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guess-my-next-obsession · 11 months

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Ivy & Stone, Chapter Eleven: The Healing

pairing: victorian au!javi gutierrez x f!oc (Florence Bell)/victorian au!frankie morales x Florence Bell

rating: E (18+ only, minor angst, love triangle gets even more complicated, brief talks of depression, one mention of su!cidal thoughts but i don’t go into depth, oral (f rec), unprotected piv)

wc: 2.8k

a/n: we’re back! and we’ve got a couple new characters to meet!

series masterlist

It had been a long, strange summer for Frankie. Apart from the stowaway incident—which was settled with a simple letter from Anna sent to her parents detailing her wish to spend the season abroad with her uncle—the United States in itself was a in entirely foreign environment, though that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Frankie had taken up acting as the supervisor in charge of looking after the grounds of Joseph Bell’s estates in New York. He no longer was the one out doing the hard labor, though he still took care to manicure his own lawn and garden at the shockingly lavish townhouse his employer had rented out to him. Now, his days consisted of a more managerial sort of labor, hiring and firing, assuring that each estate was up to standard, and overseeing any new additions to the lawn and garden as well as the budget.

Anna had proven to be something of a shadow to him. Even in his refusal to interact with her without her Uncle around, she still found a way to locate his whereabouts everyday, following him into town and showing up at his home uninvited for tea. Frankie couldn’t help but to urge her Uncle to schedule her more social calls and events just to keep her forwardness away from him, and it seemed to have worked out in his favor. Just last week, she’d interrupted a meeting between Frankie and Joseph to inform them of her courtship with a young Ivy graduate who was working in finance, her attention finally shifting from her older sister’s ex-flame to a man more suitable for her age.

Frankie had stumbled upon a companionship of his own with one of Joseph’s partner’s daughters, a pretty, pale, golden blonde woman nearing her thirties named Poppy—a more suitable match than the woman he’d spent the first month of his time in the US missing.

Poppy was a very kind, soft soul who hardly ever spoke louder than a whisper. She carried a tenderness that felt warm and safe enough to mend Frankie’s broken heart by simply showing up for tea and conversation.

America seemed to treat the classes differently than England. Here, it wasn’t jarring for someone of Frankie’s background and lower-middle class wealth to publicly court a woman of Poppy’s class, and he took full advantage of this newfound freedom. The two often went to the opera and theater together, but their favorite thing to do was to simply sit in the same room and read their books in comfortable silence.

Frankie treated this relationship as he did every relationship before Florence—no physical intimacy beyond an occasional soft kiss on the lips. Though he told himself these boundaries were purely based on honor and not wanting to tarnish Poppy’s reputation, the truth that he kept buried deep inside was that he simply didn’t feel that urge, that desire that he felt with Florence with Poppy. He felt himself loving her, trusting her, and more than happy to be in her company, but the thought of touching someone else, of making that final move of moving on and letting go, turned him sick with guilt and longing for the past.

On the Sunday before his last week in the country before sailing back to England with Anna, her fiance, Andrew, and her Uncle, Frankie decided it was time to commit to something good, and more importantly something that was good for him. He’d arranged a dinner to be hosted at his home, the first proper dinner he ever put on in his life, under the ruse of celebrating the end of the season when in reality, he was going to be asking Poppy to marry him.

With Joseph, Anna, Andrew, and Poppy sitting with him at his dining table, he got down on one knee and asked for her hand in marriage, promising her a lifetime of security and love, to which she eagerly accepted with tears streaming down her face.

It wasn’t until they all climbed aboard their ship that the reality of his commitment began to dawn on him. While he should have been daydreaming about the woman sitting beside him, the only thing he could think about was Florence and how she must be doing. He hadn’t heard anything about the wedding, though given the last time he’d seen the happy couple they weren’t so happy. Still, he expected them to be somewhere off in Europe, seeing the world together, their hearts content and happy. He wondered what she was thinking when her father finally told her about his departure, if she cried, screamed, or thanked the heavens that this burden had lifted itself from her shoulders. He expected she likely said nothing at all, too numb by the entire situation to be shaken by anything anymore.

“Is there something on your mind, my love?” Poppy leaned over to whisper to Frankie as he pretended to read. He lifted his eyes, shocked by her attentiveness, and forced a smile onto his face.

“Just excited to go home,” he said, reaching to rest his hand on top of her gloved one. “Excited to show you where I am from, as well.”

“I’m excited to visit your little cottage,” she offered, giving him a tender smile. Frankie felt a pang of insecurity at the thought of showing her his humble beginnings, but reckoned that if she loved him the way he thought she did, she wouldn’t be bothered by the tiny, dusty cottage he used to call home.

“Yes,” he nodded, dropping his eyes back to his book as he began to think of his previous residence, of how Florence etched her name into his wooden bed frame, of the nights she spent in front of his fireplace reciting Lord Byron’s poetry to him. “I’m sure the Bells will house you in their home for our stay. Much better suited for you.”

“But that would mean we’d be apart,” she frowned, reaching for his chin to turn his eyes back to hers. “Perhaps I can sneak out and visit you once everyone goes to sleep.”

Frankie swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.

“Perhaps.”

Florence sat in a field of green, wildflowers blooming all around her as she stared ahead at the sparkling light dancing on the river stream in front of her while she painted its likeness.

This was how she spent the majority of her summer after learning that Frankie had left the country—had left her. The first few weeks had been the hardest, Javi having to deal with and love a shell of a person as Florence slugged her way through her days and nights, shutting herself up in whatever hotel or estate they were staying at during their summer abroad. If it wasn’t for Leo joining them on their journey, she was sure she would have taken her own life, but between her loving little brother’s company and desperately adoring fiancé’s effort, she chose life.

Now, she had come to terms with the fact that Frankie was likely never coming back. She’d never see him again, never get the chance to make things right. But one thing that she could make right was her relationship.

“Mi amor,” Javi’s voice floated in the wind as he stomped through the overgrown grass to where she sat on a blanket, carrying a basket in his hand. “I’ve brought lunch.”

“Thank you,” she smiled, lowering her brush to scoot her supplies over so that he could have a seat beside her.

“It’s looking beautiful,” he said, tipping his nose towards her watercolor painting. “Like you.”

“I’ve got an excellent teacher,” she said, squeezing his thigh as he got comfortable beside her.

“Excellent?” he chuckled. “I couldn’t even sell my last two pieces. I’m afraid you might think too highly of me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” she said, throwing her leg over her lap to straddle his thighs, a grin forming on her cheeks as she draped her arms over his shoulders.

“You’re mad,” he scolded playfully, slipping his warm palms underneath the cotton of her summer dress to give her hips a squeeze. “What if my mother finds us?”

“Your mother has been begging me to talk you into having a child,” she said, rocking her hips against his slowly. “I’m sure she’s aware of how one comes to be pregnant.”

“Regardless,” he gave her ass a squeeze, pulling her tighter against his half-hard length. “I’m sure she would not appreciate watching the act itself.”

“No one will find us,” Florence assured, her voice turning sickly sweet as she reached over one of the glasses resting in the basket, filling it with a sweet red wine that was local to this part of Paris. Javi watched with bated breath as she took a sip of it, letting the red juice trail down her chin and neck and down into the white corset bodice of her dress.

“Mi vida,” he moaned, leaning in to lick up the trail staining her neck, tasting her sweetness mixing with the wine’s bitterness against his tongue. Florence sighed softly, tipping her head back to let him suck at her pulse. “What are you doing to me?”

“Driving you mad,” she said, earning a laugh against her skin.

“In the best way,” he agreed, tilting her chin down to meet him for a kiss. Florence smiled against his lips, setting her glass down just for it to spill, but neither of them could manage a care in the world as he leaned back and took her with him. “Dulce.”

“Hm?” she hummed.

“Sweet. You taste so sweet,” he groaned into her mouth as he rolled her onto her back, the two of them shielded by a field of knee-high wildflowers. “You want me to touch you here in the sunlight?”

Florence smiled, combing her fingers through his golden-brown curls.

“I’d love nothing more,” she said softly, her heart filled with tenderness for him in the afternoon glow peeking from behind him.

Javi didn’t wait another minute, his lips trailing down her neck and chest until he was met with the fabric of her bodice. Too nervous over being caught, he decided that she’d be better off with her dress on, even though it pained him to see her so covered up, especially in this golden light. Shuffling down her body, he lifted the skirt of her dress up to sit around her waist, pleased to find her bare underneath.

“Look at you,” he said, shaking his head as he admired the sheen of her arousal coating her lips and the inside of her thighs. “So perfect, mi sol.”

“Javi,” she purred, raking her hands through his hair to urge him on. “Taste me, my love.”

Javi groaned as he leaned in to obey, his eyes blackened with hunger as he locked eyes with her in time with his tongue slipping across her folds. Florence’s lips parted, her brows lacing together as she watched him feast on her like a starved man, his tongue swirling and gliding and suckling at her clit until her thighs were shaking and clenching around his head.

“Javi, you feel so good,” she moaned, her voice breaking as she neared the edge, her hips now grinding against his flattened tongue.

“Let go,” he urged before sucking hard on her clit. Florence covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her cries as the pulsing rhythm of his mouth on her forced her into bliss. Javi lapped at her sensitive folds, cleaning up the rest of her mess before he was sitting back on his ankles and unbuttoning his trousers. “Turn around, mi amor.”

Florence obeyed, rolling over onto her stomach and perching her ass out for him. Javi moaned at the sight of her, her dress hiked up around her waist while her bottom half remained bare except for her boots.

“My love,” he groaned, fisting his cock and lining it up with her swollen entrance. “You are the most beautiful thing my eyes will ever see, the softest thing my hands will ever touch. You are a work of art.”

“I love you,” she breathed out, her hands gripping the blanket beneath her for purchase as he pressed inside of her slowly and carefully.

“Mierda,” he swore, leaning over her back to press a kiss against her cheek. “You’re so wet. So tight.”

“Fuck me, Javi,” she begged, pressing against him to deepen his thrusts. Javi nodded, his body lifting upright to gather better momentum as he started to snap his hips against the cushion of her ass, his hands spreading her open so that he could watch himself disappear inside of her. “Javi, my love—you’re so good.”

“Mi bonita,” he whined, his eyes closing shut as he looked up towards the sky to try and stave off his release for a little while longer. “I cannot—dios. I—“

“Let go for me,” she begged, lifting herself up to sit back on his thighs, his arms wrapping around her waist and chest to hold her close as his cock continued to grind into the deepest spots inside of her. With his face buried into her dark ringlets that cascaded messily down her thin neck, he mustered the strength to pull out of her and onto the blanket beneath them with a long, low moan that had her cunt aching for more.

“I love doing this with you,” he whispered against the shell of her ear as he pressed a kiss there. “More than anyone else in my entire life. It feels…I’m not quite sure there’s a word for it. Serendipitous, perhaps.”

Florence was grinning from the afterglow of her pleasure as she rolled over onto her back on the grass, careful to dodge the mess he’d made on the blanket.

“Do you love doing this with me?” he asked, vulnerability and insecurity thick in his tone. Florence frowned, reaching for him to come lay on her chest in the sunlight, her hands combing his hair and scratching at his scalp.

“Javi, I adore doing this with you,” she said, her voice tender. “I know there were some bumps in the road, but…you’ve proven yourself to me tenfold. I do not want you to doubt my feelings or love for you. I love you as effortlessly and as often as I breathe.”

Javi smiled, lifting his head to sit his chin on her chest, his grin looking boyish as he met her eyes.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “I just needed a bit of reassurance that you’ll take the news I’m about to give you with a healed heart and not a broken one.”

Florence quirked her eyebrow at him, silently demanding he continue. Sitting up, he reached over into the basket and retrieved a letter, handing it over to her.

“This was the initial reason for me paying you a visit, but as you can see, I got a bit distracted.” Florence chuckled as she opened the envelope and slid out the letter written on a fine piece of parchment. “It’s from your mother.”

Dearest Florence,

I am pleased to be the first to relay this exciting news. While abroad, our dear Anna has seemingly found herself a soulmate, and is now happily engaged and aboard a ship set for England. It is the 30th of June when I am mailing this correspondence out, and it is expected that the new couple will be arriving on the 8th of July. I eagerly await your arrival, along with your betrothed.

Sincerely,

Lady Elizabeth Bell

“Anna is engaged?” Florence asked, her brows laced together in what looked to be a mixture of confusion and fury. “And do you know who the groom is presumed to be?”

“I do not,” he said, sitting back in the grass to tuck himself back into his trousers.

“I suppose it could only be one person,” she said, clenching her jaw. “Mr. Morales.”

“You honestly think he’d propose to your sister? And that your family would be happy over it?”

“I suppose you’re right,” she sighed. “I don’t imagine they’d ask her to come home if that was the case. Although, there is a chance that even they do not know who her betrothed is. Perhaps they are just as clueless as we are.”

“Only one way to find out,” he said, dusting the grass off his trousers as he stood up. Holding his hand out for her, he helped her to her feet. “We leave tomorrow for England.”

“What if I do not wish to see her?” Florence snarked, earning a chuckle.

“If you think I’m the one who’s set this trip in motion, you’re wrong,” he said, reaching to gently pinch her chin. “Our mothers have already arranged everything. At dawn, you, me, and Leo are going to be picked up by carriage. I’m afraid given the time constraints, it is going to be a quite long and brutal journey, but I assure you, everything I can do to make the two of you more comfortable, I will. I know that you are not fond of your family and that things are quite tense at the moment, but my love, I exist to make your life easier, if you’ll allow me, that is.”

Florence smiled smittenly at him, her hand resting on his neck to tug him down for a sweet kiss.

“I am in love with you, Mr. Gutierrez,” she said, feeling the pull of his lips as a smile formed on his face. “Like a mad woman.”

“And I, you, future Mrs. Gutierrez,” he said. “We can be mad together.”

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intothegreyx · 1 year

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Name: Rhett Matthews

Age: 31

Birthday: June 15th

Zodiac: Gemini

Occupation: Currently unemployed, but a struggling musician

Hometown: Cambridge, England

Current Location: Seattle, Washington

Sexuality: Pansexual

Relationship status: Dating Allegra Nardi

About Rhett:

TW: Drug use, drug abuse, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt, and drug overdose (TW bullet points will be italicized)

Rhett Matthews was born on June 15th, 1991. He was the the oldest of 7. He had two sisters and 4 brothers. His sisters and two of his brothers were twins.

His parents had to spend most of their time working to pay the bills, so Rhett devoted much of his time to watching over his siblings growing up.

When he wasn’t doing that, he spent all his other time learning how to play music, drawing and painting. Rhett was a very artistically gifted boy. He was far beyond his years when it came to playing music, as well as drawing.

Over his youth, Rhett learned how to play the guitar, piano, bass guitar, cello, violin, trumpet and the drums. His favorites to play were guitar and piano, however, so he mostly focused on those when he could.

His parents always encouraged Rhett to pursue whatever he wanted so he put all his effort into music. Rhett began to write his own songs when he was around twelve years old and never looked back.

When Rhett was twenty years old, he said goodbye to Cambridge and moved to New York City, knowing that his best chance to get on a label was to move to America. And what better place was there than America?

For about a year, he worked odd jobs around the city, saving up every single penny he could so he could rent a recording studio. It was hard, but he managed it and got himself a studio for 3 hours. In those three hours, Rhett put his heart and soul in a demo that he truly believed was going to take him places.

Rhett sent the single out to label, after label, after label and for two years, he hadn’t heard a single response from any of them. He was starting to get discouraged and was starting to think that his dream was dead. But Rhett continued to play at local clubs, just wanting to play music.

Slowly, but surely, responses started to trickle in about his demo and every single response he got, was a denial. None of the labels thought he was a good fit.

Rhett fell into a depression. He wasn’t able to get himself out of bed. Every day it was harder to want to want to be there. Rhett truly thought that he was meant to play music and he was meant to be a rockstar…and without that, he was nothing. Rhett couldn’t dare to think about it.

He attempted to end his life by hanging himself but fortunately for Rhett, his roommate at the time came home and caught him just in time.

For weeks, he still didn’t budge from his bed. He just wallowed. He had a few friends from his local music scene visit him and one in particular knew that Rhett was struggling and offered him a hit of cocaine to try and ease the pain. Having nothing to lose, Rhett obliged and that was his first introduction to drugs.

From there, he quickly spiraled into addiction. He started with cocaine, then moved to smoking crack and once that lost its luster, Rhett found heroin. He has been using it ever since.

After a while, Rhett was finally able to start living his life again, getting random small jobs around town just to make some cash so he could support his lifestyle.

Rhett had missed paying his roommate rent for several months and he was kicked out of his home. With nowhere to go, Rhett lived on the streets for a short time before he found himself living at a homeless shelter. He spent a few months there before he found an ad in the newspaper about an old woman needing a hands-on roommate to take care of her home. Much to his surprise, the ad hadn’t been filled and the old woman, named Rosa, agreed to let Rhett live with her without pay as long as he did all the manual labor of taking care of the home. She was just too old to do it herself anymore.

For a while, Rhett was dating a man named Rafael who he was madly in love with. However, Rafael couldn’t deal with his drug addiction and he broke up with Rhett. After a few months of fighting and begging, Rhett eventually agreed to go to rehab for the man. However, when he finally agreed, Rafael disappeared into the night without a word, leaving Rhett alone again. The pain of his love disappearing without a word led him to overdose once again.

From there, he just continued to survive as an addict, partying, sometimes making money from gigs. Through his partying, however, he met Allegra Nardi and for months, they beat around the bushes with one another. Rhett was afraid to fall in love again, but he did it anyway and fell head over heels for her.

However, Rhett’s addiction never waned and he was so far in debt with his dealer that the two of them decided to leave New York City and move across the country to Seattle. It was the only thing they could think of to do while he worked on getting money to pay off his dealer.

#about rhett #sewa.intro

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terrorpenned · 1 year

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DOSSIER : ROGER COLLINS

FULL NAME: Roger Edward Collins AGE: 43 BIRTH DATE: September 14, 1925 ETHNICITY: white GENDER: cis man ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: biromantic SEXUAL ORIENTATION: bisexual (preference for men, closeted) RELIGION: eh SPOKEN LANGUAGE: English CURRENT LIVING CONDITIONS: at the Collinwood estate, with his sister, niece, and son, as well as his governess (and the many, many ghosts)

RELATIONSHIPS

PARENTS: Jamison and Catherine Collins SIBLINGS: Elizabeth Collins Stoddard SIGNIFICANT OTHER: Laura Murdoch (deceased ... kind of), Cassandra Blair (Angélique Bouchard Collins, also deceased ... kind of) CHILDREN: David Collins, although the paternity is not certain and the relationship is strained. he's much closer to his niece, Carolyn, for whom he serves as a father-figure.

PHYSICAL TRAITS

EYE COLOUR: blue HAIR COLOUR: blond HEIGHT: 5'3″ BODY BUILD: some muscle tone, but not built TATTOOS + PIERCINGS: n/a NOTABLE PHYSICAL TRAITS: male-pattern baldness, a near-permanent disgusted expression, often dressed nicely in business suits, or, when more causally at home, in luxurious smoking jackets or turtleneck sweaters. requires reading glasses but very seldom wears them around others, as he despises the way he looks in them.

PERSONALITY

INTELLIGENCE: smarter than he seems. he's more than capable of managing the estate and business if he wanted to, but he simply doesn't want to, so perfectly fine with Liz handling the lot of it. had a decent education befitting of his family name and wealth, including a private boarding school in Maine and later an undergrad at Yale in Classics (as a student of Branford College), and though he always did well enough he never cared enough to particularly excel. LIKES: liquor, especially brandy, smoking, darts, fine clothes and well-made fabrics, nice cars, money, fine foods, open fires, cloudy days, gas lamps, libraries, jazz music (especially the crooners) and classical, especially pieces written for violin or trio. typewriters, sex, reading, straight-leg trousers, flirting, driving (speeding). fond of New England weather, especially when enjoyed from beaches and the cliffs at Widow's Hill. meticulous gardens, gambling, and the exertion of power. DISLIKES: the smell of fish, intensive labor (or any labor), household chores, pop music (groups like The Beatles, Herman's Hermits, and the Monkees he regards as exceedingly silly), rock music, flared trousers, denim, children, sweet flavors including fruits like strawberry and banana, his own son, his own wife, Burke Devlin, public transport, Midwestern scenery, foreign languages, calculations, fields, dirt. DISPOSITION: very snooty and thinks extremely high of himself, but lazy, and accomplishes little. functioning alcoholic. raised in wealth and reflects an old-money set of gentlemanly behaviors, but quite bitchy and rude even to his own family.

Bio:

Born eight years after his elder sister, Liz, Roger was always the runt of the Collins litter, the unwanted pup that could do very little right in his family's eyes ( or in anyone else's, for that matter. ) his mother, Catherine, had died in childbirth, and Roger never entire shook off the suspicion that his father and sister blamed him for his mother's death, instead of that insipid, stupid Collins family physician. he spent his childhood living in an heir's lap of luxury, playing on the grounds of the Collinwood estate, tormenting his sister, practically begging for attention from his father, and getting into all sorts of mischief along the way. as he got older, he was sent to a private boarding school ( mostly to get him out of his father's hair ), then to Branford College at Yale. he majored in business, mostly on his father's wishes (he would have preferred classics, or drama) but it was easy to cheat along the way and not too hard. job prospects didn't matter: his family would continue to cushion him, as they always had. so his school years were, by far, the best of his life: he cherished the homosocial, free environment of college boys, the absence of any responsibility, the strange rituals and secret societies, and perhaps most of all, the money. at Yale, more even than at home, Roger adopted a taste for the finer things and wealthier people in life, much preferring the pretentious, secluded social atmosphere.

When he came home from school, he took a minor management position at the cannery more out of boredom than anything else ( and bored he was. his father endlessly scolded for arriving late, leaving early, showing up drunk or simply not showing up at all ). his delightful sister had married truly the cream of the crop Paul Stoddard, who he couldn't much stand to be around, and Roger avoided home at all costs. his niece, Carolyn, was the only thing that redeemed Paul, and the only good thing he'd given his sister: she was a delightful little child, pretty, and happy, and always pleased to be in her young uncle's arms.

their father died when he was still in his early twenties, and although Liz cried for days on end, Roger couldn't have cared less about the old bastard. better, he'd left Roger half the money and shares in the company. he quickly spent up ever last dime of the inheritance, and put his shares up at auction to generate more –– though Liz swooped in to buy them up in some misguided notion of Collins family honor. shortly after the death of his father, Roger fell in with Laura Murdoch and Burke Devlin in a fine little trio, and they spent the majority of their time in Collinsport cruising the streets, drinking, and smoking at the docks. Laura eventually chose Burke as her official romantic partner, which irritated Roger to no end: he never stopped trying to prove himself superior to Burke in birth and quality, showering her with expensive presents and stilted praise.

then came the accident. in 1957, Roger was cruising with Laura and Burke, all three piss-drunk and already angry at each other for some petty argument he's long since forgotten. the car hit a pedestrian and killed them. Burke Devlin would long maintain that Roger was at the wheel that night, and Roger that it had been Devlin driving. regardless of the truth, Elizabeth managed to protect her brother from a prison sentence for manslaughter, and Burke served the sentence in his place, forming a long-standing hatred for Roger and the entire Collins family and everything that they stood for. in exchange for her protection, Elizabeth ordered Roger out of Collinsport ( oh, twist his arm! ) sending him small payments to help get him on his feet. Roger married Laura the day after the trial, more of a final, smug victory over Burke than a gesture of true, asting love, and the two relocated to Augusta, Maine. very shortly after they were married, Laura revealed that she was pregnant. Roger was never certain that he was in fact the father, not Burke, and the suspicions formed a deep-seated hatred for his son, David, from the moment he was born. he was nothing like Carolyn. fussy as a baby, taking away all of Laura's attention, and unusual, morose and disturbing as he grew.

Laura's own health and mental well-being gradually declined, due to a combination of alcoholism and mental illness, and Roger had her confined to a hospital and the two permanently separated, though without a formal divorce. shortly after, feeling financial pressures ( and sick of taking care of David on his own ), Roger returned to Collinwood –– much to the annoyance of his sister. his arrival very nearly coincided with the end of Burke's prison sentence and his old enemy's return to Collinsport.

#dossier.#roger collins.

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lune-hime · 3 years

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Hi! Are you still writing? If not then disregard this, but I was wondering if you could write the first meeting between Logan and reader that was mentioned in Blast from the Past? I think there was something about a skateboard and a torrential downpour if I’m not mistaken haha. Thanks so much! And I love your fics btw :)

Hi! I am also a big fan of your writing too! :) Thank you so much for being incredibly patient with me on this request. I apologize for how long this has taken me to get out, preparing for graduate school has left me with much less time to write than I anticipated. I’m sorry for the wait, but I hope you enjoy the first meeting of dear reader and Mr. Kitty Claws <3

↞↠↞↠↞↠

Zzzt.

Do tell me, please, why you presently found yourself alone at sunset (which-by the way-you couldn’t even see through the thick, gravely, storm clouds) on a remote hiking trail, optimistically ignoring the forecast for torrential rain, with only a windbreaker, backpack, and your longboard tucked under your arm?

Zzzt.

I mean, really, this is how young women like you got chloroformed, dragged through the bramble, and stabbed on the stale and musty floorboards of a serial killer’s cabin.

Zzzt.

And you can’t even fucking skate on a mountain trail.

Zzzt Zzzt.

Did I mention no cell service either? Oh, and how about that creepy dead, freshly killed deer a few minutes back on the side of the trail?

Zzzzzt-zap.

This time your sharp reflexes and highly precisioned energy electrocuted two mosquitos out of this dimension before they could land on your collarbone.

I get it though, mosquitoes and the sky teetering on the edge of cracking open aside, this was what you needed right now. This is where you needed to be right now, even if this was the world’s most questionable hiking trip.

Canada was indeed everything you needed and more. Sure, you had to constantly use dingy porta-potties and lactic acid inducing manual labor while you were working in the field. But it was rewarding and interesting and most of all it gave you a break from..well...you.

It seemed a bizarre decision by your family to pack up and leave for another country, even if it was only one border away. From their perspective it was hard to comprehend why a woman in her mid twenties in the summer of her first year of graduate school at NYU would want to galivant around in the remote corners of British Columbia. She should be networking with scientists and politicians she’s met during her internships, attending lavish banquets for anthropological research, and of course extending her plus-one invites to her loving, supporting, family.

You audibly scoffed at their idealistic fantasy.

Charles and your friends at the mansion couldn’t have been more encouraging. When the professor had told you about the opportunity to work at archeological dig sites of ancient excavated First Nations villages in the farthest Canadian wilderness from New England yachts and neon kissed skyscrapers, you couldn’t say yes fast enough.

You mentally chanted to yourself that this was a much needed reset as the clouds hungrily followed the crunching of your boots against deceased maple leaves. The looming canopy of conifers seemed to gain density as your steps dodged the slugs that emerged from the dirt to worship the incoming blessings of rain. You let the creaking of the wind against the broad trunks of the pines and the grayed blanket of air wash the stress from the work week away and lull you into a false sense of calm.

The first droplets of rain tapped against the ferns in a gentle percussion as you weaved over precariously growing roots. You used your free hand to fling your hood up and zipped your jacked as far up as it could go in preparation for more precipitation. Through the thin fabric your ears picked up a rustling in the brush that was definitely too grounded to be the wind.

Playful, hoarse grunts erupted from the ferns as two grizzly cubs rolled out of the bushes and onto the path in front of you. Your eyes threatened to pop out of your head as you watched them tumble through the pine needles and bite at each other’s ears.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Curses looped across your mind as your breath began to quicken in the eerie silence that now overtook the forest. Azure energy crackled along the spaces between your fingers as they twitched in fear.

Shit , you were a city girl. And they never offered classes on how to defend yourself from threatening wildlife at university or the mansion. Are grizzlies the kind you need to play dead with? Or climb a tree? Fuck you couldn’t even climb the stairs half the time without getting winded. One thing you did know, however, was if the babies were here than their mother-

It happened so quickly that your mind struggled to keep pace with your fingers. An unmistakable breathy growl manifested to your right as the mother in question charged you. Your flight instinct was first to kick in as you scrambled backwards down the trail. You only got a few feet until the slick bark of the tree roots caused you to slip and tumble to the ground. Your board flew out of your grip as your butt hit a particularly plump root. You winced at the pain but didn’t have much time to nurse your fall when the lumbering beast was almost on top of you.

You choked out a cry as you sloppily turned over and began struggling to get to your knees. You felt yourself being lifted by your backpack as the bear’s teeth ripped through the canvas of your bag and threw you off the path. You flailed on your descent, landing on your stomach as hot tears began streaking down your terrified face. You felt yourself being shaken by the straps as she roughly tugged you from side to side. With a vigorous scream you flipped to your side, adrenaline contorting your fingers to expel electric energy. A boisterous crack sent shockwaves through the canopy. Angrily your assailant bellowed at the discomfort of your energy webbing itself through her face. She snorted but lurched forward once more, her jaws a ghost on your neck. Her hot breath barely dusted your cheeks before energy shot outwards from your hands that shielded your face from becoming dinner. A pained yelp followed by another crack met your ears as you placed your buzzing palms down. The bear and her babies were hightailing it off in your opposite direction. Instant guilt washed over you as you noticed the bald spots woven through her copper fur where your energy had badly burned her.

As you began trying to calm your spinning mind you glanced up, squinting through the droplets, to see that the crack you had heard was your energy raking through the treetops and searing them straight off. The gateway you had made for the rain now left you damp and wallowing in your painfully heaving chest, sore ass, and shame for hurting another creature.

Logan let out a sigh as the muscles of his shoulder blades stretched with the roll of his arms. His axe was weighty in his hand as he leaned down to pick up another piece of birch trunk and placed it on his chopping block. Arms up and axe over his head, he prepped himself for his swing and brought the axe down with a thunderous clap.

His brows furrowed at the commotion. Indeed, the wood was now evenly split, but the chopping block was still in one piece. He momentarily contemplated the limits of his strength when crows flew from their pined perches.

“That’s definitely not normal.” He muttered to himself. He focused all of his senses in the direction of the commotion when his ears picked up a scream. Instantly he ran to his pick up truck, forgetting he still clutched the axe in his hand. Once he was in the driver’s seat he chucked it into the back as he slammed his foot on the gas, wheels kicking up dust as he sped down the dirt road.

Logan drove until the first trailhead emerged from the thicket. He felt his claws nipping at the skin of his knuckles as he slammed the door and jogged across the soggy dirt. The screaming had ceased, but Logan could smell the musky stench of a bear nearby. Sure enough as he went deeper and deeper into the forest he saw sets of fresh tracks squelched into the mud. Retracing the animals’ steps he let out a breath of relief at the woman who was beginning to sit upright.

Halfway through dragging yourself upward you heard heavy footfalls on the path. Your head whipped towards the sound in dread, not mentally prepared for another attack. Your wide eyes met with those of a man; his sorrel tresses were dislodged from flying through the crisp breeze, his flannel was casually only buttoned mid chest, and lord his hands.

Your mouth fell agape at the metal daggers that resided between his knuckles. Their metallic sheen was amplified by the raindrops that cascaded down them. At first, you felt tinges of fear that he was the axe murderer that you had always been warned about. But in those eyes you could only read concern.

Logan picked up on your uneasiness and put his hands out in front of him in a non threatening gesture. The energy that still flickered about your body did not go unnoticed by him as he put the pieces of what must have happened together. The stench of bear, the booming, a hole in the trees, a young mutant lying on the ground in the aftermath of defending herself. He willed his claws ever so slowly back into his hands as he watched you become entrapped by his anomaly.

He was like you and you were like him.

“You’re-” You began, still gawking at his mutation. Logan was used to people ogling at him in fear, disdain, and abhorrence and even with you being a mutant he wouldn’t have put it past you to react the same. But your initial alarm had washed off with the steady stream of rain and what was revealed was a mixture of relief, apprehension, and curiosity.

“Mhm.” He simply answered with mutual acknowledgement. He battled with taking a few paces forward to help you up but he didn't want to stress you out any more than needed.

“What are you doing in my forest?” He asked as he watched you groan and finally sit up.

“What are you, the fairy guardian of this place?” You mumbled, riding out the final waves of your panic. Logan cocked an eyebrow in mild amusement. He waited while you rolled your wrists and checked yourself for any bleeding or sprains. You were satisfied with suffering only a few cuts to your cheek and arms where sticks had kissed just beneath your skin. The dull ache of where your tailbone struck the root took the place of your endorphins.

“Can I help you up?” Logan asked softly as he kept his hands visible and empty. You answered him with an apprehensive stare as you contemplated. You figured if he really wanted to hurt you, especially after realizing your powers, he would have already. When you nodded Logan walked towards you and offered you his hand.

“Are you gonna zap me?” He lightly chuckled before you could connect your palm with his. His comment offered a small smile from you.

“No, unless you try something.” Your quip faded into a grunt of discomfort as his strong arm pulled you to your feet.

“You alright? You don’t look like that bear took any chunks out of you.” He inquired as the warmth of his hand left your grasp.

“How did you know it was a bear?” You asked with a knitted brow.

“I heard you scream and saw bear tracks on my way here.” He responded simply. You hummed and let out a shaky exhale when the coil in your lower back tightened as you attempted to stretch it.

“I’m fine, just shaken up. I’m more worried for the bear…” You trailed off as your guilty conscience overcame your thoughts. Even when you could have become their next family meal, you had reservations about using your mutation to hurt others. Logan huffed in disbelief at your selflessness.

“Seems like you didn’t really have much of a choice. What else could you do; its not like PETA will ever find out.” He shrugged. You kept your guard tilted high but even gilded iron defenses couldn’t keep you from observing his handsomeness. In the newfound proximity you wandered the hazel pathways of his irises in the company of the distinct smell of cigar and pine. He wore the rugged boyishness of a young man in his smooth skin and wolfish smile. It clashed ever so lovely with the maturity that embodied his stance and sturdy build.

To any dismay you could have had, the roses that bloomed on your cheeks did not go unnoticed by him. Alluring curiosity spread across his face. He wouldn’t deny that-despite your disheveled hair, the dirt that coated your jaw, and the aura of a wet puppy-he found you beautiful. Any seductions that ran through his mind aside, he liked to think he was chivalrous enough to push the brakes on a girl who just got mauled by a bear.

“So, wanna explain why you were electrocuting a bear on a remote hiking trail?” He pressed as he shifted his weight to one side, bringing his boot to prop up and rest on a protruding root. You gulped, your pride about getting lost still dangling from a few frayed threads.

“Do you wanna explain why-uh-you’re also here on this remote hiking trail?” You countered and crossed your arms. Your voice quaked with residual nerves that were the opposite of threatening.

Logan stared at you through the rain. The clouds were weeping more intensely now and their tears kissed his dark lashes.

“I have a summer cabin. Gonna answer my question before we both end up taking showers out here?” He replied with a tinge of annoyance as his hair grew slick with the incoming rain.

In the space that filled your gap in speech, a vivacious thunderclap steam rolled through the sky. As if on cue, the rain absolutely poured through the leafy umbrella above you and instantly began soaking the two of you.

“Shit!” Logan exclaimed at the now sticky feeling of his flannel to his chest. You flipped the hood of your raincoat up as quickly as you could, but not before your head was thoroughly waterboarded.

“WHAT NOW?” You shouted over the roaring water. Logan’s brow furrowed under the assault of droplets.

“My car is parked not that far from here.” He yelled with a nod in the direction he came from. You bit your lip nervously at the thought of following a strange man to his vehicle.

“How do I know you’re not some weirdo?” You contended.

“We’re both weirdos, sweetheart.” The term of endearment slid so effortlessly on the remark about your mutations and left your cheeks hot against the cold rain. “You can trust me, or you can get soaked out here. Your choice.”

What other option did you really have? Your mutation couldn’t protect you from freezing nor could you send sparks into a wet log to create a fire. He obviously knew this area well, he made sure you were unhurt, and he was like you. You took solace in all of these notions and reminded yourself that you could use your abilities as a last resort.

“Fine. But metal is a great conductor for electricity just so you know.” You warned and Logan cracked a half smile. He then began jogging up the trail.

“WAIT.” You called and he halted in his tracks. You ran over to the brush and sifted through the ferns to tuck your longboard under your arm. Logan did not have the time to question the absurdity of you bringing that with you on a hike but a look of perplexity was evident on his glistening features. He ran at a much slower pace than he would have had he been alone. He made sure he could hear the squelching of your footfalls as you pushed through the stinging at your tailbone and followed him back to his truck.

He unlocked the rusty vessel swiftly and the two of you plopped onto the pleasantly dry seats. You threw your longboard on the floor of the passenger’s seat and heaved a sigh of relief to be out of those woods. You immediately slipped your soggy shoes and socks off. While you peeled your drenched raincoat from your form, you glanced around the interior of the car.

Not trashy-save an empty beer bottle and an orange Reese's wrapper.

No guns. You figured he didn’t need a gun with claws like those.

A worn, auburn leather jacket hanging off of one of the back seats.

“At least you don’t have an axe.” You chuckled more to yourself than him. Logan comically averted his eyes ever so slowly to the back seat. He sighed when he didn’t see the weapon in question for it must have fallen under the seat.

Logan's car was getting an all natural, no expenses paid power wash as the two of you stared in awe as the rain slid down the windshield in swift rivers. It left zero visibility outwards aside from the running water.

“I...don’t think you can drive through this.” You stated the obvious.

“No shit.” He replied, his voice laced with a velvet rumble off of the metal frames of the vehicle. “We’ll have to wait it out.”

You nodded and couldn’t fight the large shiver that sprung from your lower back all the way up to your ears. Your torso may have been kept dry but your head was soaked and so were your legs. Logan arched his back to reach behind the driver’s seat to grab his jacket from the back.

“Here.” He offered gently, straightening it out and laying it on your lap.

You blinked at his simple act of kindness. Grabbing the smooth leather, you brought your knees to your chest and layered the jacket over your body from your legs to your shoulders. Heat rose to your cheeks as it did the rest of your body as you curled into his jacket.

“Thanks.” You said and gave him a grateful smile. “Aren’t you cold too though? You didn’t have a raincoat on.”

“I’m fine. One of the...perks of my genetics.” He replied in dismissal of your concern.

“Damn, kitty claws and not being able to feel the cold? You lucked out, dude.” You commented with a light hearted tease. Joking made you feel less vulnerable, less stupid for putting yourself in this situation. Logan rolled his eyes at the frilly name for his adamantium blades.

“I know your mutation before I even know your name.” You commented with a small chuckle.

“Logan.” He answered, the velvety gravel of his voice rippling through the rain at the windshield.

“Nice to meet you, Logan. I’m Y/N.” You said and held your hand out expectantly. When you locked gazes, both of you were temporarily enamored in the chromatics of your eyes. He seemed to realize this before you and smoothly took your hand in his without ever wavering his eye contact. He gave your hand a quick shake and withdrew it back into his lap. His palm was so warm against your clammy skin. It made you wonder how the rest of him felt.

“I honestly didn’t expect to meet anyone out here, let alone another mutant.” You exhaled at the lingering impossibility of the situation.

“That's why I’m here, usually it's pretty barren people wise. That brings me back to my question; what are you doing out here?” He pressed. As he waited for an answer, he shifted to relax into the corner between the seat and the window, amber eyes alight in the dimmed shadow of the rain. You fiddled with the worn hem of your makeshift blanket for a few moments, letting the waterfall outside fill the silence.

“Today was supposed to be a relaxing break from work. Evidently it didn’t turn out that way.” You exhaled and leaned your head back on the seat’s headrest. “I saw this park along the way to one of my work sites and thought it looked like a good place to be alone. Now I know to research bear population concentrations before going anywhere.”

Logan understood. That’s the whole reason he lived half of his life as what some would proclaim as a hermit. Partially to save others from getting hurt by him and partially to keep himself from getting burned by the unknown mistakes of his past and the anonymity of his stolen memories. He wasn’t your dad so he wasn’t going to hound you too much about it. But, even if you held the power to break the trees with a thunderclap, he couldn’t help the protective feeling that bubbled up his throat for the sweet woman next to him.

“Do you always charge head on into places you know nothing about? And with a skateboard?” His words betrayed his increasing fondness for your adventurous spirit.

You didn’t come all the way to Canada to be lectured. (Well, besides in your internship.) The question could have been taken as aggressive, judgmental, or prying even. But in his tone was genuine curiosity framed underneath the light scolding.

“I thought it would be fun to learn how to longboard while I’m out here for the summer.” You confessed and sent a testing look this way. He let out a rich chuckle.

“And a hiking trail is the ideal place for that.”

“I thought maybe there would be a bridge or paved path…” You scowled at his sarcasm.

“I get it though, we all need alone time. And there’s not a better place than the forest to do that.” A sigh tailed his sweet comment. You were grateful for it, for despite his banter, he didn’t make you feel like a stupid kid. Not entirely, at least.

“You’re not from around here then?” He continued.

“No, I’m from New York actually. I’m here on a grad school internship.”

“Ah, a city girl. That explains the blind enthusiasm.” The corner of his mouth turned up in a cocky half smile. Your glare only grew in intensity at his teasing.

“Long way from home.” He noted and you hummed in agreement.

“Is your degree in wildlife conservation?” He threw you one final lithe jab.

“Haha.” You said pointedly, but you couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across your lips at his handsome amusement. “No, cultural anthropology, actually.” Logan let out an impressed whistle.

“What about you? Are you one of those people who abandoned their life to live off the grid?” You asked tentatively, realizing the conversation had been solely focused on you.

“Not exactly. I’ve got a couple cabins across the country-like summer and winter homes. When I’m out here, I work at the lumber yard. When I’m in Alberta, I work at a bar.” He responded as he wiped the condensation from his side of the window, a hopeless attempt at checking through the wall of rain.

“So you’re both a lumberjack and a bartender? Wow, eclectic.” You praised his line of work.

“More or less.” He left out that the only things he tended to at the bar were bloodied knuckles after embedding them into his opponent's gut during each cage match.

You chatted idly as the rain continued to wash away the hectic afternoon. You talked about your work, about your home. He talked about his cabin, about his travels through BC and Alberta. Between your lips the two of you wove personal stories but excluded intimate details. He was still a stranger, after all. Even if the complexity of his humble nature and mysterious lifestyle made him one of the most compelling strangers you had ever met.

As the storm raged on and time flowed in waves at your windows, you began to doze off. Logan resigned to resting his eyes himself while keeping his ears peeled for a let up in the rain or any disturbances.

Until he heard your little grunt of discomfort.

In your sleep your head had grown heavy and lolled to the side at such an angle that Logan was sure you would wake up with an insane neck cramp. As gingerly as he could, he rolled up your now dry raincoat, gently placed his hand on your cheek, and propped your head onto the makeshift pillow. His eyes softened at the utter peacefulness of your relaxed form; the way your eyelashes embraced your plump cheeks, and in your tranquility the erasure of any semblance of the past few hours.

“What?” You whispered, pretty eyes now meeting his in groggy sweetness. Logan blinked in surprise but didn’t take his eyes off of you. He felt delicate wings against the chambers of his heart.

“Stop looking at me like that.” He warned lightly. Under your honeyed look his nerves felt like they were being bathed in a pleasant hum. He wondered if your energy could feel like this.

“You’re a secret softie.” You declared with a sleepy giggle. Logan pursed his lips at the cute accusation, but didn’t deny it.

“Go back to sleep, bub.” He said lowly. You let the warm tambour of his voice mixed with the crisp pitter patter of the rain send you back to sleep.

When the storm would finally pass, Logan would drive you back into town. You would part ways, then, not knowing the impact you would have on each other’s lives mere months later after the summer rain bled into the crimson fall and arrived on Xavier’s School’s winter doorstep.

#fanfiction #marvel #marvel fanfiction #xmen #x men fanfiction #logan #logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan x reader #wolverine #wolverine x reader #reader insert #marvel x reader #Marvel x Y/N

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littlemisslipbalm · 3 years

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I live in the neighbourhood Part 2

Part 2 is hereeeeee YAY! There will be a part 3 eventually :) I hope you enjoy and as well lmk you loved it with reblogs and messages, they truly make my day and y’know do it for other writers too, trust me we all love it. this fucking gif still gets me,,, but anyway there is so much i want to talk about in this part its killing me so plssss message me about it aghghghggh idk what else to say

um this part is filled with: yn not knowing cars, harry being a dork, almost kisses and kisses , but daddy i love him, the crown, gardening, and so much more mwah

Read Part 1

Word Count: 10.8k | Warnings: minor anxiety attack, swearing?, drinking, think that’s it (some more taylor swift)

“You want me to what?!” She feels herself all but scream.

He sighs in exasperation and ruffles his freshly cut curls. He can’t help the smile that grows shortly after his sigh. Y/N’s reaction on the other end of the line has sent him into a fit of giggles that he has to suppress quickly when she sends a warning ‘Harry’.

“It’s simple, love,” He twists to lay on his stomach. “I left you the spare to my place. Just go in, find my car keys and then drive to the airport and snap me up!”

She sighs now over the phone as she contemplates whether she could truly go into Harry’s home and then drive his surely expensive car to the airport and get him. It was something a friend would do for another friend, especially one who was a neighbour and especially a neighbour who had nothing better to do on a Friday night.

“Alright,” she says finally, “I’ll be there on Friday, text me the flight number.”

She grins when she hears a little “woo” from Harry. Even if he’s smiling half a world away it still made her happy to know it was because of her.

They had mostly texted each other randomly over the past three weeks while Harry had been away in California. She told him about her job, which he insisted was endlessly interesting and she countered that he found it interesting because it was new to him and eventually the grandeur would wear off. She loved her job, of course, it was for a public relations company that dealt with various London based companies and she was on multiple accounts with various clients ranging from tech companies to music artists. But she didn’t think it was as interesting as Harry made it out to be.

Harry told her about the filming of the movie and about everyone on set. He told her how he bought everyone on the crew his new ‘Treat People With Kindness’ sweatshirts and joked how he’d have to get her one as well to match her other one. She noted that one of Harry’s love languages was very obviously gift giving. He was so generous and she really admired that from him considering how successful he was. Her father was an accountant so she knew how rich people could be about their money sometimes, hiding it away in different entities just so their money can make money instead of spending it on things that matter.

He said everyone was nice and amazing overall, he gushed about people’s performances, but he’d always end with how much he missed London. He liked LA, he would assure her, but then he’d say how it wasn’t home-y at all. London was home to him. She would smile whenever he said that because she felt that way too, even though she wasn’t originally from the city, it just felt like home to her.

One night, he even confided in her his loneliness while on set. He wondered that maybe it was because he had no real roots in LA, nothing to go home to - no home to go to. She tried to reassure him that he wasn’t alone and all he had to do was ask and any person from the movie would love to spend time with him. He nodded along to her words, but they both knew he was being overly kind when he said everyone was nice. Not everyone in Hollywood was nice and certainly not everyone in Hollywood had substance. He searched for a month and seldom found time where he was truly relaxed with others and enjoying himself. More than ever he was excited to return home to London to say the least.

“Harry!”

She jumped out of her seat and into his arms, her cheek brushing his as she leaned in. He stood just on the sidewalk by his car that she had gingerly driven into the city and to the airport at 9pm on a Friday night in November.

The car was a dark blue vintage convertible, Mercedes-Benz, she was pretty sure but she really was completely clueless when it came to cars. Harry had taken her call right before his flight took off and walked her through finding the car. He had two garages and one garage had two cars and the other had only one. She had gone on her own and found the first garage with the two cars and seen a lime green tiny little vintage convertible and a cherry red vintage non-convertible and became distraught that there was no navy car. When Harry picked up the phone he had been greeted with some yelling about how he must be colorblind if he thought one of these cars was navy and he had laughed heartily before explaining that there was another garage. She had huffed and traipsed through his house until she came upon the other garage. When she saw the blue car she was equally annoyed and elated. “Thank fucking god,” she muttered over the line and Harry had laughed, but found himself cut off when the line went dead.

He smiled and groaned slightly at her tight embrace. He was happy to be back in England after a month away and he was happy to have her in his arms even if he didn’t know whether he should admit that.

“It’s good to see you,” he musters and he feels her smile into his neck. The only fabric between her face and him being his thin waffle knit long sleeve. He could feel her breath softly against him. He pets at the back of her hair, “Thank you for coming to get me, I know it might have been a bit much to ask.”

“Don’t mention it,” she pulls back from his embrace and smiles happily up at him, “What are friends for?”

She brushes her hands at his shoulders and then moves to start putting his luggage in his car. He had two suitcases and a backpack with him, but he had told her he had more stuff sent over that would just be sent simply to his home. She had texted back a shocked face emoji when he said that, unaware that he traveled with that much stuff.

“Right,” Harry affirms, twitching into action at the word ‘friends’. He felt like they had gotten so close over the last month even though they had only talked over the phone for that time. Seeing her in person now felt like she had been his friend for years.

Once in the car, Y/N settles back in the driver’s seat, not wanting Harry to have to drive after the horrible flight from California to London. A direct flight was just about as bad as layovers in Ohio or Utah. She wasn’t sure what it was like in First Class, but she still knew it was rough being on an aircraft for 10 plus hours.

Harry closes his eyes beside her after a moment. He had watched her settle in the car with his head against the headrest, his eyes drooping as they regarded her movements. She was so sweet to him and he nodded when she asked if he wanted his seat warmer on.

“You’re too good to me, pet,” he whispers, head lulling once again.

She glances at him swiftly as she pulls out of the loading area. He smiled contentedly before drifting off to sleep.

She turned the music low and silently drove them back to Sherwood Avenue. When she pulled the car into Harry’s garage, she sat there for a few moments as Harry softly breathed beside her. She had hoped he’d wake up upon their arrival so she wouldn’t have to wake him, but alas he was sound asleep.

She watched him, he was so quiet in this moment. So unlike how he normally was with her, talking about everything and nothing almost constantly. She liked that side of him. But she had to admit something about him this peaceful was just as entrancing.

The flutter of his eyelids brought her out of her reverie and she was grateful for the dim lighting in the garage because when Harry’s eyes focused on her she was blushing.

He quirks a brow and his smirk begins to settle back on his lips. “Home,” he raspily mumbles and begins to shift in his sea.

She nods and smiles softly, shaking off all the thoughts had been going through her mind.

“We’re back,” she affirms. “Let’s get you inside, sleepy boy.”

Harry shakes off his slumber with a rub at his right eye and a run through his hair. He climbs out of the car. She throws him the keys at his silent instruction of an extended hand and an eyebrow raise. She knows she read him correctly when he smiles sweetly and travels to the boot of his car to begin unloading the suitcases he was in charge of.

She follows him and rounds the end of the car, preparing to take some of his luggage.

“You don’t need to carry anything, it’s fine, dove.”

His voice is extra gravelly still and she would’ve complained about the new nicknames if he hadn’t sounded so hot. She didn’t think she had any feelings for Harry other than friendship, she was almost sure of it. Sure he was attractive, but ever since she actually got to know him she hadn’t thought of him in a way that could be considered more than friendship. He made her blush, but he was just inherently smooth. It wasn’t because he was specifically flirting with her.

Except right now, the whole reuniting of it all paired with his voice and his sleepy eyes that she imagined likely looked similar to his bedroom eyes. She was having a hard time seeing that line of friendship.

“No!” She protested, tugging the backpack he was attempting to carry along with the two suitcases from him.

He sighs and sets down one of the cases, “Y/N, you’ve already been too good to me by picking me up. I’m not making you do any more physical labor with any of my heavy shit.”

“It can’t be that heavy,” she pulls the backpack on and she resists the slight step back her body wants to take from the weight of the backpack.

“Give it back,” he says, sounding concerned for her.

“It’s fine, I’ve got it, Har,” she smiles and gives a little twirl in his large garage, the backpack making her look a bit smaller.

He twists his lips trying to ward off a smile. He wasn’t annoyed, moreso he was delighted by her antics. He wanted to scoop her up in his arms and kiss her.

“Oh you got it? Do you?” His amusement betrays his British accent, making him sound like he did at 19. He places the other case on the ground and walks quickly to stand right in front of her.

She squeals as he gets so close, his nose just about brushes hers. He’s smiling sinisterly as he takes hold of the straps of the backpack and tries to tug them off of her. Yet, she holds on tight to the front of them, laughing happily at their silliness and causing her nose to brush against his.

Their eyes are strong on each other, watching their every move. And they settle a little, laughter dying out, breathing evening out. Her hands are still strong on the front straps of the backpack, while Harry’s are strong on the top of her shoulders, wrapped around the backpack’s straps as well.

He licks his lips, feeling especially interested in seeing how hers finally taste. Right as he is about to lean in, brush his lips against hers, she pulls from his grasp, swinging away from him and dashing to the door that leads to the rest of his house.

“C’mon, it’s freezing out here!” She twists the nob of the door and beckons him.

He huffs, shaking himself out of the daydream he had almost made reality. He wanted to kick himself, he felt like a kid. He needed to get a grip.

“I’m right behind ya’,” he called, nodding his head to tell her to go before him.

Her smile sears in his mind like the shine on a brand new coin as she flicks on the light in the entryway. The light comes flooding in the doorway and around her. For that quick moment only she is illuminated in his eyes. She shines for him and he wonders if it’s possible to drown in light.

Next Thursday

“Crown came out on Sunday!” Harry said as he opened the door, knowing it was Y/N who had knocked.

“Had no clue from the ominous text you sent, ‘come over, i promise popcorn *crown emoji*’,” she laughs and enters the house and holds out a bag of chocolate chips.

“I already have it queued up and popcorn’s popping!” He says happily and takes the chocolate chips to put in little dishes.

They walk into the kitchen and she’s still in awe of his home. It was clean and sleek but with all the hominess still easily found if you looked a little closer. Tea cloths hanging over the ovens’ handles that had interlocking G’s - a facet of Gucci she could only assume. Various paintings of different scenes, one a Japanese store front and another a Blue Jay perched easily on a thin branch.

There were unique painted tiles that he must use for hot plates and a single fancy floral mug tucked next to an espresso machine and just little things that she was keen on exploring at some point, but Harry caught her attention.

“Adult slushie?” He inquires with an arched brow.

“Does the slushie perform exotic dances?” She asks jokingly.

Harry rolls his eyes and chuckles, “Sometimes those that drink it do.”

She reddens at his implication. He then looks at her seriously and she regards him with utter delight. Her eyes twinkle as he moves about his home with ease.

“If you make it,” she confirms, in awe that he would make cocktails on this random occasion.

He smiles at her and begins his final tasks, checking to make sure the popcorn doesn’t burn and grabs the ingredients he needs to make the drink he was thinking of.

She stands beside him, eyes constantly wondering between his moving physique and his home.

“Did you know I know Emma?” Harry asks, looking up from the blender. She notices how his neck muscles twist and strain as he gazes at her. He was wearing a white t-shirt with ‘But Daddy I Love Him’ in a red vintage font and a black cardigan with different colorful objects on it, mostly flowers, it said ‘Spaceboy’ on the back and she had smiled when she saw it when he led her to the kitchen.

She hums, her gaze focused on him. His green eyes flicker across her face and down her body, simply taking into account her outfit. Pink sweatpants and a long sleeve with a drawing of a cute little clown holding two guns up at the air. While it might have sounded like a weird thing to have printed on a shirt, he found it fun, he was always appreciative of different clothing. Of course she had a gun-slinging clown shirt that she managed to make sweet, he thought.

“Fascinating connections of the rich and famous,” she muses.

“Yeah, well, Susan - Harry Lambert,” he corrects his friend’s nickname, catching himself, “he styles us both so we’ve met a few times. She’s really lovely.”

“That’s pretty epic,” she says and wanders closer to Harry, wanting a better look at his progress on the drinks.

Her hand rests on the countertop next to the two glasses he intends to place the ‘slushies’ into. The liquor he used just said “Blue” and she wondered what blue would taste like as he pours the glasses now. The consistency of them being relatively slushie like, she was impressed.

Her smile gives it away and Harry eyes her, “What’re you smiling at?”

“I’m admiring your bartending skills,” she meets his eyes and she realizes how rather close they’ve gotten as he leans slightly over her and the countertop.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he says playfully, “I take my mixology very seriously so I don’t want any praise until you’ve actually tried it.”

He holds the glass up to her and instead of grabbing it from him, she simply guides it to her lips. Her hand lightly grasping at the soft fabric of his cardigan. She parts her lips and takes a small sip, maintaining eye contact with Harry.

When the icey liquid passes her lips, her eyes flutter shut at the sweetness of the drink, it was like candy but with a light kick at the end from the alcohol. She loved it and when she opened her eyes again she took the drink from Harry’s strong hand and took another sip.

“This is dangerously good,” she finally says and Harry grins.

“Fantastic! Now we’re ready to start the show,” and he leads them into his living room that is just as big or bigger than his kitchen. A large screen television and a turquoise velvet couch are the main attractions of the room, at least what Y/N is focused on. There’s more art and posters up in this room, a lovely round coffee table and gorgeous vintage rug.

“Wait, Susan?” she circles back to Harry’s earlier comment about Emma Corin and their shared stylist.

Harry smiles and sits next to her comfortably, placing the drinks on coasters and the other various items on the coffee table.

“It’s my nickname for Harry since we’re both...Harry. Just felt silly calling each other Harry and Sue and Susan, they just fit so well.”

She nods, “I see.” But she didn’t really get it. She’d never had a friend where they only called each other a different name from their own, maybe a nickname that she would occasionally call them, but never one so ingrained that she would call them it when referring to them to someone else who surely didn’t know them and wouldn’t know them by the different name. Not that she really knew who Harry Lambert was in the first place, but it still made more sense than Susan. She shook it off just as another quirk of Harry being who he was.

They settle in for the show and they love talking through it, which Y/N was happy that Harry liked to talk during shows as well. She hated when people shushed her during movies and shows when she had something to say. They commented on the fashion and how wild some of the stuff was. Thankfully, as well, even Harry thought some of the things the royals did were absurdly lavish.

“He is so hot,” she finally says when Prince Charles is on the screen for another time and she can’t keep it in anymore, “How could they cast him for Prince Charles, they are far too kind.”

“Josh?” Harry questions, glancing over at his friend curled up on the couch next to him. She had her feet tucked beneath her legs and had her body on its side while staring at the television.

“Don’t tell me you know him too?” She says, taking her focus off the TV to look at Harry, a chocolate chip landing in her mouth once she finished talking.

Their blue slushies had been finished and the popcorn was half eaten. She was pretty sure they were on the second episode already.

He laughs, “No, but Emma says he’s very nice...He is rather attractive.”

That makes her smile, the both of them finding an actor attractive. It felt like Harry was like one of her friends from home, chatting about boys, something she really didn’t do anymore.

“Maybe you can introduce us,” she laughs, her head nudging at Harry’s shoulder beside her.

She doesn’t notice Harry’s lack of mirth at her joke as she turns her attention back to the screen, re-immersing herself in the plot. He twitches slightly uncomfortably at the thought of him introducing her to someone she might be interested in romantically.

“Why not,” he says half-heartedly and he hopes she doesn’t notice his tone.

The next day was Friday and she had the day off as per usual.

After three episodes of the Crown, she and Harry had decided to call it a night. He had offered that she could spend the night so she didn’t have to walk home after she had refused to let him walk her across the street. However, she declined, saying she didn’t like leaving Rori alone at night, especially since he was still getting used to the new house. Harry had understood but she could tell he was saddened by her leaving.

She had decided to plant some flowers in her front yard, hoping to liven it up. She had bought some plants at the local flower shop, pansies and aster thinking that purple and gold would look lovely together. She planned to set to work with little experience, but plenty of intention. Rori was outside with her for moral support, prancing through the growing grass and nibbling at the shrubs, more like a bunny than a dog.

Her mother had gifted her gardening tools a long time ago and their entire family had laughed because they knew Y/N didn’t have a green anything, most definitely not a green thumb. Today she had grabbed them and the plants and had placed it all in front of her planters. Then she sat there and went on her phone, scrolling through it mindlessly. She had no idea what she was doing or where to start so getting distracted was easy.

“Need any help?”

Her head turns and she slides away her phone with a sigh, knowing exactly who had just kindly asked to lend a hand.

Harry squints down at her and in this moment she is especially aware of just how tall Harry actually is. Normally she notices his height and thinks ‘yeah he’s tall’, but right now he towers over her. His hair is catching the surprising fall sun and causing glints of gold to radiate off him. His eyes are especially light right now and she feels oddly unnerved by their color, the hazy mint of some kind of predator. He is such a presence and she thought she had finally gotten used to him being in her life, but in this moment she is taken aback. She shakes her head after a moment too long of staring up at him.

“Hi,” she breathes and stands up from her sitting position. “I was just starting to do some planting, and I don’t know if you can tell but I have no gardening skills whatsoever.”

She gestures to her set up and Harry turns his gaze from her to the plants and smiles. He had been coming back from his morning jog and instead of entering his gate, he walked through hers. He looks at everything and reaches down to pet Rori when he comes running up happily to his friend.

“Well, it looks like a good start. Aster is an interesting thing to plant…” He kneels down to start digging up the soil in the planters.

She kneels beside him and watches him attentively. “I wanted chrysanthemums, they’re one of my favorites. But they were out, so it will have to do.”

“It will do perfectly,” he looks up at her from his work, “you wouldn’t have picked it if it wasn’t amazing.”

She makes a small smile at his statement, but doesn’t respond. Instead, she takes up mimicking his actions with the soil.

“Do you garden a lot?” Her voice is soft, not wanting to disturb the quiet that had fallen over them.

“Not much anymore, I don’t really have the time, but I used to with my mum.”

She hums and scratches behind Rori’s ears absentmindedly when he looks curiously at what they’re doing.

They work silently, only talking intermittently. At one point, she grabs them glasses of water from the kitchen, mostly for Harry because he’s actually working up a sweat planting her garden. Harry hums random songs that are on his mind and she wishes he would sing for her, but she would never dare ask him to.

They talk about the Crown and how much they loved all the clothes in it last night and where the plot is going since they know the true history it’s based on. Harry offers British insight into the Royals that she had never thought about and they even venture into British politics which she admits she never really thought about since usually the US politics is far more in the spotlight.

He talks about his views on politics and she gives hers, even stranger though they even venture further into usually rocky territory and discuss religion. She is very interested by what Harry has to say about religion, his answers are both completely expected and unexpected. Something she’s noticed about Harry with her is that she always seems to be surprised by what he says, but it still manages to make complete sense after a moment.

“I’m going back to LA tomorrow,” Harry muses as he regards one of the pansies, like he’s almost staring it straight in the eye.

“Oh?” She turns to face him.

She stops her aimless moving about of the dirt. She had mostly been playing with the dirt while he did the majority of the work. She just didn’t enjoy it. Harry had definitely made the activity palatable. She’d have to tell him she would have likely given up an hour ago had he not been there.

He sighs and sets the pansy into the hole in the soil he had made for it. “More shooting for the movie, I’ll be gone for another month.”

“Wow…I think saying goodbye to you is just going to get harder and harder.” She looks away, her arms crossing over herself instinctively when the wind blows just a little too hard.

Harry looks at her now and sees her curling in on herself and he wants to hug her, but they weren’t like that. Instead he places a hand on her shoulder, rubbing it slowly up and down trying to offer her some warmth.

“I think we’ve made enough progress today. It’s starting to get cold, hm?”

She looks at him now and nods, her hand moving up and capturing his in hers. Like they had when Harry walked her home after his game, their fingers twist and turn around each other. Their eyes shying between each other’s faces and interlocked hands.

She springs to her feet after a couple quiet minutes of dodging eye contact and simply enjoying the feel of one another against each other.

“I should thank you for all this help,” she starts and Harry gets up to stand, beginning to say there is no need for a thank you for what he did.

“No, no.” She stops him, “I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without your help and I took up all of your day, practically.” She takes hold of his hands now to examine the dirt that has managed to cover them since he was convinced that she should wear the gloves her mother gave her. “You should come over tonight and I’ll cook you dinner. I’m a much better cook than I am a gardener.”

Harry looks at her quietly, his eyes blinking slowly. Like he’s basking in the small movements she’s making on his hands. She traces the little cross that straddles his thumb and pointer finger on his left hand.

“I’ll make sure to bring dessert then.” He smiles and tilts his head to the right and a little forward towards her. She gazes up at him softly. “I might even bring something extra special.”

She raises her brows, “A special treat from Harry Styles himself. I’ll be anxiously awaiting your return then.” She taunts him only slightly because what he had said just about brought her to her knees. The way his smile had shifted to a smirk and how his voice has grown quiet and low, it just felt very intimate.

Harry returns at half past six, as requested by Y/N. He was freshly showered and cologned and she had never found a man more attractive than in that moment. Before he came over he told her he was dressing nice and she had no idea what that might mean with him. But when she saw him, she understood.

What it meant was a crisp blue big collared Gucci dress shirt unbuttoned almost half way down his chest revealing his ever present cross and fitted high waisted brown trousers. His fresh haircut meant for the 50’s slicked back with pieces beginning to fall about just perfectly. No belt, no cufflinks, and no suit coat. Instead of a coat he had on a jacket that was similar to her giraffe jacket he had borrowed all those days ago. His own was comfortably settled over his shoulders and it was obviously made of fabrics far nicer than hers and wasn’t fraying in any place.

He posed in her doorway and even gave a twirl at which time Y/N laughed happily. It looked amazing on him, she had no idea how her jacket had been the thing that started this all.

“How do you like it?” He asks seriously. “Does it look alright?”

“It looks perfect on you, Har. Is that the extra special surprise?”

He smirks smugly at her compliment and comes into the home, greeting Rori quickly before following her back into the kitchen where she was still cooking.

“Oh no,” he says and places a bag filled with a bottle of red wine and a pint of her favorite ice cream on the counter (and the surprise tucked neatly at the bottom of the bag).

She looks at him quizzically as he begins to take the items out of the bag.

“There’s one last thing in there,” he points to the bag casually, while putting the ice cream in her freezer. “Do ya’ mind grabbing it for me, dove?”

She rolls her eyes and reaches into the bag. Her hand retrieves a magazine from the bottom of the bag and when she flips it over to the front side, a gasp escaped her lips.

“Harry! Oh my god!” Her hand goes to her mouth as she takes in the cover.

A US Vogue magazine with Harry on the front of it. He’s blowing up a balloon in the photo and he looks beautiful. His skin is flawless and his hair is luscious and flowing a little longer than he kept it now due to the movie.

“I’m a Vogue cover model now, eh?” He asks, looking on apprehensively as she begins to gingerly flick her fingers through the magazine’s pages.

“This is the surprise?” She looks up from the page with him and Gemma sitting side by side.

Harry nods and watches her absentmindedly trace his face on the page.

“Do you like the pictures?” His voice is soft and almost timid?

“Of course!” She exclaims, not wanting to let any doubts pass through Harry’s mind. “Is this what you were doing up in Scotland a couple months ago, right before we became friends and you said you wanted to surprise me with something top secret?”

He nods again, his grin creeping onto his face as she stares at the photo of him in the cover photo’s outfit where you can see the entire dress.

“I want that dress...did they let you keep it?” She continues flicking through the pages lightly and glancing at Harry across from her. The dinner forgotten for the moment.

“It’s Gucci, I didn’t keep it, but I’m sure I could call Susan and get you one ordered,” he replies easily, leaning over the counter to watch the magazine.

She scoffs, “I can’t afford a Gucci gown for no reason...AND before you try to say you’ll pay for it, I would never accept such a gift and I am so for real about that, Harry.”

He waves his hands out in front of him as if to say he’d never suggest such a thing even though they both knew he’d buy it for her in a heartbeat.

“These pants…” she mutters, eyes now fixed on the trousers Harry is wearing in a specific photo in the magazine. They’re tan with a darker stripe on the side of them but the most intriguing part is all of the different drawings on it that seemed to be all related to Harry.

“They’re fab, no?” He quirks a brow at her, his face still holding an apprehensive grin like she’ll take back her praise at a moment’s notice.

“So fab,” she echoes. “Are they bespoke?” Her question has a hint of sarcasm dripping behind it, knowing by now Harry was notorious for custom-made items.

“What gave it away?” He wiggles his brows.

Her eyes flicker to meet his and she sees they’ve ended up face to face once again. It seemed to happen too often with one another. She settles the magazine down and stands up straight. She couldn’t allow herself to indulge in the proximity of his inviting lips. The proximity of his warmth that had seemed to seep into all facets of her life in the last two months or so. It was wonderful and warm, but it wasn’t hers. She shared him with so many other people and she couldn’t get carried away with him because tomorrow he’d be gone.

“That really is amazing Harry. I’m very proud of you, but if you don’t want a burnt dinner, I need to start paying attention to what I’m cooking.” She turns away from him and she quickly takes a palm to swipe beneath her eye, collecting the stray liquid that somehow fell from her eye. Funny thing, she wasn’t cooking with onions.

Harry doesn’t notice the movement, simply sighing that she turned from him yet again. He ran a hand through his hair, further tousling the once coiffed hairdo and then twisted his ‘H’ ring around his finger before settling on a bar stool to flip through the magazine and watch her cook.

“When does the magazine come out?” She calls as she stirs the sauce that she’d be pouring over their spaghetti squash once it was finished baking.

“Next week, They’ll release the story online and then I’ll be hitting shelves,” he muses, reading a different story in the magazine, not particularly interesting in himself.

“I’m sure you’ll be flying off those shelves the second you’re placed down.” She laughs at her joke and Harry rubs his lips with his thumb and forefinger thoughtfully.

“You think so?” His eyes sparkle with mischief at his question.

She turns her head, an open-mouthed grin already on her face, a slight scoff falling from her mouth, “Oh c’mon, you know so. I think you’re one of the most loved men in the world and people fall more and more in love each year.” She almost added ‘and I don’t blame them’ but she refrained thankfully.

“Most loved...I like that. Such an interesting way to put it.”

“I mean, you’ve been famous for what? Ten years now? That’s a long time and I don’t think you’re going anywhere...At this point it’s not about how big your celebrity star is, it’s your level of belovedness and I think that level is quite high.” She comments on something about Harry they never talked too much of. Sometimes they talked about him knowing famous people and about the work he had to fly off to do, but never the specific fame of it all. She didn’t really think Harry liked to talk about.

She didn’t have much of an opinion on it, it didn’t matter to her whether Harry was a famous multi-talented big-C celebrity or he was a nobody with a random job. As long as he was still her neighbour she would never complain. He made her so happy and maybe if he hadn’t been famous he wouldn’t be the way that he was so she would never say it was a nuisance. It just came along with him.

“Well...like I said, it’s a lovely way to put it. So, thank you for that.”

He stands up now, forgetting the magazine and rounding the counter to find a cork for the wine seeing that Y/N was doing the final touches on their food.

They eat dinner across from each other at her modest-sized dinner table. Harry slips his giraffe coat off and rolls up his sleeves to allow him to “really dig in” to the dinner she made for them. Maybe some footsy occurs beneath the table but neither of them would ever admit to it so did it really happen? Just feet moving randomly and happening to rub against one another every so often.

After dinner and a bottle of wine, the two of them join Rori in the living room where he’s curled up on one of the throw pillows. Y/N runs back to the kitchen to scoop them ice cream and whips of two Moscow Mules to go with it because she had brought up how when she usually goes home for the holidays, her and her sister always have a competition of who can make the most unique but best tasting Moscow Mule. Harry had said how he’d love to be there one day for that and she had blushed and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear from the comment before taking a large gulp of wine. Since that wasn’t possible right now, her tipsy mind had decided that the next best thing was to make some basic ones right now.

“I bring a Mule and an ice cream,” she says airly, playing like a royal herself, as she holds them out to Harry.

He laughs softly and accepts them graciously, doing a slight head bow to her. Before he can say anything she’s a flash of plaid and red as she runs back for her own ice cream and drink. He had been complimenting her plaid pants with golden bees on them all night and asked her where she got them, teasing that they must be Gucci, but all she would say is that he couldn’t have them to go make a copy of this time.

She re-enters the room and dims the lights with her hip. Then she settles beside him, clinking her glass with him and they both take their first sip.

“Hmmm,” Harry hums after he tastes the cocktail, “I like it.”

“Moscow Mules are a favorite with my family,” she muses, flicking through the television to get them set up to watch the Crown again.

“Maybe I should meet them and thank them for bestowing such a good favorite unto their daughter?” Harry asks and she laughs and rolls her eyes. Questions of meeting family when they were just friends didn’t need a response. Right?

They spoon ice cream into their mouths as the show begins and they murmur comments to one another throughout the episode. They idly pet Rori sometimes as he moves randomly around the room trying to find the place he likes most. Once Harry’s done with his ice cream, Rori thinks his chest is the best place to be and Y/N can’t help but snap a quick photo of it.

“Not quite as handsome without the dress, but it’ll do,” she sighs and snuggles into Harry’s side. Her hand reaches up to scratch at Rori which then leaves her arm wrapped around Harry when her dog inexplicably leaves to go to bed a few minutes later.

He was an awfully good wingman Harry would easily admit at a much later date.

They stay cuddled casually with one another for the entirety of two more episodes and they realize they’re more than halfway done with the season. A yawn from Y/N cues to Harry that he should suggest they pause for the night. She agrees easily, her head nuzzling into his strong shoulder for a little while.

Harry takes the remote from her and turns off the television before flicking on the side table turquoise glass-blown lamp.

“Can I put some music on?” He whispers in her ear, already knowing the answer, but waiting for her to nod her head. She obliges and he slowly slides her onto the couch beneath them. Then he begins padding around her house to find her speaker.

“Arrow Through Me” by Harry’s all time role model Paul McCartney’s second band Wings begins to play through the speakers. What a fucking moutful.

She perks up at the music and sits up straighter on her couch. Her smile grows as Harry shakes his hips a little and moves to the beat of the song as he makes his way back over to the couch. He opens his mouth to say something, but instead of words ringing loud through the room, it's the sound of a phone buzzing from somewhere between a few cushions on the couch

“Oh shit...shit, shit, shit,” she awakens herself out of her daze with her profanity. Attempting to find her phone rather haphazardly, she stumbles around the couch.

It’s Harry who fishes the phone from beneath a throw pillow and hands it over to his friend. She smiles thankfully, her hair a little messy and her eyes slightly crazed, before picking up the phone without even looking at the caller ID.

“Hello?...Cate?...Oh, hey….No, I didn’t look at the ID...figured it was you or someone in the states...no one in the UK would call me right now...It’s almost midnight here, you asshole,” she pauses and points at the phone and mouths “it’s Cate” like Harry hadn’t been sitting there listening to the entire conversation.

“I’m just hanging out watching the new season of Crown...with Harry...yeah, that Harry,” she flits her eyes to Harry for a second and rolls her eyes sarcastically.

“Talk to him? I mean.. I can put you on speaker, I guess?” She looks at Harry and he nods his head eagerly.

She rejoins him on the couch and places the phone on the coffee table, tapping on the speaker.

“You’re on speaker now.”

“Hi Harry!” Cate crackles over the line, happily, likely just awoken from her slumber in California.

“Hullo, love,” he says sweetly, his voice beginning to slow even more as the night wears on.

Y/N rolls her eyes at both of her friends, knowing Harry was laying it on thick and that Cate would squeal over this exchange for the next three weeks.

“What are you two lovebirds up to?” She inquires sweetly and Harry makes an arched brow at Y/N and she only supplies a shaken head and a shoulder shrug.

“Cate….” Y/N drags out, annoyed with her for both saying that and for calling just as she was planning on going to sleep.

“Sorry! Friends, I know. Even though staying in on a Friday night with just the two of you doesn’t sound very friendly…” She begins to ramble on, but Y/N offers another warning ‘Cate’. Cate takes the hint and finishes her teasing. “Anyways…”

Harry and Y/N are completely red, sitting next to one another but grateful for the minimal lighting.

“I was just calling to check-in. Do you know what you’re doing for the holidays yet? I know you don’t do thanksgiving anymore - which was yesterday by the way - since you’re all British now.”

Y/N scoffs at her close friend and Harry nudges her side about the British thing.

“I don’t know yet, I have to see my work schedule and all that. I don’t know if I want to fly across the world this year though…” She trails off, kind of quieting in hope that Cate will miss it.

Harry regards the conversation, casually interested, yet intrigued since he had been meaning to ask the exact same question.

Cate hums, obviously unhappy with the response. “Alright. And you Harry? Do you usually go home to your family for the holidays?”

“You don’t need to answer that,” Y/N interjects.

Harry places a hand on her thigh to let her know that it’s completely fine. An easy smile on his lips as he speaks to the phone. Y/N places her hand over Harry’s on instinct.

“Usually, yeah. This year we were thinking of all going out to my place in Italy so it’s kind of up in the air right now. When I get back from LA, I’ll probably finalize it.”

“LA you said? We should get together while you’re here.”

“Cate. He’s there on business.”

“I know...but still. It’s fine,” Cate laughs lightly, knowing she was pushing her luck with this conversation as it was. “Anyways, darling, I just wanted to tell you I miss you and that Harry’s not allowed to replace me as your best friend. Y’hear that Mr. Styles?”

“I sure do, love.”

Everyone laughs whole heartedly and Harry and Y/N are still playing with each other’s fingers on top of her thigh.

Y/N thinks that’s enough of the conference call with Harry and Cate so she snatches the phone with her free hand and raises it back to her ear.

“Alright, Cate, I think we’re going to head to bed...not...not like that...I hate you...Now I definitely don’t want to come home...I’m kidding, I’ll think about it...Love you, too….Yeah I’ll tell him...Have a nice day…”

She throws the phone on the coffee table again and falls back on the couch. Her head rolls to rest on Harry’s broad shoulder and she sighs softly. Harry moves his head to rest over hers, chuckling softly. His sweet breaths of joy are why he then receives a soft slap on his far arm, only making him laugh more.

“Shut up,” her muffled voice comes out from against his blue shirt that is far more crumpled than it was when he came over hours ago.

“She’s so funny,” he laughs again, nosing his face into her hair.

“She tries to get away with way too much,” she sighs and Harry just pats at her side, smiling and not caring at all about the things Cate was hinting at because he wanted what she was alluding to to be reality.

“Y’know I have a question because she said I can’t be your best friend and that’s fine with me, but I wanted to tell you something, love.”

Her head raises to look Harry in the eye, slightly confused by his preface.

“You’re my best friend,” he says earnestly in the dark living room, “Is that allowed?”

His accent was thick with anticipation, the night wearing on his vocal cords. It was so quiet in the room, Harry was sure she just heard him swallow his own saliva - he had paused the music after a minute into the call with Cate. He blinks twice while waiting for any response, he stares straight at her.

Her eyes barely shine through the darkness as she looks back at him. His question rattled through her mind. ‘Is it allowed’ for him to think of her as his best friend. It just didn’t make complete sense to her and she wasn’t sure if she should vocalize that doubt. But as his eyes begin to mist like a forest on a cold morning she knows she has to say something.

Her eyelids shut as she lets out a heavy breath, the processing of what Harry’s just said finishes.

“It’s allowed...Do you mean it?”

“Course I mean it,” his voice cracks, an incredulous laugh leaving his lips.

She straightens up, moving slightly from his warm embrace. He becomes fidgety without her tucked in his side. His fingers itch without her arm to caress. His lips move between his teeth without her hair to ghost over.

When she remains silent, Harry decides to continue.

“I remember the first time I saw you,” he croaks and she furrows her brow at this. “It was the day you moved in...Had just come home from my morning run and you’d pulled up in your moving van. I thought you had on the coolest pair of jeans I’d ever seen…” He pauses. He takes a deep breath and her eyes are watering now.

“I also thought you were one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen and I knew I had to know you.”

“Why’d it’d take you so long?” Is all she asks as she tries to will away the water welling in her eyes.

Harry rolls his lips together and breathlessly laughs, head tilted up to the sky. “Never knew how to approach ya’. Then you bumped into me, felt like it was the universe kicking me for being so damn slow.”

She bites her lip, a tear rolling down her cheek finally. “Oh, Harry.”

Then there it is. What the last few months had been leading up to. The moment where they no longer were able to wonder what the other would taste like. No more guessing. No more wondering. It was concrete. It was her lips pressed to Harry’s. She laughed lightly after a moment, pressing closer to him. His lips felt like the softest pillow she could ever lay on and she never wanted to get out of bed.

A small breath came out of his nose as he pressed eagerly back against her. She tasted like ginger and chocolate and maybe cherry - her chapstick possibly. He sucked at her lips, never wanting the taste or the feeling to go away. She was so soft and smooth and she responded quickly to his push.

Her hands wrapped around the back of his neck and into his hair as he pulled her closer by her waist. They were attempting to inhale one another, taking inventory of every possible crevice of each other they hadn’t touched before.

Harry’s lips part slightly as he swipes his tongue across her bottom lip. She giggles, tugging him over her and opening up her mouth easily. He pushes forward, a small sound leaving his mouth as he shifts them into a lying position on the couch, her legs encircling his waist.

A hand runs along her jaw, down her neck, across her collarbone and then down her arm. It lands so that he can intertwine their hands together. He feels her smile beneath him and he smiles back despite their lips never leaving one another. His other hand caresses her cheek as he kisses her.

Eventually, his lips roam around her face and on her neck aways, but mostly he focuses on her lips. Both of them are more than happy with this decision as they continue on for what feels like hours. Yet still those hours don’t feel long enough.

She pulls at a button on his shirt at one point, but Harry pulls back.

“I think we should call it a night.”

“Really?” She looks at him with confusion and a swirl of hurt in her eyes.

“It’s late, love, and… we just, I don’t want to rush anything.”

“Alright,” she nods, sitting up and running a finger down the side of his face.

“I think I’ve been doing best friends wrong all this time.” she muses, tracing lines on Harry’s neck now. Her eyes focused on her work.

“And why’s that?” Harry asks, his own hands running up and down her back.

“I’ve never snogged a best friend for hours on end.” She laughs and Harry can’t help his snort.

He moves his head to rest on her shoulder, almost like a hug, but not quite. She doesn’t move away, simply turns her head to continue watching her hands trace him, her work now moving to the back of his neck and his upper back and shoulders.

He hums a little bit, a love song he had played for himself the last few weeks when he tried to fall asleep and all that he could think of was her. She smiles softly and places a kiss on his shoulder.

“Let’s go to bed, darling.”

Harry nods, wrapping his arms around Y/N and carrying her to her room.

The next morning she finds herself wrapped happily in a set of strong, tattooed arms. She sighs content, snuggling closer to the warm naked chest in front of her.

“G’morning,” the man beneath her whispers. His voice a low rumbling rasp, she feels the vibrations below her.

“Morning,” she mumbles, nuzzling her nose into the crevice of his sternum, just above the butterfly that lives on his chest.

He hums at the feeling, slightly shivering from the cold, but pulls her closer nonetheless. She caresses his side with a light touch in response. Her fingers trace unknown patterns down his ribcage and then dip to the ferns peeking from his boxers. He shifts slightly when her fingers travel there. A place no one but him had touched in a long time.

“’ve got a plane to catch,” he says sadly and he brushes a hair from her face as she turns to look at his face.

His neck strains to regard her and he has a bit of a double chin from this angle, but she couldn’t care less. He looked so beautiful staring down at her. She never wanted to look away or lose this image. His eyelashes lightly caressed the skin just below his eyes everytime he blinked. It was quiet enough that if she listened close she could hear each flutter. The eyes behind them were even better, a dark rim of green encases emerald irises that hold black and gold specs, stars and stories swirl hidden beneath it all. She wants to drown in it.

He winks at her as she stares, growing disarmed with her intense gaze on him for so long. Her calming caress keeps him grounded though and she laughs at the wink, relieving him of her scrutiny that he didn’t understand was awe.

She groans, unhappy, “Miss it.”

“I can’t,” he drags out, not wanting to leave either.

“Can’t convince you to stay, no?” She rolls on top of him, pushing her chest against him and giving him doe eyes.

His strong arms encircle her waist as her legs straddle him. She arches more into him and leans down to kiss in between his pecs. Her eyes never leave his face, watching his reaction. It’s his turn to groan with a loud sigh to match. He throws his head back and steals himself to say,

“Not even a chance.”

She remembers when he had begged her to come with him and she smiles at his recycling over her response.

“Fair enough,” she says and rolls off of him. His head falls to the side to watch her get up and begin her day. He takes a deep breath, wishing he didn’t have to leave.

Harry heads back to his place to get ready for his departure. Before he leaves he joins Y/N and Rori for an early tea at the café. They get their drinks to go and walk back to Harry’s together. When they arrive, Harry’s car is waiting and she feels a dryness in her throat. He looks down at Rori and gives him a quick pet. He turns to her and she smiles weakly.

Harry’s hand encircles her wrist, caressing her softly. He leans down quickly and pecks her lips. It feels like he was barely there and then he was gone. It was like a butterfly had landed on her lips and wrist and then it had vanished.

Off his sleek black car goes, soon out of sight and headed for the airport. And there she is, left on Sherwood Avenue. Her fingers move to dance over her lips and then over her jaw and down her neck. Every place his touch had burned her in the past 24 hours. And now he was gone, across the world.

No talk of what came next had been spoken between them. She wasn’t sure what they were and didn’t know if she could handle that talk over the phone. She walked home after a few minutes of standing with her dog in front of Harry’s now vacant home. She sat silently in her house for half of the day.

At dusk, she decides on a run, maybe it will get her mind off her neighbour. She had sat in the same spot for too long. The same spot they had kissed each other last night. Maybe a change of scenery would stop the movie reel of last night that kept playing over and over in her mind.

She runs down the street, specifically keeping her eyes off the lovely home across from her, and keeps running down different streets, past the café, down to the park, and then finally reaches a stream that is past some brush and trees at the end of the park. There’s a bench there that seems like a nice place to rest.

Her music has been playing the entire time, the playlist she chose was inundated with Taylor Swift - but not chosen for that specific reason. Each song thankfully not from 1989. At least not until she’s running through the park. “You are in love” begins to play, it’s soft Twin Peaks-esque opening is familiar to her. It fits the cool rush of wind against her skin and the leaves that have turned brown as fall has worn on. She’d listened to it a thousand times. Sometimes thinking about the man who inspired the song, but all those times were long before she had ever met him.

Now that she knew him, she almost skipped it, but shook her head to herself feeling silly for feeling uncomfortable listening to a song she liked. Her run turns into a walk as she reaches the stream. The chorus begins. Taylor softly serenades about being in love. About a man in love with a woman. About Harry being in love with her.

She takes a deep breath, hearing the words a little different this time. Taylor sings “You kiss on sidewalks” and this morning flashes in her mind. She looks out at the stream, the water rushing along as she stands there, still catching her breath. Then the next part of the song reaches into her heart and twists it with all its might.

“One night he wakes, strange look on his face, pauses, then says, ‘you’re my best friend’.”

And that’s it. She takes out her headphones, her breath no longer capable of being caught. She breathes heavier and heavier. Her throat was as tight and dry as when Harry had left this morning. Possibly even worse. She can’t even swallow this time. Her phone and headphones are discarded on the bench as she raises her hands to her face and begins to pace beside the stream. Her eyes eventually match the body of water next to her and she feels a sob wrack through her. She couldn’t breath, her running and panic had brought her asthma to the forefront and she was hyperventilating, gasping for air. She was drowning and no one was there to help her.

Tears stream down her face and she moves her hands to her thighs as she tries to calm down, not knowing how she reached this level of distraughtness. Deep breaths she reminds herself. She licks her lips and shuts her eyes. “Just ground yourself,” she whispers.

When she’s finally gotten ahold of herself she sits at the bench and stares into the stream. A distorted version of herself seems to stare back. It’s constantly moving, swirling, and changing and as she watches that version of herself she wants to scream. Her tears had faded awhile ago, but the fear was still there.

The last few months had been so easy, had been so perfect. Going over to each other’s houses and being with each other. But if she ignored history wasn’t she destined to repeat it? When she heard the confessional of the man Taylor had loved in her song, when he had told her she was his best friend which meant he was in love, she felt hurt. She knew how their story ended. Taylor and Harry’s. He left. He left her when she needed him and today, Y/N realized it’s what he does. It wasn’t his fault, she didn’t blame him for leaving today. It was his job, not another woman. But holy fuck when she heard Taylor sing those lyrics, it felt like she had been hit on the head out of nowhere. Reminded that she had been living in a fairytale for the last few months, swept up in a fantasy that she wasn’t meant to be a part of.

She ran a hand over her face, rubbing slightly at her cheek. The same cheek Harry had caressed last night and she sighed. She stared off into the trees and then shook her head, standing up and heading back home. Alone.

Harry calls her when he arrives at LAX. She doesn’t pick up. He calls the next day. She doesn’t pick up. He texts and receives no response for three days.

She thought she didn't know what she would say.

“I listened to too much of your ex’s music and now I’m insecure.”

“I feel like you’re gonna leave me someday so I’m too afraid to do anything with you.”

“Is it alright if we’re just friends, I don’t think my heart could take the pain of falling in love with you and then losing you.”

“You can’t promise me forever and after just one kiss I knew I couldn’t do anything less.”

“The price of loving you is far too high.”

She types them all out and then deletes them every time. Too scared. Instead:

“I’m busy with work, I don’t know when I won’t be. Let’s just plan on meeting up when you’re home.”

Harry nods when he sees the text on Friday. He tells her to take care and make sure she gets enough rest. He wipes away the stray tear that decided to escape his eyes after reading her response. He exhales and looks to the sky, wondering what could have possibly happened since he had left. He sends little emojis over the next few weeks that she puts a heart on, but she doesn’t communicate otherwise.

Harry doesn’t ask her to pick him up. Instead he sends flowers to her house the Thursday before he returns. They make her smile and she wonders if maybe she can move past every red flag she feels like she sees. After a month away, she can’t lie and say she’s not excited for Harry to return. She missed his warm skin and his soft hair. She missed everything and the flowers had only made her wish it had been Harry on her doorstep a couple days early.

He gets home on the 12th and he’s at her door after throwing his things in his entryway.

She opens the door and bites her lip as she takes in who it is.

Harry says her name breathlessly and she melts. Her doubts fly out the window for the moment and all she wants are his lips on hers.

She falls into him and his lips are on hers. They twist into one another and their lips move softly yet urgently against one another. Not sure how to explain the last four weeks, they both attempt to say everything in that kiss. All her pain and confusion press into Harry’s lip with each breath. All his sadness and longing tug at her lips as he sucks her bottom lip into his mouth and hungers for more.

He pulls back and stares straight into her eyes, “Come to Italy with me for the holidays.”

She tilts her head confused, trying to catch her own breath.

“I’m not sure what happened while I was gone, love. But I know I missed you and I can’t go another month without you. Just say yes and we’ll take it from there...Please,” he begs, voice cracking as he holds her cheek.

She wets her lips and opens them to speak, but her voice betrays her. Instead she just nods and squeaks out a noise of approval. Too elated to speak, they press their lips back together and she pulls Harry into her home.

December was far too cold to snog out in the freezing night air.

#harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles angst #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fan fiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fan fic #harry styles one shot #neighbor!harry #I live in the neighbourhood #part 2 #part 3 to come #pls rb and message me ily #surprisingly somewhat proofread

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aswithasunbeam · 3 years

Link

December 1814

“Hush, darling,” Eliza whispered. “It’s all right.”

Angelica curled up further on the bed beside Eliza with a soft whimper. At least she was resting, finally, after hours of panic about invisible demons reaching out from the walls to take her away. Eliza had had to push the bed away from the walls before she’d been able to convince her daughter to lie down.

Eliza closed her eyes, the press of the day weighing on her already. Servants were bustling through the halls just outside the door, heaving trunks from little Eliza and Phil’s rooms. They were all bound for New York at first light tomorrow to celebrate Johnny’s wedding to his dear Maria. A joyous occasion to be sure, especially as she anticipated having their children together for the first time in years: William was meant to be coming down from West Point, and Alex and Jamie had secured time away from their posts, as well. Joyous, yes, even as it hurt that so much of her family wouldn’t be there, with Angelica and Peggy both gone, her parents, and Philip…. She swallowed around a lump in her throat at the thought of her eldest.

Her younger daughter shrieked suddenly from down the hall. “Give it back! Now!”

“I’m using it!” Phil yelled back.

“It’s mine!”

Eliza sighed, easing herself from Angelica’s bed to go see what all the fuss was about. Phil and little Eliza were engaged in an all out tug of war over a bit of ribbon in the hallway between their rooms. She watched silently for a moment, frowning, her arms crossed, waiting for them to notice her displeasure.

Phil noticed her first and abruptly let go of the ribbon. Little Eliza stumbled backwards, landing hard on her bottom. She yelped, glared up at her brother, and aimed a swift kick at his ankles.

“What are you two doing?” she demanded.

“She started it,” Phil said, jumping hastily out of the line of fire.

“He stole my best ribbon and he was using it to hang toy soldiers out the window.”

“I was going to give it back.”

“It’s got dirt all over it and you got it all wrinkled.” She held the ribbon up to show her mother. “See? I wanted to wear it to Johnny’s wedding.”

Phil stuck his tongue out at his sister. When she noticed, she aimed another kick at his ankles. He jumped back again, shouting, “Stop it!”

“What is all the yelling about?” Alexander asked as he slowly wheeled himself around the corner, to their collective surprise.

Despite the gathering dark outside the hall window, she was shocked to see him home; she’d hardly seen hide nor hair of him in the past days as they prepared to leave for their extended trip home. Both the children went quiet at his unexpected arrival, and little Eliza bounced up to her feet.

“Sorry Papa,” they both mumbled quickly.

“We seem to be having quite the disagreement over a bit of ribbon,” Eliza supplied when they failed to offer further explanation.

Alexander looked at her with a hint of a smile. “Want me to send them to help dig out the new latrine by the camp? That’s what I do with the men who mouth off. Very effective punishment.”

They both paled considerably, sending her matching pleading looks.

She made a show of considering for a long beat before smiling as well. “I think we can give them one more chance before we put them to hard labor.”

“We’ll be good,” Phil promised solemnly.

“I expect so.” Alexander tilted his head to the side to dismiss them. “Off you go. Stop making your mother’s life difficult.”

If only he’d take his own advice, she thought fondly.

They scampered off down the hall, both giving their father an affectionate peck on the cheek as they passed. He shook his head as he watched them go, then looked back at her, the laugh lines in his cheeks creasing. “Imps.”

“Well, we did complain the house was too quiet without them,” Eliza said. Indeed, when Alexander had sent them off to stay with family over the summer for their safety, the house had felt empty without their constant bickering and antics. She paced over to him and leaned down to kiss him, as well. “It’s good to have you home finally. You missed dinner again.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry I haven’t been much help getting ready for our trip. I’ve been in endless meetings. When I at one point raised the concern about the endless meetings, one of Jemmy’s secretaries quite unironically asked if I would like him to schedule a meeting to discuss it.”

She laughed.

He grinned at her, but his eyes turned serious when he glanced towards the door to Angelica’s room. “How’s Geli today?”

Eliza sobered as she, too, glanced back at her daughter’s door. “She’s been having a bad day.”

He sighed. “She’s been having a lot of bad days, lately. I heard her whimpering and muttering when I got home late last night. She was wide awake when I peeked in at her. I doubt she got much rest.”

Eliza hardly needed reminding, having been up much of the night with her. “She’s resting now, finally.”

“That’s something, I suppose.”

His hands fidgeted on the wheels of his chair. She watched him a moment, sensing he had something else to tell her. The expression twisting his face usually signaled some sort of indigestion. When he failed to say anything more, she asked, “What is it?”

“Well,” he started, his hand going up to scratch at his neck uncomfortably.

Anxiety started to build up at his continued reluctance to speak. “If you say you can’t come to New York for your own son’s wedding—”

“No, no, it’s not that.” He sighed, resting his hands on the wheels of his chair once more, as though contemplating an escape even as he spoke. “It’s just, I need to meet with some people before I leave. And the only time they would both be available was tonight. So, I may have suggested they stop by the house before we leave. They’re on their way over now, actually. For tea.”

She felt her own expression twisting to match his, heartburn flaring in her chest as a suspicion about his guest list occurred to her. “Who?”

“Burr,” he said.

“Burr,” she repeated, disbelief in her tone even though that’s exactly the name she’d expected to hear. “You expect me to serve tea to Aaron Burr?”

“Well,” he started again.

“You promised me. You promised, when you suggested him for his position, that I wouldn’t need to be alone with him.”

“I said not just the three of us.” He fidgeted in his chair again, clearly not relishing delivering his next bit of news. “Someone else is coming, too.”

He seemed somehow more reluctant to tell her the next guest. How could it possibly get worse? “Who else?”

He gritted his teeth, hesitating again before saying, “Monroe.”

A wave of cold fury washed over her. “Monroe!”

“Shh,” he hushed, pointing towards Angelica’s room behind them.

Her nostrils flared as she forced a deep breath, jerking her head to indicate he should follow her down the hall before moving around him towards his office. He liked to praise her as an endless fountain of love and patience, she thought, but much as she might try, she simply wasn’t. Her nerves were already frayed from sleepless nights and managing ornery children and overseeing the packing and planning for their journey. Now he wanted her to cap off her night by serving tea to two of the most loathsome men on earth.

He rolled in to the office behind her, and she snapped the door closed.

“No,” she said firmly.

“Eliza—”

“No, Alexander. No. You ask too much, sometimes.”

He smiled softly, highlighting the dimples in his cheeks, and reached out for her hand. “You’d send me into the viper’s nest without my trusty mongoose for protection?”

“You can’t charm your way out of this,” she hissed.

“Betsey,” he sighed, expression turning serious. “It can’t be helped.”

“They’re not welcome here. Not in my home. Neither of them.”

“You know I try to keep them away as much as possible. I know how you feel.”

“Do you? Because sometimes, the way you act, especially around Burr—”

“I understand. I do. But I need to see them before I go. It’s important.”

“What’s so important?”

“Campbell submitted his budget, just before he conveniently resigned to see to his health. He estimated an appropriation of $25 million would be needed, which is far, far beyond the expected tax revenue of $11 million, and all that’s before factoring in the cost of rebuilding the capital.”

She sank into the chair near his desk, sensing a lengthy conversation. “Go on.”

“Then there’s this…this treasonous…convention.” She could hear the quotes around the last word as he spit it out. “Otis has called a meeting of Federalists all across New England to propose a radical change in our national compact. Because what we need in the middle of a war, apparently, is a new constitutional convention intent on gutting the Federal government.”

“Were you invited?”

He snorted. “As if I’d stoop to attending such a farcical proceeding.”

She smiled a little. She knew he’d have gloried in attending, monopolizing the conversation until his voice went hoarse telling them exactly why they were all idiots and cowards, had he been given the opportunity. “So no?”

He shot her a glare, but then smirked, caught red-handed by her knowing look. “I think they knew what my answer would be.”

She threaded her fingers between his. “I know how stressed you are about the war and fate of the country, sweetheart. But I don’t see what a meeting with those two—” she paused, hunting for a word, and, finding none, continued with only the empty space to define them, “—helps accomplish.”

“Monroe is acting Secretary of War, and, with Campbell gone, probably acting Secretary of the Treasury as well at this point. I need him to call on Congress to establish a new national bank, which in turn will help fund additional men. At least 100,000 to start.”

“And I’m sure he’ll take your direction with great enthusiasm.”

“Not with enthusiasm, perhaps, but he’ll take my direction, once I explain the need.”

“And Burr?”

“The Hartford Convention needs to be minimized. We need a shot of patriotism in that part of the country, a call to arms to rally flagging spirits. Since the Northern theater quieted, they’ve been shouldering the financial burden with none of the chance for glory. Meanwhile, the enemy is starting to gather with an eye towards New Orleans. If we can start mustering troops in New England, threaten an invasion of Canada, we might be able to press England into peace and herd New England back into the fold at the same time.”

“And you want Burr to head the effort,” she said, intuiting his plan now. Once Monroe agreed to call upon Congress to fund new troops, Burr would ride north to start mustering a force to take on Canada again.

“Exactly.” His eyes bore into hers. “And it needs to happen now. Immediately. Congress can’t be frightened into cutting back on the army, or we’ll be a British colony again by New Year’s.”

She squeezed his hand.

“So?” he pressed.

She held his gaze. “I suppose I’ll let them in when they knock. I won’t agree to more than that.”

He leaned over in his chair to catch her lips. “That’s all I need from you.”

That she managed to bring in the tea service without pouring the scalding water over either of their two unwanted guests ought to have qualified her sainthood, in her opinion. She didn’t stay in the room with them, didn’t even mutter a greeting. She did stay near the door, however, listening, while Alexander laid out his plan. She couldn’t quite bring herself to abandon him, even when he’d invited the viper’s nest upon himself.

“I wasn’t a particular supporter of your bank the first time around, Mr. Hamilton,” Monroe said. “Why should I call on Congress to re-charter it now?”

“How else are you going to pay for more troops, Mr. Secretary?”

Monroe answered in a measured tone. “We’re mere weeks away from a peace treaty, according to my intelligence in Ghent. Once that’s signed, there won’t be a need for more troops. We can cut back, limit spending to match our more limited revenue stream temporarily, until imports duties return to their pre-war levels.”

“You don’t think the British are also gathering intelligence?” Burr asked. “They’ll be watchfully waiting for our new budget proposals. If we’re seen dismantling the army before the war is over, why would they ever agree to a peace deal? Might as well take us for their own again.”

Monroe scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. They’ve practically already signed. And I think we’ve proven far too troublesome to bother with as a colony again.”

“Too troublesome thirty years ago,” Burr pointed out. “And we were lucrative. If we can’t mount a solid defense, no reason not to give it another try.”

Alexander added, “You need to get the dissent in New England under control. And you need funding. Even without the additional expense of more troops, rebuilding the capital will be an expensive endeavor. You need to do this.”

“I don’t like the bank,” Monroe said sourly.

Alexander laughter bitterly. “It’s me you don’t like, Mr. Secretary. And that’s quite all right. I assure you the feeling is mutual. But you have to do this. Don’t make me go over your head to Jemmy to force you into action. It will only waste time.”

There was a long silence, tension palpable. “Fine. I’ll propose re-chartering the bank and adding funding for more troops. But I can’t promise it will pass.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find the votes, Mr. Secretary,” Alexander insisted. “Necessity is a great motivator.”

Sensing the meeting was coming to a close, Eliza moved to summon the servants to bring the hats and coats. She didn’t want them lingering in the front room any longer than necessary. In the moments she’d stepped away, however, something must have happened, because she suddenly heard raised voices coming from the office. She hurried back, opening the door to the office to find Burr standing in between Monroe and Alexander.

Monroe was all but shouting, “You think just because you’ve blinded Jemmy with nostalgic appeals to a long-dead friendship that you can always have your way, just as you did with Washington. I’ll not be so easily taken in, Mr. Hamilton, I promise you that.”

Burr placed a hand on Monroe’s shoulder, trying to ease him away from Alexander.

Alexander looked blithely unconcerned, all but smirking at Monroe as he said, “I’ll remind you there is no guaranteed succession in this country, Mr. Monroe, however many hats you acquire during this administration. I wouldn’t be so assured of victory in the next election, if I were you.”

Color rose in Monroe’s face as he pushed around Burr, holding a finger out in Alexander’s direction. “Enjoy your influence while you have it. Your days are numbered.”

“That’s quite enough,” Eliza said, voice deadly quiet, fury taking wing in her chest at the implied threat.

Monroe spun around to face her. “Mrs. Hamilton—”

“You have nothing to say to me, Mr. Monroe.”

“I apologize for raising my voice,” he continued, bowing his head slightly.

“No. No. If you mean to offer anything other than a full and sincere apology, not only for the unforgivable words you just uttered, but also for all the slanders and stories you circulated against my husband in the past, I have no interest in hearing it.”

Monroe frowned. “If you mean…the business with the Reynolds papers was hardly my doing. Your husband—”

“What my husband did was a matter we have long since settled between us. But that the rest of the world was involved was very much your doing. He has earned my forgiveness. You’ve never even bothered to ask it.”

“Mrs. Hamilton—”

“And you now have the…the gall to come into my home, drink my refreshments, and then threaten the person I hold dearest in the world. Please leave, Mr. Monroe. Now.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Burr patted at his shoulder, encouraging him forward. Just before Burr himself stepped out, though, he glanced back at her husband. “You’re a real pain in the ass, Ham. You know that?”

“So I’ve been told.” Alexander had the nerve to look fond as he addressed Burr.

“Out,” she insisted.

Burr at least had the decency to avert his eyes as he passed her, collecting their coats and urging Monroe out the front door without another word.

When the door had closed, she looked back at Alexander, still sitting in the middle of the room. He gave her plaintive look. “I’m so sorry, Betsey. I didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand. Or for you to be pulled into the middle of it.”

She pointed in the direction the two men had just disappeared, her hand shaking slightly from rush of rage and fear that coursed through her. “That man is never, ever setting foot in my home again.”

“Of course. Never again.”

Promises, promises—how he could make them. Her heart was still beating in her throat. He rolled forward and took her hand, placing a kiss to the back of her fingers.

She softened as she looked back at him, calming somewhat with his easy agreement and solid feeling of his hand in hers. The reason for his insistence on the meeting in the first place re-occurred to her, and she felt a niggle of concern despite herself. “Do you think he’ll still put forward the proposal to Congress?”

“Yes.” He sounded completely confident. “He doesn’t have a choice. Jemmy will back me if it comes to a contest, and he knows it. I just don’t want to lose time on the argument when every minute counts. We’re too close, balanced on the edge of a precipice. I’ll not let our experiment fail over pigheadedness and pride.”

She considered the exchanged she’d walked in on again, eyes locked on her husband. “You said that to him, didn’t you? You goaded him into shouting at you.”

He gave her a sheepish smile. “I do so enjoy winding him up with impotent rage.”

She wanted to be angry with him, but amusement was quickly outpacing the sensation. Damn him, his charm, and his sweet smile, she thought. She let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head at him. Relief washed over his face.

“I really didn’t mean to drag you into it, though, my dearest.” He kissed her hand again, looking more relaxed. “Though I confess I enjoyed watching you kick him to the curb. My darling mongoose.”

His darling mongoose, indeed, she huffed internally.

#hamilton fanfic #alexander hamilton #eliza hamilton #hamliza #life hereafter

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dwellordream · 3 years

Text

“…The common work of American pioneer children has become an essential story of frontier life. Less well known or acknowledged is that gender boundaries were often disregarded in the course of this experience. Daniel worked not only at tasks with his father but also at those normally seen as women’s work. To help his mother, he dyed cloth, carried water from the spring, helped to nurse the younger children, and cooked. His work was indeed diverse as he did what was needed with little complaint—or so he remembered years later when writing his memoir. Then at fifteen, he was separated from all of it—from his physical labor and from his pious parents (his mother’s favorite word was “wicked”). She was hardly indulgent of him, either in the work he was required to do or in the virtues he was expected to display while doing them.

Many boys did female work. Henry Clarke Wright, who became an outspoken educator and a radical abolitionist, spent his childhood helping his stepmother by babysitting, and much more. “He cleaned, he cooked, he washed.” In upstate New York, where his family lived in the early nineteenth century, he also did more masculine work “riding the horses, yoking and driving the oxen, bringing in the cows, harnessing and all the rest of the hard labor of the frontier farmer.” After his farming experience, Wright was left to become an apprentice in April 1814. Lonely, “home-sick” and with a “feeling of wretched- ness,” Wright learned to grow up fast. He also learned his own mind and how later to defend his extremely independent and unpopular views.

The American boys of the early republic grew early into independence. They were neither indulged nor coddled. They were given some say in the objects of their labor and, when possible, free time to play. But the children were also seen as “little citizens”—persons with capacity as well as potential. Some visitors were shocked by the results, but others were impressed. One Englishwoman observed, “You will see a little being that has not seen the sun make one circle of seasons, lay hold on a toy, not to cram it in his mouth and look stupidly at it, but to turn it curiously over, open it if he can, and peep in with a look as wise as that of a raven peeping into a marrow bone. One mark of early observation and comprehension never failed to excite my wonder. Little creatures feed themselves very early, and are trusted with cups of glass and china, which they grasp firmly, and carry about the rooms carefully, and deposit unbroken.”

There is, perhaps, a degree of exaggeration in such observations, finding the precocious engineer within the child not yet a year old. But in light of current findings by cognitive psychologists about the “scientist in the crib,” perhaps it is less a matter of exaggeration than a willingness to see even young children as more fully capable of independent thought and action than most Americans are accustomed to today. Americans at this time assumed that children needed less supervision and direction. This was true for girls as well as boys. By the time she was six years of age, Caroline Stickney (later Creevey), who grew up to be a nature writer, was expected to go to the doctor alone after she had fallen and severely injured her arm. It turned out to be broken.

“Mother was too busy to accompany me and there was nobody else. Besides children were taught to stand upon their own feet in these days.” Caroline’s regular tasks included bringing the cow to pasture in the morning and retrieving her at night, and, like Ulysses Grant, she was able from an early age to roam freely in the woodland that this future botanical enthusiast loved to explore and whose trees she climbed regardless of risk. At ten, she was allowed to ride the family horse; when she asked her father for directions to find a certain path, he made clear to her that she could find her own way.

Anna Howard Shaw had a more extreme experience, as her father sent his young family from Lawrence, Massachusetts, to which the family had migrated from England after Thomas Shaw’s bankruptcy, to the north woods of Michigan. There the children and their mother were left alone to establish her father’s claim to the 360 acres he had acquired, while he remained East to settle his affairs. Shaw’s mother, overwhelmed by grief and disbelief at the raw and trying circumstances, collapsed emotionally and was “practically an invalid.” This left the enterprise entirely to the five children. Barely twenty years old, Shaw’s oldest brother, James, was in charge. Anna was recruited to lay floorboards on the earth and frame windows and doors.

When even James left because he needed an operation that took him back to Massachusetts, the young children were left to fend for themselves, through a variety of “nerve-wracking” conditions and winters that “offered few diversions and many hardships.” Anna eventually took advantage of opportunities for schooling that led to her unflinching grasp at independence as a professional woman. In later life, Shaw was a crusader for women’s suffrage, and managed to become both a medical doctor and a minister. This kind of brutal induction into resourcefulness and independence, while not representative, was also not uncommon.

Girls and boys matured early, and Tocqueville, for one, believed that American children did not have or need an adolescence. The very young child, given the right to handle glassware or crockery, is a child invested with the capacity to act responsibly. Dr. Spock would note more than a century later that such confidence acknowledged that a child is eager to do “grown up things,” like feeding herself in the same way as the adults around her. And early work laid the basis for later habits. Anna Shaw noted that work had “always been my favorite form of recreation.”

The English commentator who saw precocious infant explorers poking around their toys was observing a different model of child development, one that was becoming as alien to middle- and upper-class Europeans of the nineteenth century as it is to us today. While European children of the middle classes were being treated as precious objects of solicitude, needing careful protection, American children who later became presidents, doctors, writers, and reformers were exposed to adult work and responsibility. And they were far less supervised. It was not only that class was more fluid in the United States in this period but that the specific expectations about children remained more fluid than in Europe.

Later in the nineteenth century, middle-class Americans, too, would begin to separate children from adult activities and treat them, as we usually do today, as fragile beings who needed special toys and risk-proof furnishings. But during this initial period when American society was being formed and the culture was laying down historical tracks, children were much more integrated into adult activities and given both more responsibility and more freedom. Most Americans in the first half of the nineteenth century viewed their children’s early maturity as natural, an expression of both the helping qualities they required in the young and beliefs about children’s abilities to be useful from an early age. It was a widespread phe- nomenon in many parts of the new country and remained an active part of the culture up to the end of the century, while elsewhere in the Western world, children were sentimentalized.

It was true for girls as well as for boys, observed in the eastern United States as well as the West, common among rural folk especially but in cities as well. Rachel Buttz’s father, Tunis Quick, was raised in the Shenandoah Valley in the early nineteenth century. His father was a well-meaning “generous, kindhearted man,” but his decision to back a neighbor’s loan impoverished the family, and soon after his mother’s death young Tunis was “hired to a neighbor who required him to do almost as much work as a full-grown man.” Just past ten years of age, Tunis quickly became responsible in other ways as well. Tunis objected to the slavery that was a feature of the area in which they lived, so at fifteen he urged his father to move the family to the North.

They stopped first in Ohio “where [he] was variously employed in farming, hauling goods and keeping a ferry on the Scioto River.” Having worked hard and impressed his employer, young Tunis obtained the means to buy a home in Indiana where the family finally settled. Tunis Quick learned early to assist his family as they struggled, and his sense of responsibility also gave him the ability to think independently and to have his views heard and respected. By what we would consider his mid-adolescence, he had not only directed his family’s migration north, but he was buying property for them. Tunis’s desire to leave a section dominated by slavery is also noteworthy, since it was the South, where slave ownership defined the society, that was the major exception to the developing democracy within families.

To some extent, the independence given to children grew from the ideals and values expressed in the Revolution since Americans believed that future generations had to acquire the characteristics that would maintain the principles enunciated in that event. But more than ideology was involved. No simple commitment to an idea can completely explain the behaviors so widely observed and the general willingness to heed children’s independent judgment. Ideology will not necessarily loosen a father’s grip over his sons when he had always expected to be obeyed and to have his commands met, even when he is committed to republican ideals. In the Southern United States, of course, this loosening of paternal power never happened, since slavery reinforced its grip.

And even in other parts of the United States, some observed the loosening of parental reins with concern and attempted to inhibit the young through new institutions of supervision, such as schools, as they recognized how much mischief could be loosed in a world guided by revolutionary principles. Not all Americans took kindly to the idea of children acting on their own. But a widespread independence among the young continued nevertheless. American life in the first half of the nineteenth century was defined by conditions that made such views about children necessary while the restless temperament of Americans made them ready for change and improvement. Together, these conditions provided children with the leeway to become more independent as they became more useful. Utility as well as ideology needs to be taken into account if we are to understand the families that produced a Grant, Drake, Quick, Shaw, or Wright.

The changing circumstances of the early republic resulted from both material conditions and political institutions. Together, these were widely understood as fundamental to the difference between Americans and Europeans. A shrewd, early observer of the difference, the Reverend Enos Hitchcock, sought to sustain the new revolutionary ideology through appropriate childrearing and education. “The systems of education written in Europe, are too local to be transferred to America; they are generally designed for a style of life, different from that, which is necessary for the inhabitants of the United States to adopt: they do not reach our circumstances, and are not suited to the genius of our government.”

To understand the American regime of domestic relations, we need to grasp just how unsettled, raw, and unpredictable the American land and the developing economy were during the important first half of the nineteenth century, since the experiences of American children and their parents were an expression of that reality. This dynamic new economy revised expectations about youth and what it could achieve. So did the laws governing inheritance and generational relations. The changes in American domestic life also transformed power relations between men and women, husbands and wives, and this, too, affected generational relationships in important ways.”

- Paula S. Fass, “Childhood and Parenting in the New Republic Sowing the Seeds of Independence, 1800–1860.” in The End of American Childhood: A History of Parenting from Life on the Frontier to the Managed Child

#american #the end of american childhood #paula s. fass #history

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distilled-prose · 3 years

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They called him the Black Sparrow, and from the beginning of his life, all he wanted to do was get to France.He was born in Georgia, his father a former slave from Haiti, his mother full-blooded Creek. He ran away while still a child, determined to fulfill his destiny. He lived for a time with a group of English Romani, learning the art of horsemanship and working as a jockey. He kept traveling and working until he made his way to Norfolk, where he stowed away on a ship bound for Scotland. He wouldn't see America again for thirty years. In Glasgow he got work as a lookout for gambling operators, saving money until he had enough to get to England: one country closer to his goal. In Liverpool he did hard labor until his muscles developed and he turned to boxing. He became part of a whole expat community of Black boxers — some of the finest fighters in history — who had fled to Europe to find opportunities denied them in the States. Soon he was fighting regularly as a welterweight, racking up an impressive record, even fighting on the undercard of a few Jack Johnson bouts.His boxing career earned him a decent amount of money, and eventually took him to Paris, where he won his bout and promptly hopped off the tour.He was home.Imagine, if you will, being a young, handsome Black/Creek man, son of a slave, escaped from the American South, newly arrived in Paris in the springtime with your own apartment and a pocketful of money.Then imagine it is 1914.Fighting for France was a no-brainer. After all, in his heart at least, it was his country. He joined the French Foreign Legion, training to fight in the 3rd Marching Division alongside wealthy Ivy Leaguers, mariners, farmers, doctors, executives, refugees, cooks, and plenty of characters from all over the world running from undisclosed situations. These were Belgians, Italians, Russians, Greeks, Americans, a handful of Black Americans; Muslims, Catholics, Jews and Protestants — the legendary rabble of the Legion.Sent directly to the front along the Somme, he was thrust into a world of filthy, bloody trenches still filled with the body parts of the dead and the rancid smell of shit and blood as his unit experienced some of the worst losses of the war. At the end of this stint, what was left of the 3rd was disbanded and he had only the briefest respite before he joined the 170th Cavalry and was sent straight to Verdun to participate in what would become one of the worst battles in the history of the human race.Now a corporal, he led a machine-gun crew and again was front-and-center for the worst of the fighting, suffering first a shrapnel wound to the face that he simply fought through, then finally sidelined by a massive, nearly fatal wound to his thigh that finally sent him away from the front.Decorated with the Croix de Guerre for his valor at Verdun — one of France’s highest military honors — he was well within his rights to find a desk job in the military. He had other ideas. He wanted to fly. Already viewed as a hero, he was able to pull the necessary strings to enter flight school, and became the first Black American fighter pilot in history.He flew a SPAD VII C1 with a distinctive alteration to its appearance. Painted on the outside of the fuselage was a red heart with a dagger through it. Above the heart was his personal slogan, one he would later use for the title of his unpublished memoir: Tout Le Sang Qui Coule Est Rouge; roughly, in English: “All Blood Runs Red.”He flew with honor and distinction until his career in the air came to an abrupt halt. The Americans had entered the war and the involvement of a certain Dr. Gros, a US Army Major with racist attitudes, led to the end of the Black Sparrow's career as a pilot. But the French continued to celebrate him. He ended this part of his military career with the Military Medal, Croix de Guerre, Volunteer Combat Cross, Medal for Military Wounded (twice), World War I Medal, Victory Medal, Voluntary Enlistment Medal, Battle of Verdun Medal, Battle of Somme Medal, and the American Volunteer with the French Army Medal.And that is when his life got interesting.The Great War over, he found himself in Paris in the 1920s at the onset of the Jazz Age. He got back in shape, took work as a sparring partner and fought a few more times. But it wasn't sustainable with his injuries.So he learned to play the drums and became a jazz musician. He gigged frequently, saved money, and ended up in a business partnership with a biracial American blues singer whose birth name was Ada Beatrice Queen Victoria Louis Virginia Smith — known as "Bricktop" for her red hair. Together, they opened the Le Grand Duc, and thus he became proprietor of the hippest nightclub in the hippest city during the birth of hip. He got married around this time to a Frenchwoman named Marcelle and they had two daughters. For reasons that remained private, Marcelle ended up leaving him with their children, to whom he would remain devoted for the rest of his life, as we will see.But he had to balance the duties of being a single parent with Le Grand Duc — and later his other club, L’escradille, which was connected to a boxing gym so that patrons could party, then exercise, take a steam bath, get a massage, and start partying again. To name the personages that frequented his clubs is basically to list the greatest names in art and culture in the renaissance that was the 1920s. Langston Hughes was a busboy and dishwasher. Arthur Wilson — you may know him as "Sam" of Casablanca fame — was part of the house band. Charlie Chaplin was a favorite. Gloria Swanson. Fatty Arbuckle. The Prince of Wales. Staff would move tables when Fred and Adele Astaire came in to tear up the floor. Picasso would stop by, and Hemingway was there often enough that he wrote about it in "The Sun Also Rises." Josephine Baker could not be missed, and even babysat for the Sparrow. F. Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda were frequent, notorious guests. Cole Porter would come in; he adored the way Bricktop interpreted his songs. When Louis Armstrong encamped in Paris, he and the Sparrow became close. But the good times couldn't last. In 1933, Hitler was appointed Chancellor of Germany. In France, the Deuxième Bureau was created as a counter-intelligence service and the Sparrow was recruited to work with the beautiful Alsatian spy, Cleopatre "Kitty" Terrier, whose father's murder by Germans in the disputed border region had instilled in her a lifelong hatred of German expansionism.Kitty and the Sparrow worked as a team at the club. He would serve tables and play dumb, exploiting German prejudices that would never suspect he was fluent in German. She would flirt her way into privileged information. It was a highly successful (and probably romantic) pairing, but with rationing, blackouts, and other wartime austerity measures, keeping businesses running became harder and harder. He tried. He procured a wagon and would visit markets at the end of the day for discounted goods, throw them in a stew at the club. Come evening he would feed everyone for free, plus a free glass of wine per person and a pack of cigarettes per table. He tried. But of course, things got worse.He pulled his daughters out of their convent school to keep them close. Closed the club. Many were fleeing as the Nazis came storming through Belgium. He wouldn't run. He continued to work with Kitty in the Resistance until 1940, when the Nazis marched down Champs-Élysées and through L'arc de Triomphe. Tens of thousands fled the city only to be bombed from the skies. He left his daughters in the care of Kitty, who promised to do what was necessary to keep them safe, packed his gear, and headed for the frontlines, determined, despite his age and multiple injuries, to find his old unit and rejoin the Legion.When he arrived, it was only to find that his unit had been destroyed. Returning to Paris, he couldn't enter; it had been completely overrun. But he heard rumors that the French 51st was holding out at Orléans. He started off on foot. The roads were full of starved, half-mad refugees. Bombings were frequent. When he got there he discovered that his lieutenant from the last war was the commander of the 51st, and, in what must have felt like the world's worst case of déjà vu, he was once again in charge of a machine-gun crew, fighting the Germans. He fought with his usual bravery. But it was a hopeless last stand. A shell that killed 11 men threw him forty feet and cracked a vertebrae. His fighting days were over. Using his rifle as a crutch, he struck out for a military hospital in Angoulême, trying to stay out of sight. But there was little they could do for him there: painkillers, some bandages, and a few cans of sardines with a suggestion to head for Bordeaux and into Spain which, although Fascist, had maintained official neutrality, and was tacitly allowing Allied rescue efforts on Spanish soil.He made it, somehow, received his first passport, and was put on a Navy ship to finally return to the United States he had fled decades before. Life in Manhattan wasn't easy. He had to start from scratch. He worked odd jobs — longshoreman, salesman of French perfume. Through a contact in the State Department he was able to get in touch with Kitty, who was true to her word: his daughters were safe. They came to the States without a word of English between them and moved in with their beloved father in Spanish Harlem. He became involved in Free French groups, working to support General de Gaulle, head of the Free French government in exile, and was also filmed getting beaten by police as part of a human chain to protect Paul Robeson when his concert was disrupted by white supremacists. Times were tight but he was doing okay. His old friend Louis Armstrong came to help, hiring him as a tour manager and occasional drummer. He even tried to recover his club and gym in Paris, but the postwar situation was hopelessly complicated and he had to give up. In 1959, via the French Embassy in New York City, he was made a chevalier (knight) of France. He said at the ceremony, "My services to France could never repay all I owe her.”Working at the time as an elevator operator at 10 Rockefeller Plaza, he was wearing his medal on his work uniform when Dave Garroway, the host of The Tonight Show, asked him about it. Naturally amazed by what he heard, Garroway saw that this elegant elevator operator got the day off of work so he could come to his office for an interview. It took a week to confirm facts. They all checked out: the elevator man at 10 Rockefeller Plaza was the first Black American fighter pilot in history — and a lot more. He appeared on The Today Show, which led to a slew of other appearances and speaking engagements. At least in parts of America, he became a celebrated figure, his heroism recognized. During his one return visit to Georgia, though, things were not so bright. His family has been scattered. One brother had been lynched by squatters when he'd tried to recover ancestral Creek land. He never returned to the South, living out the rest of his life in New York City. But there was one final honor.In 1960, General Charles de Gaulle, leader of Free France, came to visit Eisenhower. A million people greeted him in the streets when he arrived in New York. Hundreds of children sang "La Marseillaise." He gave speeches at City Hall and the Waldorf Astoria, then went where he truly belonged, to the Seventh Regiment Armory. Five thousand French were there. And the Sparrow. His presence had been requested. After de Gaulle's speech, he looked into the crowd as though searching for a friend. The thousands gathered, and assembled press, may have wondered what was going on as the general left the podium and headed into the sea of faces to find a lone Black man, his chest gleaming with medals.The man stood at attention and saluted. De Gaulle returned the salute. Then the general stuck out his hand and, when it was received, pulled the old soldier into a massive hug. "All our country is in your debt," he said. Crying, the man whose journey began as a stowaway, bound for an uncertain future, sure only that he belonged in France, could only respond, "Merci, mon general. Merci beaucoup."Not long after, he entered the hospital with stomach pains. He'd been ignoring them, but the insistence of his daughters finally prevailed.The cancer was advanced. He turned 66 on October 9, 1961, and died on the 12th. The woman who had been helping him with his memoirs visited him on the day he died. She was crying at the bedside where he lay, seemingly lost to the world he was leaving. Hearing her sobs, his consciousness returned from wherever it had been. He pulled the tube out of his mouth. He had something he wanted to say to her.The old horseman, boxer, soldier, pilot, spy, club-owner, musician, and father turned to his friend and smiled. "Don't fret, honey," he said. "It's easy."His name was Eugene Bullard.They called him the Black Sparrow. as described by Will Stenberg though I have heard this story many times, this is the most complete recounting I can remember

#1/31/21

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whenimaunicorn · 4 years

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Iseult - TLK-tober

I rolled Iseult, ghost, ink/sludge, malevolent. I knew exactly what to do! 787 words, warnings for haunting and contagion fears. (prompt list here if you want to do one too!)

“Just one more page,” Alfred mutters to himself as the flames gutter and several candles wink out. He feels no breeze; why do they keep doing that?

He lifts himself from the chair; that’s getting harder every time but even with no one here to see it he schools his face, keeps his breath steady as he settles his weight over his own two feet and steps carefully over to the closest candelabra that is still lit. He lifts one taper to rekindle the rest; it’s dim in this room even in the daytime and at night all of the candles are required for him to be able to see his Chronicle.

It must be almost midnight. He’s surprised Aelswith has not sent one of her women to beckon or scold him off to bed. But he must keep working. The Chronicle must be completed before – the shadows seem to swim in the corner of the room. Alfred shakes his head, rubbing at his eyes and refusing to admit he’s overtired. There are no devils here. Only God’s word is true.

With a warning glare directed toward the misbehaving flames, Alfred shambles back to resume his seat. Their exodus from the marshes, and the triumphant repulsion of Guthrum from Wessex. That was where he had left off. The battle would be described triumphantly, shrewd planning emphasized, and – Alfred watches, stupefied, as the final letter he had written pools up black and thick, spreading as though being fed by an entire invisible inkwell. Its neighbors blot up fat and glistening too, and within moments they spread the sickly blackness over half the page, swallowing the words over which he had so recently labored.

He holds the page up, blinking hard and pinching at his brow. The ink is not moving. The spill is all but dry. He must have overturned his inkwell when he stood to tend the candles.

Still, the page is ruined. He takes out a fresh sheet and begins again. He won’t spare many words for their trials in the marshes. Only the inspiring bits.

The Lord God, in his grace, performed a miracle that day, and spared the infant Edward.

The ink shimmers and spreads again, and as Alfred gazes into its blackness he almost hears a voice. Do you even remember me?

He crumples the ruined page, tosses it behind him, and stubbornly writes the words again. Before he even lifts his pen from his son’s name, the blackness is spreading, this time up his fingers as fast as it soaks the parchment. Your God had nothing to do with it.

Alfred refuses to be afraid, although his heart starts beating halfway out of his chest when a terrible thought strikes him. The woman he remembers would not talk to him this way, would not arrive with such a dark and foreboding presence as he is beginning to feel in this room…

It is only his mind playing tricks, after too many hours pain and not enough of sleep. He’ll finish this page and be off to bed.

Ink stains every paper that he touches. Wiping off his ink-stained fingers hasn’t seemed to do any good. The candle flames sputter again, and one seems to dip dangerously close to his scrolls.

“No,” Alfred exclaims, although of course he isn’t talking to anyone, and dives to extinguish the errant flame that seemed somehow about to jump all on its own.

He won’t put pagan nonsense in his Chronicle. Not his legacy, the birth of the Christian England he had spent his whole life building. Did she want him to say that his son was saved by witchcraft? Out of the question.

He extinguishes the candles, one by one. He dares not lick his fingers, although the wicks burn as he pinches each one; the ink is still spreading along the creases of his skin. He won’t touch it to his mouth.

“You cannot have my legacy,” he announces into the slithering darkness. He can almost see the long, dark locks of a woman’s unbound hair. He considers gathering up the already-completed pages, taking them to his room for safekeeping, but not when his fingers mar everything he touches. “I am getting a priest.”

The darkness breathes.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He’s not even sure why he’s said it. What is this woman to him, to England? “An exorcism is not the same as an execration, although for you the result might be the same. You cannot interfere. Begone, if you value what is left of your soul.”

When he begins again on the morrow, Alfred does not attribute acts to his God that were not within His purview. He doesn’t mention them at all.

Taglist: @ceridwenofwales @oddsnendsfanfics@laketaj24 @thewildbeauty @geekandbooknerd @therealcalicali @tiyetiye @pokeasleepingsmaug@goldentailedmermaids @sifshoney @titty-teetee @savismith @ariellostatci @perfectus-in-morte @axiseeu12 @kingofshadowalkers @glitta-killa @just-random-obsessions @volvaaslaug

#tlk-tober #tlktober #iseult #king alfred #the last kingdom fanfic

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honestsycrets · 4 years

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Alfred the Great | Love Alphabet

❛ sy’s notes | This one includes a lot of life scenarios of Alfred and his wife. I enjoy how it came out-- and I hope you do too.

A = Affection (PDA, what sort of affection they give)

“Not here,” he bends his head. You stand behind his throne chair, settling your hand on his shoulder. You press a kiss to his rosy cheek, in the presence of the others, as he waves you off.

Alfred has never been someone who was particularly touchy due to the way he was brought up. While small touches were always common, the way you stroke him-- touch him, caress him, out in the open gives him both a sense of delight and shyness when he realizes that others are watching.

B = Babies (Anything you want about babies)

“Perhaps you should show me.”

“Hold him here,” you guide Alfred’s hands. As he kneels beside your bed, a king on his knees, Alfred feels like any other man-- not a king, fumbling for the right hold.

Has no idea what to do with a baby of his own. He has no experience with holding a child and has no idea what to do when you place his in his arms, only finding himself staring down upon the thing, utterly lost.

C = Cuddles (How they cuddle or are cuddled)

His days are long. As a king, Alfred very rarely spends time in your rooms. He’s busy with putting all his energy into England for England. So, at the end of a long night, when he crawls in beside you, his hand might drape over your waist. He’d set an apologetic kiss to your head and fall asleep.

D = Darling (Pet names)

Small ones. He prefers to call you more proper names while in public; his wife, his queen, being the chief of them. Behind closed doors then, he might be more lazy with his pet names.

E = Enamored (how hard do they fall when in love)

“Who was that girl there--” he points through the crowd. You pick your skirts up, then disappear from where you came, weaving through the crowd here to see the king.

“Where m’lord?”

“She was just there.”

Admittedly, he has no time to fall in love. His interaction with women outside of his family is limited to chamber maids and the occasional woman during feasts. That is why his marriage was arranged. But if by happenstance he does meet a woman, it’s just that: a sudden pang of surprise.

F = Firsts (A first on anything you pick)

“She won’t know,” you swish around the horse, mounting first, then extending your hand toward him. He takes your hand, despite everything in him saying he shouldn’t, not that day. “Come! Live a little, prince-boy.”

First fling-- Taking him away from Judith and Aethelwulf is too easy. With everyone’s eye on Aethelred, all you have to do is fool Judith to slip her precious boy away. Alfred is unsure of it-- his mother’s voice beating in his head, where were you! He falls ill when you bring him back.

G = Good Morning (How do they wake you up)

Do forgive me, the parchment reads the day after your wedding. A small golden and pearl necklace sits on top of the crisp paper. I’ve too much to do. I will see you as god allows.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs?)

He does. They’re a small comfort to him when he’s going off to war, but even more so when they are followed up with a kiss, and the command for him to come back safely.

I = In Labor (Labour and Delivery)

“Women have been doing this since the dawn of time, Alfred.” His knuckle taps repeatedly over the parchment. Yes, women have been doing this since the dawn of time-- but not his woman.

He can’t get a lick of work done. He’s too busy thinking of his wife, who labors alone, in her modesty has sent him out. Get something done, he isn’t here yet, you told him. Strong woman. And still he gets nothing done, leaves his chambers, and seeks you out.

J = Jealousy (Are they jealous? How do they handle it?)

“Do you think the blonde one or the brown one is the bigger brother?” your chamber maids say, giggly amongst the quietly gathered. Before him, the Northman stood.

“The blond,” you speak up, rarely. You never spoke. “What? He’s a big man.”

Your chambermaids gasp, looking up. “Ooh,” they squeak-- and regretfully, Alfred’s head snaps over too.

Watchfully. He’s not admittedly jealous-- but quietly and privately so. He asks many questions, rather than interrogate you about your interests in another, to make sense of what happened earlier. You aren’t jealous, are you? you hush him with a kiss. Of course not, he was simply-- concerned.

K = Kisses (How do they kiss? How often?)

Gently-- at any point that he can. Leaving or coming, he doesn’t spare any kisses. He’s often gentle, and so you might have to push him to be a little more passionate. Shyness won’t get him everything after all.

L = Loyal (How loyal are they?)

Absolutely.

M = Memory (Their favourite memory about you?)

His grandfather’s bath was a tranquil place. You come here, every moment that you can spare apart from seeing the people, caring for the settlement, and doing your duties as queen. You strip away your clothes and fold them, not hearing the door squeak open, nor Alfred come in. The water plips as you shift into it. At the sound of boots you whirl about, holding your chest.

“Please.” Alfred stands there. His favourite moments of you are your most private moments. The moments when you think you’re all alone, but aren’t. “Go on-- clean yourself.”

N = Never! (Dealbreakers)

He can’t deal with someone who might whine about his time. His first concern is England and everything else is secondary to the fact. In his mind, his partner must understand where his allegiance must be.

O = On the Rocks (How do they make up?)

“Why are you here?” you unclipped the earring from the back of your ear, turning to find Alfred waiting by your table where you kept your jewelry box. “Does England not need its king today?”

“Not if you are still angry,” he raps his knuckles over the table. “I am sorry.”

With his time. It’s so important, and so scarce, that if he knows you are disappointed with him, it’s the one thing he can do to get back into both your good graces and show he’s apologetic about what happened. Or at the least, wants to make amends.

P = Playtime (Any headcanons on sex)

“Alfred what are you doing?”

He’ll try almost anything once. At the start of the relationship, you would take the more dominant role by inciting sex. But, after Ubbe came, Alfred seemed to change, putting more effort into chasing you with a strange confidence. The dominance is strange-- but welcome. You wonder how much he told Ubbe about your sex life.

Q = Quiet Time (How do they wind down?)

After his day, if he can sneak away, he likes to cuddle in bed. It’s better than sex to him because he can lace his fingers through yours, and carry off all thoughts of the long day away.

R = Rapture (What makes them happy?)

He took you that morning to watch him spar with Ubbe. Ubbe was fantastic, you’d admit. A true Northman, strong, witty, quick. But your eye was on Alfred alone, following the way he dodged, the way he moved. You held a cup ready for him when he collapsed beside you.

“What... do you think?” he heaved between heavy breaths. He could fall into illness, but he didn’t. He was strong, and as he chugged his drink, your hand caressed his chest, coming up behind his neck, kissing him hard and strong.

“You were perfect.” He admits-- he likes to impress you.

S = Soulmate (What do they think of soulmates?)

“A soulmate?” he asks you about the concept. He’s not heard of such things-- but it sounds... fitting, he’d say.

T = Together (What do you like to do together?)

Off of the carriage, you walked in the dust. Your maids said you would dirty your dress and yet, you didn’t care, you wanted to be among the children. After his duties, Alfred clopped by on his horse, leaning down in his saddle to hand something toward you. You pluck it from his fingers and realize-- it’s a sweet smelling flower.

Secretly, Alfred enjoys it when you accompany him on his trips. He often does get sick, so if it has to happen, he would prefer that it happen when you are by his side.

U = Unyielding (How do they handle interlopers on the relationship?)

The queen’s hands had been over him. Not the queen-- not his queen-- but the queen from another place. You had seen the way he pushed her hands down, cupping them together with a shake of his head. “I have a wife,” he stressed. “And no interests in another.”

Alfred doesn’t tolerate it. He makes sure to snuff out the concerns of women coming after him where they stand. Similarly, he expects you to do the same, although it he must, he will.

V = Vulnerable (Are they vulnerable often? How do they handle it?)

Not often. Apart from his family, he might be vulnerable with you. Romance and family life is the one place where he might be vulnerable-- and hopes that you’ll protect that vulnerability.

W = Wedding (Wedding headcanons)

“I’ll make it up to you,” Alfred says once the doors are finally shut. You roll on your side, over the small stain of blood dribbled over the sheets, yet still sore. He takes initiative to shift on top of you, his forearm balancing himself.

“That is not the way you wanted to...” he drops off, knowing that it was foolish and silly when you cup his soft cheek. It’s okay, you have to tell him, over and over again.

Being a king, it’s all done according to how it has to be done. While the wedding is luxurious, it could be better. He knows that-- you deserve his affections in private.

X = (E)x (How do they handle exes? What do they do if they see them)

With a semblance of longing but also of respect. If he’s moved on, he’ll gingerly nod his head, go on his way. If he hasn’t, he might wonder to himself-- perhaps he could have done this, or that, better.

Y = Yearning (What do they do when they miss you?)

Alfred held the end of the table, chewing his cheek, the paper was still not done. He has work to do-- but he can’t help wonder, where were you? Were you well? He turns to one of his guards, “Call the queen,” Alfred stands upright, throwing his hand out lightly. “Tell her I want to eat with her.”

He can’t get any work done. So, he does the only thing he can think to do-- he calls you into his quarters and hopes that this blaring need will quell. Or, if his body is so weak, he has to... eat first.

Z = Zzz… (Sleeping headcanons)

When he’s exhausted, he collapses into bed beside you. He doesn’t remember when he falls asleep, only that you’re there beside him.

@tephi101 @alicedopey @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit @deathbyarabbit @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr @lol-haha-joke @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071 @gold-dragon-slayer @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia @beyond-the-ashes @generic-fangirl @chinduda @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer @medievalfangirl @sallydelys @bluearchersstuff @affectionrabbitt @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @unacceptabletatertots @ivarandersen @stra-vage @tgrrose @cookies186 @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim @msmorganforever

#Alfred x Reader #Alfred/Reader #Alfred the Great x Reader #Alfred the Great/Reader #Vikings imagines #Vikings imagine #vikings/reader #vikings x reader #honestsycrets #TV: Vikings imagines #saxon imagine #saxon imagines

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free-pool-trash · 4 years

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angel - warren worthington iii

My first Warren fic, woah okay. I remember seeing apocalypse in the cinema when I was 13 (I was almost 14 :')) and being so happy to see Warren because I was such a little nerd and I used to religiously read a book from the library about the x-men and it had a whole section about Warren and I was crazy about him. So I was so in love with him when I saw him on screen (I guess I've been in love with Ben Hardy since before I actually knew he was Ben Hardy 😳) and I was SO upset with how dirty they did him in Apocalypse. Also upon further inspection that entire movie was a hot mess and X-men peaked with days of future past.

Anyway Ben Hardy put me back on my X-Men bullshit so here we are.

Here is the idea that was sent in by the lovely Anon for this fic: Honey!! 'cause I can't have enough of your work and since you said it was okay to suggest any ideas for warren, I was thinking, what about him letting the reader pet his wings. Since he is emotionally distant and stuff? (idk if that could work to develop a whole fic) anyway, i'll love some angst and love. Just bless us bringing our bird boy back 🤭. keep doing amazing darling ♥️

Word count: 5k (shes a long one alright)

Warning (s): swearing, mentions of blood, plane crash, platonic!Peter :) (also i didn’t really proof read this and it’s 3:44am lmao)

comments and feedback are much appreciated! <333

masterlist

Your breath came out in labored heaves as Kurt bamfed the final one of your teammates into the plane, all of you were more or less safe from Apocalypse now that you had the professor back in your custody, that's what you'd thought anyway. You hadn't anticipated what was to come.

Once you caught your breath after being dropped into the plane by Kurt, you spoke up, "Anyone need a pick-me-up?"

As you looked around at the group, most of whom were all close friends of yours, you noticed the vast majority of them littered in only small cuts and bruises, all except Charles who was still unconscious from Apocalypse's assault on his mind, but there wasn't much you could do about him, for now at least.

Your mutation was, according to Hank, "essential for field work" and by field work he actually meant high intensity missions that made you feel like you had the weight of the world on your shoulders. You had the ability to heal both people and animals of any outward affliction, you could cure inward wounds too but taking on anything more than a headache was dangerous for you, so you mainly handled cuts, bruises, burns, stab wounds, bullet holes (provided the bullet was already removed) and the occasional broken bone, y'know, the small stuff.

It was a pretty incredible power to have, only it also came with a not so incredible bonus of amplified empathy which meant you could feel people's emotions, read people's energy and usually you could tell people's intentions too. It all got a little tiring sometimes.

"No save your energy, (Y/n), Peter or Raven might need you later." Jean responded just before pounding started coming from the roof of the jet as some sort of blade pierced through the metal.

Sparks flew and you shared a worried glance with the rest of your teammates as the roof of the jet was torn open and two of Apocalypse's minions appeared, only one of them entered the plane, however, the one with the wings- you didn't know his name. Being on the edge of the group, you took the defensive, the winged man was bigger than you but you could probably kick his ass if you needed to. You were so busy squaring up to the bird boy that you didn't notice the panic happening behind you.

"Just get us out of here." You heard Jean say, followed by the all too familiar sound of Kurt's teleportation.

They'd left you.

Your eyes widened when you felt the plane plummet, the pilot, along with everyone else gone, only yourself and your winged enemy were left on the aircraft, his partner in crime seemed to have lost her balance and got swept away by the wind.

Despite being together you were both alone. You wouldn't lie, you were scared, he was too. You could feel it.

"Fuck!" You shouted trying your best to reach the controls of the jet before it impacted the ground.

Unfortunately before you could reach the console, gravity did it's thing and you found yourself being hurled violently against the plane's windshield and the next thing you knew you were shielding your face, bracing for impact then everything was black.

-+-+-+-+-

"Ow, fuck." You groaned once you came to, laying on the hard concrete of the ground which, of course, was covered in glass shards from the window you'd been thrown through.

The glass dug into your back painfully, you'd have to figure out some way to pick the shards out before you could heal.

Blinking your bleary eyes until you could open them and actually see clearly, you stood up as gently as you could, trying to avoid getting cut by any more glass.

The air was smokey and thick, it filled your lungs and made your eyes water. Your head was spinning, the feeling of dried blood on your temple ever present as you struggled to keep your balance.

The plane was destroyed, completely wrecked to the point where it's insides were now it's outsides, the roof had been blown off and the seats were nearly disintegrated.

Swallowing thickly, you remembered that you hadn't been the only one on the plane when it crashed. Heaving a sigh, you closed your eyes tightly, please have gotten thrown out the windshield you prayed silently to yourself.

Sure you didn't know the boy or like him all that much from what you did know of him, but you didn't want him to have died alone in a fiery wreck.

When you worked up the courage to finally open your eyes you let out a gasp as you noticed the winged boy not burned to a crisp but laying face down in the shards of glass, unconscious, a few meters up from where you had woken up.

Please don't have a punctured lung. Please don't have a punctured lung.

Please don't have glass lodged in your neck.

Oh my God what if he already bled out?

Oh fuck what if he's already dead?

You panicked internally as you limped over to the boy, his face was covered in blood, but you imagine you didn't look much better.

Kneeling down as you reached his body, you brushed away whatever glass you could before you turned him over so he was laying on his back.

"Thank God." You muttered as you could see his chest rising and falling, the movement was slight but all that really mattered to you was that it was there.

Gently you picked out all of the glass that had gotten embedded in the boy's pale skin, you had to hand it to him, he sure was pretty when he wasn't trying to kill you. Not wanting to waste time staring, you placed both of your hands softly onto his chest, a golden light radiated out from under your palms onto the tattered material of his clothed chest, within a few seconds his gashes began to close up and his heartbeat became stronger against your palms, he definitely had more injuries than you could physically see as your energy had been all but gone once you finally removed your hands.

Another downside to your mutation- it requires a lot of energy.

A few minutes passed before you heard a soft gasp coming from beside you, the blonde boy's eyes opened and he glanced around frantically, green eyes shining in the light of the setting sun, he picked a good time to wake up as you didn't particularly want to be waiting out in the cold night time air. His metal wings meant he was too heavy for you to drag to any kind of shelter, especially now after using up all your energy to heal him, you wouldn't make it far on your own never mind with someone else.

"What happened?" He asked with a groan, this was actually the first time you'd heard him speak, he had an accent- he must've been from England.

"You and your little buddy busted our plane, my teammates ditched and you and I got left to die. You almost did." You explained in as few words as possible, you didn't paint your friends in a very good light but you needed the winged boy on your side, you couldn't have him leaving you in the middle of nowhere with open wounds and no energy.

"Why didn't I? Die I mean." He asked, eyeing the wreck with a grimace before meeting your eyes again.

"I healed you, that's my mutation." He raised an eyebrow at you suspiciously.

"Why did you save me? We're on opposite sides." The boy inquired further, you tried your best to entertain him but your energy was running extremely low.

"The fights over and judging by the fact that the world isn't burning I'm assuming that your side didn't win. Besides we both got left on that plane, I didn't want you to die alone." You explained, your voice becoming slurred as you ran out of steam, eyes struggling to stay open.

"You look awful." The boy stated to which you just nodded, drowsily.

"Mm, feel awful." You responded as he stood up, glass crunching under his heavy boots.

"Come on." He demanded and you felt him tugging you into standing position, you weren't really sure what was happening but you didn't fight against it, you were simply too drained.

"Jesus, why didn't you heal yourself?" He asked, staring at your tattered backside in a mixture of horror and disgust, you assumed it looked as bad as it felt.

"Couldn't get the glass out." At that your head lolled against the boy's neck as he wrapped your arm around his shoulder and hoisted you up with his arm around your waist.

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-

Warren dragged you to a nearby house, the surrounding area had all been abandoned during the fight between Apocalypse and the X-Men which you were apparently a part of.

He couldn't quite figure out why you'd spared his life, he had been the reason your plane was abandoned in the first place. It annoyed him really, he was supposed to be your enemy but you'd shown him so much blind kindness despite the stress he'd caused you and your team in the past couple of days. His reasoning for joining Apocalypse in the first place was because he'd given up on being shown any form of kindness, by anyone, and in the space of ten minutes and less than ten sentences from you his head was spinning.

The regret was almost too much for him, you should've let him die.

Before he could spiral any further he decided he had to help you first, you'd saved him first after all.

Warren, as gently as he could, laid you down on a bed in one of the house's bedrooms, on your stomach. The boy, who didn't even know your name, began to pick the glass out of you as you'd done to him, he didn't have any healing powers but he was used to fixing himself up after fights back in the cages. He removed all the glass, cleaned the cuts and covered them as best as he could without having to undress you.

Warren noticed that your gashes began to close up by themselves, your back glowing golden. You kind of reminded him of an angel, the kind of glow he'd seen in a Renaissance painting back in Berlin, the kind of light that represented heaven.

You were still completely passed out, it was dark by then and Warren debated on just taking off into the night, but his gut forced him to stay with you, this girl who got forgotten by her own team then saved the guy she was supposed to be fighting against, it was kind of poetic to be honest. So he set up a makeshift bed on the floor of the same room you slept in, and laid down, staying vigilant in case anything or anyone were to attack while you slept.

-+-+-+-+-+-+

Light steamed through the window of wherever it was you were, you couldn't remember, wherever you were you were comfy.

Cracking your eyes open you looked around the room, noticing the winged boy laying on the floor beside the bed you slept in, awake and staring at the ceiling.

"Morning." You whispered to the boy, and he immediately turned his head towards you, "Good morning."

"Thanks for taking the glass out." You thanked him with a soft voice and a small smile as you looked at him.

"Just repaying a favour." He responded, a smile of his own playing on his face, you could tell he was trying to fight it, but it peaked through.

Reaching your arm out toward him, you laughed as he raised an eyebrow. "I'm (Y/n)."

Finally letting himself smile, the boy let out a chuckle as he took the hand you held out to him and shook it, "Warren."

"Thanks for not ditching me here." You spoke quietly as you withdrew your arm, picking up on his energy, he was unsure but decided to stay by your side anyway.

Warren's gaze returned to the ceiling, "We'd both been ditched enough for one day. Thanks for not letting me die, didn't get a chance to thank you yesterday before you passed out."

"Right. Sorry about that, healing people tends to take it out of me. I'm glad I healed you, though." You told him gently, as he scoffed.

"Not 24hours ago we would've killed each other on the spot, now we're having bloody pillow talk." He grumbled out, the accent you'd picked up earlier really coming through.

"Would you rather we tried to kill each other?" You inquired with an airy laugh, the contrast between today and yesterday didn't bother you, you'd felt him when you healed him, he was good, just has a lot of demons, like every other mutant you know.

"I'd rather I didn't try to kill you at all." He confessed, his lip trapped between his teeth, eyes never leaving the ceiling.

"It's not your fault. I felt it when I healed you, you're just like the rest of us, you needed something to believe in. I can't blame you for that." You tried your best to soothe him, you could feel the regret in his voice, you knew many of your friends at Xavier's school had been in similar situations before eventually joining the good fight.

"Doesn't change the fact I was ready to watch the world burn so I could feel some sense of purpose." His voice was filled with self loathing and you didn't know why exactly but you couldn't stand it, you didn't like that he hated himself so much.

"From your perspective the world deserved to burn. I've been there too, the world hurts us and we'd love nothing more than to hurt it right back. You wanted something better than what you had, you got brainwashed by someone who promised you everything you wanted, it's not your fault, if I wasn't with the X-Men I probably would've joined too- if he had asked." You admitted to Warren, it was strange, you trusted him with what you were saying and you could see that he was absorbing every word you said, he trusted what you were saying.

"Aren't you pissed? That you're stuck out here with me?" You knew what he meant, he wanted to know how you felt about all of your friends bamfing away and leaving you to crash and burn with Warren, the supposed enemy.

"It hurt a little yeah, but I understand, Kurt was scared, he'd never teleported so many people at once before, I was too far away from the rest of the group anyway," you shrugged before going on, "I'm not pissed that I'm stuck out here with you, you're pretty cool for a henchman." You teased, the way he shook his head at your statement caused you to giggle.

"There's a place for you at the school, if you want it." You floated the idea towards him breaking the silence that had filled the room, because to be honest you didn't want to part ways with the bird boy just yet, turns out almost dying together was quite the bonding experience.

"You sure? They'd forgive all this shit?" He asked you disbelievingly to which you nodded, "They'll understand. Charles forgives Erik and Raven every five minutes. Besides if they have a problem they'll have to deal with me."

"Thanks, (Y/n)."

-+-+-+-+-

It took you both a few days but you eventually managed to make your way back to the school for gifted youngsters.

You and Warren had bonded quite a bit during your trip and you'd developed an understanding of each other. Nights spent at sketchy motels and shared take out containers the symbols of your blooming friendship.

He told you about his original wings, he'd tiptoed around the fact that he wanted them back, he didn't give you a direct answer when you'd asked but it was clear to see that his metal wings didn't feel right to him anymore, they were a reminder of his lapse in judgement. And in return for his truth you'd shared some of your own, how you sometimes struggled with the aftermaths of healing someone more than you let on to your team, you told him that you had a hard time maintaining your energy when they sometimes asked too much of you on missions and even in the school's infirmary.

It had only been a few days spent together but you considered him a friend, you had a lot in common and you couldn't quite tell yet, but you felt as though Warren started warming up to you from the second he'd opened his eyes after the plane crashed, he was so quiet and reserved but he had a certain vibe about him, he had this sort of protective energy around you and you couldn't lie, that feeling of security grew on you very quickly.

You promised yourself as you both walked into the school that if anyone had anything negative to say about him joining the team, you'd kick up a storm.

The atmosphere in the school was somber when you walked in, Warren stayed close to your side as you walked towards the Professor's office, you needed to get Warren set up.

The pair of you didn't make it very far before you heard a gasp from in front of you, you didn't even see who it was before you were being crushed in a hug.

"You're alive... Oh my God you're alive!" You recognized the hugger and smiled, hugging him back tightly.

"Yeah, Hank. I'm all okay." You reassured the bigger man. Hank was like an older brother to you, ever since you joined the school you'd spent so much time in the infirmary and since you were so much younger then, Hank had taken on a brotherly role to you, he'd essentially become your mentor. He loved you like a sister and by the tears that were soaking into your shoulder that really showed.

"We thought you died, I'm so sorry (Y/n)." Hank sniffled into your shoulder, squeezing you tightly before pulling away, revealing his puffy eyes and red face, it looked like he'd been crying on and off for days.

"That why everyone's so gloomy?" You questioned, glancing around to see the majority of people that occupied the hallway staring at you in shock.

Hank swallowed thickly and nodded. You just smiled and nodded your head in Warren's direction, and Hank immediately stiffened.

"No worries, Warren took care of me." You assured him and he could tell by the look that you were giving him and the fact that aside from your over-sized clothing, that definitely didn't look to belong to either you or Warren, you were in good condition and the boy had in fact had a change of heart. If he truly was the reason you'd gotten home safely the older man was in no place to be skeptical, so instead he nodded gratefully to Warren who returned the gesture, not speaking.

After reuniting with Hank, he brought you and Warren to see Charles, who was like everyone else, in mourning.

You'd never seen him smile as bright as he did when you entered his office, the relief on his face made you laugh as he wheeled toward you.

"Thank goodness, darling girl." He exclaimed, grabbing your hand tightly in both of his own, without having to be told his eyes met Warren's, "Thank you, Warren. Come, sit." Charles invited him but the boy in question looked at you skeptically.

"Go on, he's okay." You assured him, smiling as he sat down in front of Charles' desk, fidgeting with his hands like a child who was about to get in trouble.

Charles turned to you again, a gentle smile on his face, "Peter is in the infirmary, his leg got injured during the fight. I don't need for you to heal him but I've never seen a boy cry so much in such a short amount of time. Go and say hello."

You smiled sadly and looked to Warren, "You okay if I go check on him?" Warren only nodded again, he'd become even more quiet than usual but you could feel his energy, he was nervous yet hopeful, optimistic even.

"Could you show Warren to the infirmary once you two are finished up?" You asked Charles who nodded, "Of course, go on now, we'll be ok."

Nodding again, you left the office and made your way to the infirmary, not meeting anybody along the way. Thankfully. At the moment you just wanted to see your friend and talk to him about everything that had happened within the last few days.

As you walked into the infirmary you saw Peter, a cast wrapped around his leg and a red and puffy face. Silently you leaned against the doorway and watched your closest friend in the school stare blankly at the ceiling.

You were so used to seeing him energetic and happy, you'd even told Warren about him, you wanted them to be friends, they were the exact opposite of each other but Warren liked to sound of Peter when you'd told him about him, you were all the same age- give or take, and you wanted Warren to be able to just act his age and let loose, Peter Maximoff, and yourself of course, were the perfect people to help him do that.

Shaking your head at his low mood, that was as a result of thinking you were dead, you pushed yourself off the doorway and made yourself known, "What's with the long face, speedy?"

You laughed at the look on his face when he heard your voice, and saw your face. The feeling of relief flooding over you as a result of his own.

"I knew you weren't dead!" Peter shouted, shooting up into sitting position and smiling brightly at you as you raised an eyebrow, pulling him into a hug.

"That why you been crying for two days straight?" You teased him, as you squeezed him tighter, Peter scoffed and gently pushed you away.

"Nah I was crying of happiness that I finally have some peace and quiet." He shot back matter of factly, his usual mood already returning as you joked around together.

"Don't get me wrong I'm glad you're alive and all but how'd you survive the crash?" Peter asked as you sat up on the edge of the bed he was on.

"I got thrown out the windshield, so did Warren. We were both pretty fucked up, I healed him up then he took care of me, made sure I didn't die in the desert after I passed out." You explained to Peter and rose an eyebrow at him as he smirked at you.

"Warren, huh?" He teased and you couldn't stop the laugh that left your mouth.

"What about him? We almost died together it was quite the bonding experience," you told him, still chuckling before calming down and going on, "You're gonna help me settle him in. I told him lots about you, we're gonna be one super weird little trio." You told him definitely and he chuckled at your optimism.

"Right, a kleptomaniac, an empath and a reformed henchman." Peter nodded approvingly at his own deduction and you laughed, "Exactly. Perfect."

Not long after Charles and Warren appeared in the doorway. Warren greeted you with a small smile, and nodded to Peter who waved at him, a friendly smile on his face.

"Warren has decided he'd like to stay with us." Charles spoke up proudly, happy to have a new mutant joining his side.

Smiling brightly you listened to Charles continue, "He'll be staying in the room across from Peter's for the time being but I'd be more than happy to make different arrangements should further developments take place." Charles' lips curved into a knowing smile, which Peter mimicked while yourself and Warren shared confused glances.

"I'll leave the three of you to get to know each other."

-+-+-+-+-+-

Weeks passed and Warren settled nicely into the school, he didn't talk to many people, mostly only you and Peter, sometimes Charles or Hank but he tended to only speak if spoken to first.

He'd been thinking a lot lately, looking hard at himself in the mirror and not really liking what he saw. His metal wings were starting to weigh him down and the tattoos that adorned his face were driving him crazy. He hated himself for buying into the notion that he needed his wings weaponized in order to fight when he knew that he could fight perfectly well without the blades.

You'd offered to try and restore his original wings and he knew you'd be able to, but he knew doing something that big could be potentially dangerous for you so he turned down your offer at the time but he wanted to change his mind now.

Still, the need to keep you safe far outweighed his want to get his wings restored. Being at Xavier's school saved him but that was all down to you, to him you were an angel and he'd both kill and die for you if it ever came down to that, he knew it was ridiculous though, you didn't need his protection but he still wanted you to have it.

He eventually decided to bring the topic up with you again one night when it was just you and him. You were in Warren's room, just chilling together as you did most nights, Peter usually joined too but he hadn't that night for whatever reason.

You sat on Warren's bed, cross-legged as a record spun on the record player, Warren's favourite band playing through the speakers as he sat beside you, his eyebrows furrowed while he worked up the nerve to ask you what he wanted to ask you.

"I want my old wings back." Warren spoke out suddenly, causing you to lift your head from the book you were reading.

Smiling, you closed the book and set it on his nightstand. Finally.

"You're sure?" You asked gently, although you were ecstatic that he was finally allowing himself to heal. To properly heal.

Warren nodded and swallowed thickly, looking at you pleadingly. He didn't realize how much he'd really wanted his wings back until he'd said it out loud and seen the smile on your face once he did.

"Well, I haven't healed anybody so far this week I've got enough energy… we could do it now?" You offered, smiling as he nodded rapidly.

You instructed him to get comfortable in the center on his double bed before you crawled over to him, "Do you mind if I sit here?" You asked, motioning towards his legs, as close as you'd grown over the past few weeks Warren was still on the fence about physical affections of any kind, he longed for it, especially with you but he just hasn't been ready.

Which sucked since yourself and Peter weren't shy about hugging each other, or kissing each other's cheeks, or throwing your arms around each other and it wasn't that Warren was feeling excluded or anything, no he knew that if you both thought he'd be okay with it you'd be showering him with hugs too, he trusted the both of you enough to know you'd never hurt him but being so vulnerable in front of anyone just hadn't been in the cards for him.

Deciding to let you help him get his wings back was the turning point for him, he was finally letting you all the way in. So he nodded and gave you a reassuring smile, the kind of smile he reserved only for you.

Returning the grin you straddled his legs and seated yourself comfortably on his thighs, his breath hitched as you placed a hand on each shoulder, you bit your lip as you looked into his eyes, "This might be a little uncomfortable, hold onto me if you need to."

As soon as your hands began to glow, Warren felt the sting of your powers against his back, it felt like he was burning and without thinking about it Warren's hands moved to grip your hips and his head buried itself in the crook of your neck and he bit his lip harshly.

"Sorry, War. Almost there." You whispered sympathetically in his ear, placing a gentle kiss on his temple, hoping it would make him feel better.

Watching the feathers replace the knives was incredible, his wings were beautiful, he was a literal angel and the way the glow of your powers illuminated his body almost made you cry. He looked like something straight out of heaven.

Soon, your palms stopped glowing and the fatigue hit you like a truck, every ounce of your energy had gone into Warren but it was worth it.

Slowly, Warren removed his head from your neck to stare at you, amazement painting his face. Your smile grew impossibly wide when you noticed his face was completely clear, the tattoos gone.

"Guess the wings and the tattoos were a package deal." You murmured happily before your eyes rolled back and you collapsed into Warren's chest.

-+-+-+-+-+-+-

After you passed out Warren carried you to the infirmary to rest, his wings twitched every now and again but they felt better, he himself felt lighter, physically and mentally.

Warren stayed by your bedside until you finally woke up, you'd slept for an entire day and your self proclaimed protector was becoming restless.

"Morning, angel." You whispered with a soft smile on your face, he looked different now with his wings back and his tattoos gone, he looked happier.

"Hey, sleeping beauty. I'd say good morning but it's nine o'clock at night." He greeted, returning your smile.

"How're your wings feeling?" You asked, you wanted to reach out and touch them but you decided against it, you didn't want to make him uncomfortable.

Noticing the twitch in your fingers Warren bit his lip and gently moved his hand to hold your wrist, "Why don't you see for yourself?" He prompted you, moving your wrist towards his feathers.

Moving your freehand, you grabbed his wrist which held your wrist, the two of you now in a strange wrist lock. Warren looked at you strangely as your eyes shone brighter than he'd seen them shine in the weeks he'd known you.

"You're sure?" You asked him, genuine happiness laced your voice and Warren couldn't help but laugh at you, "I'm sure. I want you to."

Warren could barely contain himself when your face broke into the most incredible grin, the kind of smile that felt like sunshine despite the fact that it was 9pm at night and the sun had long since set. Warren had thought he'd been doing an incredible job of hiding his feelings toward you, but he was sure that the way he was looking at you now gave everything away and the funny thing was, he didn't care, he wanted you to know.

Slowly you sat up in the bed and reached out to touch his feathered wing, fingers gliding gently over the arch of his wing. They were so soft and warm and felt so nice under your fingers, your eyes had been so transfixed on the angelic feathers that when you raised your eyes you didn't realize how close you'd come to Warren's face.

His eyes met yours and if you ever had a doubt that he was designed by God himself they melted away when his green eyes looked into yours before flicking down to your lips, then back.

You could feel his breath against your lips, he was intoxicating to you, like a drug, you didn't know how you were going to stop yourself from kissing him this time. You'd often found yourself wanting to kiss your winged friend but you always respected his boundaries enough not to, this time was different though, you could practically feel his lips on yours.

Warren, feeling the conflict but more importantly, the longing, radiated from you, decided to finally place his lips on yours.

His lips moved against yours softly at first but became more urgent when he felt your lips moving in sync with his, the way he kissed was possessive but soft and if he hadn't of pulled away when he did you're sure you would've moaned right into his mouth.

"I want you." Warren whispered, face still close to yours, his hand cupping your cheek, his smile was contagious as you found yourself copying his action.

"You can have me." You giggled out, chasing his lips, connecting them with yours once again.

#warren worthington iii #warren worthington x reader #x-men #x-men x reader #x-men apocalypse #peter maximoff #peter parker x reader #ben hardy

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blankdblank · 3 years

Text

Brother Dearest Pt 45

Nausea came in hard and fast and a try to make tea for Norma had her slumped back in her chair at the table waiting to the sound of the water boiling. Something was wrong and the new phone line in the house came in handy as a way to get the Doc on notice of what was going on. “Almost done Jeanie.” You said readying the mug and bag of tea that you poured the warm water over so she wouldn’t scald herself. Some honey was added in a hope to calm her stomach and over to her. The smell however had her stomach lurch and you turned with hand extended to the trash bin that zapped over to float in front of her to catch the little she could get up. Over her back your hand smoothed and you said, “Just breathe, it’s okay. Just breathe.”

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled accepting the towel you zapped over to wipe her own mouth and catch your eye to the lower of the can. “You made me tea,” with shaking hands she accepted the mug and forced down a few sips.

Beside her you sat with eyes fixed on her in each of her calming breaths to the mental count back to when they guys would be coming home. Dawn was with her family and had taken the kids with her that just left the dogs and even Mr Whiskers who were showing hints that they were catching signals the birth would be coming soon. All attentive and crowded around while she finished her tea and you sent the mug to the sink and rose to help her to her feet. “Let’s get you to bed and off your feet.”

A splash around her feet once up had your eyes drop and in a sway from her your hands steadied her in her groan at the sway of the room. “I’m not doing this on purpose.”

That had you giggle and reply, “Jeanie, I would never peg you for a purposeful splasher in my lifetime. Just mean’s baby is getting ready to come, Ambrose spent about an hour mid labor with her head in the bin. Let’s get you to bed sweetheart.” Against you she leaned as her nerves amped up and right to her bed you went to lay over the rubber sheet she laid over the bed each day in hopes of meeting her child. Carefully you helped to ease off her stockings she refused to stop wearing and her garter belt after she had slipped out of her now wet shoes. As easily as possible you helped to change her into a more comfortable dress she’d picked for the birth for her to lay back in and focus on her breathing between sips of water you ensured she took to stay hydrated.

Sight of the Doc’s car in the driveway however had the brothers’ hearts racing and once the truck was parked they both shot out of it not even closing the doors to the truck on their race inside. “Nora?!” Victor called out once through the front door you knew to warn the Doctor to leave propped open.

You came into the doorway with a sigh right into their wide eyed view and calmed them in saying, “Bout five centimeters. Just had to call the Doc she was nauseous for the past few hours, but he gave her something to help.”

Victor nodded and looked to the door that he passed by you hearing, “In bed, Vicy. I feel better now.” Right up against her side he curled with eyes on the Doctor who was explaining the simple powder he’d given her to drink in water you got her. His nerves eased with his hand smoothing over her stiffening belly that was shifting lower revealing signs that the baby was coming soon. Right off he could sense the only issue was the period of nausea that she’d scooted past. Though through the doorway however he caught your pause to rest your head against James’ chest for a melt into the hug he offered with hushed murmurs that he would take you to get something to eat to calm your own tilt to the room at the ordeal that had put off your lunch after a sliver of breakfast due to an accidental knock of your plate by Teddy off the table while Dawn was readying him to go that morning.

Gently he pressed his lips to your temple and with an arm across your back he led you from the door, “Let’s see what we have in the fridge hmm?”

The last of the fish was fixed up with some veggies for a meal you felt a bit guilty size wise that he fixed up to his setting it in front of you with a smile, “Eat up Darling. Been a hard morning. We’re off the rest of the week easy so Teddy can’t steal your meals from you.”

You sighed and said, “I don’t know why I’m so light weight these days.”

Down into the seat beside you he sat with hands on your leg and hand closest to him with eyes fixed on yours, “You are in no way a light weight. You need to eat and you need to sleep. Now eat up and get your strength up before Doc has to come and check on you when you pass out.”

A check of the progress had Victor sent out and had him curiously in search of you and on the empty seat beside you and asked, “Hard morning Pipsqueak?”

While your mouth was full James said, “Teddy knocked her breakfast off the table and lunch was put off.”

Victor softly murmured, “Pipsqueak,” still knowing about the lingering effects any amount of hunger had on your body only compounded by stress, of which you had plenty at the moment that had explained why the doors and drawers in the bathroom and kitchen he noticed had been open upon their return.

“I’m ok,” you said after swallowing. “I am.”

Victor, “Doc said her nausea was extreme and you got her through that, you kept her drinking and sucking on spoonfuls of honey and ice cubes. Thank you, now look at the kitchen.” Your head turned and your lips parted eyeing the open drawers and cabinets you eased shut again mentally then looked to him again, “You needed a break. Relax, Dawn’s off till tonight, Eddie too so I’m going to be in that room with you and Jimmy. Take a breather, pace on the patio, we got some time.”

The Doc however called him back and proved otherwise, merely enough to rinse off your dishes and take a moment in the sunlit patio where Mr Whiskers was stretched out in the warmth.

“Hey, what did I say about the face?” You asked the infant lying halfway underneath your propped up shoulders and face that was curling it’s legs and hands to bump into your nose after another waking stretch. Twelve pushes in an awkward array of positions for little Leanora Iris Creed to be born was endured and now Norma and Victor slept after a long night up staring at their daughter who once she had her first meal slept soundly. Two parents so worried about her safety had worried themselves to needing to sleep. The bald little girl with almost shimmering hazel eyes stared up at you with grunts and coos galore in a try to say something to you. Lowly however a chuckle from the returned James with tray of food in hand he had gone to fetch came to take over staring duty for the girl soon to be cradled to his chest lovingly so he could cuddle closer to you. “Come here Petal. Just wait and when you’re grown your auntie Bunny will teach you some serious tips on dishing out bruises.”

“Petal?” You asked with a wide smile at the now smiling man who inched even closer to your side with hands fixed to cradle his niece.

“Vic always wanted a Petal. We’re slipping it in, Shh.” Softly you giggled and turned your focus back to the food as he began to speak to you about any and everything to keep his mind off your own babies you’d have one day he pondered the faces and adorably perfect hands and feet he’d never let go of once here.

Arguments of course ensued with the tiny girl caught in the battle of nicknames, Sunshine vs Petal. Compromise was found by the common renditions of ‘You Are My Sunshine’ to the girl who would have to grow up with two nicknames from her parents related to her first two names. Help was given by means of your dad’s nickname for you contrasting your mother’s. And the early summer found Victor off work to stay with Norma and Leanora while you were granted shifts at the diner again and private drives with your loving husband who on the way back used the privacy to his benefit and took the long way home more than once to always steal just one more kiss.

Post signing sales however brought business back to your mind between trips to the comic book studio to Freckled Moose’s headquarters where they shared that availability was being expanded to England and America. Negatives were shipped back and forth again to ready the shipments and restock the shelves to fulfill back orders that by the end of June had your muffled squeak behind your hand to the number on the check sent to you for your cut of the first round of sales on the initial supply printed and bound. James handled the bank trip for you with a massive proud grin at the amount that was agreed to help pay off any tuition for yourself when the amount your father had saved for you was depleted. With the remainder to be added to the funds to come from the rest of the sales of this book and any others to go towards school funds for Erik and your future babies.

There was no way that would ever be a hard sell. Erik wasn’t that much younger than you and needed help to reach his goals and James wanted his daughters especially to be well educated and his sons to be able to have a good footing for their own futures and families they may have. Years ahead you had planned and even with a spreadsheet on a legal pad you had found a huge gap of funds that would be left over you couldn’t comprehend ever having earned that now spoke to how vastly your circumstances had changed from Steve’s watch to being under the protection of the Howlett brothers and Eddie.

Even had you not met James or Victor your future would have been far cushier compared to the nothing that had been willed down to you. All you truly had was that school fund and even on that you would have struck on your own to make a life for yourself under the legal watch of the Brocks until you could be claimed by someone else. Still, for the price near to an ironing board and far less useful in day to day life hundreds of thousands of copies of what you had snapped with an inherited camera for class was now a joining factor in countless lives and stirred conversations once impossible between strangers until that book had been released. Manhattan and Washington however would come calling soon enough as you were guaranteed two dates there as well.

“So what do you have planned for school?” You asked Erik in his path past yours in the diner where he’d been back to helping out since the baby had been born once his spare summer month long course had helped to catch him up to the final credits he’d need to graduate on time after being so behind.

Food was settled out for the table of truckers and his empty table had been cleared and wiped down for your paths to meet again behind the counter where you collected the next trays worth of plates and utensils. “Um,” he muttered on your way around the counter again almost reluctant to say his aspirations after his recount of his collected tips so far.

Back again at his side in the break where all the tables had been seen to between the both of you he stood lost with a drifted look on his face after having counted his cut of the tips from his cleared tables. “Erik?”

His eyes snapped up and he grabbed the coins and slid them into the slot of his tip box built into the counter and forced out a grin. “I might just work here a few more years first.”

That had you lean in and place a hand on his arm in the turn of the cook back to his grill after having taken notice of his expression in handing off Dot her lunch she was taking after her cousin had gotten off hers. His eyes widened a tad and you could see the deeply held fight not to cry in them and you said, “If it’s about the money for school I have money left over from the book after the rest of what I have mapped out to spend for mine that I was considering putting in an account for you.”

Instantly his arms shot around you and a smile eased across your lips to his right hug you returned gladly as he mumbled into the top of your head, “I can’t thank you enough I won’t let you down.”

“Oh I never doubted that Erik.”

In his draw back he looked you over ensuring he hadn’t messed up your uniform and said, “I have almost a thousand saved up already so it’d just be whatever’s left over after that. Will that be much?”

“Depends on how far you want to go,” you said with a smirk to his creeping grin.

“Far as I can. I wanna try for Columbia, like you.”

Softly you giggled and turned your head to a throat clearing at he counter to signal politely a need for a refill for a driver needing to go soon but wanted a top up first. In a turning reach for the coffee pot you answered, “Then we can see about the Brocks hiring you at the bar on weekends if you like.”

One more year was all that was left and the seventeen year old couldn’t be more excited to be able to head to Brooklyn with you, hopeful that he could get good enough grades to get into the fantastic school to be closer to his cousin and learn in one of the top schools in this side of the world.

Nose deep in the lake you tread water with watch of Eddie on his day off and Teddy in hand letting the boy get his first swim lesson. Victor on the deck sat with hold of his girl to Norma’s bashful drop of the towel around her. Dawn was off at work while James was helping a neighbor with something. Timidly Norma crouched to ease into the water from the deck eager to hide her belly you had been joining her a few times a week for some laps back and forth across the lake. “Norma it’s the water weight, no need to be bashful,” Eddie said luring a smile across her face.

“I just have to be camera ready before the premier in October,” she replied.

“Norma you’d have folks lined up even with Leanora still in your belly.” You said in her dunk neck deep into the water to Victor’s lift of his daughter’s body to kiss her forehead in her grunt at a passing dragon fly. Chatter continued in the cool off break between each lap you ticked off the weekly roster before you went inside to get out of the heat.

Irritating twinges in your belly now had you inside your tub while the hand scrubbed swim suit you’d left to hang on the sink to get the telling blood stain out from the unnoticed streak down your leg Eddie had warned you of on the way back from under the bottom of your towel. There was a promise to wait on babies but still another cycle had come and now you were nose deep in the tub after having scrubbed up and wound your washed hair on top of your head to simply seep in all the warmth of the water while it lasted joined by stray tears. Footsteps from the bedroom had you wipe warm water over your face and stopped in a knock on the door.

Victor through it asked, “Hungry Pipsqueak?” He had questions he wanted to ask but held back to wait for James to get home so he could pamper you back out of this troubling week that even the girls could tell wore heavily on you. Even Norma had suggested her own tips to the guys surrounding her own monthly troubles and painful cycles that had her wondering if you faced the same condition she had been enduring.

“Little bit,” you did reply and leaned back with eyes closing to the stretch of your legs irritating your cramped hips and lower back.

“I’ve got stew on the stove for you when you’re ready.” He paused a moment and asked, “You need anything else?”

Over your eyes your hand laid and you answered, “I am okay, just feels like I’m being stabbed from the inside out.”

You could hear his forehead press to the door in a sigh from a trapped sense of helplessness against this physical pain you faced. “Nothing?”

To give him something to help with you asked, “Do we still have some of those warm honey buns?”

“Honey buns, on it.” Back he stepped and to the tug on the drain chain you heard him sharing with Eddie once downstairs, who let Venom take over and get him into town to the bakery in his own urge to help.

Dried and changed into some comfy shorts and a blouse to join the others in the living room where Erik joined you also smoothing his fingers through his hair while you did the same to yours. Five minutes after Eddie’s return James had returned home with Dawn and your husband caught onto the tell tale signs and adoringly swept away right into extra cuddles and massages between spare snacks he could add to your afternoons and evenings.

August was the month to ready and September had the house boarded up for the lengthy drive back to Brooklyn. A couple days were used to freshen up the nurseries as you and James traveled for the two book signings. Washington came first and upon arrival you were taken straight to the Blair House, a guest home to dignitaries and others visiting the President, where you were gifted a lovely room that seemed a bit over the top for this simple stay. You had arrived in late and it wouldn’t be until the next day that Truman could meet with you in the planned dinner after your morning and afternoon for the signing.

A school nearby was used for this backdrop with the auditorium for the questioning afterwards. Far beyond what you had expected collectively over all the eight dollar paperweight now spreading through this country as well as England to those who had expressed some sort of demand had grown to be the unthinkable. True you were about fifty miles below Rembrandt or other staple artists in any country but still it was a bit flattering to say the least that this book and not just your comic books had been picked off the shelves by thousands of strangers.

Even here more children had brought their favorite issues for picture worthy moments to be flooded through papers, including a boy who hijacked his mother’s question time to ask about his favorite now signed comic book. A separate picture however even on your own picture was taken with the President and other members of the White House staff who had their own copies. All of which you signed before and after the planned supper with the First Family who were glad to hear all the details of your travels and possibly catch hints of what your next book might be covering.

The train back scattered across the hours had random people that had seen you who milled through the train to pass by and ‘casually’ work their way back to your spot to ask if you would sign something of theirs. After a stop at the house for the night up to Manhattan you went to be on time for the next signing. Familiar faces from random years through the state had come to pop up again with proud grins at their silent ties to the famous face so many had come to greet and hear from. Absolute love however came from your own town and block that by household took turns delivering their books to you if they wanted it signed between others who just wanted to ask about some of their favorite images.

The back of the line however from a fancy car Howard Stark joined the line a few people behind where Albert Einstein stood. The former lingered to the side while you greeted the others between him and the final book clutching guest, Howard. “Refrigerator magnet science, you really put that as how you managed the floating objects?”

With a smirk you accepted the book he held out for you and replied, “Well, I would give you the technical answer but that would be what it would be simplified to anyways. How is the floating car coming?”

Howard sighed, “Not well, been scrapped to help on some tech to help search for Commies.” His hand outstretched to accept the book back again he eased the cover back to smirk at the comment written there with well wishes for his flying car you wanted dibs on the first model up for grabs. “So you’ll have to wait on dibs for the first car.”

“Pity.”

Einstein, “Truly the pity that now battlefields turn to hidden spies on home soil. Can only turn the world darker, brother un-trusting brother.”

James sighed and took your hand in the reminder that the questions were to start after your lunch the duo now tagged along to a nearby eatery with a reserved table set for you. Howard had his hand fixed around a not so shocking shot glass and said to break the silence, “Saw the wedding. Paid a whole ten cents for the ticket to catch that reel before some absurd little ditty filled nonsense I didn’t stick around for.”

That had you smirk and say, “I feel like I should say I’m flattered.”

Howard, “Oh don’t be. I don’t know how you managed it.” He looked to James, “Forty five minutes, I timed it. How did you manage that without screaming?”

James grinned replying in almost a hum, “Almost did, but we waited five years and I’d have waited hours through any ceremony to be hers. The length of the ceremony is irrelevant, I know the traditional ceremony would have made her parents proud while mine would have wished it to be longer, amusingly enough.”

Einstein chuckled and stated, “My wife loved the ceremony. Very beautiful dress, quite close to hers though hers was, silk? I believe, something shiny.”

You smiled and said, “Thank you. I’m just glad we are married now and nobody can add anything else on the ceremony to what they wanted.”

“Ah,” Howard said with a smirk, “And there you are. Didn’t take you as the Princess the film reel made you seem to be acting up to from our meeting. How’d you talk them into filming it?”

James, “King George offered, well, he didn’t really offer, just said the cameras were coming. Even brought their Royal Photographers that handle their own ceremonies, also insisted on noting the title I inherited for the papers from my grandfather.”

Einstein, “Obviously had you chosen the titles yourselves you would have insisted to be named as a Baron upon our first meeting.”

James, “Just a another word.”

Howard scoffed, “No it’s not. If I was a Baron I certainly wouldn’t be out living in a forest. I would be living it up.”

James smirked, “Forest helped to bring me Bunny. Had hundreds of chances to walk away but never could seem to let go of the land something said to stay put. Enjoy the silence and space and just wait.”

Einstein nodded, “Land is always a welcome home to return to. For its small size New Jersey had quite the offer of actual patches of land around houses we chose between.”

“Bet it’s beautiful, we have a tiny patch out back of our place. Thirty by thirty, if that. But the dogs do appreciate it.”

Howard, “You don’t like the yard?” He asked with a smirk.

After a pause that had his head shift to look you head on you said, “I grew up in that building, there’s more than a few of my old neighbors who tend to pass through time to time.”

Howard, “You need a good fence and a new gate.”

Einstein looked to him after taking notice of the food approaching, “She means their souls Howard.” Parting his lips in a glance between you.

The food was settled on the table to ample thanks and he asked, “Your house is haunted? Like murderous ghouls and screaming cabinets and all that.”

“Just a few pass through the yard, mainly on anniversaries. The only screamer we had was when the guys moved the furnace and fuse box.”

James chortled, “Ya, found a buried box Jaqi knew whose son should have gotten after he died, but he was deployed and got evicted when Hildi’s uncle who owned the place stopped renting and boarded it up. Left after that.”

“Ya, he never really got along with his neighbors but he was a good challenger in checkers. Liked to have another Polish speaker close by to ramble off at on occasion.”

Howard, “I don’t get you.” You smirked and he said, “No, every time I talk to you or see you it’s another crazy pony in the derby to crazy town. You don’t match up, I’m a scientist, everything has a pattern and you’re just dots all over the damn page. You were a kid, sent to a war, somehow built this unmatched weapon you won’t share with anyone else that can tear planes out of the sky and tanks apart. Now you have a book on photography of all things, are in school for who knows what and now you live in a haunted house when not living in the middle of nowhere Canada.”

“Well you’re not wrong there, not likely to make sense to many.” You said taking a slice off of your food to the twitch of his eyebrow.

Einstein chuckled saying, “As it should be, if everyone knew all the secrets to the stars no one would look up towards the light in the dark. Mystery is key.”

Howard looked to him and said in his own bite of food, “You are not helping,” making the physicist chuckle around his mouthful.

James said, “Can’t imagine what you would be expecting to find.”

Howard said to him after a glance at you, “No one is that good.”

Smirking to yourself slicing off another bite you said, “Good thing you never met my brother Steve, according to him and his friend I was born a monster.”

Howard scoffed finally lifting his utensils, “You’re no monster. No fairy princess either but not a monster.”

“Trust me if I had magic things would be completely different.” You said easing the fork between your lips while he chewed.

Enrollment came around again and your class list had you back in line again wading through the sea of open books you signed and answered a few questions on each. English, English Composition, two Advanced Mathematics courses, Chemistry, Astronomy, Psychology, Literature, Sociology and Rhetoric were your chosen courses; the first two English courses being the only ones alongside Literature actually on Barnard campus. Though each woman married or otherwise took time to bring up the wedding and questioned the honeymoon afterwards and summer that everyone seemed to just love a romantic break away from the city with your adoring husband. And tucked between every few women was the hand off of hushed tips shared on how to have babies to get started on your own little family with the man who clearly loved your nephew and nieces beyond words.

In passing your Advanced Mathematics Professor ensured he had a moment at your side with pipe lowered to ask, “Did I hear this correctly, you have a young cousin near to college years?”

Subtly the end of your brow ticked up under the edge of your bangs and you replied, “Yes, my cousin Erik, he’s got his final year in school starting in a week.”

The smoke from his next listening puff on his pipe billowed between you as he said, “Where is he looking for his studies after he’s graduated?”

“Well, here, actually.”

A smirk eased across his lips and he said, “Well I can’t wait to see what sort of student he is compared to his cousin and uncle. Even Elliot is anxious on the wait. All of us on the admissions essay pool judges are going to keep our eyes peeled for his application. What’s his last name?”

“Lehnsherr, Dad changed his to Rogers when he moved to Brooklyn.”

After a glance at someone calling his name he let out another puff of smoke and nudged his pipe at you briefly to say, “I will remember that name and keep an eye out for it.”

“He’ll be glad to hear it,” you said in his nodding step away that had you glance up at James in his smirking reach for another book from the stack that the freshmen that rushed back with to complete the required textbooks you’d need. “Sounds like fun times are coming. Might as well pick a room I guess for Erik.”

James chuckled and said, “Me and Vic have been sprucing up some of our ground floor rooms he could pick from so he won’t have to be surrounded by babies the whole time.” When he took another book and you gave a soft sigh just making him chuckle again and claim the final book so you had hands free to get your paperwork and sign the paperwork to get the tuition paid for in advance again for the fall and spring semesters.

Dawn and the three babies were waiting for you at home and she relaxed while you and James got lunch ready then took charge of Teddy as the younger girls were down for their naps.

Monday this year was the day this semester began on. English on the Barnard campus was how the day began. Ready in a peach dress and cardigan from James tied seamlessly to your figure by a sash you settled into your seat trying to ignore the title of the article that had been apparently counting down on your baby clock since the big ‘I Do Day’. Even now the public’s image that you were a real life Cinderella who had come from the very bottom as a penniless orphan who had nabbed yourself a Baron and had changed your life now simply requiring a baby to make it all picture perfect. You hoped the pressure would die down but where the Congressman’s comments on your roots had high hopes on conceiving fairly early like most Irish women were perceived to be able to simply fall pregnant with ease and would remain pregnant for a good chunk of their lives afterwards until too old to get pregnant anymore.

Mama Brock however recalling the same weight had encouraged her girls to not put any pressure on that movement and to try and spread through town as best they could that the hope would be for you to get your degree first. Halfway almost to getting the first of them most women did accept that a couple years wouldn’t a spinster make as you were still just 22 and had years ahead.

Relief however came in your second class with the same Advanced Mathematics Professor for Trigonometry who welcomed you and the other females up to his course for this and the next three courses on the Columbia Campus until your final class. Minimal female interaction between classes aided in that the men were less likely to enforce that public biological clock countdown. The air seemed different in this upper level course with male students who already knew how talented you are and that you had well earned your seat in their courses and could head up against any guy who tried to test you academically.

A second Mathematics Professor for Calculus came next just a few doors down. Across the campus to another wing you had to weave your way to your Chemistry course that would come up after your lunch break. Portia animatedly upon meeting in her car spilled her exciting new course list and her plans for this year she had used to double up more of her own courses for her own degree.

From desks to stools at stations around the room in groups of three you settled in timidly formed groups. Yourself with two of the left over guys who you’d known loosely in their tries to get to know Portia and your lunch group the hour prior as the other females had grouped up leaving just you and the rest of the male classmates. At least for them they hoped to possibly at the least have some good word shared about them to their hopeful future dates. And around you they took up the stools so you wouldn’t have to be near the gas burner or the sink on the ends and settled in for the first class that would have your first group assignment to warm you all up to the process of each in class experiment and assignment afterwards.

Psychology came next, the most interesting of your classes you had read ahead on in the textbook that could have a great impact at least on some of your own internal struggles and those that your family might have faced. The lengthy class opened with just full speeches and presentations you took notes through to the end when you would have to get up and head across to Barnard for your Literature class you had with Portia. After which the first meeting with the paper came with the proud group who got started in the opening meeting with a list compiled of topics to ready for the paper to be put out in a couple days. Five sketch topics were given to you for various sections of the paper that you had a basic draft of each they commented notes for you to add to each of them through the rest of the days until they were due.

“I’m so glad we’re back in school.” Portia said with a smile you shared on the stroll to the front entrance of the school where James and her driver were waiting. “Been such a long summer apart.” In a glance your way she asked, “James still being as romantic as ever? A couple of my cousins said their hubby’s seemed to switch once they traded rings.”

Softly you chuckled and said, “Surprisingly more romantic than ever.” Widening her smile even more, “He’s excited for me to have another year of schooling under my belt too.”

“Maybe I should take more trips up to Canada for a fella like him.” She teased with a giggle matched by yours.

“I’ll keep my ears open, and two of the fellas from lunch happen to be my lab partners in Chemistry if they tickle your fancy.”

“Oh it’ll take more than small talk over chicken cold cut sandwiches to win my heart in just a year with kind words and flattery. Any man wants to come courting has to step up and set a meeting with my daddy first or they’re all just howling at the moon.”

“Fair tip, send them up to Big Sir for him to bite them into shape.”

She smiled saying, “Exactly.”

Pt 46

#James Howlett x Reader OC #Victor Creed x Norma Jeane #Petal is here #Eddie Brock x OC #baby countdown #Peer Pressure #Book Signing #Howard Stark #Einstein #Back to Barnard

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