#to offer his up; he knows that his return to England will almost certainly end in his death‚ yet he resolves to travel home before this

[detroit-grand-prix]

Wildest Dreams Chapter 11 - Better Than Revenge

Chapter summary: The GP3 season starts in earnest for Bee, and she's settling into her routine after moving to the UK full-time. There's new feelings to contend with, including racing at the track that almost ended her career before it started.

Content warning: N/A

Chapter word count: 3,685

Author’s notes: Both of the companies I mentioned, and are both based in Michigan. I'm trying to go for something as close to reality as possible, so I used some real companies. No, I didn't get paid to namedrop them.

I'm sure most people know the story of George Russell and his PowerPoint presentations, but here it is if you don't. It's very charming. 

George's placements in this chapter are real, except for the Monza one. He actually did win that one, but I decided it was high time that Bee got on the top step of the podium. And the Monza GP3 sprint race was cancelled due to heavy rain that year.

Previous Chapter

Brackley, Northampton, England, United Kingdom Mid-December, 2016

After securing her placement for the 2017 season, Bee’s life changed very rapidly within a few weeks. Since she was going to be mostly based around Brackley, she ended up moving to the UK, out of her parents’ house. She moved in the second week of December, but would be returning to Stuttgart for the Christmas break.

She rented a small furnished flat in Northampton, and bought a car - the first car she’d owned - on a company leasing scheme that Mercedes offered its employees. Fortunately, the discount was generous, so she was able to splurge a little on it. She got a silver AMG A45 4matic hatchback and absolutely loved it. (She hated that it was a UK-spec one, though, because right-hand drive would never not be strange to her.)

The day before the holiday break, Toto summoned her to his office. She was a little nervous about that - she felt like she’d been called to the principal’s office and she wasn’t sure why. She went to the office and knocked on the glass door. Toto looked up from his laptop and gestured for her to come in. 

The room reminded her a bit of a fish tank - almost every wall was transparent glass, no privacy at all. There was a large glass trophy case right in the middle of the floor that displayed an assortment of medals. The walls had bookshelves with some trophies, some helmets, and various books. 

“We have a few contracts to review,” Toto said as Bee sat in the chair across from his desk. “You’ve gotten a few sponsorship offers, which is a very good thing. After our press release went out, it was circulated to the news in your home state, and there’s a few companies interested in sponsoring a rising hometown hero, it seems.”

“What? Like… who?” Bee was confused. She knew that someday soon she’d need to find sponsors, but couldn’t fathom the idea of sponsors wanting to find her, especially because Formula 1 didn’t have much notoriety in the United States, let alone the feeder series. 

“We have one from a mortgage lender called Quicken Loans, one from a grocery store chain called… May… May-jer Major? I don’t know what this word is in English.” 

“What?” Bee stood up to look across the desk at the document Toto was holding.

“Oh, Meijer. ‘Mye-yer’. It’s Dutch. There’s a lot of Dutch people in Michigan.” 

“Ah - that’s a bit surprising. But, anyway, I’ve already taken a look at the contracts, and I just want to go through these with you step-by-step, discuss what changes we’d like for the terms and things.”

Neither one of the sponsorship deals were for earth-shattering amounts of money, but for a junior formula driver that only had a high school education, it certainly meant she’d be making a perfectly comfortable living. By the end of the meeting, Bee felt like her eyes were crossed and she barely understood a word Toto was saying. “Sorry but… this just seems like a lot.” 

Toto chuckled. “It can be. But you’ll start to understand these things eventually. I am your manager, but ultimately, I’m just making suggestions here. If you don’t agree with me on something, please feel free to let me know and we can discuss it.” 

“I think everything is fine with the changes you’ve suggested, I just… honestly wasn’t expecting to be getting personal sponsors already, especially before I even sought them out.” Bee sighed and rubbed her temples. “I know having to do these things is just a fact of life in this sport, believe me, but the idea of having obligations beyond just… racing. Like, being a spokesperson or something. The idea of it feels so strange to me.”

Toto nodded. “I understand. It’s normal to feel the pressure, but you don’t have to go all in on these things right now. It’s important for you to remember just to keep a solid perspective on the things you have to worry about now. These contracts are fairly basic, just logos on your car and your suit. The rest of it - having to do marketing, whatever else - it will come in time. And I’ll have your back when the time comes for bigger things like this.”

Bee felt a little better. It was hard to not let her thoughts get carried away, but Toto was right - getting worried about the details of the future right now wouldn’t help.

She headed back for Stuttgart the next day. It barely felt like she’d left, but she needed to hit the ground running after the holidays with simulator work and preparing for pre-season testing, so she didn’t have a lot of choice other than moving in a hurry.

 She was happy to be home for Christmas, though. She’d been running from one thing to the next, all over the world, for the last three months of the year, and it finally felt like she could take a breath. She made the most of the downtime, too -  she slept in, ate too much, went to the Weihnachtsmarkt with her parents, hung out with some of her German friends, bought gifts, and just enjoyed herself for two weeks. 

After the new year, she had to travel to Le Mans, France, for things at the DAMS headquarters - getting fitted for her race seat, meeting the rest of the team, and some PR functions. After that, it was back to the UK. 

As a mercy, her schedule mostly fell into a daily routine at the Mercedes factory without any travel until March, when she would head to Portugal for the first round of GP3 pre-season testing. It almost felt like she had a normal job, except the normal job was driving a fake car around a fake track. She and the other development drivers were officially testing the W08. When she wasn’t in the sim, she worked with her trainer, and sometimes shadowed the engineers and strategists. She loved it, even the stuff that didn’t involve racing. She was developing a fascination with race strategy - it was something she could see trying to do if racing didn’t work out in the long-term.

Brackley, Northampton, England, United Kingdom January 2017

On her first day back in Brackley, she was standing in a hallway outside of the canteen, talking to someone from the PR department she’d gotten to know a little bit, when she felt two hands clasp her shoulders from behind. It made her jump a bit, and she turned around to see George Russell grinning down at her.

“Alright, Phoebe? Thought that was you when I saw the braids.” She was still wearing her hair in two braids most of the time. She liked the way it looked, and it was the easiest hairstyle to keep her hair somewhat tamed under her helmet. 

“Oh my god! George! Hi!” She pulled him into hug. 

“It’s good to see you, Phoebe. It’s been a while. Glad to see you back in the saddle after Austria last year. Sorry that Red Bull let you go.”

She stepped back and looked up at him. “Well, I think it worked out in the end. I’m here, aren’t I?”

George laughed. “Yes. And it’s funny that it has, because I think you and I are the only two people that have the dubious honor of turning down an initial offer from Toto Wolff, and now here we are.”

“Wait, what do you mean?”

“Do you remember when we were in F3? I was racing with Carlin, they’re a Volkswagen team, so I couldn’t be sponsored by Mercedes then. And then, I tested in DTM with BMW - they offered me good money, too, but Toto told me if I went that route, I’d never be considered for an F1 seat with Mercedes, so, here I am.”

Bee laughed. “I don’t think I ever heard that. I remember Carlin was a VW team, but I didn’t realize Mercedes made you an offer that long ago.”

“Oh, it’s kind of a funny story, actually. Powerpoint presentations were involved, but I’ll tell you later. I have to get ready for my sim session. We should catch up soon, though.” 

In February, the team had an unofficial launch and shakedown for the 2017 iteration of the Formula 1 car at Silverstone. It was a rainy, cold, miserable day, but Bee couldn’t have been more excited to be at the track for it. She stuck by George most of the time, neither of them really sure where to stand without being in the way. They chatted as they huddled against the wind in their black team jackets. They would also be going to watch pre-season testing in Barcelona later that week. Bee watched in awe as Lewis and his new teammate Valtteri completed their laps. She felt tears pricking at the corner of her eyes, but it was hard to say if it was emotion from watching the car make its first laps, or just from the wind. 

Barcelona was the real test for the car, with Mercedes putting down impressive times and lap counts. An electrical issue grounded Lewis on the last day, and Mercedes was edged out a bit by Ferrari, but the W08 still managed to impress.

Testing for her own team came around with the spring. There were three testing sessions - one in Portugal, one in Barcelona, and one in Valencia, Spain. George’s team, ART, was absolutely dominant, with him trading top times with his teammate Jack Aitken. Bee wasn’t doing too badly herself, consistently getting into top of the midfield. 

Her moderate success, though, had a downside - she always noticed the stares she got as she was walking down the paddock, like she was some sort of novelty. Sometimes she even caught people whispering to each other as she walked by. She had gotten used to it in her European Formula 3 seasons, and she knew as the season went on, it wouldn’t happen as much. It still gave her the feeling that she might not belong here. 

She had a Skype session with Natalie after the last round of testing. They talked about the way getting personal sponsorships made Bee feel like she had more responsibility and pressure to deal with, and what she felt like when she was at testing.

“It’s just disheartening.” Bee said to the image of Natalie on her laptop screen. “I’ve been doing this for years and every time I show up to a track in the beginning of the season, people still stare at me. And I can’t even imagine what they’re saying or what they’re thinking, other than wondering what I did to deserve my place. It’s not even like I’m the first woman to race or anything, I’m just the one doing it right now.”

“Well… have you considered that you might be getting the attention because they might be impressed, or even surprised? Are you sure the things they’re saying are negative? Has anyone said anything negative to you?”

Bee thought about it for a moment. “Not… recently, no.”

“I understand why you might assume that it’s something negative. It has been in the past, since you were a kid. But from what you’ve told me, you’ve been putting in good times at testing, so maybe they’re impressed.”

“I didn’t really think about that. It’s not like I would go up to someone and ask.”

“Well, try this. Next time you see someone staring at you, or pointing at you, or what have you, just imagine that they’re just blown away by your presence. Straighten up your back, square your shoulders, put on a little swagger, and walk around like God himself sent you. You don’t have to actually act like that, not that I think you would.” Natalie shook her head. “You might be surprised to find how much reframing your perception might help. Let me know if it does.”

She also got a new helmet ahead of the first race of the season. It had to be blue and white to match the DAMS livery, with the Mercedes star on the front and an AMG logo above the visor. However, it was the first helmet that Bee was able to have some input on the design. Her previous helmets were all Red Bull-branded and just given to her as they came. 

She opted for a dark blue background with a design of light blue stars. She thought it suited her, being an American, and she had Susie’s old Williams helmet in mind when she was working with the designer. She couldn’t stop staring at it once she took it out of the box. Her first custom helmet. It felt like a big step, somehow.

The first race weekend arrived. Bee arrived with the Mercedes team on Wednesday as usual for the track walk, and practice was Friday. Qualifying was a 30-minute straight fight for lap time, which determined the grid order for Saturday’s race. Sunday was the second and final race, with the grid decided by the top eight being reversed, so getting eighth on Saturday meant you were on pole position for Sunday, and if you were on pole on Saturday, you had to fight your way back to the front. Bee qualified in P7, and got P8 on Saturday’s race, which meant that she was starting Sunday on pole. 

She was incredibly nervous, more nervous than she ever remembered being before the start of a race before. She almost felt a little sick from it. Unlike most drivers, she hated being on pole position. She vastly preferred to do the chasing. As the mechanics got her car positioned on the grid, she thought she was going to chew a hole through the seam of her balaclava - it was a nervous habit she’d had since her karting days. As the grid cleared for the start, she tried to remember the advice Susie had given her before testing, to take some deep breaths to get herself outside of her head, to work on visualizing the line around the track. It helped. Her usual pre-race calm took over, and she was ready.

Despite only being on pole because of the reverse-grid format, she was able to defend spectacularly, only allowing two overtakes, putting her at P3. A podium on her first weekend outing in GP3. She felt so many things at once as she climbed out of her car in parc fermé - relief, elation, joy. When she was on her way back to the pit after the podium ceremony, she saw people’s eyes on her again, but this time, she took Natalie’s advice. She squared her shoulders, raised her chin, and walked down the paddock like she’d just won the World Driver’s Championship. 

She sent a text to Susie with a picture of her helmet next to her third-place trophy. She hadn’t talked to her lately - her son, Jack, was born in early April. Bee didn’t want to bother her while she was recovering and trying to adjust to motherhood. “Couldn’t have done it without the advice you gave me at testing this year. I hope you and Jack are doing well.”

She responded when Bee and her parents were out for dinner. “I’ll be at Silverstone this year. I can’t wait to see you. I’m so proud of you.”

The next race on the calendar was at the Red Bull Ring. Bee wasn’t sure how she felt about it. On one hand, she suffered a fairly horrific accident there that almost indirectly ended her career. On the other hand, she’d landed on her feet and ended up with a team that she was much happier with. She was still racing, and she had vastly improved as a driver from putting so much time into the sim. It did bring something to mind, though. 

“I have a question,” she said to George while they were eating lunch at the factory after returning from Barcelona. “Do you remember Evgeni Kozlov?”

“Hmmm… wait, that Russian kid that pushed you off at the Red Bull Ring?”

“Yeah. I haven’t seen his name in a while. Is he still in European F3? I haven’t seen him on the F2 roster or anything.”

George raised his eyebrows and finished chewing the bite of food he was eating. “Oh, you must not look at any motorsport news or anything.”

That was accurate. Bee had seen a few articles about her accident after-the-fact, and found it too upsetting to read, mostly because of the deluge of comments about a girl “causing” one of the bigger accidents in an F3 race to date, no matter what the stewards had ruled about the crash. “No, I don’t. After the crash I decided to stop reading racing news. It just wasn’t good for my sanity.”

“Ah, okay, that’s fair. Well, there was a little bit of drama with him. He got pissed at one race about qualifying and decided to overtake during the formation lap, so he got black-flagged for it and got disqualified. And then at another race, his dad got into a fight with his team principal over… something, I don’t know. So, Red Bull dropped him, more or less because he was a PR liability, and his dad took his money out of the Red Bull academy, and there’s not a team that will take him. I don’t even think he’s racing right now.”

“Wow. You’re kidding. Well… that makes me feel better.” Bee leaned back in her chair. She almost felt giddy about it.

“Were you worried he was going to crash into you again or something?”

“No. There was… well, never mind.” The truth wasn’t really a road she wanted to venture down with George right now. “I just could never stand him, and for good reason.” She left it at that.

Austria went well. No podiums for Bee, but George won the first race. Bee ended up in the high end of the midfield again. Her team principal told her he was pleased with her performance regardless. She thought she’d be nervous going back to Austria, but the knowledge that Evgeni was nowhere near a race track took the edge off, somehow.

Silverstone arrived on an overcast weekend, but even the dark clouds couldn’t dampen the mood in the Mercedes garage, with a 1-2 for Lewis and Valtteri, and Lewis getting his third career grand slam. 

In the GP3 race, George won again, but Bee had a bit of a rough weekend. She had a mechanical retirement in the sprint race because of a brake failure, and only got P9 in the feature race. It was her first mechanical DNF, and even though there was little to be done about it, Bee still felt bad. Susie found her after she walked back to the pit lane during the sprint race, and gave her a hug. 

“I’m sorry, I know it’s tough. It happens to everyone at some point, and you were still impressive in the feature race. You’ve come so far as a driver already.”

“I know. But even the feature race was my worst placement this season.” 

“Well,” Susie said. “If you were doing that well at your worst, I cannot wait to see you at your best.”

Susie had her over to their house for dinner that night, and she got to meet Jack. Bee hadn’t ever been the kind of person that sought out interactions with children, but he was a really cute baby. And, as Bee found out, holding a baby was surprisingly good for chasing away the sadness of a less-than-stellar race weekend.

As the season proceeded, Bee got another podium or two, and was always inside the points. She was happy with that. Sure, she was racing to win, but the GP3 field was uncommonly deep and talented that season, and Bee was very proud of being the “best of the rest”. 

Bee finally got a taste of victory at Monza. Bee qualified in sixth. Saturday’s feature race was canceled because of heavy rain on the track, meaning the feature race was moved to Sunday, and there would be no time for the sprint race. 

During the feature race, she was particularly dialed-in. All she had on her mind was trying to make as many overtakes as possible, and she interrupted what would have been an all-ART podium with a stunning last-second overtake on George right before the line. Bee was a little surprised when her engineer said she’d managed to pull off the last bit of distance and pull off a P1. It was her first-ever victory since she’d started racing in single-seaters, and it was at the same track that she’d gotten her first podium in Formula Renault. She cried on the podium, at the top step. She didn’t even try to stop it. 

She would later laugh at the picture of her and George - even with her standing on the top step, she was still shorter than him. 

Bee and George walked back to the Mercedes garage after changing out of their racing gear and back into their Mercedes team kit to watch the F1 Grand Prix, and both of them were met with cheers from the entire crew. Toto pulled Bee into an enormous hug that lifted her off of her feet (not difficult considering the height difference between the two of them). 

“I’m so proud of you, bienchen. That was truly amazing driving out there.” He said. “You’ve come so far.”

That night, she let herself indulge in every scrap of news on motorsports blogs she could find. One article mentioned that she was the first woman ever to achieve a victory in the GP3 series, which would be more impressive if the series hadn’t only launched in 2010, but she would take it. It was nice to know that she’d put a small mark on the history of racing. 

Next Chapter

#f1 fanfic #f1 oc fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #original character #female oc #female f1 driver #susie wolff #toto wolff #george russell #my fanfic #series: wildest dreams

[nerdwhoauthorinserts]

Selfship AU Idea 2/?

Title/Name: Romcom!AU? Genre: Romcom

Selfship(s):  -Blahms (Romantic) Trigger warnings?: -Uhhh, I don’t think so? Tropes?: -Enemies to Lovers -Love triangle -Unrequited love -Love at first sight (One-sided) Changes: -Brahms’ backstory has been changed, it’s now a tad more "normal". -The timing of events has been shifted slightly. -Genre shift: Thriller/horror --> Romcom

Basic plot:

   Brahms was never involved with Emily’s death, the house never caught fire, and Brahms was never forced into the walls. Though still singled out for being ‘odd’, he had a semi-typical upbringing. He’s not an active member of the community or anything, rather, he’s a ‘reclusive artist’ archetype. (He makes dolls, small statuettes, rat traps, stuff like that.) Brahms goes into town mainly to get supplies for these hobbies.

   Meanwhile, Blake is arriving in town after escaping his ‘intense’ family, moving to England from America. The moment he leaves the airport, he has a cliched meet-cute with Greta, who also just arrived. (Specifically, Greta and him mix up their luggage and end up realizing the mistake right as they’re leaving, leading to the two having to swap back.) 

   Greta came because the Heelshire family was hiring for someone to do chores around the house. (A housemaid, basically.) There was a party being thrown at the time to celebrate Mr and Ms Heelshire’s anniversary as well.

   Blake realizes too late that the motel he meant to stay at was... not nearly as welcoming as the ads he saw when travelling made it seem. Thus, having no home, his attention is brought to the Heelshire celebration, and he decides to go (Mainly for the free food.). He sneaks inside and meets Greta again, and they get to chatting. 

   Brahms is dragged away from his work room (Still in the walls.) and forced to join the celebration, where he finally meets Greta. He falls in love with her at first sight, but can't seem to get the nerve to talk to her. Brahms notices Blake and Greta interacting a lot during the party.

   Brahms finds out Blake has snuck in when he’s confronted about it by Brahms’ father and Malcolm. However, Brahms steps in unexpectedly and makes up an excuse that he invited Blake personally. They step away and Brahms talks with him, realizes Blake’s predicament, and makes him an offer. Help him woo the lovely Greta and in return, Brahms will let Blake stay at the manor in Brahms’ work room. Blake is suspicious, but eventually agrees.

   Blake isn’t interested in Greta at all, but Greta, over time, develops feelings for him. Brahms only gets more infatuated with Greta the more he learns about her, while Greta is not interested. Brahms and Blake end up not getting along at first, (Blake is a punk rock dude and Brahms is a posh rich guy, of course they don’t get along at first.) but slowly end up going from begrudgingly working together, to enjoying their time spent together, to actually developing feelings for each other as Blake tries to coach Brahms on how to woo Greta.

   All the while, Brahms’ parents try to kick Blake out of their house somehow. From tricking him, to tricking Brahms, to fabricating ‘accidents’ as an excuse to kick him out, etc.

Random extra content:

   Blake is entirely oblivious to Greta’s feelings toward him. There are multiple jokes about this.

---    Blake, angrily clutching a pool cue: “She asks you ‘is beauty all that matters?’ and you respond with ‘What else is there’?!”    Brahms: “It was dumb, I know. I didn’t know what to say!”    Blake, rolling his eyes: “You should write a book: ‘How to offend women in five syllables or less'.” ---

   Near the beginning of things, Blake and Brahms argue and have spats almost constantly, but as they get to know one another, those moments get fewer and further between.

   Disapproving parents are disapproving, Brahms’ parents are painfully aware of the bond Blake and Brahms are forging and are dead-set on Brahms having a heterosexual relationship. (Maybe not entirely because of homophobia, but certainly because they want the family line to keep rolling/’I want grandkids’, lol.)

#AU #Blahms #slasher f/o #villain f/o #selfship community #selfship stuff #mlm selfship #selfship shit #lgbt selfship #male selfshipper #male s/i #Nerdwhoauthorinserts #Blake-rambles

[latent-thoughts]

An Offering, A Connection...

Summary: When a little boy gets lost in the woods in England, what hope does he have to return to his home safe and sound? Who will come to his rescue? Well, a very chaotic entity that loves kids.

Author's Note: I usually don't write RPF, but I felt compelled to write this one. This concept had been rattling in my head for a while, but I never felt a push to actually write it. Until now, until today, when I had been down in the dumps, thinking I had lost my writing mojo for good. I guess Loki approved?

Category: General

Warnings: None

...............

Golden, rowdy curls... unsure, confused steps.

The child was… lost, for certain. He had looked around and tried to act brave at first. But soon, it all devolved into panic and fear.

He was now crying. No, he was a sobbing mess. Crying out for his mother, looking around with frantic, wet eyes.

He was deep in the woods and there was no help in sight.

Were his parents not around? Why wasn't anyone looking for him?

The hidden, shadowy figure moved closer to the boy as his sobs grew louder, drawn by his distress. Not a sound was heard, but a rustling of wind through the trees.

Slowly, the inky shadow took on a more solid form, though the shape looked like a mirage. Ever changing, never settling.

The boy hadn't noticed the presence yet, for he was far too perturbed with his immediate surroundings.

Finally, on a whim, the shifting mirage settled on a form, just as his footsteps squished the fallen, half rotten leaves on the wet ground.

It had rained not long ago, and it might as well start pouring again.

Not that it mattered. To him, it didn't…

But the child would be soaked, and it wouldn't bode well for him. Children were fragile little treasures, after all.

The boy turned around just as he heard the wet footsteps approaching, his eyes wide and terrified.

They were a lovely shade of blue, big and expressive.

He smiled, stopping before the boy, letting him observe him.

"W-Who are you?" he asked, his voice cracking with nerves, his little body shaking in response to both fear and the evening chill of the woods.

"That's irrelevant, dear heart. Are you lost?" he asked the trembling boy, extending his hand towards him as an offer.

The boy didn't move, eyeing his hand with apprehension.

He didn't trust him. That was wise. Trusting strangers in the woods was bad form.

But in this instance, there was little room for choice.

Ah, but he knew he had to be patient. Children were delicate beings. Innocent from all wiles, they held a special place in his heart.

Bending down on one knee, he asked the same question again.

"Are you lost, my child?"

It took him a beat, but the boy finally gave him a little nod, his lips trembling as the tears once again escaped his eyes.

"I want to go home," he mumbled, barely audible.

"I see." The proffered hand still extended towards the boy. "Come then, we shall find a way back."

Patience unlike which he usually possessed took over then, as he let the boy take his hand in a slow, measured approach.

"My mum says that I shouldn't trust strangers," the boy stated, even as he grasped his hand with his little fingers.

"That's all true and wise, but your mum should've been here to protect you."

He did feel a certain ire towards irresponsible parents.

"It's not her fault. I ran away and got lost," the boy said contritely, lowering his head. "I didn't listen to her. I just wanted to run, to feel the wind on my face. I didn't see where I was going."

"Ah, I see. So you were being rebellious." He smirked as he rose to his full height. "How very chaotic of you."

The boy grew less scared and weepy and more loquacious as they began to walk, the sun setting behind them, darkening the woods.

"Is that bad? Being chaotic?"

"Not at all. Chaos is but an aspect of life. Without it, nothing would move, nothing would stir. Nothing would grow."

"So… why did I get lost then? Why do bad things happen with chaos?"

"You think it's a bad thing, but perhaps it isn't. For what it's worth, I found you."

"Yes. But what were you doing in the woods? Were you lost as well? Or were you looking for something?"

A chuckle escaped between them. The boy was a curious creature. Good for him.

"No. I wasn't lost, neither was I looking for something. I simply love wandering in the woods. I'm at home with nature."

"Where do you live?"

"Far from here, but close enough to visit these woods every once in a while"

"You sound like a riddle, and you talk in a weird way."

Another chuckle. "Do I?"

"Yup. But I like it."

Slowly, they walked in a straight line and reached the edge of the woods, stepping onto the familiar grey asphalt that served as the pathway for all the manner of modern human conveyance.

"I recognize this road!" the child claimed with newfound enthusiasm, pulling at his hand as he tried to cross over to the other side.

He let him pull him, smiling down at him as he chirped about his house, which was only a block away.

Of course, it was.

Hand in hand, they reached the boy's home in no time at all.

"Come inside," the boy urged, still hanging onto his hand as they approached the house's main door. "Please?"

He let out a sigh. "I must not, dear. I have places I need to be"

The boy pouted. "But you said you just wander around."

"Not without a purpose. I do have things to do."

The boy looked down, then sideways at the door to his house, letting out a little sigh of disappointment.

"Alright. But I want to thank you."

"I accept your thanks."

Shaking his head, the boy looked up at him again, one hand still hanging onto him while the other fished something out from his pants pocket.

"Here, please have it. I wanted to give you something more, something bigger, but that's all I have right now." He raised his hand up, offering him a confection.

He recognized it--chocolate, one of his favoured sweet treats.

"Please have it."

Well, he wasn't the one to reject an offering. Especially so innocently given. But… an offering given so freely had to have its consequences.

Silently, the confection changed hands.

"I shall take my leave now." He bent down on his knee again, stroking the golden haired head of the boy, uttering a blessing audible to no one but him, spoken in a tongue as old as time itself. "Be good, and don't spread too much chaos and mischief. At least, not until you grow up a bit. You'll get plenty of opportunities when you do."

The boy nodded, though his eyes grew sad. "Before you go, can I at least know your name, sir?"

Lightning sparked up in the sky behind him as he rose, illuminating his pitch dark tresses as he gazed down at the boy, a kind smile gracing his sharp features.

"I have many names, but you may call me Loki."

Thunder rumbled then, loud and cracking as the rain came down in a heavy downpour. "Till we meet again, Tom."

Patting his head again, he turned around and walked away, disappearing into the sheet-like rain.

"Wait… how did you know my name?" the little boy called out in confusion, only to receive silence in response.

Silence and the clamouring rain…

-------

[Present Day]

"Tom? Hello, you still there?"

A blink, and just like that, his thoughts scattered, leaving the shadow of the memory behind. He pulled it back under lock and key, like always. This one wasn't meant to be shared with anyone.

"Yes, I'm here. Sorry, bad connection."

"Ah ok. As I was saying, Disney is going ahead with this thing, and it's going to be pretty big. They want new stories, and they're very eager to have one with Loki."

That was… a surprise. He hadn't been expecting this.

"Loki?"

"Yup."

"As much as I want this to happen, he's… well, he's dead."

He had to say that with a very heavy heart, even apologizing silently to the one he knew was certainly alive and watching over him.

"We'll figure something out. Are you game for it?"

He rubbed his palm against his face, closing his eyes. He was pretty certain that he heard a chuckle echo around him, light and effervescent and almost inaudible.

"You have to be gentle with my heart, Louis, I can't keep saying goodbye to him. Be still, my heart."

"I understand, man, but this time, you'll get the reins. Tell his story in a more fleshed out way, it's gonna be a whole series."

"A whole series, you say?"

"Yeah."

Tom opened his eyes and smiled, shaking his head in disbelief and joy.

"I'm in."

Just as the call disconnected, he went to his kitchen and opened the fridge, taking out a dark chocolate bar.

"Thank you," he murmured softly, smiling to himself as he placed it on the counter and went off to take Bobbie out for a run.

He knew that it'd be gone by the time he'd return. Just like it always did.

The End

#loki fanfiction #tom hiddleston fanfiction #loki #mcu loki #tom hiddleston #deity loki #loki and tom #no romance only cuteness #loki fanfic #my loki fic #loki fluff #tom fluff #actor rpf

[softspideys]

Average (Frat!Tom Holland x reader)

summary: tom holland is the handsome, popular, and charismatic king of your campus. so why has he taken an interest in you?

warnings: none

word count: 3,000

pairings: frat!tom holland x reader

a/n: I personally prefer respectful frat boy tom to jerky frat boy tom. inspired by this glorious photo. I hope you you like it:) 

When Tom Holland first spoke to you, your immediate instinct was to assume it was a joke.

You’d just arrived at the party his frat was throwing and immediately made a beeline for the kitchen. You were never totally comfortable in situations like these, but after a couple drinks you tended to be more social and easygoing.

“Hey,” a voice said as you finished pouring yourself some of the suspicious-looking Jungle Juice. You turned around and almost did a double-take.

You knew who Tom was; his roommate Harrison was friends with your roommate Jess, but you’d never spoken to him. He was popular, but there were no rumors about him being a player or an asshole or a creep like there were with some of his frat brothers.

Now he was smiling at you, looking casual in jeans and a black t-shirt, a baseball cap pulled over his curly hair. “Hey,” you answered, once you were positive he was talking to you. There was no one else around you, but still.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Um, no thanks,” you said, gesturing to the cup in your hand. “I’m good.” You figured he was just being polite, but then he continued to speak to you.

“You’re Jess’s roommate, right?” he asked.

You nodded, a little surprised. You honestly didn’t even think he was aware you existed. But then it hit you—he must be looking for her and probably recognized you from one of her Instagram photos or something. “Yeah. I don’t know where she is, though. I just got here.”

“Cool,” he said. “I’ve only met her a couple times—she’s friends with my roommate Harrison—but she talked about you a lot. I’m Tom.” He held out his hand.

Slowly, you shook it. “Y/N.” This was weird. If he wasn’t being polite and he wasn’t looking for someone else, then why was he talking to you? You had to get out of there. “Um, I have to go now. It was nice meeting you.”

“Oh, okay,” he said. “See you around, maybe.” You smiled a little instead of answering before practically fleeing the kitchen and joining the party. The rest of the night passed uneventfully and you didn’t see Tom again.

You thought about him briefly afterwards, but decided not to dwell on it. Maybe he was just bored. Maybe he saw you by yourself and took pity on you.

A few days later, Jess ambushed you while you were doing homework in the library. “You talked to Tom Holland at the party on Saturday?” she whispered excitedly.

“Yeah, for like a minute. It was before I found you. Why?”

“Harrison told me he was asking about you. Want me to pass along your number?”

“No!” you said quickly, feeling your face get warm. “Wait. What do you mean, he was asking about me? Asking what?”

“You know, just like . . . what your deal is, and whatever.” She shrugged. “He probably wants to hang out with you.”

“Me? Why?” The thought made your heartbeat quicken.

Jess rolled her eyes. “Oh my God. Why wouldn’t he? You’re a total catch. I don’t know why you’re so surprised.”

The conversation was making you more and more uncomfortable. Tom was good-looking and popular and probably had tons of people lining up just to “hang out” with him. What was so special about you?

Despite your doubts, you found yourself giving in. “Okay,” you said finally. “I guess you can give him my number.”

Jess smiled, her eyes sparkling. “Awesome. I’ll tell Harrison.” She leaned closer, suddenly serious. “And look, I wouldn’t push this if I didn’t think it was a good idea, okay? You know I got your back. Tom is really nice.”

She had a point. “I know,” you said grudgingly. “We’ll see if he even texts me.”

~ ~ ~  

Tom texted you the day after Jess passed your number on.

hey it’s tom, we met at the party on saturday :) i got your number from jess. i was wondering if you wanna hang out sometime?

You spent almost an hour reading it over and over, trying to figure out if there was any hidden meaning in the short message. Finally you wrote back: sure.

You expected him to invite you to another frat party or something similar, but instead he asked if you wanted to grab coffee and do homework. Midterms were coming up, after all.

So you met him at a cafe on campus on a chilly Thursday afternoon. He was there when you arrived, sitting at a table in the back. He looked cozy, all bundled up in a hoodie and sweats. You bought yourself a hot chocolate and sat across from him. “Um, hi.”

“Hi.” He smiled at you. “How’s it going?”

“Good. How are you?”

“Pretty good.”

You looked around. He’d picked a two-person table, but that didn’t mean someone else couldn’t pull up a chair. “Is it just going to be us?”

His smile faded a little. “Uh, yeah. Is that okay? I thought—I mean, you can see if Jess is around or something, but—”

“No, no,” you interrupted, wanting to kick yourself. “No, this is fine. I was just asking. I don’t mind.”

“Oh, okay.” He relaxed. “I’m glad you came. I didn’t think you would.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “You just didn’t seem very, uh . . . excited.”

You cringed inwardly, clearing your throat. “Oh, sorry. I’m not very good at texting. Ask Jess.” You smiled a little at the thought of your best friend. “She’s always mad at me because I take hours to respond and then it usually just ends up being one word.”

Tom laughed. “Oh man, my brother Sam is the same way. I have to send a message to him in all caps that says SOS EMERGENCY PLEASE ANSWER NOW if I want him to answer within the hour.”

“You have a brother?”

“Yeah, three actually. There’s me, then the twins Sam and Harry, and then my youngest brother Paddy.”

“Wow,” you said, raising your eyebrows. “Your house must’ve been pretty crazy growing up.”

“You could say that.”

Before you got to the cafe, you told yourself that you only had to stay for an hour. One hour, and then you could make up some excuse as to why you had to leave. But as time went on, you realized you were actually enjoying yourself. The conversation flowed naturally, and Tom was a good listener. He didn’t seem to mind when you eventually lapsed into silence to get some studying down, and the two of you worked quietly for a while. He even offered to refill your drink when he went to get another for himself.

“Got any plans for dinner?” he asked finally, breaking the comfortable silence you’d grown used to. You looked out the window and saw it was getting dark out.

At first you thought maybe he was going to ask if you wanted to get something to eat with him. But as quick as the idea occurred, you shot it down. That was silly; he’d already been here with you for a few hours now. Maybe he was meeting other people after this and wanted you to take a hint.

So you lied, “Yeah, I’m meeting Jess at a dining hall. I should probably get going, actually.”

“Oh, right,” he said, glancing down at his homework. “Uh, same here.” You both quickly packed up your stuff and left the cafe, pausing before you officially went your separate ways.

“That was fun,” Tom said. He hesitated, and you braced yourself to hear some excuse as to why he would never talk to you again.

You certainly weren’t expecting him to ask shyly, “Would you want to hang out again?” You blinked, certain you hadn’t heard him right. But he just looked at you, waiting for your response, and after a pause you nodded.

“Yeah. I would like that.”

Tom’s answering smile was practically blinding. You couldn’t help but return it. “Awesome,” he said. “Um, I’ll text you?”

“Okay,” you said. “See you later.” He smiled at you for a second longer before he turned and walked away, a happy sort of bounce in his step.

You couldn’t help it; you walked home with a dumb grin on your face.

~ ~ ~

True to his word, Tom texted you a few days later to ask if you wanted to hang out again. This time you accepted readily.

At first, the two of you just got together to have coffee and do homework. Then he somehow managed to figure out part of your schedule and would meet you on your way to class. Even if he had a lecture on the other side of campus, he insisted on walking you all the way to yours.

He started texting you more, sometimes sending you funny videos or memes, but also sharing random thoughts and asking questions. Now you checked your phone frequently, trying to get in the habit of responding quickly or initiating conversation with him first. You followed each other on social media and you noticed he’d liked all of your Instagram photos. Just to be funny, you liked a couple of his too, but then wondered if he would find it weird.

“We’re friends,” you told Jess when she noticed you smiling at your phone. “That’s it.”

“Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England. Are you kidding me?”

“I’m serious,” you said, because you knew what she was insinuating and there was just no way Tom Holland would be into you like that. Sometimes you saw him around campus, always surrounded by a laughing group of friends and admirers. He was like the sun, and you knew you were lucky to even be in his orbit.

“We’re having a party on Friday night,” Tom said to you one afternoon. The weather was nice, so you’d claimed a sunny spot out on the quad to do some homework.

“Cool.” You were more focused on the essay you were writing than the conversation.

“Are you gonna go?” he pressed.

“I don’t know. Maybe if Jess goes I’ll come too.”

“Well . . .” He trailed off, and you looked up to see he was fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves. “What if we went together?”

You stared at him. Of all the things you were expecting him to say, it certainly was not that. “Like . . . me and you? Like . . .  as your date?”

Tom was blushing now, steadily avoiding your eyes. “Um. Yes?”

Alarm bells were going off in your brain. If Jess were here she’d be throwing a parade, but you knew there had to be a catch. Out of all the people on campus, why was he asking you?

You opened your mouth to say no, but then he finally glanced up at you. His expression was so earnest and hopeful that you found yourself saying, “Sure.”

“Really? You want to?” he said, like he couldn’t believe it.

You nodded. “Yeah, it sounds fun.”

There was that goofy grin again, lighting up his entire face. “Okay,” he said. “Cool.”

You knew you should be excited, but there was a nervous pit in your stomach that just wouldn’t go away. It was still there when you arrived at Tom’s frat house that Friday. You didn’t recognize the brother at the door on security duty, but he took one look and waved you inside, no questions asked.

You were a little confused; you came by yourself last time too and had to say you knew Harrison. But the brother merely said, “Tom put you on the list.”

The boy in question was in the kitchen, talking to a few of his brothers. He noticed you walk in immediately and his eyes lit up. “Hey! You’re here!” To your surprise he gave you a hug, and you tried not to focus on how good his cologne smelled.

“You look nice,” he said when he pulled away. In an attempt to feel more confident, you’d worn your favorite pair of jeans and a cute top, even allowing Jess to do some hair and makeup magic on you.

“Thank you,” you said. “Um, so do you.” He was just in jeans and a purple flannel, a black baseball cap twisted backwards on his head, but he still managed to make it look effortlessly cool.

“Thanks.” He paused. “I’m, uh, really glad you came.”  

“Me too,” you said quietly. He smiled at you and the knot in your stomach tightened.

Tom barely left your side the entire night. He introduced you to some of his fraternity brothers, whose names you forgot as soon as they said them. A few of them had brought dates too, and while they were all friendly and welcoming, you couldn’t help but feel frumpy and plain standing next to them.

It didn’t help that there were some not-so-friendly girls coming over too. They gave Tom hugs and kisses on the cheek before eyeing you critically. You could practically see the invisible thought bubble forming over their heads each time they looked at you: why is he here with you? You wanted to tell them that you were wondering the same thing.

The longer you thought about it, the worse you felt. It just didn’t make sense. Tom had practically half the campus falling at his feet; why wasn’t he with someone more talented, better looking, charismatic? Why had he picked you? You were so . . . average.

Maybe it was some kind of prank, some kind of fucked-up tradition in his fraternity: find a shy girl, get her to fall in love with you, and then break her heart. That had to be it. There was no other explanation.

“Are you alright?” Tom asked, tearing you from your thoughts. You realized you hadn’t spoken in several minutes, just staring off into space.

You swallowed. “Could we, um, go somewhere quiet? Please?”

He studied your face for a second before he nodded. “Of course.” He put one hand on your back, gently guiding you out of the crowded room and up the stairs. You followed him down the hallway until he stopped at a door with a sign that said TOM & HARRISON.

Oh. This was his room. 

He ushered you in and you noticed he left the door slightly ajar, so you could easily leave if you wanted to. Still, you immediately took a seat at his desk, not wanting to even go near the bed. Tom didn’t seem to mind, falling onto it with a loud thud and a content sigh. Neither of you spoke for a minute. Finally you glanced over at him and saw he was already watching you, a tiny smile on his face.

You couldn’t take it any longer. “Is this, like, a prank or something?”

“What?”

“This. Like,” you gestured vaguely between the two of you, “all of this. Is it a joke?”

Tom’s smile vanished. He scrambled to sit up, scooting towards the edge of the bed. “What are you talking about? Why would you even think that?”

You shrugged, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t know. I’ve just been trying to figure out why someone like you would be doing all of this with someone like me.”

He looked lost. “Doing what?”

“You know . . . hanging out with me, texting me, inviting me here . . .”

He stared at you for a second before he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “I mean . . . I like you. I thought that was obvious.”

“But why?” You were frustrated to find you were near tears. “You could have your pick of anyone on this campus. There are so many girls in this house alone right now who are prettier and funnier and more interesting than me. So why . . . why me?”

Tom slowly stood up and came over to where you were sitting, kneeling in front of you. “Because I think you’re pretty and funny and interesting,” he said, looking at you unflinchingly. “None of those other people matter to me. I don’t know why you keep trying to convince yourself that you’re, like . . . not good enough or whatever, but it’s not true.”

You bit your lip as he took your hand. “I’m just . . . not used to this. Usually people tend not to notice me.” 

“I did,” he said simply. “And I really, really like you.”

“I really like you too,” you said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Tom said gently. “Just trust me, okay? I would never hurt you like that.”

He was being honest. He always had been, but you believed him now. You took a deep breath. “Can I kiss you?”

Tom blinked in surprise before he nodded. You leaned in and kissed him softly; his lips were a little chapped and tasted sweet and sort of fruity, like the juice from his drink. His hands came up to carefully cup your jaw, holding you in place. It made your head dizzy and your knees weak; it was perfect.

It was like a dam broke. Suddenly you couldn’t get enough of him, couldn’t figure out what to do with the happy, fizzy feeling in your stomach. You pulled back a little, pressing kisses to his cheeks and his nose. Tom giggled like the touch made him ticklish and you thought to yourself, You were so silly to deny yourself for so long, to think you didn’t deserve this.

You knew better now. You knew you did.

#tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland x y/n #tom holland x you #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland fandom #tom holland fic #tom holland one shot #tom holland oneshot #writing

[tippedbykreider]

your love is my turning page | c. kreider

Word count: 17,700 Warnings: Mentions of death, grief, sex, mention of breakdown of previous relationship, mentions of infidelity. Author’s note: This was the first long-fic I ever wrote and to say that I was proud of it is an understatement. I’ve made some minor additions to this and hope you all enjoy it second time around as much as you did the first time. Fic title is from ‘Turning Page’ by Sleeping at Last Summary: Chris Kreider doesn’t believe in fate but a chance meeting in a Manhattan bookstore opens his mind, and his heart, to things he has only ever read about in the books he loves so much.

*

‘We are asleep until we fall in love’ – Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace.

Sometimes in life there are moments where everything changes, suddenly and unexpectedly and in ways that make it impossible to be the same person that you were before. It’s a bit like a storm, sweeping in and rearranging your life completely to a point beyond recognition, where everything changes and you’re left with a choice: mourn what was lost or use it as an opportunity to rebuild and come back stronger than before.

That was the dilemma Roseanna Williams faced after the man she thought she’d grow old with turned out to be nothing more than a huge disappointment. She should have seen it coming if she was to be completely honest with herself, years of waiting for him to outgrow what she presumed to be a teenage phase yielded nothing but frustration and a growing sense of impatience. If you asked any of her close friends and family they would tell you that she should have done it years ago but it never was as easy as just walking away, not when it came to the man whom she had been with since the tender age of fifteen. After she’d graduated university and completed her teaching degree, she was itching and ready for them both to take the next step in their relationship, to make more of a commitment, hell, even get married, but every attempt at an adult discussion about their future was met with resistance and a string of excuses.  The realisation suddenly began to dawn on her that maybe he was a lost cause and that she was wasting the best years of her life by waiting on him to get his shit together. The final straw came when she’d come home early from a teaching conference and found him in bed with someone she had considered to be a friend. That was when the flood defences failed and all the water she’d been ignoring for so long came rushing in, destroying everything she thought she knew and leaving her shaken to the core and gasping for breath. 

It started as a spark of an idea, moving away and getting a fresh start, London perhaps, or maybe somewhere further North. Exeter held too many memories now, the hurt and betrayal burying all of the wonderful times she’d had in the city that had always been her home. She’d discussed it at length with her parents who, while saddened at the prospect of their youngest daughter moving away, encouraged her to pursue whatever would make her the happiest. The spark caught, much like it always did whenever Rosie set her mind to something and before she knew it she was applying for a United States work visa and looking for places to live in New York City. All that was left to do was to pack up her life and trust in the magic of new beginnings.

That was how she ended up in Brooklyn, New York, teaching English Literature at a local high school. It was a different kind of life, one that took her a couple of years to get used to and while Rosie wasn’t quite confident enough yet to call herself a New Yorker, she definitely felt like she had found somewhere that she could call home. That feeling started as a seed, growing roots and leaves every time she would get off the subway at the right stop or find a new coffee shop to try until eventually she could rattle off her favourite places to get an Americano or the best places to get pizza. Her family and friends loved it, naturally, having the perfect reason to come and visit the Big Apple and Rosie loving nothing more than having the opportunity to show off the city she’d grown to adore.

Of course, there were parts of her old life that she missed. How could she not? She missed her family and her university friends. She missed afternoon teas with Devonshire clotted cream and summer days spent at the beach in Torquay. ‘You can always come home, love,’ her mother would say and that was completely true and while a part of her would always yearn for the smell of the sea or the cry of a gull on a soft summer breeze and while her roots were very much planted in Devonshire soil, her heart belonged to New York City.

She’d developed somewhat of a routine during the first couple of years that she’d lived in Brooklyn and it was one that hadn’t changed much, loving nothing more than taking the subway to Manhattan on weekends to spend the day checking out all the small independently run bookstores (when she wasn’t drowning in unmarked papers, of course). This particular late-October Saturday had started much like the others; she allowed herself a well-deserved lie-in after a hectic week of teaching and a bottle of Sangiovese the previous night, savouring her first cup of coffee like it was the first she’d had in months while she set about watering her house plants. A shower that lasted entirely too long, which doubled as a Fleetwood Mac tribute concert that she was sure her neighbours appreciated, was next on the agenda before she finally bundled herself up to face a chilly Autumn day in the city. 

She’d stopped off at her favourite coffee shop on the way to the station and chatted with the young barista, Laura, behind the counter, whom she’d grown to know over the months since Laura had started working there. She’d learned that Laura was planning a trip to Europe next Summer and offered some suggestions of places in England to visit, making sure to get her to promise to not just visit London. With her take-out coffee cradled in her hands, the cup serving her well as a much needed hand-warmer, the late-morning had Rosie heading towards Westsider Books, a favourite haunt of hers that she couldn’t help but keep coming back to. She had no reason at all to think that going to that store was going to prove to be another one of those moments that she could look back on as being a defining moment in her story, but with a push of the door, every star and planet aligned that set her on a course that would change her life forever.

*

Christopher James Kreider was a self-confessed simple man, despite his career choice and the lifestyle that came with it seeming to be anything but. He was incredibly thankful for the certain level of anonymity that came with living in a place like New York; certainly, there were times where he would be recognised and would be stopped for a picture or autograph, but in the sea of a-list celebrities that called the city home, he was just a small fish and was happiest when he was flying under the radar. The kind of life afforded by being a professional athlete playing in the National Hockey League was one that he wasn’t sure he would ever get used to. Sure, he had a sweeping Tribeca apartment that he called home, he had a nice car, he went to work wearing expensive suits and could afford to eat out in the city anywhere he wanted, but the reality of it all was that he was most at ease sprawled out on his couch with a good book and a bottle of wine.

His teammates affectionately called him the hockey Renaissance man, a nod to his impressive pursuits off the ice, but it was never a name that sat comfortably with him. As far as he was concerned, he was just Chris, there was nothing special about him and his ability to deflect praise or compliments was nothing short of reflexive. His days off during the season were few and far between and he was always keen to make the most of the time afforded to him. An early start and cup of coffee usually preceded a quick workout, followed by a shower, a second coffee and a crossword puzzle while he decided how he was going to spend his day. Sometimes he wanted nothing more than to stay within the sanctuary of his apartment and read Hemingway until the sun began to dip below the skyline, other times he would venture out into the city and check out the new exhibit down at the art gallery in Soho before finding somewhere quiet to enjoy a good cup of coffee.

The season had gotten off to a decent enough start, the chemistry between the team seeming to grow with each game and Chris hitting his stride early on. He’d just returned from a three game trip in Canada and despite the slight fatigue he was feeling, he was eager to get out into the city. He wasn’t in the market for anything in particular but there was a lot of joy to be found in rummaging through old record shops or second hand book stores, at least in Chris’s opinion anyway. There was something so special about a pre-loved record or book, he thought, each had their own tale to tell and each held a special place in someone’s heart at one point or another. There were barely any new editions of books on his bookshelves, some so tatty and worn that their bindings were stringy and the pages threatened to abscond if held the wrong way.

Chris was a creature of habit and it was something that he would freely admit. He often visited the stores closest to home, not often venturing further than Midtown, but with nothing but time he found himself on the 1 train and headed towards Upper West Side, Westsider Books his destination of choice. The first thing he noticed upon entering wasn’t the towering shelves that stacked books upon books but the unmistakable scent of vellichor, that grassy, almost vanilla aroma that felt a lot like coming home. The owner offered a friendly smile before nodding towards the vast collection of books.

“There’s fiction all down here, poetry’s at the back and non-fiction’s upstairs. Let me know if there’s something in particular you’re lookin’ for, I know there’s a lotta books in here.”

“Thank you,” Chris replied. “Do you have any Russian literature in at all?”

“We sure do, whatever we’ve got is on the third shelf from the back there, on your left.”

“Perfect, thanks a lot for your help.”

Chris offered the man behind the counter a smile and headed deeper into the shop, stopping in front of an impressive looking collection of Russian classics. It was easy to get lost in the volumes on the shelves, flicking through pages of different editions, some of them older than he’d ever seen before. There was one book in particular though that caught his eye, unassuming and inconspicuous enough, nestled between War and Peace and the Death of Ivan Ilyich. He reached out to touch the navy blue leather but was suddenly caught off-guard by the sensation of cold fingers knocking against his own.

“God, I’m so sorry, I was completely in my own world there.”

His eyes flicked to his right towards the source of the voice, soft and feminine with an accent that he knew not to be local. Rosie hadn’t even noticed him, which now that she was taking in his appearance properly didn’t exactly understand how she’d missed him standing beside her. He was well over six foot, she noted, and impossibly broad, but the thing that stood out to her the most about him was the unmistakable kindness in his hazel eyes, a tranquil grove of moss covered trees with their different shades of bark.

“No, no, you’re good. It’s me, big clumsy oaf over here,” he trailed off with a soft laugh, a slight heat rising in his cheeks now that he was really seeing her, with her eyes that were as blue as a summer sky and hair that reflected the colour of the autumn leaves outside.

“Did you want Anna Karenina?” Rosie asked, nodding towards the shelves.

“Oh, um, it’s okay, you go for it,” he smiled at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that gave him a kind of softness, a familiarity almost.

“Please, I insist,” Rosie reached for the book and took it from its resting place amongst the other Tolstoy works, handing it to Chris. “I already have three different editions of this, if I took home a fourth I think an intervention would need to be staged.”

Rosie grinned as Chris laughed, the sound full and rich to her ears, while he took the book from her hands and tucked it under his arm.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that now, would we?” He started, his eyes flitting across her features before they settled to meet her gaze. Her grin had faded into a warm smile that reached all the way up to her eyes and she was surveying him with an almost curiosity, one that he found himself matching. “I’m sorry, I know you probably get asked this all the time,” he continued, with an endearing kind of sheepishness that kept the corners of Rosie’s mouth lifted upwards, “but I gotta ask about the accent. I wanna say British but I don’t want to come across like a stereotypically ignorant American if I’m wrong.”

“Oh it’s okay,” Rosie chuckled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “you’re only the third person to ask me today.”

Chris could tell from the sparkle in her eye and the smirk on her lips that she meant no malice in her reply and made an exaggerated cringing grimace in return.

“God, I know. I’m sorry. You must get sick of it.”

“I mean, if I had a dollar for every time someone asked I’d be a very rich lady, but yeah, your ears don’t deceive you, I’m British. Actually from Exeter in Devon specifically, which is like South West England and now I realise that that probably means nothing to you,” she laughed as she caught the slightly vacant expression that had graced his features while she had been explaining her place of birth.

“I know, I’m sorry. I guess I really am a stereotypical ignorant American.”

Rosie responded with a gentle shake of her head as she spoke, “Nah, I wouldn’t say so. I couldn’t tell you the first thing about the rest of the States, it took me longer than I care to admit to just not get lost going two or three blocks down.”

Chris smiled, both at her kindness and the gentle lilt of her accent. “So are you here visiting, or?”

Rosie shook her head again, the auburn waves shaking and falling about her face in a way that had Chris’s smile doubling.

“Well, I’m visiting Manhattan, but I live in the city, been here coming up five years now.”

“Yeah? And you like it?”

Rosie’s smile sparked at the corner of her mouth until it spread like wildfire and lit up the whole of her face. Chris couldn’t help but notice how beautiful it made her look, that kind of smile that was so undeniably authentic and genuine and yet so incredibly rare in a city as big as New York; but there it was, right in front of him and warm like sunshine.

“I love it here,” the affection in her voice clear as day. “It’s so different from anything back home and in the best possible way.”

Chris got the impression from her seemingly deliberate choice of words that there was a story there, but the classic literature aisle didn’t really seem like the time and place to get into it with someone he’d just met, nor did he want to assume that she would even offer that tale to him freely. Instead, he took the book out from under his arm and held it out to her.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take this home with you?”

“I’m positive. ‘Live in the needs of the day’ as Tolstoy would say and I don’t really need that book. I’m sure you’ll give it a wonderful home.”

She met his eyes briefly, her stomach flip-flopping at the softness she found there, and gave him a warm smile that matched the one he was wearing. Chris wasn’t sure what had made him feel so bold. Perhaps it was the feeling of being so completely at ease with her, despite not even knowing her name and despite having known her for a mere five minutes, or perhaps it was the gentleness in her eyes. He didn’t spend too much of his time thinking about it as the words were out of his mouth before he could second guess them.

“At least let me buy you a coffee as a thank you.”

“Do you buy all the women you meet in bookshops coffee?” Rosie quipped without missing a beat.

“Damn, you caught me.”

Rosie laughed, easy and free with her head tipped back and Chris knew in that moment that he needed this woman in his life in some way, the sound bright and rich like the first sip of coffee in the morning or the first rays of summer sunshine filtering through curtains. He was still surveying her with an easy grin as she shuffled on her feet slightly, deciding whether she was going to let her head or her heart reign supreme today.

“I don’t usually make a habit of getting coffee with strangers,” the small smile still playing on her lips despite the tentative nature of her words.

Chris instinctively offered his hand out for her to shake.

“Well, I’m Christopher and you are?”

Rosie placed her hand in his, the smile on her face doubling in size at his kindness as she shook his hand, and tried to ignore the way her heart started to race at how warm and easy his touch felt.

“Rosie, or Roseanna if we’re using our Sunday names.”

“Nice to meet you, Rosie,” Chris said, his tone gentler than was probably necessary in the moment but it had Rosie feeling more relaxed in his presence by the second. “See, we’re not strangers anymore.”

“No, I don’t suppose we are. Alright then, Christopher, I accept your proposal of coffee and if you turn out to be an axe murderer then I hope you enjoy the book.”

It wasn’t very often that Rosie let curiosity get the better of her but there was something telling her to surrender to this moment in front of her, to let her heart win for once and throw caution to the wind. There was something about Chris and his aura that made it incredibly easy to ignore that prudent and wary voice in the back of her head that would usually call for rational and cautious thinking in situations such as this one, the voice that is often nurtured during childhood by parents and adults alike to help keep you safe from harm, the voice that would warn you about the dangers of strangers. Chris was a stranger, this was, of course, an undisputed fact, but Rosie didn’t feel like she was in any danger with this man. She guessed that it had an awful lot to do with the genuine warmth that seemed to radiate from him that made her feel less like she was with a someone she’d just met in a book shop and more like she was catching up with an old friend. It was incredibly rare that she felt so at ease with someone, let alone a man she knew nothing about except for his name, but she’d grow to learn that that was just the magic of Chris, his sincerity and kindness always radiating from him like the glow of an open fire on a cold winter’s night.

“I can say with absolute certainty that I’m not an axe murderer,” he grinned. “But if it would make you feel better I was planning on taking you to Irving Farm, y’know, so you can check in with someone if you wanted.”

That simple gesture alone told Rosie all she needed to know about Chris, the fact he was so cognizant of how a woman might be feeling going to get coffee with a man she’d just met. It was that thoughtfulness and that tingle of curiosity and wonder that had her following him to the counter and waiting as he paid for his book before they both ventured back out into the chilly air and towards the café. Making small talk on the short walk there was incredibly easy, the effortless nature of their conversation not lost on either of them and as they sat down opposite each other in a quiet corner of the shop, shedding their coats and scarves, Chris took the opportunity to really appreciate the beauty of the woman in front of him.

She was classically pretty, he thought, with her auburn locks freed from the confines of the scarf she had been wearing and the slight ruddiness to her cheeks from the way the cold air had kissed them during their short walk. But more than that, it was the way her presence seemed to uplift him in a way he hadn’t ever experienced before. Chris was an incredibly practical and logical man and the idea of kindred spirits wasn’t something that he subscribed to, but there was just something about Rosie. It was a sense of familiarity and a feeling often only felt between two people who had known each other for years. It was a feeling that, unbeknownst to him, Rosie shared too, not quite being able to remember a time where she was able to enthusiastically discuss literature at such great lengths with someone.

“So come on,” Chris said over his cup of coffee after they’d settled at a table in a quiet corner of the café. “You were able to quote Anna Karenina from memory, is there a particular reason for that or have I managed to find an even bigger book nerd than I am?”

Rosie smirked as she took a sip from her cup, eyes sparkling as she surveyed Chris. “I am a pretty big book nerd, but no, I actually teach literature.”

Chris’s eyebrows raised as an impressed little smirk pulled the corner of his lips upwards. He set his cup down and clasped his hands in front of him on the table.

“Forgive me for being bold here and by all means tell me to mind my own damn business, but what exactly makes a British literature teacher cross an ocean and put roots down in New York City?”

Rosie paused for a moment, chewing over her words in her mind.

“A vague sense of wanderlust, I guess,” she began carefully. “I don’t know, there was just… a lot of stuff that happened in my life and it felt like a good time for a fresh start while I was still young enough and brave enough to do it.”

“I’m sorry if that was too personal,” Chris looked at her apologetically, the slight flicker of sadness that had appeared in her eyes too prominent to ignore. “I didn’t mean to bring any painful memories back for you by prying.”

“It’s absolutely fine. All the diversity, all the charm and all the beauty of life are made up of light and shade, right?”

“You really love that book, don’t you?” Chris asked her softly, recognising the quote from the book currently sitting in the brown paper bag by his feet immediately, and with a gleam in his eye.

“It’s one of my favourites,” Rosie replied. “It’s probably up there with Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, Pride and Prejudice and For Whom the Bell Tolls.”

“You like Hemingway?” Chris’s eyes crinkled with his grin and shone with excitement as she nodded in agreement. “I love Hemingway,” he added. “He’s easily my favourite author.”

Rosie leaned forward in her seat and rested her arms on the table with her cup still cradled in her hands, Chris mirroring her action, like two school children about to share a secret.

“I love the beautiful simplicity of his writing. It’s direct but without losing any of the emotion or feeling. Like, don’t get me wrong, Russian literature and authors like Tolkien are wonderful and they certainly have their part to play, but sometimes there’s just no need for pages and pages just to get a point across. That’s the beauty of Hemingway, the straightforwardness of it.”

“Yes!” Chris exclaimed, his face lighting up. “That’s exactly it. Take The Old Man and the Sea as an example, that book is what? Twenty-seven thousand words? But the feeling and the message that he’s able to get across, it’s amazing. God, I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve read that book.”

“A favourite of yours, then?”

Chris nodded as he picked up his mug. “Without a doubt, followed closely by For Whom the Bell Tolls and An Immovable Feast.”

He punctuated his statement with a wink and a smile, savouring the way Rosie’s face would ignite with pure joy as she laughed.

“Perhaps we should compare notes,” she mused behind her coffee.

“Is that you saying you wanna meet up again?” Chris asked, a cocky grin on his face.

“What if it is?” She countered quickly, a twinkle in her eye that had Chris’s heart thundering in his chest.

“Then I think you’d better take my number.”

 *

The weeks passed and autumn collapsed into winter, the first frosts clinging to everything and covering the city in opaline glitter. Rosie’s schedule had begun to slow following the initial insanity of the beginning of the academic year as things started to wind down for the holidays. She’d spent a lot of her free time preparing for her annual trip home to England to spend Christmas with her family, something that she looked forward to all year. Whatever time was left was spent reading or catching up with Chris, who had been equally busy with his work as a professional hockey player. He’d mentioned this to her briefly and in passing during their phone calls, which certainly explained why his schedule was often so all over the place, but the concept was so alien to Rosie that she didn’t feel the need to pry further. Growing up in Devon meant that her exposure to a sport like ice hockey was next to nothing, her knowledge extending as far as movies such as The Mighty Ducks would afford. In fact, when she thought about it, she didn’t know anybody who played sports professionally in any capacity and so while she was intrigued by Chris and the story behind how he came to be in such a career in a city like New York (knowing him to be from Massachusetts originally), she also knew that he was so much more than all of the stereotypes she’d heard associated with professional athletes.

He wasn’t a big, dumb jock, far from it actually. Chris was incredibly intelligent, philosophical in ways she admired so much but with an endearing and quick sense of humour. His thirst for knowledge and appreciation for the world around him was unlike any she’d ever seen and it somehow made him more handsome than any of his classically good-looking physical features. There was an intrigue, of course, surrounding him and his job, but Rosie also knew that he would offer that part of himself to her in time and when he felt most comfortable doing so. She imagined that he didn’t always get to have the luxury of authentic meetings with people who didn’t already know about him and his job, and for all the lovely moments he’d already given her in their growing friendship, she wanted to pay him back in kind by not forcing anything on him that he wasn’t yet ready to talk about.

It was incredible really, how easy it was for her to fall into friendship with Chris, made only easier with each discovery of a new shared interest. Their texts would often consist of them sending things the other might find interesting such as a new book or a new song to listen to. Hearing from him was something that she found herself looking forward to, especially appreciating when he would take time out of his day while he was away from home to check in with her and catch up.

As the end of the semester creeped closer, Rosie found herself surrounded by gifts she had already wrapped ahead of her trip home and a small pile of clothes, the open suitcase on the bed still empty despite her best intentions. She always found packing incredibly dull (although admittedly not as bad as unpacking once she returned to New York) and would often preoccupy herself with anything and everything to avoid doing it, which always resulted in a stressful last-minute packing situation that she was keen to avoid this year. She stood with her hands on her hips as she surveyed the situation in front of her, deciding the best way in which to go about organising her suitcase, when her phone vibrated against her dressing table. Unable to contain the flicker of a smile that tugged at her mouth as she saw the Caller ID flash with Chris’s name, she answered.

“Hey, you.”

She could hear what sounded like a group of very rowdy men in the background in what she could only assume was a bar.

“I need you to help settle a debate.”

Rosie smiled as she cradled her phone between her cheek and her shoulder, using her free hands to pick up a pair of jeans and place them into the suitcase.

“Sounds serious.”

“Oh it is and we’re at a deadlock over here so your opinion decides it, I hope you can handle that kind of pressure,” Chris teased.

“Oh, Christopher, I was born ready.”

“Alright, but this is like legit serious stuff.”

“Out with it, Chris,” Rosie laughed.

“Crunchy or smooth?”

“Excuse me?” Rosie asked with an incredulous look on her face that she knew Chris would’ve laughed at had he been able to see her.

“Peanut butter,” he clarified. “Crunchy or smooth?”

“Wow,” Rosie deadpanned. “And here I was thinking you were about to ask me something incredibly philosophical.”

“Oh come on, Ro, don’t leave me hanging here.”

“I suppose if I had to choose, I’d probably go with smooth.”

“Ha!” Chris exclaimed, causing Rosie to jump. “She said smooth, looks like you’re the one with the weird peanut butter preferences, Foxy.”

Rosie furrowed her brow at the incoherent shouting and cheering in the background as she put more clothes into her suitcase.

“I’m so confused right now.”

She listened as the sound of raucous chatter faded into a faint buzz and Chris’s voice came back through the speaker clearer yet softer than it had been before.

“Sorry about that, the guys can get a little excitable sometimes.”

“Rookies had too many beers?”

“Yeah,” Chris breathed. “Something like that. How’re you doin’ anyway? Things settled for you at work?”

“Yeah,” she replied softly, perching herself on the edge of her bed, careful not to knock any of the small wrapped packages onto the floor. “I got all of those papers turned round and the results were actually kind of encouraging, which was nice.”

“That’s probably because they’ve got a good teacher.”

“Oh my god, stop,” Rosie blushed, thankful that he couldn’t see the interesting shade of pink her face had turned.

Chris’s reply was unexpected, somehow managing to knock her back a bit with the sincerity and softness in his tone that seemed more intimate than perhaps their current level of friendship afforded.

“I mean it, Ro. I know you know your stuff. They’re lucky to have someone like you teaching them.”

His words hung in the air around Rosie for a few seconds while she processed them, or rather, while she started to analyse the tenderness in his tone that she was sure she hadn’t imagined. He didn’t give her too long to get lost in it though as he was speaking again before she had a chance to truly unpack her thoughts.

“So things have settled down for you, yeah?”

“Um, yeah.. Yeah. I’ve just been packing for my trip back home,” Rosie replied, picking up one of the small gift-wrapped boxes and examining it for no particular reason.

“Right, of course. When is it you fly?”

“December twenty-first, fly back into JFK on the fourth of January.”

“I’ll be in California when you get back,” he said, a hint of disappointment in his voice. “But it’d be great to see you before you go to England. Maybe dinner or coffee?”

“That would be really nice, Chris,” the smile evident in her voice to Chris even through the phone.

“Great, we’ll arrange something once I’m back in the city at the end of the week.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Chris hesitated, not quite ready to say goodbye but knowing that he should probably get back to the others and leave Rosie to the rest of her evening. He knew he had to though, even if it did make his chest ache for reasons he didn’t quite understand.

“I’ll let you get on with your packing,” he half-sighed.

“Please don’t feel like you need to,” Rosie replied with the faintest hint of a plea.

“I do because if I don’t you’ll never finish packing your suitcase.”

There it was, that easy teasing that had become a defining feature of their friendship in just the few weeks they’d known each other and had managed to shift the atmosphere between them from something that neither could quite put their finger on to one that was much more playful and familiar.

Rosie groaned exaggeratedly, earning her a hearty chuckle from Chris.

“But I hate packing,” she whined.

“Welcome to being an adult, suck it up, Buttercup.”

“You’re mean.”

Despite her words, Chris knew that there was no truth in them and he also knew that she herself didn’t believe them, which made the playful back-and-forth banter between the two of them come easily.

“No, I’m Chris.”

“Oh my god!” Rosie laughed, exasperated. “I’m hanging up now, goodbye!”

Chris’s rich chuckle was the last thing she heard before she ended the call and tossed her phone onto her pillows, shaking her head at the ridiculousness of his humour before turning her attention back to the pile of clothes by her suitcase.

 *

Christmas went as quickly as it came, passing in such a blur that it had Rosie questioning if she’d had any time off at all. It didn’t take her long to settle back into the groove of things though, it never did, and by the time the frosts of winter began to thaw, the warm glow of the festive season was nothing more than a cheerful memory. Much like the first beautiful petals of spring, Chris and Rosie’s friendship continued to blossom.

Rosie would have been lying if she said that she didn’t wish their schedules would match up more. A particularly busy January for Chris meant that they hadn’t had chance to meet since just before Christmas and it had Rosie wondering just what exactly Chris’s job entailed. It wasn’t really something that had come up during their phone calls and it was something that she felt deserved to be done face-to-face rather than over a text message, because truth be told, she didn’t have the first idea when it came to ice hockey. Keen to know more about the man that was fast becoming somebody she considered to be a close friend, she resolved to ask him the next time they met for coffee.

“So are you ever going to tell me about this big, shiny career of yours or am I supposed to just keep thinking you’re some James Bond of professional hockey,” she mused as she broke off a piece of blueberry muffin and popped it into her mouth.

Chris blushed slightly as he took a drawn out sip of coffee.

“I mean, yeah, sure. What do you wanna know?”

He set his cup down and clasped his hands on the table in front of him, the flicker of nervousness extinguished quickly by the kindness that rested within her eyes.

“Well,” she started. “I believe I’ve mentioned before that the only hockey I knew of before meeting you was the field hockey they made us play at secondary school. So, everything I guess? Oh, and I’m going to need you to explain like I’m five.”

Chris couldn’t help but chuckle at the good-natured smirk on her face and ran a hand along the stubble at his jaw.

“Alright, well. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to start from the top. I played hockey in high school, then went to Boston College, they have a really good collegiate hockey programme there and it’s a good school to boot. I got drafted in 2009 by the New York Rangers then I signed my first contract with them in 2012, been here ever since.”

“So you must be bloody good at hockey then,” Rosie said after swallowing her coffee which made the pink tinge to Chris’s cheeks even more prominent.

“I mean, I’m not terrible.”

Rosie grinned at him and at his humility which she had come to know as being one of Chris’s prominent traits. “And your schedule? I know it’s a bit mental but what does an average day look like for you?”

“That depends,” Chris replied. “Are we talking an off-day? Game day? Away trip?”

“All of the above?” Rosie laughed.

“My days off I still like to get a work-out in, even if it’s just a small one. But other than that? I don’t know, maybe meet incredible women from Devon in bookshops?”

It was Rosie’s turn to have her cheeks flush, especially with the way Chris was looking at her with an unreadable look in his eyes. Chris continued though, despite the thundering in his chest at how beautiful she looked in that moment.

“Game days I’ll usually get up, go to practice. I try and take a nap in the afternoon before I have to go down to the Garden to get ready for the game and it’s much the same if I’m away on the road. We usually practice before we travel to wherever it is we’re headed.”

“That sounds incredibly full-on.”

“It is,” Chris agreed. “But it really makes you appreciate the time at home and the moments of stillness. Why’d you think I love getting lost in a good book so much?”

“Because, in the words of Dr Seuss, ‘the more you read, the more things you’ll know. The more you learn, the more places you’ll go.’”

Chris looked at her softly, a warm smile on his face. “Spoken like a true teacher.”

“So come on then,” she blushed, steering the conversation away from herself and back to him. “You went to Boston College, right? What did you end up studying?”

“Communications,” Chris said as he finished taking a sip of coffee. “I uh, it was really important to my mom for me to finish my degree so I kept plugging away at it even after I went pro.”

“Wow,” Rosie looked at him, clearly impressed. “That’s incredible, Chris. I mean, getting a degree is a hard enough slog when you’re doing it full time, but to do it while you’re travelling here there and everywhere? That’s no easy feat.”

It was Chris’s turn to blush now, too humble and too modest to be able to accept the praise Rosie was giving him.

“I knew how much it meant to my mom and I just wanted to make her happy, that and I was too stubborn to not finish something I’d started.”

“Your birthday is the end of April, right?” She said rather suddenly but as if something had clicked in the back of her mind.

“Yeah, April 30th. Why? You been googling me?”

“Oh it’s nothing really,” she said quickly, face flushing and suddenly aware of how stupid it would sound to him if she actually said it out loud. “And for the record, I haven’t googled you, I just remembered you mentioning your birthday last time we met up.”

“Nah, you can’t just do that,” he chuckled softly. “Come on, what were you gonna say?”

“Well,” she started, her fingers and eyes finding the coffee cup in front of her, anything to avoid the part where he looked at her like she was mad. “I was just gonna say that you really are a typical Taurus.”

Chris leaned forward in his seat, hands settling just shy of hers but the almost contact enough to make her skin spark.

“That so?” he mused. “You big into your astrology?”

“No, well yes, sort of,” she rushed and Chris could tell that she was almost ashamed of the admission. “I don’t read magazine horoscopes or anything like that because they really are a load of bollocks. But natal charts and stuff like that? I find them totally fascinating. I um, I’m kind of into crystal healing, I sage my apartment, I know it’s nuts.”

“No it’s not,” Chris took her hand then, the need to reassure her and ground her in a moment where she felt vulnerable and exposed. “Is it something that I believe in personally? No, not really. But truthfully I don’t know anything about it either. If it makes you happy then it really doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. Maybe you could tell me more about it over dinner or something?”

Rosie looked at him thoughtfully, so appreciative of him in that moment and that ineffable gift of his to make her feel valued and listened to. It was that and all the other wonderful little facets of himself that he was showing her that had her agreeing to his proposal of dinner. She thought about the level of bravery that it must have taken for him to talk about that other side of his life, the side that she knew nothing about, no matter how small or trifling it might have seemed to anyone else. While she might not have had the first clue when it came to the sport or could even truly comprehend what Chris’s life was like, she understood that it must be incredibly difficult for somebody in his situation to forge true and meaningful relationships with people, friendly or otherwise, because when it feels like someone you have just met thinks they already know everything about you, it’s incredibly hard to let the guard come down and let people get close. That is what Chris appreciated the most about Rosie, though, the fact that she hadn’t the faintest idea who number 20 of the New York Rangers was. Every conversation they’d ever shared and every question she’d ever asked came from a genuine and altruistic desire to get to know him better. Even now, as she encouraged him to share that other part of him, that so many others defined him by, it came only from a place of pure and innocent curiosity. She asked about his job much in the same way she would ask an accountant or doctor about theirs.

Being able to have that conversation with her about his life and his job only served to strengthen the bond that they shared and he was incredibly thankful for Rosie’s understanding and willingness to fit her schedule and life around his. As the months passed and summer fast approached, Chris found himself for the first time reluctant to escape the stifling heat of the city after the season had ended. He was enjoying being able to spend more time with Rosie now that the school year had come to a close and he was shocked to learn that even after living in the city for close to six years at that point, she still hadn’t explored all of Manhattan. Their days were filled with walks around the West Village, Midtown or Tribeca and having lunches at tiny hole-in-the wall cafés where they would show each other the books they had picked up in whatever shop they’d found themselves in that morning.

It was that time shared together that made it incredibly easy for Rosie to become a stable fixture in Chris’s life with evenings spent at each other’s apartments having dinner and sharing wine. Rosie had learned quickly that Chris was a capable cook and Chris loved nothing more than when Rosie would cook pasta for him, even if it wasn’t exactly his nutritionist’s dream. It was easy to relax in that kind of way around her, forgetting the strict food regime every once in a while to really savour the beef ragu she made that he loved so much, always washed down with a couple of bottles of Sangiovese shared between them and finished with a homemade tiramisu. It was wholesome, much like she was with the softness of her curves and her insouciant attitude when it came to her looks. That was not to say that she didn’t make an effort, that wasn’t the case at all, for she would always look so put together and incredibly beautiful whenever Chris would see her, but she was the kind of woman who wouldn’t think twice about letting herself indulge in a slice of cake with her coffee or get too hung up on the calorie content of a pasta carbonara, which was a quality that Chris found to be both incredibly refreshing and endearing.

The natural quality of their relationship should have made it incredibly easy for Rosie to give in to those feelings she found beginning to settle in her chest. Chris was a wonderful man, that much was undeniably true and it should have been simple to confront the ache she felt whenever he went away. But if there was one thing Rosie had learned in her life, it was that if you expect too much, if you put people on pedestals that were too high, you would find yourself being disappointed. That was a simple fact of life. People were just that, people, capable of making mistakes. They were not divine beings, no matter how much we saw them as such through our own eyes. It was that idea alone that startled her; that a man such as Chris could be capable of disappointing her by the pure reasoning of the human condition and that was a thought that she couldn’t bear. So she pushed it down, down and down until it was quieter than a whisper. But even whispers can’t be ignored forever, and so with each comment from Chris’s friends about how happy he was since meeting her or each time her skin would spark at the feeling of his hand on the small of her back, the whisper grew, growing and growing with every team event she attended on his arm or every party he asked her along to, until it was a shout.

Relationships had never been something to come easy to Chris, he was too careful and too private; the gnawing feeling in his stomach that told him there was always some ulterior motive was often too arresting to ignore. It should have frightened him, the way Rosie came into his life and smashed through every wall he’d ever built without even doing much at all, but it didn’t. Rather than look at all the bricks and the rubble and be unnerved by the ease in which she was able to coax his vulnerability out of him, he found himself inspired, determined even, to build something truly beautiful with her. Chris knew that he would have to find a way to navigate these feelings with her, cognizant of the need to not throw her into the deep end and shock her system. Rosie deserved better than that because this wasn’t just about him and his feelings, it was about them and their relationship, what it was now and what it could be.

She was brilliant, in every way a person could be, beautiful and with a passion that glowed like the fiery tresses of her hair under a New York sunset. She was bold and sharp as a tack, keeping him on his toes in a way that no one else had ever been able to and he was sure that no one else would ever again. It was late night conversations where they were three bottles of wine deep talking about philosophy and ethics or her reading silently while he played guitar, it was listening to Pearl Jam with her whenever she cooked or Billy Joel when they were curled up together on the sofa, debating whether Radiohead or Nirvana was more influential in the grunge music scene. Hell, it was even looking up his birth chart, even though he didn’t believe in astrology, because there was just something about the way she said ‘You’re such a typical Sagittarius moon.’ Her warmth and her kindness always managed to ground him in moments where he would feel himself slipping, as sure as the moon rises and sets each night, especially once the season had restarted and those niggling insecurities would rear up and settle heavily in his chest, and yet he could tell that she never really knew the exact power that she held. She had his heart completely, whether she was aware of it or not and that was something that Chris hoped would never change. She’d slotted into his life like she had always belonged there, like she had always been there and that feeling only seemed to grow inside of Chris with every dinner they shared with his friends and every time he would see her face in the stands of MSG.

*

The week before Christmas brought an uncharacteristically early winter storm to New York unlike any Chris had ever seen throughout his whole time living there, forcing the city to a standstill and grounding flights, which meant that for the first time since moving to the States, Rosie wasn’t going to be home for Christmas. The idea of her spending the holiday alone in her apartment made Chris’s heart ache and so that was how Rosie ended up in his Tribeca apartment on Christmas Eve, bundled up with him on the sofa under a blanket, each with a mug of homemade mulled wine. The Muppet’s A Christmas Carol played quietly through the tv, one of Rosie’s Christmas Eve traditions that he would never dream of denying her, although, no matter what he would later admit to, he spent more time observing the gentle expression on her face as she got lost in the nostalgia of it all than he did actually paying attention to the screen. She felt him though, not even needing to take her eyes off the movie to know that he was watching her.

“You’re missing all the good bits,” she smirked.

“It’s okay, I’ve read the book. I know what happens.”

There was a slight grit to his tone that Rosie couldn’t quite place but crawled under her skin and kindled a small flame in her stomach all the same.

“But there were no Muppets in the book.” She turned to face him then and took in the expression within his eyes, darker than she’d ever seen them before. “Kermit really brings Dickens’ story to life.”

“I mean, Beaker steals it for me but we’ll agree to disagree.”

The air thickened around them and Rosie took a long sip of her wine, longer than perhaps she should have, but she needed to swallow away the tightness in her throat from the way Chris was looking at her. Like planets to a sun, Rosie found herself drawn to him, suddenly feeling him everywhere despite the fact they were at opposite ends of his couch. It was that gravity that had her shuffling towards him, crawling into his space in the same way she had crawled into his heart. He was warm, she thought, comfortingly so and the worn hoody on his body felt soft and had the familiar, soothing scent that was so uniquely Chris. Perhaps that is what had her curling into his side and resting her head on his shoulder and perhaps that new-found closeness was what had him pressing his lips into her hair.

There was no way either of them could deny what this was between them, the spark too bright to ignore. Rosie knew that they weren’t just friends, she knew that and she knew that Chris felt it too, that was why his face was turned towards hers, his lips impossibly close so that all she needed to do was tilt her head and give in to what her heart was crying out for. But her head was a cruel mistress indeed and it was that irrational but crippling fear of eventual disappointment that made her clear her throat and scoot back a shade, giving herself some much needed breathing room.

Chris exhaled quietly, the deflation leaving him on the breath. It was almost frustrating how close they were, the finish line within touching distance and yet they always seemed to stop short of it. Chris was there, he was there waiting and willing her to take those last few steps and cross it with him but he knew that he couldn’t force this, nor did he want to either. She had to want it for herself and Chris knew, as he looked at her sitting there chewing on her bottom lip with her brows knitted together in pensive thought, that she was worth the wait, even if it took a lifetime.

The post-holiday back to work rush was one that was felt universally. Those first few weeks always seemed to feel as though there was never enough hours in the day to get everything done and it was no different for Chris and Rosie, both caught up in their jobs to really sit and digest the moment between them at Christmas. Christmas Day had been incredibly busy with Chris hosting a couple of the younger players for dinner and no sooner had the festivities ended he was packing a bag ready to depart for Washington the following morning. They both knew that they had a lot of things to discuss, because that’s what adults did, they talked about their feelings in a healthy and open way, but as the busy-ness of their schedules ramped up, the hours slipped away and turned into days. Days spanned into weeks and weeks turned into months and before either of them knew it, the moment seemed so distant in the rear-view mirror, that it almost felt weird to bring it back up.

 *

The hockey season ended for Chris some time during May, the Rangers making it as far as the second round of the playoffs but unable to close it out after seven hard fought games. The disappointment sat heavy in his chest, much like it always did after losses like these, but he would have been a fool not to notice the way that it didn’t hang all about him in the way it had previous years. Of course, the wound still cut deep but without the festering ache of poison and he knew the antidote was the woman who had swept into his life nearly two years prior. 

It was remarkable really, how she came into his world like that. It was an event that Chris had always described as being purely serendipitous but the longer he spent with Rosie, the more he began to wonder if there was something else at play, hell, even fate perhaps. He had prided himself on being a shrewd man, his practicality something that had always defined him and guided his thoughts and actions, but whenever he thought about them and their relationship, he had to believe that it was more than just some happy accident. Rosie was pure magic, in every sense of the word, always having an uncanny ability to know what he needed before he even did and making him relax in ways he had never previously allowed himself to. It was cliché to say, but Chris genuinely believed that he had never lived until he met her and slowly, over the course of the last year, maybe even longer, the love songs on the radio made a little bit more sense and every love story he’d ever read sat a little bit differently in his heart. He knew that he was going to have to find a way to truly make her his, because despite all of the times where he felt like he could’ve just grabbed her face and kissed her, despite all of the unspoken feelings that had surfaced at Christmas, and despite the fact that they hadn’t yet managed to talk about them, the dynamic between them both after their almost kiss hadn’t changed at all except in the small way that he found himself having to stop himself from holding her in the way that he wanted to more often than not.

He thought about the one night she’d almost burst with excitement over their dinner at her apartment when he told her he had finally sat down and read Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, remembering the wind-scattered waves in her eyes and so sure that if anyone was brave enough to enter their depths, all else would blur and they would fall so deeply in love that they’d choose to stay there, no matter what, because he knew for certain that he had befallen that very fate. He recalled thinking that if that was the last thing he was to ever see, he would surely die a happy man. She had recited her favourite quote to him that he thought to be beautiful at the time but now hitting him like a freight train and knocking all of the wind out of his sails. It crawled through his skin and into his veins until he felt it coursing through his body until it had made a home within his very soul:

‘Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every part of your body… for that is just being in love, which any of us can convince ourselves that we are. Love itself is what is left over, when being in love has burned away.’

It was those words that had his feet carrying him to his car and those words that had him driving from his apartment to her home in Brooklyn and it was those words that had him standing outside of her front door ready to offer his heart to her. He knocked, more out of habit than anything, the key she had given him a few months ago being turned over between his fingers as he waited and the anxiety beginning to rise with each second that passed without her appearing at the door. He exhaled before finally putting the key into the lock, certain that she was home despite the fact that his visit was unplanned and unannounced.

“Rosie?” he called out into the hallway. “Are you there?”

The silence was unsettling and completely uncharacteristic, made worse by the fact that her car was parked outside in its usual spot and the fact that he could’ve sworn she’d mentioned during their phone call the night before that she was planning on having a day at home to do laundry and catch up on all of those less-important chores she didn’t have the time to do during the school year. 

‘Maybe she’s not home after all’, he thought after a couple of minutes without a reply, more to soothe his own anxiety more than anything else. ‘She’s obviously decided to go out for a walk somewhere. That must be it.’ He was just about to turn away and leave, suddenly aware of how intrusive his presence in her home was when she clearly wasn’t there, when he was certain he heard her voice call his name.

“Rosie?”

A sob drifted down the hallway, muted but no less full of raw pain and anguish that had his legs carrying him towards the sound in big, long strides until it brought him to her bedroom where the door stood slightly ajar. He slowly pushed it open with an exhale of a breath he hadn’t felt being held within his lungs and his heart lurched at the sight of her curled up on her bed sobbing into her pillow. To go to her was instinctive, his soul called out to hers in a desperate attempt to soothe whatever pain she was in and he found himself kneeling at the side of her bed with his long fingers smoothing back the titian strands that had fallen into her face and clung to her tears.

“Ro, what happened?”

She didn’t answer him, couldn’t answer him, in fact, and so he moved onto the bed, gathering her up into his arms and held her close to his chest while he rubbed circles on her back, murmuring softly into her hair to try and still her sobs. He felt the way she clung on to him like she was drowning and he was the life-preserver and pressed gentle kisses against her forehead until her crying was no more than quiet sniffles.

“Rosie, sweetheart, talk to me. What happened? Are you okay?”

“My grandma,” she choked out against the fabric of his t-shirt. “My grandma died.”

Chris closed his eyes and exhaled as the second wave of tears took her, holding her steadfast against him and saying nothing other than reassuring her that he was there for her. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that for, with her still impossibly close to him long after she’d finished crying herself hollow, until after the tears had dried and all that was left was the crippling deadweight of grief. It was Chris that spoke out into the new but deafening silence, his voice barely audible and a little rough from his own emotion that sat threateningly high in his throat.

“I’m so sorry, Rosie…”

The tiny exhale that passed Rosie’s lips had Chris’s heart breaking in two for her. Her reply small and full of defeat. “She’d had dementia for a while… Didn’t really know who any of us were,” she sniffled, dangerously close to losing it again. “Every time I went back home it was like she had to learn who I was all over again. I know that this was the kindest thing to happen but-”

Chris kissed her forehead as she choked back a sob, a wordless assurance that she didn’t need to say another word and a quiet understanding of the pain and emptiness that she was drowning in. 

“When are you flying home?” He murmured softly.

“I’m going to try and get a flight home for tomorrow, Thursday at the latest.”

“It’s gonna be expensive to try and get something that short notice, Ro.”

“That’s why I have savings,” Rosie gave a small, almost robotic shrug as she wiped her face, the emotion quickly being forced back down into her stomach as she turned her focus towards the things that she could control to keep herself from spiralling into hysterics again. “In case of an emergency.”

“Let me pay for your flight home,” Chris offered. “Please, it’s the least I can do.”

“You know I can’t accept that, honey.”

Chris had been friends with Rosie long enough to be familiar with the fact she often used terms of endearment whenever she was talking to him, but even now, especially now, with all those feelings of complete clarity about her and about them and their relationship that sat in his chest, it still managed to knock him back a bit and make his heart swell even in a moment as awful as this one. 

“Why not?”

He knew that this was a situation where he shouldn’t push too hard, that she would either pull away from him or direct all of that grief and emotion his way, like a cornered animal seconds away from deciding whether to fight or bolt. He knew he shouldn’t push this but he needed to do something, the overwhelming demand coming from his heart to make this right and fix this for her too much to ignore.

“Because I’m not your problem, Chris,” Rosie said, completely deflated. “Because this doesn’t need to be your problem.”

“I want to help, Ro, please. Please let me help. Please let me help fix this.” He was pleading with her and while a part of Rosie understood his desire to make this better for her, the swirling hurricane of emotions inside of her was reaching a fever pitch and, unable to make sense of it all, she found herself directing her howling gales towards the one thing she should have been holding on to.

“This isn’t something you can fix, Chris! You can’t fix this, you can’t make this right and you can’t bring her back!”

She stood with her fists balled tightly, the pain on her face as she sobbed and the realisation that she was right cutting through Chris like a knife. He had never been one to lose his nerve in a crisis, always the dependable one, always the stoic one. He was the guy people could rely on when things were shitty and it was something he prided himself on, but seeing her in front of him, shattered and in agony, knowing that he would have to sit this one out until she’d had a chance to process everything, left him feeling weak and powerless.

He watched her in stunned silence, unable to articulate feelings that he couldn’t make sense of. She was standing no more than three meters away from him but the distance between them felt like it stretched light-years. He couldn’t let her go to England with that hanging between the two of them, that ocean that would separate them felt like she would slip into another universe entirely and leave him with too much uncertainty about how things would be once she got back to New York. She didn’t give him a choice, though, her voice sounding abstract and unlike her own as she spoke into the void between them.

“I’m sorry, I just… I think I need to be alone right now. I need to wrap my head around this and it,” she paused for a moment, a shaky sigh filling the space. “It’s not fair on you for me to throw my emotions at you like this.”

“Rosie,” he spoke her name like a prayer, an oblique supplication that she heard but couldn’t accept.

“Please, Christopher. I know that you just want to help and, Christ, I appreciate you so much but I can’t accept your money, that’s just not my way, and I need to process this in my own way. I promise you though, I’ll let you know when I’m leaving for the UK and I swear that I’ll keep in touch.”

He hated it, all of it, but he loved her and he knew that she needed this, no matter how much it killed him to have to let her do things her own way. So that’s how he found himself nodding and respecting her request before folding her into his arms and pressing a kiss to her temple that he hoped would convey all of the affection and love that he held for her. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to cry as he drove back to his apartment and prayed to whoever was listening that she would be okay and that they would be okay, because if he lost that magic, if he lost her, he would have nothing.

It was two days later when Rosie reached out to say that she was at the airport waiting for her flight back to England, those forty-eight hours without talking to her the longest he’d ever endured. She assured him that while she was still not in a great place herself, that they were okay and that she appreciated everything he had offered to do for her. The messages were shorter than Chris was used to but it did help to make that feeling of distance between them feel a little less insurmountable than before.

*

June would usually have him heading to his coastal home in Connecticut or making the trip back to Massachusetts to be with his family, but he instead found himself lingering in New York, although with Rosie in England indefinitely he wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t committed to definite summer plans. If he really thought about it, though, really gave it more than a second’s thought and was completely honest with himself, he knew that he was waiting for her. He didn’t want to go home to Boxford and for her to come back to a city without him there. He wanted to be the one to welcome her back, pick her up from the airport and wrap her up in a hug that would have her never doubting how he truly felt about her. But really, when he spent time dissecting that desire to be there for her when she got back to New York, it actually stemmed from a desire to be with her, period. That was what had him picking up the phone and scrolling through his contacts, not even giving it a second thought when he hit that ‘call’ button but the guilt instantaneous when a sleepy voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Shit, I’m sorry. I completely forgot about the time difference,” Chris exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck.

“You never call without texting first. What’s on your mind?”

Chris sighed into the receiver, using the pause to gather his thoughts into some kind of semblance of coherence rather than dumping them all out in one go.

“I don’t even fucking know anymore, Mika.”

Mika’s tone shifted as the last remnants of sleep fell away, taking on the familiar quality that seemed to be reserved only for Chris. “Did something happen between you and Rosie?”

“Not really?” Chris offered, unsure of the answer to Mika’s question himself. “It’s just… It feels wrong, all of this.”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down. What feels wrong? I thought you loved her.”

“That’s just it, Mika,” Chris exhaled. “I do, fuck, I love her so much and the fact that she’s there and I’m here-”

Chris’s deep sigh through the receiver had Mika sitting up in bed, his next words spoken with such a surety as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“So go to her.”

“What?”

Mika laughed so softly that it was barely audible, shaking his head despite Chris not being able to see him.

“Y’know, for someone so smart you really are dumb sometimes.”

“Okay, first of all, ouch,” Chris grumbled. “Second of all, rude. Thirdly, what’re you getting at exactly?”

“What I’m getting at,” groused Mika, too tired from being woken up in the wee hours of the morning to have any great level of patience. “Is that you should book a flight and get your ass to the UK.”

“Just like that? Just go?”

“Yes, Jesus, Chris. I don’t know what else you want me to say, man, it’s three in the morning here and Irma will kick my ass if I wake her up.”

“Right, yeah,” Chris mumbled, the guilt at waking up his friend rearing its head again. “Sorry, I know I shoulda thought about the time difference.”

“The only reason you have to be sorry is if you don’t pack a bag as soon as we’re done talking and go get on the next fucking plane to England.”

Chris paused, long enough to gather his thoughts but not long enough for Mika to be concerned.

“I guess I’ll let you know when I land then.”

“Give her a hug from me, Chris,” Mika said with complete sincerity.

“‘Course I will, and Mika?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks, man.”

Mika smiled into the darkness of his bedroom before answering softly, “anytime.”

 *

Chris had never been to England before and he wasn’t afraid to admit that his geography knowledge of the country was somewhat lacking, so to say that this trip was going to be a baptism of fire would have been entirely accurate. He was a confident enough driver, if he were to say so himself, but he’d have been a big fat liar (to put it in Rosie’s words) if he didn’t admit that the prospect of driving the 160 miles from London Heathrow to Exeter, on the wrong side of the road he might add, filled him with a little bit of dread. But if there was a woman worth braving the complete absurdity of a roundabout for, it was Rosie.

He couldn’t help but feel like he was going behind her back a little bit, using the excuse of wanting to send flowers to her as a means to get her parents’ address when he’d spoken to her on the phone the previous morning. He hoped that she would be able to forgive his little deception and see the purity of his intentions behind it, although he did pick up some flowers on the way to her parents’ house from the small hotel he was staying at, wanting to fulfil that part of the bargain at least. His heart thundered in his chest as he turned into a quiet residential street that the GPS was signalling as being his destination. He pulled up outside the house, checking, double checking and triple checking that he had the right address before he shut off the car engine and got out, grabbing the large bouquet of flowers off the back seat. He can’t ever remember a time that his palms were this clammy or where his legs felt like they were about to give way from under him quite like they did at that moment as he walked up the short driveway to the front door.

He rubbed his free hand on the front of his jeans, taking a settling breath before he knocked on the door, unsure of what to expect when it opened. His eyebrows raised in surprise when an older looking gentleman answered, who looked equally surprised to see a slightly dishevelled looking, six foot three stranger on his doorstep.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Chris spoke, thankful that he was at least able to find his strong voice despite the distraction of his heart hammering in his chest.

“Alright there, mate?” the man greeted, with an accent that Chris noted to be far stronger than Rosie’s. “You lost or summat?”

“I hope not,” Chris laughed more out of nerves than anything else. “I’m actually here to see Roseanna.”

He hadn’t meant to sound so unsure of himself, his statement coming out as more of a question and nothing at all like his normal confident self. The older man didn’t seem to pay too much notice to it though, instead breaking into a smile that Chris recognised as being near enough identical to Rosie’s and gestured for him to come inside the house. 

“She’s just got back from walkin’ the dog, I’ll get ‘er for you.”

Chris watched as the man disappeared the short way down the hallway and called Rosie’s name into the kitchen, unable to stop the grin from forming on his face as he heard her voice reply to the man he had assumed to be her father.

“Someone’s ‘ere to see you, love, what? No, I don’t know who he is… maybe one of your university mates,” he turned back to give Chris a friendly nod before adding, “she’ll be right with you.”

Sure enough, no sooner were the words out of his mouth did Rosie appear in the doorway at the end of the hall, all red cheeks and light freckles from the sunshine. She stopped dead in her tracks, her face switching from total surprise at the sight in front of her to overwhelming joy before finally settling on complete disbelief at the realisation that Chris was standing right in front of her in the home she grew up in. Her legs instinctively carried her into his waiting arms, tears starting to fall before she could even register what was happening. Chris was certain that he would never forget the way she held onto him in that moment, with her face buried into his chest and her arms tight around his back.

“What are you doing here?” She finally managed, bringing her teary eyes up to meet Chris’s. “How? When?”

His only response was to kiss her forehead sweetly, holding her against his body like she was about to float away.

“I wanted to be here for you. I know you have your family but, God, it just didn’t feel right to be back in New York.” He stepped back from her a fraction so that he could offer the blooms he was still holding to her. “And I believe I promised you some flowers.”

“I thought you were sorting them with a local florist not travelling across the Atlantic to hand deliver them,” she laughed through her tears, a hand coming up to whack his chest lightly. “You are completely ridiculous, Christopher James Kreider.”

“Anything to see you smile, Ro.”

He kissed her hair before taking her outstretched hand and followed her as she led him into the kitchen to meet her family for the first time.

 *

The next few days had Chris feeling a little bit like a spare part. Rosie and her family were busy with the last minute preparations for the funeral and Chris wished that he could do more to help out but, just like always, Rosie managed to allay his worries and settle his heart by assuring him that his presence alone was enough. They’d spent their free time taking in the sights of South Devon, Rosie relishing the opportunity to show him around the place she grew up and all of her favourite spots. He particularly enjoyed the day they spent down in a place called Torquay, the beauty of the ocean and the way the sun kissed her hair had him feeling bold enough to reach for her hand as they walked along the sea-front while enjoying an ice cream each.

On the day of the funeral, Chris made himself completely indispensable to Rosie and her family, nothing being too much trouble. He held Rosie tightly throughout the ceremony, never once letting her go and whispered words of comfort to her as she said her final goodbyes to the grandmother she loved so much before they exited the church. He stayed by her side throughout the wake at her request. The emotional rawness of the day had her feeling more vulnerable than she would have liked but there was something about the way Chris’s hand rested above her knee as they sat around the table that had her feeling more grounded and centred than she knew she would’ve been had he not been there. It was easy for her to go back to Chris’s hotel with him, the emotions of the day still weighed heavy on her and she couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping alone.

The gravity of those feelings wasn’t lost on Rosie and she knew that sooner or later she’d have to really take a step back and take a good look at her relationship with Chris and what it all meant. It was easier to be dishonest with herself and keep up the pretence that they were just friends because if she let herself think about them being anything else for too long she would feel her chest tighten and hear her heart start to whoosh in her ears. Was it childish? Absolutely, but she’d be damned if she let herself get hurt by a man again. Her self-preservation mechanism had been working like a charm so far and if it wasn’t broken then why fix it? It wasn’t completely infallible though and after two bottles of Chianti and the way the lamplight accentuated the softness in his eyes, Rosie found herself slipping. 

“What’s on your mind?” He whispered, fingers finding her chin to bring her thousand yard stare away from the wall and back to his searching gaze.

“Everything,” she sighed softly. “It’s loud in my head tonight.”

“Is there one thing in particular that you can pick out?”

He took the wine glass that she was cradling and set it down on the table, taking her hands in his and rubbing his thumbs gently across her knuckles.

“Not really, today has just been a lot.”

Chris nodded in understanding, not wanting to pry further and cognizant of the emotional strenuity of the day. Instead he pulled her closer, nestling her into his side and pressing a gentle kiss to her hair.

“I still can’t believe you came all this way for me,” she murmured.

“Why darling,” Chris started, Rosie immediately recognising the quote as being Hemingway. “I don’t live at all when I’m not with you.”

She tilted her head up towards him, her lips impossibly close to his as her fingers danced along the stubble at his jaw and swallowed down the nerves that had lodged in her throat. She closed her eyes, so close to giving in to her heart and letting it win, for better or worse. Chris had been dreaming of this moment though, longing for it with every close call and missed opportunity. This is how it should’ve been at Christmas and all of the team events he’d the delight of having her on his arm, but instead he let himself chicken out, the fear of spooking her and losing her too much to allow himself to take the risk. But now, he had Rosie right there. She was impossibly close and all around him and he knew that if he didn’t take that leap and place his lips on hers, he might never get that chance again and that is what had him brushing his lips lightly across hers, his fingers finding a home amongst the loose copper curls that were glowing like hot coals in the low light of the room.

Instinct took over and had Rosie arching her body into him, her hands reaching up into his hair to muss the short curls. Even with her body pressed against his, Chris needed her closer, his big arms looping around her and pulling her into his lap. He kissed her desperately, a kiss to make up for all the kisses they should have already shared and all the words that should have been spoken. It should have terrified him, how easy it was to be with her like this and how easy the push and pull of it was, neither taking more than they were giving in the moment. This was what Boris Pasternak meant when he said ‘you and I, it’s as though we have been taught to kiss in heaven and sent to Earth together to see if we know what we were taught., Chris was sure of it because nothing could compare to how Rosie’s lips felt against his and the feeling of her hands on his skin. Her kiss was heaven and her eyes felt like home and Chris knew in that moment that he needed all of her.

As he carried her to bed, Rosie thought about how right being in his arms felt. It was a strong sense of belonging that she couldn’t ever remember having with anyone else - ‘whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same’, she thought. He spoke her name against her ear like a prayer, all the love and want for her conveyed in one simple word while he removed her dress with tender hands. Her body was laid on display for him like a canvas, his mouth was the paintbrush and Chris knew that he wanted to spend the rest of his life painting a masterpiece onto her skin with his lips.

They moved together between the sheets as sure as the gentle waves that lap against the shore, her hands never feeling more at home than they did running up his back and over his shoulders before settling against the broad plains of his chest. Her every breath and every moan sounded like an aria to his ears and his name tumbling from her lips with every thrust of his hips was met with a moan of hers. He thought she could never look as good as she did underneath him, blooming like a rose, until he found himself on his back with her above him, her hair falling around them both like a curtain and her mouth panting against his as she rolled her hips. His hands made a home at the dip of her waist, guiding her in her movements but never taking the reins from her, giving her the control they both knew she needed in the moment.

It was intuitive, really, the way she was rocking her hips into his and the steady build of pressure in her stomach had her chanting Chris’s name like an incantation. He saw on her face the exact moment that the coil snapped, moaning as she fluttered and tightened around him and brought his hips up to meet hers as she rode the wave of her orgasm.

“I’m with you,” he murmured against her neck.

“Please, Chris. I need you.”

“I’ve got you, Ro. I’ve got you.”

She turned her face to meet his lips in a deep kiss, Chris moaning into her mouth as he spilled inside of her with stuttering hips. Rosie let out a contented sigh as she kissed him through his release, her chest pressed against his and her fingers playing with whatever ends of his hair she could reach. They stayed that way long after he’d gone soft inside of her, content to just bask in the afterglow of the moment as Chris’s fingers traced up and down her back. Rosie knew that she needed to have a frank discussion with Chris about her feelings but now didn’t seem like the right time for that. The sudden realisation that things would never be the same and that there was no going back to the way things were after this embedded itself like a seed, but Rosie let herself surrender to the feeling of safety and security Chris’s arms offered her before it could take root. She nestled herself against his side, her head resting on his chest with her eyes closed, and let his heartbeat be the gentle lullaby to lead her into the beautiful twilight.

 *

Chris awoke to the feeling of Rosie snug and secure within his arms, a peaceful look resting on her features that gave her an angelic quality. He let his mind wander to the night before and allowed the love he felt for her run wild through his veins and fill every corner of his mind, body and soul. For so long it had just been him and hockey, never subscribing to the idea that a person needed a relationship to be complete. But as he looked down and saw his entire world resting within his arms, he realised that he had been right all along. It wasn’t a relationship that made a person complete. It was love. That all-consuming wildfire that burns everything else away until there is nothing left but a new-beginning. He remembered the quote from Corelli that Rosie loved so much and felt everything fall into place. He felt like he’d waited a million years for this feeling and now that he felt it consume him like wildfire, he knew that he would have waited a million more, just as long as he had the privilege of being hers. It was surrendering all that he had ever been for everything that she was, for every kiss and every touch. Her love was his turning page and loving her was the greatest and best thing that he would ever do in his life, he was sure of it.

He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, eyes crinkling with his smile as she stirred.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he whispered against her hair. “You sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” she croaked, voice still thick with sleep. “What time is it?”

Chris looked over her shoulder at the clock on the nightstand. “Just gone eight-thirty.”

“Oh, okay.”

She furrowed her brows again, suddenly feeling Chris everywhere as pieces of the night before flooded her consciousness as she fully emerged from sleep and into the waking world. She was naked, she registered, and so was he and she was blindsided by an abrupt awareness that a definite line had been crossed that they could never go back from. It was that recognition of their friendship never being the same again that had her rolling away from Chris without warning. She was out of bed before he could even register what was happening, gathering up her clothes and dressing quickly without as much as a word.

“Rosie?” Chris was sitting up now, a slight waver to his voice as he spoke her name. “What are you doing?”

“I have to go,” she mumbled, an almost robotic edge to her tone that had Chris jumping out of bed and throwing on a pair of sweatpants, already catching up to her racing thoughts without her needing to say another word. He rushed to the door that she was making a beeline for, stepping in front of it and reaching desperately for her hands.

“Don’t do this, Ro… Please, don’t run from this.”

“Chris,” she warned, the emotion sitting dangerously high in her throat and her eyes glossing over with tears.

“What’re you so afraid of? I know you feel it too, Rosie. I know you do.”

“Chris, please,” she tried to brush past him but Chris wouldn’t let this moment slip through his fingers, not this time.

“No, we’re not doin’ this anymore. We’re not gonna spend the rest of our lives pretending that we’re just friends because we’re not, Rosie. I don’t think we have been for a long time- look at me, Ro, please.”

Chris saw the flicker of hesitation cross her face but the desperation in his voice was too much for her to ignore. She brought her eyes up to meet his and saw a fire burning within them that she had never seen before.

“I love you, Rosie. You have to know that by now.”

She shook her head vehemently, the tears she had managed so far to keep at bay finally slipping out and onto her cheeks.

“Don’t,” she whimpered. “Don’t say shit you don’t mean.”

“Who says I don’t mean it?” He brought his hands to cup her face to keep her eyes on him. “You? Do you think I’d travel across an ocean to be here with you now if I didn’t love you?”

Rosie answered only with a sniffle, the feeling of his touch along her skin anchoring her in a moment where she felt like she was drowning in a sea of every repressed emotion and feeling from the last eighteen months.

“But what if this doesn’t work? What if we’re better as friends?”

“I know you don’t believe that,” he wiped away the tears on her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “I know that you’ve been hurt before and I know that you’re scared. But you can’t keep holding on to the past, Ro, because if you do you’ll miss out on what’s right in front of you.”

“It’s not the loving you part that’s hard Chris,” she whispered. “It’s admitting to myself that it happened at all that is. I’ve had all these defences that have worked to keep me from getting hurt for so long but it was like you didn’t even see them at all, like they were meant for others while you had your very own door. I’ve spent so long asking myself why that is and come up with nothing. Do you know how terrifying that is?”

He kissed her forehead softly in response before pulling back to look into her eyes, making sure that she saw him, felt him, heard him. “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

The corners of Rosie’s mouth quirked up into a smile despite her tears and her doubts, her favourite passage from Pride and Prejudice never sounding as good as it did coming from Chris’s mouth and extinguishing every fear she was holding within her heart. She closed her eyes and nodded, her lips connecting with his in a kiss that could’ve stopped the world from turning. She gave herself to him completely and surrendered to the overwhelming love that burned within her for him. There were no words that could convey to Chris just how much he meant to her but she hoped that ones from Rupi Kaur would do it justice:

“You might not have been my first love, but you were the love that made all the other loves irrelevant.”

Chris smiled against her mouth and kissed away every fear and worry until there was nothing left but him and her and the love they had for each other.

 *

Life continued much as it had before, a testament really to the relationship that Chris and Rosie already shared and the official label did nothing more than earn them a chorus of “it’s about time” from their friends and had Mika looking incredibly smug for the next few months. The passage of time only served to make their relationship stronger, both able to give themselves completely without the uncertainty of their feelings looming over them or holding them back. Rosie often found herself being struck by the easiness of their relationship and she never once found herself questioning Chris’s commitment to her and what they had. When he asked her how she would feel about ending the lease on her Brooklyn apartment and moving into his place in Manhattan she didn’t have to give it a second thought. Everything about it felt natural and they were both ready to take that next defining step in their relationship. Once Rosie’s belongings and houseplants were moved in, Chris couldn’t help but feel as if they had always been there, like his apartment was finally complete and that it was the home he had always imagined it would eventually be.

Of course, there were bumps in the road, both of them had been on their own for so long that they were set in their ways at first, but their disagreements never lasted long, their shared knack for communication often diffusing the situation before it had chance to grow arms and legs. The adjustment was harder for Chris in some ways, especially when things on the ice weren’t going so well and he would retreat into himself or misdirect his frustrations towards Rosie with a sharper tone than was necessary, but she stood firm, never one to suffer fools and for that Chris was eternally grateful. They complimented each other in ways they couldn’t even have imagined, Chris able to pull Rosie out of her own head when the world weighed heavy on her shoulders and Rosie never afraid to put Chris in his place when he needed it. As the months rolled into years and their love went from strength to strength, Chris knew for certain that she was it for him and there was nothing he wanted more than to start and end the day with Rosie for all of the days to come.

 *

Rosie looked at Chris with confusion as their Uber pulled up outside Westsider Books one early September evening. There was a faint glow of lights inside but it didn’t look as if the shop was open and Rosie couldn’t understand why Chris had brought her here when she was sure they closed at five.

“I didn’t realise this place opened late,” she said as Chris opened her car door and offered his hand to help her out of the car.

“I think it’s just a one-time thing,” he replied as he thanked the driver and closed the door. He placed a hand on the small of Rosie’s back and guided her towards the shop entrance, pushing the door open and gesturing for Rosie to go in ahead of him. Rosie wasn’t exactly sure what she was expecting to find inside, but hundreds of glittering fairy lights, candles and more flowers than she could count wasn’t even on the list.

“Chris?” she breathed, turning to look at him.

“If you were to list your top three favourite books of all time off the top of your head,” he started, wrapping his arms around her waist. “What would they be?”

“Christopher…”

“Come on, Ro,” he grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling in the way she loved so much. “Just... play along… Please, for me?”

“Alright, well…” she conceded with a gentle sigh. “Off the top of my head I would probably say Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, For Whom the Bell Tolls and Pride and Prejudice.”

Chris’s smile somehow managed to double in size, the soft glow of the string lights and candles had his eyes sparkling like smoky quartz, the lush green flecks that usually lived among the dark bark of his irises hidden by the low light. He knew she would say that, of course, knowing her with an intimacy that even after all their years of friendship and the years of loving her still managed to knock him back a bit. He took her hand then, leading her along the aisle before stopping in front of a shelf with a dozen hand-tied sunflowers. He reached out and took a book from the shelf.

“Captain Corelli’s Mandolin by Louis de Bernières,” he murmured, passing the book to Rosie with an easy grin. “Go on, open it.”

He watched as she opened the cover of the book, her face softening at the sight of a delicate pendant necklace nestled between the pages. A small silver fern leaf hung at the end of the thin chain, a nod to the many houseplants she had brought into his home when she moved in that he had playfully grumbled about but in all actuality loved.

“Chris, it’s beautiful.”

He gently took the necklace from her hands and spun Rosie around, draping the chain across her chest and fastening it behind her neck with sure fingers before turning her back to face him, his eyes falling to the pendant that glimmered in the low light of the room.

“It looks gorgeous on you,” he smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Right, what was the next book? For Whom the Bell Tolls, right?”

“Chris, what is all this?” Rosie asked softly, taking Chris’s outstretched hand and following him down the next aisle to another shelf. He ignored her question, simply picking up the book and handing it to her.

“I love that you love Hemingway almost as much as I do,” he whispered softly. “Almost. You have no idea how much it means to me that I get to share that enjoyment with you and I want us to keep making memories together and sharing enjoyment of the things we love.” He watched her expectantly, waiting for her to open the book to reveal the piece of paper he’d folded in there. He took the book from her hands so that she could open it.

Rosie’s eyes widened as she read what she realised to be an itinerary for a trip to Europe next summer.

“I’ve only been to a couple of places in Europe,” Chris started. “And I figured who better to show me around than the girl who’s visited near enough every country on that continent?”

Rosie was unable to contain her sniffles by this point, overwhelmed at the thought and preparation that Chris had put in, not only in the trip to Europe, but this whole evening as well. She shook her head gently as she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face into his chest.

“This is too much, Chris, you shouldn’t have.”

He pulled back from her just far enough to get her eyes on his, his face set with an expression that held all the love in the world.

“Ah, ah, there’s still one more book, which if I’m not mistaken is your all-time favourite and you, Roseanna Williams, are worth all the good things in this world.”

Her slung his arm over her shoulders and pulled her into his side as they walked back towards the front of the shop, Rosie gently wiping the tears away from her eyes. Pride and Prejudice sat pride of place in the middle of a small table, the book surrounded by petals. Chris gave her an encouraging look and stepped back as she picked it up, taking a small envelope from out of the book before setting it back down again. Her eyes found her name on the front of the envelope in Chris’s unmistakable handwriting before turning it over in her hands and opening it, pulling out what appeared to be a letter. She took a steadying breath as she began to read.

My dearest Rosie,

There will never be the words to adequately express just how much you mean to me or how grateful I am to have found you. You are everything that I didn’t even know I was searching for, that I didn’t even know I needed.

I never believed in fate, every happy accident is just that. A happy accident. Coincidence. Right place, right time. But you, you have opened my eyes to the idea of pure magic because how can a love like ours be founded on pure coincidence alone? How can a soul yearn for someone they had never met? I know now that the reason I found myself in this very book store on that day you came into my life was because your soul was calling me here.

In you I have everything I’ll ever need. No matter where my career takes me, no matter what lies ahead, as long as I have you I have everything. I love you more than anything else in this world, you have given me a higher purpose and I will spend the rest of my life making you happy if you’ll let me.

All my love, Always

Chris

We would be together and have our books and at night be warm in bed together with the windows open and the stars bright - E. Hemingway.

Rosie closed her eyes and let her tears fall onto her cheeks as she clutched the letter to her chest.

“Chris…”

“I’m gonna need you to open your eyes, babe,” Chris chuckled softly.

Rosie smiled as she allowed her eyes to drift open, her hand immediately coming up to her mouth as she stifled an unexpected sob at the sight of Chris down on one knee in front of her, a ring box open in his hand that looked as if it contained an entire galaxy of glittering stars.

“Ro, I can’t even remember what my life was like without you in it, I didn’t even know that I was in the dark. Until I saw your smile. It was only then that I realised and now I never want to live a single day without the warmth and light of your love. It’s us, babe. It’s always been us and it’s always been you, since the day we met. I didn’t even realise I was waiting for you and now that I have you, everything is as it should be. I love you, Rosie. I’ve always loved you and I would be the happiest and luckiest man on Earth with you as my wife. Marry me, babe?”

Rosie sank slowly to her knees in front of Chris, her hands reaching up and cupping his face as her tears fell. In front of her was a man who had given her everything, who had helped her to let go of the past and right now, he was offering her a future brighter and more wonderful than anything she could’ve ever imagined and never dared to dream she would have.

“Oh god, please tell me those are happy tears.”

She cut him off with a kiss, a kiss that gave Chris his answer without her even needing to say it. She kissed him with everything she had, kissed him with all of the love that coursed through her veins, kissed him until her lungs were gasping for air and she finally had to pull away, resting her forehead against his with her hands stroking along his jaw.

“Yes,” Rosie whispered. “A million times, yes.”

As Chris slid the ring onto Rosie’s finger, he took the opportunity to look into those eyes of hers that he’d grown to love so much. It was there that he saw their future, all of their hopes and dreams and the promise of all the joy in their lives that was to come and as her arms wrapped tightly around him, Chris felt their souls sigh as they folded into one another. Chris couldn’t tell what the future had in store for them both, but no matter where their path together would lead them, it was in her embrace that he found solace and it was in her heart that he found a home.

#chris kreider #chris kreider fic #nhl fic #nhl fiction #nhl fanfiction #chris kreider x ofc #nhl writing #hockey fic #hockey fanfiction #hockey fiction #chris & rosie #turning page universe #my writing

[anabsolutetrainwreck]

SECOND PART TO "THROUGH THE WARNING SIGN'S" PLEASE

i’d like to make you mine || h. styles

sequel to ‘through the warning signs’

warnings: swearing, references to masks + covid

word count: 1.5k

summary: a glass of spilt wine leads to slightly different plans...

part one.

Sat at the desk in the spare room of Florence’s house, you listened to Louisa’s ramblings about how rude it was that you’d waited at least two hours to tell her that you were going on a date with Harry Styles. You’d FaceTimed her as soon as you and Florence got home from set, but no, she wasn’t having that as an excuse. “Well, what are you going to wear?” she asked.

You shrugged, rubbing your moisturiser along your face, “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it yet.”

She was tucked up in her bed at home in England. She had her duvet pulled up to her chin, the soft hum of music in the background. She scoffed, “Haven’t really thought about? You are joking, right? You’re going out for dinner with Harry fucking Styles and ‘you haven’t really thought about what you’re gonna wear’?”

“Don’t say it like that,” you sighed.

“Like what?”

“Harry fucking Styles,” you mocked as she grumbled something about not sounding anything like that. “You’re making it sound like a big deal.”

“Uh, Y/N, it kind of is a big deal.”

“No, it’s just like I’m going on a date with any other boy.”

She let out a loud laugh, “Oh, no, Y/N. I didn’t mean it like that. I was talking about the fact that you haven’t been on a date in, like, two years.”

You let out a gasp in mock offence, “Fuck you!”

She chuckled, “No, but I am happy for you.”

“Really? And you’re not jealous?”

“Why would I be jealous?”

“You used to be literally in love with him.”

She gasped, “I was not!”

“Don’t lie, Louisa,” you laughed. “You used to come and sleep at my house when we were, like, seventeen and you’d do nothing but talk about him.”

“You know I was a Liam girl. Besides, I’m just waiting for Robert Pattinson to return my call,” she sighed.

“Robert Pattinson? Jesus, Louisa, weren’t you just nursing a major obsession with Timothée Chalamet?” you laughed. You’d always found her ability to crush on celebrities so easily hilarious.

“That’s besides the point.”

You looked over at the clock hung above your temporary bed. 5:23. “Right, I better go.”

She pouted, “Do you have to?”

“Yes! And shouldn’t you be getting some sleep? Don’t you have work in the morning?”

“Maybe.”

“What time is it over there?”

“Like half one in the morning.”

“Exactly! Go to sleep, Louisa.”

“Fine. I love you, Y/N.”

“Love you too, Louisa,” you smiled gently at her as she hung up. It was nice talking to Louisa again after so long. You did miss her dearly. But now you had a date with Harry to distract you for a little while.

Once you’d carefully concocted an outfit and finished drying your hair from the shower you’d had before you called Louisa (you’d assured her that she’d been your number one priority once you got back from set, but it was really hygiene, especially before a date you’d been waiting for for four years), it was about time for Harry to arrive. So, you sat downstairs with Florence and her boyfriend, Zach. Your knee was bouncing as you waited for him, your stomach full on dread. “Y/N, will you calm down? It’ll be fine,” Florence sighed. “He clearly cares. Fuck, I mean he literally asked about what allergies you had before asking you out to dinner.”

You nodded, and before you had the chance to say anything, a knock at the door only sent you into a complete state of collapse. Florence extended her hand and dragged you towards the door. With every step, you felt more and more sick. “I feel ill, Flo. I might just lie down. Tell Harry I said sorry,” you rushed out quickly, trying to turn and run towards the staircase. But to no avail.

“You’ll regret it if you don’t go on this date,” she said and you knew she was right. You’d only wake up in the morning and scold yourself for not even trying.

As she opened the door, you were met with Harry, dressed in a black tuxedo. It was jazzed up with some pink floral embroidery and it certainly looked more expensive than what you could earn in 10 years. He grinned, “Good evening, Flo.”

“You alright, Harry?” she smirked, her eyes fluttering between your nervous self and the man stood on her doorstep.

“Good, thanks. Do you mind if I steal Y/N away for the evening?”

“Only if you promise to bring them back before midnight,” she joked.

“Of course,” he nodded, smiling. “You coming?”

You nodded, looking back to see Florence’s supportive smile. You followed Harry into his car and, before you knew it, you were on your way to some fancy restaurant he’d booked. In you went, sat down at your table, studied the menu and ordered your selected food. It was only then, as the waiter walked away, that the conversation really started up. Naturally, the conversation prior had just been small talk about what the two of you were thinking about ordering.

Amazingly, and almost to your surprise, the conversation flowed nicely, unlike all of the ones you’d shared at work. You wanted to talk about favourite novels and guilty pleasures and pet peeves and bad habits and embarrassing childhood stories with him. As he sat opposite you, chatting away. You couldn’t help but study his face and the way his eyes never wavered from you. You watched his hand as it reached across to grab your wine glass and pour you a glass of the upscale red wine. Unsure exactly where it all went wrong, you ended up with the staining wine seeping through your white shirt. “Shit, shit, shit. Shit, I’m so sorry, Y/N,” he quickly stood, rubbing one of the napkins across the stain. You almost felt bad for ruining the napkin at how opulent it looked. 

“It’s okay,” you assured him, grabbing his hand to move it away from your torso. A couple of people turned to look at the pair of you, whispering amongst themselves. He sent you an apologetic glance, dropping the wine-stained napkin onto the table. This only further ruined the cloth that coated the table. “Maybe we should leave?” you offered, not feeling up to sitting in a stained shirt for a couple of hours. 

He nodded, sighing, frustrated, “Right, yeah. Of course. Do you want me to take you back to Florence’s?”

You didn’t want this night to end. It had been fun and Harry’s company was one you had a newfound appreciation for. “Just away from everybody,” you whispered.

He nodded, his features brightened slightly. Taking your hand, he walked you out of the lavish restaurant. As the pair of you walked through the streets, illuminated in an orange glow as the sun sat atop the horizon, you knew there’d be pictures in the press the morning to follow. All headlined with something like ‘HARRY STYLES SPOTTED OUT WITH MYSTERY DATE’. They wouldn’t know who you are, half of your faces obscured by masks. But, then eventually, somebody would point out that it looked like you. And then that would get out of control, making all of the headlines for at least an hour look something like ‘HARRY STYLES AND LITTLE WOMEN COSTUME DESIGNER, Y/N Y/L/N OUT FOR EVENING DINNER’. You knew that; he knew that. Both of you knew the consequences of fleeing the restaurant and roaming the streets. Whatever the two of you had going on, whatever you might have in the future, would instantly become public knowledge. 

But, in the moment, you didn’t care. You liked Harry, and you were enjoying yourself. So, do you know what, fuck whatever anybody thought. This was your life, you were going to do whatever you wanted with it. “I am really sorry,” he said quietly as you walked down the quiet streets together.

“Honestly, Harry, it’s okay,” you smiled. It was bold from you, of course it was, but you did it anyway, reaching over to squeeze his hand. He looked over at you, his eyebrows had been knitted together, but at the sight of your warm smile, they softened. Your face was coated in a soft layer of setting sun and, Harry would argue, it made you look ethereal and the most divine thing he’d ever laid his eyes upon. Oh, how he wanted to write so many songs about you. Even the Gods couldn’t compare to you in that moment, he thought. “I didn’t plan for this evening to go like this,” he said, his voice quiet and defeated. 

“Well, I would hope not,” you replied, offering a crappy joke to hopefully lift his spirits. He did, in fact, crack a smile. Now, the two of you were alone. The sun was dipping below the silhouetted horizon and the evening, you feared, was drawing to somewhat of an end. “Harry,” you began, hoping to finally ask all of the little, insignificant things about his life. 

“Yeah?” he replied, turning to glance at you.

And it felt as if you’d waited so long to simply ask, “What’s your favourite novel?”

#harry fanfic #harry fanfiction #harry imagine #harry styles #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry x reader #harry x y/n #harry x you #harry #harry imagines #harry styles imagines

[9worldstales]

MCU “Thor”: Who’s to blame for Thor’s banishment?

So I’ve seen around people blaming Loki for Thor’s banishment and…

… I can’t help but wonder if they realize that, by saying so they aren’t just pinning the blame on the wrong person but they’re doing a HUGE, GIANT SIZE disservice to Thor.

But let's list sources used for this first.

SOURCES MENTIONED:

Movies: “Thor” (2011), “Thor – The Dark World” (2013)

Comics: None mentioned

Direct-to-video animated film: None mentioned

Motion comics: None mentioned

Books: None mentioned

Novels: “Marvel Cinematic Universe Phase One: Thor” by Alex Irvine (2015)

Webs: None mentioned

Others: “Thor” old movie script, Interview “Director Kenneth Branagh and Kevin Feige Interview THOR”, interview “EXCLUSIVE: Screenwriter Don Payne Talks Thor!”, Interview “SDCC 2010: Chris Hemsworth Interview THOR”, Video “Thor (2011) Chris Hemsworth Kill Count”

Although “Thor” is meant to be an origin story for both Thor and Loki…

Kevin Feige: The movie, very much, is an origin of Loki, almost as much as it is an origin of Thor. We had to ride that balance. There were drafts where Thor took over too much, and there were certainly drafts where Loki became too prominent, and I think we found a nice balance that is clearly the origin of both of those characters. [Director Kenneth Branagh and Kevin Feige Interview THOR]

…the focus was mostly on Thor and his journey to learn humility.

I mean, this is not MY interpretation of the story, it’s basically what everyone involved in the production says the story is about. Thor is unworthy, the banishment is just, from it he learns humility and becomes worthy again.

Don Payne: Whereas we’ve got an extra-dimensional being once worshipped as a god by the ancient Norse who’s banished to earth and stripped of his powers to learn humility, all set amidst the Shakespearean intrigue of a dysfunctional royal family. You just have to find the things that make Thor timeless and relatable as a character. It certainly helps that he’s charismatic and likeable, albeit flawed. He’s banished for good reason, but I think people will want to go on the journey with him and root for him to find redemption — particularly with Chris Hemsworth’s performance. [EXCLUSIVE: Screenwriter Don Payne Talks Thor!]

Kenneth Branagh: That story arc of the flawed hero who must earn the right to be king is in our piece, but what’s key is the stakes. There, it’s Europe and England, and here, it’s the universe. When that family has problems, everybody else is affected. If Thor throws a fit and is yelling at his father and is banished, suddenly the worlds are unstable. [Director Kenneth Branagh and Kevin Feige Interview THOR]

Chris Hemsworth: At the beginning of this film, he’s certainly a brash, cocky warrior who’s about to inherit the keys to the kingdom, and his father thinks that he’s not ready. It’s the journey of him learning some humility through the film. I think he’s one of those people who has his heart in the right place. He’s doing what he’s doing for his family and to protect the kingdom, and he thinks it’s the right way to do it. It just happens to be a very aggressive way of doing it, which probably isn’t the right way. It’s about tempering that raw emotion that he drives off most of the time, into the right direction. [SDCC 2010: Chris Hemsworth Interview THOR]

And in fact Thor makes a 180° turn from how he started.

The boy then man who insisted he wanted first to kill all the Jotun then give them a lesson is the one who sacrifices his chance to meet Jane again to save them.

Young Thor: When I’m king, I’ll hunt the monsters down and slay them all! Just as you did, Father.

and...

Thor: March into Jotunheim as you once did. Teach them a lesson. Break their spirits so they’ll never dare try to cross our borders again.

versus

Thor: You can’t kill an entire race!

The man who said his father was an old man and a fool, becomes the one who says there will never be a wiser king than Odin.

Thor: And you are an old man and a fool!

versus

Thor: There will never be a wiser king than you. Or a better father. I have much to learn. I know that now. Someday, perhaps, I shall make you proud.

The man who returning from Jotunheim was too busy to care for how Fandral got hurt so that it was Odin who had to say to get him to the healing room, is the one who, once back to Midgard, first worry about having his friends getting Heimdall on the healing room and then about what he’ll do with his brother.

Odin: You cannot even protect your friends! How can you hope to protect a kingdom? Get him to the healing room! Now!

versus

Thor: Get him to the healing room! Leave my brother to me.

The man who thought his father’s lessons were wrong, then admits his father was right.

Thor: While you wait and be patient, the Nine Realms laugh at us. The old ways are done. You’d stand giving speeches while Asgard falls.

versus

Thor: Neither did I. My father was trying to teach me something, but I was too stupid to see it.

The man who first was told by Loki going to Jotunheim was madness and did it anyway then tells Loki how destroying Jotunheim is madness.

Loki: Thor, it’s madness.

versus

Thor: Loki, this is madness.

The man who would start a fight just because he was called ‘princess’ versus the man who kept on refusing to start a fight with Loki even after the other hit him four times and only does so when Loki threatens Jane.

And then there are the comparisons that got lost because some scenes got cut. For start an even better comparison, in which another man calls Thor "Princess" and Thor this time refuses to fight.

Jotun: Run back home, little princess. [Thor stops in his tracks. Loki goes white. He knows what's coming.] Loki: Damn. [In one quick move, Thor pulls Mjolnir, swings it, and KNOCKS the Jotun clear across the plaza. The Asgardians reluctantly draw their weapons, gather into a circle around Thor. Volstagg looks around at the angry Jotuns approaching them.]

versus

Drunk townie: You were in the diner with that hot girl. [Thor doesn't like where this is going.] Drunk townie: I wouldn't mind her doing a little research on me. [He laughs. Thor is annoyed.] Thor: I have no quarrel with you. But she's a lady. You should be more respectful. Drunk townie: And you should shut the hell up, princess. [Selvig looks to Thor, concerned that he's going to lose it. But, to his surprise, Thor remains unaffected by the Townie's baiting.] Thor: I will not fight him. Drunk townie: Then it'll be easy to kick your ass.

Or like the deleted one in which Frigga said that Thor believed to be ready… when in the end Thor will realize he’s not.

Odin: Do you think he’s ready? Frigga: He thinks he is. He has his father’s confidence.

versus

Thor: There will never be a wiser king than you. Or a better father. I have much to learn. I know that now. Someday, perhaps, I shall make you proud.

You might remember Thor smashing a cup because he wanted another drink… well there’s a deleted scene in which, just before the Warriors Three and Sif reach Midgard, he brings a cup to Izzy in payback for the one he broke.

Thor: This drink, I like it. Darcy: I know. It’s great, right? [Thor hurls the empty mug at the ground, SHATTERING it.] Thor: (CALLS OUT) Another! [ISABELA ALVAREZ (60), the diner’s proprietor, glares at Thor from behind the counter.] Jane: Sorry, Izzy. Little accident. What was that? [He doesn’t understand. The other patrons stare at him.] Thor: It was delicious. I want another. Jane: Well, you could have just said so. Thor: I just did. Jane: No, I mean, ask nicely. Thor: I meant no disrespect. Jane: All right. Well, no more smashing. Deal? Thor: You have my word. Jane: Good.

Versus

As the group finishes breakfast, Thor looks at the mug in his hand, gets an idea. Thor: [About a cup] May I have this? Darcy: Sure. Thor: Thank you. Please, excuse me. [Thor leaves. In front of her diner, Isabela prepares to open for the day. Isabela sweeps the front porch. She looks up to see Thor approaching. She eyes him suspiciously. He offers her a MUG.] Excuse me, Isabela. Isabela: Oh my gosh. Thor: To replace the one I broke. Please, forgive me for my behavior. Isabela: Okay, thank you. Thor: if I may, I’d like to come back here for more of yours splendid "coffee". Isabela: Any time.

And then you might remember how Fandral was hurt in Jotunheim and it was Loki and Volstagg who helped him, while in a deleted scene we’ve Selvig being hurt and Thor helping him.

And so on and on and on.

Thor started one way, this caused his banishment and the banishment changed him.

If we go and say Thor didn’t deserve to be banished, that it was all Loki’s ploy, we ignore how Thor before was an unworthy person and after he became a worthy person. We turn Thor into a person who’s ALWAYS worthy, regardless of him acting one way or its exact opposite but for some reason was misjudged and punished unfairly and never really had to change because he was perfect as he was.

We turn Odin into a fool who punished a worthy son for crimes he didn’t do and then took the punishment back not because Thor changed, but because he realized he made a mess.

The idea Thor’s banishment is Loki’s fault is against the authors’ intentions, damages Thor by stripping him of his growth and, ultimately, it’s totally false, so trying to pin the blame on Loki so as to make him look bad is simply wrong.

Although Loki did some things that triggered Thor’s reactions, Thor wasn’t completely and utterly brainwashed. It was Thor’s decisions who ended up bringing those consequences and Loki had no idea Odin would go as far as banishing Thor.

In a deleted bit Loki says Odin normally ALWAYS forgive Thor.

Fandral: Well, if he doesn’t show up soon, he shouldn’t bother. Odin looks like he’s ready to feed him to his ravens. Loki: I wouldn’t worry. Father will forgive him. He always does.

From Thor’s reaction to his banishment it’s clear it’s the first time he got such a punishment and that he assumed all he had to do to be forgiven is to retrieve Mjolnir.

The novelization is not shy to say that:

Odin had always favoured Thor because Thor was a warrior, just like him… [“Marvel Cinematic Universe Phase One: Thor”]

The Warriors Three and Lady Sif clearly follow Thor because they don’t think it’ll end up in Thor being banished for disobeying Odin’s orders even though they know he shouldn’t have done it.

This proves it was the first time Odin reacted as such to Thor’s disobedience.

But let’s dig more into the story.

Loki yes, caused the coronation to be delayed by having three Frost Giants sneak into the vault and attempt to steal the Casket.

His purpose was:

Loki: That was just a bit of fun, really. To ruin my brother’s big day. And to protect the realm from his idiotic rule for a while longer.

Loki has no reasons to lie to Laufey about this. The ‘a while longer’ clearly imply he didn’t expect it was permanent. If he had said ‘to have him banished forever’, it would have affected Laufey just the same, he wouldn’t have judged him worse.

Thor’s reaction to the invasion is entirely Thor’s.

Thor: The Jotuns must pay for what they’ve done! Odin: They have paid, with their lives. The Destroyer did its work, the Casket is safe, and all is well. Thor: All is Well? They broke into the weapons vault! If the Frost Giants had stolen even one of these relics... Odin: They didn’t. Thor: Well, I want to know why! Odin: I have a truce with Laufey, King of the Jotuns. Thor: He just broke your truce! They know you are vulnerable! Odin: What action would you take? Thor: March into Jotunheim as you once did. Teach them a lesson. Break their spirits so they’ll never dare try to cross our borders again. Odin: You’re thinking only as a warrior. Thor: This was an act of war! Odin: It was the act of but a few, doomed to fail. Thor: Look how far they got! Odin: We will find the breach in our defenses and it will be sealed. Thor: As King of Asgard.... Odin: But you’re not king! Not yet.

Loki doesn’t even talk here. Thor, despite Odin thinking the opposite, insists they should just attack Jotunheim until Odin reminds him he’s no king.

This is relevant because if the coronation has concluded and the Jotuns had found on their own the way to get into the Vault, Thor would have waged war against them. This is what he wants to do and discussing things with Odin doesn’t change his mind, Odin merely forces him to shut up with his ‘I’m the king’ card.

Originally he would leave slamming the door behind himself, a sign he was still upset. We don’t see this, but we see him he’s still upset enough he turns a table upside down.

Then he has a discussion with Loki.

Thor: It’s unwise to be in my company right now, Brother. This was to be my day of triumph. Loki: It’ll come. In time. Thor: What’s this? Loki: If it’s any consolation, I think you’re right. About the Frost Giants, about Laufey, about everything. If they found a way to penetrate Asgard’s defenses once, who’s to say they won’t try again? Next time with an army. Thor: Exactly. Loki: There’s nothing you can do without defying Father. No, no, no. I know that look. Thor: That’s the only way to ensure the safety of our borders. Loki: Thor, it’s madness.

It’s true, if Loki had revealed he had been who orchestrated the break of the Frost Giants instead than telling him he also thought they were a threat, Thor might have calmed down. But this is not excuse enough for how Thor disobeyed Odin’s order, and only proves Thor wasn’t fit to be king right there because he insisted on going to Jotunheim even though Loki also reminded him this means defying Odin.

This is a serious matter but the key of it is that Thor wanted doing it before and still wants to do it now. He just can’t control his own wish to fight the Jotuns even if his father told him no. He’s not thinking. He’s not a common warrior, he’s the man who’s meant to be king.

If it takes him so little to wage war, then he’s unworthy of being king.

And does Loki really want for him to go to Jotunheim?

Not in the slightest, he knows it’s madness, in fact, believing Thor can’t be stopped, he tries to have him tattled out to his father.

Fandral: Well, at least he’s only banished, not dead. Which is what we’d all be if that guard hadn’t told Odin where we’d gone. Volstagg: How did the guard even know? Loki: I told him. Fandral: What? Loki: I told him to go to Odin after we’d left. He should be flogged for taking so long. We should never have reached Jotunheim. Volstagg: You told the guard? Loki: I saved our lives. And Thor’s. I had no idea Father would banish him for what he did.

In a deleted scene we see that as the group is about to ride toward the Bifrost Loki leaves them for a moment to talk with a guard. He’s not lying when he says he warned the guard.

The novelization digs a lot in how Loki didn’t want them to reach Jotunheim and in how Odin KNEW Thor would just do something, so it’s entirely possible Thor would have acted even if Loki had disagreed with him or had told him nothing.

“Why did he always seem to get into trouble because of his older brother? Wasn’t he supposed to be the wiser one? Odin has expressly forbidden that they enter Jotunheim. Yet it wasn’t the first time Thor had done something reckless. And it wouldn’t be the first time Loki was powerless to stop him.” [“Marvel Cinematic Universe Phase One: Thor”]

Loki had made a decision. True, he could not dictate his brother’s actions, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t continue to make plans of his own. As the others checked and double-checked that they had everything they would need for the journey to Jotunheim, Loki slipped away. When Loki rejoined the others, they were on their way to the Observatory. Hogun gave him a curious glance, but he ignored it. What he had done was none of their business. [“Marvel Cinematic Universe Phase One: Thor”]

They were on their way to Jotunheim. And what would happen once they got there was not in the hands of fate, but in the hands of his impulsive brother and his warrior friends. Loki would not be able to manipulate events there. He had to trust that the arrangements he had made would be enough for them all to survive. [“Marvel Cinematic Universe Phase One: Thor”]

Odin spent an uneasy night and felt no better in the morning. He had not seen Thor since their argument in the Vault. There had been shouting in the banquet hall as Thor told his friends what had happened, but Odin had heard nothing since. Frigga had tried to reassure him that Thor’s temper would ease and this would blow over, but Odin knew better. His son felt himself to be king already, whether the ceremony had been completed or not. He would take action. It was his nature. Odin hoped only that the action would not cause more problems than it solved. Just then, a guard rushed to him, and Odin’s misgivings were proved correct. Thor had taken his friends and journeyed into Jotunheim. Odin felt a deep well of fury rise up within him. Thor has deliberately disobeyed his orders. So, too, had Heimdall, who should not have let anyone pass on the Bisfrost – especially not a war party going to Jotunheim. “Tell the barn master to have Sleipnir and my battle gear to be readied immediately,” he ordered the guard. [“Marvel Cinematic Universe Phase One: Thor”]

Once in Jotunheim Laufey notices Thor wants to be there to wage war. He even warns him that if he keeps this up he would unleash something terrible… and it’s not Thor but Loki who accepts Laufey’s offer for them to leave, Thor doesn’t accept it even if they’re outnumbered and risk being all killed because, as Laufey said, he craved for battle.

Laufey: Your father is a murderer and a thief! And why have you come here? To make peace? You long for battle. You crave it. You’re nothing but a boy trying to prove himself a man. Thor: Well, this "boy" has grown tired of your mockery. Loki: Thor, stop and think. Look around you, we’re outnumbered. Thor: Know your place, Brother. Laufey: You know not what your actions would unleash. I do. Go now, while I still allow it. Loki: We will accept your most gracious offer. Come on, Brother.

Ultimately, even if Laufey and Loki had almost persuaded Thor to leave, all it takes is a small provocation and Thor starts attacking Frost Giants.

Jotun: Run back home, little princess. [Thor stops in his tracks. Loki goes white. He knows what’s coming.] Loki: Damn. [In one quick move, Thor pulls Mjolnir, swings it, and KNOCKS the Jotun clear across the plaza. The Asgardians reluctantly draw their weapons, gather into a circle around Thor.]

Loki is clearly not happy with his brother’s actions, he didn’t want this. It’s Thor who decided to do this anyway and, during the battle, we see that Thor is in a great spirit as he destroys a Frost Giant after another for a total of 145 Frost Giants (you can see the dead count in the Youtube video “Thor (2011) Chris Hemsworth Kill Count”).

Through the battle first Sif and then Loki TWICE will urge Thor to leave, they’re outnumbered they’ll end up getting killed if they remain there and it gets no better when Fandral gets wounded.

When Odin shows up Thor is all for continuing the battle.

Thor: Father! We’ll finish them together!

This is not Loki dictating his moves. This is all Thor and ultimately it’s Thor who argues with his father once they’re back, which is the last straw for Odin.

If Thor had kept quiet or had acted sorry Odin might have still forgiven him. He does not.

Thor: Why did you bring us back? Odin: Do you realize what you’ve done? What you’ve started? Thor: I was protecting my home. Odin: You cannot even protect your friends! How can you hope to protect a kingdom? Get him to the healing room! Now! Thor: There won’t be a kingdom to protect if you’re afraid to act. The Jotuns must learn to fear me, just as they once feared you. Odin: That’s pride and vanity talking, not leadership. You’ve forgotten everything I taught you about a warrior’s patience. Thor: While you wait and be patient, the Nine Realms laugh at us. The old ways are done. You’d stand giving speeches while Asgard falls. Odin: You are a vain, greedy, cruel boy! Thor: And you are an old man and a fool! Odin: Yes. I was a fool to think you were ready.

This is no Loki needling Thor, this is all Thor, this discussing matching the one he had in the Vault with Odin previously.

And, credits when it’s due, at this point Loki tried to interject.

Loki: FATHER-- [Odin turns with a growl and gives Loki a look which stops him in his tracks.]

Only at this point Thor will be banished and while yes, the way Loki chose to interrupt the coronation clearly had upset Thor and his words didn’t manage to calm him down, it’s also clear that not only Loki didn’t want for them to go to Jotunheim and almost get killed but that it’s Thor’s reaction to the situation that causes his banishment and that situation could have happened regardless of Loki having a hand in it or not.

Invasions happens.

The difference between “Thor” and “Thor: The Dark World” in which another invasion takes place, is that although Thor is always trying to disobey to his father in both movies, in the first he did it because he wanted to go at war with the Jotuns, in the second he did it because he hoped to spare Asgard from a war.

In the deleted scene for “Thor: The Dark World” even Odin acknowledges Thor was right.

Odin: I thought you’d been blinded by passion but in truth you were the only one who could see and you... did what needed to be done

His motive for disobeying his father in “Thor: The Dark World” is the exact opposite than it was in “Thor”, but if he’d been the old Thor he would have had no qualms to drag all Asgard into a war.

So yes, Loki set up the situation, but if Thor ended up being banished it was solely for his own reaction to the situation, a situation that could have happened in other circumstances.

Would Loki coming clear with Odin lift Thor’s banishment?

No, of course not, because none of Loki’s actions are what moves Odin to decide for Thor’s banishment. What pushes him to decide for such a punishment are Thor’s reactions to the situation. If Loki had confessed the most this could cause was for him too to also be banished.

And, to Thor’s credits, he grew in his banishment and became a better person. This is important, it doesn’t deserve to be underscored.

Also, as said before, Loki couldn’t predict the punishment would have been banishment and he didn’t control Odin either.

Not only Loki actually tried to stop Odin, but even Frigga in a deleted scene begged Odin to reconsider and he refused.

So yes, Thor’s banishment ultimately turned out to be convenient for Loki, but he didn’t deliberately orchestrated it, he didn’t plan that far.

So really, let’s just Thor have his moment of personal growth in which he becomes a better person in his own movie, let Odin have his own agency in deciding if to punish his sons or not and just accept the whole trip to Jotunheim wasn’t something Loki wanted nor Thor’s banishment something he could predict.

In short simply accept the story as its authors wanted it to be.

I get not everyone might be aware of interviews and deleted scenes but really, I would say the movie made the whole thing obvious enough to be understood just by watching it.

#thor #loki #thor odinson #loki odinson #odin borson #kevin feige #kenneth branagh #don payne #mcu thor #mcu thor the dark world #laufey #jane foster #jotunheim #asgard #midgard #fandral #volstagg #frigga #9 worlds study

[mrsalwayswrite]

To Call Forth Love - Chapter 9

Yay! Next chapter! True confessions, this *sorta* slow burn is killing me....and i’m the one writing it! (sorry not sorry?)

Warnings: some swearing, nothing really, Hvitserk being a good bro?

Words:7100 (I hope these longer chapters make up for the wait)

Tag List: @youbloodymadgenius @evelynshelby @pomegranates-and-blood @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @heavenly1927 @zuxiezendler @punkrocknpearls @love-all-things-writing @southernbe​

Series Masterlist

The ringing of her phone had Kari dropping the leggings she was folding on her bed to quickly snatch it up. 

 "Albus!"

 The voice on the other end sighed. "You know I hate that nickname."

 Kari laughed, picking the leggings back up to fold. "But it fits you so perfectly."

 "I am not an old wizard."

 "I'll give you that, but you're studious, kind and too wise for someone your age. So close enough."

 "I suppose if I haven't been able to convince you to drop that nickname for the past ten years, I won't be able to now."

 "Nope." She cheerfully said. "So, how are you? Your mother still wreaking havoc in your life?"

 "She set me up on a date last week." He grumbled after a moment's hesitation. 

 In her mind, she could imagine him sitting at his desk with a slight furrow between his brows and lips pursed as he lamented his mother's involvement in his love life. This would not be the first time he complained to Kari about this topic. "Ohhhh? How did that go?" She asked, even if by his tone she could already guess his answer. 

 "I know my mother means well, but the women she thinks I should date…." He trailed off with a forlorn sigh. 

 "Not your type?"

 "No."

 "I'm sorry. You'll find someone and your mother won't be able to help but love them."

 He snorted inelegantly. "I won't hold my breath for that."

 "See, you're so wise." She teased, smiling as she folded a work shirt. "Now, what else is new since last month?"

 The two spent the next hour talking. It had become their tradition after she moved. Hearing the gentle cadence in his voice, his quiet chuckles, it sent a wave of nostalgia washing over her. He was the only person from England she still kept in communication with, the only one who knew where she was. The last string tying her to her prior life. Although she would not have labeled him her best friend, they were certainly close and even more so after she moved. In their monthly conversations, they would chat about anything new in their lives, TV shows watched, books read, his latest exams in university. He always made sure to inform her what he knew about her family. Something she was grateful for but it always felt like a knife to the heart after. 

 As they talked, she finished folding her laundry, a necessary evil in her opinion. Once done with that, she moved on to the package she received in the mail today. It was addressed to her but the sender was a designer name she would never be able to afford in her lifetime. She shook her head, wondering what surprise the youngest Lothbrok had bought for her. 

 Listening to him regale her with the latest family drama of his, she opened the package and had to muffle a gasp at the two dresses that lay inside. The first was an off-the-shoulder, black skater dress that would reach mid-thigh in length. It was a classy and elegant cocktail dress that reminded her of the dress she wore on her and Ivar's "date" but way more sophisticated and stylish. It was the second dress that made her pause and wonder where Ivar thought she would ever wear something like this. It was a deep red evening gown, the hem long enough to trail slightly on the ground. The dress was gorgeous with a tight bodice and slight flair of the skirt. It was the slit in the skirt that touched her upper thigh and the sheer middle of the bodice that made Kari raise her eyebrows. The gown was the perfect blend of chic and sexy. What was Ivar thinking? She would feel so self-conscious and she never went anywhere fancy enough to wear it. Though as she stared at both dresses, she decided it never hurt to admire them on the hanger, even if she never got the chance to wear them. As her friend continued speaking, she hung both dresses up in her closet, making a mental note to talk to Ivar. 

 "It's probably good your brother moved out last year." She commented, tucking her laundry basket away in her closet. 

 "Yeah. He only comes over to the house if he has to." He said with a resigned sigh. After a long moment of silence, he spoke up again. His voice hesitant, almost remorseful, as what had been obviously on the tip of his tongue finally came forth. "Your mother has been talking about trying to find you again."

 Kari froze, her mind shorting out and heart rate skyrocketing as his statement sunk in. "What…. what did she say?"

 "Not much that I overheard." He confessed, sympathy in each word. "How much she misses her only daughter and feels abandoned by you. She has been telling people that you're doing charity work in another country when they ask about you."

 "It's been almost two years… I hoped…" She slumped onto her bed, legs wobbling and mind whirling. 

 "That your mother would forget about you?"

 "I don't know. I just…. I don't know."

 Silence reigned for a moment before he spoke again. 

 "Are you ever coming home?"

 "I…. I don't think that's home anymore."

 "I miss you." He whispered. 

 Tears welled in her eyes. She took a deep breath forcing them back, but knew her shaky voice betrayed her. "I miss you too. Maybe you can come visit me here?"

 "That would blow your cover."

 "Could we meet up somewhere? You take a vacation or something?"

 "I'll consider it…." His voice trailed off, only to come back stronger. "You know, when you wanted help to leave England, I thought it was just a temporary reprieve. I didn't imagine you would stay away."

 It felt like a knife twisted in her gut, because he was right. She had never thought she would be gone this long. "I know…. I just…. I like my life here. I don't…. I don't want to go back to that."

 He sighed as if giving up on convincing her to return. "I understand. I'll always be here for you. I still think of you as one of my closest friends."

 "Same. We've known each other since we were thirteen. A few countries between us isn't going to stop that."

 He chuckled. "Right. Well, I'll still hold you to your promise. If we're both unmarried by thirty-five, we'll have a courthouse wedding to keep our families off our backs."

 "Sounds good." She laughed out, wiping the tears from her eyes. 

 "I have to go. I'll text you about when we can catch up next month."

 "Perfect. Stay safe, Albus."

 "You too, Abs."

 "Ugh! That nickname is worse than yours!" She groaned, hearing a small chuckle on the other end of the phone. "Bye!"

 After hanging up, she stared at her phone for a minute, the smile fading as her mind revisited the conversation. The weight of everything slammed into her, her body no longer able to support her under the strength of her duress. She crumpled onto her bed, curling into a fetal position, tears streaming down her cheeks. It hurt that England no longer felt like home to her, but neither did where she currently lived. What hurt and confused her most, was when she thought of being home- Ivar's face filled her mind's eye. 

 *****

 "Thank you everyone for coming to class today. I'll see you either tomorrow or next week." 

 With the lights still dim, Kari turned off the soothing water music over the speakers in the yoga studio room. The women who had been laying in corpse pose on their mats began to rise and gather up their personal items. A quiet murmur of voices replaced the music in the enclosed room. She waved at a few of the regulars as they left her class. Even if she was not the one doing all the poses, by the end of class she still felt refreshed and rejuvenated. It always brought her joy to see people come in, stressed or anxious, and leave her class with a smile on their faces or just looking less tense. 

 Through the mirrors along the wall at the front of the room, she could see the tall, statuesque blonde making her way over, yoga mat tucked under her arm. 

 "Hey, you doing anything for lunch?" Gyda asked, coming up beside her. Even in leggings and a tight tank top, she looked like someone off the covers of a women's magazine. All Kari could figure was it was in the Lothbrok blood. 

 "Um, working on inventory?"

 "How about instead you come out to lunch with us?" She motioned vaguely towards Torvi, who was gathering up her yoga mat. "We planned on stopping at that new boutique down the strip. So, we can just meet you for lunch when you're done."

 "Really?" The brunette was startled by the offer. Sure, she had gone out with Gyda a few times but never with Torvi too. The three would chat occasionally before or after class and she liked Torvi's no-nonsense attitude. They had flippantly made comments about the three of them going out but to actually hear they wanted her presence both surprised and warmed her heart. "Torvi is okay with this too?"

 Gyda rolled her eyes. "Yes. So…. Yes? No? Don't leave me in suspense."

 "Yeah, I'd love to."

 "Great. Text me when you're done and we'll meet up."

 "It'll be at least half an hour…." 

 Gyda waved her off, her voice growing louder. "That's fine. Torvi takes forever when she browses anyway."

 "Sorry, I like to think through my purchases before I buy something!"

 Kari smiled at Torvi's retort. The other blonde was checking her phone, a smile on her face though as she peered up at her sister-in-law and her yoga instructor. 

 "Are you joining us?" She called over. 

 "Of course, she is!" Gyda replied, before Kari could respond. "But she's only coming if you swear not to share any stories about you and Bjorn's kinky sex life. Nobody wants to hear that."

 Without a word, Torvi gave her the middle finger salute, before looking back down at her phone. 

 Gyda chuckled then turned to raise an eyebrow at the shorter woman. "Unless you're into that kind of stuff…."

 "Oh gods, Gyda! No!" Her face flushed at the thought. 

 "Hey, it's the quiet ones who are the kinkiest. I bet Ivar would like that." She laughed as Kari tried to swat at her. Taking a step back, she pretended to zip her lips. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. Text me when you're done! We can meet at the café down the street. " 

 Kari waved at Torvi as the two blondes walked out of the studio room. Quickly, she hurried to finish tidying up. It had been a long time since she felt this excited to go out to eat with some female friends. A handful of times she had gone out with some coworkers or Lydia. In the beginning she was excited when Alana would invite her out with her friends to a club or bar but Kari quickly learned that was not her scene and began making every excuse possible to not be forced out with them. She always felt like an afterthought amongst the group, especially since getting drunk nor sleeping around was not her style. This time, she had high hopes for spending time with Gyda and Torvi. It would be nice to have female friends again. 

 The door to the studio room opened and Lydia popped her head in. "Almost done? You've got a visitor out here and he's causing quite the distraction." She said with a distinct shit-eating grin and wink before ducking back out. 

 "He?" Kari questioned out loud, although her mind suspected who it was. He was the only one who ever visited her. Slipping her phone into the pocket of her maroon leggings, she gave the room one final survey, wanting it to be ready for the next class before she left. With a nod, she headed out, the door swinging shut behind her. 

 In the large open area, she understood what Lydia meant by 'causing quite the distraction'. If she paused for a moment to drink the sight in, no one could possibly know, right? 

 Ivar leaned his shoulder against a wall, arms crossed over his chest with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to display his toned forearms. His dark locks were pulled back loosely in a man-bun, a few tendrils slipped free. Even in jeans, braces and smart-looking leather shoes, he looked quite handsome. With no cane in sight, it must be a good day. 

 Kari noticed more than one pair of eyes lingering on him from around the studio although he did not seem to notice as he stood there talking with Gyda and Torvi in hushed tones. The latter said something that immediately caused Ivar to narrow his eyes at her as he snapped a comment. 

 Even from across the room, Kari could read the tension in his frame and decided to intervene before he caused a scene. Walking over to them, aware of the many sets of eyes upon the group of three, she fixed a smile on her face. Once those intense, blue eyes locked onto her and his posture softened marginally, her smile transitioned into a genuine grin. "Hey, Ivar, what are you doing here?" She asked, coming to stand between him and Gyda. 

 "Do I need a reason to come see you?" He smirked down at her.

 That look released butterflies in her stomach but she ignored them to tease him back. "Usually that's how it works."

 "And if that reason is to fulfill my quota?"

 The blush that rose to her cheeks was so hot, she wondered if you could fry an egg on her face. Immediately, she dropped her chin to her chest, willing the warmth to vanish. 

 "Hmmm…. that blush for me, kattungen?" He shifted closer so his mouth was near her ear, his question asked in such a lecherous tone, Kari felt her core clench. 

 "Shut up." She mumbled, pushing him away. He rocked back on his heels, a smug grin on his face, and an amused chuckle leaving his lips. 

 Gyda patted Kari's shoulder, drawing the brunette's attention upward again. "Text me when you're done. We'll leave you with this grumpy asshole. I'm sure you can think of a way to cheer him up." She winked as she took a step away. 

 For a moment, Kari wished the ground would open up beneath her. Between Gyda's teasing comments and Ivar's blatant remarks and heated looks, Kari's face was going to be permanently red in an endless flush. 

 "Good luck on your trip, Ivar." Torvi called over her shoulder as she followed Gyda. 

 "Oi! Tell Bjorn to keep his big fucking mouth shut!" He yelled after the blondes; the tension returned with Torvi's parting statement. Glaring at the door the two women passed through, he muttered something in a foreign language as he rubbed his hand over his mouth. Briefly, his thoughts seemed to take him elsewhere but he quickly snapped back, blue eyes finding Kari once again. 

 It was only something she had realized lately, but when he looked at her, that consuming and burning gaze landing on her with all the impact of a sledgehammer, it made her feel like the only woman in the room. It was such a cliché thing, something stupid out of a romance novel, but it was the only way she could describe the feeling. When he looked at her like this, nothing else mattered in the room. She had his whole attention, all his focus. It was heady and powerful and terrifying and astounding. The weight of others watching made her skin itch but with his gaze locked on hers, lips tilted up slightly in the hint of a fond smile, she felt in the eye of a hurricane. 

 Her blue-green eyes dropped to his chest, unable to maintain eye contact when it left her feeling so flustered. Tugging on her earlobe, she quietly asked. "What are you doing here? I thought I wasn't seeing you until you picked me up for dinner tonight?"

 "Something came up." Silently, he reached over and grasped her hand, causing her head to jerk up. Intertwining their fingers, he watched her with regret in his eyes. "I have to fly out to Italy in two hours."

 "Oh. Is everything okay?" That was not what she had expected to hear. Her heart plummeted that their dinner would have to be canceled but tried not to let it show. 

 "Is there somewhere we can talk in private?"

 "Um, sure." Emotions flickering between curiosity and concern, she guided him back to the studio room. The weight of eyes lingered as they walked, especially since he refused to release her hand. A brief glance at the front counter, only to see Lydia and Sasha both staring at her with amused and proud smiles, had Kari trying to hurry out of sight with Ivar in tow. 

 Soon as the door shut behind them, hiding them from view, he pulled her against his body, one arm wrapping around her waist, trapping her against him while the other hand gripped the back of her neck. He kissed her passionately, like a man dying of thirst and only she could save him. 

 "Ivar…." She tried to pull away, aware she was at work and anyone could walk in. Instead, he held her tighter, molding her body to his. The drugging kiss that followed had her all but melting against him, knees weak and her resolve disappearing like smoke in the wind. When she opened her mouth, inviting his tongue to dance with hers, the growl that erupted from him was so thready and rough, it called to a primal part of her, making her warm all over and a tightness grow in her belly. 

 It had been two days since they had seen each other and she genuinely missed him. They had been texting during that time, but it was not the same. She missed his presence, his touch, his kisses, his grumpy comments and the way he made her laugh. Even when he annoyed or frustrated her, he still was the color in her otherwise monochromatic world. And with each day that passed, her desire to push him away fractured a little bit more. 

 When their mouths finally unlocked, both panting and lips swollen and red, she was almost shocked the nearby mirrors were not fogged up. Breathless and overwhelmed, she pressed her forehead to his, her arms around his neck. For a minute they stood there peacefully, only the sounds of their ragged breathing and the occasional noise from those outside of the studio room broke through their tranquility. 

 "What's going on, Ivar?"

 "Something with work." 

 "Does this have to do with why you've been so busy?"

 He sighed but when he spoke in a hushed tone, the rage painting each word was undeniable. "Someone on the inside has been selling information about us." She gasped, shocked but when she tried to pull away to look at him, he tugged her back against him, placing his chin on the top of her head. "I think I know who the fucker is."

 "That's why you're going to Italy?"

 "Hmmm."

 "Will you be safe?"

 That made him chuckle, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Are you worried about me?"

 She thought about making a joke, about teasing him about his recklessness. Instead the question knocked the air from her lungs momentarily, because the truth was, she was. What little she had gleaned about his work when he needed to vent, there was still an element of danger to it. She tipped her face up to look at him, her answer a quiet murmur that did nothing to hide the emotion behind her words. "Yes…. I don't know what I'd do if you got hurt."

 The amusement in his eyes drained to be replaced with a softness that made her heart clench. He inhaled sharply and glanced away for a moment. "Fuck, kitten…." When he turned back, he kissed her tenderly, a slow melding of their mouths like the taste of her was a fine wine he wanted to sip on endlessly. There was a promise in his action, just as much as his words when he finally whispered against her lips. "I'll be safe, just meeting with a contact. That's all."

 "Okay, just please be careful." Worry still tainted her, but she trusted Ivar to keep himself safe. He had been doing this job far longer than she had known him. 

 "Don't tell anyone about what I've said. No one else knows."

 "I promise. Not a word."

 "Good girl." He swatted her ass, making her squeak and glare up at him. "I'm going to have Hvitserk check up on you later."

 "That's not necessary." She tried to say. She would hate to be a waste of time for the older Lothbrok. The look he gave her said to not argue with him. "Fine," she dramatically sighed, "maybe him and I will watch movies and cuddle since you're soooo busy. I wonder if he'd think my bed is comfy enough or if the couch is better?"

 "Don't you fucking dare." He growled, gripping her waist in a possessive hold. 

 She just laughed at how easy he was to wind up. It was mean and she knew it. 

 He nipped at her bottom lip. "Keep playing, Kari and I'll have to punish you."

 "I have no idea what you're talking about." She batted her lashes at him, failing to suppress a childish giggle. 

 He rolled his eyes, the twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement. "I need to go." He softly said though he made no move to release her from his arms. 

 With that a wave of worry and fear cascaded over her, it was unfounded she knew, but it still threatened to drag her into its depths. Not giving it a second thought, she raised up on her toes to plant a lingering kiss on his lips. 

 "You're not helping." He muttered, never removing his mouth from hers. 

 "Maybe take the next flight?"

 "Don't tempt me, vixen. I'll lock that door and have my wicked way with you right fucking here until everyone hears you screaming my name."

 Between the image he painted in her mind and his mouth having moved to her pulse point, heated arousal pooled between her legs. She gulped, her mouth suddenly dry and words sticking to her throat.

 He leaned back, a devious smirk on his lips at her obviously flushed face. "No, my priestess," he purred, a filthy, predatory glint in his blue eyes, she could not help but gasp as her knees threatened to buckle under her. "When I finally have you, it'll be somewhere I can both worship you and fuck you all night long without fear of being interrupted."

 She let out a shaky breath. "But, um…. we…. ah."

 "Soon, Vakker, blir du min." He kissed her roughly, as if sealing his words. "I do need to leave. Walk with me." He took her hand, leading her out of the studio room, giving her no choice but to walk beside him. Not that her brain was fully able to make coherent decisions at the moment. 

 As they walked towards the front of the building, she wondered if their make-out session was obvious. Her lips felt red and swollen and a blush still colored her cheeks. A glance at Ivar showed his lips fuller but he appeared so calm and collected it was unfair. 

 "Did you like the dresses?" He asked, breaking her out of her thoughts. 

 "I do. They both are gorgeous, but they're too much. I don't have a reason to dress up that fancy."

 "With me, you will. I'll get you some casual dresses too."

 "Ivar…." She whined. 

 "You need more clothes, Kari."

 "Fine. Not because I want more clothes but because I know you'll buy them for me anyway."

 He winked at her, his tone smug. "I always get my way."

 "You're unbelievable."

 They stopped beside his SUV, parked next to the sidewalk. His driver was already in the driver's seat waiting. Kari made sure to wave at the man, earning a nod back from him. The driver was a huge guy with long, thick locks of white hair and a scar on his face. He intimidated Kari but she tried to ignore that and be friendly. Even if Ivar made fun of her for it. 

 "I should be back tomorrow unless some shit comes up." Ivar stated, opening the back door. 

 "Okay. Be safe."

 "Stop worrying. Shit. I'll be fine." He remarked, sliding into his seat. Before he closed the door, he met her gaze. "I'll text you."

 She smiled in acknowledgment and stepped back, giving him a quick wave as she headed back inside and his SUV started off.  

 Lydia leaned against the front counter with Sasha and Alicia now, all three watching her with expressions ranging from amused to shocked. 

 "Um, I'm going to…. go on my lunch break now." She mumbled and hurried away to grab her purse from the office, the sounds of laughter following her. 

 The stray thought crossed her mind that she would need some new bras if Ivar was set on buying her new clothes. Not that he would see those bras, but it would be good to have…. and maybe some matching panties.

 *****

 Summer was transitioning to fall, cool undertones intermixed with the residual warmth of a September evening. 

 Kari stared at the book in her lap but the words blurred together no matter how many times she reread the same line. She loved reading outside, sitting on the small patio behind the townhouse, especially when none of the neighbors were out. She could pretend it was her own place of solace, being out in nature. The sunlight shined through the line of pine trees separating their row of townhouses from the ones behind them, bird songs mixed with the sound of traffic from the nearby roads. She much preferred this too being stuck indoors. 

 Today though, her mind drifted like the breeze, but it all centered on a conversation she had not even ten minutes ago. If she listened closely, she could hear Alana through the screen door, making her dinner in the kitchen. She knew it was not Alana's fault, but the conversation still felt like a rug had been yanked from underneath the brunette. With everything going so well in her life, of course fate had to throw her a curveball. 

 Now her mind scrambled as what to do next. 

 A sound from her left had her glance over to see Erik stepping out of his back door. A boyish grin lit up his face when he saw her. 

 "Hi, Kari. Beautiful evening, isn't it?"

 "Yeah. It is." She gave a half-hearted smile, watching as he closed the door behind him and stepped closer. 

 "Mind if I join you?"

 She waved a hand at the patio set. "Not at all." Hopefully talking with Erik would be the distraction she needed for the moment, to pull her out of her quagmire of thoughts. 

 Dropping onto the cushioned chair to her left, he ran a hand through his dirty blond hair. In jeans and a t-shirt, he appeared ready to relax for the evening. 

 "What are you reading this time?" He asked curiously. This would not be the first time he had found her outside reading. 

 She reclined on the two-person, cushioned couch, legs up and bent with her open book resting against her thighs, wearing her typical leggings and slouchy shirt. At his question, she flashed him the cover. "The Princess Bride."

 "Isn't that a movie?"

 She pretended to gasp in horror. "Yes, but the book is still a classic."

 He raised his hands in surrender, grin spreading across his face. “If you say. Not really my taste. So how was your day?"

 "Nothing exciting. Yours?"

 "The usual. Customers thinking they could do my job better than me."

 She winced. "I know the feeling."

 They made small talk for some time, talking about work and a documentary he recommended for her to watch. They argued which was the better coffee shop nearby, something they continuously disagreed on. Soon the upsetting conversation with Alana drifted to the back of her mind. It did not take long for her to close her book and set it on the ground so she could be fully invested in the conversation, especially when Erik became so animated about a topic, his hands waving around like a conductor in his enthusiasm. It was an endearing trait of his, but also alerted her to settle in because it meant he would not need much encouragement to keep talking. 

 The opening of the sliding door behind Kari stunted their conversation.

 "Kari, someone is here for you." Alana said sweetly, stepping out onto the patio. 

 Unsure what she meant and since Kari never had visitors except for Ivar, she finally turned around. Only to be met with the view of Hvitserk leaning against the doorframe, a smirk on his lips. Standing there looking quite handsome in a dark navy business suit with a white undershirt, sans tie. Even his hair was nicely pleated back, making him look very professional and attractive. 

 "What are you doing here?" She asked in surprise, wondering if he just got off work. 

 Pushing off the doorframe, he meandered past Alana to approach Kari's side. "I came to check on you." He answered easily then scooped her up like she weighed nothing, making her squeal, and casually resettled them on the couch. Now he sat where she had been with her tucked against his side and his arm behind her. She also noticed how he purposefully put himself between her and Erik but chose not to comment on that. 

 "Ivar sent you, didn't he?" She grumbled, poking Hvitserk in the chest. "I told him it wasn't necessary."

 "Well, you know him." He shrugged, that teasing smirk still adorning his lips. When she tried to poke him again, he snatched her hand and held it hostage, even as she tried to tug it back. Ignoring her, he turned his attention to Erik. "Hey, man. I'm Hvitserk."

 "I'm Erik. I live next door." He responded warily, eyeing up the man as if debating to be friendly or not. 

 "Ah." With that understanding, Hvitserk seemed to give Erik a more assessing look before peering down at Kari. "You eat dinner yet?"

 "Sorta. I'm not too hungry."

 Alana spoke up from leaning against the other chair. "If you're hungry we can order something, Hvitserk. It's not a big deal."

 Kari's head whipped around to stare at her roommate in shock. Never had Alana played the hostess to Kari or anyone she knew. Then she really noticed the coquettish look of her roommate- the fluttering lashes, the sensual biting of her bottom lip in mock innocence, the way she casually leaned against the chair in a way to best highlight the curves of her body. Kari wanted to sigh. Of course, the only reason Alana pretended to care was to try and entice Hvitserk. An attractive man in their home, it was as if Alana could not help herself. 

 Apparently the flaxen-haired Lothbrok noticed her flirtatious manner also. He tipped his head, eyes blatantly tracing over her body with appreciation. Kari could see the blonde preening under Hvitserk's gaze. 

 "Did I fuck you?"

 What confident, amorous expression on Alana's face dropped in a second. "Excuse me?"

 Hvitserk waved a hand dismissively. "Sorry, you seem familiar but I can't remember…. Did you fuck one of my brothers?"

 Anger transformed her face, making her rigid and lip curled back in a snarl. "Fuck you, asshole." She shrieked, then stormed back inside, slamming the door shut. 

 He chuckled. "Huh. I take that as a yes…. ouch!"

 Kari slapped his chest. "That was extremely rude and insensitive."

 "Why? Because it's the truth?"

 "You can't just…. ask something like that." She turned to look at the closed door, wondering if she should go apologize to Alana and check on her. After a moment's debate, she turned away from the townhouse, figuring seeking out Alana would most likely end up with a door slammed in her face. 

 Hvitserk shrugged, pulling his phone out of his pocket and checking it before slipping it back in.  

 His nonchalance baffled Kari. Did he not care that he just humiliated her roommate? Should she make him apologize? Though she doubted he would. Finally, she settled for just muttering, "you Lothbroks are unbelievable."

 "Oh, are you related to…." Erik's question trailed off. Where he once had been relaxed back in the cushioned chair, now he sat tensely, one of his hands tapping his knee repeatedly. 

 "Ivar? Yeah, he's my brother." Hvitserk said with a knowing smirk. 

 "He's, um…"

 "A crazy, mad bastard? Yeah. Don't recommend getting on his bad side."

 "I was going to say intense."

 Hvitserk threw his head back as he laughed. Even Kari smiled at the hesitant way Erik answered. Intense was an understatement for the youngest Lothbrok. "Yeah, he's family." 

 Erik then motioned between Kari and Hvitserk. "So are you two…. just friends?"

 Before Kari could explain, Hvitserk jumped in to answer. 

 "Ivar and I share her."

 Immediately Kari choked on air due to his candid response. Her gaze darted to Erik in horror, seeing his jaw dropped and eyes wide as saucers. Beside her Hvitserk cackled like a hyena at both of their expressions. 

 "That's not…. ugh! No!" Kari tried to speak, once she could functionally breathe again, only to cover her face as her words tumbled out of her mouth inelegantly. 

 "Awww, come on, Kari. You know I'm teasing." The elder Lothbrok tugged her hands away from her face, which only caused her to bury her face in his shoulder. "We know Ivar doesn't share. But if you ever get tired of his cranky ass, I'll be more than willing to show you a good time."

 "Oh my god." She mumbled to herself, completely mortified. The evening had been going so well, and now…. all of this. Whose grave had she accidently stepped on today? 

 Erik awkwardly cleared his throat as he rose to his feet. "Um, I'm going to go."

 "I'm so sorry, Erik." She elbowed Hvitserk when he refused to release her hands, earning an 'oof' from him. Turning her body to give Erik her full attention, she continued, hoping this had not ruined their friendship or his night. "I know this is last minute but do you think you can give me a ride to work tomorrow? If you don't want to, that's fine, especially after all of this, I wouldn't blame you."

 "No, no. I mean, sure. It's not a problem. Just, ah, text me when you're ready."

 She smiled gratefully at him. "I will. Have a good night, Erik!"

 "You too, Kari." He gave her his signature boyish grin. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he looked at Hvitserk. "Nice meeting you."

 "Yeah, nice meeting you too." He said back, draping his arm once again behind Kari. 

 Erik gave Kari another brief smile before disappearing back inside his townhouse, the door sliding quietly shut behind him. 

 Hvitserk continued to stare where Erik disappeared for a long minute before muttering, "boy better watch himself."

 "What are you talking about?" She sighed out, feeling the lurking sensation of a stress headache coming on.  

 "He wants to fuck you. Ivar won't like that."

 "What is with…. No. I'm ignoring all of that." She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. "Ugh, my evening was going so well until an hour ago."

 "What happened? That guy showed up to bother you? Want me to tell him to lay off?" His questions came out in rapid-fire, concern infused in his voice. 

 "No, Erik is fine. It's …. it's nothing like that."

 "So, what happened?"

 "Nothing important. Have you heard from Ivar?"

 He raised a brow at her dismissal but changed the subject. "Yeah, looks like he got what he needed so he'll be back tomorrow morning."

 "Oh good."

 "Hmmm…. which means he'll want to take you out tomorrow."

 "He bought me some dresses." She softly confessed, fiddling with her diamond stud earring. 

 "I'd recommend wearing one of those."

 She swatted at him, only to mirror the easy grin on his face. After a moment, she asked, "I just…. is it weird for him to do that?" 

 "What?"

 "Buy me stuff."

 "Does it bother you?"

 "I don't know."

 "If you want my advice, I'd say to let him." He lifted a finger to silence her protest. Her mouth snapped shut at his pointed look. Once he was sure she would not interrupt him, he spoke. "Ivar has never been good with…. verbally expressing affection, something I am sure he learned from our father. So he buys gifts, something he can touch and control. If he's buying you gifts, not out of obligation but because he wants to spoil you, then you mean a lot to him."

 She pondered his words and how she felt about them. Never did she want Ivar to feel taken advantage of by her, especially in regards to his money. She would rather tear her own heart out than make him feel used again. It grated slightly how freely he wasted money on her. The dresses were lovely, something she could only dream of having with her current salary. But she worked hard for her life, to be independent. Even whenever they went out to eat together, he never let her pay for her own meal. She had given up that fight already but this…. It felt different. Yet what Hvitserk said slunk back to the forefront of her mind. If this was his way of showing affection, of letting her know he cared about her, would it do more damage to refuse his gift?

 "How did you become so insightful into Ivar?" She teased, deciding to think about this more later. 

 He laughed, flicking her ear with the hand he still had behind her. "Out of necessity. I don't think anyone can fully understand him, not even himself."

 "He's complex." She agreed. 

 "That's a nice way of putting it." He tipped his head to the side to meet her gaze. "Now, tell me what happened earlier."

 "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

 "Ivar told me to check on you. If I left you trying to hide tears and he found out, he'd probably break my hands or legs, not sure how particular he would be."

 Biting her bottom lip, she debated blowing him off again. It was not his problem, she could deal with her own issues. But there was something about Hvitserk that made her feel comfortable around him. Even though he was under no obligation, he seemed to actually care about her. 

 Finally, she gave in with a sigh, laying her head against his shoulder. "Alana said…. Um, this townhouse belongs to her uncle. Him and his family moved into a bigger home and instead of selling this place decided to rent it out for a little extra cash. The rent is minimal, since he isn't renting to really make a profit. It's honestly the only way I've been able to afford being here. Well, Alana told me earlier that he is having to increase our rent. She didn't really tell me why but now it's going to be an extra 300 a month…. and I don't have that. So unless I want to find somewhere new to live, it kind of looks like I need to get a second job."

 He waited a moment before flatly stating, "have Ivar pay the extra. Fuck, he'd probably pay your whole rent if you asked him too."

 "No! I don't want that!" She sat up so fast, it was a miracle she did not fall off the couch. Her eyes turned to the brother beside her, wide and pleading. "Please don't tell him, Hvitty! I don't want him thinking I'm using him for his money. I…. I need to do this on my own somehow. I'll figure it out, honestly. I just wasn't expecting this to happen, that's all."

 "You really don't care about our money, do you?"

 "No." It broke her heart a little at the shock in his questioning tone. Did any of them ever expect someone to care about them without the influence of their money? 

 He stared off into the distance before looking back at her with a solemn expression. "I'll make you a deal. I won't say anything to Ivar about this, but if you are struggling, even if it's just one month's payment, you come to me and I'll help until you get your head above water again, got it?"

 "Why would you want to help me?" She quietly asked, meeting his gaze. 

 He smirked. "I like you. You're genuine. Plus, you're also great for Ivar. I'd like you to stick around and if this is one way to help with that, it's an easy solution." He narrowed his eyes at her as she started to protest again. "Don't fight me on this."

 "You Lothbroks are unbelievable. Fine." She laid her head back on his shoulder. "Thank you, Hvitserk…. and thanks for coming to check on me."

 "Anytime. You've got my number. Just cause you're Ivar's woman doesn't mean we can't be friends. But my offer still stands, if you get sick of him, I'll be the first to snatch you up."

 She laughed, heart feeling lighter than it had all afternoon. "Stop. I'm not Ivar's woman."

 "You keep telling yourself that."

 They sat quietly for a few minutes, watching the sky change colors. 

 "Mmmm…."

 "What?" She looked up at him. 

 He peeked down at her with a shit-eating grin. "I still can't remember if I fucked your roommate or not."

 "Gods, Hvitserk!"

 *****

 Before she fell asleep that night, she checked her phone one last time. A jolt of elation shot through her when she saw an unread text from Ivar. Her fingers fumbled with how quickly she tried to unlock her phone to read the text. 

 Ivar: good nite, kitten. C u 2morrow.

 A silly smile on her face, she replied. 

 Kari: sweet dreams, Ivar.

 After that, she plugged in her phone and curled up under her covers. Relief and excitement bled into her veins, allowing her to drift off to sleep with thoughts of the dark-haired Lothbrok coming home to her.

#vikings #MODERN VIKINGS #vikings ivar #vikings fanfiction #vikings fandom #ivar the boneless #ivar ragnarsson #ivar lothbrok #modern ivar #ivar x oc #ivar x ofc #modern!ivar x oc #modern!ivar #ivar's heathen army #Hvitserk #Hvitserk Ragnarsson #hvitserk lothbrok #to call forth love #mzwrites

[fanfic-archive]

A Little More than an Alliance

Eivor Wolf-Kissed x Female Reader

Summary: Eivor has been travelling all over England, forging alliances and making a name for herself. Now she comes to your little kingdom in the hopes of forging an alliance with the king, your father.

Word Count: 3299

It was impressive, the amount of allies the Raven Clan had forged since arriving in England, and that news eventually reached your town. So, you had certainly heard the name ‘Eivor Wolf-Kissed’ before, and you supposed it was only a matter of time before she stepped foot in your little region of England. 

When news of Eivor wanting to meet with the king got around, your father agreed to a talk. You, your father, and his most trusted men gathered in the throne room, waiting for the Viking to arrive.

As soon as the Dane stepped into the hall, your full attention was on her. You couldn’t help it, of course you have heard of her but you still had no idea what to expect in many ways. Now, she stood in front of you and your father.

You felt foolish, never before have you been so captivated by a person. Your father and her spoke, while you took in each detail of her appearance. Her clothes, her braids, the parts of tattoos and scars that were visible, the way she held herself and walked into the hall with purpose, like she owned the place, how she showed respect while simultaneously demanding it with just her presence.

Eivor must have noticed your staring because she glanced over at your, making eye contact for just a moment but it was enough to turn your cheeks a light shade of pink and tear your gaze way from her.

Your father, the king, had never been too fond of the Danes but you had always been more open minded, simply curious about them. The truth was, you wanted to learn more about them, preferably from Eivor. 

The meeting between Eivor and your father didn’t go so well, your father didn’t seem interested in any sort of alliance but you knew that she wouldn’t give up that easily. 

Once the meeting ended, your father retired to his chambers while Eivor headed out of the hall. Deciding to try your luck, just a little, you followed after the Dane. 

“Excuse me” you spoke as you caught up with her, your voice making her pause and turn to you. “I’m sorry for my father’s rudeness” you apologised on the king’s behalf. 

“He isn’t the first leader to protest, but I’ve never let it stop us before” she shrugged slightly. 

“He isn’t...a fan of your people but I want you to know that we don’t all think the same way and that I think he will come around in time” you assured her. 

“I’ve won over stubborn Saxon’s before, I’m sure I’ll manage it again” she nodded in agreement. 

“I hope you do” you admitted, glancing over at the pair of your father’s men who were watching you both, likely wondering why you were talking to her without your father’s presence. “Would you walk with me?” you asked, wanting to get away from the curiously men. Eivor nodded, making you smile before you both left the hall together. “I believe an alliance between our people will benefit us both...and I confess you and your people intrigue me” you told her as the doors closed behind you. 

“Is that so?” Eivor asked with a small hum, walking through the streets of the town with you. 

“My father believes that your belief in multiple Gods is heathenism and therefore damning, though I imagine our belief in a singular God confuses you just as much” you shrugged. 

“It’s not the belief that confuses me, but the way you worship” Eivor confessed, a little curious about what you had to say. 

“We must humble ourselves before God” you explained simply. 

“We seek glory in the name of our Gods, I doubt you would consider that humble. We should take pride in our glories” she shook her head, clearly disagreeing. 

“Pride is a sin” you informed her playfully. 

“Another confusing concept of yours: sin. Your people make sins out of our nature. It is honour that decides our fate after death” she told you. 

“Your Valhalla?” you asked and she nodded in confirmation. “Now that is something I don’t understand. The feasting and celebrating sounds like a wonderful end but the continuous battles I may never understand. After everything you earn in life, don’t you want the next one to be...peaceful?” you pondered. 

“And your afterlife is that?” Eivor questioned. 

“...I suppose we can only hope” you sighed softly. You had faith and you trusted that faith, but nobody could know for sure. 

“You are a curious princess” she smiled slightly to herself, curiously looking you up and down, which definitely made you blush again. 

“Thank you” you smiled softly, hoping that your flushed face wasn’t too noticeable. “I wish to further understand your people. Understanding and respect are the only things that can bring us together” you insisted. 

Eivor went to speak but was interrupted by a man calling your name. The two of you turned to see one of your father’s most trusted men, one that you had known since you were a child, approaching you both. “Your father has requested your presence” he told you. 

You nodded before turning back to Eivor. “I have to go” you sighed, sounding disappointed. “But I enjoyed our talk and I trust you don’t plan on leaving until you have formed an agreement, so perhaps we could talk further when you have the time?” you looked up at her with a hopeful gaze, and she had to admit that she wouldn’t mind speaking with you some more. 

“It would be my pleasure” she nodded, smiling at you. You returned her smile before heading off to speak with your father. 

Eivor watched you walk away with a small smile on her face, just has she had captured your attention, you had captured hers. 

-

Unsurprisingly, Eivor did stay, continuing to speak with your father about possible alliances. 

Though, she spent a good portion of her days speaking with you instead. She told you all about Norway and her life there, why she and her clan came to England, and their journey here. Your favourite stories where the ones she told you of her Gods, even they were flawed being and you found that you liked that.  

Of course, you told her about your life growing up in England, laughing at the vast differences of your experiences. She told you about her experiences, but they were things you could only imagine. Your stories just didn’t compare in your eyes, they weren’t nearly as interesting in your opinion. 

Eivor just had so many stories, either from her life or about her Gods, and she told them so well, so poetically. Each and every one held your fascination, you could just listen to her for hours on end. 

You had offered to give her a proper tour of the town, the two of you got some curious looks from the people you passed, the Saxon Princess and the Danish drengr, but neither of you cared much. She had even taken you out of town for the day, without your father’s knowledge. It had proven surprisingly ease to sneak around to spend time with this fascinating woman. 

All the while, Eivor was making impressive strides in forging an alliance with your father. She wasn’t doing it alone though, you were helping, trying to convince your father to consider the proposition. 

-

It wasn’t too long before your father realised that both you and the Raven Clan had a shared enemy, Kind Alfred. So, your father set the terms of the alliance, if Eivor could help him and his men eliminate Alfred’s control over the region, she would have him as an ally. 

Your father had only recently left for the camp that they were going to regroup at, leaving you with a goodbye and a promise to return. 

Now you stood alone in the empty throne room, which would undoubtable be the place you waited until they all returned safely. You were just about to sit down when the front doors opened and Eivor walked into the room. 

“Eivor, you haven’t gone yet?” you were definitely surprised to see her here, having assumed she would be one of the first at the camp, preparing for battle. 

“I wanted to come and tell you that we’d be attacking Aelfred’s men tonight, I am meeting your father at the camp soon” she explained her presence. Knowing that she had come to see you just to say goodbye made you smile just a little, you would have smiled more if you hadn’t been so worried. 

“I know, he just left to prepare” you nodded, walking towards her so that you both met in the centre of the hall. “Tell me, Eivor, are you even better in battle than you are at diplomacy?” you asked. 

“The battlefield is almost like a second home to me” she nodded, her brow furrowing in confusion and curiosity at your question. 

“Good...then I suppose I have nothing to worry about” the answer didn’t really do anything to put your mind at ease, you already knew about her prowess on the battlefield, you had heard the stories...and yet you still worried about her. 

“You’re worried we won’t succeed?” Eivor questioned you with a small frown. 

“Well...yes, but not because I’m doubting your abilities. I’m more concerned about your safe return” you confessed. 

“I’ll be fine, we’ll likely be back sometime tomorrow” she promised you, sounding confident in it. 

“And you’ll look out for my father, it’s been some time since he saw battle” you requested. He had never been a coward in a fight but you still worried about him, he was family after all. 

“I will, I promise” she nodded before turning to leave. 

You hadn’t expected her to try to leave so suddenly, there were still things you wanted to say to her. 

“Eivor” you swiftly caught her hand in yours, making her stop and turn back to you. She looked at you expectantly, seeing the worry written on your face. “Please be careful” your voice was soft, like a quiet prayer. 

“You don’t need to worry” Eivor raised her hand, tucking a strand of loose hair behind your ear with a surprisingly soft smile on her face. 

Both her smile and gesture were gentle, more gentle than one might expect from a drengr such as herself. You had learnt during your time with her that she certainly did have a gentle side to her, one that she had been kind enough to show to you. 

“I’ll be back soon, after we claim our victory” she assured you, her hand slipping around to the back of your neck before pulling you closer. 

You went to speak, to question her, but you where quickly shut up. Your eyes widened slightly as her lips pressed against yours firmly. Slowly coming out of your surprised stated, your eyes fluttered shut and your hands rested on her arms as you returned the intense kiss. You had never felt so much heat and passion in a single gesture...or at all for that matter. 

Eivor broke away from the kiss, leaving you breathless. She brushed her thumb over your cheek before pulling away from you completely, walking out of the hall to prepare for battle, leaving you standing in the middle of the throne room, slightly stunned by the sudden development. 

-

The next day your father and his men returned, just like they all promised. Your father had greeted you with the good news and a hug before taking his place on his throne, you standing by his side as he spoke to two of his men. 

You had been paying attention to the conversation...until Eivor walked into the hall. As soon as you saw her, you were solely focused on her, and you were sure that your face just lit up at the sight of her. 

The truth was that you just wanted to run to her, but you knew that you couldn’t. So, you stayed put, just grateful for her safe return. She seemed glad to see you as well, greeting you with a nod and a smile, both of which you returned.

Everyone had returned, the dead had been honoured, the battle was won, and an alliance had been forged. So, it was time to celebrate, and everyone did so with a feast. 

As the men, Saxon and Dane alike, celebrated with food, drink, and music, your father sat up on his throne looking on with pride. 

You had left your father’s side, approaching Eivor, who was leaning against a wooden post in a quieter part of the hall. “Your people seem much better at celebrating than mine” you commented, getting the woman’s attention. 

“I’d have to agree with you” Eivor nodded as you moved to stand beside her, the two of you watching the more rowdy Danes attempting to bring out the worst in the more reserved Saxons. 

“...it looks like fun” you sighed. 

“It is. Why don’t you join in?” she asked, looking down at you. 

“I can’t” you shook your head, sounding displeased. 

“Of course you can. You’re a princess, you can do whatever you want, especially if that thing is celebrating” Eivor chuckled a little, seemingly not understanding your claim. 

“My father considers it indecent of me to join in with the festivities” you told her, making her roll her eyes.

She seemed to think about something for a moment before looking back at you. “Come on” she nodded at you to follow her before walking off. 

You frowned slightly in confusion but followed after her anyway. She grabbed two tankards off of a table, filling them with mead, before heading for the front door. You were still none the wiser as to what was going on in her head but you didn’t question it, you only followed curiously. 

Following her outside, you let the doors close behind you both before coming to a stop around the side of the building. It was dark outside now, the night sky lit up by the moon and the stars, the glow from the torches lighting up the town. Everyone else was in the hall, so it was just the two of you were out here, making it all the more peaceful. 

“I guess you’ll be returning home now” you realised with a dejected sigh, taking a sip of your mead. 

“I will. I’ve finished my business here, and I am needed back in Ravensthorpe” Eivor nodded, drinking from her own mead. 

You have had some time to think about what you wanted out of life and you knew that now was the only time you might get to ever seek something new. “Would you take me with you? Back to Ravensthorpe?” you asked, knowing that the question was probably surprising. 

“Now, why would you want that?” she did sound curious but she seemed to hide her surprise pretty well. “I love my father and I love our home, and I don’t plan on cutting all ties, but I don’t think my place is here anymore...I think there’s something more for me out there” you confessed, looking over at her and attempting to disguise the longing in your gaze. You succeeded...partly. 

“I’m not one to try to talk somebody out of following their fate but I have to ask, why don’t you think your place is here?” she didn’t sound judgemental, she just wanted to better understand. 

“I will never be considered for the throne and I’m okay with that, I don’t think I even want it, but if I am not here to be my father’s heir...there is no real role for me here” you explained honestly. 

“And what would your role be in Ravensthorpe?” Eivor questioned and you paused for a moment. She made a fair point, what use would you be to the Raven Clan? 

“...I guess I’ll have to figure that out” you confessed with another sigh, looking out at the quiet town in front of you. Surely, she wouldn’t accept your request, she had no reason too. 

“I’m sure I can think of a place for you” she reassured you casually, taking another drink. 

“Really?” your head shot round to look at her with widened eyes. “Is that you agreeing?” you asked. 

“Will your father allow it?” she answered your question with another question. 

“He won’t like it but I don’t think he could stop me, nor would he break his alliance with you. He never was too fond of Danes but he is a man of his word, plus I believe you have won him over on your people” you told her. 

“Tonight we celebrate, we leave tomorrow morning...we’ll speak with your father then” she nodded, not even questioning her decision. 

“Before we leave, I must ask...before you left to fight Alfred’s men...” the confidence you just had, asking to leave with her, faded as you brought up the subject that you really wanted to talk about.

“Yes?” a small smirk tugged at her lips. 

“What was that?” you asked. 

“What was what?” she was teasing you now and you knew it, she wasn’t even attempting to hide her smirk. 

“Eivor” you groaned in frustration and embarrassment, but she just chuckled. “The kiss, what was that?” you asked, a light blush spreading over your cheeks as you hung your head slightly to avoid her gaze. 

“Did you not enjoy it?” Eivor asked but it didn’t really sound like a genuine question. You guessed that she already knew the answer, she was just teasing you. 

“Yes, I...of course” you assured her quickly, making her smile. “I was just wondering what it meant...” your words drifted off again. 

“Well...” Eivor smiled as she placed her tankard down and turned to you, “...I meant...” she reached out tenderly and pushed some hair out of your face, reminding you of your encounter before she left for battle, “...that I would like it if you joined me in Ravensthorpe.”

Her answer made you smile, glad to hear that you meant as much to her as she meant to you. This time you were less surprised when she cupped your cheek in her hand and lent in to capture your lips in a kiss, her other hand resting on your waist.

You placed your tankard down as carefully as you could as you returned her kiss, bringing both of your hands up to cup her face. The hand against your cheek fell to grip the other side of your waist as Eivor pulled you closer to her, making you wrap your arms around her neck. 

This kiss was even better than the last and you hoped that there would be many more in the future. The way she kissed you, the way she touched you, even the way she looked at you, lit a fire in you that you had never experienced before and you didn’t ever want to lose that feeling. 

You reluctantly broke the kiss but didn’t pull away from her. “Come with me” you practically whispered as you took her hand in yours, stepping away from her. 

“Where are we going?” Eivor asked curiously, letting you guide her around the longhouse, towards one of the doors around the back. 

“Tonight is about celebrating, is it not?” you asked, looking back over your shoulder at her with a small smirk of your own. 

Eivor smirked in return, quickly catching on to your plans for the evening, letting you sneak her back to your chambers.

Once you reached your chamber, you closed the door and returned to Eivor’s embrace. She instantly pulled you into another kiss, and before you knew it she was lowering you onto your back on the furs of your bed.

#eivor x reader #eivor wolfkissed x reader #eivor #eivor wolfkissed #assassins creed valhalla #my writing

[rein-ette]

If you still fancy a drabble prompt, I've always seen Canada and England having a very warm and comfortable relationship- if it interests you, maybe a prompt could be one going to the other for advice about something?

It does indeed interest me, thank you for the prompt! I've had a bunch of Mattie-Arthur scenarios swimming around in my mind for a long time, so I'm glad to have a chance to put one of them down on paper. As always, this was supposed to be a "drabble" but magically lengthened itself the more I thought about it -- I don't think drabbles are supposed to have historical notes.

"Come in."

Matthew shifted his pile of papers to his other arm and pushed through the door of Arthur's office. Inside, the fading afternoon light illuminated the rich mahogony floor and danced on the spines of the hundreds of books that lined each wall. Remembering the excitement he felt when he was first allowed to peruse these shelves, Matthew couldn't help but smile softly to himself.

Arthur himself sat at his desk, one ankle propped up on his knee as he stared idly out the window. Matthew could just barely see a white trim of bandages that peeked out from underneath his collar. That dimmed his smile. It had been more than two years now since the war had ended in Europe, but Arthur still looked as gaunt as he did during the days when engines still roared over London and — though Matthew had not thought it possible — even more exhausted. The worn smile Arthur offered him said as much, and Matthew pushed away a twinge of guilt.

Arthur jerked his chin at the seat in front of his desk and Matthew sat, stacking his documents in a neat pile in front of him. Instead of immediately going through them, however, he gazed worriedly at his old guardian.

"How are you feeling?"

Arthur sighed and shifted in his seat, dropping his leg and turning to face Matthew. He stared at the ancient, ink-stained wood of his desk for a while, and Matthew could almost see the warring emotions on Arthur's face as his desire to be honest fought with his lingering instinct to conceal and protect Matthew from the worries that plagued him. But because they were past such pretenses, he finally murmured, "Tired."

Matthew hummed sympathetically in response. There wasn't much he could do or say to change that, and he expected the reports he brought would only exhaust Arthur further. So he merely asked, "Are you remembering to apply the salve twice a day?"

Matthew flushed a little when Arthur rolled his eyes at him good-naturedly, realizing he was fussing like Arthur was his child, instead of the other way around. Thankfully, Arthur spared him further embarrasment by only answering a tad dryly that yes, he was actually capable of following simple instructions. Matthew mumbled out a reply before deciding that he might as well get on with what he was actually here for, knowing Arthur had never been one for small talk. Clearing his throat, he slid the top half of his stack of papers across the desk.

"They sent you a copy of Lord Mountbatten's plan, I think with annotations, though I haven't gone through the whole thing. And this part is the proposal for the national flag. Also," he pulled a cream letter from the pile and passed that over as well, "India asked that you be there personally, in August," he finished.

Arthur hummed and rifled through the papers. Matthew couldn't quite read his expression. After a few moments, he stacked them again and placed them to the side, with the letter on top. "Thanks. I'll go through them later."

Matthew nodded. "And here I just summarized the letters and stuff from the others. I've left them back in the box, in case you wanted to read them yourself. There's not too much going on really. That you don't already know."

"Yes. Thank you. This is a great help, Matthew, truly."

"You're welcome," Matthew murmured, and watched Arthur scan the notes before setting them aside as well. His eyes traced the shadows underneath the other nation's eyes, before dropping back down to the cotton bandages around his neck. He wondered if Arthur was sleeping at all.

"Is there anything else I can do? I'm heading back to Ottawa next week, but if you need me to take over some stuff for a bit, I can stay longer —"

"No, no, it's fine," Arthur cut him off. "Like I said, I'm just a little tired, that's all. But all this," he waved a hand at the documents , "isn't anything new."

Matthew frowned. "Isn't it?"

"Hmm?"

"I mean, I know the paperwork isn't new, but, these," he drew a breath, "reforms, and the war, of course. That's — I mean. No one's, you know, had to deal with that, before."

Arthur frowned, and traced a finger along the edge of his desk, before sighing, "No, I guess not." He turned again to look out the window behind him. After several long moments, he said, quietly, "But it's not entirely unexpected, either. I just—" The corner of his lips jerked down, and for a moment it seemed as if he was almost in pain. He drew in a breath, and said, "It's just. Difficult. That's all. To—but." He stopped again, grimaced, as if at his own ineloquence. Finally, he said, slowly, as carefully as if he was embroidering the words onto the air between them, "The world is changing. Let us not stand in the way, lest they make us out to be fools."

Watching him struggle, Matthew found himself at a loss as well. Never had he imagined that Arthur — sharp-tongued, quick-witted Arthur, who could neither be bullied nor silenced, who could quote from more books than Matthew had ever read — would be scrambling for words. But then, as he watched Arthur's shoulders curve in towards himself like Matthew had seen a thousand times before in another stubborn, sandy-haired nation who also seemed to have endless words but never quite the right ones, he knew what he needed to do.

Smiling again, Matthew stood, drawing on Arthur's arm so he would turn to face him and said, "I think you need a hug."

Unnecessarily Long Notes are Unnecessarily Long

I didn't state the specific setting of this scene, but the timing of the historical events mentioned means it has to have been sometime between June and August of 1947. Despite the fact that Mattie says "not much is going on", my lord, a lot was going on in 1947; hence why Artie is doing his best impression of the walking dead. Besides the Indian and Pakistan independence movement, officially achieved in August 1947 which is alluded to (Mountbatten, or 3 June Plan, was the precursor to the Indian Independence Act of 1947), Europe was also going through complete social upheaval. To mention just a couple highlights: Germany was in such ruin it was said to have returned to the Roman ages, Britain was rationing harder than ever despite the war having ended, and of course Mr. Truman and Mr. Stalin were gearing up for the Great Showdown. A quote I like which captures the feeling of the time is from H.G. Wells: "[where] other civilizations rolled and crumbled down, the European civilization was, as it were, blown up." [quoted by Tony Judt, Postwar]. Also directly concerning Arthur was the issue of Palestine, which as we all know was and is contentious, to say the very least.

Arthur's attitude to decolonisation is...complicated. Clearly I went with a softer view here, but certainly not all (or even many) British held the view in 1947 that the Empire should be decolonized at all. Hence Arthur during this time was probably a raging hypocrite and, if he wasn't already, at least 50% psychologically unstable. However, I allowed Arthur a little dignity here, in part because he's 2000 years old and as such should have a tiny more perspective than us humans, and also because the weakness of the Empire was much more evident to those in government and the army. Even if it wasn't popular opinion yet, anyone with half a braincell could see that every day Britian didn't decolonize was costing them more than they could afford. Additionally, Britain did decolonise much, much faster than all the other powers and in a relatively peaceful and orderly manner, though what ensued in the countries they left behind was neither. I should also add that Matthew is not the most objective of narrators either -- Canada, despite being a former colony, was still strongly Anglophilic, especially right after WWII. Still, I hope ya'll won't begrudge Arthur a hug.

#hws england #hws canada #fic #ask #rainbowfruitpastilles #needcake i'm working on urs next #ngl urs is kinda hard #but thats what practice is about #in the meantime send more asks :D #this is fun #fun times with the commonwealth

[gentlemen-of-lies]

Gentlemen of Lies, chapter 1

British towns have weird names (Or last time I stay in a London hostel)

(Next chapter) (Prologue)

————

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

The café was further than Curt had originally thought, and getting lost down the maze of roads and blocks of flats didn’t help him with time keeping. He was already running late after spending twenty minutes- not getting dressed like he was supposed to- but instead fuming over the fact that he’d forgotten half of his clothes at home. All he had were a pair of trousers and thankfully a new pair of underwear. But other than that and his coat, he had to wear what he had on last night, and it was starting to feel like cardboard.

Needless to say, he failed in his attempt at not looking a mess. He was unshaven and all he could do with his dishevelled hair was try and flatten it down with the palm of his hand. He was chewing on a mint as he raced into the café, out of breath, ten minutes late, and stinking of whiskey.

He spent a few seconds pulling himself together before scanning the room, ignoring the looks he was getting from customers. He had to figure out which one of these people were his new partner. He did a mental count. Four customers, one waiter and a person behind the counter. Six possible people. One of the customers had a child. So it was most likely five possible people. That wasn’t too difficult.

“I hear the weather in Teignmouth is particularly bad,” he greeted the guy behind the counter, in a British accent that he’d been instructed to use, but which he’d completely forgotten about until now- once again hoping that Cynthia didn’t find out. He thought his accent was pretty good, he had to be good as a spy of course, but he still received a slightly confused stare. And no reply. Or at least, not the reply Curt needed. So it wasn’t the bartender.

“Right...” was all the man had to say. Curt put his mind at ease by immediately changing the subject and ordering a coffee. The man raised his eyebrows, nodded and turned to where the coffee beans were kept. Curt resumed his search, and his eyes landed on a man sitting in the far corner of the restaurant.

A young looking man, perhaps around his age. Dark hair, brown cap over his eyes. Certainly very secretive looking. Curt decided he was his best option, hoping his decision was right; he could get away with a slightly eccentric opening statement to the bartender, but not to a complete stranger. As if he needed to lose his dignity any more today.

He tried to smarten himself up as much as possible, so even if he had got the wrong person, he hopefully wouldn’t look too ridiculous. Curt cleared his throat just before he reached the man, and once again put on his mock accent.

“I hear the weather in Teignmouth is particularly bad.”

“To travel there you’d have to be mad.” Curt breathed a sigh of relief. Thank god. He sat down opposite from the man, just as the waiter came over to give Curt his coffee. Curt gave a swift thank you, and turned back to the man, still hiding underneath his cap.

“So... you’re who I’m teaming up with?” Asked Curt, a little awkwardly. It wasn’t like him to lack any sort of confidence, but the man sitting across from him was clearly much more together than he was.

“Unfortunately,” replied the man, revealing a very low voice. “For me,” he added. At Curt’s silence he raised his cap above his eyes and leant his crossed arms on the table, his face nearing Curt’s. “I take it you’re a newbie and, judging by your appearance and the whiff of booze that met everyone’s poor noses as soon as you entered the shop, you’re not a very good one.” Curt was defiant.

“I had a rough night,” he explained. “The flight over was long and the accommodation sucks. Doesn’t make me bad at my job.”

“No, what makes you bad at your job is doing so little research that you can’t even pronounce the name of the place you were given in your secret code.” He sat back again in his chair, arms still crossed. His eyes were bright, smug. Cocky. Curt already hated him.

“You mean Tane-mouth?”

“No, I mean Tin-muth, my dear.” He gave a slight chuckle, laughing at Curt’s stupidity it seemed. “First rule of England,” the man continued. “Don’t trust the signposts. Chances are you’ll pronounce them wrong.” He held his hand out. “Perhaps a proper greeting is in order,” he said. “Owen Carvour. MI6.” Curt reluctantly took his hand, tightening his grip as if to assert some kind of dominance after having his last remaining dignity stripped away in a matter of seconds.

“Curt,” he replied. “Curt Mega.” Owen snorted.

“God, how American.” Curt sipped his coffee, if only to stop himself from saying something he’d regret. “Well, enough of the chit chat, Curt Mega. We have work to do.” Owen stood up, and put a few coins on the table.

“Where are you going?” Asked Curt, his coffee cup still almost full.

“We are going someplace more private,” replied Owen. “Or did you forget that we’re part of the secret service?” Curt took one more gulp of coffee, drinking down as much as he could- burning his mouth in the process- and stood up to follow Owen.

“Your place or mine?” Owen said, and Curt couldn’t work out if it was rhetorical or not.

“Yours?” Owen looked him up and down.

“Better not. People know me. We’ll go back to yours.” It was Curt’s turn to scoff.

“If you say so, but fair warning. The place is a dump.”

“So is everything around here, we were in a war after all.”

“So were we.”

“Oh hardly. You came in forty five minutes before the war ended.” Owen opened the café door with a clink of the bell, and the two stepped out into the grey street, weak sunlight barely piercing through the sides of the surrounding buildings.

They barely talked on the way back to Curt’s hostel; Owen didn’t seem to mind. Curt was apparently so beneath him that ignoring him was as easy as ignoring a flea. Curt on the other hand was suddenly very aware of his movements, how his arms were swinging, how many steps he was taking. He didn’t want to walk faster than Owen, nor did he want to walk slower. But the middle ground meant that he inadvertently fell into step with his new partner, which just felt embarrassing. As if he was copying him or something.

God, Curt, what’s wrong with you? He was supposed to be leading Owen, but it was as if Owen was leading him. He didn’t like this imbalance of power one bit, so he reluctantly sped up his walk to ensure that he was in front of Owen, and not the other way around.

Bill looked at the two suspiciously when they finally returned, a clear question of ‘who’s this bloke?’ playing on his lips. Curt declined to explain himself; simply nodded in greeting and allowed Owen to follow him to his room.

“You know you’re supposed to tell the man that I’m a colleague from work, or here for a game of poker,” informed Owen, a low voice in Curt’s ear. “Saying nothing will make him suspicious-”

“Are you going to criticise everything I do?” Replied Curt, his voice louder and more abrupt as he became more and more irritated at Owen.

“If it fucks up our job, then yes. How are you supposed to learn otherwise?” He was so full of himself, and how? He barely looked older than Curt himself, he couldn’t have been in the force for that much longer. How was he so confident?

If Curt wasn’t such a proud man, he’d probably be able to admit that he was jealous in a way. Jealous that someone in the same position as him was so much better at their job. Cynthia would love Owen, and they didn’t even work for the same government.

But Curt was a proud man. So he settled for viewing Owen as nothing more than an arrogant bastard. And by now they had reached room 17, the worst room in London. Curt brought his key out and unlocked the door, pushing his weight against it since the door itself barely fit in its own frame.

“Huh. Quaint,” was Owen’s observation of the room. Sarcastic of course, but it could have been worse. The room was an absolute mess, every piece of furniture was rotten or broken, the wallpaper was damp, the curtains were covered in mould, and not even Curt could deny that the smell was overpowering, like a drunkard’s basket of dirty laundry. It wasn’t pleasant.

“Perhaps we should have gone back to mine after all.”

“I’m sorry about the smell, nothing works here and half of my stuff is back in America.”

“A spy without a change of clothes? You really are bad at this aren’t you? I’ll have to lend you some of mine.” Curt blinked at him.

“Really?” Owen raised a confirmatory eyebrow. “That’s a bit... personal isn’t it?”

“Bloody hell, Curt, there’s nothing personal about our job. If it makes you any more professional, which clearly is a tall order, then I have no choice.”

“Fine...” Curt replied through gritted teeth. “Thank you for the offer.” He sat down on the chair near the bathroom, the only piece of stable furniture in the room. As much as he didn’t want Owen sitting on his bed, with any luck the frame would break and Owen would finally have a taste of losing one’s own dignity. But alas, Owen declined sitting down altogether, and simply leant against the window frame.

“I won’t go through everything,” Owen began. “We’ll start afresh tomorrow. You need time to get to grips with the case. You do know what the case is don’t you?” Curt nodded, trying to remember what Cynthia had told him. Something about a mole in MI6 feeding information to the Russians. He didn’t know why he was involved though. Surely this was enough for the British secret service to handle.

“I have the necessary files inside my jacket. I’ll give them to you to peruse,” he pulled out a light brown folder from his jacket, and placed it on the tabletop beside him. “Try not to lose them.” Curt rolled his eyes.

“I’m not going to lose them.” He wasn’t that incompetent.

“If you say so. Read them over tonight, and we can report back tomorrow. The files contain a list of suspects. Do try and memorise them.” Curt reached over and picked up the file, opening it up and scanning the first page absent-mindedly. All he managed to take in were the photos of people’s faces, not yet bothering to even read their names.

“Where are we meeting tomorrow?” He asked, looking up from the file.

“Down by the station. It’s not far from here, but I’ve slipped a map into the file for you.” Curt turned the page, and as expected, a small, square map was slotted into the fold, with what was presumably the station circled in red pen. “We’ll meet outside, and maybe take a little wander. Better to talk on the move, but I suspect you already know that.” His tone of voice suggested a conviction that Curt did not, in fact, know that. Curt decided that a response wasn’t worth his time.

“Right. I’ll read the files.” Curt stood up, the chair creaking as he did so. Perhaps it wasn’t as stable as he first thought. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Take a shower. I’m not working with someone who smells like the inside of a pub.” And with that, Owen went to leave. “I’ll see you at ten tomorrow, old man.”

“Ten it is.” The door closed, catching on the frame, so Curt had to push it in fully once Owen had left. He sat back on his bed, the mattress sagging at an alarming rate. He was sure he could feel the floor underneath. He lay on his back, staring at the popcorn ceiling. He wanted a drink, but he thought against it. He was determined to prove that Owen bastard wrong. Show him- and Cynthia- that he wasn’t the idiot, drunken agent they though he was.

He was Agent Curt Mega. The greatest spy to ever live.

#spies are forever #spies are forever fanfiction #spies are forever prequel #curt mega x owen carvour #tin can bros #gentlemen of lies #agent curt mega #owen carvour #starkid

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Atfǫr (Ivar’s PoV)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Atfǫr: method, execution (law), attack (Old Norse)

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: Ivar’s perspective of what’s happening on Strepshire. Stretches over chapter 33 till 35-ish (chapter 35 picks up a lil bit after the end of this one)

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: Mentions and descriptions of death, war, and wounds.

A/N: Friendly reminder, so that you’re not caught off guard later, that in this universe Sigurd is alive, living in Bamburgh (Northumbria) married to Blaeja.

Long before Ragnar took him to England and Alfred taught Ivar to play chess, Ivar learned to play hnefa-tafl with Floki.

Ivar remembers, as if it were yesterday that he was spending time with him and not years since Floki had left them; how with the laugh that was uniquely his Floki would taunt him about his wrong moves, and when Ivar would get angry and refuse to play anymore, the boatbuilder would still set the pieces back on the board.

Sometimes it took days, sometimes it took hours, but Ivar always dragged himself back to that chair and called for Floki to join him for another match. Without fail, he was there, sitting across from him with that glint in his eye and taunting him to make his next move.

He remembers those days, and Helga’s quiet laugh as she passed by Floki, her hand over his back and her kohl-lined eyes on the board. And he remembers the first time he won was because of Helga.

It was some years before his father returned, and Ivar remembers the bubbling anger inside him at how Floki had managed to outsmart him for days on end when playing hnefa-tafl. He remembers Helga kneeling next to him so she could be on level with the table, and he remembers her hand over one of the pieces.

“Floki always gives up half of his defenders in the beginning,” She told him, a smile that, like all her smiles were, had a sadness to it. “Even he is predictable, Ivar. Everyone is.”

And she was right. Floki’s moves were predictable in hnefa-tafl, and Alfred’s moves were predictable in chess. And Stithulf’s moves are predictable in war.

And it is easy, at least for him, to see pieces on a board, even now.

It feels strangely reminiscent of the time they faced Aethelwulf, taunting the Saxons with only the presence of the army. It certainly feels the same to Ubbe, it seems, who by the third time they almost taunt Stithulf into attacking grunts a breath and tells him it is easy to do this all day when you’re sitting on a chariot, brother.

Still, they make enough time to let the few men they send inside settle and prepare the tunnels to wait for Stithulf, and when tomorrow comes they will make him face them while pretending not to know of the tunnels he will send his best through.

There’s familiarity in the way Ivar and Ubbe lay on the grass near the camp and overlook the city just like they did before York, only this time Hvitserk isn’t with them, only this time so many things have changed that it is almost as if they aren’t the same men.

“Hvitserk did good in finding about those tunnels.” Ubbe comments, and all Ivar offers in response is a grunt.

“They won’t be able to ambush us, but we still need to try to keep the Arabs inside that city,” He tells him, “Fighting them in open fields gives them a victory.”

“That is not something you’d have learned in Dublin.” His brother intones, and Ivar rolls his eyes, turning to lay on his back on the grass.

After a breath, Ubbe does the same, and they lay side by side looking up at the darkening skies.

“Of course I listen to her. Unlike you, I intend to keep my wife with me.”

He ignores the jab at him, only sighs.

After a few breaths of silence, his brother asks, “How is she, by the way? I haven’t seen her in…months?”

“Weeks.”

“Still.”

“She’s…” Ivar shrugs, and at the lack of words offers, “She threatened me to keep me from reaching Valhalla for as long as she has breath if I don’t return.”

Ubbe laughs, but still asks, “Do you think she can do that?”

“I don’t intend to find out.” He sentences, before sitting up and grabbing his bound legs to move them behind him and crawl back to camp.

At his back, Ubbe clears his throat.

“I am happy for you. Proud of you,” His brother tells him. Ivar stays silent, he doesn’t really know what to say to that. Ubbe chuckles, “You…you chose well, Ivar.”

“Better than you, certainly.” He taunts, but his smile is something less cutting than it should be, less mocking than he intended, as he returns to camp.

Late that night, when the few men they sent ahead have already set up within Strepshire, when the tunnels Hvitserk learned about are already theirs and await the Saxons’ ambush through them; Ivar lingers by the map of the city and its surroundings that his brother managed to find before he was to leave Kattegat.

He hears the steps he knows by memory now, and doesn’t turn to acknowledge Ubbe as he walks in. The older man takes a seat nearby, a horn of mead in his hand.

“There’s enough of an opening by now. We can send our men in during the night, wait within the walls.” Ubbe offers, but Ivar doesn’t hesitate to shake his head.

“You have to be careful, Ivar,” Floki tells him, holding the piece he took like a trophy between them. He narrows his eyes, but the man continues, “The fort will hurt you -and me- once the game starts. You can easily be trapped and cornered inside the walls.”

“No, we fight on open fields. The Arabs are going to be in those tunnels, we can take care of the Saxons outside the walls.” He orders, and for once Ubbe doesn’t argue.

“If those mercenaries join him outside the walls…”

“We will know. They stick out.” Ivar tells him, the conversation so similar to how they planned to defend Dublin from those foreigners of strange weapons and stranger tactics.

“I will take the flank. They will count on them to unbalance us, right? Well, I have fought them before, I can lead my men against them.”

Ivar doesn’t take his eyes off the map, but he does betray a mocking smile,

“Look at you, brother, taking advice from a Greek witch.”

Ubbe lets out a huff of laughter, and it is in that small moment of quiet, in that small and private moment past all the pride and the jealousy, that Ivar admits, only to himself of course, that he has missed his brother, missed what he thought lost when he almost killed Sigurd.

____

Ubbe pushed his men to cover the opening in the city’s walls, keeping the Arab mercenaries trapped inside and at the mercy of the long and thin streets, easily ambushed with each wave they send in.

And on the open fields outside Strepshire, the Saxon army takes heavy losses, and Ivar watches raptly as the armies clash. Pieces on a board, but so much more entertaining to watch.

He sees the commander call for retreat across half a battlefield.

Alfred’s eyes lift to meet his for barely a moment, and he retreats his hand from hovering over the knight and grabs his King, moving him away and closer to the Queen. And Ivar doesn’t know much of this game the Saxons play yet, but he knows when the most important piece retreats, he has won. It is only a matter of time now.

Ivar knows it is Stithulf. He would recognize the man anywhere. Both his death and his life haunt Ivar more than he would ever admit.

It is the man that threatened his kingdom, the man that tried killing him and his brothers, the man that his wife vowed revenge against. More than almost anything, he wants him dead.

Yet he is also the man that, just by breathing, keeps you with him.

The Saxon lives in a state between dead and alive as much as you do, as much as Ivar does, it seems.

“I want that one,” He tells his men, eyes on the Christian that at the sound of his voice turns to meet his eyes. Ivar smiles, his voice a hoarse yell when he orders, “And I want him alive!”

And something familiar shines in the Saxon’s eyes. Fear.

And Ivar wonders who it is Stithulf fears, truly. If it is him, or you.

And it fills Ivar with a strange sort of thrill, to imagine that his wife, the woman that looks at him -and only him- with softness and warmth and what he could fool himself into believing is love, is the woman that across a sea, with nothing but the implication of her wrath, manages to make a man like Stithulf fear.

You’re smiling down at him, a smile that reminds him of that first time he saw you, of blood dripping down your lips and the war cry of a Valkyrie, “What a pair we make, then. The Viking King and the Greek witch.”

They don’t need Stithulf to retreat, and he signals his men to let them go and cower. They will strike again soon, and even if they can get far enough, they will meet again.

Now settled comfortable inside the city, Ivar walks the narrow streets, still littered with injured or dead men, towards the dilapidated building where he was told they kept Stithulf, trying to ignore the building pain in his legs at forcing himself to wear the braces for too long now.

They keep Stithulf in a darkened room, hands and legs bound with rope and arms tied to a wooden pillar at his back. Ivar takes a seat in front of him, toying with the crutch as he observes the older man.

He hadn’t noticed, though he realizes now he should have guessed, that Stithulf was not only scarred by his last encounter with you, but blinded. His eye is white and unseeing, surrounded by still-pink scar tissue.

Ivar leans closer to the Saxon, who keeps a defiant eye on his.

“That plan of yours, how is it going?”

“I’m not Bishop Heahmund, I won’t entertain your ramblings, heathen.”

That does make him smile. The fool thinks he gives nothing away by offering resistance, when he actually shows his hand more than he ever could with an open stance.

Ivar leans back with a downward curve of his mouth, “I am willing to entertain yours. So, tell me, why do all this?” He motions with his free hand all around him, “You had to know you’d lose.”

“Why did you and your brothers gather your Great Army and marched on England? Why did your wife vow to take my soul with her to her Hell?”

“Revenge? Not very Christian of you.”

“The seat of power of my home is occupied by Vikings, the last of my King’s blood was abducted by a son of Ragnar,” Stithulf’s eyes hold a certainty, a fire, that almost surprises Ivar. “Revenge is all I have left.”

“Bamburgh is not occupied, it is legally my brother’s. And your princess’ marriage to Sigurd was the work of Ecbert, no…abduction.”

The Christian laughs bitterly, mocking, “Ah, and your wife is willingly staying by your side? Tell yourself all the lies you wish, heathen, we both know the tale is other.”

“And what is this tale?”

“That none of you beasts, you…sons of Ragnar, can hold on to anything. Not land, not love, not each other.”

But you do not care to be called a beast, a monster, do you? One such as you knows better than to expect love, I suppose.

The anger starts in his chest, an old blend of too many things that it is easier to name wrath, and Ivar feels his nose furrow in a snarl, his teeth gritting together.

With the anger comes the restlessness, the need to make the pain and the anger take form, the desire to hurt back.

And he gathers, out of all the things you’ve forgiven, you could certainly forgive him for killing Stithulf instead of bringing him to you alive, couldn’t you?

For a few moments he lingers on it, he lets himself be lulled by the siren song of silencing the iron-willed Saxon once and for all. To silence his voice and all the others that agree with him.

But your voice is clear in his head as if it were being spoken by you again, as if you were sitting across from him and looking into his eyes and whispering, while he still lives, I have reasons to stay here.

And he stays frozen, lingering on the realization that bound and helpless lies the man that he promised you as a gift, that the one thing keeping you in Kattegat could be dead soon, that the promise could be fulfilled and you could be gone before winter is over. And so Ivar stays there, frozen for too long trying to think of all the possible outcomes, as if this were but yet another battle, but finding himself unable to think of anything other than a life without you in it.

Gone is the woman that had an axe to her neck and still asked if she should be impressed, and pleading eyes search his, “You cannot do this, you cannot expect me to-…don’t put chains on me.”

The answer was always there, wasn’t it? Even if you say you can’t choose, the choice has already been made.

You turn to face him, steeled resolve shining in your gaze, arrogance in your posture, “You won’t be the first man to try to chain me. My very blood makes me belong to them. Athens, and Sparta, Greece; it’ll summon me to return sooner or later.”

It was never even a choice, was it? You were always going to belong to them, you were always going to love and need and choose them.

A deep breath, and you meet your gaze, a resigned sort of strength making you give him your answer, that is as unwavering as your voice, “I would leave.”

He stays frozen, for so long it seems, that even Stithulf grows bored of the silence.

“I assume you’ll be taking me with you to your home?”

“It won’t do you any good to assume anything.” Ivar tells him, curving his mouth downwards in a nonchalant grimace, trying to dispel the thoughts from his head, trying to focus on the present.

The older man only keeps his eyes on the nothingness ahead, as if he can see a ghost in his mind’s eye.

A ghost that with a knife in her hand and his neck within reach chose to scar him, a ghost that with a smile talked in a foreign tongue and promised him suffering and death.

“She made you promise her my head, didn’t she? And you agreed,” Stithulf chuckles, and he almost sounds proud, “Too smart for her own good, that witch. And too beautiful for ours.”

Ivar doesn’t bother hiding his disgust, toys with the idea of blinding Stithulf’s remaining eye. What was that story you told him? Walk the Underworld blind, deaf, and dumb, so that all the dead know…

Instead, he mocks, “Are you going to sit there and talk about my wife?”

“Well, I am sitting here with nowhere to go, and you aren’t talking about anything.”

“I thought you weren’t to entertain my ramblings.”

Stithulf only shrugs as well as he can with bound arms, keeping his one good eye on Ivar.

“Plans change.”

“Ah, like your plans involving your Bishop. You sent him to die to Kattegat’s border.” Ivar tells him, eyeing him from the corner of his eye as he pours himself a drink.

“Leofric? It was his choice, a choice he made once he was no longer needed. He is-…” Stithulf stops himself, considering his choice of words, and looks at Ivar inquisitively. All he offers in response is a small smile and the lift of his eyebrows over the rim of his cup. The Saxon amends, “…was a man of God, he lived by Christian teachings, he died for the Lord and so he shall be-…”

Ivar decides to ignore the rest of his words, rolling his eyes and letting his head follow the movement. For a man that claims to not be anything like Heahmund, Stithulf seems to love the sound of his own voice as much as the other man did.

But there were things Leofric said before dying that Ivar still needs answers to.

“Your Bishop, he said something about dead men breathing.” Ivar interrupts, eyeing Stithulf carefully, looking for any give in his expression.

The Saxon only stares at him, impassively, “Are you one to fear ghosts, heathen?”

He looks into his eyes, both blinded and piercing, and he doesn’t see a man. But he doesn’t see a piece on a board.

He sees a dying fire, he sees a choked flame, he sees an ending. He sees the last flickering light that’s keeping Ivar from the darkness.

And he cannot let it go out, not yet.

Even though Ivar will deny it until Valhalla calls to him, it is infuriatingly easy for you to get him to grant you whatever you wish.

You need only look at him and offer a soft and secret smile, or a touch of your hand on his arm, or a whisper of his name, and he is pathetically gone, ready to grant you whatever it will be that could keep you happy, safe.

You asked him without words to know where the place you were in was located on a map, long before he knew your name, in some old hut in Aneridge. And as if the Gods themselves moved his hand, he pointed to the location of the small town, growing a little warm at the sight of the softness in grateful eyes that looked up at him.

You ask silently for his attention with your chin resting on his shoulder, with your fingers skimming over his arm, with your hand on his. And, lovesick fool he is, he answers each of those summonses without thinking twice about it; turning to you and meeting your gaze.

And he likes to think -no, no, he knows, because he knows you, because…he knows- that in the last kiss you shared while it was still just the two of you, before the people set watchful eyes on you and the titles laid heavy on your heads; you asked him for the same thing he asks the Gods: for more time.

And so he leans forward, holding onto a knife, one of a set of five of which one still is kept safe by you.

Ivar’s eyes look into Stithulf’s grey one, and he watches the Christian squirm and groan as he retraces with the knife the scar you gave him, drawing blood and pain.

As he restarts the count, he breathes life to the dying embers.

“Run,” He tells him, the next movement of the bloodied knife cutting the rope that binds Stithulf’s legs, but not the one on his wrists. “We will meet again.”

And when the sun rises and the men wake up, they will hear him demand to know where the Christian has gone to, maybe they will even see him punish some undeserving fool.

And he will ignore Ubbe’s knowing stare, and he will set sail home and lie through his teeth, and live in this borrowed time a while longer.

Just this winter. Just one winter with you, and he’ll readily face spring and whatever it brings then.

____

Ivar never really saw love. Or experienced it. He doesn’t really know what it is like to love, or be loved, other than his mother, and Floki, maybe.

But he never witnessed it either, and that’s what he dwells on as the ships approach the docks. For a lifetime of watching, of being witness to how other men achieved the things he once believed he never could achieve himself; Ivar never really saw love.

His father was never there, and even when he was, it wasn’t love what kept him and Aslaug married. It was a quiet respect, a strange rivalry kept at bay by something other than themselves.

He hasn’t seen Sigurd in years, but even before it all fell apart, Ivar knew it wasn’t love what he and Blaeja had. It was companionship, a blend of resignation and relief at how out of all the possible outcomes, they happened to be bound to one another.

Floki did love Helga, he knows that, and he knows Helga loved him. But it was so drowned by the quiet sorrow, the way Helga would look at Floki, and it was so jarringly painful, the way Floki would look at his wife.

And Ivar still remembers the edge in that Greek’s voice as he called your name, he still remembers the look in your face as he died in your arms. But in quiet nights you’ve told him that was never love, that was illusion and guilt.

So, he doesn’t really know what love looks like, or what it is.

He doesn’t really know if the way your eyes have a strange shine to them and you smile despite yourself as you meet his gaze from the docks is love.

But he wants it to be.

And he understands the poor fool that believed every lie you told him, including that you loved him. Because you do not need speak a word other than his name, and Ivar is willing to close his eyes and pretend what you said were words of love.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, and grow angry at himself for still craving useless things, like softness, like love.

You are standing in front of him, wide smile and the faint shine of tears in your eyes, and he realizes in the quiet that you bring that he has had this small voice whispering that it would all turn out to be a mirage all this time.

Because this is real, because this is his; Ivar’s hand is certain on the back of your head, and he brings you to him and claims your mouth.

There’s a soft sound against his lips that sends a thrill of warmth down his spine, and your hands are warm against him as your mouth moves against his own, as you surrender to his kiss.

In the warmth you bring he realizes there truly was a part of him that believed that when he returned everything that had changed before he left would turn out to be nothing but a dream.

Your hands are on his chest, and your eyes focus on them for a few moments before you lift your gaze up to him.

“I missed you, Ivar.” You tell him, quietly, easily. You say it in a breath, as if it is simple. And it is simple, he gathers, though it doesn’t feel like simple in the way his chest pulls tight at the words.

He leans down and kisses you again, seals those words against his own lips, finds a way to make the promise they whisper more than words. And he kisses you -or you kiss him, he doesn’t think he minds the difference- until your lips are bearing the mark of him, and your breaths are labored.

You blink, dazedly, as if awakening from a dream, and it feels Ivar with pride to be able to disarm you, at least partly.

“How many…how many injured?” You ask, for the first time looking around you, “Your brother, is he…?”

“He’s well,” He tells you, and searches your eyes before adding, “Stithulf still lives.”

And Ivar may not know what love looks like, but he does know what relief looks like. And that surely shines in your eyes at his words.

____ ____ ____

Hope you liked it, thank you so much for reading!!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax @pieces-by-me @angelofthorr @samsationalwilson @peachyboneless @1950schick @punkrocknpearls @ietss   @itsmysticalmystery @revolution-starter @chibisgotovalhalla @the-a-word-2214 @fae-sedai​ @crazybunnyladysworld   @funmadnessandbadassvikings (won’t met me tag you bb)  

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar #νοσταλγία masterlist

[darlingandmreames]

Here I am once again enabling your writing and being as selfish about it as every other time because is it really enabling if it’s done out or self indulgence??? ANYWAYS— dream husbands + (not so) fake marriage:

I have almost definitely said it before but by god I will say it again: the funniest possible way to do the whole “fake marriage” trope would be like two people getting married so they can invoke the spousal privilege that lets them refuse to testify against one another in court. a couple of mobsters sweating bullets in a vegas wedding chapel so they aren’t compelled to rat on each other when the next heist inevitably goes sour

I am absolutely in love with this concept and it’s 100% A Thing now asjdsfks You’re the best enabler a local trash goblin could ever dream of ^-^ so this 100% deserves a long fic full of mutual pining and the two of them being idiots and it’s definitely going to get one because I have zero self control, but here’s a short snippet about how it all started.......

*******************************************************************************************

Arthur leaned his head back against the cinder block wall with a frustrated sigh. This was bad. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d ended up in police custody, but it was the first time he’d ended up in custody with actual decent evidence against him. Maybe even a prosecutable case. If he could get out he could maybe disappear- he’d gotten very good at that over the years- but he couldn’t make bail without accessing…less than legal funds, which would be more than enough for them to remand him. But if he couldn’t make bail, he’d be stuck in custody until court, and that would complicate things. And if this went to court, he wasn’t getting out of it. Not easily at least. He just hoped Eames had managed to get away without being caught; he knew Cobb had but he wasn’t so sure about Eames. Things would get even more complicated if they were both in custody. The sort of complicated that could get them both put away for a couple of decades if they weren’t careful.

He and Cobb hadn’t even supposed to end up in the states to begin with. Cobb was still very much a wanted man here, so it simply wasn’t an option. Canada was certainly a risk- the physical proximity and ease of extradition made Arthur nervous- but it had been a good sounding job. Easy sounding, with a good payout. It’d gone south though, both figuratively and literally, and when they’d found themselves in Chicago Arthur had scrambled for a way to get Cobb back out of the country undetected. Eames had thankfully been finishing up a job in the area and offered to help with documentation, but not before the authorities had caught wind of the situation. Cobb had thankfully managed to get out before the raid, but Arthur hadn’t quite been so lucky. The charges he’d been arrested on certainly hadn’t been the worst they could’ve been- mainly aiding and abetting, accessory, and fraud- but they weren’t great either. And unless he managed to somehow get out of this cell, he’d likely be facing time for them.

He was, quite simply, fucked.

“Come on.” The sound of the cell door being unlocked pulled Arthur from his thoughts. “You’ve made bail.”

He looked over, surprised. “I…did?”

“Yep. Your husband put it up.” The officer stared at him with a bored expression. “Now come on. Unless you’d rather stay.”

Husband? Arthur couldn’t fathom who the officer could’ve possibly been referring to, but he kept his expression neutral as he stood up and walked out of the cell into the hallway. He was certainly confused but he wasn’t an idiot; this wasn’t the time to look a gift horse in the mouth by asking questions. If it got him out of jail for the moment, he could work with it. He’d figure out the details later.

He stopped dead in his tracks as he walked into the jail lobby. Of all the people he thought he might’ve seen waiting for him, he certainly hadn’t expected it to be fucking Eames. There he was though, leaning against the lockers as casually as could be. He flashed a warm smile as he caught sight of Arthur and Arthur nodded slowly in return, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Bailing Arthur out put Eames at significant risk; Arthur knew full well he had several active warrants in the states. Unless he’d already been caught as well. But if that was the case, the most sensible thing for him to do was disappear, not get Arthur out of jail by pretending to be his fucking husband, which brought up a whole other set of questions on its own.

The officer behind the window slid him a bag filled with the belongings he’d had on him when he was arrested: wallet, keys, belt, notebook, three pens. No passport though. He frowned slightly at that; it wasn’t surprising, but it was annoying. He was going to have to use a different one to get out of the country anyways, but it would’ve been far easier if he’d had the original one as well. He sighed and collected his belongings, only half listening as the officer ran through the expectations for him while he was out on bail before walking over to where Eames was waiting by the door.

Eames leaned in and pulled Arthur into a quick hug, startling him. “Good to see you, darling. Glad I was able to get you out.”

“Right. Yes.” Arthur tried not to let his rapidly growing confusion show as Eames slipped his arm around his waist. “Good to…good to see you too.” He followed Eames out of the building, blinking in the sudden sunlight. They walked like that for several blocks, keeping up the appearance of whatever the fuck sort of cover Eames had gone with. It wasn’t until Arthur was confident that they were far enough away from the jail that they were likely only being watched from afar that he stopped, pulling away and finally letting his internal bewilderment creep into his expression. “Eames, what the fuck was that?”

“That was me getting you out of jail, darling, try to be at least a little appreciative. Though I’m sure I could return you if that’s what you’d prefer.”

Arthur stared at him. “What are you even still doing here?”

Eames grimaced, running a hand through his hair. “I got picked up too. They didn’t have quite enough to keep me in custody, but they managed to freeze most of my accounts and I’m pretty sure they have me under pretty close surveillance, so getting out of town is a tad difficult at the moment. Besides,” he shrugged, “I figured someone had to get you out of jail. And with Cobb jumping ship, that left me.”

“So you claimed to be my fucking husband?”

“Listen, I was just thinking ahead. We’re both stuck in this, at least for now, so I figured I’d get us some protection in case this got to court before we could get out of it.” He quirked an eyebrow. “They can’t make us testify against each other if we’re married. Spousal privilege and all. One of the few things you Americans do right.”

“Yes, thank you Eames, wonderful idea.” Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to wrap his mind around what Eames was telling him. He could already feel a migraine starting from the stress. This had already been an absolute fucking mess and Eames’ little ploy had just made it ten times worse. “Except for the fact that are aren’t actually married, which I’m sure will make us look great once the investigators find-”

“Yes we are.”

Arthur’s thoughts screeched to a halt and he looked up in confusion. “We’re what?”

“We’re married.”

He stared at Eames, dumbfounded. Was this what having a stroke felt like? Because that was clearly what he was having right now. “Eames, we’re not married.”

“Well, not technically, no. But I have all the necessary paperwork to argue to the contrary.” Eames shrugged. “I mean, it’s all forged of course, but as far as the US government is aware, you and I were legally married three years ago in England.” He gave Arthur an unimpressed look. “I know you don’t think highly of me, love, but you should at least give me enough credit to know I wouldn’t try pulling something like this off without the necessary paperwork backing it up.”

“Eames, we’re not married.”

“You and I know that but according to the authorities we are, so let’s try to keep it that way, yes? It’ll be better for both of us if we do.” Arthur continued to stare at Eames, trying desperately to think of something, anything, to say but drawing a blank instead. After a moment, Eames’ expression shifted to amusement. “Close your mouth, darling, or you’ll catch flies.”

Arthur snapped his mouth shut, pinching the bridge of his nose again. The beginnings of his headache came rushing back full force and he groaned. “I really hate you sometimes, you know that?”

Eames frowned. “Well that’s not a very nice way to talk to your very loving husband who just bailed you out of jail.”

“Eames, I swear to god…”

“Alright, alright, calm down, don’t have an aneurysm. Hopefully we’ll be able to get out of all of this before we really have to play that up. In the meantime, though,” Eames gave Arthur a somewhat sheepish smile, “I’m hoping you have a place here in Chicago, because I don’t and it might look a bit odd if we’re staying in separate hotels.”

Arthur sighed. “Yeah, I know a place.” It was technically one of Cobb’s apartments, but it would work well enough for them. It certainly wasn’t like Cobb was currently using it. He set off down the sidewalk. “I can’t believe you got us into this.”

“Technically it was Cobb who got us both into this lovely situation, darling, not me. I’m just trying to keep us both out of prison.”

Arthur groaned again. Christ, this was going to be a fucking mess.

#arthur x eames #arthur/eames #dream husbands #dreamhusbands #inception #arthur #eames #fake marriage au #it already has its own tag because I already know it's going to be A Thing asdjgfsjdk #asks #dbakeiro #prompts #local trash goblin writes stuff

[unsteals-archived]

𝚒𝚗  𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑  𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚊  𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜  𝚊𝚗  𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚛;

the very short version of this is that @ofmalice​ and i plotted & are still plotting a verse in which mal chooses layla to enact her purpose in the world, granting her abilities that allow her to continue her work of rehoming stolen antiquities on a much larger scale. she calls herself the crescent. much longer, more detailed version under the cut.

𝚑𝚘𝚠  𝚍𝚒𝚍  𝚒𝚝  𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗 ?

layla was tracking a set of canopic jars stolen from egypt in the early 20th century. she’d found the name of the british archaeologist that had taken them, and traced him back to two separate properties: one in england, one in northern ireland. when she got to the first estate, she discovered that almost none of the artifacts this particular man had “collected” were on display. apparently, paranoid as the wealth of the land-owning nobility was severely threatened during the uproar of a quickly changing world, the lord had chosen to stash what he considered his most valuable pieces. no one seemed to know where. undeterred, layla decided to do some digging. 

within the boundaries of the lord’s property in northern ireland were the old ruins of a medieval monastery. the village nearby harbored a local legend about it. supposedly, there was treasure buried somewhere within, guarded by an ancient spirit - possibly even a fairy. interestingly, though the locals would claim the legend had been circulating since the monastery’s disuse in the 15th century, the earliest record layla could find about it was an article published in 1957 about a paranormal encounter inside the monastery. it’s interesting how experiences become hearsay, and how hearsay can be mistaken for legend. layla decides she’s found her artifacts and she goes looking in the ruins of the monastery. unfortunately for her, she’s not the only one.

treasure hunting has become lucrative in the last century, and the trend doesn’t appear to by dying. looted antiquities aren’t tracked down solely for the purpose of returning them to where they truly belong; oftentimes they’re recovered, only to be sold off again. layla is joined in the ruins of the monastery by a group with strong ties to the blood antiquities trade, and they’re uninterested in letting her leave, even without the jars. it’s a fight for her life, and it’s a fight to finish the job; it’s a fight she almost loses. but when she throws her hand up to shield herself, when she blindly calls out for help, something answers.

mal intervenes and saves layla’s life... albeit by killing the ones that had been about to kill her. somehow she knows exactly what layla has come for and takes her to the exact spot the monastery’s “treasure” is buried. and then, she’s gone. layla collects her artifacts and, after a miniature crisis about what to do next, she decides to move on with her life and try to put this experience behind her. but mal decides to make her presence known in layla’s life regardless. it starts small, with fleeting glimpses out of the corner of her eye and a sense of occasionally not being alone. it starts with a little luck, with avoiding tunnel collapses by only seconds or choosing the right door to open. 

this all eventually culminates in a true, face to face meeting, where layla is offered a choice. continued on with her life, undisturbed, or enact mal’s purpose in the world by doing much the same as she already is... but with a little supernatural help. layla weighs the decision carefully. she’s not being asked for hardly anything at all, but she’s being given the chance to reall make a difference. in the end, it’s not that hard of a call to make.

𝚐𝚘𝚍𝚜  𝚊𝚗𝚍  𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜 ?

while layla acknowledges that mal is an entity of some kind, and would certainly be thought of as a god by some, she doesn’t completely think of her as a god. 

as mentioned in her doc, she is in a strange place religiously. she was raised muslim. her family was not very regimented or orthodox, for lack of better terms, and her immersion in ancient egyptian history was also an immersion in ancient egyptian belief. if she really sat down and thought it through, she might call herself agnostic, but she doesn’t sit down and think about it much. no matter what, the belief system she was raised with and surrounded by is going to play a substantial impact on her life, and not even mal’s existence can shake that off. layla is also somewhat uncomfortable referring to mal as a god because of her roots, especially considering mal being linked so strongly to the british isles. 

the term “avatar” as it’s used in the context of moon knight is another thing. it’s a concept borrowed from hinduism. it finds parallels in several other world religions that may or may not have their own word for it. essentially, in hinduism, an avatar is the material manifestation of a deity. the concept appears to have developed around and after the sixth century ce. the world incarnation has also been applied but there is some debate about the accuracy of the term, particularly in regards to the world’s understanding of what avatar actually is in hinduism. layla is not an incarnation of mal, and she’s only referred to as an avatar here to make it understood that she’s in a similar situation as marc is with khonshu. she is a mortal through whose actions mal’s purpose is affected on the world, and who has received gifts from mal in the form of abilities and physical objects. 

in ancient egyptian mythology, maat is the ‘fundamental order of the universe’ and there are some mortals who are considered to have been maintainers of maat. most prominently and most importantly would have been the pharaoh; there is some disagreement about whether the pharaoh was traditionally considered to be the incarnation of a deity or the son of a deity, but there was definitely a divine link. the pharaoh would have been considered a representative of the gods. layla can certainly understand her connection to mal, and her work of restoring stolen heritage to its rightful place, in an extremely loosely tangential context to this. mal’s purpose, in its simplest form, is reconciliation. layla genuinely hopes to reconcile egypt’s past with its present, to reconcile the field of archaeology as she loves it with its early and damaging past, to reconcile with marc... it’s a pretty big theme. mal has also been a patron for those who fight, and layla fights tooth and nail for what she believes in. she’s scrappy. she never gives up. 

𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 :

as previously mentioned, layla has been given gifts in the form of abilities and physical objects in exchange for her bond with mal. 

the first ability that she’s granted is the gift of foresight. it starts with gut feelings that give her a few seconds’ warning about things, but develops into strong sensations and dreams that she is able to navigate treacherous times with. the second ability that she’s granted is the gift of elemental manipulation, in its most basic form. layla has some influence over the four elements  ( as western people see them ) : air, water, fire, and earth. it takes an enormous amount of concentration and energy - and a lot of practice - for her to effectively use this ability. 

the first material gift she’s given is a cloak. the fabric is dyed a shade of maroon, quite muted; it’s not an eye catching garment. it wraps around her shoulders in a style reminiscent of the examples of shawls and capes in ancient egyptian fashion, and is pinned at the right shoulder with a golden brooch in the shape of a jackal’s tooth. layla identifies mal with the jackal, and she sometimes identifies the field of archaeology with the jackal. when the hood of the cloak is raised, it renders her unnoticed. the eye will dance over her without recognizing there’s anyone there that shouldn’t be. 

the second material gift she’s given are weapons, which she dual wields. they were created by mal from the broken, aged handles of two khopesh blades. the khopesh is a sickle-shaped sword that evolved from battle axes, and it is typically about 20 to 24 inches long, with both smaller and larger examples existing. the pair layla wields is smaller  ( i’ve yet to decide how much smaller ). mal restores the handles and forges new blades, which seem to hum with energy and can be summoned with a flick of the wrist. in fact, flicking her wrist to bring out the blades & vanish them becomes a restless habit when she’s thinking. 

&&  that’s the verse as it stands so far. layla continues her work, but with her eyes on much, much bigger targets. 

#🌙 crescent ›› PROMISES MADE UNDER THE RADIANT MOON. #religion // #ask to tag // #( WOW this is really long............ #and i still have a lot of work to do #as always please don't be afraid to offer constructive criticism !! )

[starman-john-tracy]

mmmmSKSKSKSKSK I sent this to the wrong blog but,,,for the prompt list thingy you reblogged, misc 13 with 2 characters you want

(I HOPE TO JESUS IT'S YOU WHO REBLOGGED IT THIS TIME)

“I’m worried about you.” [From this Ask meme]

The best response John can manage, at that precise moment, is a vague, dismissive flick of his fingers as he swipes his older brother’s hologram off of his screens, ending the call.

He’s busy, damn it, Scott.

Alan and Kayo have taken Thunderbird Three out to an asteroid between Mars and Jupiter to help a returning deep-space shuttle with engine failure and Alan’s got twelve minutes of air left in his tank, blood-red holograms ticking the numbers down at the corner of John’s vision. Thunderbird One’s been deployed to the Alps in the sub-zero temperatures of a snowstorm following reports from the family of a missing skier, and John could really have done with all the little comments about their Mom that Scott had decided it was a good time to slip in amongst receiving his instructions, probably in an attempt to keep it together himself. To crown it all, Gordon’s in the middle of a risky deep dive with Thunderbird Four in one of the darkest parts of the Atlantic Ocean, trying to find a missing ocean surveyor, with Two coasting overhead despite the fact there’s not much Virgil can do but clutter John’s airways with his worries. Penny’s apparently in the middle of some kind of bank heist in England, and so can’t take FAB1 to help. John, in an almost Scott-like fit of insanity, is almost itching for The Hood to turn up, just because he wouldn’t mind the opportunity to hit something very hard with the mooring claw…

It’s been like this for a week solid. John’s not slept in thirty-two hours and colours are desperately trying their best to become audible. His mouth tastes stale with jumbled numerical readings and directions and what-his-brothers-need-to-do-nexts. 

The astronaut takes a deep, ragged breath and rips his hands from the blue glow of his holographic array. He rubs the textured blue fabric of his fingertips hard against gritty eyes, trying to force away the tired moisture that’s gathering determinedly there from trying not to yawn.

This should all be routine by now. He’s got a schedule. A delicate balance of exhaustion and focus. John knows his body’s limits and how to push himself past them - swaddling himself in a cocoon woven of holograms and the loud, urgent voices of people who need his help until he’s lightheaded from the brightness and downing enough caffeine to make his hands shake is the only thing keeping him going.

It’s not a good system, but it works.

Well, sort of works.

John scrubs at his eyes harder, pushing against his closed lids until phosphenes bloom fractal galaxies across the darkness from the pressure. He’s so tired but there’s no way he's gonna be able to sleep this one off. Not with everything going on all around him right now. 

Not until these people are sa…

“John.” Fantastic. Scott’s back. Calling on his wrist Comm this time, and big brother doesn’t exactly sound pleased about being hung up on. John thinks better of ignoring him twice, though he rolls his eyes about it. “You’ve been running Comms for three days straight now, you need to take a break.”

“I’m fine, Scott.” John’s mouth shapes the words even though he feels anything but. He has to be fine. “I’m just doing my job. Go get on with yours. And fly a little lower, the wind speed’s up.” The holograms had started swimming alarmingly over two hours ago, most of their words blurring beyond legibility, but John knows what the warning orange blob and its proximity to the logo of Thunderbird One means regardless. Focusing is getting harder and harder and that’s probably dangerous because what if he slips up, what if he gives one of his brothers the wrong instructions and something bad happens, what if...

John really wants a coffee. Another coffee. That’s probably a bad sign in itself because John, ninety-nine per cent of the time, doesn’t drink coffee. Certainly not like his brother’s do. Thunderbird Five’s got a massive range of teas vacuum packed in little silver packets, mostly courtesy of the Lady Penelope, because John far prefers it, but there is a sturdy metal tin of strong, Indian coffee in the galley, waiting ominously for him like a red break glass in case of emergency box.

John’s been choking down up to three mugs of the stuff, black and thick as tar, spiked with crushed caffeine pills, every other hour, in an attempt to keep himself with it enough to do his damn job.

The system works.

He grinds the heel of his palm against his forehead, trying futilely to prevent his pounding headache from getting any worse. He thinks there’s a bottle of painkillers in the first aid kit, Brains’ good ones, and mixed with another mug of caffeine John reckons that should get him through the rest of today even though he’s hungry and exhausted, and all his muscles have a dangerous, creeping ache that warns of atrophy, of too much time spent in Zero G. John just knows his whole body is going to kill the minute he relaxes, and that, if the constant chatter of the globe weren’t enough, makes taking even a little break just not an option. He ignores it all like a pro, slipping out of the segment of Five’s ring with the globe in, and drifting toward the galley, his fingers uncoordinated and clumsy on the handrails.

Coffee. Black. Two capsules of painkiller and another of caffeine, crushed into a powder with his fingers and dumped in.

He snatches up the plastic cup of coffee and heads back toward his globe, lifting the cup to his lips.

“John,” Scott says in his ear. “You can’t seriously be going to drink that…?”

John does, in fact, drink that. He knocks back the boiling beverage so quickly he doesn’t even need to swallow and chases the scald down with another cold cup of coffee that’s been left on his countertop from who-knows-when in the past three days. It’s gritty in the bottom from the drugs. John swallows hard at the acrid taste, coughs, and shakes out his shoulders.

“Alright,” John manages, suppressing the urge to throw it back up. “I’m good.”

Scott just blinks at him like he’s clearly a moron. Which, John thinks, is a bit rude when he’s the one with two PHDs.

“How long has that mug been there?” Scott asks, gaping slightly. It’s not at all like John to leave liquids out in the open, and especially not in space. “John, it had a layer of mould floating on it.” Not like him at all.

“Yeah,” John offers him, with a weak, crooked smile that doesn’t make sense on his face. “Penicillin. Adjust your tail flaps thirty degrees, you’re coasting too low. You need to compensate for the way the wind’s being channelled between the rocks.”

“John,” Scott’s voice comes back dangerously low, “John, when did you last have a proper break?” John’s head throbs and he’s saved from trying to work out any kind of reply to that because Gordon takes the opportunity to check-in. It doesn’t matter that John’s vision is blurring, as long as he can hear his little brother just fine. 

Crackling static buzzes in the spaceman’s ears long after Gordon clicks off again.

The newest shot of caffeine is slowly starting to soothe his frayed nerves, though everything’s a bit… hazy, if he’s honest.

“John!” Oh, Scott’s still here, huh. “Ok, little brother,” The elder of them puffs his chest out and folds his arms, but John’s not paying enough attention to his hologram to notice. “If you string yourself out much longer, I’m going to put you on medical leave until you die, alright? Nothing can stop me.”

“I don’t need med leave!” John exhales all of the air in his paper-bag lungs at once. “I’m fine and I’m doing a damn good job monitoring everything! I never take sick days…”

“You never take vacation days, either.” Scott cuts pointedly across him.

“Irrelevant.” John dismisses him again, flicking the point away like it’s a hologram he’s done with, “I’m just doing my job. If you want to come down on me for working hard, then you’re the one with the issue here.”

“You’re going to kill yourself,” Scott growls. “Your exhaustion and carelessness puts everyone who works under you at risk and I don’t know what the answer to your workload without Dad around is, but it sure. isn’t. this.” A sweeping hand encompasses his brother head to toe - taking in the coffee stains on John’s blue fingertips and the darkness smudged under his eyes. “We’ve got to, I don’t know, there must be something that can take some of the pressure off. Alan was talking about wanting to try a rotation.”

“Alan’ll be bored to death within five minutes alone up here,” John points out, “he’s still too young.”

“Gordon then, or Virgil, hell I’ll do it. I’m sure we can scrape together something.”

“Scott.” John’s voice comes out much softer this time, certainly softer than intended. “We’ll work something out but… just… not right now, ok?” It sounds almost pleading. A little broken. Perhaps Scott shouldn’t have brought up their Father, or perhaps there’s already too much for John to focus on without throwing himself into the mix. “We can pick this up later if you want, when we’re finished,” He goes on to offer, hollowly, “but right now you need to check your heat scanner and find that missing skier before those kids who called lose a parent.”

There’s a harsh intake of breath from Scott at that. He knows as well as any of them why they, why John, does all this. If they can keep together just one family, compared to their own loss, anything seems worth it.

Doesn’t mean Scott’s got to like it though.

He clicks off and John closes his eyes for one, very long moment - the residual Comm chatter swirling in his ears. It’s tempting to just press his forehead against the cold glass beneath his feet and just not exist for a few hours... But Alan needs to get back aboard his Thunderbird with the crew members, and Gordon’s discussing going EVA with Virgil in the background and Scott’s thermal scanner has just picked up an orange blip amongst all the blue.

There’s always a later. When everyone’s safe. John can rest later.

#Thunderbirds Are Go #Thunderbirds 2015 #John Tracy #yEET #bonsaiiiiiii #heheh yeah it was me XDD oh nooo hehehe #tw: really sad tired john ??? XD #tw: a man who hates coffee drinking too much caffine

[didanawisgi]

This article was published online on February 10, 2021.

“Massachusetts abolished enslavement before the Treaty of Paris brought an end to the American Revolution, in 1783. The state constitution, adopted in 1780 and drafted by John Adams, follows the Declaration of Independence in proclaiming that all “men are born free and equal.” In this statement Adams followed not only the Declaration but also a 1764 pamphlet by the Boston lawyer James Otis, who theorized about and popularized the familiar idea of “no taxation without representation” and also unequivocally asserted human equality. “The Colonists,” he wrote, “are by the law of nature free born, as indeed all men are, white or black.” In 1783, on the basis of the “free and equal” clause in the 1780 Massachusetts Constitution, the state’s chief justice, William Cushing, ruled enslavement unconstitutional in a case that one Quock Walker had brought against his enslaver, Nathaniel Jennison.

Many of us who live in Massachusetts know the basic outlines of this story and the early role the state played in standing against enslavement. But told in this traditional way, the story leaves out another transformative figure: Prince Hall, a free African American and a contemporary of John Adams. From his formal acquisition of freedom, in 1770, until his death, in 1807, Hall helped forge an activist Black community in Boston while elevating the cause of abolition to new prominence. Hall was the first American to publicly use the language of the Declaration of Independence for a political purpose other than justifying war against Britain. In January 1777, just six months after the promulgation of the Declaration and nearly three years before Adams drafted the state constitution, Hall submitted a petition to the Massachusetts legislature (or General Court, as it is styled) requesting emancipation, invoking the resonant phrases and founding truths of the Declaration itself.

Here is what he wrote (I’ve put the echoes of the Declaration of Independence in italics):

The petition of A Great Number of Blackes detained in a State of Slavery in the Bowels of a free & christian Country Humbly shuwith that your Petitioners Apprehend that Thay have in Common with all other men a Natural and Unaliable Right to that freedom which the Grat — Parent of the Unavese hath Bestowed equalley on all menkind and which they have Never forfuted by Any Compact or Agreement whatever — but thay wher Unjustly Dragged by the hand of cruel Power from their Derest frinds and sum of them Even torn from the Embraces of their tender Parents — from A popolous Plasant And plentiful cuntry And in Violation of Laws of Nature and off NationsAnd in defiance of all the tender feelings of humanity Brough hear Either to Be sold Like Beast of Burthen & Like them Condemnd to Slavery for Life.

In this passage, Hall invokes the core concepts of social-contract theory, which grounded the American Revolution, to argue for an extension of the claim to equal rights to those who were enslaved. He acknowledged and adopted the intellectual framework of the new political arrangements, but also pointedly called out the original sin of enslavement itself.

Hall’s memory was vigorously kept alive by members and archivists of the Masonic lodge he founded, and his name can be found in historical references. But his life has attracted fresh attention in recent years from scholars and community leaders, both because he deserves to be widely known and celebrated and because inserting his story into the tale of the country’s founding exemplifies the promise of an integrated way of studying and teaching history. It’s hard enough to shine new light on an African American figure who has been long in the shadows, one who in important ways should be considered an American Founder. It can prove far more difficult to trace an individual’s “relationship tree” and come to understand that person, in a granular and even cinematic way, in the full context of his or her own society: family, school, church, civic organizations, commerce, government. Doing so—especially for figures and communities that have been overlooked—gives us a chance to tell a whole story, to weave together multiple perspectives on the events of our political founding into a single, joined tale. It also provides an opportunity to draw out and emphasize the agency of people who experienced oppression and domination. In the case of Prince Hall, the process of historical reconstruction is still under way.

When I was a girl, I used to ask what there was to know about the experience of being enslaved—and was told by kind and well-meaning teachers that, sadly, the lack of records made the question impossible to answer. In fact, the records were there; we just hadn’t found them yet. Historical evidence often turns up only when one starts to look for it. And history won’t answer questions until one thinks to ask them.

John Adams and Prince Hall would have passed each other on the streets of Boston. They almost certainly were aware of each other. Hall was no minor figure, though his early days and family life are shrouded in some mystery. Probably he was born in Boston in 1735 (not in England or Barbados, as some have suggested). It is possible that he lived for a period as a freeman before he was formally emancipated. He may have been one of the thousands of African Americans who fought in the Continental Army; his son, Primus, certainly was. As a freeman, Hall became for a time a leatherworker, passed through a period of poverty, and then ultimately ran a shop, from which he sold, among other things, his own writings advocating for African American causes. Probably he was not married to every one of the five women in Boston who were married to someone named Prince Hall in the years between 1763 and 1804, but he may have been. Whether he was married to Primus’s mother, a woman named Delia, is also unclear. Between 1780 and 1801, the city’s tax collectors found their way to some 1,184 different Black taxpayers. Prince Hall and his son appear in those tax records for 15 of those 21 years, giving them the longest period of recorded residence in the city of any Black person we know about in that era. The DePaul University historian Chernoh M. Sesay Jr.’s excellent dissertation, completed in 2006, provides the most thorough and rigorously analyzed academic review of Hall’s biography that is currently available. (The dissertation, which I have drawn on here, has not yet been published in full, but I hope it will be.)

Hall was a relentless petitioner, undaunted by setbacks. When Hall submitted his 1777 petition, co-signed by seven other free Black men, to the Massachusetts legislature, he was building on the efforts of other African Americans in the state to abolish enslavement. In 1773 and 1774, African Americans from Bristol and Worcester Counties as well as Boston and its neighboring towns put forward six known petitions and likely more to this end. Hall led the formation of the first Black Masonic lodge in the Americas, and possibly in the world. The purpose of forming the lodge was to provide mutual aid and support and to create an infrastructure for advocacy. Fourteen men joined Hall’s lodge almost surely in 1775, and in the years from then until 1784, records reveal that 51 Black men participated in the lodge. Through the lodge’s history, one can trace a fascinating story of the life of Boston’s free Black community in the final decades of the 18th century.

Why did Hall choose Freemasonry as one of his life’s passions? Alonza Tehuti Evans, a former historian and archivist of the Most Worshipful Prince Hall Grand Lodge of the District of Columbia, took up that question in a 2017 lecture. Hall and his fellow lodge members, he explained, recognized that many of the influential people in Boston—and throughout the colonies—were deeply involved in Freemasonry. George Washington is a prominent example, and symbolism that resonates with Masonic meaning adorns the $1 bill to this day. Hall saw entrance into Freemasonry as a pathway to securing influence and a network of supporters.

Hall submitted a petition to the Massachusetts legislature requesting emancipation, invoking the resonant phrases and founding truths of the Declaration of Independence.

In a world without stable passports or identification documents, participation in the order could provide proof of status as a free person. It offered both leverage and legitimacy—as when Prince Hall and members of his lodge, in 1786, offered to raise troops to support the commonwealth in putting down Shays’s Rebellion.

In the winter and spring of 1788, Hall was leading a charge in Boston against enslavers who made a practice of using deception or other means to kidnap free Black people, take them shipboard, and remove them to distant locations, where they would be sold into enslavement. He submitted a petition to the Massachusetts legislature seeking aid—asking legislators to “do us that justice that our present condition requires”—and publicized his petition in newspapers in Virginia, New York, Pennsylvania, and Vermont.

In the summer of that year, a newspaper circulated an extract of a letter from a prominent white Bostonian who had assisted Hall on this very matter. The unnamed author of the letter reports that he had been visited by a group of free Black men who had been kidnapped in Boston and had recently been emancipated and returned to the city. They were escorted to his house by Hall, and they told the story of their emancipation. One of the men who had been kidnapped was a member of Hall’s Masonic lodge. Carried off to the Caribbean and put on the auction block, the kidnapped men found that the merchant to whom they were being offered was himself a Mason. Mutual recognition of a shared participation in Freemasonry put an end to the transaction and gave them the chance to recover their freedom.

Prince Hall’s work on abolition and its enforcement was just the beginning of a lifetime of advocacy. Disillusioned by how hard it was to secure equal rights for free Black men and women in Boston, he submitted a petition to the Massachusetts legislature seeking funds to assist him and other free Blacks in emigrating to Africa. That same year, he also turned his energies to advocating for resources for public education. Through it all, his Masonic membership proved both instrumental and spiritually valuable.

Founding the lodge had not been easy. Although Hall and his fellows were most likely inducted into Freemasonry in 1775, they were never able to secure a formal charter for their lodge from the other lodges in Massachusetts: Prejudice ran strong. Hall and his fellows had in fact probably been inducted by members of an Irish military lodge, planted in Boston with the British army, who had proved willing to introduce them to the mysteries of the order. Hall’s lodge functioned as an unofficial Masonic society—African Lodge No. 1—but received a formal charter only after a request was sent to England for a warrant. The granting of a charter by the Grand Lodge of England finally arrived in 1787.

In seeking this charter, Hall had written to Masons in England, lamenting that lodges in Boston had not permitted him and his fellows a full charter but had granted a permit only to “walk on St John’s Day and Bury our dead in form which we now enjoy.” Hall wanted full privileges, not momentary sufferance. In this small detail, though, we gain a window into just how important even the first steps toward Masonic privileges were. In the years before 1783 and full abolition of enslavement in Massachusetts, Black people in the state were subjected to intensive surveillance and policing, as enslavers sought to keep their human property from slipping away into the world of free Blacks. Membership in the Masons was like a hall pass—an opportunity to have a parade as a community, to come out and step high, without harassment. That’s what it meant to walk on Saint John’s Day—June 24—and to hold funeral parades for the dead.

Whether that stepping-out day remained June 24 is unclear. As Sesay writes, “Boston blacks, including Prince Hall, first applied to use Faneuil Hall in 1789 to hear an ‘African preacher.’ On February 25, 1789, the Selectmen accepted the application of blacks to use Faneuil Hall for ‘public worship.’ ” By 1820, the walk on Saint John’s Day appears to have become African Independence Day and was celebrated on July 14, Bastille Day, much to the displeasure of at least one newspaper. An unattributed column in the New-England Galaxy and Masonic Magazine complained about the annual parade in recognizably racist tones (the mention of “Wilberforce” at the end is a reference to William Wilberforce, the British campaigner against enslavement):

This is the day on which, for unaccountable reasons or for no reasons at all, the Selectmen of Boston, permit the town to be annually disturbed by a mob of negroes … The streets through which this sable procession passes are a scene of noise and confusion, and always will be as long as the thing is tolerated. Quietness and order can hardly be expected, when five or six hundred negroes, with a band of music, pikes, swords, epaulettes, sashes, cocked hats, and standards, are marching through the principal streets. To crown this scene of farce and mummery, a clergyman is mounted in their pulpit to harangue them on the blessings of independence, and to hold up for their admiration the characters of “Masser Wilberforce and Prince Hall.”

Well after Hall’s death, the days for stepping out continued in Boston—an expression of freedom and the claiming of a rightful place in the polity. The lodge that Hall founded continued too. It is the oldest continuously active African American association in the U.S., with chapters now spread around the country. Its work in support of public education has endured. In the 20th century the Prince Hall Freemasons made significant contributions to the NAACP, in many places hosting the first branches of the organization. In the 1950s alone, the group donated more than $400,000 to the NAACP Legal Defense and Educational Fund (equivalent to millions of dollars today). Thurgood Marshall was a member.

for all of what we now know to be Prince Hall’s importance, I learned of him only recently. In 2015 the National Archives held a conference about the Declaration of Independence, inspired by my own research on the document. At the conference, another colleague presented a paper on how abolitionists had been the first people to make use of the Declaration for political projects other than the Revolution itself. A few months earlier I had come across the passage from Hall’s 1777 petition that I shared above, and that so beautifully resonates with the Declaration; at that conference, I suddenly learned the important political context in which it fit. I had published a book on the Declaration of Independence—Our Declaration—in 2014, but until the spring of 2015, I had never heard of Hall.

Yet I have been studying African American history since childhood. When I was in high school, my school didn’t do anything to celebrate Black History Month. My father encouraged me to take matters into my own hands and propose to the school that I might curate a weekly exhibit on one of the school’s bulletin boards. The school was obliging. It offered me the one available bulletin board—in a dark corner in the farthest remove of the school’s quads. This was not the result of malice, just of a lack of attention to the stakes. But I was glad to have access to that bulletin board, and I dutifully filled it with pictures of people like Carter G. Woodson and Mary McLeod Bethune and Thurgood Marshall, and with excerpts from their writings.

I am deeply aware of how much historical treasure about Black America is hidden, and have been actively trying to seek it out. While I was on the faculty of the University of Chicago, I helped found the Black Metropolis Research Consortium, a network of archival organizations in Chicago dedicated to connecting “all who seek to document, share, understand and preserve Black experiences.” And while I was at Chicago—somewhat in the spirit of that old bulletin board—I curated an exhibit for the special-collections department of the campus library on the 45 African Americans who’d earned a doctorate at the university prior to 1940—the largest number of doctorates awarded to African Americans up to that time by any institution in the world. Even so, I had not known about Prince Hall.

Having discovered Hall at the ridiculous age of 43, I have since made it a mission to teach others about him. At Harvard’s Edmond J. Safra Center for Ethics, we have undertaken a major initiative to develop civic-education curricula and resources. Among the largest projects is a year-long eighth-grade course called “Civic Engagement in Our Democracy.” One of the units in that course is centered on Hall’s life. Through him and his exploration of the meaning of social contracts and natural rights, and of opportunity and equality, we teach the philosophical foundations of democracy, reaching through Hall to texts that he also drew on, and whose authors are required reading for eighth graders in Massachusetts—for instance, Aristotle, Locke, and Montesquieu. These writers and thinkers were important figures to Freemasons in Hall’s time.

Too much treasure remains buried, living mainly in oral histories, not yet integrated into our full shared history of record. That history can strike home in unexpected ways. Not long ago, I was talking with my father about Prince Hall and the curriculum we were developing. His ears pricked up. Only then did I learn that my grandfather, too, had been a member of the Prince Hall Freemasons.”

This article appears in the March 2021 print edition with the headline “A Forgotten Founder.”

DANIELLE ALLEN is a political philosopher and the James Bryant Conant University Professor at Harvard. She is the author of Talking to Strangers, Our Declaration, and Cuz.

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