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realcatalina · 2 years

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Meynnart Wewyck’s workshop-part 4: Henry VII

One again, these are merely my suggestions of which paintings I’d like experts to exhamine in order to determine if they are by Wewyck’s workshop.

This time we are focusing on Henry VII and in part 5 also, because there is damn so many portraits of him! I keep finding more even while searching for portraits of other people!

Straight away we have two very good candidates. Another versions of portrait already proven to be Henry(in the middle) by Wewyck.

Both of them deserve to be tested imo. Because one might be original from life and remaining posthumous copies. Maybe during thorough exhamination they’d figure out which one. So far most paintings experts identified as Meynnart Wewyck’s workshop are from 1510s. And 1520s style is very different, and it is possible that 1500s style would be also very different. But as i said in part 1, you need to compare a lot of paintings to figure that out and it is entirely possible workshop had 3 or even more stages! Not just 2 we know abbout now.

I.)Henry VII, Anglessey Abbey:

Link:https://www.nationaltrustcollections.org.uk/object/515569

Anglessey Abbey says diptych’s dendrology came with result of 1512-1520, so this should be posthumous painting! But they don’t say if they tested both paintings in the diptych(and each could have been done at different times.) and those two paintings don’t match each other, the other is horribly altered.

This painting was once in different frame and sides and bit under hands is still not cleaned off properly(maybe it is not possible to clean it idk, sometimes it is unsafe to do without damage to the painting.

Imo at least inch or two are missing in lower part of painting.

You can barely spot it but his hands rest of the grey ledge(here looking black) and actually on golden orb just as Elizabeth’s were.

Receuil d’Arras shows Henry VII with golden orb too, though in different hand. I am not sure what is the significance of this gesture, but Henry VIII is depicted like this too(see part 1).

You have to look in different angle to spot that there was once rounded decorative top-matching proven version.

The background gives us the same green damask pattern as in some other paintings, including proven Wewyck’s work:

Though emphasise once again, that this was very popular pattern and was used in many paintings outside of England.

But I’d like to point out few easily overlooked similiarities and differences between this painting and version of it already proven to be by Wewyck.

Aside from ledge and orb being missing on proven version, there are:

Pearls and heart shaped pendant on carcanet missing:

Brooch with 3 pearls(on hat)

-with or without ruby. I found many depictions of hat brooch with 3 pearls with ruby and only one other without. So I am not sure if it was gilded over on proven version, or if he had two similiar brooches.

Shape of hat and texture of hair and slightly different shape of nose.

Proven version has much roundish shape and that slight pointy end on forehead is barely there. Hair is of different exture, but still has slight wave to it, in both time is gray going to dark(one more than other), not even close to white hair Virgil described. (Though imo it probably wasn’t white but light grey hair.)

Hands

In Anglesey Abbey’s version his thumb is freekishly long and thin, and his index finger bends slightly differently. Rings are also much larger.

Slight differences in his robes, how fabric twists. But actually that pattern of cloth of gold is on proven version too, just way less visible.

Also both have red velvet trim on egde of their fur, which you can barely spot in both:

And that is important detail, because next version doesn’t have it(maybe due to alterations).

II.) Portrait of Henry VII Cultural Heritage Agency of the Netherlands Art Collection

Link to wikipedia where it is in HD:

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Portrait_of_Henry_VII,_King_of_England_Cultural_Heritage_Agency_of_the_Netherlands_Art_Collection_NK1426.jpg

It’s dated as c.1530 but imo it’s older than that.(i can be wrong.)

The I. and II. way more similar to each other than to proven version. The hair is between dark brown and grey(which could be darkening of pigments), pattern of cloth of gold is more visible, hats are more alike(brooches are same), both have heart-shaped pendants on their carcanets and at least 1 pearl on its end.

Pearl hiding away(overpainted when background was done or redone).

There are but few differences. Netherlandish is showing of more of cuts on sleeves and clearly has fur lining on those cuts and around wrist(which Anglessey doesn’t have), proven version has mere hint of it.

Rose is different and hands though more shaped as proven version, have thumb of his left hand(on right) showing. That is very odd actually.

No way his hand merely rests on ledge, the thumb wouldn’t be under rest of the fingers! Those four fingers aren’t so straight either. Try it yourself, but when i twist my hand to such position, it seems to me either as evil witch claw or as if i was grasping something roundish. Perhaps golden orb.

And yet despite all above, the face matches more the proven painting(on right):

I don’t know what to make of it. Perhaps experts can get us some clarity.

Tbh, i just love details of the hat brooch in II.

There is actually 4th version of this painting. But beware the face is horrendous!

III.)Henry VII (1457-1509), Victoria and Albert Museum:

Link: https://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O128343/henry-vii-1457-1509-oil-painting-unknown/

Those floral decorations on top were also found on portrait of Richard III from National Portrait Gallery(said to be late 16th century work). Idk if these were originally on our Henry too, or if it is later alteration.

VAM’s description simply states this painting is 16th century work-translation:we didn’t test it and don’t know.

You’d think these two are pair, but when you check the dimensions of both, H of hers is just 70% and width just 60% of his, so hers is smaller and narrower!

But they probably are at least altered by same painter.

By the way I., II. and III. are only paintings of Henry VII in existence(that I know of) which also have that heart-shaped pendant.

I won’t point out all the similiarities/ differences with the others again, as you already know what to look at and that ledge is pretty much unmistakable.

But few more differences, which are hard to spot:

Cloth of gold bending up vs down:

In III. the ring is on his middle finger instead of on his ring finger(which can be simply honest mistake by painter, even on original):

The middle of the rose has gilded pattern:

And last thing I am not sure about. It’s the velvet, his shading, how it is painted.

To me it looks very alike as velvet in proven paintings. I can be mistaken though, and even if it is by Wewyck it can also be posthumous.

Problem with it is, that Henry VIII is never painted with grey ledge during his reign. Is it the case his got cut off or there never was any? Does it mean we are looking at copies after his reign? Or the style was prefered prior to his reign?

Could it be the earliest style of Wewyck’s workshop? I wondered. But then the trail went cold and I found nothing similiar for long while and instead focused on gathering versions of well-known paintings of Henry VII(and plenty there are!)

It bothered me, just as Virgil’s description bothered me and fact that somebody overpainted some of these paintings so heavily! Why?!

Perhaps this painting holds answer to that:

IV) Henry VII (Masters) (1457-1509), Society of Antiquaries of London, Burlighton House:

Link to Society of Antiquaries:

https://www.sal.org.uk/collections/explore-our-collections/collections-highlights/henry-vii-masters-1457-1509/

According to Society of Antiquaries it is ‘Likely painted before 1540′

So they don’t know.

But the painting is the worst case of pigment instability I’ve seen.

(Darkening of pigments is also example of pigment instability-at least I call it pigment instability, experts probably use some other term.)

Only the rose is not washed out(and I cannot rule out it is altered). Crimson velvet turned to orange! Light peach colour at some places!

If this happened to other paintings, it might explain the heavy overpainting.

I’ve seen MANY paintings of Henry VII and indeed it is similiar to many of them and could be altered version of some of them.

But what if it isn’t? There is 2nd version of this painting.

Both have cloth of gold lined with fur, different edges of the gown over it, rose with pattern in middle:

Bends on fabric of the sleeves and hand twisting same way(ring missing):

And lighter grey hair:

V: Henry VII in Christ Church, University of Oxford:

Link: https://artuk.org/discover/artworks/henry-vii-14571509-229296/search/keyword:henry-vii--referrer:global-search/page/2

(Don’t ask me why some univerities put their art collection on Art Uk instead of their webpage. IDK! But gives very few information about the painting.)

Obviously the painting is very dark, but perhaps it was its saving grace, grime protecting the pigments from becoming unstable.

Virgil described Henry VII thus:

His body was slender, but well built and strong; his height above the average. His appearance was remarkably attractive and his face was cheerful, especially when speaking; his eyes were small and blue, his teeth few, poor and blackish; his hair was thin and white; his complexion sallow.

And this is the only painting which fits the description. He is slim, seems to be tall and yet as no weakling/doesn’t look very ill. His hair is lighter grey(with small wave to it), his eyes are small, probably blue and look warm. Not as ice-berg in other versions.

When I say he doesn’t look ill i mean it in terms of his overall figure, his body is still strong despite him going grey. Virgil says Henry is strong but he also says he is sallow. You might think of sallow complexion as of yellowish or dark. But sallow can also mean unhealthy pale. Not everybody has that glow to the skin, we associate with health. Especially people with very pale skin, often can seem to bit sick of us.

Imo this is the difference between having fair white skin-very pale with that healthy glow and sallow white skin-white pale without healthy glow.

(Are you listening Anne Boleyn fans? Your lady probably wasn’t troubled by jaundice nor was dark-skinned/olive-skinned. She just looked bit sick. Which I’d be too if Henry VIII kept persuing me. I’d feel vomit raise up constantly. Ok maybe not early on in his reign, but later yep. I’m preparing entire post decidated to how many people he had killed.)

But you might disagree and think the painting doesn’t show Henry VII’s real features, you’ve seen his paintings and you’ve seen photos of his tomb and it is not him!

But isn’t genetics wonderful thing?

Even if it fools you sometimes.

VI) Henry VII, Hardwick Hall, National Trust Collection:

Links:https://www.nationaltrustcollections.org.uk/object/1129171

https://artuk.org/discover/artworks/henry-vii-14571509-172314/search/keyword:henry-vii-117090/page/8

Often this painting is thought of as young Henry VII.

I’ve seen it years prior and thought that yellow varnish played trick on portrait of Henry VII with light grey hair and created ilusion of blond hair and of much younger Henry VII-which then somebody copied into separate painting.

Problem is, now I’ve seen yellow varnish on light grey hair, and it doesn’t create such ilussion! My assumption was wrong!

So is it truly young Henry VII? Dressed and posed in same style as when he is grey? Not one wrinkle? It’s possible it is copy made to look him this young.

But what if the identity of the sitter is wrong? Remember, there is often great resemblence between family members and often their portraits are mislabelled, mistaken for their relative!

Imo, this is father and son(V and VI), painted at same time. I can’t tell you if VI is young Harry or Arthur. I don’t know. Siblings can be hard to tell apart. Darkening of pigments might have turned Arthur’s hair in known portrait to brown and Henry’s red hair could in childhood be more to golden strawberry blond.

By the way the boy’s hand rest on dark ledge, yet again, and these last 3 paintings are aproximately same size(H 35.5-36.8 cm and W 25.5-27.5 cm, max 2 cm difference). With IV(which doesn’t have ledge and misses few fingertips) being the shortest.

The details in IV, V and IV suggests they are work of same painter. That painter could be Meynnart Wewyck. The differences between these paintings and those already proven to be by his workshop, could simply be that these belong into other stage than the two stages we already knew about.

Hence these could be the oldest paintings by Wewyck, thus oldest Tudor paintings. And if that is not worthy of investigation, idk what is.

I hope you’ve enjoyed it and no, part 5 won’t be arriving as quickly as part 4.

#henry vii #Henry VII of England #Tudor History #meynnart wewyck #historical portraits

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semper-legens · 2 years

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90. Ballet Shoes, by Noel Streatfeild

Owned?: Yes Page count: 235 My summary: Three adoptive children, Pauline, Petrova, and Posy Fossil, are in financial trouble. To make ends meet, they all train to become ballet dancers and performers, though not all like it. Pauline’s a born actress, Posy’s a perfect dancer, but Petrova prefers car magazines. Can these girls achieve their dreams? My rating: 4/5 My commentary:

Look. Sometimes you just have to admit that you have an affinity for a certain type of twee, quaint, older style of children’s writing. I’m okay with it. Ballet Shoes is...it’s weird, my copy’s an old little paperback, but I don’t remember reading it as a kid. Still, I’ve found since that I really like it. The story’s old-fashioned, but it manages to maintain a certain charm, never quite crossing the line into being cringeworthy for me. It’s a step up from Enid Blyton, that’s all I’m saying.

The three girls are fun characters. Pauline’s that kind of pretty girl who’s a little up herself, and has to learn humility and that she’s not the main character of the universe. Petrova’s the tomboy, who wants to be a pilot and fix machines. And Posy’s the class clown, a perfect dancer who knows how good she is, but isn’t quite as stuck up as Pauline can be. They feel like they’re designed for the reader to pick one with whom they identify, in which case I am a Petrova stan first and a person second.

One thing I find interesting is the 1930s setting (then-contemporary, it was first published in 1936) and the assumptions it’s making. This interwar period in England is a really interesting slice of history, and with these middle-class characters we can really see the changing times. The Fossils have servants, a cook and a nanny and a maid, but they’re struggling to pay them and have to take in lodgers to their giant house in order to pay the bills. The kids are educated by said lodgers, a pair of lesbian teachers because they can’t afford private school and (implicitly) don’t want to be educated in a state school with the poors. Much is made of the family’s financial situation not being able to keep up with the kids’ need for new clothes - dresses are passed down, but Pauline and later Petrova need nice dresses to get jobs, and their finances don’t always stretch that far. (Also, they keep going on about fabrics and I’m just sitting here clueless like ‘ah, no, wearing cotton at that time of year, ludicrous’ like I know what’s going on. But that’s a me thing.)

I also wonder how much the ballet world has changed since the 30s. Obviously this is a sanitised and idealised look at being a child performer in the 30s, but I have read a lot about the extreme bullying of young ballet dancers, with a focus on their body types. Granted, Pauline’s more an actress than a dancer, and Posy isn’t old enough to begin a professional life by the end of the story, but we still see these kids being affected by beauty standards of the time. Pauline’s fair, the exact image of beauty in this time, but Petrova’s dark and Posy’s a redhead. Pauline ends up getting a role as Alice in Wonderland over a much more talented and skilled classmate because Pauline physically fits the part better, the classmate being plain and ill-dressed. But that’s not really commented on, other than the reader being invited to feel sympathy for the classmate, it’s just a fact of life and the industry these kids are in.

Next up, some real history, as we go back to 1980s Britain for a tale of solidarity.

#Ballet Shoes #Noel Streatfeild #book blog #book blogger #bookblr #4

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happysadyoyo · 2 years

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So maybe a windmill wouldn’t be a good idea, but a small waterwheel might be enough to generate a little electricity. He returned to his luggage, digging through his clothes for — “Ah ha, there you are.” He pulled out his pencil and sketchbook, sitting to plan. “I can get proper measurements later. For now…”

Well, the one good thing about finally having his own room was the ability to mutter mostly under his own breath without drawing irritated looks from his sisters. The negatives? He didn’t notice until it was too dark to actually see what he was doing to realize that, well, he’d been working late into the evening.

“Uh, Father?” he called, leaving his room. “Holly? Ivy?” He frowned. “Tanya?”

“Downstairs Cassie!” Tanya was the answeree. “We’ve already finished dinner.”

“Why didn’t you call me down?” He made it down the stairs, blinking in surprise at the massive change that’d happened in the main room. It was already looking like a home. A home that’d taken his old home’s skin and stretched it over its own carcass. It didn’t quite fit. Tanya was sitting by the fire, working on… something. Something with fabric.

“I did try,” she replied. “But you were so absorbed in whatever it was you were doing you didn’t hear me. So we ate without you.”

“Rude,” he said, looking through the door to the kitchen curiously. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Holly wanted to find where to drop off her letters to Hatford, and Lila decided she wanted to go too. Father went with them to collect some food for tomorrow because he didn’t expect the ice box to be quite so… old fashioned.”

“We’d only just gotten a refrigerator back home too,” Cassian complained. “I bet if we tried to order a new one, it’d cost an arm and a leg. Or ten, if Father’s doing amputations.” He laughed, but Tanya didn’t join him. “Usually you and Lila like my jokes.”

“You’ve been acting more like a child since Father told us we were moving here,” she told him. “I get you’re upset about the whole leaving the city and country thing, but someone has to look at the bigger picture. And apparently that’s fallen to me.”

“Because you’re almost as high and mighty as Holly,” Cassian grumbled,

“You know I can hear you.” She paused in her work to frown at him.

“Yes, I am aware,” he snapped. “You realize that just because you’ve moved to an entirely new country, you’re still not going to be able to make friends.”

“See, now you’re just trying to be hurtful.” She leaned back in her chair with a sigh. “I had friends in England. And I will have friends here too. Father needed to get out of Bristol, and his health is more important to me than… leaving our childhood home and everything else behind.”

#writeblr #writblr #creative writing #queer romance #tumblr story

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sovaghoul · 3 months

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History

This is the history of Wicca as I have learned it from my Gardnerian Elders. I’m including this in a Wicca 101 series, because I feel that knowing where your beliefs and pratices come from is important.

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🔮 Beginnings in England

Gerald Brosseau Gardner, a British civil servant, claimed that at some time in the 1930s, he came upon a Witchcraft Family Tradition (or FamTrad) practicing in the New Forest area of England. He was later granted admittance to this Coven, having proved to the High Priestess’ satisfaction that he had “Witch Blood,” that a blood ancestor of his was a Witch of some kind or another (he did not claim a direct, unbroken lineage of parent-to-child teachings of Witchcraft from this ancestor, however, simply that this ancestor existed and was a Witch). This was necessary because, at that time, Witchcraft was not only illegal in England, but also closed off to those not “of the Blood.”

As time passed, Gardner saw his Covenmates growing older, and their children uninterested in taking up the practices. He didn’t want to see these beliefs die out, so with permission from his High Priestess, he began to write fiction inspired by his beliefs and experiences (“High Magick’s Aid” and “A Goddess Arrives”).

In order to teach others, though, Gardner needed a different way to say what his path taught; as was a requirement of his Coven, he had taken an Oath not to reveal certain specifics of the Coven’s practices. Additionally, Gardner also said he did not receive complete materials, being that much of the FamTrad was oral and performed by rote and from memory, as opposed to being written down. As such, parts of it were, unfortunately, naturally lost over time. So, passing down his learnings as they stood would have been impossible at worst, and impractical at best.

But how to avoid breaking his Oaths and still teach the Witchcraft he knew? First, Gardner again obtained permission from his High Priestess to move forward with this endeavor, and then he set about finding new ways and words to express the same ideas. He did this by reading the works of other Occultists (and in some cases, joining other Occult orders, such as the Freemasons and the Order of the Golden Dawn), researching cultural anthropology and other related subjects, drawing from his many travels to India and Malaysia, and reading poetry, especially that of Rudyard Kipling. In short, he started constructing new Lesser Mysteries.

(An aside, Gardner always called the religion “Witchcraft” or "the Witch-cult" in his writings, never using the word “Wicca.” Additionally, he called the practitioners, “the Wica” (yes, one C) or simply “Witches.”)

When the British anti-Witchcraft laws were finally repealed in 1951 and replaced with the Fraudulent Mediums Act, he published non-fiction books on the subject (“The Meaning of Witchcraft” and “Witchcraft Today”). He used these books as a way to get the word out, to attract the right sorts of people to him so that they could become his students.

Gardner may also have based what are now the Gardnerian Tradition’s rituals on what he’d already been practicing, but unless a very unethical member of his FamTrad comes forward, we won’t know exactly (and if we think about it, we couldn’t trust that information anyway, because they have already proved themselves a liar, either by passing off a fabrication as truth, or by breaking their Oath). However, I do feel safe in saying that his intention was retain the same feel, evoke the same emotions and experiences, and impart the lessons in similar fashion as his FamTrad, and that he would not have began teaching what we now know as Wicca unless he felt his work had in fact achieved those aims.

With these changes to rituals, wording, etc., Gardner was able to begin teaching non-hereditary seekers, and his body of works eventually became known as the Gardnerian Tradition of Wicca. Others he worked with added more information and writings, and this Tradition has in turn inspired other Traditions, and become the foundation of all of modern Wicca as it is known today, as well as influencing other forms of modern Paganism. After a decade or so, Gardner’s Witchcraft made it’s way to America, through Raymond and Rosemary Buckland, who came to New York in the early 1960s and began teaching and Initiating Americans into Wicca.

(Another aside, the term “Gardnerian” came from other English Witches who disapproved of this venture, and was meant to be insulting or derogatory. Over time, it has become accepted as a way to distinguish between what Gardner put forth and those other, perhaps older, practices, now often referred to as Traditional Initiatory Witchcraft, or TIW. It reminds me a lot of the debate between using Wicca or Neo-Wicca that was addressed before, but I digress.)

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🔮 Progression in America

Gardner set out certain rules for this path, but there has been much deviation in the last decades. This is due, in part, to a group that formed in 1970, who called themselves The Pagan Way. There was much excitement around these teachings, but at the time, Covens were even harder to find and contact than today, especially in the United States. Additionally, interest was so great that Covens couldn't accommodate it all, and new ones couldn't form fast enough. The Pagan Way put together an introductory packet of sorts, with limited Outer Court (as opposed to the “Inner Court” of Coven Initiates) information, as a sort of “teaser” to give people a way to practice “in the mean time” until they could be Initiated into a Coven. It was not a complete system in the same way Traditions are, nor did it contain Oathbound information.

Somehow, either this intention was misunderstood, or some in the general populace disregarded it, and the Pagan Way materials began to be treated as a complete religious system. Authors and publishers ran with it, and the idea of Solitary Wicca was born. This also, in fact, led to the necessity of Eclecticism, since the system these Solitary Practitioners were using was missing key elements, and they needed supplementary material to fill in the gaps.

The first popular book to espouse the idea that one didn't need a Coven to practice Wicca, was "Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitioner" by Scott Cunningham, first published in 1988. To be clear, Cunningham was never an Initiate of any Wiccan Tradition (the only way to be considered Wiccan at the time), but he did similar work as The Pagan Way, putting forth a way to practice without such an Initiation. The difference being, his work was intended as a complete system, rather than a place-holder for later study with a Coven.

Over the last near-century, other Traditions have formed, as was alluded to previously. There are also a large number of Solitary, often Eclectic, "un-affliated" Wiccans, practicing on their own, or perhaps with a small group of friends, and/or sometimes attending open public rituals. Traditions do still thrive, proving the point that there is no one set of Lesser Mysteries that is correct for everyone.

So, as to the debate about Wicca’s age, it depends on if one defines a religion by its beliefs, or its practices. If one means the forms practiced today, then no, Wicca is not ancient, it has only existed since about the 1950s, with the perhaps more prolific Eclectic forms being even more recent. But if one means Witchcraft, and the beliefs our modern practices are built around, then those reach back to time immemorial.

Next post: Ethics

#wicca #wiccan #witch #witchcraft #pagan #paganism #spirituality #religion #occultism #about me #wicca 101

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finneganmikkelsen9 · 2 years

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littlemisslipbalm · 3 years

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I live in the neighbourhood

When Y/N moved to Hampstead she was unaware of the implications the decision would have on the course of the rest of her life.

Harry is Y/N’s eccentric neighbour who sweeps her up in the whirlwind that is his life

this gif bc its maybe my favorite clip of him EVER holy fuck - this is the harry of my dreams this is the harry of i live in the neighbourhood

HEY YALL it’s been a minute and I missed yall so much and I’m just about to be on break so maybe i’ll be back to posting writing regularly but with school its so hard and I think I’ve been working on this for months so yeah <3 lol PLS PLS PLS leave me feedback and reblogs and that stuff bc otherwise my writing just feels...empty and you have no idea the smile i get when even just the tags say like “god this was everything” it can be anything honestly but it keeps my passion up. Thank you again and hope you enjoy.

Word Count: ~10k | Warnings: swearing probably? no smut (yet), rich and famous harry - mentions of Taylor Swif

She considered herself an average young woman in her mid twenties. She liked screaming Taylor Swift and Megan Thee Stallion songs alone in her car and thrifting on weekends. She hated cable because of commercials and when doordash didn’t deliver all of her order. She had asthma when she worked out or the air quality was bad. She had dumb celebrity crushes that her friends and her still laughed over with every new instagram post. She had hopes and dreams she had yet to achieve and she had past trauma that many would never know about, especially at first glance.

Sure, she was successful. She would admit that. How else would she be able to afford even the modest little house she had found in Hampstead? She had studied international business in college and hopped on a plane to London the first chance she got. After a few years of a more than decent paycheck and an advantageous stimulus check from her kind parents, she was able to move out of her starter flat into the suburbs. The definitive push for the move was two-fold. Her parents wanted her to take her dog and her apartment complex was strict on no pets. Then her promotion at work - which included a pay raise - made it hard to wave off taking full ownership of her childhood ten-pound best friend.

So with life happening as it usually does, Y/N first found herself scouring Zillow, then touring homes in the area, and finally standing outside a three bedroom, two bath, two-story cream house in Hampstead. Her house.

The little moving truck she had rented sat beside her as she stared at her future. The realtor had told her they would be there in ten minutes. For the next ten minutes all Y/N had to do was keep herself from combusting, or worse, sobbing.

She felt overwhelmed already. Renting a flat in London was one way to describe herself as independent. Owning a home in Hampstead seemed like a whole new level of adulthood she wasn’t sure if she was prepared for.

After taking a few deep breaths to ground herself, Y/N walked up to the gate that kept her front yard narrowly separated from the sidewalk. She lifted one hand from beneath the box she clutched tightly to her chest to push past the iron-rod gateway. The garden was cute, a little bland, and she thought to herself that maybe she’d develop some gardening skills now that she had her own front yard. The thought made her smile a little, refraining from laughing aloud while on her lonesome, since she had never taken interest in gardening before. But this house. This house. It was a new beginning. It was a fucking unwritten journal. Blank film. Unknown territory. She could be anyone in this house.

She gently placed the cardboard box on the first step up to the front door. There was no porch, but she couldn’t complain. It was gorgeous and she was lucky to get it at the price she did. The house was cream with dark blue accents and a grey shingled roof. Lots of windows. It was classic and it was hers.

After the realtor came with her keys and made sure everything seemed alright, Y/N’s couple of friends, Amélie and Daniel, arrived with their cars filled with items she had needed picking up from various stores. They helped her move her stuff into the house. Thankfully it was already half furnished, meaning she didn’t have to go out and buy beds or couches or any of those big items that are both expensive and a hassle to deal with.

By the time the evening had rolled around, everything was in the house and it actually seemed semi put together. Y/N looked around, sweat apparent on her face and hands on her hips, proud of what she had accomplished. The nerves from earlier had been drowned by pride.

The next day, she woke up from her first night in the house. It felt like a dream even though she was sure she was awake.

She had to navigate her way to the airport today to pick up her dog from his long flight and then mainly settle into the house. Her house sat on Sherwood Avenue, one of the many streets in Hampstead. It’s neighboring houses were much larger. The ones directly next to and across from her weren’t drastically bigger but what she had yet to learn was that next to the house across from her there were two houses that had been joined together by their slightly eccentric owner. A man who would be the match that ignited the flame that was the rest of her life.

This unknown fact quickly became known after Y/N’s first few weeks in her new neighbourhood. The eccentric - more so absurdly rich - neighbor who conjoined the houses was Harry Styles.

The first time they crossed paths she wasn’t even aware of it. It was the day she moved in. He had been out for his usual morning run and was rounding the corner when she had pulled up in her moving van. Once inside his home, he snoopily watched on as his neighbour began to move in. He hadn’t taken note of much about her, just that she was new and that she had a nice pair of jeans on that day.

The second time, Y/N was convinced she needed to get her eyes checked because there was no way that she had just seen Harry Styles key himself into the house across the way from her. There was no way that she had moved into the same area as him, let alone the same street. It seemed far more plausible that she needed a psych evaluation or a strong glasses prescription.

But the third instance of them crossing paths, she was proven wrong. She was on her way back from the neighbourhood park when she saw a guy jogging towards her. With a yellow beanie and a black Columbia sweatshirt paired with running shorts and shoes, he was hard to ignore running straight towards her. The iconic curls, strong jawline, and soft green eyes were dead giveaways this time. After making brief eye contact as their paths literally crossed, she felt herself make a little face of odd interest. Her head quirked and her eyes narrowed, lips pursed with slight confusion. That was definitely him.

After that, she found herself seeing Harry around the neighbourhood a relatively good amount. She’d see him at the park, at the coffee shop, on their street, and more. They didn’t speak. She really didn’t think he would want to be bothered by his neighbours and she certainly wasn’t willing to test the theory. They sometimes gave a small smile of acknowledgement but nothing really friendly. Just ‘you exist and I know that’.

Fridays are Y/N’s favorite day. It’s the beginning of the weekend, she never has to go into work and it’s simply a nice day. People are happier, they smile brighter and it just seems like the world is a little better than usual.

Friday was especially amazing today because her childhood best friend, Cate, was arriving at London Heathrow in the evening. Y/N had begged Cate to fly out to see the new house in person and Cate had finally found the time to run away to England for a week.

She shut her front door carefully behind her and placed her headphones in her ears. Rori, that little terrier, who had made a similar flight to see Y/N’s place not too long ago, scampered out the door with her and jumped happily at her legs as she fiddled with her phone. Her coat ruffles around her disturbed from the morning air. It’s blanket-like fabric that consisted of a deep blue backdrop with felt giraffes sewn on it, kept her warm while she walked. With her mind racing with weekend plans and ideas for her and Cate to do both in Hampstead and the city, she crossed the street like usual and began to walk with her dog to the coffee shop for her morning tea.

Unlike usual, she fumbled just as she was putting her phone in her pocket and bumped into something large and definitely not sedentary.

“I’m so sorry!” She blushed and moved backwards from the man who had just been shutting his own front gate to head somewhere.

“S’alright. No harm, no foul.” He looks down at her and her dog. Rori seems excited by the stranger and sniffs him eagerly. A single paw prodding at the man’s long leg.

She grimaces, hearing the voice and stepping back allows her to fully recognize who she had just bumped into. Her neighbour. The runner. Harry Styles.

“Sorry.” She mutters again as Rori continues to prod at Harry’s leg.

She tries to coax Rori away, but Harry simply smiles and leans down to the small dog.

“Hi there buddy,” he coos and rubs the top of the fluffy dogs head, in between his pointy ears, “What’s your name?”

“Rori.” She states easily, Harry’s eyes flickering to her smoothly. Rori makes a smile babbling noise that sounds a bit like a tiny roar - hence the name - and Harry chuckles to himself.

“He’s really adorable,” he finally says and straightens up from his admiring of the dog.

The grimace becomes more of a smile on her face and she mumbles a “Thank You”.

As her neighbour - who hasn’t introduced himself (which wasn’t necessary, but still) or bothered to ask for her introduction - seems to be about to say something new when his phone begins to vibrate obnoxiously. He twitches, his large hands immediately going to his pockets for the important device. He checks the message and looks back at her face.

“Sorry, I have to run...um,” he’s not sure what to say. He really does have to go, but he doesn’t even know his neighbour’s name. He’ll have to make sure to get it at some point in the near future. Especially now that he’s acquainted with her dog.

“No worries,” she smiles completely this time, relieved for the whole interaction to be over. She felt like she was going to explode with each passing moment. In the presence of a legendary musician, c’mon, who wouldn’t be freaking out. All she could think about was how Harry Styles now knew her dog’s name. What the fuck!

Upon arriving at the airport, she waited patiently for Cate to walk out of the customs area.

When she did, the two young women began jumping up and down excitedly, Y/N squealing only slightly. They hugged and began chattering intensely, catching up on lost time that generally occurs when you live an ocean apart.

Finally, one comment rings through the constant back and forth and Cate stops.

“Wait, what did you just say,” she questions as they begin walking to catch an uber back to Hampstead.

“I think my house might be haunted?” Y/N’s voice raising because she’s unsure if that’s what Cate was talking about.

“No, no, the thing after that. I think I must’ve misheard you.”

“Harry Styles is my neighbour?” Y/N’s brows raise as she looks over at her best friend, curious to know what she will say.

“Yes! Explain. Now!”

“It’s not really a big deal. It’s a nice neighbourhood, it makes sense that celebrities of his caliber want to live there.”

“That is not explaining. You have to introduce us!”

As they climb into their uber and settle in for the short ride back to Hampstead, Y/N sighs and tells Cate everything she knows.

“We’ve only just spoken today and I’ve been here for a couple weeks. He lives across the street and down one, I guess. I just see him around, it’s not like he knows who I am. He didn’t even get my name today, just Rori’s.” She laughs lightly, still finding it funny that Harry knows her dog’s name.

Cate nods, leaning in slightly to her best friend, hardly able to contain her awestruckness from the story and baffledness at Y/N’s calmness. “So, like, when do I get to meet him?”

“Girl, I don’t fucking know. Never, if you’re going to act wild. I don’t want the neighbourhood to think I’m not chill.”

“Sometimes…” Cate starts and leans away from Y/N jokingly, “I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

They both smile, bumping elbows silently. The song on the radio fading in louder as their words die out.

The next day, Y/N took Cate to the local park. It was expansive and connected to the football fields that local teams would play at. The park section was a luscious green that was maintained with copious amounts of watering by the township.

She and Cate settled on a patch of grass near a slender tree that would offer some shade if the sun’s rays became too harsh. The quilt they sat on was something her grandmother had made her when she was maybe 8 years old, meaning it was torn in places and completely worn in a different shade of pink than it had been initially.

They set up their picnic and played music, enjoying the sunny day. Something rare and fleeting as the fall began to creep up on Hampstead.

They eat and catch up on life for about an hour. Basking in the sunlight, Y/N had laid on her back and was staring up at the clouds passing along the sky. Cate was carefully watching their surroundings, simply taking in her friend’s new home, but possibly for another reason too.

“Hey, isn’t that…” Cate trails off, trying to subtly nod in the direction of an approaching figure.

Y/N sits up, her hands holding her up from behind her. Her hair fails in front of her shoulders slightly and it’s a little disheveled from being mused in the grass. She looks discreetly in the direction of Cate’s nodding and then looks at her friend and rolls her eyes.

“Yes, but don’t say anything, he might not even notice me and I’m certainly not calling out to him.”

‘Illicit Affairs’ by Taylor Swift is playing off her speaker and as she’s about to change it, Cate turns it up slightly. They share a glare with one another before trying to act casual again, even though both of their eyes kept flickering to the man who seemed to be continuing closer and closer to their set up.

It became clear that Harry was approaching them after all and Y/N tried to carry on an unbothered conversation with Cate, which was hard with the constant nudging of Cate’s foot on her shin.

He stops a mere foot away from their blanket, beaming at the two young women lounging on the ground. He makes an attempt at a casual wave, his large hand splaying his fingers quickly, before opening his mouth to speak.

Cate beats him to the punch. “Hello there!”

“Erm, hi!” He says nicely to her and then looks at Y/N.

“No Rori today?” He inquires.

“No,” she smiles, slightly blushing at the fact that he remembered her and her dog. “He’s napping.”

“Ah, I see,” He pauses, “I feel like I need to apologize.” He continues.

“For what?” She questions and Cate watches on anxiously, mesmerized by Harry and dying to see what happens next.

“I ran off before I could even ask for your name or introduce myself. It was terribly rude.”

“Oh,” she can’t stop smiling, “It’s nothing to apologize for, I’m sure you’re busy. Besides I had to get my day started, otherwise I would’ve been late picking her up.” She points to Cate who smiles sheepishly, still internally screaming over the fact that her friend is able to talk so easily to a celebrity.

Harry nods and looks at Cate again, “Just visiting I take it then?”

She nods quickly, words escaping her. Y/N chuckles under her breath and swoops in to save her friend any embarrassment. “Cate’s my best friend and she’s been kind enough to take time out of her extremely busy life to come look at my new house.”

He hums, still standing a respectful distance from their set-up. “Nice to meet you, Cate,” he says very kindly. Then he laughs, but in a way that is like he’s beside himself. The two women both quirk their heads at him. Y/N squints her eyes slightly, trying to understand the guy she is talking to and connecting him with the man that is all over the news all of the time for his musical genius.

“Now I know your dog and best friend’s names but still not yours. At this point, I’m begging you to tell me.”

They all laugh and Y/N feels nervous for the first time since Harry had walked up.

“You first,” she smiles slyly.

His eyes widen slightly in surprise, but then go back to normal. Harry was very smart, she likely knew his name, but one, she was trying to be funny and two, she was also trying to be courteous. He preferred to introduce himself rather than just be told who he is, even if people already knew. It allowed him to maintain some normalcy.

“‘M Harry,” He says with a smile.

“Alright.” She says and then remains quiet.

Harry’s lips quirk up in a faint smile, amused at her expression.

“I thought it was a ‘show me yours and I’ll show you mine’ type of situation or was I mistaken?” He finally asks when she remains silent still.

The two young women laugh and Y/N bites the inside of her cheek, both feeling flustered and completely in control at the same time.

“You weren’t mistaken, I was just thinking.” Then she pauses again and Cate thinks Harry is about to combust and Harry thinks he’s going to as well with all the anticipation that has been built up over his neighbor’s name, even though he was pretty sure he’d heard it in passing at one point or another but had forgotten quickly afterwards.

“It’s Y/N.”

Harry releases a facetious sigh of relief, “Oh thank god! Finally!” His words quickly turn into an infectious laugh that is paired with a shining smile and she feels like she’s swooning right then and there. The control has gone out the window and she’s taken with her neighbor. He’s wonderful in that moment and she forgets about Cate or the park or anything. It’s just Harry and how it seems like he’s smiling just for her.

“Now that I’ve gotten your name,” he smiles pointedly at her after his laughter has faded away. The smile doesn’t leave his face though, his eyes still crinkled, his dimples still showing.

She nods, encouraging him to continue. Cate feels like she’s watching a movie unfold in front of her and she wishes she could record the entire interaction.

“I can finally ask you, Y/N, where did you get that fabulous coat I saw you wearing yesterday?”

She twitches further upright, eyes bringing themselves directly inline with Harry’s gaze. “Oh,” she inhales, “The giraffe one, yeah?”

He nods.

“I got it from a Goodwill years ago. It’s some vintage company that used to only make sleepwear. I looked up the tag one time and it doesn’t exist anymore. Super cool, though. Wish I could buy more.”

“Yeah,” Harry says eagerly, even taking a step towards the women, “It was so intriguing. Maybe, if you didn’t mind of course -” he falters, losing his courage for a moment, “you could bring it over and my stylist could check it out. I would love something similar and I’m sure he could figure it out.”

She shrugs. It wasn’t crazy, especially not for Harry - she assumed. She was certain he often found things he liked but there was only one of them so he would just order his own. She couldn’t help the pride that was swelling inside her though it that moment. Harry Styles liking her jacket so much he asked where it was from and then wanting his stylist to look at it. She’d jump for joy when she was in the safety of her private home later tonight with Cate.

“One condition,” she says and Harry’s brows quirk amusedly at her.

“You are a very tit for tat person,” he muses.

“Fair’s fair,” she shrugs again and then looks around her quickly, “It’s simple so don’t get too worked up over it, buddy.”

He laughs slightly again and tries to figure out what she’s looking for. When she extends a scratched up, sticker-covered point and shoot film camera he smiles.

“Can you take a picture of Cate and I? It’s always just the two of us so we never have anyone to take pictures of us together.”

Harry grins at this and her sincere face. Cate is a little taken aback, because while it’s technically true, it’s not entirely factual. They have plenty of film pictures of them - maybe not recently though. And she wasn’t going to question Y/N right now. It seemed like she knew what she was doing.

Harry takes the camera and begins to look through the viewfinder. The women scoot closer together and Cate wraps her arm around Y/N’s shoulder. She leans in to press her cheek against her best friend. They smile up at the camera and Harry crouches slightly to get a better angle.

“Alright,” he mumbles, “Ready?...Cheese!”

Their smiles stay hung on their face as they listen for the click and when the faint sound befalls their ears, Cate laughs and Y/N pulls away. She reaches forward for the camera, her hand easily brushing Harry’s large one.

Their smiles meet each other and Cate can’t help but notice how they grow as the two of them look at one another.

“Thank you,” Y/N says sweetly and pulls back to retake her seat on the blanket.

Harry straightens up, his grin falling back into that signature smirk. “No problem.”

“So-” He begins but she cuts him off.

“Well, I’m sure I’ll see you around, yeah?”

He clears his throat, feeling thrown off. “Yeah, sure. I guess next time I see you we can talk about when a good time would be for your jacket to come over?”

His voice raises at the end of his question a little more than usual, he’s trying to get her to bite, but she doesn’t seem like someone who is easily thrown off. He is trying to read her and she’s been completely cool the entire time. It’s intriguing. Even more so than the jacket, even though he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like it, it wasn’t really his focus when he walked across the park to her and Cate.

“Yep! It was nice finally meeting you Harry.”

He feels the cue to walk off and says his farewells. As he walks off, back on course to his intended destination, his head is filled with questions. Most important of them being when he would see her again.

Cate and Y/N watch him walk towards the football fields. They see him meet with a group of men and it seems like they’re there to practice or play a game. Y/N couldn’t be sure.

“He likes you!” Cate finally bursts out.

Y/N rolls her eyes, “Stop trying to make me take the piss. That’s a fucking lie and you know it.”

“It’s not! He likes you and you obviously like him, I mean, but we been knew.”

“Having a crush on the famous Harry Styles when you’re 17 is different than me liking my neighbour Harry.”

“But you like him don’t you? He’s even better than he was when he was 19. Now he’s all grown up and established and more your style anyway.”

“Shut up! He could hear you.”

“He really couldn't, he's yards away, you’re just paranoid.” Cate continues to tease and ridicule her best friend over Harry and Y/N is just about ready to up and leave, but she also can’t help but laugh it off.

“I’m literally gonna kick you out if you keep talking,” Y/N says between laughs and the women feel like they’re back in high school losing their minds over the stupidest joke ever.

“Okay, fine. But all I have to say is I will hold this over you when you end up together.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure, whatever. Just be prepared to wait forever because I can promise you Harry Styles and I are never ending up together.”

Two Weeks Later

Y/N walked to her door after hearing the doorbell ring and opened it to find her neighbour standing with his arm raised ready to knock.

“Hey, Harry,” She greeted easily, but not entirely sure why he was here.

They hadn’t really seen each other since their official meeting in the park. It hadn’t bothered her and it hadn’t really bothered Harry either. It seemed like they both had extremely busy lives that they didn’t plan on throwing out the window because they had said they would meet up at some point. She liked that.

Harry had come over because he finally had a break in his schedule and was hoping to talk about the jacket and anything else really. He was interested in getting to know her and he didn’t care to hide it.

“I was wondering if you wanted to go get a coffee or something?” He asked, leaning himself against her door frame now.

Her eyebrows raise and her eyes widen a little bit, not completely sure she heard him correctly.

“Right now?!” She asked incredulously.

She was wearing an oversized grey sweatshirt and black bike shorts that peaked out from underneath the sweatshirt hem. One of her socks was shoved around her ankle while the other was pulled up flat to touch the base of her calf. She didn’t think she was looking the most presentable at the moment. She had been basking in her day off by simply laying on the couch watching hours of Netflix.

He nods, his smile growing on his face. Her flustered expression only made him happier. She was always so nonchalant with him, he wanted to see her a little more antsy.

“Unless you’re busy,” he adds seriously, not wanting to bother her, just wanting to spend time with her.

“No, no. I’m not...I’m not busy. I just wasn’t expecting any plans where I would be required to go out in public. Let me just...um, come inside and then give me five minutes.”

“Sure,” Harry smiles again as he steps into her home.

Her smile is sheepish and much less genuine then the one Harry holds on his face as he takes in her abode. She tells him to make himself comfortable and then runs to her room to try and possibly fix her state in under five minutes.

She tears around her room, heaving off the frumpy sweatshirt and grabbing a long sleeve striped v-neck top she had hanging out half out of her hamper, a sign known to her that while it was clean enough to wear, if she happened to do laundry she should wash it. Slipping it over her head, she walks to her dresser and leans over to open the bottom drawer and unfolds a pair of dark wash oversized jeans. There’s no holes in them and she throws them on the bed so that she can slip out of her current pants. Next, onto the socks, she swaps out the current ones for a fresh black pair and finds her tortoise print boots to flick on. As she just about runs into her en suite bathroom, she zips the two boots up between steps. A quick comb through her hair, deodorant, two spritz of perfume, her eyelash curler and mascara and she’s running back to where Harry is waiting in her living room.

He blinks surprisedly at her promptness, usually giving people more time then what they say they need. She had indeed gotten ready in five minutes. He thought she looked breathtaking. And she felt like she was at a lack for breath in any case.

“It’s a bit cold out,” he glances to the window.

“Isn’t it always?” She smiles, finally catching her breath.

He chuckles and then nods, a smile appearing on his face as he feels a warmth in his chest at her wit.

“Ready?” He checks in.

She nods, grabbing a coat she kept hung by the door.

“Just the coffee shop down the way?” She inquires as they exit the house and she locks the door behind her.

Harry hums, waiting down a step for her to turn around and walk beside him. It was so strange to her, this felt all too normal with him. Like he was just a friend who had come to pick her up for coffee, her neighbor, nothing more.

“Did you hear the new season of the Crown is coming out soon?” Harry asks as they walk shoulder to shoulder (technically since her shoulder wasn’t in line with his).

“Really?” She looks at him, “I love that show!”

“Me too,” He looks at her and smiles happily.

“That’s amazing,” she breathes mostly to herself, half about the show and half about how Harry watches television and that he watches one of her favorite shows.

There’s silence. The brisk air pricking their cheeks as they walk down their street. Their puffs of breath create a slight mist of white ahead of them and then quickly dissipates.

Her eyes flit up to Harry’s chiseled jaw and face and she watches him as his eyes carefully and meaningfully take in his surroundings. Was it her turn to take a stab at conversation? It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence but she just wasn’t sure what was going on.

“You play football right?” She says finally as they turn onto the next street that would bring them closer to the café they both frequented.

She remembered seeing him there on several occasions. The tips he left were always overly generous, which she assumed you could do when you were exorbitantly rich. He always smiled when he ordered and knew the baristas by name. His order rarely differed and she hated to admit but she knew his two regulars. His actual “regular” was a 12 ounce black coffee, dark roast, no cream and no sugar. The other, his “I’ll actually have”, was a 16 ounce iced green tea, no cream and no sugar.

She couldn’t help that she was observant and that when ‘H’ was called at the bar she looked at what was pushed out, patiently waiting for him to come snatch it up with a smile and nod to the workers before he left. Sometimes he’d even smile at her over the lid of his drink as he exited the establishment. It was warm and inviting and she felt good about the twinkle in his eye that never seemed to waver no matter the day.

Now they were going there together and she’d have to pretend like she’d never noticed what he got as a drink.

He responds to her question with another glance at her and a simple “yes”. His hands shove into his pockets and one side of his pink lips quirk up. He continues, “I’m on a local team with some mates. We’re in a little competition with our league. The final match is coming up this Sunday actually...You should come.”

He says it so casually it almost doesn’t catch her off guard. Harry inviting her to his football game, maybe this was going to be her life now. Going to her neighbours football match. Going to Harry Styles’ football match.

“Sunday…” She sounds out, choosing to look out into the distance instead of at him. “What time?”

“Eight.”

“P.M. right?” She responds quickly, worried since she never wakes up that early and rarely before 10 a.m. on the weekends for that matter.

“Of course,” he chuckles.

They’ve come upon the café and he’s quick to grab the handle to open the door and let her go before him. She can’t stop the blush and smile that spread on her face as she ducks her head into the warm and cozy shop. Men had opened doors for her before and she really thought of herself as a strong woman who didn’t need a man for anything, but something about Harry’s action felt especially, and specifically, chivalrous. Why, she had no idea.

Neither of them stop to look at the menu. They were regulars and they both knew that about each other as well. He gestures for her to go first and she mutters her thanks before turning to the patiently waiting barista. She orders and is about to hand over her card when Harry suavely steps in and says, “Don’t worry about it. I invited you with me, I’ll pay.”

It was both completely unexpected and expected at the same time. Knowing she’d never win this fight, she thanked him again, glanced at the man taking her order and then stepped aside. Harry orders his own drink and then pays for both. Today he leaves double the amount he usually leaves for tip, she assumes since it’s two drinks he was paying for.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know?” She says quietly to him once they’re in a corner of the café waiting for their drinks.

He stands slightly slumped against the wall, closer to her height right now. He only shrugs, his good natured smile not once leaving his face since he entered this place.

“I wanted to,” he said simply right as the drinks were ready since it wasn’t particularly busy on this random Friday afternoon.

They glance outside and see that it’s begun to drizzle while they’ve been inside. She sighs, having hoped to walk around a little after being inside all day.

Instead, they sit at the corner table in the café, across from each other. She moves on from the paying thing, knowing it was simply how this guy probably operated most of his life.

He got a black coffee today, the cold and rain likely contributing to that choice.

As one pop song fades out, slightly under the sound of the coffee machines, she’s about to tell Harry she’s pretty sure she can make his final football match when ‘Cardigan’ fades in. It’s the second time a Taylor Swift song has been playing while she’s been in the presence of Harry and they were conversing. She tries to ignore one of her favorite songs at the moment. Harry doesn’t seem to pay much mind to it. His foot is tapping against his other, but it’s been tapping like that since they sat down.

“I think I could probably make it to your game,” she says finally after a pause and a sip of her own drink.

Harry grins at the response and launches into how great it will be if they win and how happy everyone will be. She smiles along and doesn’t notice the slight head swaying to the song that she’s begun.

“Fan of Taylor?” Harry inquires and Y/N’s face drops, eyes widening cartoonishly.

She stutters, a nervous laugh leaving her mouth before she can actually say something. How does she respond about liking Taylor Swift to a man who counts her as an ex. She’s at a loss.

“Yeah, uh,” she finally starts.

Harry watches her curiously, obviously noticing her discomfort as his question.

“I used to not really consider myself a fan. I don’t really follow her just because I don’t really follow...um...musicians,” she chokes out the last word realizing Harry fits that category. “But, after folklore, I don’t know, this album really spoke to me. I also really like Lover and...uh” she pauses again, sticking on 1989, an album she has argued with her friends about how it’s basically a tell all of the man before her and Taylor’s relationship.

He nods, hoping she’ll continue. He wanted to get to know her and he kind of liked seeing her squirm. “1989?” He finally supplies.

Her blush isn’t able to be covered this time. If her hair didn’t fall in front of her ears she was sure they’d be flushed with blood.

Then she draws out of her own self stress and looks at the smooth man before her and grows calm. He was amazing at winding her up and she didn’t want to seem like some young, impressionable fangirl to him. So, she squared her shoulders and straightened up in her chair.

“Yes, it was pop perfection as one of my college friends liked to say. I’d always listen to it at the gym.” Then she pauses, taking a measured breath, gaining her confidence back. Her eyes meet his, “Is there any songs off it that you particularly enjoy, Mr. Styles.”

He chuckles, mostly because of her emphasis on ‘Style’.

“Shake it off?” He asks.

“Oh fuck off!” She laughs and he joins in with her.

When they catch their breaths from laughing, they simultaneously take sips of their drinks and settle their eyes back on one another. Exes and songs written about oneself weren’t exactly the topics Harry had in mind for the coffee outing he had asked Y/N out on, but talks of exes had never been this funny with anyone else. He was grateful for her playfulness, her demeanor.

“Can I ask you something personal?” She asks quietly and seriously.

“I think we’re past that question, love,” he responds.

“Yeah, I guess,” she pauses and just about whispers, “Pretty much all of them are about you right?”

He shrugs again, his felt coat rustling around his seat. “We never really talked about every single song.”

She leans forward at the ‘we’ Harry is using about himself and Taylor Swift.

“But when I listen to the songs, I hear us in just about every one but a few.”

“Wow,” she breathes and sips her drink. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lived through something that intense and then someone commemorated in a masterpiece.”

“Do you have a favorite on that album?” He asks, moving on from her revelation.

“I love ‘I know places’, it has a cool sound. But I also really love ‘Wonderland’. They both have kind of dark sounds, yet it still is like what you have is so special that the bad bits are worth it. I don’t know, it just seems like a tv show. I don’t think my life could ever be that crazy or dramatic.” She doesn’t notice her use of ‘you’ because she had meant it as a form of analyzing the song theoretically as she had done hundreds of times with her friends, but this time the ‘you’ is literally the ‘you’ the song is talking about.

“Love can turn anyone’s life chaotic.” Harry muses.

The green eye’s that flashed at Taylor throughout that album look at Y/N from across the table and she feels a flip in her stomach at his tone.

Maybe he notices her mild discomfort, maybe that’s just who he is. But after a beat, Harry’s onto the next topic on his mind. He launches into how he’s just returned from Scotland for a shoot for something so undercover he can’t even divulge to her, much to his dismay. She’s taken aback since she didn’t consider her someone Harry would divulge any of his private matters to, but it seemed like he already considered her a confidant. Just not for that. He wants it to be a surprise.

She smiles and listens attentively. She wonders as he goes on about his interesting yet absurdly lavish life whether he even knows what regular life is like anymore. Or if he’d even enjoy it if he experienced it.

Sure, coffee and football were plenty part of regular life . But the football league was something novel to Harry. He had just gotten to do it and he was thrilled by its normalcy.

She regarded him carefully, unsure what the next step was in this budding friendship. Was it dangerous to get involved with someone’s life which seemed to be filled with whirlwind rigor and constant change.

She liked her chaos, don’t get her wrong. She felt like she often was the odd one out in life. Always thinking differently than the ones around her. She often was the one to suggest spontaneous late night trips around town or exploration of an abandoned building known for spooky stories. She liked inviting friends over for themed parties for no specific occasions and she liked taking film pictures of friends like they were models even though it was only for her and her memories. She thought of herself as silly and fun, but what Harry described as his chaotic fun actually was regimented tight schedules of constant travel and work. Interesting experiences came out of that constant travel and work, but didn’t seem like something she necessarily wanted to get herself wrapped up in.

After coffee, they leave the café and it’s pouring now. Instead of going home, Harry insists on walking her to her place. She relents, realizing, once again, that Harry wasn’t someone who took ‘no’ for an answer. She then invites him in because it’s the polite thing to do. And Harry being Harry accepts.

“Want a dry sweatshirt while you wait?” She asks as she slips off her wet shoes and jacket in the entryway. Harry follows suit, his knit sweater being pelted with rain for the last eight minutes left him feeling cold and shivery.

He nods as he toes off his shoes and ventures back to the living room she had him wait in a few hours ago.

“Here,” She says as she tosses a grey sweatshirt in his direction. She believes it's her one from earlier, an innocuous pullover with ‘London’ in collegiate lettering on the front. He catches it as she rounds the corner to turn up the heater.

Her mistake was being so careless to not look at the sweatshirt before handing it over to her neighbor. Anyone else, maybe they wouldn’t have questioned it. But Harry, how could he not.

“What’s this?”

“A sweatshirt,” she doesn’t spare him a glance on the coach as she fiddles with the thermostat.

“It’s one of my sweatshirts,” Harry says and she can hear the smile on his face.

“That’s impossible, I’ve never borrowed-” Her brows had raised at what he said but now her words fall short.

He didn’t mean one of his personal sweatshirts that she possibly borrowed if they were better friends. No. He meant his merchandise.

“It was a gift,” she sighs as she turns to face him. He’s now wearing the sweatshirt proudly and grinning up at her smugly.

She rolls her eyes when he gives her a knowing smile.

“I didn’t know that it was the one I was handing you. Honest!”

“I thought you didn’t “keep up” with musicians,” Harry says playfully, his fingers making quotes appropriately.

“I don’t.” Her tone is serious as she plops on the couch beside Harry.

“I enjoy your music from time to time. Is that a crime?!” She finally exclaims when she can’t handle Harry’s knowing smirk.

“No it’s not, you could have just told me you were a fan!” She tries to stop him and protest that she wouldn’t consider herself a fan, but he continues, “I still would have wanted to have been friends.You’re one of the liveliest neighbors I’ve got. Everyone else on the street is rather dull.”

She chuckles, remembering finding out quickly that the street wasn’t a lively bunch.

“I just wouldn’t say I’m a fan,” she presses and sits across from him.

He continues smiling like he knows the truth.

“I don’t think you’ve met an average person in awhile, Harry.” She finally says after they sat in silence for a few minutes because they were both too stubborn to be the first to talk.

“I would hardly call you average if that’s what you’re implying, Y/N.” He nods her way and he shifts on her plush couch, his legs adjusting themselves on their own accord. “And I know plenty of average people,” he adds huffily.

“I normally wouldn’t either, but compared to who you seem to surround yourself, I very much am. And that’s not meant to be a jab at anyone involved.”

His right hand sneaks up to his head to scratch at the base of a particularly perfect curl. His eyes squint a bit as his mind processes her claim.

“What are you trying to say exactly?”

“I’m just curious to see if you’d actually like me in your life. It seems like you want to be friends with me and that’s great, but realistically I don’t know how much I would fit into it.”

Harry scoffs, “That’s literally bullshit, just relax. I’m so chill you won’t even know what to do with me.”

Now it’s her turn to scoff. “Chill?!” She asks incredulously. Harry nods with a seriousness she hadn’t seen before.

“When’s the next time you’re flying off to another country for work?”

Harry pauses, “Um...the day after the final match. I’m beginning to film a movie, so I’ll be there for a month.”

“Busy bee,” she muses and they both chuckle.

There’s something about the somber look Harry is giving her. His eyes twinkled in the coffee shop and with playful winks she was excited to be in his presence. But after she mentions when his next trip is, he seems saddened. There’s skepticism behind his eyes and maybe he doesn’t like being challenged about who he is from other people, especially those who are new in his life.

But that’s who Y/N is, she’s straightforward and doesn’t lie to someone. If Harry was now her friend, she was going to tell it like it is to him. That personality trait she worried wouldn’t make her long for his world.

“So the cardigan? Do you have it here?” Harry changes the subject, clearly not wanting to actually consider a realistic friendship together instead just charging ahead with no hesitation. Whatever happened they would deal with it as it came. Maybe she should just go with the flow, let herself be swept up into his madness. Maybe it would be easier than fighting it.

“No.”

“Oh?”

“I do, I was joking. Where else would it be?” Her tone is light, trying to get back the shine she had seen Harry exhibit before it had vanished.

Maybe that was Harry’s effect on people. He was vibrant and like an Elton John song. You never wanted that shine to go away, never wanted the song to end. Never wanted him to stop shining his light on you. She felt this happening in just a few hours with him. When he was happy so was she and when he wasn’t entirely shining she wanted to do whatever she could to get it back.

A smile curls on his face and his green eyes narrow slightly. He’s trying to figure her out, know what she’s all about.

“Do you want to go and grab it?” His voice sweetening, almost like a tease. Maybe he means to bite his lip, maybe he doesn’t, but the effect on her is nonetheless earthshaking.

She pops up and smiles back, happy to have made him happy. As she walks out of the room to go get the cardigan that had started this all, her head tilts and she furrows her brow wondering why she felt such a sense of pride just for making him happy.

Would this man cause her to finally put someone else’s wishes ahead of hers?

“Are you on your way?”

She listens to Harry’s slightly worried voice crackle over the speaker of her phone as she shuts her door with the hand not holding her phone to her ear. His voice is raspy and muffled. She assumes it’s from the cold air of London at night and the scarf he is likely got wrapped around his neck.

“Yes! Jeez, I’m on my way. Walking over right now.”

It’s the final match for Harry’s football team and if they win the game then they get a trophy and it’s all Harry has been talking about since they got coffee and she handed over her cardigan.

Harry huffed an “alright” on the other side of the line and she called a “see you soon” before hanging up.

He was both eager for Y/N to come and possibly meet some of his teammates and a few of his close friends who he had invited and for her to arrive so that she wasn’t walking out late at night alone. He hadn’t known her for long, but he felt a certain protectiveness over her. She was relatively alone here, only two friends at work that she had mentioned and everyone else lived far away. She said she didn’t mind it, but Harry had a hard time understanding it since he surrounded himself with his friends as much as he could and was constantly either traveling or having them travel to see him.

He had even contemplated inviting her to come to Los Angeles with him for a month, but knew she would remind him of her ever important job that she couldn’t just randomly take a month off.

He’d have to ask her what exactly she did because every time he tried to remember, it always slipped his mind.

When her figure came into sight below the fluorescent lights, he breathed a sigh of relief. A grin spread on his face as she beamed at him and waved a bit. He didn’t understand how she couldn’t see how special she was. Every time he saw her he felt himself straighten up and feel a bubbling in his chest. Her smile was infectious and the way her eyes glittered when she looked away quickly and then returned eye contact made him want to stay in her presence forever.

“You made it!” Harry said and scooped her up in his arms, not realizing just how happy he was to see her, swinging her around in a half circle.

She laughs in surprise, but appreciates the warmth Harry’s hug offers her. She’s not quite sure they had ever touched each other before this moment beside shoulder brushes and hand touches. Nothing so...purposeful.

“I made it,” she confirms and pats him on his broad shoulders.

Questions in her mind raced as she questioned whether it was normal for friendships to happen like this. She knew in college friendships could happen this quickly. And that’s when it dawned on her, she really hadn’t made a new friend since college and that was why everything with Harry was so odd to her. She had forgotten what new friendship was. She needed to stop questioning everything and just live in the moment with a person she really liked being with.

Harry’s hands move from her waist and one stays to lead her forward so he can introduce her to some of his mates, as he had promised.

She felt at home in that moment. His hand on the small of her back, his heat radiating off of him and her hair swept behind her ears and her cheek pressed to his shoulder staring up at him sweetly.

She meets Charlotte, a member of Harry’s band who lives in London, her boyfriend, Mitch (who had just happened to find himself in Hampstead this weekend), Ben, and a few more people she couldn’t remember all the names of.

Harry’s team wins the game and Y/N’s not sure if she’s ever seen someone so happy to win an adult league football match. There wasn’t any official trophy except the one Harry had made himself and said he would even give to the other team if they won. It was engraved with the words “The World’s Greatest Football Team of Stars Ever. October 22, 2020”. It doesn’t even make sense but she’d been holding it for the entire night as he played.

He goes down the line of his friends who have been watching and gives them all jubilant kisses on the lips. When he reaches Y/N she holds out the trophy and he grins and gives her a kiss on the cheek. His lips are surprisingly soft and his scratchy stubble tickles her and she swiftly pulls back, a smile on her face and blush on her cheeks nonetheless.

Charlotte and Mitch share a look between the two of them and Ben’s eyes narrow slightly at the interaction. His eyes narrow just as they had when Harry had strutted over to the group with Y/N before the game. He had happily named everyone and she had shaken all of their hands with a warm smile on her lips. Ben had regarded her warily and she had shaken it off as the chill of the night air. But there it was again, not quite trusting of the neighbour girl Harry had just randomly befriended a few days ago.

The team and the friends of the team decide they deserve to celebrate this win, mostly at the request of Harry.

Y/N tries to find a time to leave, to return to her place so she can prepare for her day at work tomorrow. But no excuses will be heard from Harry and she has a hard time saying no to his sparkling eyes and gorgeous grin that she’s growing far too accustomed to.

She’s ushered down to the closest pub with the rest of them and finds herself chatting with Charlotte’s boyfriend. He’s the most...normal. She’s not sure how to explain it, but he doesn’t seem to be regarding her as different, unlike every other one of Harry’s friends. They were all perfectly nice and cordial with her, but she just felt like she wasn’t a part of their group, their world and she didn’t know how to explain it.

Charlotte and Mitch are rather nice too, but they’re more reserved with her. They’re musicians, like Harry, and they somewhat have that air of awareness around them that Harry sometimes gets. She thinks it’s from the fame, having to constantly be wary of who is around you, what everyone is doing, what is happening next. She doesn’t mind it, it’s just not something she’s used to.

She wishes she could just throw back some drinks and she could allow herself to be more...well just be more. More of a presence, more of herself, but she has a job she has to get to bright and early. Tomorrow was Monday and for her that meant work. So she sips a beer that Harry insisted be on his tab and she makes small talk with Charlotte’s boyfriend about how he’s been helping her produce her first EP. Charlotte occasionally pops in when she hears her name, but mostly is conversing with Mitch over something silly. Y/N knows because they keep laughing.

Harry is going around to just about everyone in the party and she watches as he happily talks with every one of his friends. He’s ecstatic and she wonders if she’s ever experienced happiness like he has.

At midnight she attempts to make a French exit, as her mother always called it, and slip away with little to no farewells, but Harry spots her before she can.

“You’re leaving already?” Harry asks loudly, the euphoria of winning his silly little game and drinking a fair amount of pints has him at his peak boisterity.

“I have work tomorrow,” she says warily, slumping slightly from the weight of Harry’s arm slinging around her shoulder.

He turns serious and straightens up slightly, his green eyes looking especially dark in the pubs dim lighting as they look her dead in the eye. “Let me walk you home.”

“I can get home by myself,” she laughs, shrugging off his hold. “Plus, the host can’t leave his own celebration.” She gestures to everyone else happily celebrating on a Sunday, somehow not bothered by the beginning of the average week.

He steps closer, his brow furrowing for the first time that night. One of his large hands raises to his tousled hair and he runs it through the tresses. He even nibbles at his lower lip as he contemplates his decision. Then quickly and suddenly, he makes up his mind,

“No, I’ll escort you. Can’t have my neighbour walk home this late alone. I’ll just leave my card with Mitch. He’ll settle up the tab.” He smiles at his perfect plan and she grimaces feeling slightly embarrassed that he would leave his friends to walk her home. “Won’t you Mitch?” Harry calls as he grabs his coat from the wall next to the door. Mitch simply nods and Harry yells his farewells, Y/N waves meekly.

“That was...interesting,” she mulls over her words as they walk through the cold night air outside of the pub.

“Amazing, right?” Harry speaks over her less enthusiastic voice.

“You have a lot of friends,” she mused, trying to sound less disheartened than she had in her last statement.

Harry only hums and shivers slightly from the cold. His breath comes clearly out in puffs in the cold night air. Y/N’s is muffled by her scarf wrapped tightly up to her chin. She’s tucked his face as far into it as possible but her nose won’t stop from freezing as they walk.

Her hand goes up to it and she rests her palm to the tip of it. The motion grabs Harry’s attention and he looks directly at her curiously.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m freezing,” she muffles out, “This helps my cold nose not be so..cold.”

He chuckles and wraps his arm around her shoulder and she easily folds into him, welcoming any warmth right now.

After another moment of silence and them enjoying each other’s warmth and slight smell of whatever perfumes they had chosen earlier that night as well as beer and wood of the pub, Harry nuzzles his head above hers and then asks her something.

“Was that overwhelming for you?”

She’s quiet, thankful his eyes can’t reach hers right now. He was too powerful with those things.

“I, um, a little. I just...I just realized today that I haven’t made a new friend since college outside of work and it was overwhelming just hanging out with you. So all of your friends as well, yeah, it was a bit much for me.”

Harry looks out at the empty street ahead of them and sighs in realization. In his excitement, he hadn’t accounted how she might have felt tonight until just now. He wanted to kick himself for not thinking of her feelings, but other’s feelings slipped his mind so easily sometimes.

They round their street corner and she nuzzles back into his side.

“I’m sorry, love.” He rubs at her outer arm, “I didn’t think about it like that. I was just so excited for my plan to come together. Maybe next time, it’ll just be a couple of them rather than so many?”

“Sure,” she says quickly, wanting to make him happy, knowing how much he cared about his friends. “I feel like we need to hang out more with just you before I osmos into your friend group though if I’m being honest.”

“Well that can definitely be arranged,” he says and reluctantly lets go of her body. They’ve arrived at her door.

“I also want to see the inside of your house at some point.” She tugs at one of his hands before it can disappear into his warm coat pocket. “Houses,” she corrects.

“That can also be arranged,” Harry smiles with his lips closed. Pink lips and rosy cheeks extra bright from the cold. He plays with her fingers as the two stand close to one another, happy for the alone time and chalking the proximity up to heat sharing.

“You leave tomorrow right?” She finally asks.

His head falls and he sighs.

“Yeah…”

“It’s just a month,” she smiles, trying to stop Harry from being so dramatic. Especially when there was no logical reason for him to be so upset over not seeing his neighbour - she keeps telling herself.

“Are you sure you can’t quit your job and just fly out with me?” He pleads.

She throws her head back in laughter and shifts closer to him, her front porch light illuminating and shadowing every perfect place on Harry’s gorgeous face.

“Not even a chance.”

“That is a shame,” he takes an experimental step closer and she feels his breath fan across her cheeks at his last word.

She wrinkles his nose at the smell of his last beer, even though coming from him it was endearing.

Just as she feels him being to shift his head closer, she steps forward and gives him a tight hug.

“Goodnight Harry,” she whispers into his ear, “Safe travels.”

Then she’s stepping back and swiftly unlocking her door. She moves it slowly so as to not wake Rori and then Harry’s left alone and dumbfounded on her doorstep.

He definitely preferred being with her alone, but now he didn’t even have that chance until next month. And nonetheless she had just sidestepped his kiss with such ease he’s not even sure if he meant to kiss her. It had felt right, but why? Because it was cold and picture perfect? Or because he was enchanted by her and liked her as more than a new friend?

She slumps in her kitchen and fixes an Emergen-C to stave off the chill of the night and any germs that might have been lurking around the pub. She hopes when she walks to her bedroom she can check the front porch and see that Harry has gone home because she would hate to turn the light off on him.

How could he have expected her to kiss him just then? They’ve only just met each other a few weeks ago? And he’s Harry Styles and she just lives in the neighbourhood. What the actual fuck had happened to her life?

2K notes · View notes

shadowsinger11 · 4 years

Text

Inspiration

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

Requested by anon: Could you do a Fred Weasley imagine where he falls in love with Harry’s younger sister. (Maybe a after the war where he lives)

Word Count: 3.3k (my hand slipped oops)

Genre: Fluff, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining etc.

Warnings: Slight innuendo, Fred being cute and hot simultaneously

Tags: @self-ship-love @susceptible-but-siriusexual @hufflexpuff @neovannii @jenniweasley @elf-punk @heart-of-tempered-steel @itseatyourdamnapples

Message me if you'd like to be added!

Masterlist

Ottery St Catchpole, Devon, England, July 16, 2000

It was a chilly Sunday evening. The summer air buzzed with excitement and the tender aroma of magnolia as tiny white and pink petals were gracefully falling from the huge cherry trees, carried by the light breeze. Twilight painted the horizon in liquid gold and fiery red, soon followed by mellow shades of dark blue that brought countless sparkling stars.

It was getting the slightest bit colder, but it did not matter; nothing else mattered but the loud cheers and cheerful music, celebrating the official bond between a Potter and a Weasley under the wide night sky.

You couldn't have been happier for your older brother, Harry, who was currently dancing with Ginny, his now wife - now and for the rest of his, hopefully, but not really likely, peaceful life. For the longest time you've been wondering how he'd always manage to get into trouble even as a small First year with no experience in the wizarding world whatsoever. Or, perhaps, that was the exact reason as to why evil-battling and rule-breaking were such common practices when hanging out with him.

However, there was no fighting that day. There was no room for worry and fear when the entire Weasley family and their loved ones were gathered on the clearing in front of the Burrow, chatting, laughing, dancing, singing, drinking, celebrating and living for what seemed to be the first time since Lord Voldemort's fall. Danger was practically nonexistent in that blissful moment which was frozen in time, once having looked agonizingly distant and impossible to hope for. But that dream was no longer just a foolish fantasy to heal wounded hearts. It was there, and it was happening in the most beautiful way imaginable.

And suddenly, all those clichés of a married life weren't even clichés. They were simply humble wishes of people who had witnessed far too many horrors in such a short period of time, and only craved stability among the massive chaos. So when you glanced at Ginny, a twirling blur of flaming red hair and a gorgeous wedding dress, you didn't feel the need to comment on how banal the color white was. You genuinely smiled, admiring the pure, exuberant joy, visible in her eyes and scarlet cheeks. Harry looked just as, if not even happier than his wife, dancing in the ridiculous but wholehearted way that only he could, and old memories of him winning the golden egg, training Dumbledore's Army and kissing Ginny in the common room for the very first time flooded into your mind.

It had truly been a long time since you had seen Harry careless and free like that.

You yourself had spent an ungodly amount of hours preparing the yard for the ceremony all day; rearranging chairs, decorating, making sure everything was going by schedule, only to then dance your tired feet off, and though you wanted to continue having fun with Hermione, Luna and the rest of the girls waiting for you, you really needed a break. And a drink.

Excusing yourself to leave the particularly interesting conversation you were having with distant Weasley relatives, you slipped off your black flats that, despite looking absolutely stunning, hurt your feet terribly after an entire day of fussing over the color of napkins and flower bouquets. Barefoot on the grass, you walked over to a chair next to a table which seemed to have been occupied, but judging by the mostly empty glasses and plates, the guests weren't coming back anytime soon.

You tossed your shoes aside with a sigh and rushed to rub your aching toes, hissing from how sore they were.

How has Ginny been dancing like that for hours?

"Enjoying the party, I see?" a familiar deep, slightly husky voice commented, causing you to look up.

It was none other than Fred Weasley, dear friend from childhood, staring down at you, his ever-present charming smirk resting on features and hands shoved into the pockets of his dragonskin suit. But it was his flaming red hair that made your eyes widen - it was carefully smoothed back, shining under the moonlight like liquid iron.

Fred's eyes still contained their famous, loveable mischief, except now slightly tamer and calmer. His firm biceps had visibly grown in size, stretching out the fabric of his coat just a bit to give you a prominent silhouette that caught you off guard.

It had been two years; he had changed so much.

And you were afraid to admit you had too.

You blinked in surprise, processing his uncharacteristically sophisticated appearance before realizing what he had asked you.

"Would've enjoyed it far more if my legs weren't killing me," you groaned half-heartedly and leaned back on your chair. "What's with your hair?"

"What's with your feet?"

"I asked you first," you cut him off. "I bet Ginny is responsible for this."

"Actually…" Fred trailed off, and, whether on purpose or not, ran a hand through the ginger locks to keep them in place, unaware of how you suddenly wished the hand doing the graceful motion wasn't his. "Mum insisted that I looked my best. What can I say, it's not like George and I usually listen to her, but we thought we'd make an exception this time; our sister doesn't get married every day. But honestly, Ginny couldn't care less about how we looked as long we showed up."

"So like usual, you mean?" you giggled. "Showing up is an achievement for you even if you're underdressed?"

Fred beamed, pearly white smile complementing his formal outfit. You wondered if he used that exact smile to effortlessly allure costumers and business partners at work.

He rested an elbow on the table as he leaned forward.

"Come on now, darling. I know you find my messy hair irresistible either way."

His cockiness only caused you to laugh, though Fred was quick to spot the flash of nervousness in your eyes; it brought him immense pride to know he was the one to turn you from confident to adorably bashful and flustered in the matter of seconds.

He was looking at you intensely, expectantly waiting for you to deny his flirty accusation despite your shyness.

"Nah, Weasley. It only reminds me that even at twenty-two you still do not know how to use a comb."

Fred's eyebrows shot straight up to his hairline, mouth agape. For the first time, he actually needed a second to form a reply.

"Didn't see that coming, I give you that. Courageous one, you are."

Your heart fluttered with joy and you openly grinned, shrugging in half-hearted humbleness.

"Perhaps I am."

Speaking to him felt unusually energizing, as though you had jumped headfirst into a chilly lake. It was unfamiliar and it set your nerves on fire, causing your stomach to twist and turn with sensations that left you dizzy, but unbelievably thrilled. And you wanted more of it, you wanted more of him.

"Fancy a drink?" Fred offered, already pouring champagne into a glass before handing it to you, and you keenly took it.

"Thanks, I've been thirsty with all the preparations I was doing."

"Is that why your legs are killing you?"

"Exactly, I've been running around all day, making sure everything was in order… you know, a lot of organizing and the like."

"It must hurt quite a bit then," Fred commented with a pained grimace. "But I absolutely get you, Georgie and I are just like that when it comes to the shop. It's a lot of accounting if I'm being honest, though I admit he's way better at it. We need to be completely precise; we can't allow any mistakes."

"Woah," you laughed. "Control freak much?"

He wettened his lips, never breaking eye contact.

"Perhaps I am."

You tilted your head to the side, gaze piercing into his in hopes of finding out what those gorgeous brown eyes were hiding. The tiny playful flames in them were eloquent.

Shifting slightly in your seat, you smoothed out your bridesmaid dress and raised your glass, the ghost of a smirk playing on your lips.

"Cheers to us control freaks then."

Fred mirrored your smug expression and your glasses met with a clink. The bubbly liquid tingled your throat, undoubtedly refreshing you and cooling you off. You glanced at the people dancing in the centre of the clearing and giggled - Ginny had apparently thrown away her white shoes long ago, bare feet stepping elegantly on the grass.

"You see, I'd like to chat a bit more with you, but I'm afraid it's a bit too loud here. What about we go to the pond across the field?" Fred suggested, pointing at the woods behind his back. You had visited them countless times when staying with Harry at the Burrow during holidays years ago; the tall trees and the glistening waters had never ceased to bring you comfort.

The noise started to become bothersome, and you felt it even more necessary to continue your conversation somewhere private, the unknown causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach. Fred's presence could only be compared to a shot of whiskey, or the sensation of anticipating a tidal wave to crash into you in less than a second. It was wild and the tiniest bit terrifying, but oh so tempting as it pulled you in.

"I'd love that, but… you know," you grinned and playfully swang your sore feet. "Can't really walk."

But this didn't at all seem like a problem to Fred Weasley who only shrugged and stood up, "You don't have to. I'll carry you."

"Merlin, no! Please, it's not necessary."

Fred frowned, but his confused expression was soon replaced by an amused one.

"You said it yourself that your feet hurt like hell. And even if carrying you around isn't necessary, it doesn't mean I don't want to."

You attempted to tame the butterflies.

"No, no! You seriously don't have to, I promise," you frantically protested as you held up your hands in front of you to reassure him, but he only gave you a weird look. "I can walk on my own. I'll be too heavy for you."

"There's only one way to find out."

Fred walked over to you and leaned down, one hand sneaking around your waist and the other slipping under your knees. You shrieked in terror, arms flying to clutch at his shoulders, and heat rose to your cheeks from the abrupt contact. Your chests were pressed together, and you were afraid he'd be able to feel your racing heart. His skin was warmer than you had thought, and it successfully fought off the night summer chill.

"Are we going?" Fred whispered down at you, lips so close to yours that you recognized the nuance of champagne in his breath, mixing unbelievably well with the scent of cinnamon and sandalwood of his cologne.

Not only is he sinfully attractive, but he smells heavenly too?

"Yes," you breathed and let Fred effortlessly walk across the meadow with you in his arms. They brought this new, odd, yet familiar sense of security, and you allowed your head to rest against his chest, nervous gaze wandering off into the distance in hopes of not meeting his. Nevertheless, curiosity eventually took the best of you, and your eyes would occasionally flicker to his, which were now completely black under the night sky. They could swallow you whole, you swore.

Minutes later, you found yourselves in the company of old, enormous willows which surrounded the pond you so vividly remembered from your teenage years. You thanked Fred as he carefully let you down, and took a few steps forward to look around and drench in the misty moonlight that enveloped the area. The waters were crystal clear and completely still, reflecting the moon and its majestic silver glow. The bushes had grown significantly over the time you were away, and you fondly looked back at the moments when you would pick up colorful wildflowers in the summer before your fourth year.

"Shall we sit?" Fred asked quietly from right behind your shoulder, and you followed him with a nod. You found a comfortable spot on the fresh grass to sit, a few feet away from where the water met the soil and moved back and forth ever so slightly.

"It's more beautiful than I remember," you noted, lips curled up in a barely visible smile. Fred hummed in agreement.

"That's why I always make sure to come here every chance I get when I return. But, unfortunately, that's very rare in my case."

For a moment, there was only the chirping of crickets and the soft bubbling of water.

Fred turned to you.

"Remember when mum used to call for us to de-gnome the garden and we'd hide here? We could stay in the bushes for hours before we eventually came back," he recalled, seeming deep in thought. It was an extraordinary sight; for once the playful spark in his eyes was more mellow, there was no cockiness seeping into the way he was holding himself. He was just Fred, the man who was currently thinking with so much adoration and love about his childhood, the most significant memories of it being marked by you.

You wondered, given you ever had the chance to spend with Fred as much time as your older brother did, if the charismatic prankster would have fallen for you like you had done. You wondered, given the chance you had let Fred get to know you better all those summers ago, if his heart would have belonged to you by now just like yours did to him.

Had you possibly missed your chance?

"Oh, I do," you sighed, the tension in your chest vanishing as warm nostalgia crept in like an old friend. "I also remember when I got this really bad nightmare that night. I was so terrified that you took me on a ride with your broom in the middle of the night to cheer me up."

"That's true! My parents don't know about it to this day," he replied smugly. "I can still hear you screaming like a lunatic."

You jokingly smacked his arm, "I was twelve!"

Fred's grin grew wider.

"Excuses…"

This only caused you to stare at him in disbelief and cross your arms, managing your most serious expression, but Fred was aware you were on the verge of failing to keep your stern facade. He squinted his eyes as a teasing attempt to provoke you, smile threatening to split his face in two.

"Alright then, that's enough about me," you announced, and Fred nodded in mock agreement as he studied your playful pretence. "If you're so much better than me, Mr Darcy, what else do you do aside from stealing ladies away?"

"Stealing their hearts," he said confidently, flashing you a seductive smirk, reserved only for special girls back in your Hogwarts days. You giggled, finding his antic utterly ridiculous, but you hated to admit that it still turned your blood into liquid fire. Fred apparently saw right through you, because when your eyes landed on his, they appeared completely dark once again, but, you suspected, for a reason other than the lack of light.

Your throat went dry, and you found it hard to swallow down the lump that cut your breath short.

He ran a hand through his ginger hair as he began to explain, "I'm kidding, you know. But to answer your question, George and I have been working on this potion that should be able to change the color of the eyes and hair. Fun for those who enjoy experimenting with their appearance, but it can also be useful to the Ministry. They're actually going to send a team of a couple of aurors to visit us next month so we can update them on our progress and negotiate the details."

"Wow! That's certainly exciting!"

"Is it? I mean, it probably is, but I've been having second thoughts lately if I'm being honest." He scratched the back of his neck, and you realised you had only witnessed him being anxious when it came to his greatest passion. "I'm afraid we might not be done on time, there's still plenty left to improve."

You put a hand on his shoulder to get his attention, and said, "I'm sure you'll figure it all out eventually. Keep working as you normally do, try not to stress too much over the deadline, and even if things go wrong at some point, don't go too hard on yourself. It wouldn't take away any progress you've made so far."

Fred's body relaxed just a bit and he looked down at you. He couldn't deny the sense of serenity that he felt only when he was with you. Even as a careless young boy, he was able to pinpoint the way his midriff would clench every time you'd laugh at his jokes or ask him to play with you, without knowing what it all meant.

But now, as a grown man, he had a word to describe the bittersweet fire within.

"You know what?" He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "I could really benefit from having someone like you around to give me motivation."

"Motivation, huh?" you raised an eyebrow, fighting back a smile. Fred sneaked a hand around your waist and pulled you closer.

"Yes, motivation."

"Motivation for what?"

"Marketing strategies, work projects…" he shrugged nonchalantly, "...among other things."

You quickly caught on, suddenly becoming way too self-aware of the way you were practically cuddled into Fred's side, hand resting on his shoulder while his were wrapped around your waist. But his shining confidence seemed to rub off on you, because you asked.

"What's with you offering me a job all of a sudden?"

His bottom lip was tucked between his teeth as he took his sweet time devouring you with his darkened gaze. You didn't know whether you wanted to hide from it, or expose yourself even further to the way it burned its way straight to your core.

"Well…" Fred dragged out in his low, hoarse voice, and caressed your cheek with his thumb before slipping it under your chin to guide it towards his face. You could nearly taste the remaining flavour of champagne on his lips. "I've certainly been feeling…"

Fred went quiet as he got lost in the way you fit so perfectly in his arms; you had always meant to be there, he realised. His mouth crashed into yours, hands tightly gripping your waist, and you let out a gasp. Fred's lips were soft, although slightly chapped, and they moved gently but firmly against yours, turning you into their slave. Your palms naturally slid up his chest and he closed any remaining distance between your bodies by placing you to straddle his lap. The kiss was a dance of pushing forward and pulling back, two lovers having finally found their rhythm after years of living in fearful desire. You were positively drunk on his taste, on him, and you wished to never become sober.

When your need for air overcame the one for physical contact, you pulled away. Your chests were heaving with rapid, shallow breaths, hearts beating in synch like they had always done. You let a finger tenderly trace his cheekbone down to his jawline, then it came back up to draw different affectionate patterns on his face.

"What were you saying?" you asked, clearly out of breath. "How were you feeling?"

He fondly took your hand that was caressing his skin, and lifted it up to press feather-light kisses on your knuckles. His lips retraced their path until they reached the tips of your fingers, and he kissed those with the gentlest of touch.

You heart ached pleasurably from the way he was handling you with such care, much more than you ever believed he was capable of.

After minutes of worshipping you by the moonlit lake, Fred looked back at you as though you were his entire world. And replied with a smile.

"Inspired."

Reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated!

Masterlist

#fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x reader fluff #fred weasley imagines #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley fluff #fred weasley angst #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley oneshot #weasley twins x reader #weasley twins #fred and george weasley #george weasley x reader #george weasley #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter imagines #james phelps #oliver phelps

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iliveiloveiwrite · 3 years

Text

winged cupid painted blind // Anthony Bridgerton

Request: I’d really love something based on love story by Taylor Swift. The lines “We keep quite cuz we’re dead if they knew” and “take me somewhere we can be alone” stick out to me // I was thinking that the reader could be from a family that isn’t well off and her and Anthony meet at a ball somehow. They create a ruse that she’s from a well known family so that the gossips in the ton don’t attack her because Anthony has fallen in love with a “commoner.” All the Bridgertons are in on the ruse and at the end of the story Anthony proposes - @whovianwholikesgirls

A/N: Why is it that every Bridgerton fic I write, I end up writing thousands and thousands of words? This is long and I am sorry for that! As always, I hope I have done your request justice and that I hope you like!

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Warnings: she/her pronouns, female reader, class divides, pining, mutual pining, lots of fluff, dancing, kissing, happy ending, Anthony in love.

Word count: 7.7k

Madame Delacroix’s took up the central property on the most prosperous street coming just off of Grosvenor Square. The most popular modiste in London, many of society’s richest families flocked to her door in order to claim their own dress made by the talented seamstress.

Anthony sighs as he climbs down from the carriage. His mother must be in a particular benevolent mood to send him to pick up her newest dress from the modiste. Anthony would much rather be spending his day at his club, but he finds himself ringing the modiste’s bell for service.

“Monsieur Bridgerton!” Madame Delacroix smiles, delighted at the sight of the Viscount. “How can I help you?” She asks, her smile turning flirtatious.

Anthony responds with his own flirtatious smile. “I’m here to pick up a dress for my mother.”

“Of course, of course,” Madame Delacroix sings, “I have it over here. I finished it last night. It is divine!”

“My mother will surely thank you,” Anthony states earnestly, his gaze dancing around the room filled to the brim with fabrics and ribbons, models and hoops.

“No need,” Madame Delacroix, “The Bridgertons are my best customers.”

Anthony takes the offered box, marvelling at the lightness of its weight. For all the skirts, for all the numerous pieces of fabric that go into making a dress, Anthony will always remain shocked at the featherlight weight of it.

“Will Lady Bridgerton be wearing this to the Hastings’ ball tonight?” The modiste asks, her tone light as she tries her best to keep the burning curiosity out of her voice.

“Most likely,” Anthony smiles, tipping his head in goodbye.

The modiste calls out her goodbyes as Anthony walks out the door. He doesn’t pay much attention to where he is going; only knowing that he needs to turn left in order to reach his carriage. The very thought has him rushing, safe in the knowledge that the quicker he got his done, the quicker he would be at his club.

It’s that self-indulgent thought that had Anthony distracted enough to walk into something hard.

“Oh!” A feminine voice gasps as Anthony catches her elbow whilst keeping a tight hold on the dress box.

“My apologies,” Anthony offers, steadying the unknown woman.

“You’re forgiven,” She murmurs dryly, turning her attention back to the seamstresses window.

“You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“No, I’m perfectly fine. Thank you for your concern, Lord Bridgerton.”

“My pleasure, Miss…”

“(Y/L/N).”

“My pleasure, Miss (Y/L/N),” Anthony repeats, adjusting the dress box in his hands. He goes to say something else but notices her slyly counting the money in her purse, watching her frown when she realises she cannot afford the prices set by Madame Delacroix.

“Have a nice day, Lord Bridgerton,” Miss (Y/L/N) remarks, stepping away from the Viscount to begin her walk home. She didn’t need a Viscount to be witness to her money troubles; she had thought she had enough, but the prices must have been increased since the last time she had wandered past the window. It would be another two weeks of saving before she could afford a new set of ribbons; it wasn’t worth it at this point, she sighed to herself.

“You too!” Anthony shouts to her retreating figure, feeling upset on her behalf that she could not afford the ribbons she was so dazedly admiring. Shaking off the uncomfortable feeling, Anthony climbs into the carriage, thinking of the young woman all the way home.

-----

“Jayne!” (Y/N) laughs, “Slow down! I’m going to lose a shoe.”

“Alright, Cinderella,” Jayne snickers, slowing her pace as she climbs the winding staircase to the home of the Duke and Duchess of Hastings.

“Have you ever seen such a home?” (Y/N) gasps; eyes widening as she takes in the grand structure. The brickwork is immaculate; many red bricks painted black to give the impression of a crosshatch pattern spreading across the building. This is only highlighted by the many windows; all seemingly lit by a countless number of candles and sconces.

“(Y/N)!” Jayne shouts, “Stop admiring the building! We have a dance to get to.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” (Y/N) laughs, hurrying after her friend who has already handed over their invitation.

Jayne grips (Y/N)’s hand tightly as they enter the ballroom together. The event is in full swing; the dancefloor already full with couples dancing a quadrille.

“Would you dance with me?” The handsome brunette asks of Jayne, staring at her hopefully. Jayne casts her gaze to (Y/N), not wanting to leave her friend, but wanting very much to dance with the handsome man.

(Y/N) nudges Jayne forward, answering for her. “She would be delighted.”

Jayne sends her a thankful smile as she joins more and more couples on the dancefloor.

The drinks table isn’t busy at all as (Y/N) wanders over. She makes sure to keep an eye on Jayne, watching her dance with what looks to be a Rokesby. (Y/N) shakes her head fondly at her friend; ten minutes into a ball and she’s already caught the attention of a member of one of the richest families in England.

Turning her attention away from her friend, (Y/N) reaches for a glass of lemonade when her hand brushes with a man clearly wanting the same glass. (Y/N) pulls her hand away, not wanting to cause any trouble at a ball she wasn’t even invited to.

“My apologies,” She murmurs, grabbing another glass from the many.

“You’re forgiven,” A voice drawls. (Y/N) glances upwards through her lashes to find Anthony Bridgerton watching her with a confused expression.

“Lord Bridgerton,” (Y/N) greets, curtseying lightly at the sight of her superior.

Anthony nods. He remains silent as he stands next to her; it’s not an awkward silence, rather, one where (Y/N) can practically hear the cogs and gears winding in Anthony’s mind, trying to figure out where he knows her from. If he knows her at all.

“I met you this morning,” Anthony recalls suddenly, snapping his fingers together when he remembers why he recognises the woman standing next to him.

“You almost knocked me over,” She states wryly, lifting her glass to her lips to take a tentative sip of the lukewarm lemonade.

“I believe I apologised for that, Miss (Y/L/N).”

“Call me (Y/N). And I forgave you,” She states simply, “But It doesn’t mean I’m going to let you forget it, however.”

“I’d be disappointed in you, if you did.”

(Y/N) laughs. The very sound music to Anthony’s ears and he briefly wonders whether he could have the sound imprinted on his brain; to hear her laughter for an eternity.

“What are you doing here?” Anthony asks, taking a pull of his lemonade before wrinkling his nose. Too sweet, not sour enough. “Are you here with your parents?”

“I wasn’t technically invited,” She confesses to the Viscount in a conspiratorial whisper. Anthony’s eyes widen when her words land, “What?”

“I came to chaperone my friend, Jayne. You may know her, she’s Lord Dorchester’s daughter.”

Anthony nods; he knew the man well, drank with him a few times at his club – dreadfully dull with a fascination for military history. Much like many of the men of his father’s generation.

“Anyway,” (Y/N) continues, “Jayne wanted to go, but needed a chaperone as her mother has taken ill – nothing serious thankfully. I was the next best option so here I am.”

“Here you are,” Anthony parrots, enunciating every syllable as his eyes pour over her figure. “If you weren’t invited, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a governess for Lord and Lady Saville,” She answers proudly; a happy smile on her face as she thinks of her students.

“I hated my governess,” Anthony confesses with a laugh. “I don’t care much for Latin which she knew so she would make me do double the work.”

(Y/N) snorts. “Latin is a very useful language; it’s a good skill to have.”

“I know that now,” Anthony gripes, “I just didn’t know that at ten years old.”

Silence descends between them. Again, not uncomfortable, but a natural stopping point in their conversation. After all, titled gentleman such as the man stood beside her didn’t speak to her occupation outside of a brief conversation about their child’s progress in their education.

(Y/N) places her finished glass of lemonade back on the table before smoothing out the deep blue skirts of her borrowed dress. She clears her throat, ready to make her excuses and check on Jayne when Anthony speaks first.

“Would you care to dance?”

“Pardon?”

“Would you like to dance with me?”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why not?”

“I’m a governess, Lord Bridgerton.”

“Call me Anthony, please.”

“That still doesn’t change the fact that you’re supposed to dance with someone of your own class, Anthony.”

“I don’t want to dance with them. I want to dance with you.”

His argument is straight to the point; no beating around the bush that (Y/N) finds it hard to find fault with it. Instead, she sighs, “One dance.”

“One dance,” Anthony promises, holding out his hand for her to grasp.

She didn’t expect to find herself the centre of the Viscount’s attention, but she cannot bring herself to mind much. Not as he holds out a hand for her to take; not as he leads to her to the dancefloor and not as he settles a palm against her lower back. The feel of his hand feeling so right that she loses the power of speech.

The music begins and (Y/N) travels to a new place entirely. The room melts away; the couples, the families. They all disappear. The only two people in the room are her and Anthony; his blue eyes fixed on her as they start to circle the room in waltz. There’s no need for conversation; all words passed by looks alone.

When the music dies and the room fades back into view, (Y/N) only wonders whether she would feel like this again, whether they would be anyone to make her feel like this again. As Anthony bows and kisses her hand, (Y/N) has her answer.

----------

He doesn’t stop thinking about her. She left soon after they finished dancing; her friend finding her and asking whether she was ready to leave. Anthony wanted to argue; wanted to reach for (Y/N) and pull her back to his embrace where they could dance the night away.

Anthony returned home and went straight to his room. He undressed mechanically; still thinking of her as he slipped between his sheets and tried to fall asleep only to find that sleep was a fickle friend that would not be granting him a visit tonight.

He remains awake; thinking of every aspect of her. He didn’t think he would see her again after the modiste; it was a shock to find her at the ball, but he took the opportunity with both hands to find that he had quickly become infatuated with her.

Could this be called love? Anthony rolls over in bed; tangling himself up in the sheets as he runs a hand up and down his bare chest, thinking the question over and over.

He felt as if he had hit by the arrow of Cupid; as if he had handed himself over voluntarily to be pricked with one of the god’s arrows. He’s never felt like this; no woman had ever kept him awake at night in such a manner.

Groaning, Anthony reaches for the pillow on the other side of the bed, hugging it to his chest. All the while, he dreams it was her body he was pressing close to.

The day after the Ball, Anthony strides from his study to his mother’s drawing room. There, he sits next to his beloved mother, and asks her to gather his siblings for a family meeting.

They arrive one by one. The youngest arriving first; a simple call from the bottom of the stairs has Gregory and Hyacinth rushing to the drawing room, each one adamant that they didn’t do it, but rather their sibling. Anthony shakes his head in exasperation, not wanting to know what they were referring to and instead, asks them to take a seat on the pale blue couch in front of the window.

Over the course of an hour, Anthony’s family arrive. Each one just as curious as the last, each one just as questioning as the last. “Why have you gathered us here, Anthony?” Daphne sighs, her hand resting on Simon’s knee.

“I’ve met someone,” Anthony announces. He frowns at the shocked gasps from Daphne and Eloise; was he really so incapable of finding himself a wife? He ignores the jibes from them both, turning to face his dear mother.

Violet Bridgerton sits in her favourite chair; the one next to it empty as it has been for the last decade. Edmund Bridgerton died so suddenly, and their love was so strong, Anthony knew that there was no recovery from it. “Do we know her?” She asks; her face showing the happiness she feels for her eldest son.

“No,” Anthony sighs, settling down next to his youngest sister, Hyacinth. She offers him a sweet smile as he sits; Anthony cannot help but return the smile and ruffle her hair. When the moment is over, Anthony focuses his attention back onto his family who he finds is watching him intently. “She’s a governess,” He admits, straightening in his seat.

“A respectable profession,” Eloise states with a smile. Anthony feels a rush of affection for his sister; he had always been wary for her outspokenness, but right now, he could thank her heartily.

“What’s the problem, Anthony?” Eloise continues, crossing her ankles, leaning forward in interest.

“I think she may have feelings for me as well, but she’s hesitant to act on them because of our differences.”

“Differences?” Hyacinth questions curiously; unaware of such class differences at such a young age.

“(Y/N) is a governess. I am a Viscount,” Anthony explains, “It would be the subject of gossip for years to come should anything happen between us.”

“So we come up with another story,” Francesca suggests, shrugging her shoulders as if her suggestion was always the answer.

“Another story?” Daphne wonders, eyes glancing between her husband and her family.

“We create a ruse,” Francesca explains to her elder sister. “A story for (Y/N) and Anthony to follow when out in public.”

“Do you think she would go along with this?” Benedict asks; his tone wary as he thinks of the possible implications this could have for his family.

Anthony remains silent, tapping a finger against his cheek as he thinks of whether (Y/N) would follow such a ruse. “Why don’t we ask her? I can send a summons.”

Violet, who had been watching the whole exchange in silence, nods. “Send her a message asking her to come as quick as she can. Tell her it isn’t an emergency, but that you would like to talk to her.”

Anthony nods; rushing from the drawing room to his study to pen such a message. After that, he calls on one of the footmen, handing them the letter and the strict duty of delivering this to (Y/N) personally. The footman nods; his face serious as he takes the letter from his employer’s hand, all but sprinting out of the door.

Anthony returns to the drawing room; taking his seat next to Hyacinth.

“Did you send the missive?” Violet asks. Anthony nods; doing his best to keep his heart from beating right out of his chest. “I sent it with one of the footmen,” He answers, “It shouldn’t be long now.”

His family all nod, breaking off into separate conversations whilst Anthony remains stoic and silent. His leg bounces repeatedly; the only outward sign of his anxiety. Internally, he nerves were fraught. He couldn’t help but wonder whether this was all too much; he knew from their first meeting that Anthony would do anything for her, but if (Y/N) didn’t return such feelings then it was all for nothing.

Worries and thoughts continue to plague him as Anthony catches sight of Daphne leaning into Simon. It’s a small movement, almost imperceptible, but Anthony cannot miss the devoted smile that crosses Simon’s face when he feels his wife press against him.

Longing breaks within Anthony’s chest, spreading through his body, leaving behind an ache that he doesn’t know how to heal.

“Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N),” introduces the Butler, breaking Anthony’s longing in half.

He stands all too fast, appearing all too eager. Anthony shoots a glare in his brother’s direction when he hears their sniggering.

(Y/N) rushes into the room; her eyes filled with panic when she finds herself in front of the whole Bridgerton clan. “Anthony?” She whispers; her eyes finally meeting his from across the room.

“(Y/N),” He breathes, “Thank you for coming.”

“You told me not to worry, but you sounded so urgent.”

“We wanted to talk to you,” He explains, gesturing to his whole family. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

(Y/N) sits; her mind running a thousand miles a minute as she finds herself being watched by every Bridgerton/Basset in the room. The room is silent; too silent – no-one dares broach the subject first. They don’t want to anger Anthony or ruin his chances with (Y/N).

“Whatever is the matter?” (Y/N) finally asks, breaking the silence.

“We’ve come to understand that you and Anthony have feelings for each other,” Violet states quite plainly.

(Y/N) fidgets, somewhat uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “I guess you could say that,” She offers, smiling smally at the aforementioned man.

“We also know that you’re worried about the differences between Anthony and yourself,” Violet continues to which Eloise huffs, crossing her arms in anger at the state of the class differences within England.

“It’s not so much worried,” (Y/N) explains, “It’s more resigned to the fact.”

Violet nods, understanding where the young governess is coming from. “Francesca,” Violet starts, nodding to the brunette sitting by one of Anthony’s brothers, “Has come up with an idea that we would like to run by you.”

“Oh?”

“It would mean that you and Anthony would be able to begin a courtship.”

(Y/N) feels herself flush; her face heating with how open the Bridgerton family were about their emotions. Their family unit so healthy and happy that everyone felt at ease to talk about whatever was on their minds.

“What did you have in mind?” (Y/N) asks, turning to face Francesca who responds with a large smile.

“We’re going to create a backstory for you. Not something terribly complicated, but something that you and Anthony can follow whilst out in public.”

“Okay…” (Y/N) whispers hesitantly, “What’s the backstory you’ve created?”

Francesca begins to look sheepish. “I haven’t thought of that part yet… I didn’t think Anthony would go for the first part.”

(Y/N) laughs; a light and airy sound that has Anthony straightening in his seat, smiling automatically. “Why don’t we come up with it together?”

“So you’re willing to go along with it?” Anthony asks; his voice unwaveringly hopeful as he refuses to look at anyone but (Y/N).

Something in his face has her nodding. “For as long as you’ll have me,” She answers earnestly, almost breathless when Anthony smiles widely in return.

“This is what I’ve thought of so far,” Colin announces, breaking the moment between Anthony and (Y/N).

The family turn to Colin to find him sat forward on his seat, an eager look across his face as he begins to lay out his plans. Anthony smiles and nods; happy with every word leaving his brother’s mouth.

(Y/N) cannot help but feel an ounce of doubt; not so much at the plan, but for longevity of it. How long would it be before Anthony realised she was not worth it? How long would it before the class difference between them became too much? She dreaded the day but knew it would be upon her before she realised.

----------

The annual picnic in Hyde Park drew in every affable family in London. After all, it was another excuse for mother’s to parade their daughters to the many eligible gentleman. For the gentlemen, it was a free lunch with whichever gazebo they chose to throw themselves upon.

The Bridgertons had been attending this picnic for many years; their station in society meaning that they were personally invited by the monarch. Violet took pride in her set up, making sure her cook’s famous biscuits were on display and that there was plenty of tea to go around. She also ensured that her family had the perfect view of the Serpentine; not too close for her children to fall in, but not too far for it to be out of sight. It was not a sorry affair.

(Y/N) had joined the family happily; talking briefly with Colin and Eloise before Hyacinth monopolised her attention. (Y/N) didn’t mind; she had taught many young girls the same age as Hyacinth and found them all a delight to educate. Hyacinth would be no different.

It wasn’t long, however, before Anthony joined her side. His hand settled comfortably on the small of her back, liking the way that she stepped closer to him, as if wanting to be in his presence all the time.

“Did you have fun the other night?” Anthony questions, thinking back to Daphne’s ball when (Y/N) had smiled at him as he lead her across the dancefloor.

(Y/N) smiles. “I did. I had a lot of fun.”

“How are you feeling about our ruse?” Anthony queries, catching sight of Lady Featherington marching across the many blankets in the direction of the Bridgerton patch.

“Confident,” (Y/N) answers, “Why do you ask?”

Anthony smiles; shifting his position slightly so he can hear every word of the conversation about to happen. He ducks his head, his mouth close to her ear as he answers, “Because it’s about to be put to the test.”

“Lady Bridgerton,” Lady Featherington calls; her gaudy green gown shimmering in the sunlight as she teeters her way to the matriarch of the fine family.

“Lady Featherington,” Violet greets, her voice as polite as ever. “How are you?”

Lady Featherington smiles at Violet; her gaze glancing around the colourful blankets and gazebo set out for the Bridgerton family to remain comfortable as the picnic progresses. Lady Featherington smiles when her eyes find the figure she was looking for. (Y/N) stands to the side, wrapped up in a conversation with Anthony that certainly looks to be a private one.

Lady Featherington nods towards (Y/N); the fascinator attached to her threatening to slip into her eyes. “You have a new addition to your family, Lady Bridgerton,” Lady Featherington states; no infliction of a question but one inferred all the same.

“(Y/N) is a distant friend of the family,” Violet answers breezily, “She hails from a wealthy family just outside of Leeds.”

“Leeds?”

Violet nods. “Yes, Leeds. It’s just over 20 miles outside of York, perhaps you’ve been?”

Lady Featherington smiles tightly at Violet. She smooths down the green panels of her dress. “A handful of times, Lady Bridgerton. After all, my side of the family hails from Manchester. The two aren’t so far removed.”

“Of course,” Violet appeases, “How does your family fare? I’d heard your mother was ill.”

Lady Featherington continues to smile graciously at the Dowager Viscount. Her eyes are brimming with warning and curiosity, but her smile is forced. “Mother is doing much better, she travelled to the coast. The latest journals are saying sea air helps with fragile conditions.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Lady Featherington nods her thanks to Violet before making her excuses. Violet’s shoulders shake with silent laughter as she watches the notorious gossip walk away from her gazebo. Lady Featherington’s shoulders are tight with displeasure as she marches back to her own plot.

Violet returns to the stitching in her lap after a brief glance towards her youngest children. Gregory and Hyacinth occupied with Benedict and Colin as the older of the set teach their younger siblings games from their youth. Violet smiles at her children; content to return to the pattern at hand, the Dutch Tulips would not stitch themselves.

“What was Lady Featherington talking to you about?” Anthony asks. His face the very picture of innocence as he breaks his mother’s concentration and grabs two biscuits – one for him, the other he hands to (Y/N).

“She was fishing for information on our dear (Y/N),” Violet comments, observing her stitching to ensure it remains straight. “She didn’t find out a thing other than what we discussed.”

(Y/N) lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you, Lady Bridgerton.”

Violet waves away her gratitude with a dismissive hand. “You’re making my son happy; I’ll protect that and you with all that I have.”

(Y/N) flounders for a moment at the quick acceptance by Violet. She smiles at the matriarch; whispering her thanks to Violet, ducking her head as she tries to come to terms with rush of emotions coursing through her body.

Anthony returns his attention to the conversation; his mind no longer focused on way to distract Lady Featherington. He flashes a smile in (Y/N)’s direction; his heart racing when she sends her own smile back.

“(Y/N) and I are going to promenade, mother. You’ll be fine without us?”

Violet snorts. “Yes, dear. I have my seven other children to keep me company.”

Anthony rolls his eyes fondly at his mother. He presses a sweet kiss to her cheek before offering (Y/N) his arm.

They amble along the path; all the while aware of the maid sent by Violet shortly after they departed. Violet trusts (Y/N) implicitly, but she knows the reputation of her eldest son. The poor opera singer being prime evidence of his abilities to break hearts as quickly as he mends them.

“You look beautiful, by the way. In case I haven’t told you,” Anthony flirts, a handsome smile spreading across his face.

“You haven’t, but I’ll take the compliment now.”

Anthony laughs, throwing his head back in delight as they both pause their walk. “You are though,” Anthony murmurs, reaching out to brush a finger down (Y/N)’s cheek, “You’re beautiful.”

(Y/N) averts her gaze; her cheeks flushing from the unexpected compliment. Anthony glances on either side of them, catching sight of the maid only a few feet away, doing her best to nonchalantly follow them. Anthony turns his attention back to the woman in front of him, desperate for a moment alone with her. A wicked grin spreads across his face, “Follow me.”

“What?”

“Follow me,” Anthony repeats, stepping off the path and onto the grass. He gestures to a faint path; one less travelled. “Do you trust me?”

(Y/N) answers by taking his outstretched hand, letting herself be led down the lesser known path.

Their pace slows when they are certain they have lost their chaperone. (Y/N) feels a twinge of guilt as she thinks of the poor maid who was only doing what she was asked by her employer, but then she catches sight of the unbridled glee on Anthony’s face and her guilt is quickly replaced by anticipation.

“Where are we going?” She asks; her voice jostling slightly as she tries to watch Anthony and not trip over any loose twigs or stones.

“Nowhere in particular,” Anthony confesses, “I just wanted you to myself for a little bit.”

His pace slows; they’re a good distance away from the picnic party, they wouldn’t be interrupted by anyone.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Anthony wonders as he comes to a stop. His hands settle on her waist and she has do all that she can to focus on the conversation and not the fact that she can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of her dress.

“You can tell me anything.”

“I like spending time with you. You make me…” Anthony trails off as he thinks of the word, “Happy. Yes, you make me happy.”

“You make me happy too.”

“If you want me to stop,” Anthony whispers, bending to press a line of kisses from her cheek to the corner of her mouth, “You need to tell me now.”

“Don’t stop,” She whispers, fisting her hands in the lapels of his jacket, tugging him forward.

Anthony kissed her carefully, as if afraid he would ruin her from the very moment their lips touched. What he didn’t realise, however, was that he had ruined her from the instant they met. He might not have realised it, but she knew. She knew that from that one conversation, that one touch to her elbow, she would be ruined for other men.

His mouth is gentle, hesitant. By the way he groans low in his throat, Anthony does not expect (Y/N) to react the way she does. Gasping against his mouth, pressing herself against him as her lips open under his. The kiss becomes hurried; oxygen becoming a distant thought of the past as (Y/N) tastes the lemon biscuits Anthony had stolen from his mother’s table.

Breaking the kiss, the couple each suck in ragged breaths. Shy smiles break out across either of their faces, not having expected such a thing to happen to between them. A short laugh leaves Anthony’s lips as he keeps (Y/N) wrapped up in his embrace. Neither of them feel the need to say a word; happy to let the time pass between them in complete silence.

“We should probably get back,” (Y/N) eventually murmurs against Anthony’s cheek, the slight stubble scratching her skin.

Anthony releases a choked sound. “I don’t want to,” He confesses, “I want to stay here with you.”

(Y/N) pulls back, brushing a gloved hand against Anthony’s cheek. He leans into the touch; finding himself enraptured by the woman in front of him. “I want to stay with you too,” She whispers, “But your family will be looking for us.”

Anthony sighs, breaking the embrace entirely. He holds her hand; tangling their fingers together. If he could, he wouldn’t let go of her at all. He would keep her with him at all times; he likes to be in her presence, doesn’t want to be without it. However, society and duty calls, and he must return. However, he would be damned if he was to let go of her hand before then.

“Alright,” He concedes, beginning the walk back to the picnic.

The walk is quiet, but comfortable. Their hands remained tangled even as they arrive back to the Bridgertons. His brother’s throw Anthony a knowing glance which Anthony ignores. He knows his mother will have a strict word with him later, but he has more pressing matters on his mind – his future and the woman now sitting with his youngest siblings.

He’s found his forever; he just needs to keep it.

-----

“Miss (Y/L/N),” the Butler begins, interrupting the governess as she marks her student’s latest set of handwriting, “A Viscount Bridgerton to see you?”

“Oh!” She gasps, standing from her seat far too quickly. The inkpot on her desk spills, sapphire blue ink spreading across the multitude of papers thrown about her desk. As she watches the puddle grow, she begins to feel a deep sense of dread spread through her being.

“Shall I show him in?” The Butler asks, also watching the ink stain spread.

“Have you already made Lord and Lady Saville aware of his presence?”

“Yes, miss. They’re the ones who told me to fetch him to you.”

“Then yes, show him in please,” (Y/N) answers, staring forlornly at the ruined paper and wasted ink. The Butler makes a sympathetic noise before opening the door further for Anthony to enter.

“Darling,” Anthony greets. He goes to speak further but spies the growing blue stain. “What happened here?”

“I stood up too quickly,” (Y/N) complains. “It’s gone everywhere, and I can’t afford another bottle right now.”

“That’s no problem. I’ll get you a bottle.”

(Y/N) fixes the man with an unimpressed look. “No you won’t. I don’t want you buying things for me.”

“It won’t be bought. I have a stock of ink back at Bridgerton House due to the amount of correspondence I have. You can have a couple of pots; I will not miss it.”

“Oh… well, thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Anthony smiles. “Now that’s sorted, I came here to ask you a question.”

“You have?”

“I have. Would you attend the Shakespearean ball? With me?” His voice has a note of vulnerability in it as he voices his question.

“What?” She asks, “As in arrive with you, on your arm?”

“Yes,” Anthony states slowly, “You would come with me and my family.”

She begins to pace the room; her hands wringing together as she tries to calm the pounding of her heart and mind. “Are you sure this is the path you want to go down?” She asks Anthony; her voice begging for a truthful answer.

“What do you mean?”

“This is getting very serious very fast, Anthony. This plan isn’t going to work forever; the ton will find out that I’m a governess and the ruse will be over. This could ruin your entire family, Anthony.”

“Hey,” Anthony hushes, interrupting her pacing. He reaches for her hand with one hand whilst the other cups her cheek. She automatically leans into the touch, sending a thrill through Anthony’s aching soul. “Nothing’s going to happen,” He reassures with a gentle tone, “Should anything happen, we can do damage control.”

“I don’t want to be the ruin of your family, Anthony,” (Y/N) whispers, her eyes lined with unshed tears. She could never forgive herself if the Bridgertons were socially injured by her lack of money relating to her lack of status. (Y/N) could not help the hand of cards she was dealt at birth, but society dictates her station, and hers was so far below Anthony’s it was any wonder that he noticed her in the first place. It was a dream to be accepted by his family; she didn’t want to be the cause of their ruination.

“You aren’t going to be the ruin of my family,” Anthony assures, brushing under her eyes with his thumbs to wipe away the tears that have fallen. “You’re going to be the making of it. I want you in my life, (Y/N). I want to see where this goes.”

“You do?”

“I do. I haven’t felt like this for a long time, I want to see where this feeling takes me.”

“Okay,” She concedes, doing her best to stop the tears falling, “I’ll go to the ball with you.”

“You will?”

“I will.”

The smile that spreads across Anthony’s face makes it all worth it. He presses a kiss to her forehead, then another to her nose, to her cheek before finally kissing her in earnest. She hums against his mouth; getting lost in the feel of him.

“It’ll be worth it,” Anthony whispers. “All of this is worth it.”

“You’re worth it,” (Y/N) states quietly, pulling him back in for another kiss.

----

Lady Danbury was one of two women in London that could throw a memorable ball. The other being Violet Bridgerton. For her theme this year, Lady Danbury had chosen the works of the Elizabethan bard, William Shakespeare. For what could be more romantic than dressing as characters immortalised in his plays and sonnets?

Anthony would not tell (Y/N) one whisper of his costume; kept it a secret from her despite her barrage of questions. As revenge, she kept quiet about her costume, refusing to tell the man the colour of her dress.

The two walk into the ballroom with (Y/N)’s hand resting on Anthony’s forearm; her nerves rattle as she walks further into the room. She knew she had no reason to be nervous; Anthony and his family would protect her from whatever form of gossip falls her way, but she could not help the turning of her stomach as she walked passed many disappointed mothers who had hoped Anthony would pay their daughters the slightest bit of attention.

The music is loud; the laughter lightening the atmosphere and the dancers in full swing as (Y/N) begins to feel comfortable. Having taught many a child Shakespeare, (Y/N) spent a lot of time trying to decipher the characters in attendance tonight. She had already seen three Violas, four Benedicks, and six Olivias.

“I have to go talk to someone,” Anthony says apologetically, interrupting her guessing game, “I won’t be long. Will you be okay without me?”

(Y/N) nods. “Go. I’m sure I’ll find someone to talk to.”

Anthony presses a lingering kiss to her cheek, whispering as he does so, “A marvel amongst women.”

“You’re nothing but a flirt,” She laughs, batting the love of her life away. “Go talk business.”

“As you wish,” Anthony laughs, mock-bowing before leaving (Y/N) to wander the ball alone. Moments pass before she finds someone she recognises. “Colin,” She greets happily, “Who have you come as?”

“Romeo Montague,” Colin answers, stretching his arms wide to show off his rather fetching garb.

“How wonderful,” She laughs, watching the Bridgerton strike a pose in his costume.

“Who knows,” Colin teases, “Maybe tonight I’ll find my Juliet.”

(Y/N) laughs once more, batting the man away when he wiggles his eyebrows at her in a suggestive manner. “Off with you,” She snorts, “I’m sure there are plenty of ladies for you to dance with.”

Colin departs with a bow of his head. (Y/N) rolls her eyes at the antics of the younger man; Colin knew full well of the line of ladies waiting for his signature of their dance cards, but something warms in (Y/N)’s chest when she watches Colin walk straight to Penelope Featherington.

“They’d make a fine pair if he would pull his head out,” A voice full of humour sounds from behind her.

(Y/N) startles. She turns to find Anthony watching her; his lips curled in a manner that suggested he was holding back the laughter he so desperately wanted to let out.

“You made me jump,” She hisses, batting his outstretched hand away.

“I’m sorry, my love,” Anthony coos, pulling (Y/N) into his embrace by pulling on one of the many skirts about her waist. (Y/N) flushes at the term of endearment, but also at the many pairs of eyes now watching the young couple.

“You’re forgiven,” She sighs. “Who have you dressed as?” She asks, changing the subject.

“Ferdinand,” Anthony answers, “From The Tempest.”

“How odd,” (Y/N) muses, “I’ve dressed as Miranda from The Tempest.”

“‘Admired Miranda!/ Indeed the top of admiration, worth/ What’s dearest to the world!’”

“Only you could quote Shakespeare from the heart,” (Y/N) states wryly.

Anthony preens, puffing out his chest slightly. “All the Bridgertons can. We would do dramatizations of the plays.”

“Of course,” (Y/N) laughs, picturing Anthony as a young boy, dressed in breeches with a make-do ruff around his neck. The very image brings a fond smile to her face.

“What are you smiling about?” Anthony questions, wanting to be privy to the thoughts running through her mind.

“You,” She flirts, hooking her arm through Anthony’s as they start to take a turn about the room.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Anthony states pompously though his heart races at her words.

Her laughter chimes as Anthony steers (Y/N) around the room, pausing only to grab two glasses of lemonade from the drinks table. She sips at it delicately, not risking a spill of a single drop on her outfit.

“I’m glad you decided to come,” Anthony murmurs into her ear. “Truly. I would have been lost without you.”

“You always know what to say, don’t you?” (Y/N) teases, enjoying the blush that begins to paint Anthony’s cheeks. She briefly touches a gloved hand to his cheek, smiling fondly at the brunette. “I’m glad I came too.”

Anthony clears his throat; clearing his throat of the emotion clogging it up. He takes her drink from her, placing it on a nearby table. As ever the gentleman he was raised to be, Anthony bows towards the women he vows is the love of his life and offers his hand. “Would you care to dance?”

“Always,” She answers with a breathtaking smile, taking his hand to be led onto the dancefloor for the start of the new song. Couples on the floor take up the position of the quadrille as upbeat music sounds through the hall.

It’s hard not to smile as Anthony takes her hand to begin the first steps of the lead couple. The first dance figure is performed before copied by the other couples in their square.

Anthony keeps a tight hold on her as he begins the next set of dance figures; spinning (Y/N) out before drawing her back in. Laughter falls from her mouth, setting his heart alight with the love he feels for her.

She catches the eye of Lady Featherington through one of many of Anthony’s spins. The Lady smiles knowingly, raising her glass to the young woman spinning in the arms of the Viscount.

(Y/N)’s breath freezes in her chest; she makes a choked sound and her steps falter. Luckily, no-one but Anthony seems to notice, but he recovers his hold on (Y/N) fairly quickly. It’s the end of the song; couples slowing on the floor, the audience beginning to clap their approvals.

“Darling?” Anthony calls quietly, breaking her out of her reverie. His hand remains in her hold; refusing to let him take even a step without her.

“Take me somewhere we can be alone,” She pleads, suddenly overcome by the sheer amount of people milling about the hall.

Anthony doesn’t need to be told twice, leading (Y/N) away from the dancefloor with a guiding hand on the small of her back. Anthony catches Benedict’s eye as he leaves the hall; his brother offers him a single nod to which Anthony relaxes – Benedict would make sure no-one would follow or interrupt, there was something important Anthony had to do.

The night air is cold against her heated skin as she inhales hurried breaths. The stone of the railing is cool under her fingers as she grips the stone tight; needing something to tether her to this place. It feels like a dream; a total dream that she would find herself costumed as a character from a Shakespeare play brushing elbows with some of the most powerful people in the country.

At this time of night, the gardens are dark, but she can still make out their heavenly fragrance perfuming the air, providing the perfect backdrop for this night.

“Are you alright?” Anthony asks, removing his jacket and settling it over her shoulders.

(Y/N) pulls his jacket tighter around her; inhaling the comforting scent of musk and sweet orange washing over her. “I’m fine now, it got to be a bit too much in there.”

“That’s an understatement,” Anthony murmurs, “I saw Lady Featherington.”

(Y/N) cringes internally. Her face is a mask of polite interest as she murmurs, “Oh? You saw that did you?”

“She only acts as if she knows everything, darling,” Anthony reassures, settling his hands on (Y/N)’s waist, desperate to be touching her.

“I know,” She murmurs, but his words do nothing to settle the panic tying her chest into knots.

“We’re fine,” Anthony promises; hands rubbing up and down the sides of her bodice. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I know,” She repeats, sighing heavily, leaning back into his embrace. His chest is strong against her back, but she doesn’t get long to admire his strength. He turns her in his arms, peering down at the expression on her face.

“You’re who I love. I couldn’t give a damn what the rest of London society thinks.”

“I love you as well,” She answers, a small smile on her face, letting his words wash away any and all of her worries. “You do have a way with words.”

“Flatterer,” He teases, dipping his head to kiss her.

(Y/N) gasps at the first press of Anthony’s lips against hers. She had kissed him before; a hurried meeting of mouths before their chaperone caught up to them. This kiss differed from that; languid, unhurried. Anthony took his time to memorise the feel of her lips against his; the small whimpers sounding at the back of her throat.

Each brush of his lips against hers spoke of what he found it hard to put into words. He had never been a wordsmith; could never write poetry or recite the romances of the past, but with every butterfly kiss placed on her lips in time to the shuddering of her heartbeat could Anthony translate the sheer scale of what he feels for her.

She reaches up to cup the back of his neck, fingers carding through the dark brown locks. Anthony’s grip on her waist remains firm as he presses her further into the railing. The gentleness of Anthony’s kiss soon turns to a burning passion as his hands splay across the small of (Y/N)’s back, pressing her to him.

As Anthony’s kisses begin to travel the expanse of her jawline, (Y/N) is suddenly grateful for the railing behind her. If he was to let her go now, not only would she feel the keen absence of his touch, but she would surely sink to the floor. The feel of his mouth, pressed hot against her, has her knees feeling unsteady.

“(Y/N),” Anthony whispers, nuzzling the side of her neck, “(Y/N)…”

“You keep whispering my name,” She murmurs into the night air; her ragged breath leaving behind white plumes.

“Marry me,” Anthony all but pleads, pulling back from (Y/N)’s neck to gaze into her eyes. “Marry me and always be mine.”

It seemed that time had stopped and lost all of its meaning; there was no party, no gardens, no laughter of lifelong friends. No. In this moment there was only Anthony.

“Yes,” She whispers, laughter beginning to fall from her mouth as fresh as a morning rainfall. Once it starts, she cannot find it in herself to stop. Tears soon join the laughter as a smile breaks across Anthony’s handsome face. “Yes,” She repeats, “I will marry you.”

********

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sourholland · 3 years

Text

A Royal Convenience || Tom Holland

| Series Masterlist |

Part Two

AN → You might all be wondering where I’ve been, I honestly just needed a bit of a break for my mental health! I’m sorry, I’ve missed taking to you all <3

Summary → When an alliance is made between England and France, you are sent away to marry the crown prince and heir to the British throne. Except both you and Prince Thomas despise each other at all odds, subjected to the hand of the monarchy and unable to stand each other.

Pairing(s) → Prince!Tom x Princess!Reader

Warnings → None

Word Count → 2.0k

“Could one of you run off and find out if my son is planning on gracing us all with his attendance.” Nicola’s voice was assertive, dripping with irritation at the Prince’s tardiness.

A man holding a closed box with an assortment of rings stood off to the side of the drawing-room. He was stiff, awkward even, in the presence of not only the Queen, but the Princess and future Queen of England. His eyes were trained on the freshly polished floors, clutching the velvet.

Behind you stood your newly introduced ladies in waiting, there were three: Lady Eloise, Lady Charlotte, and Lady Andrea. They were very young, pretty, and had very clearly come from aristocratic backgrounds. Each of them held a title, meaning they’d soon enough marry. You’d planned on meeting them for tea, but Queen Nicola figured it would be better to bring them in before you chose an engagement ring.

“Apologies, mum,” Tom came through the double doors, his hair skewed and his shirt disheveled. He bowed, taking a spot beside his mother and averting his eyes from you.

“Thomas, wonderful of you to join us,” she drawled. “Do begin, sir,” she said, motioning towards the man.

He opened the box a bit shakily, dozens of diamonds gleaming. They ranged from color to carrots of gold, each holding a different and more interesting background. You couldn’t help but to reach out and pick up one with a deep sapphire.

“That was once worn by the late Queen Elizabeth l,” he droned on, continuing to tell you about the long history of where the ring had come from and what it signified.

“What do you think, Thomas,” Nicola asked. She was practically beaming at each ring you slid onto your finger. Like no matter which one you chose, none would be the wrong choice.

“It is not I that will have to wear the dreadful thing,” he replied shortly. “Therefore, I should not be the person deciding which one she chooses, though I wish you’d quicken the pace a bit.”

“Since you’ve made it clear that you have no intention on weighing in on the decision, I ask you kindly, Prince Tom, to please refrain from commenting,” you quipped. He took a step back irritably, pulling at the collar of his undershirt.

You reached into the box once more, pulling out a large European cut diamond ring. The several diamonds displayed at the golden band left you lifting your hand, staring at your ring finger absentmindedly. It was classic, yet had too many diamonds to be considered simple. A royal staple, much like the tiara you’d eventually choose to wear on your wedding day.

“This one,” you said. “This is the one.”

The Queen drifted towards you, biting back excitement as she assessed the ring. It was clearly too large and would need to be sized, yet still had the same effect. She held it up as you had done, clutching your hand and motioning towards your ladies to come and look.

“That’s absolutely darling,” Charlotte mused.

“It’s stunning,” Andrea agreed.

The Prince soon enough took his leave, slipping out of the room before Nicola could notice his absence. She looked disappointed when she looked over and was met with an empty space where he’d just stood.

“He’ll come around soon enough,” she said, this was less reassuring to you and seemed more comforting for herself.

“Do tell me about yourself, Andrea,” you murmured on, arm in arm as you both perused the large gardens.

“Well there’s not much to know, miss,” she replied swiftly.

“Please, I wish you’d call me Y/N in private company,” you laughed a bit. “I’ve never had much of a thing for titles.”

“Her Majesty would simply chastise me.”

There were blooming flowers and the grass was slowly becoming more and more green. The air was a bit brisk, the cloak draped along your shoulders thinner than you’d like. The soft breeze felt nice, though. Andrea was simple looking, pulled back brown hair and a heart-shaped face. She explained that she was one of three girls, the third daughter of an earl.

“I must admit, I do wish we’d have met under different circumstances,” you mused, plucking a lily from the shrubs.

“I’m not sure what you mean, miss,” she looked over at you a bit sideways.

“I just mean—well under the circumstance that I wasn’t being pawned off on the Prince.”

You fumbled at your skirts for a moment, pressing at the fabrics of your afternoon dress. It was ivory, beautiful, really. Though, much different from anything you’d have worn in France.

“I’m sure His Royal Highness will be as pleased as everyone else once you are both wed.”

“That’s hard to believe,” you chuckled. “He has hardly said a word to me since I arrived in London.”

She looked nervous, like she was afraid to say the wrong thing. Her cheeks flushed lightly, the glint in her eyes a bit brighter. Andrea just looked over to you and gave a soft smile, as if to say everything would be alright.

“Do you think that Prince Thomas is handsome?” You asked, curious of her opinion. You watched her cheeks redden, an awkward laugh escaping her lips.

“That is not for me to judge, miss,” she answered almost immediately.

“No—but, I just want your opinion, do you think he is handsome?” You asked once again.

She hesitated for a moment, “yes, I think the Prince is certainly very handsome.”

You thought for a moment, of his brown hair that had been swept back and so carelessly skewed about earlier in the morning. The way his freckles scattered lightly across his nose like a constellation, you’d only known this from when he’d pulled you in so closely the night before. He wore his signet ring proudly, this amongst what looked like another ring with a crest on it.

“Yes, I suppose he is quite handsome. Though, if I’ve learned anything, it is that looks count for almost nothing when you’re forced to spend everyday with a person.”

The quiet clattering of silverware sounded throughout the large room, beside you sat Prince Tom. Down the table were the two older princes, assuming the youngest, Prince Patrick, was still too young. At the head of the table was King Dominic, at his right was Queen Nicola. Occupying the rest of the table was an assortment of dukes and duchesses, earls and ladies.

It had been too late to join everyone for dinner the night before, so tonight was the first time you’d been in everyone’s company. The room was large, grand even, gold trim and deep royal red walls filled with paintings dating back centuries. Candles burned while you ate, attempting to steal a glance at the Prince while he spoke with his brother Harry.

It had taken you weeks studying the British monarchy to completely grasp their political and traditional protocol. You had to learn who to curtsy to and who not to, and then in what order, how to determine the sovereign and whether or not to address someone with a title or not to.

“Tell us, Y/N, how are you finding England?” The Queen chimed, staring at you from her seat across the table.

“Well, ma’am—I haven’t seen much of it, I do hope to see more. It is far different from France, though.”

A quiet murmur spread across the table, “I’ve always found the French quite curious,” a duchess, whom you could not recall the name of, said lowly.

“Curiously dreadful,” Tom laughed to himself in a whisper you were sure only you could hear.

“I’m sorry?” You turned towards him, the sound of your cutlery against the plate louder than you’d liked. “I thought you said something, sir.”

The King looked up at you, the scornful way in which you looked at Tom, seething at his teasing words. You felt the heat in your face spread when you noticed an almost surprised look from a majority of the long and stretching table.

The rest of dinner you kept quiet, avoiding the looks from the prince at your side. He seemed quite bothered, you put your head down and braced yourself once the King stood. Once the King finished his meal, everyone else was finished as well. He stood soundly, the paleness of his skin off-putting, the deep purple crescents underneath his eyes prominent in the candlelight.

You stood with everyone else, retiring to your chambers in a fleeting moment once it was appropriate to get away. The long, narrow halls were ages older than you, the artwork clearly showing that. You recognized past monarchs, the kings and queens of the years earlier. The twists and turns reminded you of a labyrinth, easy to get lost in.

Once you reached the double doors to your chambers, you pulled at them quickly, shutting them behind you soundly and sinking against the wall. The room was still filled with burning candles, the servant at your vanity looking at you curiously.

She curtsied quickly, motioning you off of the floor in a maternal way. You said nothing, letting her help you slip out of the evening gown and undo the tight lacing of your corset. You breathed deeply as she slipped the white nightgown over your head and took down the silver pins from your hair.

“Are you alright, miss?” She asked, the look on her face a bit concerned.

“Yes, just tired,” you excused. “I can put myself to sleep, thank you.”

“Are you sure, miss? I really do not mind,” she trailed off as you waved her away laughing stiffly.

“I am sure, thank you, Anne.”

You stared at yourself in the mirror, brushing through your hair as you sat. Anne had long left, the doors shut tightly and the guards posted at them for the night, however, you turned quickly at the sound of them creeping open.

“How thick in the head must you be?”

Prince Thomas.

“You should not be in here,” you warned. “It’s bad enough to be caught alone in the daytime without a chaperone, but at night—in my bedroom!” Your tone was sharp, your arms wrapping around yourself. His eyes scanned your bare ankles, the curve of your legs underneath the thin material.

“You need not be concerned about your virtue, not after what you decided to pull at dinner tonight, before mother and father! I mean seriously, it’s like you enjoy humiliating yourself in front of the whole family!”

His cheeks were flushed in anger, his eyes fixed on you. You hair was undone, your eyes stuck on him. The silence was deafening, the space between the both of you closing when you stood up and marched over to him.

“I have been here a day. A day! And you cannot allow me the luxury of my own chambers, parading in here like you were not the one who provoked me!” You rammed a finger into his chest, gaze not faltering as you looked up at him.

“I told mother, I told father. You are nothing but a child, a little girl with no clue what she’s getting herself into,” you flinched at his voice.

“I will be your wife—”

“You will be the Queen of England!” He shouted, “the way you acted tonight was not that of a queen, but an eighteen year old girl in way over her head.”

He grabbed the hand that had jabbed into his chest, skewing it to the side. “Do not forget yourself, Y/N. I can promise you this, if you cannot at least act like you have any idea what you’re doing, this engagement is off. I will not tarnish the name of my country, nor title or reputation for a French princess that I had no desire to wed in the first place.”

taglist- @justapurrcat @witchyartemis @keithseabrook27 @clara-licht @dummiesshort @username2002 @imaginationisgrowth @nova-sup3r @jeyramarie @the-avengers-assembling @veryholland

#tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagines #prince!tom #prince!tom x reader #peter parker imagines #peter parker x reader #tom holland

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a-sleepyblackcatyawning · 2 years

Text

Headcanon: So, historically and across almost all(? maybe all?) cultures, some colors of clothing and types of fabric and fur were reserved for the sole use of different classes. For instance, in Elizabethan England, Sumptuary Laws decreed that clothe of gold and ermine were for the sole use of the royal family.

This doesn’t mean much for the cultivators, who are part of the jianghu and don’t usually operate within the traditional boundaries of society. Cultivation is about defying fate! Following the Dao! Smashing the cycle of death and reincarnation! If a cultivator belongs to a Sect or a School or an Association or whatever, they adopt a uniform which gets fancier as they move up the ranks.

Demons are outside the human jianghu but have their own culture and societies. Airplane, because of laziness a need for some semblance of order, color-coded the demons based on their element (the five elements), so Wood demons wear shades of green; fire demons shades of red; etc. It gets a little more complicated for demons whose roots are mutated, like the ice demons or the, sigh, wind demons (Cucumber-bro wrote a mini-thesis on how Airplane is a shitty worldbuilder for including air as a possible spiritual root. This world is based on ancient China not Greece!) or the Heavenly Demons. The Sumptuary Laws of the demonic realm differ based on location, but generally follow this pattern:

1. Royalty: Allowed to wear all the shades of that particular element’s color; usually wears at least four different shades to distinguish themselves from the other classes.

2. Nobility and officials: Allowed to wear most of the shades of that particular element’s color; usually wears at least four different shades to distinguish themselves from the other classes.

3. Trained artisans and craftsmen: Allowed to wear the main color and one other that’s one shade different from the main color, if not an adept or a master in the craft; masters or adepts are allowed to wear three colors, the main color and two others, one a shade off from the main color and the other two shades off from the main color.

4. Peasants: Allowed to wear the main color and one that’s a shade different from the main color.

5. Serfs (peasants tied to the land) and merchants: Allowed to wear the main color.

It gets more complicated with the addition of slaves, which, depending on the type of slave, might be allowed to dress in the colors of a serf or a trained artisan, depending on whether they were skilled slaves or not.

This was never a problem for SQQ. SQQ wore so many layers in different shades of green, all demons think he’s royalty, but SQH wore as few layers as he could and still remain presentable, much to the confusion of all demons involved.

Young MBJ was very confused upon meeting the not-yet!SQH. This clearly apprentice craftsman says he’s going to be a lord? Can humans change their caste so easily?

When SQH joined MBJ’s court, SQH’s An Ding Peak lord clothing confused the hell out of MBJ’s court because: he wears three different shades of teal. Why is this human who is clearly not an official speaking to them like equals? Is he MBJ’s slave? Why is MBJ allowing a slave to speak on matters of the court?

SQH was confused as well: Should? he just...put on another teal layer? Wear his fancy-smacy official Peak Lord clothing? Take off a layer?? Like, which would be best here? Which one keeps him from dying??

MBJ eventually solves it by draping his fur coat over SQH during court one day.

MBJ, nonchalantly dumping his coat with blue-ice dire wolf fur mantle over SQH, as though SQH were a coatrack, as he passes the cultivator to sit on his throne.

SQH, with the coat dumped over his head, thinking: Am I supposed to hold this? Am I supposed to wear this?? Am I even allowed to have this on my person??? Didn’t I write that blue-ice dire wolf fur can only be worn by the royal family? Am I going to die?!

MBJ’s court: What’s going on? Did the King give the coat to the human to hold? It must be to hold, right?? This surely isn’t a proposal, right???

SQH: Ah, my King! This servant begs his King for clarification. Is this servant to hold his King’s coat?

MBJ, thinking SQH would look good in the demonic royalty equivalent of boyfriend shirt: QH was cold. This MBJ gave it to QH to wear.

SQH: My King is too kind to this lowly servant!

SQH, thinking: Oh! MBJ did it so the cold doesn’t distract me from paying attention in court! He must have realized that the cold makes my handwriting shaky and difficult for him to read! Oh~ This is nice~ It smells like MBJ!

MBJ: QH shouldn’t refer to himself in such a manner.

SQH: ???

Court, thinking: It was a proposal!!!

#svsss headcanon #headcanon #moshang

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encomium-emmae · 2 years

Note

one word prompt: injured

They come to something resembling a bargain that morning on the battlements. Emma will be the new king’s advisor, provide guidance in all matters of English politics, and serve as a patient, willing ear for his questions, of which, he tells her plainly, there will be many. In turn, she will retain her title, her wealth and estates, her place at court, her household and rooms, and the custody of her sons.

That is, to say: everything.

The clear imbalance makes her wonder what he is thinking. If such favor is a means of winning her over, it is not an ineffective one. But kings are like God in that regard: what they give, they can just as easily take back. It would be best for her to remain cautious, watchful, to try to learn more about this Viking king who seeks to rule rather than raid.

The next day she finds him in his rooms, the outer chamber now serving as a repository of papers, maps and letters and petitions spread over the tables in shuffled disarray. Emma resists the urge to begin going through it all, if only to provide some well-needed order.

He is on his way out, he tells her, off to the Viking camp where he plans to visit with the men who still lie sick and injured from the battle on the bridge. But she may accompany him if she would like.

Emma has one of her ladies fetch her cloak: the thick woolen one, not the fur.

The camp sits just outside the city walls, a hive of activity even with only half the force he brought with him. She wonders where all these men will go if they are to remain in England. Does Canute plan to grant them land so that they may build new settlements, tiny pockets of Denmark on English soil? The landed nobles and their vassals would oppose such an idea—not outright, but certainly to each other, behind closed doors. Emma could help him, though, if that was his wish, assist him in forging a path between his will and their resistance. Perhaps tomorrow, when she returns to help make sense of his papers, she will inquire directly of his plans.

They thread their way down rows of tents, past makeshift smithies and leatherworkers’ stalls. Through the open-air canteen, she can see a crucifix atop a rough wooden altar, a nearby priest intoning the Latin words of the Mass.

The king is greeted as a hero as they pass, hailed by his warriors in Danish and Norwegian and several other languages she does not know. He seems happy to be among them, grinning widely and clasping at shoulders, without any sense of remove. Æthelred was never so at ease among his soldiers, nor did he ever seem to inspire the kind of personal devotion that the King of Denmark appears to be reveling in at present. Canute’s men are loyal to him as a king, but love him as a man.

She is beginning to see why.

Inside the medical tents, the mood is more somber. She watches as he moves from bed to bed, quietly asking after each man’s pain, praising his courage on the battlefield, promising a prayer for a quick recovery. Every so often he will sit on the edge of the bed, listening as the injured man feverishly recounts some shared exploit, his expression grateful and sober.

It feels intrusive now to watch, as if she is encroaching on something not meant for her, so Emma steps away, moving to a different part of the tent.

Here, however, the men’s injuries are more extensive, blood-soaked bandages wrapped around head wounds, putrid stumps of limbs, the broken shafts of arrows. A few are asleep; some look like they might already be dead.

It is overwhelming to see, these ravages of war, like a gaping maw that would never be sated. She is about to leave, hoping to breathe easier in the fresh air outside the tent, when she hears a moan.

The sound is coming from a bed a few steps away. Emma moves closer, noting the greased strands of his tawny hair, his chapped lips, the flaming pink skin under the fabric bandaging his torso. He looks young, barely to manhood, gangly and long-limbed. This is someone’s son, she realizes, someone’s beloved brother. Her heart breaks a little: he should be at home, in his fields, digging furrows for the summer crop, not here in this foreign place, so close to death that even she can sense its presence.

He says something to her, but she does not understand the words, so he weakly raises his fingers to his lips and then points to something on a table just out of reach: an earthenware jug and a cup.

She quickly pours a measure into the cup—weak ale, by the smell—and holds it to his mouth, letting him take small sips to slake his thirst. When he is done, he lays back and shuts his eyes, his features relaxing further into boyishness as he gives in to the pull of sleep.

“That was a kindness you just did.”

Emma turns to see the king behind her, his gaze wide and searching.

“He is going to die,” she replies. “Kindness is the only thing I can give him.”

“He was your enemy.”

She shakes her head, her smile laced with bitterness. “We are at peace now, are we not? Under the same banner, ruled by the same king.”

“That is why I want to build my empire,” he says, stepping closer. “We will put an end to this, to all the wars and the raiding. Unified, we will not need to fight.”

Emma gazes at him, wanting to believe more than anything that what he says is true. “And that is why I promised to aid you,” she says quietly. “I do not want my sons to die like this.”

The king nods, and then holds out his hand to her. “Together?”

He has extended his hand to her before, and each time it feels weighted with unspoken meaning, somehow both a question and its answer. And each time she takes it, she feels herself being bound to him, tied by invisible strands that are slowly wrapping themselves around her mind, her very thoughts.

His hand is warm and solid as Emma slips her fingers into his. She still does not fully know what sort of man this king is, but she is learning, each new thing she uncovers only spurring her desire to know more.

[send me a one-word Emma/Canute prompt]

#vikings: valhalla #vikings valhalla #emma of normandy #king canute #canute x emma #vikings netflix #fanfiction #one word prompts

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problematicfavesareproblematic · 3 years

Text

Drinking Up This Sweet Decadence

George Luz x Reader One shot

Warnings: SMUT!, dom/sub under and overtones, George is an immature toddler but he’s *YOUR* IMMATURE TODDLER, shit attempts at humor, reader goes a lil overboard with scratching, George gets a lil stupid post-sexy time but it’s vv cute, no discussion of safewords/boundaries so I guess the dom/sub stuff isn’t well negotiated but whatevah.

Summary: George decides to be a pouty lil jealous boy and reader is having none of it

Title comes from Good Enough by Evanescence

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Hey, Y/N- your back feeling okay?”

Both you and Dick raise your heads from the map you’d splayed across the table in the Paratrooper- usurped pub, giving each other a quick look before you finally look at Nixon.

“Uh….yeah, Lewis,” you narrow your eyes at the smirking man. “Why do you ask?”

Nix shrugs and pulls a face. “Just curious if you could feel the daggers George Luz has been shooting your way.”

Furrowing your brows, you twist in your seat to look out at the sea of soldiers, frowning when you see exactly what Nixon was talking about.

George Luz was glaring at you, a deep frown of his own twisting his handsome face as you made eye contact with him.

A consummate goof, you weren’t unaccustomed to seeing the man pulling a face at you every now and again. More often than not, he’d do it when he felt that you were too hyper-focused on something- or if you became overly concerned and contemplative over a minute detail of whatever intel Nixon had most recently given you. He never failed to pull you from your darker thoughts, something that you had come to rely on despite your initial resistance to becoming his friend.

But right now- this wasn’t George pulling a bit. Oh no, this was a genuine expression of upset.

Just as you opened parted your lips to mouth a question at him, he turned his glower to the beer in front of him, pointedly making conversation with Malarkey, Skip, and Alex.

“What’s that about?” Dick asked from your side.

Turning back around, you shake your head and shrug. “No idea. Probably just had too much to drink and zoning out? I don’t know- the day I can explain why any of these Neanderthals do what they do is the day Hitler shaves off his mustache and admits he’s been a bit over the top with this whole affair.”

“Is it something you need to, uh, deal with?”

You shake your head again, giving Nix a quick grin. “Nah, this is more important. Besides,” you shoot one more look over your shoulder before turning back. “Whatever it is, he’ll probably be over it come morning.”

With a nod, Nix refocuses on the map and takes a swig from his flask.

“Okay, so the DZ is going to be in these fields, over here….”

Turns out, Luz wasn’t over it by morning.

Nor was he over it that afternoon, evening, or the two next days.

Like some playground tiff gone personal, he was ignoring you. Not just ignoring you, but full-on pretending that you didn’t exist. If you walked into a room, he walked out. If you said his name, he lost his ability to hear and continued with whatever he was doing. When he made eye contact with you, he would immediately look away.

You should’ve known that this was an inherent risk when you started falling in love with someone who was such a child- that they would carry their immaturity into all aspects of their life. So here you were, in a battle of wits with an oversized toddler and two weeks away from D-Day.

And you were pissed.

You hadn’t done anything to warrant this sort of reaction from him- just three days ago you’d been having to scold him for getting too handsy in front of your commanding officers, the both of you biting back laughter when he’d made a whole show of pouting and whimpering like a wounded puppy. Things had been good- great even. You had no idea what sparked this drastic shift in behavior.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t determined to find out.

You’d heard from Joe Toye that Luz was ‘moping like a goddamn kid’ in their shared cabin, having declined Joe’s offer to go out to the bar tonight. Having been on your way to go on a short run, you decided that now was as good a time as any to get to the bottom of your lover’s temper tantrum. Whether he wanted to or not.

Opening the wooden door, you rolled your eyes when he instantly shifted his gaze to the wall opposite his bed. He was leaning against the headboard, arms crossed over his chest and his legs stretched in front of him on the unmade sheets- looking for all the world a bratty teenager whose mother had sent them to their room to think about what they’d just done.

“Fancy meeting you here, Sweetheart!”

He blinked defiantly as he petulantly continued to stare at the wall. That was fine, you were willing to work for it a little bit.

“Last time I saw someone pull the silent treatment, I think I was still in elementary school,” you continue as you walk over to his bed, using your hip to shove his legs to the side so you could perch on the side of the mattress beside him. “I’ve got to say- your commitment to being difficult is admirable. Three days is a long time in Luz-years, isn’t it?”

You tilt your head to the side and give him an amused smile, batting your eyes at him as you nudge your knee against his hip.

“What’s got you so cross, huh?”

George, still purposefully looking over your shoulder, said nothing. You frown at that, your amusement at his upset dwindling rapidly into genuine frustration. Being in love with George Luz- being friends with George Luz- lent itself to aggravation enough as it was, his jokes and near-constant wisecracks were destined to get on your nerves at some point. Sometimes you wondered if that truly was the point.

But this….whatever this was had you on edge for an entirely different reason. Even with all of his other quirks and habits, this felt especially childish. the time allotted for any sort of long-term comical event had long since passed, and with the days of the company’s time in England whittling down to near single digits, you had no patience for this silent treatment.

Which is probably why George looked so shocked when you lightly (but effectively) slapped his cheek in order to regain his attention.

“Hey,” you said again, voice much sharper than it had been before. “What’s the matter with you? What gives?”

George looks at you with wide eyes, one of his hands coming up to rub against his pinkening cheek dumbly. When he doesn’t respond quickly enough for your liking, you swing a leg over his hips and straddle his lap, bracing your hands on either side of the wall he’s leaning against to effectively box him in.

“George, why are you being weird with me?”

His brown eyes shift down to look at the collar of your PT shirt, the stretched-out fabric pulling to one side and revealing the paler skin of your collarbone. He suddenly looks incredibly young, something that hits you like a fist to the chest. As he swallows, you whisper his name again- concern starting to smooth the jagged edges of your agitation.

Clearing his throat, George looks down and to the side as you feel his free hand come to lightly rest on the bare skin of your thigh, touching the skin like he fears it will cut him somehow.

“It’s nothing, Y/N,” he says without conviction, almost like he knows you can hear that he’s lying before he even gives it a try. “‘M not being weird—”

“George.”

This time he actually meets your gaze, his brows furrowing at the expression of worry you know your face has pulled itself into. Despite the fact that- not ten seconds ago- he’d been giving you the cold shoulder, George moves the hand that had been rubbing at his cheek to your face so his thumb can smooth the tension between your eyes. The way he did it almost seemed unconscious, the sweetness of the action not lost on you.

So why had he been so distressed?

“Talk to me,” you say quietly, leaning your head into his touch. “Please.”

You allow your eyes to drift closed as he cups your cheek, the curve of his palm bending around your cheekbone as if it was made to hold it.

“You’re too good for me.”

Opening your eyes quickly, you feel yourself frown at the statement. At first you think he’s joking, but you can tell by the grim smile on his handsome face that he is being painfully sincere. You quickly take his face in your hands and look at him incredulously, hating the look of defeat on his face.

“What in the hell are you talking about?” you have to work to keep from sounding too exasperated, a new wave of frustration beginning to crest in your chest. “What on earth makes you think that?”

When he doesn’t reply, you shake your head and narrow your eyes. “No, Luz- you don’t get to say something like that and then not elaborate. I never thought I’d ever have to demand this but goddamnit, George, I need you to talk to me!”

Clenching his jaw, he twists his mouth from side to side before smirking ruefully.

“Seeing you and Nixon just….you’re too smart for a dumbass like me. You’re pretty and sharp and too fuckin’ brainy to waste your time with some nobody who’s probably not even gonna make it past D-Day…..a girl like you could have anybody, and I like you too goddamn much to keep you from—”

“Shut up.”

His eyebrows shoot up at the venom in your voice. Tears prickle at your eyes as you think about all that he’s said, all that he’s been thinking for the past two days while he ignored you and allowed this to fester in his head while you were none the wiser. It hurt, his words physically caused you pain. It broke your heart to think that he thought so little of himself and was so thoroughly unconvinced of your unwavering devotion to him.

Did he really think that, by ignoring you long enough, that you’d just move on to a more appropriate man? Someone more ‘deserving’ or ‘worthy’ of you?

You’re a goddamned idiot, George Luz.

You must’ve spoken the last part aloud, because abruptly he physically startles and pouts at you like an offended child. Too lost in your anger to find any humor in his reaction, you bite the inside of your cheek and glare at him.

“I don’t want a Lewis Nixon! My entire life, I’ve been told that I’m supposed to marry a man like him- someone who went to an overpriced school and drinks overpriced wine and has perfect posture and perfect hair and the best fake charm money could buy,” you know your voice has gone shrill, but you’re too angry to care right now.

“And yeah, maybe that type of man could buy me a nice house with nice cars and give me heaps of rich, fat babies who have pretentious names that they can’t even pronounce until they’re eight or nine- but guess what, George?”

You slide your hands into his hair and grab fistfuls of it so he can’t look away from you even if he tried. Tears have been dripping down your cheeks for a while now, your throat growing tighter and tighter with each word you speak but you don’t dare stop. You need him to know how you feel, you have to clear any signs of doubt from his thick, perfect head.

“He wouldn’t love me. Men like that are hollow and selfish- they only know how to want and take. They’d rather I sat quietly and smiled and gave them heirs than ask me about what I want. He would want me to be good and proper, he’d never care about me- not like you do.”

Sniffing, you relax your grip on his hair and slide your hands down until they rest on his chest, barking out a rueful scoff as you let your eyes take in the pain on his face. “If you don’t want me any more, that’s fine. But don’t you dare ever try to break up with me for me again. Because as far as I’m concerned, you’re the love of my life, George Luz.”

It’s quiet, the only sound that of your occasional sniff and the creak of the bed as he sits up a bit straighter. You’re about to plead for him to say something when he suddenly surges forward to kiss you soundly on the lips, pressing his mouth onto yours so strongly you find yourself being bent backward. His hands, hot and sure, splay themselves on your back- one pressing between your shoulder blades while the other at the base of your spine anchors you in his lap so you don’t fall.

There’s a desperation in this kiss, you can feel it in the harshness of his breathing and the determined tension of his hold on you. As you pull back to catch your breath, George doesn’t let you go far.

“Do you mean that, Y/N?” he’s asking, words hot and heavy on your lips as he keeps his forehead pressed to yours. “Please tell me you aren’t just saying that because I—”

“I mean it.”

You capture his mouth with yours before he can ask anything further, having made the decision to show him just how serious you were being. He whimpers into your mouth as you yank at the shoulders of his shirt aggressively- too focused on baring his skin to your greedy hands to think about the scolding he’ll get if you tear the fabric at all. From the way he’s fisting the hem of your own shirt, you think he’s on a similar wavelength.

Sex with George was unlike anything you had experienced before. Never before had you had a partner be so wonderfully jovial about such intimacies- all of your previous experiences had led you to believe that it was meant to be a serious and choreographed affair, a misconception that always left you too anxious to ever derive any true pleasure from the act.

But with George…. you had learned to relax enough to realize that there was no right or wrong way to do it. If anything, the fumbles and mistakes had taught you that sex could actually be fun.

This was the first time he’d ever shown any sort of desperation or determination during foreplay, the first time you’d gotten any sense of urgency from him.

You couldn’t fault him, however….not when you felt it too.

By the time you’ve stripped each other of your respective shirts, you can’t help but grind yourself into him. George, eyes wide and staring, dips his head down to watch the way you roll your lower half against his, eyes following a path up and down your sternum with each gyration like a man entranced. You feel heat flood your face at the open gaping, your hands once again gripping the strands of his hair to pull his head up and back.

His hiss fills you with some dark, carnal sense of pride. Especially when you see the glazed look in his eyes as you smirk at him.

“What’s wrong, Georgie?” you murmur, brushing your nose with his while his hands slide up and down your spine like they’re lost. “Have I shocked you? Are you still jealous?”

“‘M not jealous,” he insists, his blunt fingernails digging into the skin of your hips as your nipples brush across his chest unexpectedly. “Just want you….”

You kiss him again for that, gently scratching at the shorter hairs at the base of his neck as you pull back again. “You have me right now, Sweetheart.”

You know that he is aware that you’re teasing him- something he’d normally retaliate in kind. But right now, he’s too drunk on something headier than normal to match your energy. It’s something you can relate to, the unfamiliar burn of dominance singing your veins like wildfire.

“Are you reassured yet? What more can I do to make it clear that you’re mine?”

Blinking slowly, George gives his head a gentle shake. “N-Nothing….please-”

Slipping one hand from his hair, you trace your fingertips over his lips and marvel at how soft and swollen they’ve become.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

With high color in his cheeks, George doesn’t even attempt to hide the desperation in his voice as he groans under your touch. “‘M sorry….I’m sorry, Sugar. Just, just don’t stop. Please.”

Well, who are you to deny a request like that?

When you kiss him this time, you do it more carefully and with less anger, gently allowing the kiss to deepen as one of his strong arms locks around your waist and the other hand trails up your stomach to rest between your breasts. You trail your fingers everywhere you can, up his arms and down his chest and around his back where you can feel each breath he takes beneath your palms.

As your thighs begin to shake, you tilt your head so your lips separate from his with a soft sound.

“I need you inside of me,” you whisper, reaching down to where he’s grown hard for you and cupping him through his pants. “Can I have you inside me, George?”

“Yeah,” he nods, his words more an exhale than anything else. “Yessss….”

Clumsily, you and he work to pull his trousers and briefs down to his upper thighs, with him taking the initiative to push them down further as you carefully use his precum to slick his cock while you stroke him. He nips at your breasts as you do so, resting his forehead on your breastbone and mouthing at whatever skin he can. Burying your face in his hair, you sigh contentedly as he slides his hand down the back of your PT shorts to brush at the wet petals of your sex with a deep groan.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, the air from his words chilling the spit-slicked marks he’d been sucking on the tops of your breasts and sending goosebumps shaking down your body. “Fuck, Baby-”

He cuts himself off with another deep groan when you reach behind yourself to pull his hand away so you can divest yourself of your remaining clothes. You can’t help but smile at the sound.

“Why the long face, Sweetheart? Not ten minutes ago, you were ready to have me leave you for Lewis Nixon—”

“I’m sorry,” he all but blurts out, eyes trained on your naked body as you finally kick your legs free of the cotton shorts and underwear before crawling back into his lap. “I’m sorry, Y/N….”

His apologetic tone only fuels the dark burn that’s taken up residence in your lower belly, and you decide that you want to hear more of it.

“Say it again,” you demand, cupping your hand around the back of his neck while the other resumes its rhythm between his legs.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, his eyes falling shut as you tighten your grip on him. His cock is hard and hot in your hand, and when you pause to tease the head of it with your thumb you can feel his racing pulse against your palm.

“Tell me what you’re sorry for,” you nearly snarl, inhaling the gasp that escapes his lips as you nestle him in between your lower lips. “Tell me, and I might even let you cum inside of me.”

His hands have come to grip your ass, holding onto the soft flesh tightly as you rub yourself on his cock in a lewd echo of what you’d been doing earlier. The muscles in your thighs have begun to ache with fatigue, but you are too stubborn to stop torturing him.

“I’m sorry I ignored you!” George’s voice has taken on a keening quality- something you find deliriously attractive. “‘M sorry I- shit!- that I didn’t talk ‘bout this, that I t-tried to tell you what to do! I...I- goddamn it, just fuckin’ do something, please!”

You cut off his pleas with a kiss, quickly guiding him inside of you. You both break the kiss when he bottoms out- a curse being punched out of him while you release a whimper into the air above your heads. All of this had gotten you more aroused than you had initially realized, your body stilling as you struggle to control your breathing after the tip of his cock hits a spot inside of you that threatens to send you over the precipice prematurely.

“You okay, Sugar?” George asks, the waiver in his voice telling you that this might be a quicker romp than either of you had been hoping for. “You alright?”

You nod, your walls tightening around him as you lower your head to press your forehead to his.

“Yeah, yeah….just gimme a sec.”

Your stomach is trembling with arousal, and you know that your face is scrunched up unattractively as you force yourself to breathe through it.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?” you whisper tensely.

“I know you’re workin’ through something right now,” his voice is just breathy as yours, his hands nearly shaking as they clutch your hips. “But if you don’t move soon, I think I’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind.”

You can’t help but laugh at that, the sound turning into a harmonizing moan with his from the way it moves your body. With a nod, you slot your nose with his.

“Sure, sure. I’ll get- oh!- righ’ on that.”

As you roll your hips, your hands claw at whatever parts of him you can find, your jaw-dropping open with a gasp as the powerful sensation of fullness threatens to rob you of air.

“Feels good….fuck, you feel good!”

You’re only dimly aware of his praise, too lost in chasing the blissful heat threatening to burn you alive. You know that he’s talking to you still, that he’s being unbearably sweet and endearing and sincere but you can barely hear him over the screams from your mind that are telling you to move, move, move.

His lips are at your neck, your head lolling back as you rut against him like some depraved and wanton degenerate from a crappy erotic novel but it feels too good for you to be embarrassed.

“I’m gonna cum,” you choke out, his pubic bone hitting your clit in just the right way. “George—!”

A white-hot bolt of lightning hits you before you can even ask him how close he is, your body shaking almost violently as you refuse to stop riding him. It’s only when you hear him curse that you know he’s tumbled over the cliff right after you, his strong arms locking around you and holding you to him while you hunch out the remainder of your orgasm atop him.

By the time you sag against him, your throat is dry from your heavy breathing and your mind is basically gone- the sweat on your skin growing cold in the already chilly air of Alberborne. As George clumsily slides down the bed enough to lay flat on his back, you can do nothing more than rest heavily atop of him like the world’s least effective blanket.

His pulse is as fast as a hummingbird's wings as it beats beneath your lips, your tongue darting out to lick at the sweat from his skin as you nuzzle your face into the curve of your neck. As feeling slowly returns to your limbs, you carefully feel around for the bunched-up blankets at the foot of the bed and kick them up your legs until you can grasp them in your hands. As you successfully cover the both of you up to your hips, George blindly fumbles around with his hand until he finds your neck and starts to brush up and away the hair that’s gotten sweat-stuck there.

Neither of you speak, only a few grunts and groans exchanged as he carefully reaches between your bodies to help maneuver his softening cock from between your legs. You feel sated, so deeply sated that it takes you a few moments to remember that you hadn’t been exactly gentle with him while seeking your release.

With a little tremor in your bones, you brace one hand on his chest and push yourself up so you can look down at him, feeling a mix of shyness and guilt at the sight of the red lines your nails had drawn across his torso. With careful fingers, you touch one of the raised pink marks you’d left along his collarbone and follow it up his neck before you hesitantly make eye contact with George, ready for him to hate you for being so aggressive and dominating.

Instead, you find the dumbest grin stretching across his face- his eyes closed softly as he catches his breath. He must have felt you looking at him, because he licks his lips and lets out a breathy chuckle.

“Ho-ly shit,” his eyes are soft and somewhat unfocused still when they open. “I think I’m in love.”

You frown slightly at that, his reaction not at all what you’d been mentally preparing for. Gaping stupidly for a moment, you sigh loudly and tilt your head to the side. “But I just- even after I….why?!”

Upon hearing the distress in your voice, he shakes his head quickly and blinks through his haze enough to meet your gaze more intentionally. His smile unwavering, he raises his eyebrows with another laugh.

“I don’t think I’ve cum that hard in my entire life, that’s why! Jesus, Sugar- I’m fuckin’ dizzy even now….”

Still confused and unsure, you clear your throat and look at him incredulously. “Really? You….liked it? Are you sure—?”

“Liked it?!” George barks, shooting an equally incredulous look your way. “Y/N, i’m not sure if you were here the whole time, but I fucking blacked out, I liked it so much!”

You feel a smile curling on your lips, his words confusing you but in no way were they insincere. “Even after I, you know, scratched the hell out of you?”

He nods enthusiastically, and you can’t help the giggle that escapes your chest as you run your hands through his hair and curl down so your face is closer to his.

“And when I slapped you? Made you say ‘sorry’—?”

“Are you kidding me- that was my favorite part!”

Before you can ask anything else, George reaches up to bring your face down to his so he can kiss you, grinning at the shocked stillness of your lips as you wrap your head around what he’s insisting.

He liked it. He doesn’t hate me for it.

And, now that you felt that you could be honest to yourself, you’d like it, too. A lot.

You pull back before he can deepen the kiss, taking his face in your hands and furrowing your brows.

“I mean what I said, George Luz,” you say sternly, a sharp contrast to the gentle touches you’re swiping across his cheeks and jaw. “I want you. I love you. Don’t do that to me again.”

He scoffs at that. “How can I not? Now that I know that this is what you do when you’re angry, I may never talk to you again!”

You shake your head. “Unbelievable. Has it not occurred to you that you could just ask nicely? I’m sure I can figure out something to be mad at you for….”

“Careful, Baby,” he warns teasingly, bringing a finger up to tap at your nose with faux seriousness. “Keep this up, and I’m gonna have to marry you before long.”

Catching his wrist before he can touch your nose again, you smirk and roll your eyes. As you pin his wrist beside his head, you lower your face so your lips are just a hair’s breadth above his.

“Oh, Sweetheart- don’t tempt me with a good time.”

You squeal as he quickly rolls you beneath him, the both of you erupting in laughter as he peppers kisses all across your face and neck.

“Oh well,” George sighs as he nibbles at the soft underside of your jaw. “Never say I didn’t warn you.”

~ ~ ~

Taglist: @mrseasycompany @itswormtrain @mrsalwayswrite @happyveday @sunsetmando @ricksmorty @liebgotttme

#band of brothers x reader #band of brothers imagines #george luz x reader #george luz imagines #problematicfavesareproblematic

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juniorgman187 · 3 years

Text

Serendipity (Reid Fic) Part 1

A/N: If you’re wondering if this is at all based on Rosie and Marco’s storyline in “What to Expect When You’re Expecting,” then you should know - it totally is.

Summary: An FBI gathering brings Reader and Spencer together after years of distance. This one night changes not only their future, but their perspective on the past. Category: Angst, Smut, *NSFW content Pairing: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid Content Warning: Mentions of traumatic childhood, child neglect, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, menstruation, pregnancy Word Count: 10.2k

I originally thought I would be able to fit everything into 1 part, but after further reconsideration, this will be a two part series.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　

Serendipity: (n). Finding something good without looking for it.

A word I would only come to truly understand many months from now on a warm Thursday morning in May at St. Mary’s Hospital.

But whenever my thoughts drifted back towards the past, I would always remember that this was how it all began - on a chilly Saturday night in the heart of D.C.

Not more than four hours ago, Emilia and I drove down here for an F.B.I function that hired us. Under normal circumstances, we wouldn’t have agreed to be the caterers for an event so far away, but we eventually signed on after learning that there were at least 600 people attending. That meant a considerable amount of customers and an exorbitant amount of money. Saying yes was clearly a no brainer.

Just to put it into perspective of how big this event would be, Emilia and I got lucky if we could park somewhere with 80 customers. 80. So this event would be colossal for us.

But who would have guessed that in a crowd of 600, I would run into the one and only - Spencer Reid.

To preface, this wasn’t just any old birthday party, parade, or festival. It was a celebration and a grand one at that. Considering it was a private event at the Washington Monument, we were given special instructions to abide by the black-tie formal dress code that guests had to follow, too. I guess the caterers can’t look like slobs in the United States’ Capitol, now can they?

I definitely spent more time than I should have deciding on what outfit to wear, but my conscientiousness, or rather indecisiveness, did pay off in the end. For I would run into someone worth the trouble of impressing.

My hair, unlike Emilia’s, was down and curled in big waves, and on one side, some of my hair was tucked behind my ear and designed to stay that way thanks to copious amounts of hairspray and an ungodly total of bobby pins. Emilia lent me a black, floor-length dress that had a plunging v-neck that didn’t fit her anymore, but luckily, fit perfectly on me. Although I would have to remember not to lean over too far tonight, otherwise, the customers might get a show they didn’t pay for. I, however, didn’t look half so good as my business partner.

Emilia was clad in a navy blue silk dress with puffy sleeves and a high collar; the dress clung to her every curve, including her newly protruding belly bump. She looked regal and pregnant all at the same time, qualities I hadn’t seen coexist in anyone but the Queens and Duchesses in England.

“Well, don’t you look hot?” Emilia purred, running her fingers through my curls, then letting them fall and sway back into place.

“Are you kidding? You are quite literally a sexy mama.” I gushed to her, receiving a light chuckle in return.

“Yeah, well, when you’re five months pregnant, tell me how sexy you feel in a tight dress.” She remarked, turning her back to me while she arranged all the supplies in the kitchenette behind me. But even as she faced away from me, she still managed to recognize the effect her words had. Maybe it was something in my silence, or our sister-telepathy, but Emilia immediately felt the room depress. In an effort to take back the remark that turned the room cold, she sweetly added while hugging me from behind, “You’re gonna be a mom one day, too. I promise.”

I leaned into her embrace, feeling guilty for ruining the moment while also feeling burdened by the reminder of the terrible reality I had to face every day.

Ever since I could remember, I thought I was destined to be a mother, but that destiny had yet to be fulfilled.

Emilia was born only three years after me, and though that age gap isn’t big enough for me to be mistaken for her mother, I, she, and our younger brother Saul would all agree that in many ways I was their mom. I was the parent our parents never were. I was there for everything - soccer games, dance recitals, winter musicals - never getting the chance to participate in my own, but always attending their’s.

I had to admit sometimes it was a burden, having to grow up so fast and help raise my siblings while still trying to navigate through my own struggles of adolescence, but I saw it as something I was meant to do.

See, I wouldn’t have minded all the responsibilities of being a parent so much when it’d be my own kids that I’d be fulfilling them for - when it would be by my choice to fulfill those responsibilities and not by unfortunate birth order.

However, as the years have gone by, my calling to be a mother has gotten quieter and quieter and quieter until eventually, I don’t think I’ll be able to hear it anymore.

It’s not that I can’t have kids, but the fear of rushing into having one is what’s stopped me from pursuing that dream.

As someone who grew up with divorced parents and practically became my siblings only reliable caregiver, I knew what having a baby too soon could do to a family. So rather than repeating history, I chose to wait to have kids. I didn’t want to make the same mistakes my parents did, and so I lived my life. I traveled all across the globe, I met new people, tried new things, I even started this taco truck business with Emilia.

But still that gaping hole in my chest remained. A hole that nothing could ever fill the way that a child would.

No amount of living could make up for the emptiness of a life with no family.

I could pretend all I wanted that I was happy living out my twenties, but the truth was I didn’t want to spend the rest of my years working in a food truck, amounting to nothing more than a mediocre cook and middling entrepreneur. That was never my dream - as exciting as it was.

My real dream was to have a good life. The kind my parents never had thanks to the unplanned arrival of me. The kind my baby sister was already living out.

“You know what? It’s a really nice night out. I think I might go for a walk. Do you wanna come?” Was this my blatant avoidance of breaching the subject of pregnancy? Yes, but it was also my escape from this food truck that felt like it was getting smaller and smaller and smaller by the second.

“No, I’m okay. I’ll just get everything ready.” Emilia resigned.

She knew why I was really leaving - sister-telepathy, I’m telling you - but she didn’t feel the need to acknowledge it. For that, I was thankful. Maybe we were better at communicating with no words at all.

I carefully stepped off the back of the truck, making sure to hike up my dress high enough so I wouldn’t trip over the mess of fabric when my feet hit the floor. The nippy December air felt like a cool balm on my hot skin. I was burning up in that truck, and maybe it was nerves or something else, but I just had this weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. There was no explanation for it, but I realize now that the pit in my stomach was caused by something my intuition could sense but something my mind couldn’t understand.

Someone important from my past was here tonight.

As I sauntered around the monument, I took in the breathtaking view of the structure’s silhouette against the blazing orange sky that melted into an ocean blue. I regretted not bringing my phone to take a picture of it so I could show Emilia when I got back, but that one regret quickly turned into another when the night sky’s breeze brought a rude awakening. My body shivered at the frigid gust of wind that blew through and I suddenly started to regret not bringing a jacket.

“Are you cold?” A gentle voice asked me from behind.

I slightly recoiled out of shock of someone being there. When I turned around though, I couldn’t quite make out any distinguishable features. All I knew for sure was that this was certainly a man, and a tall one, too.

“Um, just a little.” I bashfully admitted, crossing my arms to hug myself and maintain some warmth. I hadn’t even thought about my dress’s plunging v-neck or the fact that I was practically squeezing my breasts together, accentuating them even further, but by the time, I realized, it was too late. He was already looking. But not at my chest. Somewhere far more invasive.

My eyes.

“Here, take my jacket.”

My small protests did nothing to stop him as he inevitably slipped the coat around my shoulders anyway. He’d come so close that I could finally see him and smell him. And let me tell you, if the sight of him wasn’t enough to break an overflowing dam of memories, then his smell certainly sent a flood that would.

“Oh my god,” I quietly gasped, my hand flying to my mouth to cover its un-ladylike gaping.

“Spencer Reid?”

I squinted my eyes and cocked my head even further to find evidence to support my assumption, and sure enough, I found exactly what I was looking for.

I was frozen in place as I deeply examined his face. My God! I mean, in many ways, he hadn’t changed a bit since the last time I saw him. Same dazzling hazel eyes. Same uniquely adorable nose. Same over-stimulated pink lips. I wonder if he still bit them as much as he did back then?

But at the same time, he was so different. Of course, I could still discern the same features I used to study endlessly back then, but his face had transformed into a man’s. He lost the glasses for one thing, but he also had a softer jawline, longer hair, and for lack of a better term, a beefier build.

He was all grown up now, and yet, I could still identify the same boyishly handsome charm that made me fall in love with him more than a decade ago.

“I knew it was you, (y/n).” He chuckled, sounding half proud of himself. My heart fluttered at the sound of my name on his tongue and the action that followed. With his eyes locked on mine, he tucked strands of my hair back behind my ears; it’s as if he were saying, “Let me get a good look at you.”

“How? It’s almost completely dark outside. You could barely even see me.” Certainly, you can understand why I was skeptical. Sounded too good to be true, if you ask me.

He shook his head lightly with a smile, seemingly questioning how I couldn’t possibly know the answer to that question. “No one else looks like you. Not even in the dark.”

His words spoke to a part of my soul specifically reserved for him. They were so genuine that I almost didn’t want to believe them because how could someone speak such lovely things and truly mean them? The world wasn’t that good a place. Certainly not good enough for Spencer Reid.

In that moment, I flew out of my own body and watched this entire scene unfold from up above. I could see the version of a girl I hadn’t seen in years, not since that last interaction with Spencer. She had these big lovesick eyes as she swooned over a man with just the same lovesick look.

The excessive upward tilt of my head and the way his neck craning down must’ve made it seem like we were about to kiss, but I knew better than to expect such a thing from Spencer Reid. And if anything, what we were doing right now was much more intimate than kissing.

“Wow, you ... you really grew up. You look great.” My own voice sounded unfamiliar to me after the words slipped from my mouth without even registering in my brain first.

“Are you kidding? Look at you! I mean, you are just ...” He paused for a moment to look me up and down, and I nearly shivered at the thought that he was practically undressing me with his eyes. “You’re absolutely beautiful. But you always were.”

I was almost completely in a daze when I heard a hideous squawk of a bird flying overhead. This wouldn’t make sense, but it nearly felt like a sign. Like the bird knew I wasn’t supposed to be there, reminding me of where I belonged - reality - not in this fantasy with Spencer.

“Um,” My head spun as I drew back from him. “I should probably get back. I’ll see you later.” I touched his upper arm gently as I passed by him, and it stunned me how warmth just radiated off of his body.

To my all too quick goodbye, he simply waved and watched me walk past him with a pursed-lip smile. And just before I got too far, I thought I heard him say, “I hope so.”

Though my feet were carrying me away from Spencer, my thoughts were only drifting closer to the memory of him, and we did have so many memories.

11 Years Ago ...

I was at the ripe age of 16 when I got my driver’s license. And to anyone else, this would seem like a given milestone, but to me - it was so much more. With the obtainment of my license, I also gained access to a whole new world. Opportunities poured at the seams. I could drive anyone and anywhere I wanted to and though it wasn’t true, it felt like I could do anything, too. But like all things good in my life, it fell apart in the face of responsibilities.

My newly obtained license was just another way for my parents to exploit me. Now, they didn’t have to drive Emilia and Saul since I could. Looking back, I have to wonder if the only reason they funded my driver’s ed classes were for the exact reason that if I took them, I’d sooner be able to take on yet another helping of duties they were too lazy to fulfill.

There’s one particular moment I can remember from this age and that same moment could also be regarded as the catalyst that would set off a series of events for the next 11 years to come.

It was the end of the school year and summer vacation was right around the corner. I was a sophomore at the time, and the prospect of being a junior the next year excited me.

To kick off the start of summer, Melody Hanes was throwing a pool party at her house. Everyone knew she was filthy rich because of a dead grandpa or some other, not to mention, she was also in student government so she had just as big of a role in school as her grandpa’s death did in making the Hanes family wealthy.

Though I never knew her personally, I did have third period chemistry with her for the entire year, and I sat right in front of her for pretty much the entirety of second semester. She must’ve only addressed me a handful of times, but she still invited me to her party anyway. Proximity, I had to admit, did play a part in that though because if I sat just a seat farther away, then I wouldn’t have been.

I came home that day, thrilled to tell my mother about my invitation. It would’ve been my first party that wasn’t a distant relative’s birthday celebration or a childish sleepover in elementary. It was my first real high school party, and for once, I thought - maybe I’d finally get the quintessential ‘high school experience.’

But of course, I never did.

As soon as I got home, I parked my car in the driveway, got the mail, and came inside the house to see my mother sitting on the couch watching TV, as per usual. While I was telling her about my invitation, she didn’t bother to lower the volume or even look away from the screen to give me her undivided attention, and when she did look away, it was only to take the mail from my hands.

“Your sister’s science fair is on that day, and you have to take her because I’ll be working from 1 to 7.” My mother never once looked up from the mail she was sorting through to address me. And her words, while incredibly monotone, were also spoken with such finality, like what she said was the last she ever wanted to speak on the topic. No room for discussion.

I’m not still losing sleep over it, but at the time, it felt like for once, I could actually just be a teenager and be young and reckless like everyone else, but that it was just taken from me. I never got the chance to be a kid again.

With the exception of Emilia’s science fair.

I knew my father wouldn’t be there, and obviously my mother wouldn’t, so I stayed to watch her presentation and to walk around the rest of the time. She deserved someone in her corner, and that someone was me. Even if no one was in mine.

As I serpentined through the cafeteria, a bittersweet feeling came upon me. From paper mâché volcanoes to potato batteries, I observed a childlike sense of wonder that I hadn’t felt for years.

Here, I was surrounded by children who got to be just children. They got to occupy themselves with trivial matters, like how gardens grow or if video games actually do rot your brain.

Their problems had solutions and their questions had answers, and it almost made me wish that I could revert back to a time where life was that easy, but I couldn’t because it never was … not for me.

So to sum it up, it was precious and heartbreaking all at the same time.

While browsing the fair, I stumbled upon a man that didn’t quite seem to fit in, and maybe it was my own unfitting appearance that made me recognize his. He could’ve very well been the brother of one of these children, but something about the way he was dressed and the way he carried himself made me highly doubt that.

He couldn’t have been a parent either, for he was not too far off from my own age, and if he was a parent of one of these eighth graders, that would have to mean that he had a kid when he was in kindergarten. So for all intents and purposes, he wasn’t someone’s brother or someone’s father. Who he actually was - I didn’t know, but I was determined to find out.

After that first observance, I spotted him a couple more times, but it wasn’t until we were looking at the same project that we actually spoke.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?”

The sudden sound of his voice alarmed me, but only because it seemingly came out of nowhere. Generally, before someone speaks to you, you notice signals that they’re about to, which helps you prepare for conversation. Whether it’s nervous twitches, a look in your direction, maybe even a small acknowledging smile, you’ll recognize they want to or plan to talk to you, but none of those signs were given to me. Even when I turned my head to give him my attention, he was still fixated on the project in front of us.

“Yeah, it really is,” I politely agreed. I awkwardly looked around the room as if I’d find an answer as to what to say next because I did want to keep talking to him, but the longer I stayed silent, the more I fear he’d begin to think I didn’t want to. With nothing else to ask but the question that had been bothering me since I first laid eyes on him, I simply went for it.

“So, who are you here for?”

For the first time, he turned his head to the side to look right at me. With a quizzical expression, he responded. “Oh, no one. I’m just a judge here.”

It was my turn to possess a quizzical expression. His statement wouldn’t have been weird, except for the part where any judge I’d seen or talked to were all well into their forties or fifties.

“Aren’t you kinda young to be a judge? You’re, like, what? Seventeen, eighteen?

“Nineteen actually. But I regularly come to judge the Summer Science Fairs here since I went to this middle school eleven years ago.”

Again, I would’ve taken his word for it, but the math didn’t make sense. “You were in middle school at eight years old?”

“Mhm. I ended up graduating high school at twelve.” He said it so nonchalantly, but for how big of a feat it was, I thought it would’ve deserved a more prideful tone, yet he still maintained such a cavalier one. Did he not think himself to be impressive?

“Jeez, you must be really smart.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets, which made me notice that he wasn’t carrying a clipboard like the other judges, which was probably another reason why I didn’t take him for one. How would he be able to remember the projects that he was considering for awards? He’d have to have some magical memory for that.

Before answering, he began to walk away, but nonetheless he continued addressing me, so I followed him where he went.

“Mmm not necessarily. My IQ isn’t high enough to suggest I’m a provable genius yet, but I do have an eidetic memory and I can currently read 16,000 words per minute, which definitely helps. I hope to be able to read 20,000 words per minute in the future.”

Despite answering my question, he only left me with many more.

“What is your IQ right now?”

“131.”

My eyes widened. Even I, with my limited knowledge on intelligence quotients knew that was high, especially for someone as young as he was.

“So what IQ score do you have to have in order to be considered a genius?”

I couldn’t help but notice how he barely took anytime to think before answering me. It’s like his brain just knew everything, right then and there.

“A score of over 140 is considered a genius or near genius.”

“Wow, so you’re almost a genius then?”

“Almost, but not quite. If I receive diverse stimulation at a consistent rate for the next few years, I predict that I’ll have an IQ of 180 or higher by the time I’m in my early twenties.”

You would think he would leave me speechless, but I still went on to ask him about what an eidetic memory was, and he explained to me that he could remember things exceedingly well, but that it was not the same thing as a photographic memory. He made that distinction very clear to me.

Our conversation droned on for the rest of the fair as we continued to circle the cafeteria. I can’t count how many times we lapped around the same projects, but we never seemed to run out of things to talk about. Once those first few seconds after meeting him, when I didn’t know what to say, passed, I never again felt a sense of not knowing. We could talk for hours and hours, and it wouldn’t matter. I would never get bored.

How could I? When I was with him, it felt like the rest of the world just faded away. Our discourse flowed so easily, no pressure, no awkward silence. It was just me and him, and if you ask me, that’s quite the opposite of boring.

That was the first and final time I ever truly felt like a kid. Just like the ones in the science fair. Not a care in the world except for my morbid curiosity of the marvel that was him.

Alas, all good things must come to an end, and I inevitably found myself being ripped out of my trance when I felt an aggressive tug on my sweater.

“We can go now.” Emilia interrupted.

I hadn’t even noticed that a majority of the poster boards were taken down and that an even larger majority of the people were long gone, too. I got so lost in the conversation that I didn’t realize we were one of the last people still there.

Emilia’s eagerness to leave was apparent as she pulled me away from my interesting conversationalist.

“I had a nice time talking to you!” I called out to him, walking backwards to lengthen the period of time I could keep looking at him.

“Likewise.”

I turned around fully just before I finally realized something. “Hey!” I yelled across the distance. “I never got your name!”

He bashfully smiled and looked down at his feet briefly. “It’s Spencer! Spencer Reid!”

I stood there for a moment, silently processing his name.

“What’s yours?” He yelled back.

I chuckled mischievously. “I guess you’ll have to find out next time.” My ambiguity puzzled him and intrigued him all at the same time.

“Next time?”

With the intentions of leaving him without a true answer, I simply turned on my heels and started walking away.

“Bye, Spencer!”

Even if he didn’t have an eidetic memory, I knew after that first day, he could never forget me.

- Present Time -

By the time I made it back to the truck, people were already lining up to order.

“Get over here!” Emilia squealed excitedly from the window, her hand rapidly waving me over as if it’d suddenly increase my speed. I ran back as fast as I could in a dress and heels and climbed into the truck, mirroring my sister’s zeal.

When I stepped in, Emilia took one glance at me and furrowed her brows. “Where’d you get the jacket?”

Had she not mentioned it, I would not have remembered the foreign fabric that wrapped around my shoulders.

“Oh, shoot!” I palmed my forehead after the realization dawned on me. I should’ve noticed sooner that I still had it on, but honestly, it didn’t feel unusual or out of place. It was comfortable and familiar, like it was meant to be there that entire time.

“I’m so sorry to do this to you, but do you think you can handle this alone for just a second? I have to return this to a friend.” I asked while slipping off the coat to ready myself to leave, even in the event that Emilia said she wouldn’t let me go. Luckily though, she understood it was urgent.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine. Just hurry back.”

I extended my head to look out just past the side of the truck to look for Spencer while still being concealed within the vehicle. Now that there were more people here, I wasn’t exactly sure I should be caught mingling with the attendees, so instead, I decided to search for him from the truck, rather than wandering around the party, giving the impression to the people that hired us that I wasn’t doing my job and was just here to socialize.

Luckily, there was something about my attachment to Spencer that was supernatural. I had this metaphysical ability to spot him even in a crowded place. I could find him anywhere. But whether that was a blessing or a curse was to be determined because right as my paranormal power kicked in, I found him. And there he was - standing next to another girl, a proximity much too close and a smile much too big to be anything less than flirtatious.

I paused to recall the image I had of myself earlier, when I floated up and out of my own body. I looked just like her - an oversized grin combined with lovesick eyes.

But that’s not the worst part.

The worst part was he was returning just the same look of attraction to her.

“Um, actually,” I re-entered the truck completely, tossing the jacket aside haphazardly. “I’ll just return it later.”

“You sure? You can go. I’ve got things covered right now.” She said between multitasking at a rate that even I, a very-much-not-pregnant-woman, could manage.

All I could mutter back without giving away the sharp ache in my heart was, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

_ _ _

After hours and hours of non-stop working, the night, at last, was coming to a close. The large crowd had sized down considerably, until I could no longer hear the sound of a thousand voices meshing. All the decorations were already coming down by the time Emilia and I finished packing up the truck. Without the hectic energy to cause adrenaline to course through my veins, it should’ve been peaceful, yet my heart was not at peace.

I couldn’t shake the gut-wrenching feeling of seeing Spencer with that girl, but that wasn’t really why I was upset. It was more about the fact that I’d actually believed for a second that I had any chance with him. I should’ve known he wasn’t single, and the fact that I let myself swoon over him again angered me all the more. If I ever had a chance with Spencer, the time to act on it was long gone.

Now, I had to live with that.

“You sure you wanna stay here alone? I’ll come with you if you want me to.”

Emilia’s question was referring to my proposal to stay in D.C for the night while she drove home. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, but I realized I couldn’t handle being in another suffocating car ride with Emilia. It had nothing to do with her - just that I needed alone time to process everything by myself. If I knew my sister as well as I thought I did, I knew she would’ve sensed something was wrong and tried to coax me into talking about it, which I was not in the mood to do. Plus, traveling for so long made me nauseous just thinking about it. Although, I didn’t have a plan, I knew that I just wanted to hail a cab and find a hotel somewhere here for the night.

“Yeah, I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me. Call me when you get home.” I tapped on the back of the truck twice to let her know she was good to drive away, and I felt the car lurch forward per my request. When the truck finally did move, out from behind it appeared the tall figure of none other than Spencer.

I was surprised, but only for a second, when that surprise turned into pain once more. Playing it cool so my afflictions wouldn’t be suspected, I nonchalantly stated, “Here’s your jacket, by the way. Sorry, I forgot to give it back to you earlier.”

I extended my arm far enough so that we’d still have a great distance between us when he went to grab it, but sure enough, my actions were all for naught when he not only refused to remove his hands from his pockets to take it but also walked two steps closer to me than he needed to be. I looked like an idiot just standing there with my arm so outstretched, only for him to not grab it and to let it simply press against his stomach as a complete avoidance of getting it back.

“You were supposed to keep it. That’s why I didn’t ask for it back.” He curtly replied, finishing his statements with a cheeky grin. However, I wasn’t in the mood to return it. I simply stood there and shook the jacket in my hand to emphasize its presence.

“Take it. Please.” My voice was full of contradictions. I tried to be assertive with my command, and yet my plead only softened the order and showed a defeat I wasn’t even aware of until I heard how sad it sounded. “I don’t want it, Spencer.”

He no doubt saw the shift in my demeanor but still wouldn’t pacify me by taking the jacket. “What’s wrong? What did I do?” His voice got quieter, as if speaking any louder would shatter me in this fragile state of being.

“Nothing, I’m just tired and I want to go home.” This wasn’t a complete lie. I was exhausted from working for hours and hours on my feet with no breaks in between, but it wasn’t exactly the full truth either. He could tell.

“Just tell me what’s wrong.” He persisted. “Please.”

The only way I could describe what I happened next was like the vision of a boiling pot. Gradually, I was heating up until I finally got so overheated that I just boiled over and exploded.

“What don’t you get, Spencer? I don’t want your jacket!” Fury consumed my tone. “And I don’t think your girlfriend would want that either.”

“Girlfriend? What girlfriend? What are you talking about? I don’t have a girlfriend!” His words were flying out of his mouth at 100 mph as he desperately trying to mend what couldn’t be fixed.

“Don’t play dumb. I saw you with that blonde girl. How close you two were standing, the way you were looking at each other.” Just having to recount the interaction made the horrid memory come back vividly into the forefront of my thoughts, and it broke my heart all over again. I shut my eyes painfully as though it would turn off the image of them together, but this only allowed for Spencer to wrap his warm hands around my upper arms and pull me closer to him without my knowing. I flinched unconsciously at the sudden feeling of his touch, to which he instantly let go.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” His hands shook with remorse for letting them touch my body in a way that elicited that reaction. They hovered in the space between us, not knowing where to go that would suddenly make things okay. “But she’s no one, okay? She’s just a coworker.”

I wanted to believe him. I quite possibly did believe him, but there was still a sharp pain in my chest. Call it intuition.

“No, she’s not,” I shook my head. “She’s not ‘no one’... you love her.”

Spencer came closer but still didn’t let himself touch me again out of fear that I might draw back even further.

“Listen to me - whatever feelings I used to have for her are long gone. She’s married, (y/n). She has a kid. And none of that even matters because the way that I used to love her is nothing compared to the way that I-”

“Don’t.” I held my hand up in protest. “Don’t say you love me.”

His eyebrows knit together with dismay. “Why? Why not? It’s true. I love you. I always have.”

With one big sigh, I finally resigned to my emotions. “Then why didn’t you ever do something about it?”

Judging by the deflation of his shoulders and the far off look he got in his eyes, he knew exactly the moment I was talking about.

Two days after Emilia’s science fair, I drove to the library to pick up books I needed for my summer homework. I was already on my way out when I just happened to glance to my side, noticing a lone figure sitting at the bus stop. I didn’t think anything of it, but when I looked back, I partially recognized him. I shaded my eyes from the sun and squinted harder to confirm my suspicions.

“Spencer?” I wondered out loud.

The figure’s head turned around, narrowed their eyes, and waved. He stood up from his seat and made his way over to me with a precious little jog-walk. Although we had only met once before, we still embraced each other like lifelong friends.

“Do I finally get to know your name now?” He jokingly inquired after pulling away.

It completely slipped my mind that I’d denied him the knowledge of my name, but for my own satisfaction, I wouldn’t let him get off that easily.

“Do you have any guesses of it could be?”

He pouted childishly. “Are you kidding? In a population of 350 million people, there would be about 4.4 million names. But if every country on Earth had the same nominative diversity we in the US have, that would suggest about 750 million unique names exist.”

I must admit it was fun watching him melt into a flustered mess of facts, but I was growing just as impatient as him. “Come on, just guess. You might be right.”

He rolled his eyes but indulged me willingly anyway. “Okay ... um ... Catherine.”

“Nope.”

“Nicole.”

“Nope.”

“Gertrude.”

“Seriously?” I raised my eyebrows. He shrugged. “Nope.”

“Olive.”

“Pretty,” I smiled, making his face light up, too. “But no.” His smile fell.

“This is nearly impossible.” He sighed.

“Nothing’s impossible.” My delivery wasn’t as cheesy as the line itself, so it touched us both in a way that made that silly phrase feel like it’d never been said before. With a visible passion reignited in him, he continued.

“Francis.”

“Okay, maybe this is impossible.”

My blunt joke brought us closer together, our heads almost knocking into one another’s as we clutched our stomachs and leaned forward to support our all-consuming laughter. When we finally calmed down, I finally confessed.

“Okay, okay - it’s (y/n).”

He stood there completely silent. There was no expression of his face that indicated he planned on speaking, so I elaborated. “It’s not as good as the name Spencer, I know I know -”

“I’ve never known anyone with that name before.” His hushed voice cut into mine so innocently.

My cheeks heated from the slight compliment. “Well, now you do. And don’t you forget it.” I teased. With nothing further to say, I brushed past him to start walking away, when unconsciously, I spun my keys around my index finger and heard the familiar jingle of the metal, reminding me of something.

“Hey, Spencer?” I turned on my heels. “Can I give you a ride home?”

And so began our routine for the entire summer. I would bring my summer homework to the library, and Spencer would help me understand it, or even complete it, and then I’d give him a ride home. We’d go to the park and read, or we’d go to the movies, or we’d hang out at a diner. And each time, I’d drop him off.

The more time we spent together, the more I learned about him and his life. He told me about his mom, his dad - everything. I did just the same. I told him about my mom, my dad, my siblings - everything.

Perhaps we enjoyed spending so much time together because it was a sweet escape from our houses that weren’t homes. But every time we did hang out, we just got closer and closer, and by the end of the summer, I knew my feelings perfectly clear.

I love Spencer.

If missing that pool party at Melody Hanes was what it took to find the absolute love of my life, then what a small price to pay it was. I wouldn’t have traded a million pool parties for that one chance encounter with Spencer at the science fair.

One day, we were pulling into his driveway after having a picnic at the country club, and I’d just let him out of the car, when unconsciously, I said, “Bye, Spence! Love you!”

He caught the words faster than I did. He looked like a deer in headlights, and it took me at least two seconds more to figure out why. That entire day I’d been thinking about saying it, but by the end, I decided it’d be better not to, and yet, it just came out anyway.

“You love me?”

There were two ways I could’ve answered. The first was to deny it and say that I only meant that I loved him like a friend. The second was to be brave and validate my unintentional confession.

In the heat of the moment, I chose the latter.

“Yes.” I nodded, smiling from my own courage. You only live once right?

In a cruel twist of fate, Spencer never tried to speak, and instead, ran to his front door.

“Spencer!” I yelled. “What are you-”

He gave me one last look over his shoulder before he opened the door and closed it right behind him. That was the last I ever saw him.

I learned, that day, that you do only live once.

But you can die over and over again.

From that point on, he’s lived in my mind as the one that never was.

Regret and shame manifested on Spencer’s face. “I never wanted to hurt you.” He dejectedly began. “But I was young and-and dumb and just ... so scared. God, I was so scared.” He finally looked up, if for no other reason than to gauge my reaction. “I liked you so much, but I, I just couldn’t open myself up to the possibility of being hurt by another person I loved.”

Much like my own life, Spencer’s was riddled with traumatic experiences. Except rather than being expected to take care of younger siblings, he had to take care of his mom. And having to be a parent to your own parent? That’s something I would never wish upon anyone else.

“I ... I get it.” It was a sweet surrender, my words. After years of pent-up aggression borne from humiliation, rejection, and deep sadness, I could finally understand. “But as selfish as it sounds, I wish your past hurt hadn’t gotten in the way of our potential happiness.”

He took each of my hands in his, encasing them with palms of warmth. “Then don’t let the same thing happen right now. Don’t let the stupid, broken teenager I was cloud your judgement of the man I am now. Let me prove to you that I’ve changed.”

I stood there silently, an eerie parallel to how Spencer reacted to my confession eleven years ago.

“When I saw you, it felt like a second chance. A second chance to do what I was too afraid to do back then. And I couldn’t let myself make the same mistake twice.” His eyes were piercing through my soul. Every word plucked at my heartstrings, until I could no longer keep up with the symphony they were playing.

There was the slightest hesitation behind it, but I did inch forward. And in no time at all, Spencer saw the movement and made his own.

His hands released mine and shot straight for my cheeks to cup them gently, while kissing me firmly. He wasn’t the same shy boy he was, and this kiss was only proof of that. The way his lips were moving so fervently made me weak at the knees. He was so desperate and needy, like even with our lips touching, he still wasn’t close enough to me. Unleashed upon me was years of yearning wrapped in prominent lust.

“I love you.” He blurted clumsily on my lips. I didn’t return the sentiment, but that wasn’t why he said it. He wanted to say it so I’d know, not so that I’d say it back.

“You should know,” I muttered between kisses. “I’m not leaving D.C. until tomorrow morning.”

The biggest smirk creeped onto his face. Bastard.

Once we’d exhausted all the things we could possibly do in public, we ran to the nearest cab we could find and exhausted all the things we could do in that, too.

It was already past midnight when we arrived at Spencer’s apartment, and though we should’ve been quiet so as not to disturb the neighbors, we were still breaking out into a fit of giggles like a bunch of teenagers sneaking around as we ran up the stairs. We hadn’t even made it past the doormat, before he seized my hips in his hands and spun me back towards him. Forcefully, he pressed me against the door while simultaneously unlocking it. That shut me up real good, lemme tell you.

As soon as we crossed the threshold, he gave me a reprieve when he held me closer so as to stop pinning me against the door. In an effort to do the impossible, we stumbled through his apartment in a frenzy trying to undress each other while maintaining our bodily contact. With one giant tug of the zipper on my back, my dress fell to the ground. To his atonement, he left me in just a thong. Whereas he was much too overdressed in my opinion.

No sooner did I gracelessly unbutton his shirt than we ran into a plant against the wall. Our smiles practically ruined the kiss at the sound of the crash, but it remained nonetheless. I knew I was in for something, when Spencer paused to wait for me to unbuckle his belt. That was the first time we ever really stopped in place, but just as I anticipated, I was in for it.

When I finally freed his waist of the garment, he just as quickly placed his hand on the back of my thigh, and in one swift motion, hoisted me into the air high enough to allow my legs to wrap around his waist. My arms were loose around his neck and the feeling of his warm hands touching my bare skin sent a chill down my spine.

Due to Spencer’s essential hand placement on my body, I had to be the one to fumble with his bedroom’s doorknob until it finally gave way. Once more, we staggered through his room before he let our lips break apart to lightly toss me onto the bed. I giggled at the squeak of the bed, driving him visibly crazy.

He hastily unzipped his own dress pants, while I propped myself up on my elbows. When he met me on the bed, he hovered over me to the point of having to lay back down again just to see him clearly. He felt too far away so I drew him nearer by lacing my hand through his soft curls. I twirled one around my finger, which must’ve been too merciful for him to handle.

He placed his hand on the back of mine and slid it down to his cheek. He held my hand there for a moment, leaning into the skin of my palm prior to placing a chaste kiss on it.

He didn’t need to say it again for me to know what he was thinking.

I love you.

The anticipation was killing me and in the most impatient manner, I pulled him down to my level, mimicking his similar habit of face-grabbing during a kiss. I knew his hands would’ve flown to my face the way they did just minutes ago, but one was too preoccupied keeping himself up and the other was busy toying with the band of my thong. I shivered at the sensation of him slipping one finger under the material and letting it glide over my tender skin right above my heat.

“Spencer,” I mumbled in a kiss to bring his attention back to me. Although I was certainly interested to know the hidden talents of Spencer Reid and his fingers, I was restless. I’d been waiting years for this moment, and unlike most people, I didn’t want to wait another second. “I need you now.”

He pulled his head back so he could get a full view of my face to examine my sincerity. He wanted to know if I was sure, and my eyes told him such. He nodded in acknowledgement with such speed that I was sure he was craving this as much as I was.

Rather than looking at where our bodies were about to meet, I had to close my eyes so I could fully feel everything without any other sense taking that away from me. In a painfully slow manner, he lined himself up at my entrance. At first, he only lightly pushed in, and it was this slacken movement that made me cry out and grip his shoulders for stability.

He pushed further in until he was fully sheathed inside of me. There was a slight moment of regret for not letting him engage in foreplay before, but that quickly went away when the pain turned to pleasure. He gained more confidence in himself with each stroke, and I could feel it. The more powerfully he thrust, the more I felt myself tightening around him. The over simulation was a stark contrast from the stimulation I denied and so the sensation I was feeling was only heightened by the absence of it before. For that very reason, I knew I was already close. And maybe he knew it, too and just as sweet revenge, he decided to send me over the edge by pulling my leg over his shoulder to thrust into me a new angle. As I’m sure he predicted, I threw my head back as tears began to prick the corners of my eyes. He rode the ever exquisite border between pain and pleasure, and my tears were a manifestation of that. Not even a minute passed, before I tried to moan but pathetically failed, not even being able finish the pitiful wail without the both of us finishing together.

Our heavy panting synchronized and reverberated back to us while he slowed down his pace and pulled out.

Perhaps in the heat of the moment, we lost all logic and reason, considering that even up till now, neither of us had realized that he didn’t use a condom.

But what would eventually happen in the future as a result of this action, or inaction, would surely make us remember.

Spencer lowered himself down to kiss me breathlessly; strands of his hair clung to his forehead as sweat glimmered on both of us. Not until we were ready did we make our way to the bathroom so he could help clean me up. Once we returned, I gathered my clothes, but he made sure to grab my panties before I could even notice.

“Have you seen -“ I cut myself off when I saw what was dangling in his hands.

“Looking for this?” He teased.

All my energy had been spent on him that I couldn’t be bothered to fight for them back.

“Keep ‘em.” I smirked, my hand reaching down to pick up his jacket off the floor and hold it up. “Consider it a fair trade.”

No arguments from him.

Needless to say, I did end up finding a place to stay the night. Where and with whom you might ask?

Well, you can probably figure that one out for yourself.

_ _ _

I wish I could tell you I got a good night’s rest, and I could - it just wouldn’t be the truth.

Spencer and I spent the rest of the night just talking. We filled each other in on nearly ever second of the past 11 years, and once again, I found myself reverting back to the teenager I was at the science fair. The entire world revolved around us as we spoke to each other effortlessly, like no time had passed. Even in the periods of silence, I felt comfortable.

Spencer and I were lying on our sides facing one another when I felt compelled to profess that “I can’t talk this way with anyone. It’s just you.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear with a small smile on his lips. He didn’t need to say that he felt the same way because I already knew. His hand never left my face but instead made its descent down my jawline and stopped at my chin. He raised his thumb to reach my lower lip, letting the pad of his finger graze over the soft skin of my lip.

It felt like he was tracing every detail of my body, running his eyes over every inch at least twice so as to fully commit everything to his memory.

At last, the tension broke when he positioned his hand comfortably at the back of my neck, bowing his head forward to kiss me. This one was quite different than our first, for it was gentler and warmer. We weren’t forcing ourselves to make up for lost time. In fact, this kiss was saying, “We’ve got plenty of time.”

Plenty of time indeed. Which we were happy to spend making love again.

And I will be the first to admit that if our first round of unprotected sex didn’t solidify our future predicament, this time certainly did.

Six Weeks Later ...

“Hello?” Clearly frustrated, Emilia waved her hand in front of my face to harness me back to earth. I hadn’t realized I zoned out until she scoffed at me. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

“No, sorry. Could you repeat it one more time?”

She set down the papers in front of her and sighed unhappily. “What’s going on with you? You’ve been so distant lately.”

It hurt to hear, even though it was the truth. I wasn’t intentionally being despondent, but it’s hard to be present when there’s so much occupying your mind, and there was one thing in particular that was keeping me up late at night recently.

My period has always been irregular. For as long as I’ve had it, I’ve always missed a few weeks, then it would become consistent, then it would be sporadic again. In fact, there was one year where I only had four periods total. So it didn’t strike me as odd when I realized three days ago that my last period was about seven weeks ago.

What did strike me as odd was the other symptoms I was experiencing. Menstruation cycles are known to closely mimic the symptoms of pregnancy, but with the knowledge that my period wasn’t coming, it was disconcerting to me that I was suffering the discomforts without the actual period itself.

To me, there was only one clear explanation for this anomaly.

I was pregnant.

Earlier in the day, I bought a pregnancy test and was late to work because of it. If Emilia hadn’t been suspicious of my behavior before, showing up late only made her suspicion greater.

I didn’t know when I’d take it, probably at home after work, but the anticipation was eating away at me. I would pace around the truck until Emilia finally told me to stop because the vehicle wouldn’t stop swaying with my every movement. I was biting my nails and chewing on each little piece that grew back just to bite it back down to the nub. My hands couldn’t stop shaking, my breathing wouldn’t slow down. I was a hysterical mess.

I didn’t tell Spencer any of my concerns, of course, but being as perceptive as he is, he noticed my strange mannerisms despite my best efforts to hide them.

“Your breathing just got faster. Are you feeling okay?” He paused the movie we were watching to check in on me one time. It should be known that the scene that caused my heavier breathing was a scene of a woman finding out she was pregnant and being absolutely devastated. I quickly brushed it off as just being too warm, to which he turned on his air conditioning. Luckily for me, he didn’t make the connection.

And it’s not that I didn’t want to tell Spencer - I really did - but why should I make a fuss about something if there ended up being nothing to worry about? That would just be extra stress, and the last thing a new, blossoming relationship needs is additional strain.

So without Spencer, I had to opt for the next best thing - my sister.

I’d reached my wits end, and I couldn’t keep up the act any longer. I was walking on eggshells with practically everyone I knew, and I’d sooner go crazy if I didn’t tell someone what I was really feeling. So in response to her question, I finally told the truth.

“I think I might be pregnant.”

You can imagine the shock on my sister’s face. Emilia’s jaw became one with the floor as her eyes widened so big I thought they would pop out of her head.

“You’re pregnant?” Already her eyes were welling up with tears of joy.

“I don’t know yet.” I put my arms around her to keep her calm and stable while the emotions began overpowering her. I wanted it to serve as a reminder to not get her hopes up, otherwise she’d get mine up, too.

“Well, have you taken a test?”

I reached for my purse behind her and rummaged through it until I finally retrieved the box. Holding it up, I reluctantly suggested, “I thought maybe you could be there for me when I did?”

She squealed with joyful elation, practically shattering the window pane with the high pitch of her voice. On top of that, she was jumping up and down with elegant grace that I had to wonder how her pregnant body could even manage to do such a thing.

“Of course, I will! Come, come, let’s go.”

We hopped off the truck and to the nearest restroom, which admittedly wasn’t the nicest of places, nor was the place I ever imagined as a child that I’d be finding out I was pregnant in, but it had to do for now.

When I first came out of the stall, I set the test face down on the sink, so that we wouldn’t see it until it was ready. Emilia set a timer for 10 minutes, but in the meantime, all we could do was wait. Neither of us could stay still; Emilia bounced up and down, rubbing her belly while facilitating some sort of breathing exercise. Meanwhile, I kept tapping my foot impatiently.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Emilia’s alarm scared the shit out of me, and we both were startled by the blaring sound. It was so jarring, but even that wouldn’t compare to the fear I felt when I realized it was finally time.

“Do you wanna look or should I?” She asked.

“You look.” I said at first. But when she lunged forward to take it, I did, too. “No wait, I should.” Then another moment of hesitation. “No, you do it. I can’t.”

I held my hands over my mouth while I watched her carefully lift the test off the sink, maneuvering it in such a way that only she would see the results. I watched her expression closely for any sign of a reaction, but she was stoic as can be. I couldn’t tell if she was disappointed, happy - nothing. Complete and total poker face.

“Come on, Emilia! What does it say?” I blurted anxiously.

“Well, first, what do you want it to say?”

That was a question I hadn’t considered. I was so busy worrying about what I didn’t know, to pause and think about what I wanted to find out. On the one hand, I’d be ecstatic if the test confirmed that I was pregnant. I’d jump for joy because that was what I always wanted, right? But on the other hand, if it said I wasn’t pregnant, then I’d be sort of sad because I got so close to that lifelong dream. But after that, I’d probably just be relieved to have dodged a bullet.

“I don’t know,” I confessed. “I don’t know-”

“Don’t think. Just tell me. What do you want it to say?”

Without missing a beat, I replied, “Positive.” My sister and I alike were stunned by my answer. “Yeah,” I nodded slowly. “Positive. I want it to say positive.” I repeated, to cement my earnest desire.

Emilia’s facade melted away as she began to shake her head. “I’m sorry, (y/n). There’s only one line.”

We both knew what that meant, even if she didn’t explicitly say it. I sighed dejectedly, which was a surprise to even myself. I didn’t expect to be this disappointed, and yet I was. The knot it my stomach worked itself free, and where that pit used to be was just emptiness. My heart sunk and steadied itself, and my breathing resumed its normal pace.

“Well,” I bit my lip. “I guess that’s that.”

Emilia instantly drew nearer to pull me in for a hug, one I was not ready to accept but welcomed anyway. “I’m sorry, (y/n). But I mean, sometimes tests just come out with false negatives.” With her face still buried in the crook of my neck in our hug, she mumbled, “Not this one, though. This one’s positive.”

Immediately, I retreated from our hug and pulled her in front of my view. The sneaky girl had a huge grin that took up 99% of her face.

“You’re pregnant!” She screamed at the top of her lungs, shaking my body violently. We embraced each other in another hug while simultaneously jumping up and down. “I just wanted to trick you so you would know how you really feel. Now you know!”

And I did know. I did know that I wanted this baby and that I was glad it even existed.

Not long after our mini-celebration did I start to come down from the high of my euphoria. A certain realization dawned on me like a cloud of gray hanging above my head to rain on my parade.

What about Spencer?

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　

PART 2 HERE!

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pomegranates-and-blood · 3 years

Text

νοσταλγία (Chapter 44)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: The usual.

A/N: Hi, hope you like this! Ik I still have a winter blurb request to get to, I’ll probably post it sometime during the week. Thank you!

Btw, ‘mḗtēr’ is Ancient Greek for mother, and barley is a symbol of Demeter. :)

You are sitting on your bed, already dressed for the night, when Ivar comes into your bedroom.

You lift your gaze from your failed attempts at embroidery patterns that Thora makes look so damn easy, and watch Ivar walk closer, his free hand reaching to tug off the cloak over his shoulders.

You don’t miss the angry way he takes it off, or the stronger-than-needed stabs of his crutch against the ground.

He sits down before you on the bed, and you do not hesitate to move close, your legs on either side of him as you rest your brow between his shoulder blades, enjoying the familiar movements of his back as he starts to work on the braces of his legs.

Your arm wrapped around his torso, you let your hand travel up and down his stomach, smiling when he reaches back to put a heavy hand on your leg.

“Will you tell me what is wrong?” You prompt.

“Jarl Olavson was defeated.” He tells you curtly. Your hand stills, and so does your breath.

“Defeated?”

“Yes, defeated,” Ivar bites out, a movement of his head as his shoulders rise and fall with an angry breath. “Considering how we met, you should be very familiar with defeat.”

“Hey,” You chastise, tugging on his hair as reprimand. After a moment, he breathes out through his nose, and his hand tightens on your leg. You take it as an apology, certain none will actually leave his lips. “By whom?

Ivar doesn’t answer.

He should know by now that he says as much with his silences as he does with his words.

If it were King Alfred’s army, he would tell you. If it were any other Vikings that were somehow stupid enough to battle Ivar’s lieutenant in York and lucky enough to defeat him, he would tell you.

He wouldn’t tell you if it were the man he admitted to having in chains and on a moment of irrational impulsiveness, he let go free.

“How did he win? I would think he didn’t have the numbers after Strepshire.”

“He didn’t, not then,” He accepts, finishing taking off the braces of his legs. “But he does now.”

“Do you think his King aids him now?”

“No, it wasn’t Alfred’s army. We would have known if it were.”

You swallow down the pit of worry in your stomach, and move back on the bed, settling under the covers and waiting for your husband to join you.

He does soon after, discarding his shirt without a care for the cold that still bites, and -for reasons beyond the obvious ones- you keep your eyes on him.

You watch as he grabs a fistful of the pants’ fabric to move his legs, and you cannot help but notice the furrow between his brows, you watch his wrist expertly trapped in the chains that dangle above the bed as he settles for bed and you cannot help but linger on the tension that strains his shoulders.

If Stithulf managed to grow in power in such a way during the winter, enough to defeat the commander of York’s forces, most likely forcing him to retreat to the formerly Saxon city, then…even if neither of you would like to admit it, it is Ivar’s fault, and maybe yours.

Ivar let Stithulf go because of the deal you have made, because he wanted more time. Before he left you had to bite your tongue to keep yourself from requesting that of him, and you didn’t bite it when it came time to ask the Gods for the same thing.

And now, warm under the covers and laying on your side as your Ivar lays by your side on his back, pale eyes searching the nothingness of the space above him, you feel the tinge of worry, of regret.

You ran from Fate once, when you decided to go to Eleusis even while aware that the Gods -your own or others, you aren’t yet sure which- summoned you to Scandinavia; and you burned for it. You fought, and you lost, and you died.

You dread to think maybe you ran, maybe Ivar ran.

“Their movements, their…formations,” He stops himself, a twitch of irritation in his nose as he debates with himself whether to speak or not. “They don’t fight like Saxons.”

“They never did,” You offer, quietly. “And if you are right, and most of the Arabs survived…”

He shakes his head, sitting up on the bed once again. You take a moment to watch the outline of him bathed in the low and warm light of the dim fires, before you sit up as well, shuffling closer and bending your legs underneath you.

“It is more than that, it isn’t just the foreigners,” His words die with a frustrated sigh, his left hand closing into a fist before it releases when it doesn’t find the familiar handle of the crutch he can grab tightly onto. Past the clear tell of gritted teeth, he admits, “When we sail back to England, we will be going in blind.”

“You still have time.” You say, but it seems it goes unheard.

“How can I prepare if I can’t…predict him?” He asks, and it isn’t really a question you think he wants an answer to. If he did, all you could offer would be that he would have to fight like the others do, the ones that don’t have his mind that seems to let him get ahead of his enemy’s moves, his eyes that seem to let him foresee his enemy’s plans. But, you don’t say anything, instead resting your chin on his shoulder and letting one of your hands trail down his back. Ivar grits his teeth, and stays silent for a long time. After a while, he turns his head slightly to you, “What would you do?”

“You’re asking me?”

A shrug of the shoulder you’re not resting on, and Ivar offers simply, “Why not?”

“I have never led an army.”

“Your commander did, and he obeyed you.”

You lift your eyebrows, and insist, “He died because of it.”

“I am not planning on doing that,” He clarifies, the beginning of a smile on his lips, “Obeying you, or dying.”

Your eyes narrow at his taunt, and you retort, “Why are you asking me, then?”

“I’m curious.”

“I don’t have any answers. I am not…” You take a breath, and mull over your words before you start again, “One of the things I admired Narses the most far was how he…” A small smile curves at your lips, and you look at the nothingness ahead, somehow able to see clearly in your mind’s eye the cocky smile of the young Strategus as he hooked the spear under his arm and bowed mockingly at you. “He was never caught off guard. He was foolish, and he refused to stick to a plan most of the time, but…with the passing of time I started to think he counted on that, on the lack of a plan. Back in Greece, the battles we won were because of his adaptability, as much as any strategy I could…suggest to him. I insisted on a plan, and he was smart enough to not defy me, s-…”

“I wouldn’t say smart.”

Your lips curve into a smile, and you lift your head off his shoulder to meet his gaze directly. Ivar leans back, falling back on the bed, and you follow, leaning over him as your hand travels up and down his chest.

“What would you say then, love?” You ask, a challenge and something else. You bring yourself closer, “Would you say bewitched?”

You remember being in that small hut in Aneridge, able and willing to forget either of you had names and stories, and daring ask him, are you one to believe Stithulf’s tales that I can bewitch men to their deaths? Blind them and have them follow my every whim?

And, more importantly than that, you remember the way his eyes remained on you, a slow blink as he considered his answer. You remember the tone of his voice that made a shiver run down his spine when he replied, not through magic.

His smile is challenging, mocking, but Ivar shakes his head instead of answering.

“You were speaking of how you won, back in your homeland.”

“He…adapted, a lot. Too often for my liking,” You furrow your nose, and your husband chuckles, his hand warm as it travels up and down the arm you’ve draped over his chest. “My pride kept me from accepting we had to change our tactics, I will admit that. Maybe that arrogance was my downfall.”

Your eyes fall from his, and you almost want to ask, order, don’t let your arrogance be yours.

The words are at the tip of your tongue when the voice of one of Ivar’s guards on the other side of the door startles you.

“Someone is requesting the…the Queen to, uh, meet with them.”

“Is it Rúna’s husband? Is it the baby?” You ask, already scrambling to get out of bed at the mere thought that she is to give birth now. It has been a difficult pregnancy for her, and you’ve given stern orders to her husband to come to you when the time comes for her to deliver.

“No, uh…your mother, my Queen.”

The air is knocked out of you with those words, and you stand unmoving for a few breaths too long. You feel the cold of the floor seeping into your very bones through your bare feet, but you feel rooted to the ground.

A quiet call of your name, and you turn wide eyes to Ivar. He searches your gaze, a strange sort of hesitation in his expression that is probably born out of whatever he sees in yours, and he says your name again.

You blink, swallowing hard.

“Go to her.”

You nod your head, but don’t move for a couple of heartbeats, until you have the cold startle you into movement. Wrapping the robe over your nightdress, you slip into your shoes and step out.

Letting the two guards lead the way to one of the back rooms of the -now deserted- longhouse, you try deciphering if what runs through your veins right now is thrill or dread.

Sieghild stands tall by one of the stone pit fires near that are lined up near the walls, surrounded by seats; her shield not at her back but, as always, close to her. At the sound of your steps, she turns around, the same almost-crooked smile on her face, the familiar face with traces of ink in the shape of the roots of Yggdrasil, the same green eyes of your childhood.

You stumble over your own feet as you run to her, and never before have you felt as time disappeared and you were suddenly a child again as you do then.

“Mḗtēr!”

Sieghild embraces you tightly, with the desperation of having thought you lost forever, the relief at having you back, the anger at your disappearance; strong arms wrapped around you and lifting you a bit off the ground. You breathe a relieved laugh that sounds like a sob, your own arms wrapped as strongly as you can around your mother.

“Little one, you are alright, you are alright.” She whispers, and even if she talks to her own fears and not you, you still nod against her shoulder.

“I thought you were-…”

“I am here, child. The Gods wouldn’t call me to Valhalla while you still need me.”

You look into familiar green eyes and offer a helpless shrug, “I’ll always need you.”

“Then I shall always be here.” She promises, pressing a kiss against your forehead like she did when you were a child.

But you weren’t, your heart bitterly wants to say, words you keep at bay by biting your own tongue.

For now, you close your eyes at the rough touch of Sieghild’s battle-worn hands on the sides of your face, you let her brow press against yours and the familiar scent of iron and the always underlying scent of those fields of barley you would run through with her as a child.

When you step back, you feel the months-old anger come back, you feel the uncertainty and resentment settle over you like a warm cloak, and you meet Sieghild’s eyes, unwavering.

“I would like a word with my mother.” You state, keeping your gaze on her. You watch as our mother watches the people leave the room, watching out of the corner of her eye as the last of the men closes the door behind him.

She turns to you with a smile that is in part mocking and in part proud.

“I always did say you were Fated to rule, did I not?”

Many times she told you that, usually angrily, when what she stubbornly calls your ‘Athenian nobility’ shines through.

Galla spares you a glance out of the corner of her eye, the faintest quirk of a smile on her lips, her words a tease and something else as she quips, “Born with a crown on her head, this one.”

Many others have implied the same, sometimes in praise and often in reprimand.

Ivar meets your eyes, an unwavering edge to his madness, a darkness to the curve of his smile, as he promises, “Don’t lie to me, Priestess. You were made to rule, to command. Don’t pretend otherwise with me.”

You shake your head, “Fate has nothing to do with it.”

“Doesn’t it?” She retorts, but it isn’t a question she expects an answer to. Instead, the shieldmaiden strides to the seats by the dimmest hearth in the room. She always has done that, ever since Eleusis, making sure you aren’t near open flames that make your skin crawl.

You walk to her, hands folded in front of you, and take a seat before her.

“You gave me up. You arranged for me to marry Ivar, and you never told me.”

A deep breath, like she was expecting this, and Sieghild leans back, a hard nod of her head.

“I did,” She offers no other explanation for a few moments, before adding, “I had my reasons.”

“Which are?”

Her eyes narrow as she looks you over, a quirk in her mouth that speaks not of a smile but of something wilder, and Sieghild’s voice is icy when she asks,

“Who do you think you are, to demand anything from me?”

Your answer is unwavering, and you don’t even think twice about the words that are to leave your lips, “Your daughter.”

Sieghild holds your gaze for a few breaths, before looking away with a grunt and the clear tell of gritted teeth. She was expecting something else out of your answer, the years alongside her let you see that in that small gesture.

A twitch in her nose, furrowed for only a moment, and Sieghild offers, voice unusually quiet,

“I told you since you were a child about the path the Gods, yours or maybe mine, had woven for you,” Green eyes pierce into yours, and for a moment you are saying goodbye again, in the outskirts of Aneridge and by the gates of Eleusis. She swallows, and continues, “You ran once, and I lost you, I had to leave you behind and let those damned Christians burn you alive. I couldn’t let you run again.”

“That is why you asked me,” You state, not even a question. The night she left you behind on the edge of that forest plays behind your closed lids with striking vibrance. “You took me there and told me we were at a crossroads, the…the world between worlds. I chose to stay.”

“It was Fate you did so.” She retorts with a sigh.

And that word grates at your ears. It always has, ever since you have had memory.

Your eyes fall shut, and you take a deep breath to remain calm.

“You know, with time passing I had forgotten how much I hate that word leaving your lips,” You grumble, mostly to yourself. Sieghild still chuckles, but it is dimmer than usual. The errant thought that maybe you don’t know what the usual is for your mother anymore crosses your head, but you dismiss it easily enough. Finding your strength, your anger, you meet her gaze and with your head held high you insist, “You cannot hide behind Fate, mother.”

For all the times she has accused you of your own fair share of arrogance, few times she has admitted you take after her in that regard. Now, more than any other time, her own arrogance, her own pride, are apparent in the way she bristles at your words, suddenly sitting straighter.

“I don’t hide, little one. You know that.”

You shake your head, at her resolve, at her unwavering certainties, at her abandonment. Your eyes wide, you lift a hand and point a finger at her, too late realizing that is a gesture you have seen often in the man you married.

“Fate didn’t chain me to Ivar’s side until you made a deal with him!” Your voice thunders at the same time it breaks and you do not care. Your lip curls into a snarl, or maybe something more fragile, something more broken. “You fulfilled what you were told was Fate, because you believed it was inescapable.”

“And you stayed behind to die in Eleusis because you wanted to fight Fate,” She retorts, green eyes blazing. “How is that any different?”

“It was my choice.”

“And it was my choice to send you to Kattegat.”

You hate the way your lower lip trembles, the way sorrow wants to overpower pride, and succeeds.

You furrow your lips, raising your chin as you insist, “You abandoned me.”

“I did what I should have when you were younger. I saved you.”

Your nails dig into your palms, and you stand up. The chair makes a horrible sound against the wooden floor, and you pace away from the table, shaking your head to yourself.

Your mother follows you with a challenge shining in her green gaze.

“You didn’t save me.”

“You are alive, you are safe. I wouldn’t ask for anything more.” She crosses broad arms over her chest, head titled to the side.

You feel your lip curling into a snarl, your hands trembling at your sides as the anger that burns in your blood demands you do something.

Voice thundering, you demand, “I would have!”

“And you would have died for it!” Sieghild barks back, voice rising as well. “You think you would have survived Stithulf if it weren’t for that boy, huh? You think that damn Christian would have kept you alive for much longer?”

You shake your head, feeling like a chastised child under her burning green gaze.

“Ivar isn’t the reason I survived.”

“He kept you safer than I ever could, even if he didn’t realize it, even if you don’t like accepting it, little one,” She retorts, standing and walking closer. “You are arrogant, but you are also smart. You know it is true.”

You shake your head, stepping back.

“You didn’t tell me, you just left me behind in that place, and I-I was alone, and…” Your eyes fall shut and you find yourself almost compulsively twirling your wedding ring as you try finding resolve again. Without opening your eyes, you take a deep breath and ask, “Why come back now?”

“I told you to survive until spring came, I knew we’d be together again after the winter,” She tells you, quietly, almost mournfully. “Even if you hated me, even if you hate me now…what I did, I did for you. To keep you alive, to let you have a future.”

“All my life, I-…” You furrow your lips, consider your words and start again, “You more than anyone knows how important it is for me to be…free. Free to choose, free to…be. You took that from me, you let Ivar take that from me.”

But Sieghild doesn’t falter, even if her eyes give away more than she would like to admit.

“It is a privilege to be able to live life in the way you have, little one. To never have your beating heart be the only thing that you can count on, that you can call your own. The truth is that there is no reason for freedom without life, not the other way around,” Strong arms crossed over her chest, your mother insists, “Between seeing you in chains and seeing you on a grave, I know which I prefer.”

“Does it matter which I prefer?”

Her silence is enough of an answer, and you sit back down on your chair, twirling your wedding ring on your finger. You notice the way your mother’s eyes travel to the movement, but if she has anything to say about it, she keeps it to herself for now.

“When you love someone, someone that you know will go where you cannot follow once death touches them…” She starts, slowly, deliberately. “Is there anything you wouldn’t do to keep them alive? Keep them with you?”

“I never tried keeping you, or anyone, from your dear Valhalla.”

A quirk of her mouth, humorless and challenging, as she sits back down as well, “I taught you to lie, don’t try it with me.”

“I’m not-…”

“Four years ago, on the outskirts of Circe, you did what you had promised you wouldn’t do. Do you remember, little one?”

You bite your lip to keep it from trembling, as you take in your mother’s pale features, “You could have died.”

“And what glorious death it would have been,” Sieghild retorts, not missing a beat. Her smile is wry, tired, but still irrevocably hers. “Better than whatever awaits me in this bed, that’s for sure.”

“You won’t die here either.”

“I better not,” She warns, closing her eyes. You are worried about the sunken look on her face. Your leg bobs up and down anxiously and you feel your fingers fidgeting as you itch to get to work on making something, anything, that will make it better. “To be robbed of a chance to enter Valhalla because my child is too stubborn t-…”

“Valhalla cannot have you yet!” You snap, blinking past the burning in your eyes when Sieghild opens her eyes to meet your gaze. “Your Gods cannot have you yet, I-I need you with me.”

“Of course I remember.” You retort, gritting your teeth. She has always had this infuriating way of hers of deliberately and obviously guiding you with questions to say what she wants you to, to admit what you refuse to.

“What I did was no different. You dragged me from the battlefield and insisted on delaying the inevitable by tending to my wounds, because you didn’t want to lose me. Even if it cost me what I live and fight for, you want-…”

“You Varangians and your glorious deaths,” You groan, rolling your eyes, “You lived. You lived to fight in another battle and die another day.”

“And you lived to see yourself free once more.”

“It is not the same.”

“Explain why, then.”

That gesture, it is the same as the life that once was all you had known, of her routinely throwing a stick your way, smoothing the ground with her boot and demanding an explanation for the newest battle you had witnessed, or the latest historical one that you had been drawn to.

You sigh, tired beyond what you think you could express with words, “Mother.”

Sieghild considers you for a moment, gaze travelling over your features, taking you in as if a stranger. Maybe you are, in some ways.

She softens after a breath, shoulders lowering as she takes a deep breath.

“I…I had a dream, the Gods showed me that when the ground was softened, when the earth thawed, you’d be returned to me. So, I was certain I would find you once spring came.”

There’s a part of you that tries thinking of it all and tries making all the pieces make something that makes sense, and that part whispers that the Gods let Sieghild see that spring would see you returned to her because it was when spring came that you would make your choice, that you would be free to leave Ivar. That part of you has a heart that beats along the cadence of all the prophecies and half-coherent visions that have plagued you and others, that part of you feels like blind eyes looking directly into yours and bloodstained lips whispering you will not find your belonging amongst flowers.

But that part of you is trying to accept a world where somehow what has happened, what you have lost and what you have suffered, has a reason. It cannot have a reason, it cannot be inevitable.

So, you search your mother’s gaze and ask,

“Why spring?”

“We can set sail away from here now that the season allows it,” She replies easily, and you lean back in your seat, irrationally stunned. Sieghild raises her brows, “Have you already forgotten all that was keeping you here was the harshness of winter?” Your eyes lower from hers, and Sieghild takes a breath, “Ah, but it isn’t the season what keeps you here now.”

You shrug, reaching for the bread and picking out a piece with your fingers as you mumble, “You were the one to tell me all my life that my Fate lied in Kattegat.”

“Many would say your Fate is to fight for Greece.”

You lift your gaze to hers, head tilted to the side.

“My Fate would be to rule over it,” You correct her, and the lines on your mother’s face deepen when she smiles. “But I have no interest in doing so.”

Sieghild looks you over, green eyes shining with something you could swear looks like pride. Eventually she leans back, an arm stretched over the back of her seat and her head tilted to the side.

“You will be staying in Kattegat then?”

You bring the piece of bread to your mouth, offering another shrug, “It is my home.”

“Kattegat is?” She drawls out the words, lifting her brows. Your eyes narrow as you are put on the spot, and there is no hiding the bite in your tone when you ask,

“Why do you ask questions you know the answer to?”

Your mother shrugs, “It entertains me.”

There’s a sigh making its way past your lips before you can stop it, an exasperated but fond one. In the look you and Sieghild share there are more words than either of you would ever dare to say aloud, and you lean back in your seat, picking another piece of the bread.

“Where were you all this time?”

“With King Angantyr of the Black Danes, mostly,” She chuckles to herself, “All the way in England they speak of Ivar the Boneless’ witch, you know.”

“As long as men have tongues to speak, they will speak lies,” You offer around a shrug, words that were of someone you met along the Silk Roads, and though you do not remember their face, you remember their wisdom, and you know your mother does too. Still, she narrows her eyes, almost suspicious, and you clarify, “I am no witch, mother.”

“But you are his.” She sentences.

“Only because he is mine as well.”

Her eyes shine with a glint you haven’t seen in years when she smiles, and you find yourself smiling back, heart lighter.

After a breath, your mother leans forward and quietly asks, “Do you trust him?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Of course I do.”

The shieldmaiden nods once, and takes a deep breath, “We have matters of war to discuss then, you and I. Your husband too.”

You frown, and when she stands up you do the same. Your mother simply starts walking, long strides towards the front of the longhouse. You scramble to catch up, asking questions as you go,

“What? Why?”

“I had a plan, you see. I didn’t come to Kattegat now on a whim.”

“You are hiding something.”

“Not for long. I had counted on using this…information to our advantage if you were to decide to leave, but…” She looks at you out of the corner of her eye, “Plans change, little one.”

____ ____ ____

Thank you for reading, hope you liked it!

I have a lot of fun writing Sieghild, she’s like the Priestess without the snobbiness lol. Main example of how much fun I have writing her being the length of this chapter lol, sorry. But yeah, they had (have) a lot of things to work through, though they are, much like the Reader and Freydis, on very different world perceptions when it comes to the issues they’ve discussed, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax @angelofthorr @samsationalwilson @peachyboneless @1950schick @punkrocknpearls @ietss @itsmysticalmystery @revolution-starter @the-a-word-2214 @fae-sedai @crazybunnyladysworld @funmadnessandbadassvikings @stupiddarkkside @aprilivar @msrawog

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless #ivar #νοσταλγία masterlist

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