the two of you interacted. It was clear that this conversation was something she definitely needed having been holed up in her abode by herself. 

Harry squinted his eyes suspiciously at you, before sharply looking at his Mum. “Oh, I see how it is,” he started with a soft nod. “The two of you ganging up on me, ‘s fine I’m a big boy.”

“The stretch waistband on your joggers agrees,” you hummed, raising your eyebrows before addressing Anne off screen. “We call this his quarantine outfit.”

“I tell you what, ‘s a good job you haven’t got to pour yourself into those skinny jeans anymore cause that would be a-“

You feel him staring at you, causing your voice to trail off. “No carry on, dares ya,” he drawled. He saw the way you opened your mouth to continue, nostrils flaring as you took a deep breath and looked at him with an amused expression.

“I-“

Harry darted at you as your voice caught in your throat, the loudest squeal leaving your lips as your phone clattered face down to the marble of you kitchen counter and gave Anne nothing more than the visual of a black screen framed by gleeful noises of a blissfully newlywed couple.

***

Quarantine is all fun and games until your husband of sixty-seven days decides he wants to put together the coffee table that you’d been gifted from a member of your wedding party. 

You knew Harry was becoming ansty as you entered day nine of your self-isolation. His fingers and thumbs too twitchy for his own good. You felt the same but by giving yourself a little list of tasks such as changing your bedding every couple of days, you’d managed to find a way to keep yourself busy enough. Between that, reading and scrolling mindlessly through social media, you were doing okay. Or so you thought. 

There was something about men and DIY. They all liked to think they were good at it. Especially when they’re looking for something to do. And while they groan when asked about doing the jobs around the house, there was surely an element of pleasure found in the most menial of tasks (more so in the current climate) and a smugness in being needed. 

Everything had started out well. Harry had made you snort your laughter at how he’d flamboyantly pulled open the box of the flat-pack furniture in the middle of your living room. 

Everything had been neatly wrapped in plastic, and while not ideal for the planet it was ideal for your pleasure of having everything organised. 

Sat cross-legged on the floor, in nothing more than a pair of underpants, socks and a t-shirt, Harry eagerly flipped through the white paper instructions.  

You smiled to yourself when you saw him trying to decipher the Italian instructions, knowing just how adamant he was about ensuring he kept his mind active during quarantine and that he made it so he had used the time wisely and learned a new skill.

“Think an awful lot of yourself, don’t you?” you teased, watching his gaze slowly lift and look at you through the hair that had fallen into his eyes. “Just read the English instructions, Harry.”

He smirked, dropping his eyes back down to the Italian instructions and ignoring your plea. 

“Thought you were supportive of my challenge of becoming a bilingual king,” he spoke sarcastically, tone set as he set his brow and really tried to concentrate on the drawings.

“But then that means I have to become a bilingual queen, and we all know that wouldn’t be a pretty sight.”

Harry laughed, reaching forward for one of the items he was looking for, scrutinising it by moving it around in his hands before placing it back down onto the floor.

“Could always just look at the pictures, love?”

“Pardon,” you spoke, rolling your head to look at him from where you lay along the couch, with eyes wider than usual at his brazen cheek. He didn’t reply, instead he shook his head while wearing the most amused expression you’d seen since the start of your quarantine.

Before you could stop yourself, you reached for a throw cushion from the sofa and threw it at him, the item hitting Harry not so elegantly against the shoulder as he leaned over to check he had the other parts required to complete the furniture assembly. 

He, of course, took it in his stride, grabbing at the cushion and sitting on it. “Thanks for that, darling. Arse would go numb otherwise.”

“You’re squishing my favourite throw pillow-“

“Took the name quite literally then,” he spoke with a tight voice as he raised himself up onto his knees and crawled across the rug underneath him. “If you don’t mind, I’m doing manly things over ‘ere.”

Instead of responding you turned on your side and buried your left cheek into another cushion. Seeing Harry so concentrated but messy had been one of the things you’d enjoyed the most about your time being holed up together. 

He had absolutely let himself go but loved every minute of doing so. His hair hadn’t been styled once since the two of you had shut up shop to recuperate. His clothes, of which he appeared to be wearing less and less as the days went by, were more high street special than couture runway. 

He’d never looked more attractive. Honestly. 

“Are you going to lie there and watch me, or are yer gonna help?”

Again his question was concentrated, his hands and eyes preoccupied. 

“Thought you liked being in control, doin’ all the work-“

He side-eyed you, his lips twitching up into a sly smile. “Need reminding, ‘s tha’ it?” 

“What I need is,” you paused, watching the way he kept his eyes on you. “What I need is for you to put up our coffee table.”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?”

“Like you’re staring at a bunch of parts-“

“‘S the instructions, not me!”

You stared at him as he laughed around his exclaimed words. Swinging your legs, you forced yourself to sit up and saw the way Harry moved slightly back to give you more space. “That’s it, gimme the bloody instructions, let’s have a look at these pictures.”

Somewhere amongst the friendly bickering you managed to help him sort out all the parts and count out all the screws just to make sure he had everything he needed. 

When you’d seen that he had laid everything out that he required, you pushed yourself up from the floor where you had placed yourself opposite Harry.

“Fancy a cuppa for your efforts?”

Scratching at the back of his head, he looked at you. “Not done much,” he scrunched his nose. “Could you grab me a water?”

You nodded, leaning down to press your lips to his. He hummed, happy, as you pulled away and offered him a series of soft pecks. “‘S nice,” he whispered.

“I am nice,” you confirmed. “I’ll grab a screwdriver or two from the garage, in case the allen keys don’t cut it.”

His laugh was a knowing one as you walked away and heard the first expletive leave Harry’s lips when he reached for the first part of the furniture to piece together. “‘S not lining up wi’the hole,” he shouted through from the lounge to the kitchen at you. 

You chuckled under your breath shaking your head before he shouted again, “‘s not what it sounds like!”

That caused you to bark a laugh. It was going to be a long afternoon. 

***

You weren’t quite sure where it had all gone wrong. From laughing about awful innuendo, to aggravatedly sighing at each other. Yet, you were there in the thick of it and seemingly very happy to ride the wave.

“This is your fault,” he muttered under his breath, the crackle of the paper as he snatched up the instructions to flick through them one more time bringing nothing more than frustration. You saw the way he slowly retraced his steps and try and figure out where it had gone wrong. 

“All I’ve done is pass you things,” you snapped back. “And if you’re gonna blame me at least put some conviction behind it and say it with your whole chest. Don’t be a wuss.” 

He grunted at that and if you hadn’t got your head buried into your phone, looking at work emails this time via the Outlook app, you would’ve seen the way he was mocking you and mouthing the words you had just said to him with a less than pleased look on his face. 

Harry sat with one coffee table leg to complete, however if his counting was correct he was a screw missing. Probably in more ways than one after this quarantine was over; the same going for you. 

“Wanted the coffee table up, continues to sit around and not help,” he spoke his words louder than he had envisaged them in his head, seeing the way your figure shifted on the couch as you heard him loud and clear.

“Thought I told you to stop mumbling under your breath,” you cut your eyes over to him, watching the way he waggled the screwdriver he was using in between his thumb and forefinger lightly.

The item shook and you were about to tell him off like he was your son, rather than your partner, if that screwdriver so much as softly scratched, never mind dented, the oak top of your coffee table.

What was annoying you more was how he was just sitting there. Not so much as moving a muscle and letting his eyes frantically move along the wooden flooring and lounge rugs, just expecting a screw to shine up at him like he was a magpie. 

With irrational anger bubbling inside of you, that wouldn’t have existed if you’d decided to sit outside in the garden to do your work rather than watching Harry, you sighed. 

“Shift your fat arse,” you said with more bite than you intended. 

Harry glared at you, his sharp stare meeting yours dead on in a silent question of ‘what did you just say to me?’

“You heard me,” you answered. “Move yourself!” 

The torment in his features as to whether he should remain stubborn and not move, or see where you were going with your harsh vagueness, played across his face.

Ultimately however, he wanted to finish this fucking thing. The one thing he wished he hadn’t started. 

Annoyed, he shuffled around so he found himself on his knees. He watched as you pushed yourself off the couch, and peered around his body to take in the space which he had just freed up. 

“There. You’re sitting on it!” 

Harry’s eyes dropped down at the space behind him, green gaze spotting the tiny silver, bane of his existence, almost instantly. He snatched up the tiny screw that has been underneath his thigh and looked at you with a pointed glare.

“Don’t know why you’re looking at me like that, mate.”

“Don’t ‘mate’ me,” he growled, snatching up the last coffee table leg this time and using the recently found screw to secure it to the table. 

Part of you wanted to laugh at the scene in front of you, the two of you facing off but neither of you able to look at the other.

“I’m waiting for my apology,” you said, soft smile hurting your lips, as he continued to fix into place the last piece. You thought your tone was light, as you found humour at how the two of you were easily beginning to get sick of each other now.

“Well, you’re gonna be waiting a long fucking time.”

And just like that he’d sucked away all the humour you’d felt towards the argument, faster than a vacuum cleaner.

“There’s no need to be an arsehole, I was joking-“

“Could’ve fucking fooled me,” he looked up at you, while you watched the way his arm began to tense as he got closer to the end of the screw becoming tight enough.

He was just as tight; a coil ready to spring and pop. 

“I can’t reason with you when you’re like this,” you stared at him, as you watched him chuckle with a shake of his head. He didn’t respond, happy to shoulder the blame if it meant he would get you out of his hair and give him a moment of peace.

Instead his eyes were trained on your feet as he watched you walk away. A sense of freedom washing over you both as you did so. 

***

You frowned down at the hob of your cooker and watched the way it sparkled up at you. Snatching up the cleaning detergent, you squeezed at the pump and watched the white foamy spray squirt unnecessarily against the already very clean surface.

This was your distraction, while Harry’s was continuing to push his nose into the novel of his choosing as he lay along your couch. You never were really much of a cleaner but quarantine meant that you were living in the same four walls for so long than you’d found even more of a sense of pride over your abode. 

Pressing your hands into the kitchen counter, you felt the front of your hair fall messily into your eyes as you took deep breaths. You were more sad than angry now. This weird feeling sitting in your chest that was overriding your sense of thinking rationally.

Why should you apologise? Really. Why?

Why shouldn’t he apologise? Be the bigger person in this whole thing? 

Breathing deeply in through your nose, you lifted your eyes up to look at the kettle that sat to you right. Before you even thought about it you flicked your wrist and pressed at the lever of the kettle.

The amber light signified that it was about to boil, the usual crackle following not too long after. 

Raising up, you rolled your neck and shoulders, feeling the tension beneath them that would only be alleviated by a massage of some sort. Foot steps heavy as they trudged over to the opposite side of your kitchen to the sink draining rack, your preferred mug was easy to grab.

You hand stilled as you reached for his mug, the sound of a dry cough pushing its way through the tense air from the other room. From the sound of it you knew he hadn’t approached and that he was still in his own brooding state, having taken root along the couch. 

Medical professionals had told both you and Harry via telephone that while you were experiencing symptoms of the virus, you were leaning more so to a common cold given the bout of sneezing that had so gracefully taken over you both on day five of being cooped up.

Regardless of not being considered vulnerable the time was still a scary one, and the thought of losing loved ones very much at the front of your mind.

Which is why you should apologise.

You huffed at your conscience, snatching up Harry’s mug and sitting it next to yours. Two tea bags later,steaming hot water and a dash of milk, you took solace in the tinker of the spoon against the ceramic.

Cleaning products tossed aside, hands washed for at least the thirtieth time that day, you curled your fingers around the handles and tip-toed carefully towards your living room 

Halting at the edge of the room, you took in Harry’s figure as he lay along the couch. Dressed in nothing more than a t-shirt that read the infamous slogan he was known for, a pair of y-front pants that should be nothing more than repulsive to you and sports socks; he looked comforting even though sulky. 

Soft frown etched in between his brows, Harry’s eyes were frantically moving over the pages of the book that had him incredibly engrossed. You watched the way he licked at the middle finger of his right hand and turned the page.

Before you could stop yourself, a tut escaped your lips. He shouldn’t be putting his hands anywhere near his face. When was the last time he’d washed them? 

The noise caused Harry to sharply cut his eyes to you, abruptly pulling them from the pages of the paperback and onto your figure. You stood, awkward under his gaze, watching his eyes drop to the two mugs you held.

“Shouldn’t be doing that,” you lazily commented on him licking his fingers. “When did you last sanitise?”

“Please get off my arse,” he deadpanned. 

You swallowed harshly, continuing to feel heavier from your previous bicker. You didn’t want this unnecessary animosity to continue at all. He must’ve known that from the way his face softened slightly as he dropped his eyes, that were now not as harsh with their gaze as when he previously looked at you, to the steaming mugs.

“‘S all this,” he hummed. “‘S my mug.”

“It is,” you croaked, acknowledging his obvious statement. “‘S me bringing you a peace offering.”

“Brought any biscuits wi’yer?”

Your lips twitched at his question, offering nothing more than a shake of your head in response.

“‘S no good,” he hummed, eyes turning back to his book as he nudged his body over slightly to create a bigger gap next to him. A gap that looked awfully big enough to hold you.

Feeling brave from his light conversation, you walked closer. The dull thud of the heavy, tea-filled mugs hitting the coffee table that had just three hours earlier caused world war three in the four walls of your home, nervously brought you attention back to the sole reason you weren’t talking.

Over an inanimate object. 

Not wanting to push your luck, you slowly let the remaining part of the large couch above Harry’s head swallow you. Mind now no longer engulfed by the worry of confrontation, your senses tuned in to the soft hum of a record playing in the top corner of your lounge and the partially agitated sigh that left Harry’s lips.

You didn’t acknowledge it, choosing to instead blow gently at the warm mug held securely between both your hands. You knew it would be too hot for you to even consider drinking just yet.

Legs curled up underneath and to the side of you, you dropped your neck back slightly to rest against the marshmallow-like cushions and relax.

Finding comfort wasn’t easy, as your space had gotten smaller and smaller as the day went by. Part of you didn’t want it to get bigger though. Being in a bubble could be very pleasing, very pleasing. 

Lips twitched up at your thoughts, only deepening when you felt the soft grip of fingertips gently pinching at your calves. The same fingertips then flattened out, smoothing down and around your muscle to lightly tug.

Heavy head slowly lifting up, you took in the sight beneath you. Harry had reached behind him, his right elbow lifted awkwardly into the air as his left arm held his book above his head. His eyes remained trained to his book, as he flipped it slightly in his grip to read onto the next page.

You sighed as you watched the way his index and middle finger gently rubbed the soft fabric of your fluffy socks between his fingers, like some self soothing mechanism. 

The blissful noise alerted your husband, his head tilted back so he was looking at you from upside down. “Why’re all the way over there?” He asked softly.

You chuckled against your mug. “You’re touching me, I’m hardly in safe social distance according to advice.”

“Not touching you enough,” he spoke deeply. “Come an’ love me.”

Nose scrunching up at his tone, you reached forward as you rolled your lips into your mouth. 

“Have I got to?” You playfully questioned, feeling the tug of his hand become more forceful.

“If yer know what’s good for yer, yer will,” he groused. 

Fighting your smile, you ran your tongue against your teeth and tried to remember if you’d brushed them that morning. As disgusting as it sounded, everything was beginning to blur. Days into nights into days. 

You slipped off the couch and felt Harry watching you as he manoeuvred to his side. Laying down next to him in such a small space was in some silly way, exhilarating. The idea of being able to feel him against you; the shudder of his stomach as he laughed and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, was everything you needed to get you through quarantine. 

The softest smile hit your face as you watched the way he wordlessly lifted his arm to welcome you to him. Sinking into the couch, while it was easy before, definitely felt easier this second time around. 

You nestled into his strong chest, feeling his shuffle underneath you and immediately begin to play with the hem of your short sleeve, his fingers lightly grazing against your skin.

Nudging your nose underneath his jawline, you enjoyed the way his stubbled gently tickled you. Harry was always warm and comforting, the right kind of strong and equally the right kind of soft. He had this way of making you feel small but in the tallest of ways. 

“Thank you,” you gently whispered when you felt him draw you close to him and saw the way he lifted his book up even high above the two of you so you could see the pages too. 

Your hand sat resting just above his belly, and you felt the way it slightly jiggled as he cleared his throat. 

He read to you, parts of a book that were realistically intimate that you found now more than anything that making up was the only option. 

“Talking to me properly now,” you mouthed against his skin after he stopped reading aloud. 

“‘S not me, it’s Bethan Roberts,” he replied, turning the book slightly in his hands so you could see the cover. 

“Well tell her I said thanks, managed to get my sulky hubby to produce more than a grunt-“

You heard him groan at your words, “Please don’t call me that.”

“What? Sulky?”

Harry turned his head slightly as he looked down his nose at you, the softest double chin forming. “No. I mean, hubby.” 

You gigged. Yes, giggled. Unattractively too. “How about my favourite handy man?”

“Darling,” he warned, not wanting you to pick the scab off a barely healing wound from the much earlier interaction. 

Lifting up, you nudged your nose against his cheek, softly sweeping against his facial hair before you located the corner of his mouth. “Not the only one who is good with their hands, you know?”

“‘S tha’ right,” he replied, fighting the laughter itching at his throat. “Think you’re talking shit.” 

“But you know I’m not,” you softly rasped, free hand bunching up at the front of Harry’s t-shirt, nails catching against the hairy trail on his stomach. “‘M trying to say I’m sorry.” 

“‘M listening, keep going,” he hummed, eyes closed and face blissfully aware he had gotten his own way. You scrunched your nose at his interjection, knowing how much he was thriving at the way you were skirting around your apology. 

“You’re such a wanker-“

The breathy laugh that left his mouth had you melting into him, the softest nudge of your lips to his accompanied by a gasped intake of breath as Harry opened his mouth wider. 

Hand pressed against his face, you enjoyed feeling the way his jaw extended as he gave you more of him. A satisfied hum lulled your kissing to an erotic stroking of tongues that had him chasing you when you lips parted.

You tilted your head back as he tried to catch your lips with his again, body jostling in the close confinement when he fallen short of his prize. 

“Darling,” he drawled, nosing along the center of your neck, your fingers clawing through the hair on the back of his head. You enjoyed the feeling of his face squashed against your skin as he muffled his protests at you not letting him have your lips and have his way. 

His playful growl when he broke free of your vice grip to his hair caused you to gleefully squeal, still thrashing to create a cat and mouse game over the sharing of kisses. 

By pressing his feet against the arm of the couch, Harry managed to create a leverage over your body. He rolled slightly, face pressed heavily into your cheek as he caught his breath.

“Darling, why’re you being like tha’? I’m trying to show I’m sorry too,” he heavily breathed. “Put it back.”

“Ask nicely,” you panted in return, hand toying above his aching buldge. 

“‘M always nice-“ you shook your head at his words. “No? ‘M sorry, sorry darlin’-“

His apology fell away from his lips as you grazed at his heavy bulge, a breathy chuckle bouncing against your already wet and messy lips. 

“Can a bloke not read a book while in quarantine in peace?”

“He can if he wants,” you spoke light, hands playing at the waistband of his underwear before sliding down and gently gripping at his bum cheek.

“Wha’ ya doin’?” 

“‘S it look like?”

“Like you’re gonna give me a handy.” 

“Harry,” you stressed his name as he chucked at his pathetic attempt at a joke. 

“Jus’ go with it,” he smiled, eyes closed and content, as he rested his head back slightly.

“Only if you help,” you started, you hand stroking gently back around to his lower abdomen. “Look at me.”

“Look at you, takin’ charge. Want me to wank in front of yer?”

“Do you want me to play with you or not?”

Harry cupped the back of your neck, letting the question die against his lips as he eagerly coaxed your mouth to open up again. Yes, he would like that very much. 

Your hand fell still at the top of his underpants as the two of you necked on, lying along the sofa like teens that had their parents house free for a whole weekend; all choked groans and light sighs as neither of you wanted to part.

When you finally came to your senses, you dropped your hand and slid it over the cotton of Harry’s underwear. He felt heavy and warm, his arousal present but you still had enough of a chance to toy with him. 

Massaging him through the cotton of his briefs, the sinful groans leaving his lips had you eager to get started. Your hand, ahead of your brain, pushed underneath the waistband as Harry choked at you to slow down.

“‘M too dry,” he mumbled, looking down at you, all soft double chin and stubble. He seemed conflicted, knowing it was a necessary step but just as eager. “Hang on-“

The shuffle of his body caused you to frown as you tried to anchor yourself to him and not fall off the side of the couch. The two of you chuckled as he felt the way you almost slid out from underneath his grip, his whispered “I‘ve got yer” almost lost against the sound of your creaking couch.

His hand slid down against the top of yours and gently squeezed against both his aching cock and your much more nimble fingers.

“You always feel so heavy in my hand, H,” you whispered sultrily. “Let me have it.”

Harry breathed deeply through his nose as you felt the way he circled his hand around your wrist and gently tugged upwards. 

You couldn’t take your eyes off him as he pressed the softest of wet kisses to the inside of your palm, his tongue, as pink as his lips, gently licked at your skin. His eyes were closed, a dip to his brows as he embodied a high level of erotic passion. 

Lips puckered and skimming up against your fingers, you felt the way Harry opened his mouth wider, soft tongue now lapping gently at the fingertips of your middle and third finger.

With half a smirk gracing your lips, you slowly lifted your eyes from his mouth, vision tracing up his features before you found his awaiting hazy stare, strong on yours. 

You were enjoying the lewd gesture and his commitment to holding your gaze, as you felty yourself flush with unnecessary embarrassment at the visual of your sodden fingers softly slipping from his lips.

The string of saliva left behind by his ardent sucking, coupled with the soft bounce of his bottom lips as you playfully pull at it with the tips of your fingers, had you incessantly mesmerised and craving to kiss.

Harry less than gracefully pushed down at your hand, as the digits of his right palm loosely became woven into the hair on the back of your head. 

Jolting forward and breathing heavily against each other’s mouths, Harry licked gently into your mouth and pushed down at his underwear using your fingers.

You giggled at his desperate movements and enjoyed the way his mouth went slack against yours as you grasped at his cock, with ease this time. Trembling breath bouncing against your lips, so satisfying for you. 

Harry was always vocal, but there was something about him as he lay squashed against you in the dimming evening light that brought out a wildness unmatched. 

The slide of your hand along his shaft eased a coiled tension within Harry as he heavily breathed against the corner of your mouth incoherent praise and subconsciously raised his hips upwards into your enclosed grip as you dared to loosen your fingers around him. 

He was greedy for it. His hand once more pulling against the back of your shirt, so the hem now no longer covered your backside but instead sat awkwardly against your lower back.

His moans became muffled as he rolled his lips into his mouth, and caused your vision to blur from the way he heavily pressed his face into yours.

“Fuck me, ‘m gonna come,” he spoke, voice deeper than before, his words lazier as they omitted from him before he gulped. “Unugh, pull me out.”’

Left hand free, Harry beat you to his request. With briefs now bunched against his thighs he tried his hardest to get them down his body, with a rub of his thighs as he gripped firmly at your thigh.

His hand slid up your smooth skin, fingers finding your bare arse cheek and slapping against your taught skin as he encouraged you to wrap your thigh over his hip.

“Gonna leave some cracking marks all over this body by the time I’m done with you,” he spoke firmly into the column of your throat. “Leaning back from me wi’out me ‘aving to tell you an’all- giving me the space I need to shag you just right.” 

He took his time to see the way you’d arched for him, head somewhat hanging over the side of the couch as he tried to figure out how to line himself up and please you the only way he knew how. 

“Where’d you want me?” he groused, eyes looking down to the pull of your hips towards each other, “Hm? Here okay? With your fingers or mine?” 

You wetly whimpered at him, scratching your nails against the skin of his naval before you pressed the palm he had previously licked flat against your centre. Grinding down against your skin, the heel of your palm bumped salaciously against your clit. 

“Dirty girl, knows what she wants,” he reached between you, the heat of your core attracting his aching cock that easily as it aligned itself to you. “Sit back on me, gently… Gentle.” 

Your fingers could feel the way his cock sunk into you, disappearing inch by inch until your hand was awkwardly squashed between the both of your pelvises. 

Somehow you managed to slide your hand around to Harry’s soft hips where you dipped your fingertips into his skin. His mouth sucked at your sternum, revelling in the feel of you having taken him all. 

“Giving me your belly,” he confirmed, “Took me all the way, doll. Want all of me, all of my apology eh.”

“God, Harry,” you keened. “Do something.”

He rocked his hips, pressing his feet into the arm of the couch to create a nice leverage and force that tensed his thighs and started a rustling sound against the couch material. 

“I am,” he stressed, softly gritting his teeth and seeing you watch him through hooded eyelids. “Don’t just lay there and take me,” he mouthed against your lips. “Give me as good as you get, yeah,” he chuckled as he felt the pressure of your pushing into him, stepping up to his request. 

“You’re my favourite lover,” he gasped.

“I better be your only lover,” you breathlessly threatened, tilting your head back. He hummed as he burrowed his head deeper into your jaw. 

“You’re the only one I shag like this,” he replied, hand sliding down when he felt your thighs start to give way. “Thighs up or ‘m stopping.”

You whined feeling a burning sensation forming in the crease of your thigh as you tried to keep yourself as closely connected to Harry as possible. “You wouldn’t,” you goaded him, the heel of your foot running against the back of his hairy thigh.

“Wouldn’t I?” He questioned, brushing back your hair that was starting to get sweaty. When you thought about it, the whole of your body was. 

The warmth radiating from each tilt and rock of your hips a little easier with formed sweat and arousal, while the feel of Harry’s hand splayed out against arse cheek, made you feel owned. 

He held you tight as he slowly moved against you, rocking back and forth as you self-soothed egos and bruised hearts. Heavy breaths mingled between kisses as he admitted his love for you and you for him. 

“Missed you today,” he murmured against your cheekbone.

“I’ve been here-“

He nudged his nose against you now, as he shook his head. “Been different, sick of me and these four walls. Beginning to climb ‘em, ain’t we? Have’ta tell me, so I can ‘ave a go at fixing it.”

“Isn’t that why we are argued to begin with, cause of your fixing-“

His lips quirked at your quickness, “Smart arse.”

Humming, you brushed his hair away, scratching by his ear and hearing his pleased purrs at your shower of affections. 

“We’re good, show me we’re good-“ you dipped your head back as he pulled you tighter against him, thrusting and creating the first clapping sound of your skin that evening. “Yes, show me we’re better than good.” 

Harry felt the way your skin was tacky against his, his hand peeling away from your bum to your thigh. A weird humidity had  clouded the lounge not usually felt in the British Spring Time, woven with the heady smell of your sex and unadulterated love.

All space was eliminated between both of your bodies as he knocked up into you, skin rubbing from the force. 

“Why didn’t you take off this bloody shirt?” You groaned, scratching your nails against the fabric, as you clung to him. 

“Cause someone could wait to have her way wi’me,” he chimed, voice light and singing. “God you want it don’t you?”

He could feel the way you were squeezing at him, releasing a guttural gasp at his questioning of you. You pulled him deeper than anyone has ever been able to do and that made him proud. Proud to call you his. His lover, his wife. His lifetime. 

“Harry, I’m gonna come,” you panted, high-pitched and positively annoying to anyone outside your shared lust. Nails again irritatingly scratched against his back, this time he was thankful he kept his t-shirt on, not wanting to deal with any stinging skin in the shower later on.

With each forceful thrust, he pressed at your arse forcing your hips into his as he pulled you into him. He knew you were fast approaching your release, a change in the way you writhed against him and produced keening whines that pulled a smugness like no other from his chest. 

Hair falling against his forehead, sweaty and unforgiving, Harry rested his forehead against yours and sucked passionately at your bruise lips and lapped at your saltiness. His focus zoned in on only you, your hitching breath on his face and tired body heavier in arms.

He knew you were spent but he was grateful for your trying. Eyes halfway shut but lips managing to entice him by forming his name faintly and loud enough for him to hear. The erotic murmur easily made a mess of him faster than your loudest moans only moments earlier.

This was yours. This was his.

No one saw you like this but him. No one saw him like this but you.

“‘M so in love wi’you,” he admitted, watching your eyes roll back into your head, body trembling as you got closer to your peak. “Giving me a good one, tha’ I don’t deserve.”

He smiled as he watched the way you rubbed against him, as he felt you squeeze around him, pulling a choked moan from him as he squeezed at the back of your neck with his right hand, and quickened the motion of his hips.

“Don’t stop,” you panted heavily, body tightening as your mouth fell open, silently. Eyes fluttering shut as you babbled his name and he changed the roll of his hips to deep nudges to get him what he wanted from your sensitivity. 

Your body went slack against him as he bottomed out inside of you, he mouthed into your skin, “Know you're tired but don’t go still on me. Love me back.”

Mewling at his breathy request, you tried to match his deep thrusts as best you could, feeling his hand against your clit. “Harry,” you whispered in a warning.

“Okay, okay, I won’t- had enough?”

“Want some more,” you hummed, even though you knew you shouldn’t, already feeling faintly sore. 

He growled, through his closed mouth, bum cheeks clenched as he felt the way you took him. Selfless and affectionate. In that moment, he knew he would never find another like you. 

And that was enough for him to give you everything he had.

And you took it all. Fingers woven through the back of his head, clinging to his head as he burrowed down into your neck. Fierce grunts muffled and chest tight, gasping for air. 

Your come down was bittersweet. The feel of Harry softening between your legs, before resting between them in a way that was wet and spent. A familiar moment. 

Harry took his time admiring you, gaze looking at your flushed out cheeks and sparkling eyes. 

The two of you lay in silence, Harry brushing back your hair before pushing himself up and leaning on his hand. Looking up at him, you swore you’d never seen anyone more handsome and comfortable within themselves.

The crack of an elastic waistband caused you to look down your bodies as you watched the way he fidgeted with his underpants that he had just pulled back on.

“Why’ve you done that. Take ‘em back off,” you poured, looking up at him wide eyed. He chuckled down at you and your demanding words. 

“‘S gone cold, y’know,” he hummed. “Won’t do so much for my ego, if you see wha’ it’s like down there when ‘m cold.”

“Does the job alright for me,” you said, pulling him down to you. 

With a chuckle, he pecked you’re lips to try and satiate you, before he pulled away. Eyes falling onto your two mugs of tea that sat within arms reach on your coffee table. 

“‘M fuckin’ parched,” he said. “Hold onto me a sec.”

Before you could think, Harry was rolling his body over yours, doing his best to keep his weight off you completely. You clenched your fingers into his shirt, watching him with wide eyes as he scooped up his mug and took a sip.

“‘S gone cold,” he murmured, before he swigged at the drink again. You looked up at him in all your double chin glory.

“No change there then. Gonna have to start rationing the tea bags cause you’re taking the piss not drinking the teas I make you.”

He dropped his gaze, eyes looking at yours. “D’ya need some tissue to clean up?”

You hummed, not wanting to make a move. 

“Gonna have to start rationing the toilet roll cause you're taking the piss-“ he didn’t get to finish his sentence before you covered his mouth with your hand.

And if he knew what was good for him he wouldn’t finish it either.

***

Shout out to my usual suspects who always put up with my bullshit @waitingfortwilight, @harryfeatgaga, @huccimermaidshirts, @haute-romance-quotidienne, @majorharry and @for-fucks-sake-h. Also, @harrysonlyangelsss and @sweetcreatureinthedark, because why not?

Big up @waitingfortwilight for the title <3

[forgedroyalseal]

Small and Annoying (and adorable)

When Will read the letter he had received from Halt, he tried not to panic. He was moderately successful. The letter was vague, which Will hoped was merely Halt being Halt and not because of some terrible circumstance that was preventing him from going into to further detail. What the “terrible circumstance” could be, Will wasn’t sure. Something absolutely dreadful though. Perhaps Halt was ill, too weak to write more. Or maybe he was being held captive and wasn’t allowed the time to explain. Will ran his hand through his hair as he reread the letter, trying to reassure himself that he was getting ahead of himself.

Will,

I need your help. I have a problem that only you can solve. Come as soon as possible.

Halt

Rereading the brief letter did not help. Will folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket as he stood from his kitchen table, the rest of his mail unopened and abandon in a pile. He grabbed his cloak, which was hanging on a hook by the door and turned to Ebony, who had lifted her head up from the floor to watch Will, waiting to see if he needed her.

“Stay here and be a good girl, I’m going to check on Halt.” He said to her. She seemed happy with this decision, her head thudding against the floor as she lowered it and her paws stretching out towards the small fire Will had lit earlier in afternoon. Normally she was eager to accompany Will wherever he went, even softly whining to herself if he told her she wasn’t allowed to go. Today, however, was a cold, wet October day, and she was quite content with letting Will make this particular trip without her.

Tug on the other hand didn’t seem effected by the miserable weather. Or perhaps he just knew that when he and Will returned home, he would be able to guilt Will into giving him an extra apple. Whatever the case was, Tug carried Will quickly to castle Redmont, only slowing down to avoid crashing into the few towns people that were milling about the town square. Will dismounted Tug and lead him over to the shelter of the stables. He loosed the saddle but didn’t fully untack Tug. He wasn’t sure what Halt needed him for and wanted to be ready for anything. He gave Tug an apple from a basket outside of the stall. Will looked around and caught the eye of a boy holding a rake and staring at him wide eyed.

“Please leave the saddle on him and make sure he has water.”

The boy bobbed his head up and down, still a little star stuck. Must be new, Will thought. He can’t help but notice the amount of people who stare at him when he is in town, trying (and failing) to be discreet as they point him out to their friends. But this is still where he grew up. It’s where he ran around as a little boy, it’s where he was trained as an apprentice, it’s his home. So, while he was honored and respected, people didn’t tend to get this shocked by the sight of him.

“Thank you.” Will said, giving him a half smile. Then he turned and started to make his way to Halt’s apartment. He had taken more time than he meant to in the stables, but Will had been trained to make sure that he always took care of Tug. And if this wasn’t a life threatening emergency, which Will still wasn’t completely convinced it wasn’t, then Halt would be irritated if he had learned that Will had neglected Tug due to his paranoia.

When Will arrived in front of Halt and Pauline’s door, he had a list of horrible possibilities running through his mind. After taking a breath to steady himself, Will knocked firmly. Lady Pauline opened it, a warm smile spreading across her face.

“Will, what a pleasant surprise, please come in.”

Will furrowed his eyebrows, “Surprise? Halt asked me to come. Did he not mention it to you?”

Pauline opened her mouth to reply, but before she could say anything, Halt stepped into the room and said, “No I did not.”

Will and Pauline both turned to look at him. Seeing that Halt was unharmed and didn’t seem to be in any distress, the tension in Will’s shoulders left and he relaxed.

“What do you need from me Halt?” Will asked, the worry that had been occupying his mind being replaced with curiosity.

Halt glanced at his wife, “Perhaps it would be better to discuss this in the study.”

“Why, is it about a mission? I didn’t hear anything from Crowley.” Will said.

“No, this isn’t Ranger business.” Halt trailed off.

“Oh good lord! Halt, is this about the dog?” Pauline exclaimed.

Will perked up, “Dog? What dog? Is there a dog?” He started looking around, as if he expected to suddenly see a dog on the floor that hadn’t been there a second ago.

“Now look what you’ve done Pauline, he’s all worked up.” Halt sighed.

“I can’t believe that you made him come over in such a rush for this.” Pauline said, an exasperated look on her face.

“I didn’t make him do anything. He just respects me so much that he felt the need to hurry.”

Will stopped his search for the dog that Pauline mentioned to say, “You told me to come as soon as possible. I thought you were dying.”

“Well now you are just being dramatic.” Halt grumbled.

“So what is it then that you need my help with?” Will asked.

“I have a... situation that I need your advice on.”

“And there is a dog involved?” Will prodded, hoping the answer was yes.

“The dog is the situation. There’s this stray that won’t leave me alone. I need you to tell me how to get rid of it. You’re good with dogs.”

Will tried not to laugh. Apparently he’s not very successful because Halt says, “It’s not funny. I can’t walk outside without it following me. Every time I think I’m in the clear, it shows up behind me. The thing is a better tracker than half the ranger’s I know.” Halt’s face was dead serious, which made the whole thing even funnier to Will.

“I don’t really see the issue Halt. The dog likes you. You should be happy.”

“It’s a nuisance. I’ll prove it to you.” Halt walks out the door and Will follows him. They make it barely three steps outside before they hear a small yip. Will and Halt both turn around to see a small, black and tan terrier behind them, shaking slightly in the cold but happily wagging it’s little tail none the less.

Halt gestures to the dog, “Now you see what I’m talking about! It a little terror.”

Will crouches down and lets the shaggy dog sniff his hand. Immediately the dog rolls down on to it’s back and Will starts rubbing it’s belly.

“Oh I see it Halt. He’s clearly a monster. How have you managed to survive all this?” Will says sarcastically. Halt only rolls his eyes in response.

Will looks up at Halt, “Seriously though, why is this dog such a problem for you?”

“It’s small and annoying, two things you have in common with it.”

Will just stares up at Halt, his head now tilted slightly to the side. The dog sits up and Halt has a sudden realization. Will and the dog have the exact same expression on their faces. Heads both tilted to the right, big brown eyes looking up at him. Halt sighed, he’d never be able to not see the similarities now.

“You know Halt,” Will said as he stood, “if the dog wants to be with you so much, maybe you should just take him home with you. After all, you are pretty good with orphans.” Will had a soft smile on his face and it occurs to Halt that he never should have let Will see the dog because there was no way he would let Halt do anything other than bring it back to the apartment.

“Absolutely not. I’ve done my time with raising small, excitable things. At least you and Gilan were somewhat house trained.”

Will bends down and scoops the dog into his arms. “Maybe you’re right Halt. You are getting on in years. You probably don’t have the energy to care for him. After all, you are practically retired and a dog would just interrupt all of those midday naps.”

Halt narrowed his eyes. It was a trap. Halt knew it was a trap. He shouldn’t let himself be manipulated by his former apprentice. “I have plenty of energy. I could raise twenty dogs if I wanted too.” So much for not being manipulated.

Will grinned widely and Halt knew that he had lost. “Well then, this one little dog won’t be any problem, will it?”

Halt sighed and closed his eyes. Realistically he knew that if he truly didn’t want the dog, Will couldn’t force him to keep it. But there was a small (or not so small) part of him that missed having someone to take care of. Pauline was wonderful, but she didn’t need anyone to take care of her. This little scrap of a dog reminded Halt so much of Will when they first met, too small and too alone to be able to be left behind.

“Only if Pauline says it’s okay.”

(Pauline, of course, said yes. She knew that there was no way Will would let Halt come home without the dog. She even set up a basket with a couple old blankets next to Halt’s favorite chair as soon as they had left.)

[ootori-sibs]

Chores

Sorry it's so short

Day four is @ohshc-week : gift giving or living together

The hosts had decided that while they were in university, they were going to rent a house together, and 'live like commoners'. At least that was how Tamaki had put it, Haruhi had insisted that they were doing no such thing, they still had bottomless bank accounts and could actually afford rent. This had definitely made most of the hosts sulk for a bit, namely Tamaki and the twins.

They'd all come into their own, they were living in America now, so it was hard for anything to get back to any of the boys' parents. So, with their new found freedom, the hosts had really begun to find who they were- or at least we're experimenting. Not all of it was good however.

"Who's whiskey is this!?" It was Tamaki's turn to take out the trash, and it seemed he'd found yet another bottle, for the third time in a row. Most of the hosts were sitting in the kitchen, though Honey was upstairs taking a nap, and Kyoya was… god knows where. They all looked between each other, Mori was sat at the breakfast bar and enjoying a milkshake, the twins were sat on the carpet near the TV, doing their homework, and Haruhi was rewatching legally blonde.

Hikaru looked up from his sketches, rolling his eyes, "probably Kyoya's, it was his last time wasn't it?" Well, Hikaru wasn't wrong, the last two times a bottle had been found in the trash, it had belonged to Kyoya- his brother kept buying him drinks. Oh yeah, that was another detail, Akito was also here, he lived on campus, though that didn't stop him from coming and bothering them every now and then. For some reason he decided it was his mission to give Kyoya a social life, and that included buying him alcohol for some reason.

"Oh no, that one's mine," Kaoru spoke up, causing everyone to glance at him in confusion, he shrugged, "Kyoya gave me the bottle, he said he didn't want it."

"Well that's good," Tamaki started, tying the bag closed, "if it was Kyoya's again then I'd have to have a word with him, or maybe I should have had a word with Akito, it is his fault after all."

Hikaru scoffed at that, "yeah, good luck boss, I wouldn't threaten the guy with a nail bat." To be fair, Hikaru had a point; not only did Akito have quite the deadly weapon, but he was known to have the worst anger issues of all the siblings- though Kyoya had given him a run for his money in later years.

Tamaki had to concede that Hikaru was right, there's no way he'd object to anything Akito did, the guy was too scary. He just sighed, heading to put the trash in the bin. It was a warm day, and he felt the sun on his arms. A glance down the stress saw a couple of folks sitting in their doorways, just enjoying the sun- the glance also told him that Kyoya was returning, just heading down the street with his bags. He sighed, waving, "Hiya Kyoya, where've you been?"

"Ugh," Kyoya seemed exhausted, wearing his brother's jacket and literally no shoes, "Akito dragged me to a party, even though he knew I had a class this morning. I just had to attend class, with no shoes."

Tamaki paused, tilting his head slightly, "where are your shoes?"

"I have no idea, I had them on when I fell asleep. I'm fairly sure someone stole them." He rolls his eyes, "has anyone made breakfast?"

"Kyoya, it's midday…"

"Lunch then, I just had a class, I have no concept of time, I just want to eat something and go back to sleep." He huffed, pushing past Tamaki to enter the house, ignoring the other hosts in favour of heading towards the stairs.

"It's your turn to cook dinner tonight, don't forget."

"If I'm awake in time then sure, otherwise let Haruhi do it." He rolls his eyes, storming up the stairs.

Tamaki sighs, sitting down, "alright, who wants to wake him up later?"

"Not it!" Was the almost unanimous reply, clearly it was Tamaki's job. But he had a trump card he had yet to play:

"I have a class then, I can't."

The reaction from the others was instant dread, realising they'd actually have to decide who had to do it- instead of leaving the duty up to Tamaki like was the usual plan. Tamaki had to grin at that, he didn't enjoy his classes, but they were a hell of a lot better than waking Kyoya up. Haruhi sighed, running a hand through her hair, "well I've got homework to do anyway, so you'll have to wake him." She shrugged, ignoring the twins questions of why she couldn't do her homework now.

Mori stood up, checking the time on his phone, "got class." He let them know where he was going before grabbing his bag and coat, taking his milkshake with him. He left, locking the door behind him, which was unfortunate for Hikaru, who had lost his key and was now unable to leave.

Haruhi had to make lunch, she'd just made some slices with the leftover stew from last night, she rolled out her premade pastry, tucking the stew inside like making a bed, adding a little pastry flower on Tamaki's and a rabbit on Honey's, it made them both very happy when she did so, though the others were a little too mature for such things. She did add a bit of chili powder to Kyoya's, heaven knows he likes spicy things. She put his back in the fridge once it was done, he could microwave it when he wanted it. She served it with the usual sauces, and some coffee. She had the way they all had coffee memorized, and the way they liked their pie.

Tamaki was always the first to grab his coffee with caramel and his pie with the flower, he never added sauce- he claimed the flavour was enough on its own. Then came the twins; Kaoru with his black coffee and pie with red sauce, and Hikaru with his one sugar and his mix of red and brown- they always ended up sharing the sauce though. Honey had woken up from his nap by now, grabbing his extremely sweet coffee- four sugars, Haruhi didn't think it was healthy, but who was she to argue? His pie was the one with the bunny on it, he liked to have it with mustard, which was strange considering his love of sweet things, but she couldn't blame him; it was really good.

Haruhi herself had it with a bit of ketchup, and her coffee only had one sugar, she sat at the breakfast bar to eat it and watch the TV from where she was sitting. She had to analyse a fake murder case for her homework, Kyoya had agreed to help her in return for not having to spend time with his brother, she'd figured that was a good enough deal. It was Kyoya's turn to cook, and then he and Tamaki would go over the rent and bills they had to pay, as Tamaki had refused to hire an accountant- he thought it would be fun to live like commoners.

When the night came, and all the bills were paid, Kyoya and Haruhi sat in the living room, going over the paperwork she'd gotten from her professor. The room still smelled of garlic from the pasta Kyoya had made them all, the twins were washing the dishes. Honey sat at the breakfast bar, eating some cookies, he was supposed to be grabbing snacks for him and Mori to study with, but he'd decided to have a couple for himself before heading upstairs again. Tamaki had gone to bed early, considering he had a class very early the next morning, Kyoya had made a batch of his extremely caffeinated pudding for him, for a during lesson, before breakfast snack.

The sun rose before she went to sleep, starling both her and Kyoya as it came through the window. "Oh fuck, what time is it?"

"Time to start making breakfast." Kyoya had shrugged, standing up as he headed over to the kitchen, opening the fridge with a sigh.

"But it's nowhere near the time where anyone wakes up?"

Kyoya took out some eggs and cream, grabbing a bowl, "it'll take a few hours to make the egg pudding, I might make some bread too."

Haruhi paused, frowning and going to sit at the bar, "where did you even learn how to make all this stuff?"

"Oh, well a mix of Fiyumi when she was fixated on learning how to do wife things, and watching the cooks because there was nothing to do when I was a kid." Kyoya responded bluntly, cracking the eggs into a bowl.

Haruhi had decided to go to bed, she had no classes today so she was happy to sleep until she felt better- though she was woken up by the gang getting up and being increasingly loud in the face of breakfast. She had to come downstairs to tell them to shut the hell up.

[sgrayonderii]

remnant

SSM20 D25:small victories.

There is something in the house. AU. 

Rated K+ 

Sasuke awakens immediately. 

Sarada has not been sleeping well through the night so her parents often would take turns to comfort her. Sakura had just gotten her to fall back asleep. 

And the rustling downstairs is not his wife. 

There is an intruder in the house.

He grabs the nearest thing he can get his hands on. The darkness of the house makes it difficult to see, but whatever he grasps in his hands is hard and solid. 

He quietly descends until he can see the shadowy intruder in between the panes of moonlight filtering through the windows.

And he swings. 

Sasuke feels a satisfying crack as his makeshift weapon makes contact. 

And he continues to smash whoever or whatever it is until it stops moving. 

---

Sasuke is very proud of his house. 

It is built on old Uchiha lands on the outskirts of Konoha. Originally, the old dilapidated Uchiha manor was torn down to make room for urban development but for some reason the plans fell through. 

When he hears that the plot was back on the market, he knows it’s a sign.

He builds the new house from the ground up, a testament to new beginnings and fresh starts.

It is modest but spacious. Sakura berates him; there is too much room for a family of almost three. Sasuke assures her that the plethora of rooms is an investment for their future children. Sakura lightly smacks his arm, telling him that they should wait for the birth of their first before worrying about others. 

He doesn’t have too many memories about his ancestral home; there are vague recollections of his mother singing in the kitchen, of quiet days with his father on the lakeshore, of his brother before everything went wrong. 

Sasuke wants his new family to also experience those halcyon days that still remain so fondly in his heart, only if it is partly to relive those nostalgic days,

---

Sasuke awakens to the sound of glass breaking. 

It is midday. He must have dozed off while waiting for Sakura and Sarada to return from their impromptu trip to the park. Or was it the grocery store. He cannot quite remember. 

There is an indescribable rage when he sees the glass shards littering the carpet of the den. His head is pounding. What if Sarada had been home? What if Sakura had been in the room?

He stalks to the front door and throws it open, slamming it against the brickwork splintering the eggshell paint he had so carefully picked out with his wife. 

From the distance, two teenagers are aiming rocks at his home. 

“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING!?”

To their credit the two teenagers do look shocked and somewhat frightened, but neither of them put down the stones in their hands. 

Perhaps his reaction is a bit much, but he has to protect his family. 

Seeing red, Sasuke picks up one of the flower pots on their porch and hurls it as hard as he can at the teens. 

They scream and scatter. 

He cannot help but feel satisfied at their retreating figures. 

---

Sasuke is roused from his sleep by the heavy footsteps outside.

He rolls out of bed with an annoying headache which does not help his mood. Descending downstairs, Sasuke checks each window in the house, trying to locate the source of the noise he heard. 

Finally from the large living room window, he spots what appears to be a handyman inspecting the pipes in the backyard. 

This could be just a routine scheduled inspection. Or perhaps Sakura had called a plumber or something while he was sleeping. He does not remember if she told him about it, but he is never that coherent after waking up. 

Regardless, Sasuke does not want to lose sight of this man, so he stands by the window watching. Sarada is sleeping and his wife must be tired from being up all night, so he needs to make sure this handyman does make too much noise. 

After a few minutes, the man outside seems to realize that there is something watching him. When he looks up, the man spots Sasuke at the window and immediately freezes. 

Sasuke waves so the man knows that he is there, making sure he does try anything funny. After all, the rest of his family is resting. He doesn’t not want to disturb them. He needs to make sure this man is not a threat. 

Surprisingly, the handyman screams. He bolts out of the yard. 

Sasuke moves from the living room to the hall to observe the man running for his truck. The handy man takes one last look back, however still seeing Sasuke at the window, all but scrambles into the vehicle before peeling out of the driveway. 

Sasuke is annoyed at the noise but a bit of pride wells up in his chest for expelling an interloper. 

---

Sasuke groggily opens his eyes. 

Someone is weeping. 

Slowly he gets up, bones creaking from the stiff position he was napping in and follows the sounds of the sobbing. When he rounds the corner, he finds Sakura standing by the coffee table. 

A chill runs through him when he realizes she is the one crying. He hates when she cries. Sakura is clutching a framed photograph. Their wedding picture. 

Her tears are flowing freely and falling onto the table top. He notices the wood has become a bit damaged, as if something heavy had fallen on it with great force. Sasuke makes a mental note to have it fixed later.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. He places his hands on her shoulders to comfort her which only causes her to sob harder. 

Sakura is saying something, but he cannot make out gargled words between her tears. It sounds almost like halfway between an apology and a question.

“What’s wrong Sakura?” he tries again. Sasuke needs to know what he did wrong. 

Sasuke waits patiently for her answer.

But Sakura continues to mourn.

---

The sound of Sakura’s voice wakes him up. 

Venturing downstairs, he is surprised to see another person at that doorway. She is dressed in a suit with a shiny realtor badge. 

Sakura looks reluctant, but his wife is also kind so she lets this woman inside anyways. Sakura gives the woman a tour, making sure to point out the highlights of the house. 

The realtor is impressed, as she should be. “Mrs. Uchiha, this house would fetch quite a price on the market, you would make a small fortune! No time like the present!”

Sakura laughs nervously, obviously uncomfortable. 

When Sakura rushes upstairs to grab something, he decides it is time to make his presence known. 

“Get out.”

The woman flinches, terrified. 

“This house is not for sale.” 

He smiles when the woman runs for the door. 

---

Sakura returns this time with another person he does not recognize. 

She really needs to start warning him about potential guests. Sasuke knows he can be pretty unapproachable, especially after just waking up, but for his wife he tries to be on his best behavior. 

The new woman is younger than the last person Sakura brought; on the cusp of adulthood but still a bit of baby fat in her cheeks. She wears red glasses and has her dark hair styled in a short bob, not unlike his wife’s. 

The young woman and Sakura are chatting in the living room. Sakura is happily pointing at dusty knick knacks around the house. The young woman nods along, occasionally adding a comment which makes Sakura laugh.

The young woman doesn’t seem like a threat. Sasuke figures he should at least be a good host. Perhaps he should get refreshments? Or should he introduce himself first? He was never really good with pleasantries and socializing. 

While deep in thought, Sakura and the young woman have now moved to the hallway near the staircase where he stands. They don’t seem to have noticed him yet. 

Sasuke is about to greet them when the young woman asks. “Mama, why are there so many rooms in this house?” 

He is confused. 

Sakura chuckles softly, sadly “Well your papa, told me it was an investment.”

“Was he planning on having an entire soccer team?” She wriggles her eyebrows and Sakura giggles. 

“No, I think he was just so excited to start a family, he went a bit overboard.” 

“I’ll say, this place has 5 more bathrooms!”

“That is just how he is. Always going overboard!”

 Lost by the conversation, Sasuke unknowingly takes a step back. The old staircase creaks, causing Sakura and Sarada to look up. 

“What was that?” 

“Well they did say this place is haunted.” 

“Sarada.” Sasuke can tell even from this distance that his wife is about to cry. He wants to comfort her, but she is looking right past him. 

“Sorry,” there is still a guilty look on Sarada’s face, “I’m sure it was nothing.”

---

He remembers now. 

There was something in the house. His singular goal; to protect his wife and child no matter what. A struggle. Pain and darkness. 

Yet, how long has it been since that night? Why is he unable to piece together the details of today? His head feels like it is about to split.

But Sakura and Sarada are okay. They are alive, well, and healthy; that’s all that matters. He can rest now. Sakura can answer his questions in the morning. He can catch up with Sarada when he wakes up.

As he falls back asleep, he can’t help but feel victorious.

A/N: Purposely left ambiguous, but I tried to add some hints about what happened to Sasuke. But it’s still probably pretty confusing lol. Happy SSM20! Thank you for reading and stay safe!

[atc74]

Heartbeat - Chapter Three

Warnings: COVID-19, Croatoan, Fluff, quarantine, Mentions of fever, coughing, emergency room, mentions of loss, TW: major character death (Each chapter will have additional warnings).

Summary: Sam, Dean, and Y/N are sheltering in place at the Bunker, researching this new virus that has created a world pandemic. But what happens when one of your own is immune compromised?

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1366

Beta’d by: @amanda-teaches​ because she’s the best

A/N: I’M BAAAAACCKKKK, well, mostly :) I know I’m not the only one struggling with life right now, and writing has been hard. Thank you all for sticking it out until I was able to get something together for you guys. This is only temporary and will pass. Keep your chin up and try on your jeans every few days.

Heartbeat Masterlist

Like Dean’s scent? Buy it here from @scentsfromthebunker!

Previously...

“Honey, you’re warm. You feeling okay?” Dean voiced his concern as they settled into bed a few hours later. 

“Yes, babe. I’m just tired,” Y/N yawned, almost as if to prove her point. 

“We’re taking your temperature,” Dean said, getting out of bed to get the thermometer. 

“Dean, I think you’re overreacting a bit. I’m probably just still warm from our bath,” Y/N reasoned, but he wasn’t having any of it. 

“It’s just a precaution, honey. I’m sure it’s nothing, but this virus is not like others. It moves quickly and it’s lethal.” He took a seat next to her and shoved the thermometer in her mouth before she could protest again. When the beep sounded, he removed it and checked the digital readout. “It��s 99.5, low grade. But I’m still keeping an eye on it, and you.” 

“I’d expect nothing less,” Y/N yawned once more and rolled over, her eyes closing instantly. “Love you.” 

“I love you, too, Y/N,” Dean echoed, crawling in beside her and pulling the blanket up to cover them both. He pulled her small frame into him, wanting, needing to keep her closer than usual. 

Sleep did not come easily for Dean that night; he was worried about Y/N. Since she returned to his life, his nightmares and insomnia were few and far between, but as he lay next to her, his mind played out a thousand different scenarios where he couldn’t save her. He was hyper aware every time she moved, coughed, or even breathed heavily. He finally fell under, out of pure exhaustion, just before five in the morning, only to be plagued with nightmares of the same.

Now...

By midday, her temperature had risen to 100.3, and she was coughing regularly. After taking her next round of medication and an additional fever reducer, she was ready for a nap. Dean tucked her in, kissing her flushed cheek before pacing the library while his brother researched. With the fingers of his right hand, he continuously rubbed at his wedding band, acutely aware of each beat that pulsed through it. 

Y/N’s condition worsened and, by the third day, Dean took her to the emergency room. Sam called ahead and informed the staff they were on their way. Dean broke every traffic law between the Bunker and the County Hospital. “Honey, you gotta hang on for me, okay? I need you to fight. I need you to fight for us. Honey, I love you. I know you can do this.” 

“Sir, you can’t come inside,” a nurse stopped him after he gently laid Y/N on the waiting gurney. 

“She’s my wife! I’m not leaving her!” Dean argued, advancing on the nurse as she attempted to hold him back. 

“Sir, I’m sorry. I really am, but no one is allowed inside. I’m going to ask you a few questions, but I need you to put this mask on first, okay? We’re going to take excellent care of your wife. I promise,” the nurse vowed, taking Y/N’s medical history, including a list of all medications she was taking. Before heading back inside, the nurse gave Dean’s shoulder a reassuring pat then disappeared behind the sliding doors. 

“Cas, Billie, dammit, anyone with their ears on. My wife is inside this hospital. Please keep her safe and bring her home to me,” Dean raised his face heavenward and prayed. “Please. She’s my world and I can’t live without her.” 

Dean reluctantly moved the Impala to a parking spot and made himself comfortable. He may not be allowed inside, but there was no way he was leaving the hospital without his wife. 

“Sam, I’m fine...Yes, I grabbed a sandwich and some water from the gas station down the street, okay, mom?...I told you, I ain’t fucking leaving without Y/N!” Dean shouted into the phone. “Yeah, I hear ya...I’ll keep you posted. Yeah, okay. Bye, Sammy.” 

He knew his brother meant well, but they both knew exactly what this could mean for Y/N. She was already immune compromised because of her Multiple Sclerosis, and this virus could be fatal for her. He was getting frequent updates from the kind nurse and knew she had been placed on a ventilator when she was admitted, having difficulty breathing on her own. 

With as much time as Dean had spent in this car throughout his life, this is the moment he hated the most. No cases, nothing to do, but sit and worry that he was going to lose the love of his life. He twisted the ring on his left hand repeatedly, closely monitoring the beats as they passed through it. 

The shrill ringing of his phone jolted him from the restless sleep he had fallen into. He started panicking. He didn’t recognize the number but answered immediately. “Yeah?” 

“Mr. Ford? This is Jocelyn with Smith County Memorial Hospital.” 

Dean barely registered anything the nurse was telling him. All he could hear was his own blood rushing through his veins and all he felt was the slowing of Y/N’s heartbeat through his wedding ring. 

“Mr. Ford? Are you still there, sir?” Jocelyn asked, her voice tinny through the phone. “Mr. Ford?” 

“Yeah, I’m here. Just do everything you can to save her...please,” Dean begged the nurse on the other end of the line.

Dean felt like he was losing his mind. This wasn’t a fight he could prepare for, there was no battle for him to fight for her here. This was always a possibility, in the deep recesses of his mind, that she could get sick, but it was never a possibility until now. And now, he didn’t know how he could fight something he couldn’t see. How could he fight this for her? What if he couldn’t win? 

“Sammy, I don’t know how to do this, man. I can’t do this without her, I don’t want to. I need her,” Dean sniffed later that night on the phone with his brother. “I don’t know how to do this without her.” 

Sitting alone in the Impala, Dean was startled by a pair of headlights as they blinded him in the rearview mirror. The sound of a door closing put Dean on further alert. It wasn’t until he saw the face of his brother in the window that he breathed a sigh of relief. He opened his door, but felt like his feet were buried in concrete. 

It was his little brother that pulled him to his feet, wrapping his arms around him. It wasn’t until that moment that Dean let himself let go and let the fear consume him. 

Sam sat with Dean. There were no words that needed to be said, Dean was just relieved to have someone with him. It was Dean that broke the silence.

“Sammy, I-I c-can’t feel her…” he broke with a sob. Sam reached over and pulled his brother into his arms once more, feeling the sobs as they wracked his body. They both wept for Y/N. 

~*~

“I’ll take it from here, Sam,” Dean stepped in front of his brother. 

“Dean...” 

“I said I got it, Sam!” 

Sam knew when he could push his brother and now was not the time. He put his hands up and stepped away. Dean reached into Baby’s backseat and gently picked up the fragile bundle. He walked slowly with purpose through the halls of the Bunker until he reached the Infirmary. He descended the stairs one at time, careful not to jostle his precious cargo. Sam walked a few steps ahead and opened one of the doors of the cold storage. Dean stopped in his tracks as Sam slid out the steel tray. 

“Leave.” 

“Dean…” 

“Now, Sam!” 

Sam backed off and made his way up the stairs, looking down at where Dean placed Y/N’s wrapped body on the tray. He sighed heavily before walking out the door, leaving his brother alone with his wife’s body. 

Dean pulled over a chair and sat down, his eyes never leaving Y/N’s wrapped body. “Honey, I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you. I’ve never been much for praying, but I prayed for you, for us. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Y/N. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you, ya know. You saved me more times than you’ll ever know. 

“Even when we were kids, you saved me from myself. From going head to head with my dad, with Bobby, hell even with you. The only person I know more stubborn than me is you. You always said it was part of your charm and you were right, Y/N. I know what you’re gonna say, so I’ll beat you to it. I know you’d want me to salt and burn your body. I know you’d want me to move on with my life, keep going, all that crap. But I don’t want to do it without you, honey. So, uh, just don’t push me, okay. I’ll get to it, but I’m gonna need some time. And, I promise, I’ll salt and burn your body myself. I’ll build your pyre, but not until your dad and Jody, and the others can be here. You deserve our family to be here, so they can say goodbye. I’m sorry you had to go through that alone, Honey. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me the most. I’m sorry I let you down.” 

Dean’s sobs echoed through the room and bounced off the cold stone walls, making their way to Sam in the library, where he sat, with a bottle and his own tears. 

Did you like it? The nicest thing you can do for a writer is reblog their work and tell them, and others, how much you like it!

The Whole Enchilada: @iwantthedean​​​ @dolphincliffs​​​ @mrswhozeewhatsis​​​ @meganwinchester1999​​ @cherrycokegirls1​​​ @closetspngirl​​​  @roxyspearing​​​ @flamencodiva​​​ @blacktithe7​​​ @sis-tafics​​​ @just-another-busyfangirl @evansrogerskitten​​​ @amanda-teaches​​​ @hannahindie​​​ @wotinspntarnation​​​ @winchesterprincessbride​​​ @winecatsandpizza​​​ @kickingitwithkirk​​​  @wi-deangirl77​​​ @hobby27​​​ @mogaruke​​​ @gh0stgurl​​​ @alleiradayne​​​ @idreamofplaid​​​ @seenashwrite​​​ @manawhaat​​​ @crashdevlin​​​ @thoughtslikeaminefield​​​ @emoryhemsworth​​​

The Dean’s List: @jerkbitchidjitassbutt​​​ @dean-winchesters-bacon​​​ @maddiepants​​  @adoptdontshoppets​​ @supernatural-jackles​​​ @fandom-princess-forevermore​​​ @akshi8278​​​ @thing-you-do-with-that-thing​​​

Heartbeat: @idksupernatural​​ @imaginationisgrowth​​ @gabrielslittleangel​​

[rattyoakenbitch]

“We could...take a nap together?” with Thorin, please. :)

pairings: thorin oakenshield x reader

warnings: none

Your eyes flutter open when you feel the hot sunlight beating down at you. You sit up and rub your eyes with a groan, still adjusting to the brightness in the room. What time was it? By the looks of it, it seemed to already be midday. So at this point, you didn’t care. You already slept in, so why bother? Sighing, you plopped back down onto the bed, attempting to get more rest, when the door to your chambers opened with a creak. 

“Amralime?”

Instantly, you looked over when you recognized the voice. With heavy eyes, you drowsily greeted him. 

“Oh, hi, Thorin.. Shouldn’t you be at a meeting?”

He hummed lowly with an amused smile etched on his face, “Aye, but it was cancelled. I came back to see if my lovely wife was awake.”

“I am now,” you giggled, but the sleepiness in your voice said the opposite. “Do you have any plans for the day?”

Thorin raised a brow. “Do you have any ideas?”

Grinning like a child, you pat the empty space beside you.  “We could...take a nap together?” Thorin rolled his eyes at you, but couldn’t stop himself from smiling at your laziness.

“But you’ve been sleeping all day!”

“Does it look like I care?” You shot back playfully, and with a pout, said, “Plus, it isn’t the same without my majestic husband.” He chuckled at your choice of words, and agreed to your suggestion. Thorin shrugged off his coat and placed his crown on the night stand, joining you on the bed. You almost immediately engulfed him in an embrace, resting your head on his strong chest. You felt Thorin relax into your hold, wrapping his own arms around you securely. In no time, the both of you drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

[dopescotlandwarrior]

Beauty Chooses II-Chapter 14

            A special thanks to @statell​ for all your help and wisdom

Previous chapters at AO3

Chapter 14 Life On The Ridge  (NSFW)

I spent some time writing in our new bible, however, my excitement over telling Jamie I was pregnant kept stealing my thoughts. I would catch myself gazing into space seeing a newborn at my breast. Misses Crook asked me several times if I was well and finally laid her hand on my shoulder with a knowing smile. I looked up at her with wide eyes but she said no more. How could she know I was pregnant? I cleaned up the main room a bit and helped Misses Crook with dinner, followed by Glavia and Faith. It was getting rather crowded in the kitchen and I wasn’t feeling that well, so I excused myself to my room. The nausea eased when I laid down, so I gave in to fatigue and closed my eyes with an abstract worry taking hold in my stomach.

I dreamed I was being pushed to the curtain to start my walk. Many hands guiding me to the stage as the garment rustled around my feet. The pain in my abdomen brought me to my knees and I heard the collective gasp of those around me as they pulled me up. The pain passed and I walked quickly to take my first step into the audience, seeing girls coming back and disappearing into the curtain. Two steps and the pain gripped me once again. I tried to put one foot in front of the other until it drove me to my knees again and stole my ability to breathe.

My eyes slammed open as the pain sliced through me making me moan and clutch my knees. What the fuck is happening! Pain came again and felt like a wave flowing through my abdomen until I screamed. I knew this was some kind of food poisoning, I had seen it before when a tenant ate spoiled meat. I just had to endure until it worked its way out of my body. I closed my eyes when another wave came and panicked when I felt severe nausea threaten to spill my lunch all over the bed.

Misses Crook came running into my room and brought the chamber pot close to the bed. I felt her cool hand on my sweaty head and then a damp rag over my eyes. I wasn’t aware of time passing as I drifted in and out of sleep, or consciousness. I felt a cool rag on my face and heard Misses Crook calm me as she lifted my skirts. What the hell was she doing? I couldn’t ask her because the pain suddenly gripped me, and I heard myself moan loudly as I held my knees. My skirts were untied and pulled off me. I wanted to shout at Misses Crook, but I could not utter a word as the pain rippled through me. Towels were shoved under my lower half as I clutched the sheets and clenched my teeth. I just had to vomit or rid myself of diarrhea from the food poisoning. Then I would be fine.

When the pain came again, I turned my head to the pillow and screamed feeling a gush of warm fluid come out of me and expel one of my organs. I dearly hoped I didn’t need it. That did it. The pain left me, and I breathed in relief feeling sweat roll down my temple. Misses Crook was wrapping my organ in cloth and cleaning me up. I wanted to tell her it was over, not to worry, but lost consciousness and drifted in my sick sleep. I surfaced twice and heard Misses Crook whispering to someone. I was buried in quilts and shivering with cold. The next time I woke I called to Misses Crook and she looked heartbroken as she sat on the bed and mopped my face. I watched her as the tragedy of my loss took shape in my mind. The sadness on her face told me to prepare for a truth that would break my heart.

“Misses Crook?”

“I’m so sorry Claire.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks and she held my hands as I started to cry. I drifted in darkness, asleep I think, until I woke myself up crying.

“I’m here, love.”

The room was dark and Jamie held me close to his warmth. Sweet Jamie had the sniffles and I worried he was catching a cold. No, that wasn’t it. He knew our baby died today and he had cried. I turned toward him and buried my face in his chest, feeling his arms come around me, he stroked my hair, and calmed me with his beautiful Gaelic. It was a story about love I think, and it lulled me back to sleep. By morning, I was thinking clearly and understood I lost the baby. Jamie stayed in bed with me until mid-morning when I got up with a deep sigh.

“Thank you, Jamie, for staying with me, for grieving with me. You are the best man I’ve ever known, and I am so sorry.”

“Ye tried to bring me a child Claire, but God called him home. I celebrate your love for wee ones and I believe God will bless us with another. Your pain will fade lass, I promise, and he lives in our hearts forever.”

“He?”

“Christian Alexander Mackenzie Fraser. Please, Claire, I couldna put him in the ground wi’out a name. I hope yer not mad.”

“How could I be? You loved your son enough to give him a proper name and bury him.”

“I will work extra hard next season so we can have a grave marker carved for him.”

I was overwhelmed with Jamie’s sensitivity and love. I had known a few women of my time that miscarried and did nothing like what Jamie did. Somehow, it made me feel better he was named and buried, someday to be joined by the parents and family that loved him. I cupped Jamie’s cheek and felt I owed him my soul for what he had done. He kissed me softly and asked me to rest today and then he was gone to welcome a new family to the ridge.

I stayed in my room for two days and asked Misses Crook not to mention the miscarriage to anyone. Since no one else knew about the pregnancy, it seemed easier if people didn’t offer sympathy. What Jamie did burying our son made all the difference to me as he had a name and a place in the kirkyard. He existed.

When the calendar was turned to November, winter rolled in with a vengeance. Many of us went outside to see the beautiful snowfall and a big fire was started to keep us warm until nightfall. A cauldron of warm cider sat above a low fire and we toasted the storm and each other. I loved impromptu gatherings to spend time with my neighbors and friends. There would be far less of that during the cold days of winter, so I hugged them all extra hard.

It had been months since the miscarriage and I felt better every day, mentally and physically. I lost myself in the new books we had ordered to get us through the cold months. Jamie sat next to me on the sofa and asked me to read out loud while he cuddled with me. He looked closely at me and smiled as if to say, I’m glad you’re back. The pages turned as the story unfolded and Jamie pulled a strand of my hair out and twisted it around his finger. He pulled me closer to him and kissed my neck, then ran his tongue from my shoulder blade to my jaw making me squirm in his embrace.

“Sassenach, ye look flushed, are ye alright lass?”

I gave him a side-eye and continued to read. Misses Crook was right around the corner cooking dinner and could easily surprise us. I tucked the strand of hair back into my pins and cleared my throat. Jamie played with my skirt, inching it up slowly until I slapped his hand.

“I like it when ye fight me wife, yer so adorable when ye do it. I am ready for a midday nap, will ye join me?”

I almost laughed at the invitation, as if Jamie needed permission to rip my clothes off and have his way with me. I couldn’t resist him, and he knew it, but I acted distracted to heighten his ardor. The pages continued to turn while Jamie ran his big hand down my back, pulling me into a hug where he could run his hand down my breast and pinch a nipple. I opened my mouth to breathe exposing my arousal and I felt his interest shoot up.

“Dinna scream mo chridhe.”

Before I knew it, Jamie held me firmly and pushed his hand under my skirt and up my legs. I was horrified someone would walk in on us and see something impossible to forget. I felt his finger open my fold and his hand was back in his lap in seconds.

“Ye canna hide your honey drippin for me, love. Now, be a good lass and go to our room takin every stitch off ye sweet body before ye lay on the bed, quiet and willin. I’m comin to love ye Sassenach and I will have my way with ye, that I can promise.”

He whispered the last part of the sentence and looked at me indecently through dark eyes. My heart rate shot to the moon and I squeezed my thighs together.

“Be gone with ye.”

I bolted toward the stairs calling for Misses Crook to assist me as Jamie walked outside. I was breathless as my laces were pulled and I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. Now out of my dress, I thanked Misses Crook and feigned a yawn as she left. I laid on the bed, naked, as requested, looking at my mental pictures of Jamie’s favorite positions. “Mmmm, yes that one.”

“Yer a minx alright, my lovely wife. Just what were ye plannin to do with that finger inchin down yer stomach? I’m yer husband, and I want ye to show me.”

I looked at him through slit eyes and watched him pull his clothes off. His erection was large and purple making my arousal almost hurt. My core was throbbing and I pulled him to me, but he resisted and told me to continue. He ran his finger into my fold and my back arched as I moaned. I saw him suck his finger into his mouth and that was so sexy I threw caution to the wind and buried my finger between my legs.

“I canna see mo chridhe, open yer legs, it will be far better, I promise.”

My legs slammed open as my finger found my bud, swollen, and engorged. I whimpered his name until my breath caught as I pulled my arousal up to dangerous heights. Jamie watched me closely and settled between my legs, his face inches from my finger. I was close to climax and my chest was heaving for air. Just before my release, Jamie pulled my finger away making me cry out for him. He got off the bed and searched my drawers until he found a belt which he used to tie my wrists to the headboard.

“Jamie please.”

“In just a moment my love, I want ye all to m’self, yer lovely body belongs to me. Relax and breathe mo chridhe, this is gonna take a while.”

When he belted my arms to the headboard his erection danced not an inch from my mouth. I opened my mouth and tried to lift my head to it but couldn’t reach him. I tried to scoot my head under him and suck his magnificent balls into my mouth and became frustrated I could not reach him. Jamie looked down at me and told me to open my mouth before he pressed his cock into my mouth crashing into my throat. I was immobile and lost myself to his cock gliding over my tongue, nearly choking me. He pulled himself away from me and walked to the whisky we always kept in our room. Rather than fill a glass he tipped the bottle to his mouth as he walked back.

He ran his hand down my breast, stomach, and legs, and then tipped the bottle to my mouth. I couldn’t refuse if I wanted to and felt my mouth fill with the strong spirit followed by Jamie’s cock buried in the liquid. I swallowed as best I could and felt him yank out of my mouth. I looked at him with a warning not to torture me and heard a chuckle out of him.

“My love, this will take some time so ye need to relax and calm yerself.”

I looked into his eyes and growled like I wanted to tear him apart. One of his balls was shoved into my mouth and I was told to suck it, which I did, gladly.

“Open yer legs love.”

A fat finger invaded my body and I pressed against it wanting it deeper before it was gone again. I whimpered and moaned, feeling true pain in my throbbing core. Jamie kissed me and descended, placing kisses along my stomach and lower until he kissed my clit and I lost my mind. His tongue took possession of my sacred place as he sucked and flicked until I tumbled into the erotic abyss. I felt my stomach jerk into my orgasm and felt Jamie’s tongue on me while I took flight.

When I became aware of my successful landing on earth, I still felt Jamie’s tongue on me. Ordinarily, he watched me spin into oblivion but this time he stayed between my legs. I felt his warm hands moving up my sides and wrap around my shoulders as my head cleared. He pulled me toward his mouth until his tongue was forced against me. It made me tingle and the harder he pressed down on my shoulders the more erotic it became. I was astounded he could pull my heat up that fast and was thrashing and grinding my core against his mouth minutes later. He pushed me off a precipice that threatened my sanity and I drifted in the erotic, pulsing fog for several minutes.

I heard him growling, low and quiet, and knew it was a spontaneous sound triggered by dangerous arousal. When I landed back in our bed my one thought was to gift him the same new level of abandon. What came to my mind was to push him away, stimulating the beast, the part of Jamie that was beyond social courtesy. The beast was brutal and limitless.

“Take this belt off my hands, Jamie.” It was not a request.

He stared at my breasts and licked his lips, but he released the belt and I rolled away from him and got up. He materialized in front of me so fast I ran into him feeling his hand grip my hair and pull my head back viciously. His mouth hovered above mine as he gripped my nipple and shook my breast hard before his tongue made my knees weak. He walked me to a chair and pushed my face into his groin telling me to suck lightly and pulling my head away from him if there was too much pressure. I smiled drunkenly, understanding what he needed. A feather touch of my mouth wide open. He pushed my head to the side so he could watch me, pulling my head back for another mouthful of whiskey.

I felt the room sway a bit, but the buzz was driving my arousal. When he pushed my mouth onto his cock again, he quickly pulled me up and spun me around before he impaled me. I was so wet and felt him slide into my depths making me quake with need. I tried to increase the tempo, I wanted the friction to make me come but he pulled me to him and leaned back in the chair so I couldn’t move. Every few minutes he would pull me up and let me slide down on him again. Each time I would gasp when he filled me until I was moaning for him to take me, roughly. I needed the beast.

When he released me, I jumped off of him and knelt between his legs. I pulled his cock to my lips and asked for the beast. He watched me open my mouth and his chest heaved a breath of air ending in a growl of warning. I kept teasing him, making my request and finally, he shoved himself into my mouth and held me against his body before ramming into my throat several times. I felt him lift me to the bed and turn me to the mattress before inching behind me, like a predator sizing up his meal. He pulled my hips up and caressed my butt as he lifted himself to his knees. I knew the beast was behind me and felt my stomach quiver with excitement.

“I’m gonna love ye lass and I have no more strength to resist the pull of yer drippin honey pot. Ye’ve pushed me to my limit so run if ye have the strength, lock yerself away from me if ye can. I’m comin for ye.”

When he pushed into me, I could tell he was momentarily sidetracked watching his cock sink deep into me. I feared the beast would be in his box before Jamie let him ravish me. I rammed my body against him, pushing him deeper into me and was overcome with the stimulating depths. That did it. The beast was in control and rammed into me mercilessly, pulling my upper body toward his chest he spread my legs wide with his own giving him deeper access where only the beast had been before. He flipped me to the bed and held my ankles up in the air as he rammed me and watched my body open to his assault. He pulled my legs open, still in the air, and growled into a dozen powerful thrusts before he held my pelvis against him and emptied his seed into me.

Jamie dropped to my side panting for his life, pulling me nearly under him again. He pushed the hair out of my face and kissed me before dropping his head to the mattress beside me. I could hear him struggle to breathe and smiled to myself.

“Yer a rare woman Sassenach,” he panted. “So refined to the outside world. Thank God, or I’d be fightin every bucky in the county for ye. Ye fascinate me wild cat, and I love ye for it.”

He pulled me to him and spooned me so he couldn’t see my triumphant smile. I let him pull me into a restful nap and felt his hands up and down my arms in his sleep.

I woke refreshed and stretched before rolling off the bed to get dressed. Damn corsets. I called for Misses Crook and Glavia materialized to pull my laces and help me dress. My breasts pushed up by the corset burned with heat that intensified when my jacket was pulled against them. When my skirts were tied, Glavia gushed about the progress Faith was making with her letters and I promised to come in the next day and observe her lessons.

I felt uncomfortable through dinner and didn’t know why. I found myself staring at Jamie’s face, animated in conversation. If he looked at me, I quickly looked away feeling foolish. I scrubbed dishes after the evening meal, lost in my thoughts, remembering his powerful body take control of me. When a serving dish slipped into the water Misses Crook sent me to bed saying I was not up to task and likely to break something. I walked slowly up the stairs feeling every step push my inner thigh against my core. I closed the door and leaned against it breathing heavily, almost panting. I couldn’t take this pain and throbbing. I realized Jamie had prepared me for a release that never happened and now I was in poor condition to sleep.

I left the house, looking in all the outbuildings until I found him stoking the peat fires under the malting floor of the whisky building. Even in winter, this building was unbearably hot and I watched his unclad upper body flex until his shiny muscles bulged. It was too much for me, I didn’t care how or where he made it happen, but it needed to happen. He pulled me deeper into the building where the heat from the peat fires made me sweat and my dress stuck to my skin. He pulled off my jacket and asked if that was better. I smiled at him feeling shy and needy.

“Do ye know I love ye more than anything in this world?” he whispered. “Ye are my angel, my dearest love.”

He pushed his erection into my stomach, and I was surprised he was ready to love me again. Hot kisses drove what was left of my sanity away and when he sucked on my neck, I felt his hand moving up my leg under my skirt. I let him push me down on the soft mounds of peat.

“It’s time to kiss the angels love.”

He dropped to my clit and sucked it, flicking is tongue viciously. When I fell into the cyclonic wind of my orgasm, he pushed into me and chased his own release. I felt like a bowl of jello, completely dependent on the glass bowl to keep me together. Too exhausted to speak I watched Jamie pull his shirt and coat on and then lift me into his arms. It was dark enough to slip into the back door and climb the stairs silently before dropping into bed under the warm quilt.

“My darling love,” whispered into my ear, “you are so much fun. Yer honesty sets me free.”

I wasn’t sure I really heard it, or what it meant, but his silky voice lulled me to sleep.

After Hogmanay, Jamie and Murtagh made the trek to check on families outside our community. They would be gone all day. I bundled Faith up and sent her outside with a large bowl of juicy scraps from recent meals and asked her to dump it into the pig's feeder. She came flying back through the front door and screamed to me that men were holding Mister Jackson and his face was bleeding. I grabbed my cloak, shoved a pistol into my belt, and loaded the rifle. I was shaking inside and steeled my nerves hoping the rifle didn’t tremble and give my fear away.

I could see Jackson being held down by three men who were taunting him. It looked like he was already beaten. I raised the rifle to my shoulder walking quickly toward the men. I took a shot splintering bark and a chunk of wood off the closest tree. I kept walking and cocked the rifle aiming it right at the head of the biggest man. The three of them looked shocked and said they were rounding up their escaped slaves.

“Back away gentlemen. That man is not one of your escaped slaves and I can prove it. I hold the bill of sale for him. Move away before I shoot one of you, intentionally or otherwise.”

I could see the men sizing me up, not knowing to stay or go. When I heard my name, I gave them a last warning.

“You three idiots need to move away and high tail away from this place. Someone is coming for you and it will not be pleasant, I promise.”

Jamie had called my name from the road into the ridge, so I knew he was running to back me up. I was starting to lose my nerve with these reluctant men who could easily kill Jackson if they decided to. Please hurry Jamie.

One of the men lurched forward and fell on the ground as Jamie came out of nowhere and grabbed a second man. I trained the rifle on the third man just as I heard neighbors coming to help. Jackson was taken to his house so his wounds could be cleaned up and the three men were tied up and pushed into the wagon. Murtagh carefully took the rifle from me and smiled before joining Jamie in the wagon. Later that night Jamie told me the men were tied to a tree and left for the night. I imagined the temperature dipped to freezing and below. I hoped it would be enough to keep them away.

It was a relief to finally welcome spring in our sixth year on the ridge. As the snow melted and the days warmed up the community was a buzz of activity. Fences had to be mended, the land newly turned in preparation for planting, baby goats and pigs were born, and more families arrived to see the Ridge. The renewal of spring made everyone happy it seemed.

A young man arrived today, looking lost and fearful. He said he was a preacher and his name was Daniel, sent to the Ridge to preach for the community of God-loving souls. I thought him too young to be so pompous. I giggled at his puffed out chest which was soon deflated and a youngster’s blush colored his face. I decided he was perfect and took it upon myself to walk him through the community and introduce him to the settlers.

“If I may be so bold madam, may I ask about what I have heard in town, the very thing that prompted my coming here?”

I looked at him thinking it was a strange question. “Of course, preacher, what have you heard?”

He looked to his right and left and stepped closer to me, “do you have freed slaves living in the community?”

I smiled at his whispered question, “yes, we do not allow slavery, indentured servants, on the Ridge. Sixteen men and women were freed and now live here. They are friends and neighbors who we value like any of the others.”

His eyes were wide and he smiled, “remarkable, and praise God! But are they truly free Misses Fraser?”

“Well, they cannot leave here as freed people, they would be claimed and returned to slavery. Jamie holds the ownership papers for all of them and must take them out from time to time when we are challenged. It isn’t perfect, but they are happy here with their families, making their own living on the goods they grow and very committed to the community.”

Daniel met with Jamie and they talked for a good bit of the afternoon. When they stood and shook hands, Jamie was all smiles and I knew we had a new preacher. There was a small living space built into the church that Daniel would live in and I looked forward to our first sermon the following Sunday. I made sure to pass the word and invite everyone to the service.

A few days later I walked Jamie out to the wagon and kissed him with my arms around his waist.

“I’ll be home tomorrow Sassenach and bring ye the sweet soap ye love so much and a promised candy for Faith.”

The wagon rolled away empty and would return in a day loaded down with supplies for the coming growing season.

I heard ladies giggling as a group of women were walking toward the house. I watched them move down the trail with the sun dappling through the leaves on this spring morning. It was a sight to behold, young and old, black and white, working and living together on the ridge. I shook my head and ran to the house to prepare for hours of dyeing wool.

There was much talk throughout the afternoon, but one comment was worrisome. One of the ladies had stopped to meet Daniel, the preacher, and gave him a pie.

“He stared at the pie until I left. The man is skin on bones, have ye seen him, Claire?”

“Yes, but he was wearing his black coat and I failed to notice how thin he was. Excuse me a minute, please.”

That poor man had not asked for a thing and was probably living off the treats given to him as a welcome. I grabbed a basket and went through my kitchen taking everything ready to eat. Bread, cheese, and dried meat filled the basket. I found Glavia in the nursery doing lessens with Faith and asked her to take the basket to the preacher at the church. In my mind, he was drawing his last breath from starvation, so I asked her to hurry. When she returned, I was pulled away again for the strangest request.

“You want what? My dear, I would love to purchase fabric to make you a new dress. We can make a day of it and bring Faith, as soon as Jamie gets back.”

Her disappointment was clear as I headed back to our work table. There was nothing I could do this instant without fabric which I did not have.

Misses Crook and I cleaned up the mess and served dinner with ale, watered down for Faith. We all missed Jamie when he was away, especially me, and Faith a close second. Many nights when he was gone, I suffered with insomnia and found it the loneliest of maladies. When my eyes opened with the new dawn, I was happy that had not happened the night before and I was well-rested. Jamie would be home today and tomorrow was Sunday, there was much to look forward to.

All of us walked the path to the church the next morning feeling very happy in the cool morning. Jamie looked up at the church and declared a large bell was needed to bring the flock in for the sermon. I chuckled at him and kept walking. After the sermon, we waited to shake hands and welcome Daniel one more time. I introduced Misses Crook and Faith but Glavia had vanished. We pushed away letting the next person in line shake the preacher’s hand as I continued to look for Glavia.

As we approached the house, I could see Glavia sitting outside like she was waiting for someone. She jumped to her feet when she saw us and smiled from ear to ear.

“I am ready to go.”

“Where are you going?”

“To town to buy fabric for my dress!”

“Sweetheart, the shops are not open on Sunday. I am so sorry, but we have to wait one more day.”

She walked to her room with her head down and mumbled to Faith to come with her and practice her letters. I looked at Misses Crook and raised my eyebrows.

“Dinna fash Mistress, the lass is in love and wilna come out of the house until she has something fancy to put on.”

“You don’t say!” I could hear Jamie laughing as he walked into the house and I stood closer to Misses Crook, “who does she love?”

“The preacher.”

I am quite sure my mouth dropped open and stayed that way for some time. That is how shocked I was. I couldn’t imagine a girl falling love because of a single sermon and then I remembered sending her with food for Daniel. Preachers are supposed to be righteous people, but they can still hurt a young girl with unrequited love. I truly hoped that didn’t happen.

As promised, we went to town on Monday. Jamie and Murtagh spent time in the tavern while we shopped for fabric and some spices. Glavia was thrilled with a beautiful royal blue fabric for a split skirt and jacket. Lace for making inserts at the elbows for fancy parties and church. I chose light-weight red wool with white lace for an underskirt and yarn of the same color for a warm cowl. I purchased my spices and we went to find Jamie. It was always exciting to be in town with all the people and goings-on. I took in the sights as we waited for Jamie and Murtagh to come out.

Glavia put her hand in mine and looked up to see her cowering in front of two very rude men.

“Leave us alone!” I snapped, and they turned and ran their eyes up and down my body. I pulled the shaking Glavia to me and whispered not to fear. I knew Jamie was within earshot of us if it came to that.

The ugly one held up a coin and leered at me, then added a coin and I scoffed at him.

“Do I look like a prostitute sir?”

He showed me another coin and grabbed me around the waist. I rolled my eyes and batted him about the head with my parasol, finally sticking the pointy end into his ribs with all my strength. The man yelped and took off with his toothless friend without so much as an apology. I huffed and pulled my jacket down. When I finally looked up, I saw Jamie and Murtagh leaning against the wall watching me. I know I blushed because I felt the heat on my cheeks. Jamie’s eyes were shining with pride and Murtagh was just highly amused.

Glavia thanked me profusely and I looked her over for any injuries letting my gaze settle on a smug Jamie, chewing on a piece of wood.

“You could have come to my aid!”

”What, and miss that brutal attack? Yer a warrior woman, and I am doomed to make ye my enemy. Walk with me so I can protect ye from the other idiots in the street.”

When Murtagh squeezed my upper arm muscle and shook his hand like it was burned I huffed at both of them. Feeling Jamie’s arm around my waist I looked at him wondering why he didn’t help us.

He ran his finger down my jaw, “Sassenach, I walked out of the tavern as you were thrashing the man. I could have pulled him away to pummel him, but I wanted ye to know yer strength and ability. Besides, I probably would have killed him and been dragged to jail for murder. And ye were so cute and feisty,” he chuckled, “red cheeks, given him what for.”

He pulled me closer and continued to laugh, asking Murtagh if he saw me stab the bloke with my wee parasol like it was a sword. The two of them were having quite a laugh and I finally gave in to my own laughter which allowed Glavia and Faith to giggle as well.

Misses Crook pushed me upstairs when we got home saying all heroes need their rest. I grabbed Faith’s hand and pulled her into bed with me and we giggled as we tumbled into the soft feather mattress. I pressed my forehead into hers and smiled.

“I hope you weren’t scared sweetheart.”

“I was so proud of you mommy and I smiled when you stabbed that man.”

“My sweet little girl, you should not see such things at your tender age.” I pulled her to me, suddenly aware of Jamie looming above us. His eyes were soft and tender watching us, but he launched into a lesson for his daughter.

“Nonsense, the wee lassie is in training.” He dropped behind Faith and tickled her a bit. “Look no further than yer ma to show you how to be a lady but fierce underneath. Make no mistake my wee love, she has the heart and courage of a warrior so let her teach ye. Now, I want to take my two lasses to the river to fish for supper.”

With that, he took our hands and led us outside to the stream. There was silly joking between Faith and her father but when they laid on the big rock that hung over the water, they became deadly serious. Faith did just as Jamie did and watched his hand through the water. My yawns were getting hard to hide and I doubted they would notice if I laid down in the warm grass for a bit. Just as I was drifting off there was a loud splashing of water and Jamie’s happy cry followed by Faith screaming in horror. I sat up in time to see her little hand around a fat fish and she was terrified, throwing the fish at Jaime and running to my lap. Jamie chased the flopping fish until he could grab it making short work of ending its life. He walked toward us pulling out his knife and I shook my head side to side. He retreated behind the rock and emerged with two gutted fish ready to cook.

“How is that for fierce?” I smiled at him.

“It’s a start, mo chridhe.”

Jamie showed Faith how to spit the fish and start a fire. She watched with great interest, inches from him as he struck the flint and blew life into the flame. Our stomachs churned smelling the cooking fish and we feasted until we couldn’t take another bite.

Faith laid between us and listened to Jamie’s story about Lallybroch and the adventures he had there. My mind drifted back to my own time where people were slaves to their mobile devices, social media, television, and fifty-hour workweeks. Parents were always striving to spend quality time with their children. I wondered if they ever ate by a stream and fell asleep together in the sun. I rather doubted it.

[poptod]

The Dead Heed No Lies (Ch. 3)

Description: Things get started.

Notes: I forgot to mention this but there are certain things I took the liberty of defining about you, but it shouldn’t disturb your reading. Here they are: you don’t have a gender, you’re Jewish (not really religiously though), and you’re vegetarian.  Word Count: 2.8k

Chapter Three: Anubis’ Crime

On a bright, sunny day like any other in New York, you wandered through the streets. This day was like any other, as you had gotten up near dawn, eaten a healthy vegetarian breakfast, and wandered through the city for a while. You needn’t go to the florist, as you had already gone that week to replace the molted flowers from last week, so you stopped for a drink at a local coffee shop.

The only thing that was any different about this day was a terrible, nagging feeling you had that something awful had, or would, occur. You wondered, in your own negative mindset, if some people had felt this during the morning of 9/11. You hoped this terrible feeling wasn’t an omen of something so cruel.

During midday you took your nap, tossing and turning in bed, embroiled in the conflict of your heavy mind overthinking this Terrible Feeling. Eventually, tightened into a prison of blankets you fell asleep, a few odd nightmares spotting your otherwise eventless dreams.

“I’ll feel better,” you told yourself after waking up with the same terrible feeling as before, “if I sleep some more.”

That you did, taking three melatonin pills before collapsing once more on your bed, an alarm set for your job just in case you didn’t wake up in time. This time, your sleep was deeper, dark and blank, devoid of thought and movement. The only thing you felt was hot - curled in cloth that overheated your system, boiling your skin off and eating away at your bones.

This time, when you awoke, you found you’d left the heater on too high.

Also, you still had the Terrible Feeling.

You groaned to yourself, flopping back onto your pillow when you looked at the time. You’d awoken three minutes before your alarm, something that would usually delight you but instead made you feel as though you hadn’t slept enough.

“My God,” you said aloud to yourself, your voice hoarse. “I wish I was dead.”

Of course, this was a hyperbole. All you wished was that you didn’t have to get up and go sort through more papers. Even though this was probably your last day sorting through papers (you’d reached the letter ‘Y’ yesterday), you felt dread simply at the thought of having to work.

With a heavy grunt you hoisted yourself out of bed, untangling from the mess you’d gotten yourself into. After a quick shower and a small meal you expected the Terrible Feeling in your gut to go away, but it didn’t lingering on even as you reached the steps of the museum. Sighing deeply you went round the back, entering through the smaller, much less grand steps into the basement full of records.

You sat at the end, pulling out the first Y box, going through and making sure they were in order and still relevant, with all the correct information.

A few minutes later, steps, loud and many resounded upstairs, and you knew the tablet had gone to work. In a few minutes the King would be coming downstairs, perhaps along with Tilly, to try and distract you from your work. Most days, you’d laugh to yourself at the thought. Most people ignored you, not bothering to try and be friends with you. It was a nice change.

Today however, following the path of your Terrible Feeling, your stomach stirred in sickness, leaking out in the form of a light sweat that anxiously painted the palms of your hands.

Maybe I’m just sick, you thought to yourself, flexing your fingers against your palm. Maybe I should just go home.

Thirty minutes had passed until you heard the footsteps of someone coming down. You didn’t turn to greet them, keeping focus on your work despite the sick feeling growing into your chest like insidious weeds overtaking fields of flowers.

No cloak dragged on the floor, but there was the clack of heeled boots.

“Hey Tilly,” you said, your voice noticeably weaker than usual.

“Hi… how’re you feeling?” She asked, sounding just as bad as you.

“Not great. Had a weird feeling all day,” you told her, sighing. She stood beside you, leaning against the wall.

“Same here. Hey, have you seen Ahk down here yet?” She asked, crossing her arms and looking at you with a concerned look.

“Uh, no. Hasn’t visited,” you said, looking up at her.

“Hm. I haven’t seen him. Want to come look with me?”

You paused, your eye twitching involuntarily before you stood.

“Alright,” you shrugged, knowing you’d have time. There was only one Z box and it was small.

Following her the two of you walked up into the brightness of the museum lights, blaring the 80’s music that most all exhibits could agree on. Ever the one better with socialization Tilly asked around, while you left to his exhibit. Ahkmenrah had decided to keep his tablet there, mostly for safety reasons, and considering how much he loathed to part with it, it wouldn’t be surprising to find him there.

Up the stairs you walked, leaving behind the calamity and chaos that eons of history brought. From your vantage point upon the balcony you could see at least three people doing something that would most definitely kill them if they were real people.

People have always been stupid, you laughed to yourself, turning back around to find his room.

You continued this line of thought as you wandered the halls, mostly thinking about the age old graffiti. Sometimes, historians would mistake the words for having religious impact, when most times it was something pornographic or stupid. A metaphor for humanity, really.

Upon entering the room the main difference was blazingly obvious - the centerpiece, hanging in its’ eternal, ancient glory, painted gold in intricate patterns of Egyptian hieroglyphs was so glaringly not there.

Confused, you walked closer, eyebrows furrowed as you took slow steps. The guards towering over you in black majesty paid you little mind - Ahkmenrah had explained to them that they shouldn’t hurt anyone. Still, with such careful, near suspicious steps their eyes watched you, careful to jump at any sign of your treason.

Before you could fully circle round the sarcophagus lying as the centerpiece of the room, you saw a hand on the floor, the rest of the body obscured by the coffin. Your eyes widened, breath picking up as your feet skidded, knees falling to the ground as you fell to see who it was.

The golden robes had fallen in waves around his body, almost ornamenting his unconsciousness. His crown that he wore so adamantly, so much so that you hadn’t ever seen it off of him, was now cast aside, lying a few feet away from him.

Hands only shaking a little you attempted to wake him, feeling your legs go numb till his eyes slowly opened.

“Ahkmenrah! What happened?” You asked immediately, helping him to sit up as he knelt on his knees. He groaned, holding his head in his hands as you assisted him.

“I - the tablet, it’s…”

“Gone, I know, did someone take it?” You asked your queries hurriedly, hoping that if you did so you’d be able to call the police sooner. At that moment, it didn’t occur to you that you’d have to wait till morning either way.

“I saw him, I… I did not think he would show his face to mortals,” he mumbled, voice groggy and unclear as his weight fell into you. You supported him, trying to get him to lift his head.

“Who was it? Ahk,” you put your hand on his cheek, making him look up at you.

“Anubis.”

“I - I’m sorry?”

“Big dog head, hot body,” Ahkmenrah groaned, his head falling back onto your shoulder as he grunted in pain.

“Uh, yeah, no, right,” you fumbled, still holding him against you. Your eyes shifted around the room. As though it’d give you answers, like God would send you a sign.

“Gotta… gotta catch him, he’s got my tablet.”

“I know. Let’s go find your parents, maybe they’ll have an inkling as to what the hell is happening?” You suggested, not waiting for his answer before you pulled yourself to your feet, his arm slung around your shoulder as the two of you made your way out of the room and into the hallway.

When you finally found his parents most of the place had realized something was wrong. Apparently, if stories were to be true, the last time Ahkmenrah had been weak was when the tablet was dying.

“Your son says he saw Anubis steal his tablet?” You said immediately, not bothering with the niceties and thinking it wouldn’t bother them either. They glanced at each other, then back at you, their expression unchanging from the shock.

“Yes, I, uh, that makes sense,” his mother stammered, blinking rapidly. Ahkmenrah, no longer leaning against you, quickly added in his own input.

“I need to get it back,” he said, determination written in his tone and face.

“Hold on, you just got a concussion,” you stopped, holding your hands out in front of you.

“(Y/N), I’m dead.”

“That’s half the problem. What are you gonna do if it takes more than a night to find him? It’s almost dawn already! Everyone here is going to fall asleep and never wake up and what are we going to do? Call the police?” You began spiraling, tugging at your hair. “What are they gonna do? Can’t exactly shoot a god, right? Besides, Anubis is practically the Egyptian version of the god of death, you can’t kill death, right?”

“(Y/N)?” His father got your attention, seemingly now more solemn. You looked up, trying to regulate your breathing as you listened. “Shut up,” he said. Frowning, you obeyed.

“My son, you wish to go after it yourself?” Shepseheret asked, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. In an almost meek way he nodded, but his stone cold expression remained.

“There is a way you could stay alive during the day, but it takes getting used to. It’s,” Merenkahre glanced at his wife, “unpleasant. And you’ll need to take someone alive with you.”

“I’ll go with him,” you volunteered yourself. Sure, a week ago you were freaking out about museum exhibits and ranting about how you weren’t ever supposed to be part of a fantastical story, but here you stayed calm. Besides, you were probably the best fit - you knew a lot about Anubis and you were, as needed, alive.

“I’ll explain the… ritual, to you,” his mother said, taking you both aside as the room began to fill with chatter of the events to come.

All in all, when she finished speaking, you sort of understood. She would use a specific paint to paint a symbol onto his forehead. It’d turn him to moveable stone during the day, and at night, he would become flesh and bone again. However, every night, you would need to make a blood sacrifice to repaint the symbol.

The young King did not seem to like that.

“Couldn’t we use the blood of a different creature?”

“It’s easier to use (Y/N)’s. Otherwise you’d have to be killing animals everywhere and you’d leave a blood trail,” his mother said.

“I’m fine with it. I just won’t cut my palm. Most nerve endings are there,” you agreed, remembering a stupid post online about explorers in movies.

“See? The child is fine with it.”

“Mother.”

“Come, I will get you ready,” she said, ignoring her sons’ berating and taking him to the side. You watched in interest as she pulled a purple bottle out of one of the glass cases. Assuming it was the special paint she’d spoke of, you sat down across, paying close attention as she drew the eye of horus upon his forehead.

“Oh, Eye of Horus. That’ll be easy enough I think,” you said when they’d finished. “Why is Anubis stealing the tablet? And now of all times? It’s pretty late in the game to do so.”

“He’s the oldest god of death. I suppose he doesn’t like my family coming alive every night,” Ahkmenrah sighed, standing up once his mother put the paint back.

“Right, but the role was taken over by Osiris, a long time ago. Isn’t Anubis supposed to be with the scales now? Deciding who’s good and bad?”

“Actually he’s the god of embalming,” his mother clarified.

“Also protector of tombs,” Ahkmenrah added.

“I know the stories.”

Osiris took over as Ruler of the Earth, then was killed by his brother Seth, who murdered him by putting him in a coffin, sealing it, and pushing it into the Nile. Osiris’ wife, and sister (you shivered, never one for incest) retrieved his body, but Seth cut up Osiris and scattered him through Egypt. It was Anubis himself, along with Isis and Nepthys who retrieved all of him back, except his penis, which was apparently very important, but either way Anubis wrapped the body up in the first process of embalming.

“It’s a disgusting story but yes, I know it. He’s a lot of things but it doesn’t answer my question, why is he interested now?”

“Probably some god drama made him king of the underworld again,” Ahk rolled his eyes, earning a chiding elbowing from his mother.

“Don’t disrespect them. Still, we need the tablet back. It was a gift from Khonshu.”

“My father says he insisted we never lose it.”

“Let’s go find it then.”

The three of you left back into the larger room, where the exhibits had grown louder, only calmed as Tilly frantically made her way through the crowd.

“The tablet was stolen?!” She asked, panting.

“Yes, we need to go get it, Ahkmenrah will be safe if he stays with me. Anubis stole it and I think I may have an idea as to where he might be going,” you explained quickly.

“You do?” Ahkmenrah asked, obviously impressed.

“Yep, let’s go.” You tugged his arm, pulling him off to the side to pull up a map on your phone.

“These are ley lines. Ancient magnetic lines that connect spiritual sites. There’s a major one in Canada near us, and the distance between the two worlds, ours and Duat, is smaller there. I think Anubis needs to go there. Thank God he doesn’t have wings, so he’s on foot like us, but we need to get your tablet back before he goes to the underworld. I don’t think we’d survive a journey there.”

“Probably not,” he agreed easily.

“We should head out that way then. Anubis can turn into a dog, right?”

“Jackal.”

“Right. He’ll probably want to cut through the woods so we’ll follow that way. Thank god for snow, so he’ll be leaving tracks,” you said, pocketing your phone and turning to him.

“Do you think we should take Sacagawea along?”

You paused, ready to leave at a moments notice but stopped by his suggestion. It’d be smart, certainly, but that’d also mean more blood from you. Still… she was the best tracker in the whole museum and you had no idea what you were doing.

“Ask. I’ll get some more information from your parents,” you said, and he nodded, the two of you splitting off from your space next to the wall.

Finding his parents, they immediately pulled you aside before you could ask any questions.

“Ahkmenrah will turn to stone whence the day arrives. Immoveable stone,” Merenkahre said to you, his eyes stern.

“Shouldn’t you tell him that?”

“I believe it’s best not to. Remind him that it’s natural and after a few days he should be able to move his full body.”

Slowly, you nodded.

“Okay.”

A few minutes and he found you again, Sacagawea by his side. A few minutes more, she had the symbol upon the back of her hand. In just one more minute, the three of you had bid your good byes, and though Tilly had requested to come with, she rescinded her request when you explained the trek you had to make.

As you left the doors, reality sunk into you - you didn’t exactly have the right supplies for a journey in the middle of winter. You had a jacket, but it wasn’t a winter jacket, and what were you going to eat? Then you patted the cellphone in your pocket, remembering there were charging stations at every Starbucks, and that you had Apple pay. How modernly convenient.

The King had a stern yet worried look on his face as Sacagawea led you, and in a moment of comfort, you held his hand, squeezing once to assure him it’d be alright.

“We’ll get it back,” you told him quietly as she led you down alleyways and backstreets. His eyes glanced to you, burning with determination.

“I know.”

[babybadger]

One where Trent just found out he’s going to be a dad for the second time and he’s freaking out so Jordan speaks to him at training a and offers for your families to meet up and talk about having two young kids ~ sorry this is long I just thought it was cute xxx

ahhh this is so cute, P.S don’t ever worry about long requests, it gives me more to work with so they end up long like this :)❤️

Trent had been so excited when he found out you were pregnant again. With your first daughter being only one though, he began to panic when you were settled in bed. It’s silent as you lie on Trents chest, getting in some snuggles before your bump grows and gets in the way again.

“Do you think it’ll be hard?” he asks out of nowhere, his accent thicker than ever in his low tone. “What? Another baby? I mean we did it with Mia and look how amazing she turned out.” You ask not moving your head from his chest or opening your eyes. You knew Trent would have his eyes wide open, cogs in his brain turning incredibly fast, thinking about your first daughter. You’re not upset, are you?” You ask in a quiet voice, sitting up to face him. He also shuffled back to sit up by the headboard and put his arm around you. “No ofcourse not, I’m excited I promise. I’m just worried about leaving you all the time knowing you’ll have to worry about Mia and being pregnant and then having another baby when Mia’s only like 2.” You smile softly at him and lightly push his shoulder down to force him to lie down again. Snuggling back into him you quietly say “I’m a strong women Trent, I might cry a lot when I’m pregnant but it’s worth it for our babies.”

The next day at training, Trent’s head was all over the place. He had left before you even woke up, checking Mia was okay before kissing both of his girls heads and going to work as normal. At breakfast in the canteen, he couldn’t shake the thought of you having morning sick when you were pregnant with Mia and wondering if it was happening right now, without him there to help. He was staring into space before his teammates snapped him out of it and Joe told him it was time for them to head to the changing rooms.

As they got ready for training Trent was silent. It was weird not having his thick accent or belly laugh fill the room and Jordan was the first to notice it. The other boys had all left when Trent had only sat down to put on his shoes. “Fuck” he muttered under his breath knowing he was going to be late for drills. Meanwhile Jordan had asked Klopp if he could speak to Trent for a bit to fix whatever was getting him down. Klopp ofcourse said yes and sent the captain on his way.

Back in the changing room Trent was tying his last lace and about to put on his shin pads. “Right sit down whats up?” Jordan said sharply walking into the changing room. “In fact let’s find a private space c’mon.” The captain demanded again. Trent was completely confused but followed Jordan to an empty meeting room. They sat down and Trent tried to not make eye contact with him. He knew Jordan wanted to have a go at him for his head not being in it during the morning meeting or breakfast.

“Tell me whats going on.” Jordan said leaving back in the chair. Trent looked confused at him. “Don’t pretend something isn’t cause I’ve known you since before you broke first team and I’ve never seen you this spaced out.” “She’s pregnant” Trent mutters as Hendo comes to the end of his sentence. “What?” “She’s pregnant again” Trent sighs his hands wiping over his face. He wasn’t sure why but he wanted to cry. “Congrats mate! Why you upset? I mean I know it’s yours cause Y/N isn’t a cheater. So what’s there to not like?” Hendo questions his teary eyed friend.

“Mate it’s okay seriously. I thought you loved having a kid? Here” He said passing the box of tissues from his side of the table to Trent. “I do, I love Mia with my whole heart, you know that. But I missed all the little things she did as a tiny baby. Y/N used to tell me how she’d scrunch up her nose when she cried at midday which meant she was ready for her nap, and how hard she would laugh at the lunchtime shows on TV because they were so colourful. I missed all that man and the only thing I wanted with our next child if we had one was to have them once I was nearer retiring so I could see all those moments.”

Jordan is entirely touched my his teammates speech. He knew how much family meant to trent but hearing his speak so highly of them was admirable. He went to explain himself but Trent wasn’t done, he needed everything off his chest. “and now I’m leaving my pregnant wife to look after our 1 year old which will eventually mean she’ll be looking after a terrible two year old and a newborn by herself so I can go kick a ball about. I mean what if she takes out the frustration on me and I come home one day and just see a pen and divorce papers on the table and I have to..” “TRENT” Hendo says loudly shaking his friends shoulders out of it as Trent gets stuck staring onto space and working himself up again.

Trent was fully unaware that he had gone into a trance thinking of the fact you could leave him. Massive tear tracks formed down his face and he wipes them with the tissues. “Can I speak now or do you need to say more?” Jordan chuckles. Trent just nods, his throat still caught with emotion. “I know exactly how you feel okay? When my second girl was born, I was convinced Rebecca was leaving me one night when she was late home from her mums with the girls. Cried for a hour on the stairs just waiting on her, terrified she’d gone. It’s okay to be scared mate, alright? It’s natural and you’re still so young. I’ll speak to Rebecca about keeping Y/N company and giving her tips about how to look after two young ones okay? She’s not alone in this. I’ll talk to Klopp about cutting you some slack aswell, he’s a father too he’ll get it.” Hendo looks straight across the table at Trent and let’s out a large sigh. “Stop being so hard on yourself”

“Ahhh come in come in” You beckon to Jordan and Rebecca as they come to your house for a visit a few nights later. “Y/N I..ugh.. I honestly hate to be a pain but the girls fell asleep in the car, so you mind if we put them upstairs in a bed?” Y/N smiles a massive friendly smile. “Tonight Mi casa es su casa” You laugh and let Jordan carry a girl in both arms upstairs. “So I believe I’m here to give you tips” Rebecca days to you. “Me? Tips on what?” Your friend looks at you shocked “oh my god he didn’t tell you” She then turns to Jordan who’s coming down the stairs, “ he didn’t tell her.” He also sighs and you look between the two of them stressed.

Two hours later and they had explained the who situation to you. Jordon went over what happened at training and by the end you were begging Rebecca for more tips, writing them all in your phone. Mia lay silently in Jordan’s arms, staring up at her Godfather with wife eyes as he made funny faces at her to keep her quiet.

The door suddenly slams notifying the adults that Trent was back from his physio and fitness check. “Hey Y/N I’m home who’s car is that in the drivewayyyeeeeHey Jordan” He squeaks at the end knowing he was caught. He didn’t want you knowing he was stressed in fear that you would stress more. “Alright mate?” Jordan replied passing Mia up to Trent before he took a seat back beside you. “Becca and Jordan here were giving me tips for caring for two young ones at once.” You say smiling sweetly at Trent who almost sighed of relief that you hadn’t been notified about the training incident a couple of days ago. “Hey babygirl, who’s getting so big? Yes yes you are” Trent cooed at his daughter, blowing raspberries on her tummy to make her laugh as you saw the other couple out.

Eventually Trent had got Mia to sleep after a bottle and he climbed back into bed with you. Yet again he kissed you goodnight and you held each other tight, kidding yourselves that you weren’t going to have a conversation before you slept. “I’m terrified too you know” You start the conversation but he doesn’t reply. “Terrified about giving birth again, terrified about caring for a newborn again, terrified about the back pain, heat sweats and headaches again, Terrified that Mia will be a jealous sister and hate me for caring for the baby. the list goes on. I’m really scared Trent.” You finished and Trent feels your tears roll from your cheeks to his chest. “Oi babygirl none of that yeah? We got each other to lean on. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how I feel, just that you were so excited about having a baby I didn’t want to drag you down. Now I know communication is key and as cheesy as it is, if we communicate we’ll get through it and have a happy healthy baby by the end yet again, okay?”

You nodded your head and Trent crawled down to your belly and began to speak to your baby who was barely a baby yet. “Mummy and daddy are terrified of you and you probably don’t even have proper toes yet.” He started off which made you laugh. These were the most important moments. Even if Trent missed what happened during the day, he always made up for it in love. Love always conquers fear.

[everlarkficexchange]

Unmasked ~ Twenty-Four

Written by: ~ M ~

Prompt #88

Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; discussions of miscarriage; discussions of minor character suicide; references to non consensual sexual situations; minor character death. 

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery. 

Dear readers, we continue with our game. I thank you for allowing me to write and share with you from behind a mask, for embracing this story wholeheartedly despite not knowing my identity. Remember, learn my name, you must use the clues in each chapter starting with 21 until the end to hunt for a word in the text of each chapter itself. Gather the words, hold onto them, for they will provide the final clue to the puzzle. 

Please enjoy the twenty-fourth chapter of this adventure. It is again a lengthy chapter. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

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~~ Chapter 24 ~~

The morning we leave Everdeen dawns cold and grey. Frost covers the ground and a chill seeps from the stones through my boots as I make my way outside to the stables. Inside is warm, the pungent scent of horse and hay heavy in the air. Peeta is already here, silent as he communicates somehow with Cicero, through touch alone. Peeta turns to give me a wan smile, alerted to my presence by the response of both horses to my scent. We have chosen to leave our mounts here at Everdeen, in Johanna’s able care, and will travel by carriage, but we cannot leave them without a farewell. We stand side by side as we do so.

When we leave the stables, my hand seeks out Peeta’s and he twines our gloved fingers together. We walk with matched steps towards the carriage, two well worn trunks tied to the top and a quartet of horses waiting, stamping their hooves in the chill air to keep warm. Frederick sits atop the box, draped in coats and scarves and blankets for warmth.

We embrace and bid farewell to our family. The last time I left, it was with determination and trepidation. I feel those same things again this morning as Madge murmurs words of encouragement to me. Yet there is more inside me. As I ascend into the carriage, my fingers tucked into Peeta’s as he assists me, I also feel a joyful sort of anticipation.

The carriage leaves, and we wave to those we leave behind until they are out of sight, faded into the distance. I ensure that my healing kit is secure beneath my seat, then I seize one of the fresh, warm blankets Sae stocked the carriage with and leap across to the opposite seat to sit beside him.

Peeta laughs as I insert myself in his arms, pressed tight to his body. He adjusts the blankets about us, creating a cocoon of comfort. “Much better,” I declare as he leans down and kisses the tip of my nose.

The journey takes several days, all of which begin cold, and gradually warm to a comfortable temperature by afternoon. Night brings the chill once again. As we travel north, the cold only permeates deeper, lasts longer, until the day is nothing but cold. We spend our time in the carriage seated as close as possible, talking or reading, and on one especially dull stretch of road…kissing madly. Peeta’s hand wanders beneath my skirts, toying with the ribbons on my stockings and teasing me until my thighs quiver with the need for him to touch me, to bring me to climax on those clever fingers of his. 

Unfortunately, just as I think we’re getting somewhere, we reach our midday stop and he withdraws his hand. I consider pleading ill and demanding we take a room at the inn for the night rather than merely stopping for sustenance, but this is not a purely pleasurable trip. We’ve a child waiting for us and can not afford to tarry longer than planned.

After our noon meal that day, I curl up and sleep, content and warm, reclined against Peeta’s shoulder. There are occasional unplanned stops when the nausea and dizziness overwhelm and I can no longer withstand the jostling of the carriage. On those stops, I must run for the side of the road. Peeta is unfailingly there to help me right myself and to comfort me after. He is, for the entire journey, perfectly solicitous and perhaps a tiny bit overly protective of me. I feel it in the way he guides me in and out of establishments when we stop, in the way he uses his body as a physical shield between mine and strangers. It is in the way he tucks me into blankets and confers with Frederick to ensure everything is safe and secure before we depart. The knife always near at hand, even when we are locked in our room for the night and tucked into bed.

At night, we sleep bodies pressed tight together on cramped inn beds, too tired to engage in much beyond holding one another and a few murmured words before we sleep. Besides that, I am uncertain of the cleanliness of these beds and their comfort leaves much to be desired, so I restrict myself to chaste nights with my husband. De Vale will certainly have clean, comfortable beds for us to make use of and provide time for us to better rest.

Peeta does not seem to mind. In fact, the closer we get to de Vale, the more distant he becomes. At first, I am annoyed and hurt by this, but then I think about what it must mean to him, what it must take to fulfill this request – no this demand – from the man who might biologically be his father but whom is such only because he raped Peeta’s mother. What a sticky, uncomfortable position that must have constantly put Peeta in as a young man, even now as a man fully grown. Their relationship forever one part reluctant gratitude and one part utter loathing.

I cannot fathom how he handles it and manage my annoyance at his growing distance by lacing my fingers with his, kissing his cheek, and murmuring that I love him and that he can speak to me if he wishes to. 

On the third day of travels, Peeta shifts uncomfortably, waking me from a nap after a fitful night of sleep. “What is it?”

“We’ve reached the border of de Vale,” he says simply.

“Oh good. I could use a cup of tea and a long stroll to stretch my legs,” I say and Peeta caresses over my cheek, tilting my lips up to his.

“I’m afraid that is still a few hours away, my love.”

“What?” I ask and practically crawl across his lap to lift the curtain and stare out at the lands. 

Sharply sloped hills lead to craggy cliffs. Snow twirls through the air, tossed about by haphazard winds. The land is grey and brown and dismal, the snow sticking to the ground in patches without accumulation that make it appear… spotted and ugly. There is no sign of a house or a lane.

Peeta shifts me so that I may see better, ties back the curtain. I shiver and he wraps his arms and the blanket around me.

“It’s so…cold,” I say and he nods.

“And we’re not even to the house yet.”

I snort and set my hands over his so he will continue to hold me. “Is it truly another several hours’ journey?”

“Yes,” he says and I sigh. 

We pass the next few hours sharing only scattered words. I would demand he put his hands under my skirts again to distract him, except he seems so agitated that I am uncertain of his response. As we draw closer, I can no longer stand the silence.

“Should we pretend to be miserable together? Would that satisfy the Marquis enough to hasten our visit?”

“It does not matter how we present ourselves. He will think he has won somehow.” I have no answer for that and turn a quizzical look towards Peeta. He runs a hand through his hair, disturbing the carefully styled curls that have behaved themselves all morning since we left the inn, but he explains. “If we are miserable, he will delight in it and claim it is because it is what we deserve. If we are happy, he will claim credit for that and arrogantly assume it is all his influence.”

I snort at this and make another suggestion. “And if we are silent and apathetic?”

“Close enough to miserable for him delight in that as well.”

“Are you not supposed to be making me like this man? He is technically your father.”

“He was never my father, not in any real sense. More of a benefactor.” Peeta looks out the window, away from me. His jaw tense and his frame rigid in his seat. I slide across the carriage seat to wrap my arms around him and kiss one cheek, then the other, claiming his attention.

“Then we might as well be just as we are, husband, no pretending, no games.”

“And what are we, wife?”

“Madly in love and ridiculously happy, of course,” I tell him and he smiles. 

“That is an act I can manage quite easily, for it is no act at all,” he says and we distract ourselves with kisses for a few minutes.

Then the carriage slows and curiosity gets the better of me. I lean against the window as we turn down a lane marked with a massive stone archway, carved with intricate statuary. Angels pluck harps, wild stag flank the entrance, a fox scampers low to the ground. There are words inscribed at the apex of the arch, but I do not have a chance to read them before we are beneath it and moving on.

Peeta shifts again and when I turn to him, he is tugging at his collar as though it chokes him. I take his hand and pull it away. Our eyes meet and I tend to his collar and cravat, ensuring that it is once more perfect.

“Thank you.”

“It is just a cravat,” I whisper and I see my own feelings reflected in his eyes. We both know he means to thank me for far more than a bit of knotted silk. “And what of my appearance?”

“Perfect, although I now wish I had more time to have you looking well kissed,” he says with a slow, lopsided smile that makes me feel as though I could brave just about anything with Peeta by my side.

“I am always well kissed if you are present, husband.”

It seems to take an age to traverse the lane, almost as long as it would take to travel the breadth of Everdeen in its entirety, and still I am not prepared when the house finally comes into view.

“That is a castle… not a house,” I say and Peeta chuckles, the sound rather dark, but I shake my head, wondering how he can laugh. I imagine him as a boy, frightened and facing this for the first time. I am a woman fully grown and I feel the urge to run and hide at the imposing facade. “How terrified you must have been coming here for the first time.”

“It was not the first such manor I had seen. I grew up on one.” I glance back at him and scowl, waiting for the truth. He shrugs and examines his gloved fingers, folded in his lap. “It is quite different entering through the front door of one of these places as opposed to the servants’ entrances… So yes. I was petrified. By the time the Marquis brought me here, I had been living as part of his household for nearly six months and had already made an infinite number of errors, been at the sharp end of a strap countless times. At first, I feared the Marquis would toss me from the moving carriage on the road somewhere between Capitol and here and be done with me. I think in some ways I almost hoped for that to happen.”

“But he did not,” I say and Peeta nods.

“My presence kept Robert occupied and entertained so that the Marquis could read his papers the entire journey. I suppose he saw me as useful for the first time after that.”

My scowl and my dislike of the Marquis only deepens. Peeta takes my hand and squeezes once as the carriage reaches the courtyard. As soon as it halts, the door is opened.

“Master Mellark. Welcome home,” a nasal voice greets and Peeta gives the man a half smile that is more grimace than anything else as he heaves himself from the carriage.

“Thank you, Branson. How is Anastasia?”

“Ill with the grippe again, sir.” He sounds more annoyed than worried and I wonder at this.

“My condolences. I presume Doctor Hassel has been to see her?”

“We expect him this afternoon, sir.”

“Good,” Peeta says and extends his hand to me. I take it and carefully descend. “Branson, my wife, Katniss Mellark.”

“An honour, Madame,” says the dour looking man as he bows to me. He snaps upright and spins about, waving his hands in some sort of signal. A handful of servants descends on the carriage as Peeta and I slowly walk towards the front of the house. A carved archway, identical to the one over the gate, frames the front door, a massive and imposing thing of polished wood with ornate handles and knockers that I am not certain I could even grasp, they are so thick. I can make out the words on the archway this time and read them.

“Non ducor, duco.”

“I am not led, I lead,” Peeta translates and I shudder. From what I know of the Marquis, he is the last sort of man who should be allowed to lead anyone. Controlling and manipulative, cruel and untouchable, amoral yet seen as an example.

As we ascend the stairs, a woman with regal bearing and dressed in deep shades of purple steps onto the wide verandah, her hands folded in front of her.

“Whatever you do, do not give in to her bait,” he says under his breath. “She will attempt to have you screeching in anger or crying in despair at some point during this visit.”

“You wait to tell me this now?” I ask and he sighs.

“I feared that if I told you, you’d abandon me to face this alone,” his voice carries a slight whine and I cannot help but laugh at his discomfort.

“How many times must I remind you, husband…”

“You are not so fragile,” he finishes with a smile at me, but it fades as we reach the verandah. His usual, easy expression vanishes in favor of one far more somber than I am used to seeing. It is an expression suited to a funeral, not a homecoming.

“You grace us with your presence at last,” the woman calls out as we reach the top.

“Lady Mellark,” Peeta says when we halt in front of her. He bows and I curtsy, but I keep my eyes on this woman, who could have been my mother in law and instead is now simply a nuisance to me. “May I present my—“

“I know precisely who she is. The chit who was not exceptional enough for my Robert.”

Lady Tabitha Mellark is rather petite and delicate looking. Her brown hair a light shade, close to that of some of the reeds that grow alongside the lakes of Everdeen. Her nose tilts up the smallest amount and her green eyes seem almost vacant and unseeing, or perhaps bored as she flicks her gaze over us, dismisses us both. I add haughty and bitter to my list of descriptors for her.

“I am pleased to meet you, Lady Mellark,” I say in as sweet a voice as I can muster.

“Hm. Well, you’re not as pretty as a Mellark wife ought to be, but at least you are only married to an illegitimate son.” I’ve no idea how to respond to such insults and hold my tongue, refusing, as Peeta suggested, to rise to her bait. “Branson will see you to your rooms. Tea in an hour. Do not keep me waiting.” 

Her edicts delivered, she spins about, her skirts flaring and her slippers clicking on stone then marble as she leaves us in the doorway.

“That went well, I think.”

“No bloodshed, tears, or screeching. I deem that a rousing success,” Peeta says and I laugh. The sound bounces off the walls as we enter the hall and I spot at least one servant who is startled by the noise.

We are barely over the threshold when a silent servant pauses in front of Peeta and presents a silver tray with a folded and sealed piece of parchment on it. I attempt to hide my surprise as Peeta accepts it with a murmured thanks and the servant disappears. He opens it, the sounds unbearably loud in the hall. As he reads, I examine the foyer and understand in an instant why Peeta implied that the house itself would seem far colder than the weather outside.

The place is a monument to wealth but feels nothing like a home. The foyer alone would hold one whole wing of Everdeen. Ornate fixtures and paintings turn the walls into a veritable museum. Tall narrow windows admit the faint winter light but the heavy, dark blue velvet drapes that hang in perfect shapes to imitate waterfalls give more the feeling of entrapment. I cannot help comparing the shimmering crystal chandeliers, and perfectly polished marble floors with no carpets to add warmth to the room with the warm tones, abundance of fabrics, the sturdy metal light fixtures, and worn wooden floors of Everdeen. The sprawling ceilings of de Vale to the cozy comfort of my own home.

I shiver and Peeta grumbles as he pockets the note, turning to rub warmth into my arms. “I am summoned already. Will you be alright getting us settled on your own?”

“I will be fine,” I assure him and tilt my head back to accept his soft kiss, a reassurance that I need before I watch him walk across the hall in one direction while the dour butler named Branson leads me down a hallway and up a flight of stairs in the other direction. The hallway on the second floor is lined with gleaming wooden doors on one side and more of the massively tall and narrow windows with their suffocating, imitation waterfall drapes on the other. Still no carpets. I will need to wear shoes at all times in this place.

I am pleasantly surprised by the room Branson shows me to, however. The wealth in it is still an excess and a little intimidating, but there is a cheery fire in the hearth, several thick rugs to hold the warmth, and the bed appears luxurious and inviting. Decorated in cheering yellows and warm green tones, the room is a circle of spring in a vast winter prison. It is the nicest piece of de Vale I’ve yet seen. A maid bobs a curtsy and scurries from the room as the butler mutters something to her. I do not hear the words, but I do hear the biting tone.

“Welcome to de Vale, Madame,” the butler says to me with a bow. “Lucy will be in shortly to assist in your unpacking. If there is anything you need, the bells are on the wall.”

“The bells?” I ask and turn towards where he gestured. A quartet of velvet cords all with etched placards. Kitchens. Laundry. Personal Maids. Housekeeping. “How efficient,” I mutter but when I turn around, Branson has disappeared. 

In his place, a footman carries in my trunk and sets it near the bed. He bows and is gone before I can even speak. It is strange and coldly efficient and…aggravating. A maid appears on his heels, not the one from before, and curtsies before moving towards my trunk.

“There’s no need,” I say and she purses her lips.

“You do not wish to unpack?”

“I can manage for myself,” I say and smile at the girl. She’s young. Barely older than Prim, if I had to guess. This must be Lucy.

“But the Mistress…” 

“Oh there is no need to worry about that. She’s no need to know that I unpacked my own things.” The maid stands there, looking confused and something strikes me then. “Where is…where is my husband’s luggage?” 

“It would have been taken to his rooms,” Lucy states as though that is obvious.

“His rooms? Next door then?” I look about for a door to an adjoining room, for surely that must be what the maid means by his rooms, but I see none.

“No, ma’am. His rooms are in the east wing, with the family.”

“And what is this?” I ask, growing more aggravated by the second.

“This is the west wing…for guests.” I stare at her and she shifts her weight on her feet. 

“For guests,” I say and clench my teeth. Whether this is Lady Full of Insults or Lord High and Mighty Mellark’s doing, the message is clear. I am not welcome. I am a guest, an interloper, and despite our marriage, despite that they never truly loved him as I do, Peeta somehow still belongs to them, not to me. 

“Shall I unpack your things now?”

“Indeed not,” I say and move towards the door. 

Glancing up and down the hallway I hail yet another servant who is carrying a parcel of firewood down the hall. “You there! Do you know your way about this monstrosity?”

“Er…me?”

“Yes, you. There is no one else presently in the hall.” He glances about him and seems almost surprised that he is in fact alone. “Where is that firwood bound?”

“The Neptune Room….just there.” He tilts his head towards the door adjacent to mine and I nod.

“Very well. If you would be so kind as to deliver your firewood and then return to assist me with my things? Oh I suppose I should ask…are you capable of carrying them to Mr. Peeta Mellark’s rooms?”

“Master Peeta’s room?” The man gapes and turns nearly puce at the mention of the name. I gather my skirts and my temper as I respond.

“Yes. He is my husband and by some error, I seem to have been banished to the far reaches of Egypt instead of placed with him.” Lucy the maid snorts and the man still gapes at me. “Can you assist me?”

“Assist you with your things?”

“Yes,” I say and smile. “Unless I need ask Branson to–”

“No!” The man nearly shouts then clears his throat. “No need, Madame. I can see to your needs.” He scurries down the hall and I grasp hold of my healing kit. The footman returns, wiping his hands on his trousers and lifts my trunk. “This way.”

Lucy follows us, despite my earlier assurance that I do not require her assistance. It is a bit of a long journey, winding through the halls to the other side of the house, and when we reach it, there’s little difference in the decor. Wealth drips from the trimmings and trappings and yet none of it appears loved or worn or even lived in. The place is spotless. Even as a bright shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom outside and lays across the floor, I find no dust motes dancing in the illuminated air. I feel as though one must tiptoe in a place such as this and place a protective palm over my womb, as though our mere presence in such a soul sucking place might snatch the life growing inside me straight from my body.

Then I catch Peeta’s voice coming from an open door that spills warm firelight and the welcome tones I am now so familiar with into the hallway. I hurry around the footman and ignore his mild protest as I come to a halt in the doorway.

“Oh. Forgive the intrusion,” I say as two sets of eyes turn towards me. One set is blue and belongs to my husband, the other is green and belongs to a man of similar build and vaguely similar features, though not an exact replica. His hair is stick straight and a soft shade of light brown, the exact shade as Lady Mellark’s. He is undeniably handsome, impeccably dressed, and his lips quirk as we stand examining one another.

“Ah, Katniss this is Ethan,” Peeta explains, motioning towards his brother.

“So I gathered,” I say and manage a slight curtsy as the eldest Mellark son examines me from a distance. No matter, I am doing the same, attempting to determine if this is an ally or a foe. Peeta’s only spoken of him in vague terms. I keep my eyes on Ethan and aim my words at Peeta. “I’ve had my things moved.”

“Moved?” Peeta asks and I nod.

“Yes, it seems there was some mistake that placed me in the west wing. Lovely room, but the distance to the dining room and parlor seemed rather formidable. I suppose with such a large house and so many guests in and out that it is a mistake that must happen at least once. I’ve seen it remedied and had my things moved to your rooms, husband, with the assistance of this fine man.” I motion towards the footman still balancing my trunk.

“Jefferies?” Peeta asks and the footman shifts nervously on his feet.

“Yes, sir. I’ll just deliver this and be back to my chores,” the footman says and shuffles down the hall several doors. I then examine the room where Ethan and Peeta stand and notice the family crest, complete with the motto in Latin, woven into the tapestry on one wall. A portrait of the Marquis and Marchioness hanging over the mantle along with a pair of crossed swords. A door leading into a separate bedroom, for this is only an antechamber, a sitting room. This is the room of a first born son and heir, I realise – Ethan’s room, not Peeta’s. I flush at my blunder before taking a step back.

“Well. I think I shall go freshen up for tea. Wouldn’t want to be late,” I say and incline my head towards them before sliding down the hall.

“Good lord. You were not exaggerating,” I hear Ethan say with laughter in his voice. I would take offense at this seeming insult, but Peeta’s answer comes with a clear note of admiration in it, the words themselves praise as well.

“Not in the least. The heart of a lioness.” 

“She’ll need it. Mother’s itching for a squall.”

“Is that why you’re here without Sarah and the children?”

“Partly, though now I regret it. I feel as though your wife and mine might make a formidable pairing.”

“Crafty, unstoppable, and terrifying,” Peeta answers, his words slightly muffled as though uttered into a glass near his mouth. Ethan laughs at this.

So the Marchioness is itching for a squall, is she? I’ve no need to hear any more. I roll my shoulders back and march towards the door through which the footman disappeared. 

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At first glance, I thought his room to be much like the others – imposing with its impeccable wealth and taste, cold in its impersonal attempts at intimidation, masculine with its heavy woods and dark draperies – but the longer I examine it, the more I notice the small touches of Peeta hidden throughout. 

A well worn sofa before the fire with plush cushions and even a large footstool. I examine the thing and make notes to add such a piece to our own sitting area. A low shelf with books, both for reading and for sketching. A box tucked next to the sofa filled with watercolors and charcoals. He should bring those with him when we depart. A cane leaning against the mantle, the handle worn smooth. We should take that as well, as he mentioned that sometimes the cold weather aggravates his leg and makes walking difficult. 

Paintings adorn the wall, not the classic portraiture in heavy gilt frames meant to impose feelings of gratitude for the Lord and Lady, but a wide landscape painted directly on the plaster walls, sprawling green fields and gentle rolling hills dotted with sheep and trees, up to the ceiling painted as a sky around the ornate mouldings. It looks very much like Everdeen and I wonder who painted it.

As Lucy and I unpack, I open a rather ancient looking wardrobe to perhaps hang my dress for dinner and startle at the black as night coat trimmed in blood red and moonlight silver that greets me. Peeta’s uniform. It is ready to be worn again, odd for a garment that has spent more than a year hanging here unused and will likely never be worn again. The bright brass buttons are polished to a high shine and the silver braiding over the cuffs and lapels gleams even in the faint winter light, the red collar stands at attention. I reach out and run my hand over the shoulder, turning it slightly and staring at the decorations pinned to the breast. A regimental insignia and an ornate cross hanging from a short bit of red ribbon. I slide my hand beneath it and read the words etched into the polished silver.

Cum Fortitudine et Honore

My Latin is patchy at best, primarily focused on botany and the natural sciences, but even I can decipher the phrase. “With Courage and Honour.” Did my husband receive some sort of medal of valour then? I’ve no answer and will not find it here. I step back away from the thing and then step forward again to push it into the shadows. Then I hang several of my dresses next to Peeta’s other coats, ones I recognize, to better hide the reminder of where the Marquis sent Peeta to disappear, to perhaps die.

By the time Peeta joins me, I have freshened up and changed my dress with assistance from Lucy, and am now enjoying some quiet time to myself. I sit on the sofa, gazing into the fire and tapping my nails on my teeth, forming a battle plan as best I can to prepare for tea. The sound of the door shutting startles me and I relax when I see Peeta leaning against the panel.

“Who is Jeffries?” I ask and Peeta shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

“Straight as an arrow and right to the ugly. Jeffries used to be Robert’s valet. After Robert eloped with Delly, the Marquis dismissed him. Or at least, I thought he had. Ethan tells me that Jeffries begged for mercy. His wife was with child at the time, they now have a newborn infant. She had been one of the seamstresses the Marchioness employs. Now she is a laundry maid and he is a footman. A significant pay cut and demotion for them both, and I suspect something else possibly unsettling although I cannot yet be sure, but at least they are not starving on the streets.”

“Such generosity,” I sneer and Peeta moves to sit beside me. “I should think he deserves a raise, not a demotion.”

Peeta laughs and turns my face to kiss me. “I did consider hiring him, and his wife.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but as I was not certain you would want to add any more bodies to our household right now, I did not wish to make a decision without consulting you.”

“I think it inspired! As thanks for the great favour he did us both. Although I think we should warn poor Jeffries that a post as your valet will be most trying.”

“As will a post as your seamstress,” Peeta says, encircling me with his arms. I care not if he will wrinkle my dress. I feel that I need this moment with him before we take the field against the Mellarks, and it seems that he does too, as we both quickly yield to the need to kiss one another.

“Your room is the most welcoming in the house,” I say forlornly when he lifts his head, and he sighs. 

“It was not when it first became mine. It required several years of secret alterations and at least a dozen arguments with Lady Mellark to make it so.” I tilt my head and gaze into his eyes, trying to imagine what that must have felt like.

“We should give Miranda a choice of rooms.”

“That or give her the option to change whatever she wishes, to make her feel at home, as though she has some form of choice,” Peeta agrees. We pass what time we have left before tea just like that, murmuring soft plans for our future with an adopted child. Ensuring that we are in agreement, a united front as parents, before we even sign the papers for her custody. We need not even say why, but being here in this house makes it clear to me what sort of parents we do not wish to be.

Eventually, we can tarry no longer and Peeta leads me down the halls and into the parlor. I feel as though I am being crushed almost the moment I enter. The ceiling soars to a painting of angels and demons locked in some sort of combat and the dark shades of burgundy and purple make me think the walls are bleeding. What a pleasant room for tea.

My fingers clench on Peeta’s arm as Ethan joins us. The two of them resume their conversation as though nothing is amiss. Ethan shares news of Sarah and his children, his voice happy and light. He speaks of a place called Medora and Peeta explains that it is one of the family’s lesser properties, acquired as part of a dowry nearly a century ago.

“The place is gothic but Sarah adores it,” Ethan explains. “Until we moved in, it rarely saw any use. Now it is thriving. You should visit for Christmas sometime. Sarah sees the place decorated with so much green it feels near to summer inside. The children fashion ornaments to hang from all those grim suits of armour in the hall.”

“That sounds lovely,” I manage to say, because the more Ethan speaks about his family, the more I think he was right. I grow to like the sound of his wife and his family and wonder at how the first born son and heir wound up so different from the current Marquis. How did he avoid the influence and shaping his personality after his father as so many young men attempt to do?

We’ve sat and talked for close to a half hour before Lady Tabitha finally deigns to join us. It is rather annoying, her tardiness after her insistence that we not be late. Tardiness is apparently reserved for the titled and wealthy, the privilege of others excusing your poor manners due to your wealth. She sweeps into the room with a maid bearing tea service in trail.

“Mother, you look well,” Ethan greets and stands, as does Peeta. Ethan kisses her cheek lightly when she turns it up for him. She sweeps right past Peeta with no acknowledgement and stands in front of me.

“You will serve, and you will not embarrass this family,” she orders and then turns to carefully arrange her skirts before sitting, prim and stiff. She watches me closely, every movement of mine under scrutiny. What little conversation we have is stiff and formal.

“Sugar?”

“Two lumps, if you please…no not that one. Those are stuck together.”

“How were the roads, Ethan?”

“Cold and barren but not much ice yet. It should still be safe for me to return to Sarah as planned.”

“Hmmm and how do you find de Vale so far….?” It takes a moment for me to realise she addresses me since she gives no name.

“Magnificent. I do so love the mural in our rooms. Is the artist still living or was that done some time ago?”

“Mural? What mural? There is no mural in the Proserpina Room.”

“Oh no, Madame. I am not staying in the Proserpina Room, but with my husband.” I say and take a delicate sip of my tea. Ethan attempts to hide his smile as Lady Mellark turns to Peeta.

“I suppose this was your doing? Countermanding me again? Have you no shame?” Before he can answer, she moves on. “I suppose you’ve grown accustomed to how things are done in a less refined area of the country. How do you find your new residence?”

“Thriving and fertile, madame.” Her face colours at these words and the bare minimum of courtesy seen to, she returns focus to her son.

“The children should come home for Christmas, Ethan.” 

“We would, Mother, except Sarah is…well not feeling well lately.”

“Is she with child?”

“No, Mother. We’ve spoken about this.”

“It is ridiculous. You need a second son. I bore three. Sarah can manage two.”

“She had great difficulty with Genevieve. We do not wish to risk–”

“Pish. Motherhood is sacrifice. Marriage to a Marquis is a duty. She must be willing to make the sacrifice and perform her duties to carry on the name or not be a mother at all. Really Ethan, you have been married far too long for her to be so derelict. You must guide her in these matters if her understanding is so lacking.”

Somewhere in this exchange, I begin to wonder if there is nightshade or perhaps hemlock growing anywhere on the grounds. I might attempt more pepper in the tea at the very least if that would cease her damnable judgements, only I fear some poor servant would feel her wrath instead of me, much like Jeffries. While I am contemplating lacing her tea with poison, Peeta devises an entirely different method of dealing with her. 

“If it is the continuation of the Mellark name you worry for, my lady, then there is still much hope. Katniss and I are happy to announce that we are expecting.”

“Indeed we are. Sometime in the summer,” I confirm and bat my lashes shamelessly at Peeta.

Ethan coughs violently into his tea and I bask in the angry flush that sprouts around Lady Tabitha’s collar and quickly spreads up her neck to her face. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lady Tabitha does not attend dinner, begging off with a headache and choosing to take her meal in her chambers. The Marquis does attend dinner, however, and my opinion of him remains unchanged from our first meeting. I search for redeeming qualities in him, as he must have something redeeming, but by the end of the meal, I am convinced that any good qualities he can lay claim to are not truly his…they belong to his sons. 

The Marquis spends the time interrogating me on everything from the health of my father and my uncle to the status of our harvest to Peeta’s announcement at tea that I am with child. He sneers at most of my responses and I see precisely what Peeta meant in the carriage. The man clearly believes the world revolves around him. The arrogance, conceit, the need to lay claim to and control every aspect of his miniscule environment is astonishing and infuriating. I am struck with the insane urge to call the man out for a duel for the sheer audacity of insulting my husband at every turn. I care not that he was somewhat generous in financially providing for Peeta. He is a wretched father. To all his sons.

I am forced to sit next to Ethan, Peeta across the table from me. I would complain and pitch a fit, except that he has shifted his seat so that his booted foot is pressed up close to mine beneath the table. This small connection feeds me at least a touch of his steadiness and strength, bolstering me enough to deal with the constant line of questioning and beratement, and the fact that I am unable to finish a single course.

The food appears, enticing in aroma and appearance. Clearly the Marquis employs only the finest for his kitchen staff, yet I am not given opportunity to enjoy it. He asks the questions, I am expected to answer. I do so as quickly as possible, and Peeta does attempt to answer in my stead several times. Unfortunately, the Marquis seems to recognise this tactic of his and manages the conversation so that I am almost forced to answer, and before I can take more than a few bites, the dishes are whisked away, hardly touched in my case.

When dessert is finally cleared, I am ready to leap after the poor footman to claw my slice of cake from his grip and scarf it down in one bite.

“Thank you for the pleasure of your company,” the Marquis states, pulling my chair back and helping me from it when dinner is done. His touch on my hand has my skin crawling and I manage a forced smile as I compliment the excellence of the food. He nods as though it is expected, then turns to his two sons. “Shall we retire to the study?”

Peeta lingers, risking censure no doubt for the signs of affection he bestows on me. He leans over to whisper in my ear. “I have something waiting for you in our rooms. Don’t wander or it will spoil.”

I nod and fight back tears. I am tired and hungry, angry and heartsick and he is abandoning me to drink bourbon and smoke cigars in the study with his arrogant bastard of a father, sending me straight to bed like an errant child. Peeta gives me a gentle, lingering kiss on my cheek and then he is gone. I consider wandering about the halls against his advice, but I am so tired and fear another bout of nausea that I trudge back to our rooms.

When I arrive, I shut the door and am preparing to fling myself on the bed to have a good cry when I notice the massive silver tray with a domed cover sitting on the footstool before the fire. I hurry over and lift the cover, laughing and crying at the sight of an entire dinner, all of the courses I missed out on, waiting for me. I savor them and relish the tastes. One dish at a time. A creamy, yellow squash soup, a plate of cool greens and ripe cucumbers in a dressing flavored with dill. How did they manage cucumbers at this time of year? There must be a greenhouse for vegetables somewhere on the grounds. Roast quail and orange marmalade, crusty bread with rosemary. Beef braised in a dark almost cherry flavored wine sauce. Fluffy chocolate cake and a creamy white chocolate beverage.

When I finish with my feast, I ring for Lucy and dress for bed. When Peeta joins me, I am sitting on the footstool, warming myself by the fire and brushing my hair. 

“Thank you for the dinner,” I say softly. “It was delicious.”

“You should have been allowed to eat it at the table with the rest of us. I am sorry that I could not keep him from interrogating you so.”

“Hm,” I hum and chuckle slightly. “I begin to understand what you meant when you first described the reason for this visit.” He sits on the sofa behind me and takes the brush from my hands, assuming the task of brushing my hair.

“I used to despise this place, this room. I may have altered it to fit my tastes as much as possible, but it was still never truly mine. I was reminded of that constantly, reminded that I would always be unwelcome,” he whispers. I relax under his gentle ministrations and tilt my head so he may kiss my neck. I shiver at each intimate touch. I can smell the sweet smoke of cigar on him, but underneath that, unable to be fully doused or eradicated, I catch the scents of vetiver from Everdeen and Peeta’s skin. He is still mine, we are still us, despite what rifts the Marquis and Marchioness may attempt to cause. He sets the brush aside and begins braiding my hair for me. “You make it feel more like home than it ever could have before. I think because you have become my home, Katniss.” When he is done, he slides his arms around my waist, his palms spanning my stomach, protecting our child. “Should I apologise for my abrupt announcement at tea?”

“No,” I say as he once more kisses my neck, causing such delightful shivers to tremble through me. “No it was worth it to see her lose her grasp on her arrogance. If only we could come up with some such announcement to affect the Marquis.”

Peeta chuckles against my neck and continues kissing me. “She would have badgered Ethan another hour if no one shocked her out of it.” But I do not wish to speak of Ethan nor of Lady Mellark when there are much more pleasant things we could be doing.

“Peeta, I feel as you do. Everdeen is my home, but you are as well. We brought our home with us in a way. Let me show you?” I whisper and turn to face him. I kiss him, tasting the bourbon on his tongue, gently pushing him back to relax on the sofa, so that I might climb into his lap and curl up in his arms, to kiss him for as long as I wish to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Do you know what I want right now?” I say into the stifling darkness of our rooms as we lay in bed, the moonlight a cool companion and the fire a crackling balm.

“Mmmm, I would not even attempt to guess at the desires of a pregnant lady. I however,” Peeta murmurs and pulls me roughly up against his chest, “would like a smaller bed so that my wife would cease wandering so far. I am beginning to miss those tiny beds at the inn.” 

I chuckle at this and wriggle deeper into his arms. My stomach makes a most unladylike noise then. “But clearly that will not be what you are wishing for so let’s have it, wife. Was the dinner I had sent in not enough?”

“It was at the time, but I am making a child. This requires great sustenance.”

“What do you need, my love? Say the word and it is yours.”

“Bread,” I say and sit up. “Fresh, warm bread.”

“Now that I think I can help with,” he says and joins me in sitting up. We are giddy as children as we pull on whatever clothing we have nearest and cover it with dressing robes and slippers. We scurry through the vast, empty halls, ignoring the cold and the snow as it falls outside the wide windows.

“When we were children and would sneak to the kitchens like this for a late snack, Robert and I would pretend the halls were haunted. We had to evade all the ghosts and goblins that inhabited the drapes at night.” I laugh as he continues telling me the story, imagining the two boys dodging spectres while in search of a tasty pudding or wedge of cheese.

We reach the massive kitchens and I gasp in appropriate awe. He laughs and fires up the ovens, inserts a loaf that has finished rising to bake. Then he quickly sheds his dressing robe and rolls up his sleeves. I do the same and stand before the wide table.

“Teach me?” He smiles and turns me so that he stands behind me, his arms around me and his hands guiding mine as we flour the surface then mix the ingredients and work the dough together. As we knead, he murmurs instructions. It is heady, rhythmic work, coaxing the dough into something usable and nourishing. I barely hear his words, my entire body alive and pulsing with warmth at performing the simple task with him. When our bread is set aside to rise and the loaf he placed in the oven sits sliced on the counter, emitting curls of steam and burning my fingertips as I grasp a slice, I smile and hoist myself onto the plank, kicking my feet as he moves to stand near me.

“Tell me about your father.” A cloud passes over his eyes and I shake my head, grasp hold of his shirt and pull him closer, to stand between my knees. “No. Not him. I meant the baker. William Thackeray. Tell me more about him.” 

“He was…kind and quiet, but when he spoke, it was always worth listening. He…he always had a story to tell me, some about the people on the estate, many more that I’ve no idea where he came up with them. Perhaps they were born of his own mind.” 

Peeta’s face relaxes then, and as he speaks and we eat, the kitchen fills with warmth and light, laughter and evident love. The cold intimidation of this place cannot touch us here. He tells me the stories. About the man who raised him, taught him kindness and to view the world as it ought to be rather than how it is. Who taught him the importance of acting as one ought rather than as one can get away with. A man who could spin tales from nothing but sugar and air and coaxing them from words the way we did bread from dough.

“I wish I could have met him,” I say when he falls silent and Peeta nods, lifts my hand to his lips.

“As do I. He would have adored you, but then… you and I likely never would have married. Probably never even met, had he lived.” The truth of Peeta’s statement does little to dull the regret that I see in his eyes, that I feel in my soul. I shift my arms to wrap around his neck and hold him close, close enough to remove all of the cold air between us, close enough to wrap my legs around him and bring him closer still. Peeta buries his face in my hair, his strong arms around me and his lips just touching my neck, sending warmth spiraling through me, down to my toes. My fingers twist strands of his hair and this…this moment here feels far too good to let it end.

“I think I am ready to sleep now, husband.” I eventually say when a loud yawn over takes me.

“Sleep or…is there something else you require, now that you are fed?” He lifts one eyebrow at me and I laugh.

“No, sleep will suffice. We will need our rest for the morning. I am sure the Marchioness will have regrouped and be prepared with fresh salvos readied for breakfast.”

Peeta laughs and hand in hand, we return upstairs to our bed where he holds me close to him through the long, cold night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The days pass much like the first. I see little of the Marquis, although he does send word every so often, summoning Peeta to his side for one thing or another. When I am forced to be in the Marquis’ presence, I am constantly unsettled, uncertain if the roiling nausea is due to pregnancy or to the way in which Peeta’s father regards me, like some sort of specimen to be dissected and then consumed. He frightens me with his cold blue eyes that could be Peeta’s, his joyless smile that could be Peeta’s. His well crafted biting words and insults that could be Peeta’s, for even in his cruelty I can recognise the talent with words that his son wields, only with far more kindness and grace.

And that, I think is the crux of what makes me so ill at ease, seeing this dark, twisted, mutilated version of the man I love and knowing that Peeta could have been like this… except that he is not.

I spend half my mornings bored and sitting in the parlor with Lady Mellark, pretending to be industrious at sewing. Afternoon tea with Lady Mellark and Peeta by my side where we trade veiled insults as much as we trade pleasantries. It feels like a constant war and after one particularly gruesome tea time, I mutter to Peeta that the infantry must have felt like a stay of execution after life here. Dinner with Lord Mellark, Ethan, and Lady Mellark if she feels up to it, then I am sent to my room like an errant child, banished from the evening, manly entertainments. 

It is a strange manner of entertaining guests, so unlike how we entertain at Everdeen. There, it is an entire event, all focused on ensuring the happy nature of our guests’ visit. Here, I feel as though guests are not welcome. A nuisance, and interruption of the importance of the family. When I am not expected to perform for our hosts, I spend my time wandering. I walk in the gardens or explore the vast halls. Peeta is able to join me on some days and instead of boring me with the history and importance of each room, he weaves a different sort of tale, just as he did our first night here. 

As he speaks, he paints such a picture that I can see it as though it is happening before me. Peeta and Robert as boys, enacting the stories William Thackeray gave to his son, a dowry of irreplaceable wealth for the life he was to lead here and then adding their own creations to the repertoire – sword fighting with the suits of armor outside the dining room, launching expeditions into the cellars to slay dragons, befriending them instead and pretending their dragon companions accompanied them as protectors on all future expeditions.

“Phineas and Isabelle,” Peeta tells me. “They preferred to eat lemon custard and cherry tarts rather then boys and lambs.”

“They did or their human companions did?” I ask with a smile and Peeta shrugs.

“The poor dragons were blamed for any number of pilfered desserts.”

The ballroom becomes a desert to be crossed and the gardens outside their wall of stained glass doors the oasis. A little used kitchen intended to prepare quick meals for the guests to consume in their rooms is turned into a sailing ship, each guest room a new island to be explored. Treasure buried under mattresses or wardrobes, disgruntled maids and guests when they discovered it. The grounds themselves presented limitless possibilities, too many for Peeta to cover while we are indoors but his words give me an inkling. All of the stories Peeta’s father brought to life in a warm kitchen on another estate in another time, used here as a shield against the dismal silence and suffocating expectations, a source of bonding for a pair of half brothers both in desperate need of someone to love them unconditionally, to care for them.

It sounds so lovely when he describes it, so much like my own childhood with Madge, hiding in corners of our own homes, venturing forth on the grounds. But here at de Vale, the lofty house almost demands more fantastical imaginings than she and I conjured, and Peeta provided. A thousand different worlds unleashed from his mind with Robert by his side, then locked away again when the Lord and Lady entered the room. I am glad that Peeta was able to find some shred of light, laughter, happiness, beauty, and love here.

On days when he cannot join me, I dress warm and wander on my own, all about the gardens, impressive even in their dormant winter state, through the humid greenhouses as I inhale the pungent scent of warm earth, digging my fingers into the soil to feel any sort of connection with my home, to remember who I am. Into forgotten rooms still kept pristine, where lessons were once taught and now silence reigns. An art studio with brushes awaiting an artist, half done paintings on a pair of easels, paints in a neat line, the only proof of use the speckles of color on the floor beneath and on the lip of the easel itself. A library with shelves upon shelves of books on every subject imaginable. I read as much as possible, sitting upon a cushioned window seat and basking in the cool shafts of winter sun that dare to poke through the clouds. The place is silent most of the time, like a tomb or a palace lost in time. So very silent and somber, it drives me near mad, and I am grateful when Peeta is able to join me and fills the world with such beautiful imaginings.

“Because Ethan and Henry both refuse to live here with their children,” Peeta explains the silence now. There are no more children to fill the barren halls of de Vale with laughter and games.

Together, we find some hidden treasures that I cannot resist asking Peeta about. In a room that Peeta calls the Music Room, there are half a dozen instruments covered in canvas coverings, piles of untouched sheet music beside the piano bench, and a half covered painting. When I peel back the fabric draped over it, I gasp in shock. It depicts a stunning woman and her lover, caught in an amorous embrace, only a sheet wrapped about their hips to preserve a shred of modesty.

“That would be Aunt Chastity. Not my aunt, but Robert’s and the others as well. Lady Tabitha’s sister.”

“How does a lady named Chastity wander into such a …salacious painting? In her sister’s home no less!”

“Chastity ran off to the continent to become an opera singer. She was rumored to be exceptional. Eventually, she became a paramour to a French prince. She sent this painting of herself and her prince as a birthday gift for Lady Tabitha one year. The Marchioness wished to burn it, the Marquis refused. They fought terribly over it and the final solution was to hang it in the Music Room. None of us have taken up an instrument and Lady Tabitha has not played since years before I even came here, so it remains mostly unseen back here.”

I laugh for at least an hour over that story. Although I should feel some pity for Lady Mellark, I instead feel some affinity for the mysterious and daring Lady Chastity. We leave the painting uncovered when we depart the room.

Despite our shared moments of levity, I begin to dream of a fog, silent and lethal as it creeps towards me and chokes the breath from me. When that happens, Peeta is there to soothe me, his own sleep poor in a place full of unpleasant memories. We do what we can, holding one another, sneaking into the kitchens late at night to bake and to talk.

Perhaps it would be easier to manage if we were not separated so much during the days. Perhaps it would be easier if we could lose ourselves in physical love in the nights, but with each night that we remain here, passion and desire seem to drain from us a little more. The cold surroundings leech all warmth that dares to challenge the manor’s solemn hold, and that includes lust. This place steals it from us in small degrees until I feel it is near a miracle that we even embrace as we sleep.

It does not help that I am in constant war with my own body, as the violent swings in mood continue. I cycle between ill, irritable, and sad with alarming speed and no warning. The moments of feeling happy or desire become shorter and infrequent, and it frightens me but I’ve no idea how to cure such a thing. I write to Mother about it yet know the answer will not reach me until we are in Capitol.

Every night, I lay close to my husband, resting my ear on his chest that I might feel and hear the steady thump of his heart, a soothing lullaby. His physical warmth and the steady strength of his arms about me serves as both a shield against the crippling cold of this place and as a reminder of the warmth, the heat that lives and breathes as part of his soul, even if it is forced into submission and retreat in this tomb of a house. I will not allow it to be extinguished. I cannot lose the man in the mask, my husband, my love, my Peeta.

Near the end of our stay, I ask Peeta to show me the family portrait gallery, that we might repeat our game from the masquerade. Most of them are as expected, grim and somber, an entire family full of its own importance. Peeta has very few stories to share about them, though.

“Ethan would be better able to give you the family history,” Peeta admits but then I find one he must know about and drag him before it. “Ah yes. The Marchioness delivers an heir.”

I tilt my head and examine the portrait of Lady Tabitha, smiling and benign, holding a chubby infant looking equally as tranquil. “The painter failed to capture the essence of her smile.”

Peeta shakes his head, clearly hiding laughter as we move to the next. Lady Tabitha again with yet another cherubic looking infant. “Henry?”

“Henry. And Ethan in the frame next to him at three years of age.” I smile at the painting of Ethan sitting and looking disgruntled with either his bonnet or the wooden toy horse in his meaty fists. “It became a tradition thereafter. First at birth, then every three years after, a new portrait of each of her sons. The math conveniently worked out as they were spread three years then six years apiece.”

I take another step and quickly peruse the next set. Ethan at six, standing and holding the reins to a squat horse, Henry as a toddler with a wooden sword and a vacant expression. Then onwards to Lady Tabitha with Robert on her lap as an infant. Nine year old Ethan in what appears to be a school uniform, six year old Henry sitting at a desk with quill and parchment. A pictorial timeline of the boys as they grow older by three year leaps with every few steps that I take.

My shoes scrape the marble as I halt and stare at a face out of the timeline, to be certain, I glance back at the ones I’ve only just viewed. Ethan at one and twenty, dashing and confident. Henry at eighteen, stoic and studious. Robert at twelve, charming and mischievous. Here now a fourth face in the grouping. I glance back at Peeta for an answer. 

“Robert refused to sit for his portrait the year he turned twelve…unless I sat for one as well. The Marchioness spent a full three days in isolation after the Marquis ordered it hung here.”

I turn back and tilt my head to examine Peeta at fourteen years old, his blonde curls haphazard. Blue eyes somber. There is, as always, no denying the brotherly similarities.

“So there are more portraits of you here?” An excitement fills me at the idea of seeing some part of Peeta’s growth through the years.

“It was one of Robert’s many small acts of rebellion, in addition to insisting on calling me his twin. Every three years, he demanded that I be painted in portrait and join them here as one of the brothers Mellark, ensuring that I was at least shown to be part of the family, if not always made to feel as such.”

“No wonder you would do so much for him,” I muse as I continue down the line of portraits.

While I note the maturation of each brother as we walk, it is Peeta’s face I seek with each new set. At seventeen, showing the signs of the man he would become, the full lips and chiseled jawline more prominent, his youth still evident in slightly rounded cheeks. And then…

“Oh,” I say as I stop once more in front of him, at the age of twenty this time.

“What is it?” 

I do not know how to account for the difference. It is still his face, the same collection of features though aged and mature — the devil may care styling of his curls, freckles dusting his nose, limpid blue eyes, the exact curve of cupid’s bow, his ears just right. Yet this portrait is entirely different, and not simply because he is all man in appearance. It is undeniably clear in his expression as well. The hint of a smile lurks about his lips and the expression in his eyes! 

Heaven and mercy! had I been in Capitol for Madge’s debut as had been planned the year this portrait was painted, and not at Everdeen dealing with a poor harvest year, had I met this expression across a ballroom, I fear that my heart would have been forfeit in an instant. Even now it patters madly at this almost knowing and teasing and tempting expression. This gaze that taunts and whispers: Follow me to shadowed alcoves. Share your secrets. Lift your skirts a bit. The pleasure I can offer will be worth the danger of ruin.

I am heated then chilled in rapid turns and cannot look away as my knees acquire all the rigidity of blackberry jam. Then words rise up from memory to provide an answer, an explanation for the change in him.

The stupid impetuousness of youth. 

Of course. This portrait is of a young man who has recently discovered the thrill and satisfaction to be found in a woman’s body. The portrait of a man who has recently removed a corset and thus his boyhood.

“Who was she?” I ask.

“Who?”

“The woman you were thinking of when you sat for this.”

“What do you mean?” I turn to face him and clench my hands together, a sense of dread and foreboding filling me.

“Peeta… I am not stupid, nor am I so naive. I’ve seen you look at me with this expression. I know what it means. Who was she?”

“Ah,” Peeta makes a noise or two of discomfort.

“Who was she?” I repeat.

“Are you certain you wish to hear? I cannot take it back, Katniss. I cannot change the past.”

“No but I can use it to understand who you are now.” He hesitates and then turns me back to face the paintings. To face his captured visage as he discovered manhood and sexual prowess. I hate her. Whoever she is, I hate her, as illogical as it may be.

“Her father was on commission with the Marquis. He painted every portrait in this series,” he points back down the hall from whence we just came, “and she was his apprentice for nearly thirty years until his death, some time prior to my twentieth birthday. While the Marquis and Marchioness had reservations hiring a female painter when it came time for this set to be done, she challenged them to give her a chance. She painted Ethan first,” he moves me back down the line and points to the difference in skill, in the fidelity and shading, the techniques between the years before and this set. I must admit to myself that even Ethan at nine and twenty and Henry at six and twenty appear more like themselves, more alive when captured with her brush than they did under her father’s. “The Marquis acknowledged her skills far surpassed her father’s. She has painted every portrait since.”

“And how did you wind up beneath her skirts?” I ask, unable to keep the bite of jealousy from my voice.

“We shared a commonality, low birth and an interest in art,” he says as we return to the portrait of him. “I began drawing as a child. Pigs and cats and things drawn with bits of rock and chalk, on the paving stones at Hilston House. Then parchment and charcoal when I continued to show a desire to draw. My mother… my mother taught me. She used to draw as well and my father would spend what he could spare on parchment and pencils for us. When I came here, Robert learned of the interest and asked the Marchioness to hire a painting master to teach him, and by that he meant to teach us, even though Robert had no interest in studying the arts.”

“Because she would have refused if she knew it was truly for you.” Another way in which Robert showed his affection for Peeta.

“Yes. She,” he points back at the portrait, “was willing to speak with me at length about art and that led to discussing other topics. We became friends of a sort.”

“And that led to not talking and not being friends,” I mutter. “You had a torrid love affair with a painter who was twice your age.” Peeta does not answer, for there is no need to.

It burns, the knowledge that this expression of sublime flirtation and desire was aimed at some other woman than me. I knew there had been someone before me, but seeing him thus, through her eyes, burns almost as badly as running through open flames. Because I have seen something like this expression myself, hovering over me in our bed, teasing me across drawing rooms when he knows my thoughts wander to the salacious and I can do nothing about it. I thought that look was mine and mine alone yet here it is in oil pigments, permanently captured and saved for someone else to remember his lips, his embrace, his body against hers.

I can see it so clearly. Peeta sitting in a chair, confidently flirting, slinging witty remarks and distracting a blushing beauty as she attempts to paint him, admonishing him to stop moving so she may finish and they might engage in other activities. His hands wandering up her skirts, eliciting soft moans and high pitched cries of pleasure. His mouth…learning the intricacies of  a woman’s pleasure under her tutelage…bodies spread across that massive bed beneath the wide azure sky painted on his ceiling… I am on fire with rage and jealousy and the need to smash something and watch it burn too.

“Katniss, please,” he reaches for me. I feel the approach of his touch in the change in the air around me. My body responds and I shake my head, stepping out of his grasp. “You wanted to know.”

I did, and now that I have asked, a hundred more questions tumble about in my mind, several of them spill from my lips, forced out by the sheer overcrowding of my thoughts.

“Did she paint your mural? Your beautiful sky and meadows? Did she leave her permanent mark on your bedroom walls after you loved her in your bed? Did she stare up at that blue sky and think the color matched your eyes as she cried out your name in ecstasy? Is that why the Marchioness would not give the name of the artist? Because it belonged to your lover?” My voice is shockingly cold and calm, given the fires raging inside me.

“Had Lady Mellark known of the affair, she would have given you every detail she knew of and several she would have made up, simply to cause a chasm between you and I.” He is undoubtedly correct and still I seethe. “Lady Mellark would not give you the name of the artist because I painted that mural.” I stop moving away from him, stunned. “I started it when I was twenty, yes. But I had known her,” he gestures towards his own face, “several years before that. She may have given some guidance at the start, but she never saw the mural itself… because she never set foot in my chambers.”

I march down the hall, uncertain that I believe him and unseeing until I reach the frame that will show him at three and twenty. I spin on my heel, prepared for another assault of a happy, seductive Peeta and am instead met with ice. My fury is quenched in an instant.

There has always been an undeniable physical resemblance to the Marquis, but there was always something in his eyes and the way he holds his mouth, in his manner of expression, that belonged only to Peeta, that set him apart from his sire. But this painting… in this painting, he truly and fully looks exactly like his father. 

My jaw drops open as I stare at him, at the cold and foreboding glower of a man with no joy and no love in his life. Once again the change from the previous painting is astonishing and unnerving. Still dashingly handsome, nearly devastatingly so, but his eyes burn now not with the playful desire and flirtation of a young man engaged in a love affair, but the cold reticence of a man who has seen far too much. He wears his uniform in this one and his face…his face is scarred. So then he had already spent time away at war. Had already saved Johanna’s life and was keeping her secret. Had killed a man, slaughtered him like a pig, perhaps more than one.

“I came home on a medical furlough after they removed shrapnel from near my ribs. Just in time for Robert’s birthday.”

“And yours.”

“And mine… so we sat for our portraits and I could barely sit still. Nothing would hold my attention for long. I felt…out of sorts in all company. I was in pain and unsure if it was from healing wounds or something fractured in my soul. This place… had begun to feel more like I might belong before I had left but when I came back, I was a stranger again.”

His words strike on memory. I burn as he speaks. Not with rage or jealousy but with memory. The sudden looks of pity, disgust, uncertainty. The carefully treading of well meaning people as they come to believe my worth, my place in the world, my chances for happiness, have been forever destroyed. How to treat a creature mutilated and damaged by flames, be they the flames of war or the flames of a fire. I burn with the cold radiating from his expression and know…I was right about us. We recognise and understand something in one another that few others can. The way scars on the soul burn deeper than scars on the skin. 

“As I attempted to hold pose and she attempted to cajole me into laughing for her… I couldn’t even smile. My body wouldn’t even allow a false one. That essentially describes my entire week at home before I returned to my regiment.” I nod mutely as I absorb the aura of the painting. 

“Did you and she…while you were at home that is…?”

“Yes. Once. We were not in my chamber. As I said before… She never saw that room at all, so to answer your other questions, all of them… No.”

I want to ask him where then, where did he lay her down and love her? Perhaps one of the guest rooms. Or did he make the effort to leave this place and seek her out elsewhere? Perhaps they conducted their affair in dark corners of the manor here, frantic fumbling and the thrill of a rushed tumble in shadows. 

“What is this line of questioning truly about, Katniss? Do you truly wish for me to paint a sordid picture for you? Or is there something else prompting this?” He asks and runs a hand through his hair. 

“Have you thought of her when we are in bed together here?” Some of my fury leaves me as I voice the words and I realise it is because I thought he had touched her, loved her, seduced and been seduced by her in the sanctuary of his room, in his bed that we have now shared, yet has not known our love, as he has barely touched me since being here. And my jealous mind now assumes it is not because this place discourages romance as I had thought, clearly that is not the case if he had an affair right under the nose of his benefactors, but because he must be remembering her. 

“No. I’ve not given a single thought to her until this moment when you asked me who she was. Katniss… I love you. I married you. I have pledged my life to you. I would not change that for the world. And I have neither seen nor spoken to her since the last time she painted my portrait. She was a piece of my past but she was only one part. You… you are everything to me. I am, in every way… yours.”

I nod and he seems to deflate a little, but I know it is in relief. Still, I have a few lingering curiosities and so I ask.

“Why did it end?” I ask softly and he takes my hands in his and lifts them to his lips, his eyes growing hazy and pained as he explains.

“She told me that there was something twisted and dark inside me. She wanted me to be who I was at twenty, but I was no longer that young man. You see the scars on my face in that portrait. You know what caused them. What I had seen and done. She knew none of it, only saw the effects and did not care for them. I returned to my regiment … and my leg was…  and I realised she was right about me. There is something dark and twisted. You have seen it too. But I—“

I cover my mouth with my hand and close my eyes. Was he as wild with her during their last time together as he was that night with me? Did the savage and riotous force of his need to love and be loved frighten her? Did she recoil in horror from the brute? I can feel the damnable wetness leaking from my eyes down my cheeks. The schism inside him in these paintings, the change within his eyes alone is staggering and unbearable. But I know that this is only one piece of my husband. A portrait can capture only a moment, a brief instance, and one expression. There is far more to him than this one moment. Surely a painter would have known that? And that’s when I realise what a fool she was and accept that I’ve no reason to envy her. It falls away lime the cloak of winter, shed to absorb the warmth and light of spring, of hope.

Just as I cannot sever my scars from my skin, from my soul, neither can Peeta. I already knew this when I wrote to him that I could handle the brute in the night and the gentleman in the sun. That I am strong enough for all of him. And that is when I understand. She held a piece of him for a short time. I hold all of him, from now until death parts us.

“Katniss.”

“I do not know why I am crying!” I say and Peeta brings me to his chest, holds me in his arms. He soothes me when it is I who should be soothing him. I cling to him and expel my tears onto his coat, and when he tilts my chin up and whispers my name, I cannot help kissing him. Kissing him even in the middle of the hall with sunlight slanting across the marbled tile and his face. I invite the brute and welcome the force of his kiss. I demand it. 

And when he finally releases me, I cannot help asking one more thing. “What was her name?”

He stares at me and finally answers, the syllables dull on his tongue. No remorse, no excitement, nor any longing. Simply stating a fact. “Ophelia.”

I nod and then compose myself, running my hands over the fabric of his coat, ironing out any wrinkles I may have caused in our moment of abandon. “I will be present at the sitting for your portrait come this spring or you’ll not be painted at all, husband.”

“Of course you will be present, if there is such a sitting. I would want you to be painted beside me.”

“Truly?”

“Truly, and I would not complain if we took some inspiration from Aunt Chastity for it.”

“Lecher!” I accuse, but I am suddenly laughing and smiling, as is Peeta when he gives me one more, chaste kiss. “Even if there is something dark and twisted inside you, you do not let it rule you. That makes you the man, not the monster.”

He smiles at me and caresses my cheek, such a loving gesture and I am struck with an idea. I tuck it away for later, another time when I am alone. For now, I take his hand in mine and lead him towards our room, shutting the door and uncaring if it is unseemly to do this in the middle of the day. We have never paid heed to that stupid rule of propriety anyways.

“We haven’t much time,” he whispers as we kiss and heat builds and builds inside me, pushing out the numb of the past few days.

“We have enough,” I whisper back as we lay across the bed and he lifts my skirts to my waist. I cling to his hair and relax into his touches and kisses, gaze up at the blue, blue sky above me. Then down at his eyes between my thighs as he watches me unfold. I gasp, keeping the sounds quiet as he loves me. I hold tight to it, so tight that I’ve no warning and no chance to prepare. My sex seizes all control as I am flung into rapture, my spine arched on the bed and his name a ragged cry that echoes off the ceiling back to my ears. My body convulsing in waves. I shudder and moan and then his lips are on mine, feeding me the taste of my own desire, my own pleasure, my own release.

I watch him struggle with his trousers, myself still drifting on a cloud of sublime release, and then he groans in frustration when there is a knock on the door.

“What is it now?” He growls and climbs off of me, yanking my skirts back down to cover me and leaving me feeling hollow, needing him to fill me, as he strides across the room and opens the door enough to speak to but not enough to reveal any of the room to the person on the other side.

“Lady Mellark reminds you of tea, sir,” comes the timid squeak of an answer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The tension continues to build, even though I’ve gained more of an understanding of it and of Peeta as a result. There are more members of the household feeding it than just us. It is like a sleeping demon preparing to rise and wreak havoc on all the world. I grow agitated and jumpy and Peeta is the same as tea is served. 

Steam curls from my cup in tranquil tendrils yet I know the violence that rages inside the kettle as it heats. I press my thighs together beneath my skirts, eager for this to be over that Peeta and I might find a quiet moment to continue where we were interrupted. I have had my release and still feel the pressure building inside me. He must be near to bursting.

Then, the stifling quiet build of tension is broken at last by the arrival of an unexpected visitor. Sir Robert. 

As he enters the parlor in the middle of tea, Lady Tabitha rises with a smile on her face. It is the first genuine such expression I have seen on her.

“Robert, my darling!” She says and practically falls on top of him. “Do you travel alone?”

I give Peeta a questioning look at her eager inquiry and he shakes his head, indicating that I should watch, observe, before I speak.

“Mother. Yes, I travel alone this time.”

“Oh I am so happy to see you! You have been away from home far too long, neglecting your mother. How long will you stay?”

“Not long. Only a night and then I must return to town.”

“No, Robert! So soon?” Lady Mellark laments.

“I am afraid so, Mother. I only came to collect a few things and to make my excuses for Christmas in person.”

“Not coming for Christmas?” Robert ignores his mother’s whining question and forges onward.

“And I have good news to share. Delly and I have secured lodgings of our own.”

“What?” Lady Mellark practically yells and Ethan once more coughs in his tea. Peeta asks if he takes pepper in it, peering into his brother’s cup, and while Ethan and Robert both laugh at this, Lady Mellark only seems befuddled.

“Of course not. Why would Ethan take pepper in his tea?”

“Katniss poured today,” Ethan answers through his tears and I give Lady Mellark my best look of innocence as she scowls and shakes her head, clearly deeming it not worth her inquiries as she turns back to Robert.

“But darling, you are always welcome here. You know that! What will I do without you?”

“I have quite decided on it, Mother. And you will be fine! You’ll finally have time to yourself as you’ve always wished for more. Besides that, Peeta was right. I cannot continue to be a burden on you and Father. I am a married man now and must stand on my own feet, care for my wife. My wife and I thank you, brother, for the assistance. I shall pay you back, as promised.” Lady Mellark whirls and glares at Peeta, opening her mouth and clearly prepared to launch into a tirade, but Ethan intervenes.

“Splendid! I shall bring the girls and Thomas by sometime soon! Where will you be staying?”

“Hartford Road,” Robert says and Lady Mellark sputters some more. 

“But that is…you cannot!”

“I cannot live in the Merchant Quarter? But whyever not? My wife is a cobbler. It is an excellent location for her to build her trade. And I am to be a barrister – oh! That is the other bit of news I had for you. I have–” he claps his hands together gleefully “– at long last decided to make use of that fine education you and Father provided for me with a profession of my own!”

“Drinks are in order!” Ethan declares and hurries across the room to a sidebar as Lady Mellark flounders, her face growing redder by the second. “Happy news for all the family!”

The brothers move to distribute glasses and see Lady Mellark seated before she swoons. I get the distinct impression that this is a carefully orchestrated, well practiced routine for them. 

“What news for you, Ethan?”

“Sarah wrote that she is much better. The doctor believes it a bad reaction to clams. So the solution is simple! No more eating clams! I detest the things anyways. Slimy little buggers.”

“Henry and Angelica?” Peeta asks now.

“Emma has surpassed Mr. Bowland’s skills by far in her studies of Greek, Latin, and Hungarian. They are making plans to travel to the continent next summer to immerse her in the cultures and languages as well as to hire more skilled tutors,” Ethan reports. Toasts are made to Emma’s brilliance and likely future as a scholar. Lady Mellark grips the cushions beneath her. She takes deep breaths, the sounds whistling through her teeth.

“That leaves you, Peeta,” Robert says with a grin and Ethan once more delivers the news, gesturing towards me.

“Expectant father!”

“Congratulations, brother!” Robert shouts and smacks Peeta heartily on the back.

Lady Mellark screeches then and Robert thrusts a glass in her hands. “Oh Mother, forgive my rudeness. Your sherry.”

She gulps it down and then stands, storming from the room and throwing the glass as she goes. It shatters against one of the paintings on the wall. A door slams down the hallway and all three brothers drink calmly, as though nothing had happened.

“Is that painting difficult to repair?” Robert asks.

“Probably,” Peeta mutters and Ethan shrugs.

“I am certain Miss Ophelia will be glad of the work.”

Their nonchalance in the face of such hysteria is troublesome. For one moment, I feel sorry for Tabitha Mellark. I stand slowly and clear my throat. “Do none of you feel guilty for antagonizing her to cause that scene?”

“Oh trust us, it would have happened sooner or later,” Robert says with a heavy sigh. “Best to get it over with fast. The longer it takes, the messier the resulting fit.”

As if hearing this, there’s shouting down the hall and the sudden sounds of more smashing glass. “AND SEND FOR THE DOCTOR! I cannot breathe! And my heart! Oh! You have broken me this time! Are you happy for breaking your poor mother’s heart?”

I watch as Robert mouths her entire diatribe nearly word for word until the last, which makes him visibly wince.

“…UNGRATEFUL WRETCH!”

A harried looking maid practically runs past the door to the parlor as the one down the hall once more slams shut.

“Oh good. An immediate call for Doctor Hassel. Usually she waits for at least an hour before she does that,” Robert says.

“You did tell Mrs. Hastings that you were here with announcements, to give the staff a warning, yes?” Ethan asks.

“Of course! I am not a complete ass,” Robert says. Then smiles at me. “Most of the time. I’ve made rather a habit of it lately but I am trying to turn it around.” 

An apology. Having learned all that I have of their life here and of more of his relationship with Peeta, I am inclined to accept it.

“That poor maid,” I say with a shake of my head.

“Who was it this time?”

“Noelle,” Peeta answers and Ethan nods.

“I’ll see she’s compensated, as usual. If Henry were here, he could tell us just how fast we managed it this time. It seemed rather swift, did it not?” Ethan says, returning to their previous line of talking.

“Robert usually isn’t the cause. I think she was unprepared for that,” Peeta points out and Ethan laughs, punching Robert on the shoulder.

“At long last, the favoured brother falls.”

Robert heaves a sigh, the sound oddly relieved. “It was still Peeta that sent her over the edge, getting his wife pregnant. For shame, man!”

“I am happy as always to fulfill my family role,” Peeta says and I sit back down, strained laughter spilling from my lips.

“Are you alright, Katniss?” Robert asks me then and I shake my head.

“I think I have been here far too long.”

“Cheers to that,” Ethan says and lifts his glass to me with a wry smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That night, we spend an hour of talk in our bed. Peeta caresses over my back and my shoulders as I whisper in the dark, spilling more of my own secrets, the days following the fire and how it affected all my hopes for the future. He listens as I tell him of the young man who had been writing poetry to me, perhaps the early stages of courtship and how his desire turned cold after the fire. The knowledge of my scars a deterrent to love.

After, when I’ve run out of words and my throat aches, Peeta kisses me softly, across my cheek and down to my scars. “He was a fool. You are exquisite in every way.”

Peeta sleeps soundly that night, yet I cannot. Excitement courses through me with each beat of my heart. Tomorrow we leave. Tomorrow we head to Capitol and if all goes as planned, in a few days we will be bound for Everdeen with one addition to our family.

I trace the dark circles under my husband’s eyes as he sleeps. Kiss each one and then his lips before I slide from our bed and slip into my slippers and dressing robe. I find a taper and light it, silently leaving him to sleep as I seek out the room I need. 

The cold is biting tonight as I hurry on silent feet through the strange halls. I imagine the ghosts pointing the way, helpful spectres who only desire to be left in peace to rest. When I finally reach it, I inhale the lingering scents of paint and turpentine. 

At first, I plot a thousand kisses to overshadow his memories in this room, a thousand ways to make this ours when we are next forced to visit here, and when I spot a divan I had not noticed on my previous visit, I have one lurid thought before it careens out of control and instead of dreaming of Peeta touching me, I am picturing him holding paint stained skirts out of the way and thrusting between creamy unmarked thighs wrapped about his hips, glossy hair spilling over the divan and fingers spotted with bright oil paints gripping his buttocks.

I shake my head and turn away from the divan. Perhaps they did conduct their affair here. And perhaps Peeta is right. He cannot change it, and I cannot erase it. This room, that affair is a thing of the past. I have only struggled with it so because I have been faced with the proof of it, whereas before coming here, I had only a vague knowledge of it. Now the lover has a name and a story. Ophelia.

I run my hands over the soft bristles and note characteristics of the brushes that Peeta would have used. His birthday is in a few months, and now I know precisely what to get for him, another piece of him to welcome to Everdeen and bring home with us. 

Satisfied that I have gleaned all that I can from the history in this room, I leave and return to bed, sliding with ease into Peeta’s arms. He wraps me in his embrace and murmurs in his sleep.

“Katniss, my love.”

And with that, I am at last able to find rest as well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lady Mellark remains closeted the rest of the day after her fit at tea and into the morning. Her throwing the wine glass is the last I see of her. Lord Mellark delays our departure in the morning by summoning Peeta after breakfast and keeping him far too long. I pace the marbled hall, dressed for travel and ready to leave. 

Robert has already departed an hour ago, calling me “sister” with an odd sort of affection and soliciting a promise that Peeta and I would see him and Delly in town. Ethan too, has long since left, rising with the sun and departing before the rest of the house had even stirred, leaving only a note reminding Peeta that we are welcome at Medora any time we wish. Even Jeffries and his wife Lydia have left in a hired carriage, a trunk filled with Peeta’s things as well as their own belongings in their care, a letter in my hand addressed to Father explaining who they are and how they are to be employed at Everdeen.

Our own bags are packed and the horses hitched. Frederick sits on the box with reigns in hand. I await only my husband. At long last, he hurries up to me, grasping my arm and fairly charging out the door.

“Do not look back. Just leave,” Peeta mutters. He moves rather swiftly, given the wooden leg. He steers me down the stairs and into the carriage, following right behind with four words of instruction. “Capitol, with haste Frederick.”

“With pleasure, sir.”

I am still settling in as the coach lurches into motion and I fall backwards, right into Peeta’s lap. His arms surge around me and he holds me tight. He inhales and releases it, a shuddering and desperate sound. “God I couldn’t bear another second of it. It’s harder to bear, knowing life need not be like that at all.”

“Peeta…I cannot breathe.”

“Apologies,” he says and loosens his hold enough to help me onto the seat. “I hope you did not forget anything. If you did, I fear it is now lost. I will not go back there for all the riches in the world.”

“What happened?”

“They were bickering and making it impossible for me to cross a room without risking something being thrown at my head.” I gasp and push his hat off his head to examine him for injuries, he chuckles and takes my hand in his, bringing it to his lips in what has become a familiar and comforting gesture between us. “No injuries, my love. Only a desperate need to get as far away as possible as quickly as possible for as long as possible.”

“For me as well, husband,” I murmur and settle in, comfortable against his shoulder and chest. “What were they arguing over?”

“Me, or rather what we did.”

“Oh?”

“They did not take the news well that I had hired myself a valet and a seamstress for my wife.”

I glance up at him and he smiles at me. I return the expression and kiss his jaw, happy that Jeffries and his wife will no longer suffer. I am too afraid to ask what the other thing is that Peeta suspected was happening to the couple, what other payment the Marquis had extracted for Jeffries protecting Robert. 

We ride in silence for a time, watching the snow dance outside the carriage. It is already nearly midday and we still have a fair distance to travel.

“We might need to stop at an inn on the edges of town,” Peeta says and I nod. “We’ll send word ahead to Haymitch when we stop.”

“Peeta,” I say, attempting to order my words and waiting for him to make a sound of encouragement for me to continue. “How is it that none of you wound up anything like the Marquis? Or the Marchioness?”

“Well…for Ethan I think it was school. He spent most of his life away at boarding schools. The best ones, only the best for Ethan. He stayed away for so long that by the time he returned home to learn the particulars of the title and estates he was to inherit, he was already his own man. Henry…no one paid any mind to Henry. They did not know how to handle his thirst for knowledge and his constant questioning of everything. They left him to his books instead, hired tutors and left him in their charge. He found mentors and guidance elsewhere, through his academic studies and letters he sent to scholars, anyone who would correspond with him. Then he too went away to university and met Angelica. Robert spent more time in the care of the Marchioness than the others did. In many ways, he is most like them out of us all. In others he is nothing like them. Since he was the third son, the Marquis had no interest in parenting Robert other than using him as a source of pride. He was content to leave the youngest in his wife’s hands.”

“Until you came along.”

“Until I came along. Then Robert spent a great deal more time with me than anyone else in the household since we shared tutors and school lessons, went off to school together for several years.”

“I suppose that is why she favours him and despises you.”

“Likely, among other things. Robert grew closer to me and grew away from her. She has accused me more than once of poisoning both Robert and the Marquis against her, which is laughable. I am not her son in any form. She has no reason to care for me at all, and she has never once called me anything other than ‘you’ or ‘that boy.’ I only serve as a constant reminder of her husband’s indiscretions and his disregard for her wishes. I am not the only bastard he has fathered. I am not even the only acknowledged one, but I am the only one she was forced to even converse with.”

“I almost felt sorry for her. Up until she insulted me for the thousandth time and threw a glass across the room. It is not as though she could control her husband’s actions, but she can control how she treats everyone around her. Look at Madge. She was married to a tyrant and managed to maintain the kindness of her soul. As did you,” I say. I yawn then and snuggle closer to my husband.

“Are you suggesting that I married a tyrant?” He asks, and I smile inside at the teasing note in his voice yet I turn a scowl to him.

“Not as long as you packed some of those rolls with the cheese on them.”

“They are under your seat.” 

I gasp in delight and he chuckles. As I search for them, I find something that I packed as well and present it to him.

“Why did you bring this?”

“For the cold days to come. You mentioned that the cold affects your leg.” He smiles at me and I can see the lifting of the dark clouds from his eyes as he accepts the cane and sets it next to his seat. Then he grasps my arms and hauls me into his lap.

“You are too good to me,” Peeta whispers and nuzzles my nose.

“It is what you and I do, husband. Take care of one another.” He kisses me then, my entire body awakening as we drive away from the tomb that is de Vale. It is as though spring has arrived early. Warmth blooming in my chest and birdsong fluttering in my head.

From there it is far easier to speak and enjoy the ride, wrapped up in his arms and cosied together, and yes kissing here and there.

Only as we continue, it becomes clear that this journey is taking far longer than expected. The roads and ice necessitate a slower pace. We stop for a late midday meal that will likely double as dinner. We send word with a rider ahead to Haymitch. Frederick lights the lanterns to dispel the darkness. Peeta wraps me in warm blankets and fur, and I allow him to pamper me. Then we continue on. I am drowsy and begin to nod off as the sun sinks from the sky.

The sounds of horse and carriage remain as I dream, swaying and floating in a strange sort of way. My feet grow cold as I walk through frosted woods. Flashes light the trees and I cannot place them as I follow faint tracks in the frost painted ground. I catch the scents of cinnamon and dill, vetiver. There’s a brush of a hand on my cheek and I attempt to capture the hand, to hold Peeta close to me. His fingers slip through my grasp.

A loud crack of thunder startles me. My eyes fly open to the screaming of horses, a sound of collision I cannot place, the lurch forward as the horses break into a mad gallop, the precarious swaying of the carriage as it dashes through the night. The lanterns outside follow the movement, a macabre dance of flames through the glass. Peeta attempts to move me and I am sluggish to respond. Then the carriage leans to the side too far and Peeta shouts something, grabs my shoulders and turns me away. We are suspended for one moment then I land on my back atop him.

Glass shatters and wood splinters. My head strikes something. The already dark world turns hazy and spins before my eyes, then everything turns black. Black as death.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To be continued…

Your clue for chapter 24: When we build a life with someone, we are already a person with a past, secrets, and this one word you seek. Words rise up from it to cause a bit of strife. A stroll down this lane can be painful, cathartic, and sometimes both but usually necessary to reconcile past and present in the name of the future.

[bae-leth]

HI IM HERE WITH ANOTHER THING I WROTE this takes place before the game so no spoilers here! and i think you’re farther in than the playthrough i’m watching is so bhdhhfh

it’s about jeralt and (genderfluid) young byleth! plus a made up character named elliott

snowdrop

Jeralt was polishing the pommel of his blade when he heard Byleth’s little footsteps coming down the stairs.

He knew it was his child by the way they walked; one step, then a heavier one when Byleth landed on the step two below the first. They didn’t like the one in the middle, since it creaked and bent and made the little one nervous.

Jeralt also knew it was Byleth by the fact that his child was the only other resident of their little home by the creek.

Jeralt glanced up as Byleth landed on the last step, in their oversized sleepwear that consisted of a dark gray shirt—it once belonged to Jeralt, but he had abandoned it when it became too moth-bitten. Byleth had found it and started to wear it to sleep, so what could Jeralt do but patch up the holes?—and worn pants that went to the child’s knees. 

Jeralt smiled as Byleth toddled over, rubbing their blue eyes and letting their father slip them into his lap. They giggled when Jeralt kissed their dusky hair.

“Good morning. What’s it going to be today, kiddo?”

“Boy,” came the child’s soft response, Byleth’s dark eyelashes sticking together from yawning tears. Jeralt carried him to the washroom to help him take a bath.

Byleth was going to be five in a couple weeks. He liked chasing the foxes and catching crayfish in the creek, though he got upset when Jeralt nearly cooked them one evening.

He loved decorating his hair (and Jeralt’s, of course) with early spring blossoms, as well as giving summer wildflowers to the boys and girls of the village he and Jeralt frequented.

The child didn’t like to talk, and Jeralt was fine with that—grasshoppers and swallows were nice to listen to in the mornings. He was aware of a couple village folk who would reprimand their small children for not speaking; Jeralt charged them extra if they needed help with thieves.

There was an incident when Jeralt had taken Byleth (who was a girl that day) to the village for some sweets, and when she wouldn’t talk, a couple elderly villagers started to scold her. This infuriated Jeralt, and he lashed out at them; he had to be escorted out of the sweet shop and was not allowed back in since then.

Thankfully, Jeralt had a friend who bought treats for Byleth and traveled to the woodlands to deliver them each moon.

Byleth liked to keep his hair short, cropped just over his shoulders. Jeralt hadn’t accosted elders where his child got his hair cut, so it was trimmed every two and three quarter moons (Byleth wouldn’t have it any other way).

His hair was to be cut again this afternoon; Byleth sat obediently in the tub while Jeralt cleaned every part of the child he was permitted (by said child) to touch, taking extra care to rid Byleth’s scalp of dandruff and dirt. His little one had a habit of playing in the muddiest of places and going straight to bed, and the barber would probably not appreciate having to claw her way through a layer of muck in her own shop.

“Papa,” Byleth said after he got bored of patting the surface of the water.

“Yes?”

“Is early?”

“Yes. The sun hasn’t risen yet.” Byleth beamed proudly, sweeping his arms across the surface of the bathwater and hugging armfuls of fragrant soapsuds to his little chest.

Byleth liked being up early, and Jeralt liked seeing his child happy, so Byleth waking up at dawn was a good occasion for the both of them.

When Byleth was as clean as he could possibly be, Jeralt plucked him out of the water and sat him on his chair, bundling him up in a warm towel while he fetched Byleth’s village clothes. It wasn’t much different than what he and Jeralt usually wore at home, but it was a little more formal, a little more presentable.

Jeralt helped Byleth dress, then fixed a girdle around his waist to secure his tunic. Byleth hugged his father’s arm in thanks, then went off to play with his dolls.

Jeralt cleaned himself as well, and he realized too late that he hadn’t brought his own village clothing when he had fetched Byleth’s. He waited until Byleth was wholly absorbed in his game before darting past him to dress in the bedroom.

“Papa!” Byleth called, just as Jeralt was braiding his straw-colored hair in the mirror.

“Yes?”

“There’s water!”

Jeralt cleaned up the trail of bathwater he had made when racing past Byleth to dress, thanking the goddess he hadn’t slipped.

Byleth helped to pack lunch, and the two ate breakfast in comfortable silence. Byleth was a fan of butter and bread; Jeralt reminisced, with a twinge of sadness, that his wife had loved butter and bread just as much.

“Ready to go, snowdrop?” Jeralt asked, after Byleth had cleaned his plate.

“Yah!”

“Let’s go!”

Byleth liked to say “yah” instead of “yes” or “yeah.” It always made Jeralt smile. And Jeralt often called his child “snowdrop” instead of his real name. Byleth often responded to “snowdrop” more than he responded to “Byleth.”

The child, with their basket of lunch and one of his dolls on his arm, skipped off to the creek, where he peered between rocks and almost jumped into the water many times before Jeralt caught up to him.

The two traveled to the mouth of the creek by sunrise, gentle light filtering through the thick foliage as Byleth pointed out some minnows hiding in the shade of a boulder. Jeralt held his hand as he toddled along the beaten trail, then carried him and his basket when he got tired.

They stopped so Byleth could pick some flowers for the village children, and they sat on a flat stone to eat lunch at the edge of the forest. When they finished their bread and butter (Byleth insisted on having it again, and Jeralt didn’t mind), they continued on their way.

Byleth was drowsy in Jeralt’s arms when they arrived. His father greeted those who said hello and smiled to those who smiled at the sleepy Byleth, his little hands clutching the handle of the basket as if for dear life.

The village marketplace was bustling with its usual early morning crowd—cattle herders with their cattle and dogs, farmers lugging their daily crops to their stands, blacksmiths and weavers hurrying to set up shop. Buying a head of cabbage from a nearby stand was Elliott. Jeralt greeted him as he approached, and the dark-haired man smiled and hurried over.

“Hello, Jeralt! How are you?”

“I’m all right. How are things on your end?”

Elliott beamed as he held his purchase under his arm. He was a scrawny but strong-willed man with a wife and two daughters, both of which were Byleth’s age. Elliott was familiar with the child and his father, since he was the one who bought and delivered sweets to their home by the creek every new moon.

“Things are splendid. Hello, Byleth,” Elliott whispered to Byleth, who wiggled his fingers a little in greeting before tucking his face back into the hollow of Jeralt’s shoulder.

“He’s a bit tired after our journey today,” the mercenary explained, and Elliott nodded in understanding. “I’ll see you again soon, my friend. Safe travels.”

“Yes, you too!”

Jeralt sat down outside the barbershop and nudged his child’s arm until he was fully awake. Byleth whined and puffed up his cheeks in annoyance.

“It’s time to get your hair cut, snowdrop.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Tired.”

“Want to take a nap?”

Byleth nodded.

“Okay, take a nap.”

Jeralt felt awkward sitting outside the shop; he was a burly, heavyset man who clearly looked like an outsider, with his lighter hair and tannish skin. Most of the people around here had an olive complexion and darker locks upon their heads, so Jeralt stood out like a white feather on a black chicken.

Byleth took after his mother, who had been born in this village. A few of his little friends came up to Jeralt to say hello, and when Jeralt woke Byleth so he could greet them, he simply gave them their flowers and went back to sleep.

It was midday when Byleth yawned and stretched in Jeralt’s arms. Jeralt felt as if he could take a nap himself, but he asked Byleth if he wanted to go get his hair cut now and took him inside the cool shop when he said yes.

They greeted the barber, who had worked with Byleth long enough to know he didn’t like sitting still for too long. She made quick and careful work of his hair and Jeralt paid her, and off he and his child went to find some dinner at the market.

After buying some fresh produce, salted meat, and a tart for dessert (Jeralt had picked Byleth up so he could choose from the many selections at the pastry stand), Byleth led the way along the busy village streets to the edge of the forest, where he crawled onto the flat rock from before and patted it expectantly.

Jeralt climbed on as well and they shared a brief meal of pork and apples. The two distinct flavors and textures went to war in Jeralt’s mouth, and Byleth didn’t seem to like them together either. They ended up eating the fruit tart instead.

Byleth somehow managed to grow tired again on their way home, the setting sun casting long shadows through the trees. Jeralt carried him for the remainder of their trek.

“Papa,” the child mumbled into Jeralt’s chest, his father closing the door behind him in their dimly lit home.

“Yes?”

He didn’t respond.

Jeralt blinked and placed the basket on the supper table, then bent down to sit Byleth on his chair. Byleth wrapped his arms tightly around his father’s neck, refusing to let go, and Jeralt gasped, hugging his little one against him.

“What’s wrong, snowdrop?”

“Tired….”

Jeralt let out a sigh of relief; for a moment he thought he had upset Byleth!

“Okay. Let’s get you in bed, then.”

Byleth squirmed when Jeralt tried to put him down again.

“No!” he cried. “Sleep here.”

Jeralt felt his child’s soft, newly trimmed hair brush against his neck as Byleth snuggled into him, and the veteran mercenary couldn’t help smiling. It had been a long day, but he didn’t mind carrying his little one for another night.

“Okay. Sleep here.”

 ((i want jeralt to be my dad)) ((have fun in 3h!)) ((hope this is good bhhghgh))

-----

notes from bae: JHFSGSJGJ??? HUSDHGAGHJHAG???? THIS IS SO ADORABLE IM GOING TO C R Y IM??

[let-me-love-you-loki]

Waking Up in Vegas--Ch. 13

Chapter 13: Information Overload

That Weekend

Mera, Late Morning, 10:47 AM

           I couldn’t remember the last time I had been this exhausted. There had been the drive from Southern California back to Las Vegas to drop Dean’s car at the house. Then, there was the struggle of getting a straight shot flight from Vegas to Orlando on short notice. The last twelve hours had been a rush of movement and travel with hardly a moment of down time. And I hadn’t had a comfortable moment of sleep either.

           My entire body ached as I pulled my suitcase from the luggage carousel. Dean grabbed his bags and started piling them together like Tetris blocks. I stood nearby, nearly dead on my feet, trying desperately to stay upright.

           He glanced at me, something flickering in his cornflower eyes. “C’mon, Mera,” he said softly, reaching out to take my hand. “Let’s get you home. You look like you could use a nap.”

           I let him lead me through the terminal toward the taxis lined up outside. Silence settled between us making me feel guilty. I was grumpy and tired. Traveling so much was so out of the norm for me that it made me want to scream to think about doing all this again in two days.

           Dean packed our luggage into the trunk of the taxi as I climbed inside. I gave the driver my address and leaned against the window, wishing desperately for my own shower and my own bed. When he climbed into the seat beside me, Dean pulled me gently into his arms, settling me against his chest. As we left the airport, he pressed a kiss against my hair. “Go to sleep, darlin’. I’ll wake you when we get there.”

 Dean, Late Morning, 11:18 AM

           Mera looked so miserable that it broke my heart. She’d gotten a few hours’ sleep in the car on the drive back to Las Vegas, but that was it. By the time we’d gotten our laundry taken care of, luggage packed, and flights booked, she was on edge and unable to relax. The trip hadn’t been easy on her, and I felt guilty for begging her to fill in for the road AT. I’d wanted to keep her with me, to enjoy a few more days of the bliss that I felt when she was nearby, but I hadn’t thought of how unaccustomed to the road schedule she might be.

           She curled against my side, head lolling against my shoulder as we drove. It didn’t take long for me to recognize where we were headed. Most of the people who worked at the Performance Center lived in the outlying areas. Some of the medical staff lived in nicer areas closer to the building, while most of the talent lived in cheaper places with one or two other people. Mera lived in the Ballencia Apartment complex. One of the nicer areas. Better than the rathole I lived in when I first came to Florida.

           When we pulled up at the address, I was loathe to rouse her from the first sleep she’d had in nearly a day. I half thought that I might get the driver to bring in the bags while I carried her into the apartment, but I didn’t know which one was hers and had no clue where she’d packed her keys.

           “Mera, we’re here,” I whispered, shaking her gently. “Help me get you inside and you can go to bed.”

           She grunted angrily but sat up, thrusting her wallet at me. Her finger jabbed at me, then at the driver. I took it to mean she wanted me to pay him with her card or the cash she had inside. Instead, I stuffed it in my pocket and dug my own wallet out of my pocket. I handed over some cash—ten bucks over the price on the meter—then got out to grab the bags.

           “You get the keys and go inside. I’ll bring the stuff.” I brushed my fingers against her cheek and smiled. “Just tell me which one it is.”

           She dug a set of keys from the front pocket of her suitcase and pointed to the bottom left apartment. As she trotted off, I hauled the luggage from the trunk. I swore, the sticky heat reminding me why I preferred Vegas to Orlando. The temperature I could handle. The humidity killed me.

 Mera, Midday, 12:04 PM

           Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.

           I tossed my keys on the coffee table, shed my jacket and threw it over the back of the chair, kicked off my shoes somewhere by the door. All I wanted was my bed. I didn’t care that I felt sweaty and gritty from the plane. Sleep was all that mattered.

           Once in the bedroom, I tugged off my jeans and bra. I flipped back the covers and crawled beneath in nothing but my t-shirt and panties. The air conditioning buzzed lightly in the background, the white noise and cool air lulling me quickly into sleep.

 Dean, Midday, 12:04 PM

           I pushed the door closed behind me, made sure that it was locked. Her apartment was small, beige painted walls and wood laminate floors. There were accents of Mera everywhere I looked. I wondered how long she’d been there, how much of this place was somewhere for her to hide from the things that had happened to her.

           I left the bags by the kitchen counter and rounded in to get to the fridge. I tugged it open, grabbed a bottle of water and chugged it down, enjoying the cool air that poured out from the AC.

           Only then did I go in search of my wife.

           There weren’t many places to look. I found her in the bedroom, curled up in a cocoon of blankets. She looked so blissful, finally in some comfort with the ability to rest for a few well-earned hours. I smiled as I tossed off my jacket and kicked off my jeans before crawling in beside her.

           She shifted toward me, burrowed against my chest and tucking an arm over my stomach. I closed my eyes, letting my lips linger against her forehead, promising deep in my soul that I would never give her cause to cry.

 Mera, Afternoon, 2:26 PM

           Jet lag found me as I roused from sleep. It took me a few moments to realize that I was at home in my own bed. Sitting up, I stretched, caught sight of the jacket hanging off the doorknob. Noise filtered in from the living room. It was the sound of the television and someone talking over it. When Dean’s voice registered, I couldn’t help but smile.

           I rolled out of bed and padded out into the living room. Dean was standing at the stove in just his jeans, a towel thrown over one shoulder, a skillet on one burner sizzling with bacon and another frying eggs. There were cartoons on the television—something about a panda, a polar bear, and a brown bear.

           “Are you watching cartoons, Dean?”

           He turned toward me, a sideways smile on his face as he waved a spatula in my face. “Hey, don’t trash We Bare Bears. Ice Bear gives some good advice.”

           I slid into place beside him, my fingers brushing the small of his back. He wrapped one arm around my head, pulled me in and gave me a kiss on the hair.

           “There wasn’t a whole lot in the fridge, but I figured you’d be hungry when you woke up. And I didn’t know where your take-out menus were.”

           “This looks perfect,” I murmured, leaning against his side.

           A shadow passed over his face, something that made his easy-going smile turn sad and melancholy. I frowned, fingers reaching up to touch his cheek. “What’s wrong, Dean?”

           With a sigh, he sat the spatula on the counter and turned toward me. His hands wrapped around mine, thumbs skimming over my knuckles. “Is something wrong? Are you all right?”

           “What’re you talking about?”

           He pulled me close, holding me with tender care. “You were crying in your sleep.”

 Dean, Afternoon, 2:27 PM

           Mera watched me as if I’d discovered some horrible secret. I felt the tremor go through her body, an ache that seemed to shatter her ability to stay on her feet.

           “You’re exhausted, darlin’,” I soothed, drawing her against my chest, trailing my fingers through her tangled hair, separating the soft curls from their knots. “You’ve had a wild week.”

           A soft smile crossed her face. It was heartbreaking in its beauty and its sadness. I let myself sink into the promise I’d made her—the oath that I would do everything I possibly could to help her find happiness and peace, to be by her side through every step of her life. My lips ghosted along the top of her head, her brow, along her cheeks.

           “I can hold it together pretty well most of the time,” she mumbled. “But sometimes…”

           I rocked her gently, trying to find the right words. There was so much that I didn’t know, so many quiet fears and specters that I couldn’t anticipate. I wanted to protect her from every pain or terror that might seep into her world. She was the beat of my heart, the breath in my lungs, the very thing in my soul that kept my body in motion. What more could I do to the goddess of my life than to protect her with every ounce of strength I possessed?

           “Whenever you’re ready,” I breathed against her hair, “whenever you decide you want to talk, I’ll listen. It’s us together now, remember? Whatever burdens you carry, whatever pain you have, I want to carry it with you. However you want me to.”

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