#the celebrity skin album by hole has been on repeat for writing this fic ��

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Girl Next Door - X

A Constantine x FemVampire!Reader (feat John Wick!) fic based on this imagine. all chapters warnings: nsfw, blood, biting, violence divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more gif and pics from pinterest

he tastes like candy, he’s so beautiful -Awful, Hole 🤘

10. little bird

Wick says nothing more, just holds your gaze, and again you feel like the floor is going out from beneath you. You’ve become accustomed to your cooler body temperature, but now for the umpteenth time tonight you feel hot beneath the collar. 

“It’s…just a coincidence.” 

“Surely.” He smirks at you, laughing at you, deep down.

Asshole. 

One extremely fine, extremely dangerous, asshole. 

Glaring at the two of you eye-fucking eachother, Constantine clears his throat. “Are we trying to find don Juan or not? Otherwise, I should get to Midnite’s.” 

You look to John. Despite the energy you’d shared with him, he still has dark circles under his eyes, still seems just this side of fragile. You remember how much blood you had to take from him last time, to call up that much excess power, that it just felt like you were floating above your corporeal body. You’re not sure he can spare it, now. If you sent him to an early grave with blood loss you know you would walk yourself right out into the sun. 

On the other hand, there is Wick, robust, full of blood, and who you wouldn’t feel guilty at all about taking down a peg or two. His smile widens as he notices you assessing him like a piece of meat, his powerful body sprawled in the rickety old chair–maybe he wouldn’t be so smug, however, if he knew exactly what you were thinking. 

“Depends,” you answer John. “Will you let me in, or are you going to keep stonewalling me?”

“I’m not exactly in the habit of leaving my aura hanging wide open. It leads to bad things in my business,” he grumbles. 

You suppose, considering his occupation, that’s understandable. But you also think he’s making excuses to shut you out.  

“Uh huh.” 

You cross the cracked linoleum floor to him. He’s so tall that you’re nearly eye to eye, even with him sitting, and even though you already fed once tonight, just looking at him like this kindles that insatiable hunger in your belly, a lick of desire that curls in you like smoke from an opium pipe. Heady. Wonderful. Addictive. Shields up or not, you know he feels it too in the bond between you, his lips parting with a gasp, his pupils dilating to turn his dark irises purest black.  

He takes your hand, and the energy that ignites between you as his long fingers slide into yours fills the dilapidated room with something bright and charged. It even makes Wick sit up straighter in his chair. It feels like sunshine on your face, when you were still human, and you cannot suppress a sigh of enjoyment. 

They both seem surprised when you hold out your other hand to Wick. “Come here.” The vampire hunter obeys, his footsteps heavy and deliberate as he approaches, his presence a solid line of warmth at your back.  

With an almost quizzical look, Wick takes your hand. His fingers are calloused, and strong, and his touch feels like a live wire gripped in your hands. Reincarnated sweethearts or not–your magic likes him, and you think you can work with that. 

Constantine’s frown as he watches this exchange is thunderously contemptuous.  “We gonna sing kumbaya now, baby?” he gripes at you. 

“No. We’re going to find don Juan, and Mr. Wick here is going to cut off his fucking head. Got a problem with that?”

You see the corner of his mouth tick for the barest second, his only indication of mirth before he throws himself wide open to you, and the mingled energies of these two powerful men rips through you like an electric shock. 

♰♰♰

Maybe John Constantine is ill, but you were a fool to think him weak. One mouthful of blood taken carefully from his wrist is so power-charged you practically see stars. It’s possible that adding Wick’s rich blood to the cocktail nearly renders you drunk, so giddy you think you might hover physically off the ground. But the two men on either side of you keep you anchored, vying even now in their holds upon you. 

It’s funny, maybe, that you thought it would keep things tame, drinking from the wrist. But there is an agonizing tension amidst the three of you, unsatisfied lust and painful longing. It all adds a particular spice to this conjuring you work as the focus between them, and you are able to rise with barely a thought this time.

It’s more familiar, this second time you wander through the minds of the city, and you are more careful as you sift through them like grains of rice, in search of that one poisoned seed. You think you are successful more than once, before realizing they are just don Juan’s awful progeny, but not the original root of that particular brand of evil. 

You are surprised, when in your wandering you encounter Angela, the detective John Constantine so secretly fancied. She is in her apartment, working at her laptop. There is a glow of such goodness about her that is rare to find in humans. Her aura is practically a halo, it shines so bright. She is warm, and smart, and strong, and it’s no wonder John likes her, you think to yourself sadly. 

You probe a little deeper, finding that at this moment she is thinking about John. She likes him too, though she’s puzzled as to why. That is a feeling you understand all too well. She must feel your presence, looking up as though there is something in the room with her, reaching out to put a hand on her service issue Glock on the desk next to her. She’s already had quite a scare after her first encounter with real demons, and guiltily you back off, not wanting to upset her.  

You are about to give up your search, feeling that you have stretched yourself to the limit, when at last you sense him. That seething, cloying dark energy that follows don Juan like a cloud. You are more cautious in your approach this time, keeping your distance as you observe him. It seems he retreated north into the mountains, to a chic but almost quaint little house tucked into the hillside. He sits beside a glittering swimming pool, smoking and brooding. The moment you sense him turning your way you retreat, returning to your body, too quickly perhaps. 

It’s disorienting, after being weightless, to wrangle with your flesh and bones, like it’s hard to get all the pieces of you to mesh back again. You would have fallen, if not for two pairs of strong hands steadying you. You lean back on a broad chest. Constantine is before you, you recognize, which makes the imposing wall behind you still Wick. You are either the luckiest girl in the world, or you are cursed. You still haven’t decided which yet. 

“Back off,” snarls Constantine to the dhampir, pulling you into his arms. 

Wick growls, and you can't help but feel like the bone between two cranky dogs. You really shouldn't be enjoying it so much.

“Are you alright?” 

You think you’re fine, but you’re tired. You didn’t travel that far, last time, or search with such purpose in mind. It took a lot more energy than you thought it would.

“He’s in Laurel Canyon,” you whisper against Constantine’s chest. “North end. A little cottage with stone facing, clay tile roof. There’s a bronze statue of horses out front.” You think back, and realize you even remember the house number. You manage to say it out loud before the room starts to spin. Are you going to be sick? “I don’t feel good.” 

“I warned you,” grouses Constantine, even while his hand sits protectively on the back of your head. 

“She did well,” defends Wick. “This will save me time.” 

Sitting back down, Constantine pulls you into his lap, away from the dhampir. You hate to admit how good it feels to curl into him like a child who’s had a nightmare, his arms around you.   

“Great,” he snarks to Wick. “Feel free to go.”

Wick snorts in answer, still looking down at you. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Reluctantly you nod against Constantine’s collarbone, closing your eyes. “I’ll be fine. Will you be fine by yourself?”

Wick laughs lowly at this, but not unkindly. “No worries, ptichka, no more flying around for you. I will give don Juan your regards.” 

“Please, kick him in the nuts for me,” you grumble. The thought of that awful vampire finally getting his comeuppance is darkly satisfying. 

“Would you like me to bring you his head?” 

“Ew.” 

Wick laughs, and you hear his footfalls as he crosses the kitchen to the crumpled vampire in the corner. You’d almost forgotten about the poor bastard. “I will see you soon,” says the dhampir, winking at you before dragging the informant out by his ankles. 

A strange quiet settles over the apartment, without the ominous dark energy of John Wick filling the room. 

You should be scared of him–but you kind of miss him.

“Alone at last,” grouses Constantine, his hold on you tightening. 

You laugh a little, snuggling into the bend of his neck. You start to feel better, sitting like this with him. His hand drifts to your thigh, tracing the hem of his shirt absently. “Was this really the only thing you could come up with to wear?” 

“You don’t like it, John?” you tease sleepily. 

“I like it a lot. For my eyes only.”

“Hmm. I think that’s something only a boyfriend gets to say,” you dare ripost.

He snorts in answer. “If I was your boyfriend, would I get to tell you what to do?” 

“No.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He coughs, and only a beat later do you realize it was a laugh. 

 But then he can’t help but ruin the moment: 

“I thought the dhampir was your new boyfriend, Miss I’ll come visit you in New York,” he complains in an insulting falsetto.  

You, in turn, just roll your eyes. “Excuse you, but I saved you from getting your head lopped off. You’re welcome, by the way.” 

Then, he has to go and turn serious on you. “Baby, when I’m gone–” You whine, hating hearing him say it aloud, but he talks over you. “It’s going to happen, y/n. You’ve got to accept that. And when it does, you cannot take up with him. He is bad news. Call it…my dying wish.” 

You’re smart enough to bite down on your first response, which is, ‘he doesn’t seem so bad.’  

It turns out you don’t have any reply at all, and he watches you with an intensity that makes you fear he can read your mind. You’re not sure why he takes mercy on you, saying more gently, “You can’t save him, sweetheart. Any more than you can save me.” 

You look down, because his laser-like gaze is too much, even for you. 

Part of the reason you want to get this thing solved so badly is because you hope you can save him. Maybe with the help of modern medicine, and your own combined magic…something might work out. Buy him some time, at least. He already seems better, after finally letting you into your bond earlier that night. 

Maybe he’s resigned, but you haven’t completely given up hope. 

“I just…want to get this thing resolved,” you admit. “So you can rest.”  

He lifts one of those angular dark brows, clearly thinking that the only rest waiting for him is the permanent kind. But he doesn’t insist again that you accept the inevitable truth of his demise. Sometimes, when you care about someone, you let them get away with those little lies that keep them sane through the day to day grind of life. Maybe he realizes that you need this, so that you don’t run down the street screaming at God and anyone else unfortunate enough to get in your path.  

“Sure, honey.” He surprises you again, when he presses a tender kiss to your forehead. “I’m going to put you to bed, and I have to go to Midnite’s.”

You know the kittenish sound that escapes your lips sounds ridiculous. “Let me go with you.”

“You’re wiped out. Stay here and rest.” 

“No.” You sit up, feeling a little better. Tired, but better. 

“Yes,” he insists, narrowing his eyes at you. 

“I’m just going to follow you, if you try to leave me here.” 

“For once, can you not be so stubborn when I’m trying to protect you?” 

Your lips dance as you try to suppress a smile, lifting an eyebrow. “I could ask the same thing of you?” 

Another exasperated growl escapes him, and your heart sings when he pulls you into another kiss, that golden rope between you pulsing with energy, singing with light. He pulls back to look at you, his pupils blown wide. You wonder if it occurs to him, that this could be his last chance to be with a woman, if things outside this crumbling apartment do not go well. Or maybe, just maybe, he finds you as irresistible as you find him. Either way, when he tangles his long fingers in your hair and kisses you again, you are all too ready to lean in. 

You’re not sure how it’s possible, that this man simultaneously breaks your heart, and puts you back together again. 

When he stands with you in his arms you give a sound of protest, worried about the extra exertion.

“I’m fine, y/n,” he tells you with a rare gentleness that to you is precious as any gemstone. “I’ve got you.”     

He carries you to the bed in the next room, and you are more than happy to let him have his way with you. 

______

*ptichka - little bird

[thisbirdhadflown]

11 questions meme

Rules:

1. Always post the rules. 2. Answer the questions given by the person who tagged you. 3. Write 11 questions of your own and tag 11 (or however many) people to answer them.

I was tagged by @deadsdemona and @futuredescending! @deadsdemona: your questions first:

1. what album should i listen to right now?

The Virgin Suicides soundtrack

2. what are some of your favourite books?

Norwegian Wood, 7 Seconds or Less, the entire Oz series

3. if you have any notps in the fandom(s) you’re in, what are they?

Eremika in SnK

4. what part(s) of your identity do you value the most and why?

Being mixed race. This is gonna sound glib as fuck, but as much as I used to fight against the insider/outsider feeling as a young ‘un, as an adult I’ve gotten mostly used to it, accept it, and even revel in it.

5. describe a perfect fic for you (i.e., what pairing, which fandom, what tropes, etc.)

Hartwin and incredibly filthy porn but with feelings. I love the combination of smut + soppiness. 

6. do you follow any blogs/subscribe to any channels out of self-indulgence? if so, what do you indulge in?

Buzzfeed Unsolved: I love true crime and mysteries

7. which character (from a book, movie, tv show, or play) do you think would understand you perfectly?

Daria Morgendorfer. If only.

8. this is a repeat of serpensthesia’s question, but what would you internet fight someone about?

Calling James Harden overrated. I dunno. I’ve been in some type of fandom since 1996, and sometimes I just get tired of discourse. Prefer to sit off to the side, do my own thing, and occasionally stick my head in and roll my eyes at all the DRAMA. 

9. name 5 places you would like to visit sometime: go.

Santorini, Iceland, Thailand, Tulum, Nashville

10. what are your favourite and least favourite genres of television?

I looooooove police procedurals. Law and Order: Original Flavor is my jam, but I enjoy all its incarnations. Not a fan of reality tv. 

11. which social media platform (like instagram, snapchat, twitter) do you absolutely refuse to use?

Snapchat. I just don’t get it, especially its popularity. What makes these staged sneak peeks into someone’s day so damn compelling?

and @futuredescending‘s questions:

1. What is the nicest thing someone has done for you?

When my dad died, I was away at college without a car. Some family friends drove 300 miles to pick me up at school and take me home. That was pretty nice.

2. Do you have NOTPs? If so, why are they NOTPs for you?

Eremika in SnK. Yes, I know they’re not siblings, but they were raised together (living in the same house!) since they were 9 years old. I don’t understand how that situation could be wanked into sexual interest when they’re young adults.

3. Summarize the worst film/book/song/story you’ve ever read/watched.

A haiku for Goodbye, Janette: 

Terrible, boring, 

Sleazy, “sexy” book that led

To me dry heaving

4. What are some fandom/fic things that irrationally annoy you?

Fandom: higher level of tetchiness overall. Thinner skins. Assholery. Lots of bitching. I don’t remember this much shit in the 90s. In terms of fic: epithets! 

5. Write a summary for the fic you want to write but never will.

Basically, it would be follow-up to a fic I wrote about a couple having an unplanned pregnancy and later, abortion. The story would be about them finding their way back to each other. It would never happen because I had left very few loose ends in the original story.

6. Someone writes a story that perfectly hits all your buttons. That story includes: _____, ______, and _________.

Characters mostly communicating like mature adults, sound story structure, and convincing character motivation. Or porn.

7. I’m stealing @colinfilth’s question once asked on twitter bc it was SO GOOD: what is the fic one would write that clued your readers in that your identity had been stolen?

Something incredibly fluffy. I can do crack, angst, and relationship drama, but not fluff.

8. Most embarrassing celebrity crush, past or present?

Commander Riker from ST:TNG. But I’m not that embarrassed. ;-)

9. How much research will you do for a fic? Wing it? Get lost in a wikipedia hole? Read actual books on a topic? Google translate? Get consulting with native speakers?

I’ll wiki it for an hour, then wing it.

10.The one thing the creator of your current fandom could do to kill your fandom love.

Eggsy being killed off in a really cheap way.

And my questions! Kudos to anyone who made it this far!

We all did embarrassing things as teenagers. Share a story!

What is a headcanon for one of your OTPs?

One book that had a huge influence on you?

Who is one misunderstood character?

What are your pet peeves?

One thing you wish you knew as a child/teen that you know now?

Would you like to be famous? In what way?

Best part about getting older?

One thing you really enjoy and one thing you really dislike about fandom?

What makes and breaks a fic for you? 

tagging @dmdumouchel, @eggsy-youcheekytart, @insanereddragon, @notbrogues, @mang-o, @flarewarrior, @litindecency, @zombiisheep

[friskynotebook]

'Cause All That You Are is All That I'll Ever Need: A Carrison Fanfic

So. I was planning on doing a mini-writing spree inspired by Carrie Fisher’s The Princess Diarist (and I’ll still be writing all of them, don’t worry), but life got in the way, and it ended up taking me almost two months to write this.

I was actually planning on finishing this before Christmas, but with Carrie’s and Debbie’s deaths, my motivation just wasn’t there. But I’m not letting the plausible verse die, and don’t worry—Carrie and Debbie don’t die in this universe. They aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

The prompts for this fic were, “Happy 40th anniversary, sweetheart” and “He gives her the gold band with diamonds.”

It’s set in my plausible verse (duh), where Harrison and Carrie slowly fall in love after his divorce from Melissa. This takes place in May 2016, right after Carrie comes back from Cannes. There’s not much you need to know, but if it helps, they married in spring 2011 (exact date TBD). Also in this verse, the child Carrie miscarried in the 1980s was Harrison’s, and there is a passing mention of it in this fic.

The title for this fic comes from the Ed Sheeran song “Tenerife Sea,” off his album “x.” You can listen to it here.

Special thanks to @hewouldve for her excellent beta skills and @thecarrisonfiles and @titasjournal for their support. Shoutout to the Slack fam for the general handholding.

This is RPF, and I don’t mean to offend anyone with this story.

Finally, I own nothing. Nothing. You don’t want to see what number shows up in my bank account. If anyone wants money from me, I’ll help you look for it because ya girl needs to buy groceries.

Without further ado, on with the show!

Harrison climbed up the stairs, carrying a tray of saltines, ginger ale, and ginger tea. He sighed as he reached the top step. This is not how I thought we would spend our anniversary.

He was exhausted, but whatever he felt was nothing compared to what his wife must be feeling—she’d been awake for half the night throwing up whatever was in her stomach and then some. Every hour like clockwork, Carrie would rush to the bathroom and violently cough into the cool porcelain toilet—even if nothing came out, she dry-heaved until her body simply exhausted itself.

And every time she had to go, Harrison (and Gary) would run right after her, kneeling down on the cold tiles beside her, holding back her hair, rubbing her back in soothing strokes. When she’d stop, he’d carry her to the sink, sit her on the counter, and press a cold cloth to her forehead while he brushed her teeth. Then he’d carry her back to bed and hold her, Gary pressed between them, as she fell into a fitful, moan-filled sleep until the whole cycle started again.

Now, finally, she seemed to be on the mend. Earlier that morning, she’d thrown up for the last time—vile, bitter-tasting medicine—and quickly fell back asleep when he carried her back to their bed. She woke up a few hours later, woozy and lightheaded, and Harrison figured she was ready to try eating and drinking.

Harrison turned his body and gently nudged the door open, walking into their bedroom and placing the tray on Carrie’s nightstand.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmured, kneeling down beside the bed. “You ready to eat something?”

She turned her bleary-eyed gaze towards him, smiling softly. “Okay,” she replied.

He helped her into a sitting position and placed the tray on her lap. Before he moved to his side of the bed, he kissed her forehead. Her fever seems to be breaking.

Carrie nibbled on a cracker. “Thank you, baby,” she mumbled, absently petting Gary as he lay beside her.

“Of course, honey.” He crawled into the bed. “Have a little ginger ale,” he coaxed.

She finished her cracker and took a sip of ginger ale.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

She swallowed. “A little better. Tired. My head hurts.”

He ran his hand along her thigh. “If you can keep the crackers down, I’ll get you some aspirin,” he promised.

She gave him a small smile and reached for another cracker. “Okay,” she agreed.

Harrison watched her as she ate, ready to help her to the bathroom if her stomach protested the crackers.

Carrie caught his glance. “I’m fine, sweetheart. My stomach’s settling,” she reassured him.

He blushed, turning his gaze away. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I like it when you take care of me,” she confided, nibbling on the cracker.

“Good, because I don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t let me look after you,” he replied, a wry grin crossing his face.

She returned his smile. “You’d probably go crazy,” she chuckled lightly, finishing the cracker and reaching for a third.

He pressed his lips to her temple, gently stroking her skin while she chewed on the cracker.

“I’m sorry about this,” she murmured, swallowing her food.

“Sorry about what?” he questioned.

“Being sick, ruining our anniversary.” Carrie took a sip of ginger ale, not looking at her husband.

Harrison brought a long finger to her chin and turned her head to face him. “Sweetheart, you’re not ruining anything.”

“Neither one of us has slept and you’re exhausting yourself looking after me,” she rambled, her eyes wide.

“Baby, I like taking care of you,” he said softly, a small smile on his face. “If you weren’t sick, this would be the best anniversary we’ve ever had: me at your beck and call, you resting in bed all day.”

Her lips quirked upwards. “Still, I wish we could have done what we planned—walking around Larchmont Village and dinner at some hole in the wall Italian place . . .”

“We can do all that when you’re better,” he replied. “They’ll still be there when you don’t feel so awful.”

Carrie leaned forward and kissed his nose. “I love you.”

Harrison pressed his lips to her mouth. “I love you more,” he rumbled, pulling away. “I should get that aspirin for you.”

She squeezed his hand as he crawled out of bed. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he smiled, escaping to their bathroom. He went to the medicine cabinet and quickly located the right bottle, frowning when he heard rustling from their bedroom.

“Carrie, are you alright?” he asked, stepping back into the room to find his wife bending over her side of the bed.

She turned back around, hiding a box behind her back. “Yeah, I am, honey—just getting your present out.”

He crawled back into bed with the pills. “Sweetheart, we don’t have to do that today.”

Gary’s butt pressed against Harrison’s arm as he sniffed the box behind Carrie’s back. “I want to,” she insisted. “Let’s salvage the day somehow.”

“But I won’t have anything to give you when we do celebrate,” he returned.

“Then buy me something else,” she teased, her eyes sparkling.

He grinned, kissing her forehead. “You’re not letting this go, are you?”

She smirked, pulling Gary away from the box and settling him in her lap. “Nope.”

Harrison snorted. “If you insist.” He went to his underwear drawer and pulled out a small box, hiding it in his pajama bottoms pocket.

“Open mine first!” she insisted as he crawled back into bed.

He turned to her with a small smile. “Hand it over, Fisher,” he rumbled.

Carrie gave him a long, slim jewelry box with a red ribbon wrapped around it. “Happy anniversary, baby.”

He untied the ribbon and gasped as he lifted the lid. Two sterling silver dog tags caught the light, showing off the engraved messages. The first tag had “Carrie & Harrison 1976” written in cursive writing, but it was the second tag that brought tears to his eyes. He ran a long finger over the engraving—the first initials of their children in the order they were born, with “unborn child” written below.

“Carrie,” he choked out, his eyes shining brightly. “Carrie.”

“You like them?” she asked softly.

He shifted himself to face her, then carefully pulled her into his arms, kissing her softly. “Sweetheart, I couldn’t love them more if I tried.”

She smiled against his mouth. “I wasn’t sure what you’d think about the . . . kids one.”

His lips brushed her temple. “It’s perfect,” he whispered, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I’ll have them with me, always.”

Carrie pulled back, gingerly wiping his cheeks. “Good,” she breathed, unable to say more.

“Thank you so much,” he sniffled.

She moved forward to kiss the corner of his mouth. “You’re welcome.” She cleared her throat. “My turn?”

Harrison moved back to his side of the bed and slipped on the dog tags, taking a moment to run his thumb over the engravings. He reached into his pocket, pulling the box out and handing it to her.

Carrie sat up and grinned, practically bouncing in the bed as she opened the box. Gary climbed closer to her, sniffing what she had in her hand.

“Harrison,” she breathed. Inside the box was a rose gold band with diamonds encrusted in the Greek key design. She ran her finger lightly over the design, almost as if she was afraid to damage it. “Honey, this is gorgeous.”

“Take it out,” he encouraged, stroking her thigh.

She turned to him and raised an eyebrow, removing the ring from the box. Inspecting it in the light, she saw the engraving, her breath catching in her throat.

“What does it say?” he rumbled, nervous for her reaction.

“Carrison,” she choked, tears springing to her eyes. “You engraved it with Carrison.”

“It’s the right one, right?” he asked. “I wrote it down when you showed me the final draft of your book, but I wasn’t sure—”

She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, cutting him off. “It’s perfect,” she whispered, repeating his words from earlier. “I’ll wear it every day.”

“You don’t have to . . .”

“I want to,” she insisted, placing it on her right hand ring finger.

He cupped her cheek and kissed her again. “I love you so much.”

“I’ll always love you more,” she teased, smiling. “And I’m always right.”

He barked out a laugh. “Yes, you are.”

She pulled them both back against the bed, pushing aside the boxes as they rested in each other’s arms, her head against his chest. “Thank you, baby.”

“You’re welcome,” he rumbled as Gary flopped on his legs.

“Not just for the ring,” Carrie clarified. “For the past forty years.”

He squirmed a little. “I’m sure they weren’t all that great for you. I could have treated you better.”

“Stop that,” she gently insisted. “You always did the best you could—and you never intentionally hurt me or anyone else.”

Harrison knew they’d been over this countless times before, but it weighed on him with their anniversary. “I wish you never had to hurt at all.”

“Shut up,” she growled playfully. “I don’t regret any of it. I wouldn’t trade these forty years for the world.”

He smiled softly, reassured for the time being.

“Well,” she hedged, “if you really want to make things up to me . . .”

Harrison raised an eyebrow. “Hmm?”

“We could watch some of the Real Housewives,” she grinned.

He chuckled and reached for the remote. “Sure, sweetheart.”

She turned on the TV. “Smart man.”

He snorted. “If Mama’s not happy, nobody’s happy.”