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viking-raider · 5 months

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A Christmas Miracle🎄

Summary: You and Henry are celebrating Christmas with family, while expecting your first child together.

Pairing: Henry Cavill/Reader

Word Count: 5.9k

Warning: G - Cotton Candy Goodness, Soft!Henry, Fluff, Kal, Papa Bear!Henry, Domestic Bliss, Christmas Decorating, Pregnancy Stuff, Cotton Candy Fluff, Loving Marriage, Christmas Fluff

Inspiration: This story ties into my Easter story, The Golden Egg.

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy this! Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLISTand turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy! @VIKING-RAIDER-LIBRARY

“Babe!” Henry gasped, as he came into the living room, nearly tossing the steaming cup of tea in his hand, upon discovering you.

You were standing on the two-step high stool, to sprinkle golden tinsel on the fragrant and robust branches of an eight foot Fraser Fir that stood proudly in the corner of the living room. You chuckled, shaking your head at your husband, but didn't look back at him, as you picked a bit of tinsel off one of the emerald branches, having adorned the needles with too much of the sparkling, thin strands.

“You shouldn't be up there, love!” He scolded you, setting the tea he had made you on the coffee table as he rounded it and the couch, to come towards you, resting his hands on your hips. “I told you, I would help you decorate the tree, once I was done with your tea.”

“I know you did, Hen.” You answered, sighing softly, finally looking down at him and seeing the wrinkle of worry between his brow. It hadn't smoothed since the Brit found out you were pregnant with his child on Easter, nearly nine months before. “But I'm also capable of doing it myself.” You reminded him, resting a hand on his shoulder and giving his neck a gentle squeeze.

“I'm pregnant, not invalid.”

Henry sighed softly, leaning forward to press a tender kiss to your round and pronounced belly. “I know you're capable, sweetheart.” He assured you, looking up at you with an affection in his blue eyes that always melted your heart. “I just don't want you to get hurt. Especially with you so close to the due date.” He said, helping you step down off the stool. “Just sit down and enjoy your tea. Then, we'll tag team the tree together.” He told you, putting an excited smile on his face.

“All right.” You conceded, settling down on the couch and took up your tea, cupping the mug between your hands and letting the heat seep into your palms, before finally taking a sip.

“Your parents will be here in a couple days.” Henry commented, squatting beside a box of Christmas decorations neither of you had opened up yet. “My parents made up their guest house in preparation for their arrival.” He told you, peeking into the box.

Halfway into your pregnancy, Henry had taken time off from acting and the two of you decided to leave your secluded London home for the coziness of Henry's home island of Jersey. Buying a nice, beach front property, three streets and a five-minute walk from his parents' place, with the intent on having your baby boy born in Saint Helier. You loved being on the little Channel Island, sitting on the back patio or taking walks on the beach, breathing in the soothing sea air, which helped your morning sickness a good deal.

The only downside was your family was far out of reach of you, having to fly into Jersey to visit and check-in on you. Your parents wanted to be on hand when you finally had their third grand-baby, so Henry footed the bill to bring them out and his parents were amazing enough to host them while they were here.

“That's great.” You smiled, flexing your sore and swollen feet, watching him pull out ornaments, garland and other little tree decorations. “I can't wait to see them again.” You commented, not having seen them since your fourth month, just before you and Henry left for Jersey. “I'm sure my mom will bring more knitted items.” You chuckled, glancing over your shoulder to the soft, butter-yellow blanket your mother had knitted a couple months ago.

“I would be shocked, if she didn't!” Henry laughed back, his broad shoulders shaking as he stood. “What garland do you want on the tree?” He asked, holding up a strand of colorful beads and another of red and white, twisted ribbons.

You hummed, pressing your lips together and studied your tree, eyes narrowing slightly, scrutinizing the colors on its branches. “I think the ribbon would work best with it.” You finally settled, nodding content with your choice.

“All right then.” He nodded back, putting the other garland aside. “Ah, nope!” He tisked, when you set your tea down and started the mini struggle of standing up. “You put the tinsel on the tree, it's my turn to put the garland on. You relax.”

“Fair enough.” You sighed softly, picking your tea back up and rested against the couch cushions, just in time for Kal to jump up beside you. “Well, hello there, sweet boy.” You cooed at him, reaching out to give him good scratches between the ears and around the neck. “Have you come to make sure I stay put?” You quipped, the Akita resting his head in your lap.

“I did no such thing!” Henry called over his shoulder, carefully tucking the garland into the branches.

“Sure, love. Sure.” You chuckled at him, though Henry's protectiveness at times could be a little overbearing, you knew he did it out of love and first-time father worries. “He's paying you in treats and promises of all the good turkey, ham and brisket bits he plans on cooking for Christmas dinner.” You accused, lifting a brow at the unphased Akita, before wincing and pressing a palm to the side of your belly.

“You all right?” Henry asked, catching a glimpse from his peripheral, pausing a moment.

“Yeah, your son just kicks like a Fly-Half.” You answered, chuckling halfheartedly. “If he keeps these strong legs, he'll for sure make the England team.” You said, trying to ease the look of suspicion on Henry's face, that it was the baby kicking, and your own, that the pain was something more than a false contraction.

“You missed a branch there, Bubs.” You commented, drawing Henry's attention away from the subjection, motioning with your steaming black, Nightmare Before Christmas cup.

“Mm.” He grunted, narrowing his eyes at you, but turned to fuss over it.

You took a deep breath, rubbing the globe of your stomach, hoping to soothe any would-be pains. Thankfully, you didn't have any more throughout the morning, helping Henry put up the ornaments and other little hanging knick knacks on the tree. Something Henry was comfortable with you doing, since you kept your feet on the hardwood, safely beside him.

“I want to do a little plaster imprint of his hand and foot, to hang up on the tree for next year.” You commented suddenly, gently holding a little needlepoint ornament you'd made. It was a silhouette of Henry and you, with Kal between you, the year above your heads. You had made one every year since the first Christmas the three of you had spent together. “Should make a new needlepoint too.” You added even softer.

Henry glanced down at you, a fond and nostalgic light in his blue orbs. “I think that would be a lovely idea, babe.” He smiled, warmed at the idea. “I like the idea of making and expanding our little traditions.”

“I should have given myself a baby bump in this one.” You joked, carefully adding the stitched ornament on a branch, accompanied with the others around it. “So much for accuracy.”

“It looks perfect, my love.” He assured you, kissing your hair. “Now, let's turn the lights on and see how this thing looks!” He proclaimed, shuffling around the tree and plugged in the two strings of lights skillfully wrapped around the tree.

You stood back to get a good look at the Fir, just as the tiny, cool and warm-white LED, diamond facet bulbs flickered on. Making many of the ornaments glitter and twinkle. It brought a great feeling of delight bubbling up inside of you, tugging on your exhausted and hormonal raged body, until tears spilled over.

“Sweetheart.” Henry cooed, pouting at you sweetly, as he closed his arms around your shoulders, hugging you as closely as your belly would allow.

“It looks beautiful.” You mumbled into his chest, fingers gripping at the sides of his shirt.

He smiled, nosing the hair at the top of your head and rubbing your back with one hand. “It is, dear, and so are you.”

“I'm also starving.” You blurted out, breaking the melancholy mood.

“Butter chicken or pepperoni and feta pizza?”

“Oh god, you know me too well at this point.” You giggled, licking your lips. “But, the butter chicken.”

You sat up in bed, Kal resting between your legs, with his head laying on your belly, as you read your latest book on your Kindle. While Henry was downstairs doing some work on the new Warhammer minis he ordered as a way to keep himself occupied, when he wasn't taking care of you.

“Oh.” You gasped, feeling a sudden, sharp pain. “Gosh, did we disagree on the butter chicken, Bean?” You groaned, pressing your palm to the side of your stomach; Kal lifting his to sniff at your belly as another pain caused you to cramp. “It's all right, Bud. Your brother is just being a little difficult.” You sighed, setting your e-reader on your nightstand and lumbered out of bed, before heading downstairs.

“Hey, love.” Henry smiled, looking up from the Ultramarine mini in his hand. “I thought you were going to bed.”

“I was trying to, but your son doesn't agree with dinner.” You explained to him, looking over his progress on his Warhammer army. “Can you do your trick?” You asked, lulling your head to the side and giving him a cute look.

Henry chuckled, setting his mini down. “My trick.” He smirked, standing up and moving behind you. “Any reason to cuddle.” He teased, reaching around to cup both hands beneath your stomach and leaned you both backwards, taking the weight of your belly as he did.

“Mmm.” You hummed, eyes falling shut, while you let your head rest against Henry's chest. “It feels so good.” You sighed, resting your hands on his.

Henry cradling your baby bump had become a god send throughout your third trimester. Taking the weight of your healthy and active baby boy off your lower back and hips. However in your earlier trimesters, the two of you learned it helped relieve your heartburn and whenever your little one got a bit too restless.

You liked to think it was the baby reacting to Henry's touch.

It was calm for a long, few moments, just you and Henry, slowly swaying side to side, the baby calm. But again, your stomach spasmed and you whimpered, making it clear to Henry, you were indeed having some sort of contractions.

“How long has this been going on?” He asked, eyes wide and brows pinched.

“Since this morning.” You confessed finally, taking slow, deep breaths.

“Why didn't you tell me?” He demanded, startled and worried.

“I didn't have any through the afternoon.” You assured him, patting his hands. “I figured it was just false. But, I'm starting to think otherwise, with how much that one hurts.”

“We should probably go to the hospital.” Henry fret, starting away from you, but you turned and caught his elbow.

“Henry.” You said in a soft, soothing voice. “You remember what the OB said?” You tried reminding him. “Four-One-One.”

“Four minutes apart, a minute long, lasting an hour.” He recited, having listened to your OB, and read numerous baby and expecting parent books.

You had taken a couple of parenting classes as well. Until people started posting photos of you on social media, annoying you and causing Henry to be even more of a papa bear. So, you'd found an online, private class to do in the comfort of your living room.

“Not one has lasted a minute, been four minutes apart or lasted an hour.” You assured him, dropping your hand to his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “If they're the real deal, I'm in the early stages and going to the hospital now will only incur hours and hours of waiting. Which we'll be doing here anyway.”

“What if something happens?”

“Nothing is going to happen, you worry-wart.” You chuckled at him, shaking your head. “Come to bed with us.” You cooed, pushing up on your toes, kissing his bearded cheek and brushing your fingers through the curls above his ear.

“You'll tell me.” Henry insisted as he followed you upstairs to the master bedroom.

“Of course, I'll tell you, Henry.” You assured him. “Then, I'll tell Kal.” You quipped, trying to lighten the mood and get him to smile.

But he didn't smile, his mind preoccupied with making sure everything was ready, should you wake him up and tell him your contractions were growing close together.

Did I get the car seat in the Audi correctly? Where did I put the hospital bag? In this closet or the coat closet downstairs? Everything's in it she and the baby needs, right?

“Babe.”

Perhaps I should just go down and get it, to make sure. What about the nursery? Thank God, I finished the crib last month!

“Hen..”

Do we need more diapers? Are they the right size? What if--

“Henry!” You called out, when he didn't answer you, a far off and growing alarm look in his cerulean eyes, startling him out of his worried trance. “Everything is all right.” You said slowly, holding his gaze steadily. “We have everything we need. Everything the baby needs. If we don't, that's perfectly fine. Your parents and mine have offered their help, should it arise. As have your brothers.”

“I don't know how you're so calm.” He sighed, shaking his head and dropping down on his side of the bed.

You laughed, smirking. “I'm not calm. But there's no use for us both freaking out, especially at the same time. Besides, when I freak out, I have you to pull me back together, the least I can do is return the favor, when you start to lose it.” You told him, maneuvering yourself back under the covers.

“What's a spouse for?”

“You're right.” Henry nodded, turning the light out and resting against the headboard beside you. “One of the many reasons I love you, and married you.” He said, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips, kissing your knuckles.

Snuggling down, your back pressed against Henry's chest with his hand ever present on your belly, you tried to focus on falling asleep.

“You know.” Henry commented, half-asleep himself. “I sort of miss when you were in your first and second trimesters.”

“Oh?” You mumbled back, with interest.

“Yeah, you were always jumping my bones.” He laughed, shaking the bed with his mirth. “Well, until the end of your second trimester, when your belly got too big to do anything other than waddle and ride my cock.”

You were instantly awake again at his words. A huge smile of hot guilt and embarrassment on your face, that you hid in your pillow. It was true! The first stages of your pregnancy had made you quite frisky towards Henry. Sometimes so much so, he hadn't recovered from the last time you'd had sex and would need to pleasure you in other ways to bring your arousal down. Not that the man complained about it! But a couple weeks into your third trimester, the raging inferno of your passions cooled off. Even beyond what they were before you were expecting. You were just too tired and sore, uncomfortable, and just ready to give birth, to think of such things. But again, Henry didn't complain. You were grateful for that, because you felt bad that your mood didn't match his, at the moment.

Having seen the look of concupiscent on his face more than once, as the two of you showered together, went to bed or woke in the mornings. But you just didn't have it in you, and he took it with grace and understanding acceptance, not pressuring you or making you feel like a bad partner, for not reciprocating.

The two of you calmed down and allowed each other to finally fall asleep.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” Henry asked, the next morning as the two of you finished breakfast.

“I feel all right, Bubs. Only a few pains here and there.” You answered, polishing off your usual cup of chamomile tea, something that had been a staple throughout your pregnancy, to battle your morning sickness and heartburn. “Excited to make cookies with your mum.”

Henry smiled across the table at you. “Good. I bet all these sugary smells are going to drive you and wee man nutty.”

It was a Cavill family tradition to get together, before Christmas, and make cookies for the big family dinner party, as well as to give out as tokens to friends and neighbors. It was also considered quite the honor among the Cavill brothers' wives to have Marianne ask to join her in the massive production. Since she didn't ask just anyone to help her; having a couple secret family recipes to protect in the process. But Marianne had asked, surprisingly and much to Henry's pride, you to help her, at your and Henry's first Christmas. Something that made one or two of Henry's sisters-in-law jealous, especially since the two of you were new and still dating, and one of them had never been asked.

Even to this day.

“Our mouths are already watering for your mother's chocolate chip, mocha cookies.” You confessed; it was one of the many things you looked forward to for Christmas. Marianne's chocolate chip, mocha flavored cookies were something you'd start a fight over, as were her chocolate covered, Oreo truffles with peppermint bark crumble on top. “Oh god.” You moaned, stuffing the last bit of bland, buttered toast into your mouth; Henry laughing at you.

“I'm going to roast up another heritage turkey this year.” He commented, finishing his coffee, then helped clear the breakfast table. “Everyone seemed to love it last year.”

“That's fine with me.” You answered, loading the soap dispenser and starting the dishwasher. “I have one small request.”

“You could make an enormous request, love!” Henry snorted, taking a protein shake out of the fridge.

“I want yams with roasted marshmallows on top.” You told him, confidently. “To myself.”

“To yourself?” He echoed, a smirk on his lips. “How big is the dish?”

“A small one is fine. I just don't want to share it.” You confessed your craving to him.

Letting out a laugh and nodding, Henry shrugged. “All right then. I'll make sure you have your roasted marshmallow covered yams, and I'll have Kal guard them.”

“Excellent.” You nodded back, then looked at your watch. “We should get going. Your mother asked us to get there before ten.” You informed him, heading for the front door and eased yourself down on a small bench that was there.

Henry joined you, squatting down to grab your shoes from underneath the bench and slipped them on your feet, tying them securely, since your prominently belly prevented you from reaching your feet to put on your shoes. Let alone tie them. Your shoes on and helping you back up, Henry got his own shoes on, but paused as he opened the door for you and Kal. He glanced back at the hall closet. Biting his lip, he hurried over and grabbed the baby bag from inside, then dashed after you, putting the bag in the back as he got behind the wheel.

“Just in case.” He answered your lifted brow.

“Fair, I suppose.” You shrugged, unable to argue with his logic.

“How are you holding up, my love?” Henry asked, peeking into the kitchen, before shuffling over to you, sure his mother wouldn't shoo him out.

“My cookie restraint thinned dramatically after the second batch.” You confessed, looking around at all the Santa's, snowmen, candy canes and snowflakes that were either waiting to go into the oven or cooling. “However, your mum apparently anticipated this. Making me batch yesterday, so I could nibble on them, while we made these.”

Henry grinned, touched at his mother's thoughtfulness. “That was sweet of her.” He cooed, brushing the back of his fingers over your cheek. “Have you had any more pains?” He asked, his brows pinching slightly, worried.

“Nothing concerning.” You told him, closing your hand around his wrist. “You know I'd come get you.” You tried assuring him, giving him a soft smile. “Or your mum would, should my water break.” You giggled, a smile turning into a smirk.

“That's not funny, babe.” Henry snapped softly, eyes big.

You pressed your lips together, guilty, before pushing up on your bare toes, having taken off your shoes for the long standing in the kitchen, to press your lips against Henry's. “I'm sorry, Puppy.” You mumbled against them, before reaching around him, grabbing a finished Snowman, presenting it to his mouth in place of your own. “I baked and decorated this one myself.” You grinned at him, a glitter of pride in your eyes.

“Oh, did you?” He cooed, opening his mouth to admit the round biscuit of white icing, adorned with two black chocolate pearls for eyes and smaller black sugar pearls for a mouth. It had a carrot nose, made of orange icing and the upper crown of the biscuit was covered in purple, blue and white hundreds and thousands, then outlined with silvery snowflake-shaped sprinkles.

Taking the biscuit from you, Henry nibbled on it, already knowing it would be delicious, since you had made it with his family's age-old recipe. “You know.” He mumbled around his mouthful. “I can't wait to share these with our little guy.” He said, smirking down at the bake, before glancing around the kitchen.

“Well, technically, I've already done that.” You giggle, running your hand over the globe of your belly.

Henry snorted loudly, his smirk growing. “You have me there, my love.” He replied, finishing his treat off, reaching out to lay his hand on your stomach as he saw the moments of your son shift, pressing either an elbow or knee out. “Still trips me out to see him move inside of you.” He commented, feeling something around nudge against his palm.

“You should feel it from this end.” You huffed, making a face at the kicks as he tumbled about, prodding a heel into your ribs and a shoulder into your slowly screaming bladder. “Poor bud is running out of space in there.” You cooed, moving your hand to cup the underside of your stomach.

“That he is.” He agreed, leaning down to press a kiss to your belly. “But, soon he'll be out here with us.”

“Henry William Dalgliesh Cavill.”

A cold chill washed down Henry's back, making the little hairs on his neck stand up as he straightened. “Mum.” He squeaked, looking at her over your shoulder.

“You know the rules of setting foot in my kitchen, while we bake.” Marianne scolded her second youngest.

“I do.” He nodded, biting his lip as he half smirked at her. “I was just checking up on her and our little one.” He explained, motioning to you.

Marianne's gaze shifted, her soft and kind blue eyes looking you over. She had noticed the few contractions you'd experience while helping her bake, and had sharpened her eye on you even more. Everyone in the family had a side eye on you it seemed, with your due date so nearby, like they were concerned you would pop like a water balloon.

“I'm fine.” You sighed softly, offering her a reassuring smile.

“Then, you can pop out of our kitchen.” Marianne said, cocking a brow at her son.

You chuckled, loving the nonchalance she had. “We'll see you later, my dear.” You cooed at him, kissing the corner of his mouth, tasting the sugar on his lips and inciting a need for another cookie from your stash. “Off you go.” You giggled, patting him on the chest and set your eyes on your task.

Henry looked at his mother with a pointed look, gesturing towards you, to which Marianne answered with a roll of her eyes and picked up a sheet of cookies needing to go into the oven.

“My back is to you, Henry, not my senses.” You shot over your shoulder, cutting out more cookies from the dough.

“Christ alive, our son has his work cut out for him.” He chuckled, winking at you as he turned to leave and rejoin his brothers and dad in the living room.

You looked over at Marianne and laughed, your mother-in-law joining in, the two of you amused he didn't realize you'd seen her roll her eyes.

“That boy.” Marianne chuckled, shaking her head as she moved to stand beside you, helping portion out the raw dough.

“He's freaked out.” You commented, gently laying a Santa on the sheet.

“Understandably.” She answered, wielding the snowflake cutter with skill. “The first baby is always the most stressful, and Henry's wanted to be a father for a very long time.”

“I know he has.” You nodded, feeling your stomach lightly bump the edge of the counter. “I'm happy and excited for our little one.” You told her, wadding up the scrap dough, then picked up a rolling pin. “I'm definitely ready not to be pregnant anymore.” You snorted, smiling faintly.

“And your worries?” Marianne asked, tilting her head at you, without pausing her work.

You drew in a slow, deep breath. “I'm worried about the labor. I'm terrified about whether or not I'll make a good parent.” You confessed to her, letting your breath out. “I know Henry will, he's incredible with kids. I love watching him with his younger fans, with his nieces and nephews.” You gush, grinning at the flashes of memories. “Seeing him hold Ellie, when we first met her--” You shook your head, a bubble of emotions overwhelming you for a moment, til you cleared your throat.

“You'll be a great mother.” Marianne reassured you, running her hand up and down your back. “You have nothing to worry about there. You'll have me and your mum to help you, as well as Heather and all the other girls.”

“I know.” You nodded, resting your shoulder against hers. “And I appreciate it, with all my heart.”

“Why don't you go upstairs, to Henry's old room, and rest for a bit?” She suggested to you. “I can finish the cookies with Heather.”

“Are you sure?” You frowned, glancing around the organized chaos of the kitchen.

“Yes.” She nodded, resting her hands on your shoulders and turning you away from the counter. “You and my grandson need all the rest you can get.” She directed you towards the entry of the kitchen. “Soon, you won't have it.”

Henry saw his mum guiding you and instantly jumped up from the couch, where he sat beside his brother Simon. “Are you all right, honey?” He cooed, his handsome face pinching.

“She's fine, Henry.” Marianne replied, looking up at him. “She just needs to rest a bit. Take her upstairs.”

“All right.” He nodded, taking your arm and showed you upstairs to the bedroom that was his as a kid. “Can I get you anything? Some water, maybe.” He asked, helping you lay back on the made, full-size bed.

“I'm all right, Puppy.” You sighed, rubbing your face.

“What's wrong, honey?” He asked, pulling up a chair from the desk in his room and sat down in front of you.

“Nothing's wrong.” You replied, sighing, flexing your plump toes as Henry grasped your foot in his hands. “I'm just tired and sore.” You told him, closing your eyes as you let out a soft moan, feeling Henry's thumbs work your arch.

“I got the Dad Talk from my dad and brothers.” He chuckled, gently touching the tip of your toes, each painted a cute red color, that he had done himself about a week before.

He had started giving you little at home, medi-pedis to treat you to something nice. Though, it had taken him a couple tries to get painting your nails down. Admitting it wasn't as simple as painting his Warhammer Minis, like he'd thought.

You giggled back, smirking. “Did they?” You hummed, letting your eyes fall shut. “Any good advice?”

“Um, Simon said that I should explain my job to him as soon as we think he can understand it.” Henry recalled, biting his lip with an amused smirk pulling across his mouth. “So, we don't have another Thomas Incident on our hands.”

“My dad's Sherlock Holmes!” You replied, laughing aloud. “Or god-knows who else!”

“Exactly.” He nodded, amused by it too. “My dad suggested, should we have any more kids, to have girls, that way it doesn't continue on the Cavill boy madness, like dead arms and throwing each other off the couch.”

“I would like, at least, one girl, anyway.” You told him, laying your hand on your stomach, feeling your son shift and kick again, wincing as he did.

“Same.” He smirked, as excited as he was for a son, he had wanted a girl too. “Maybe the next one.”

“Mmm.” You hummed back, falling silent and drifting slightly.

Taking the hint, Henry rested your legs in his lap and leaned back, closing his own eyes to rest. Both of you were exhausted from the months of preparation for the baby, all the worrying about if you would be good parents and protecting your son against the world of social media and paparazzi. But the pair of you had only laid there for twenty or so minutes, before you jerked at a sharp pain, inadvertently kicking Henry in the stomach as you did.

Henry gasped and groaned at the blow, doubling over. “Babe?” He rasped, frowning across at you, finding you half sitting up, hand cupping the underside of your stomach with a look of shocked horror on your face. “What's wron—oh shit!” He snapped, seeing the wet patch seeping through your leggings and onto the duvet on the bed.

“Was that--”

“Uh-huh.” You nodded, gulping thickly.

“It's okay, all right.” He nodded, running both hands through his curls. “Up we go.” He said, holding his shaking hands out to you, pulling you up and wrapping an arm around your waist. “Broke your water on my childhood bed.” He commented offhandedly, letting out a nervous chuckle.

“It is where we had our first kiss.” You added, lifting a brow at him. “Why not this too!”

“Mum!” Henry called out as you reached the bottom of the stairs. “We have to go.” He said as Marianne rounded the corner from the living room. “Someone's water broke.”

“Oh gosh!” She exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “Go hurry!” She shooed the two of you towards the door, before spinning on her feet. “Code blue everybody!” She shouted at the family gathered in the living room, snapping them into gear, sending brothers and in-laws scrambling everywhere.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” Henry asked as he helped you buckle your seatbelt.

“Like I just peed myself.” You snorted, clutching your belly. “Henry.” You cooed at him, watching him make jerky movements but not move from your side. “Hen!” You called, reaching out to grab his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake.

“Huh?” He whimpered, blinking a few times.

“My shoes are still in the house.” You informed him, offering your sweet partner a smile.

“Oh right!” He nodded, kissing your hand and backing away to close your door, then raced back inside, running into a gaggle of his family fighting to put on shoes and coats. “Excuse me, pardon me!” He barked, diving into the huddle, scrabbling for your shoes.

“Henry!” Nik shouted after him.

“I forgot her shoes!” Henry yelled over his shoulder, pelting back to the car. “Got them!” He smiled, sliding home into the driver's seat and dropping them onto the center console. “I'll put them on you, when we get to the hospital.” He told you, starting the car and pulling away from the curb, while ordering Alexa to map the route to Jersey General Hospital, the very hospital where he and his brothers had been born.

“Speed limit, Cavill!” You reminded him, frowning.

“Baby!”

“He's not going to pop out right now!!”

“He could!

“Between the two of us, Hank, I'm damn sure he's not!” You snapped back, through a contraction. “Deep b-breaths! ” You wheezed, through the pain.

“Relax your shoulders, don't clench your jaw, take a deep breath in....and let it out!” Henry reciting your Douala and doing the technique with you. “Amazing, baby doll. I'm so proud of you.”

“Jesus Christ on a motorbike.” You sighed as the pain faded. “We're waiting at least three years before we have our daughter.” You panted over at him.

“Yes, ma'am.” Henry laughed, holding his hand out to you. “Whatever you want.”

“I know what we should name him.” You said, softly.

“Oh?” He replied, pulling into the hospital parking lot. “What?”

You looked over at him, your expression soft. “I want to name him, Charlie.” You told him, biting the corner of your lip, you'd put a lot of consideration into it over your pregnancy. “We wouldn't have met, if your brother didn't nag you to come talk to me at that club.”

Biting his lip, a heart shaped lump thumping in his throat. “You're right.” He whispered; voice raw.

Charlie had prodded him for an hour, while supplying him with shots of liquid courage, to finally cross the club you both were in. You were with your friends, blowing off steam after a long work week, and Henry, Charlie and two other friends of Henry's were just hanging out, since he was in town and not working on any projects.

He never forgot the look on your friends' faces as he approached your table, recognizing him, melting into the dark leather of your corner booth and mumbling to each other with hungry, googly eyes. But you, while surprised a celeb was approaching you, hadn't fawned over him, like they did. You'd kept your cool, with jittery insides. Henry politely acknowledged everyone at the table, but his blue eyes were set on you. He asked, trying to have a persona of cool and calm, if he could get you a drink, noting on the way over, yours was empty, and with relief, you'd said yes. So, you dislodged yourself from your friends and followed him to the bar. Striking up a conversation with him, that moved to an empty table, after getting your drinks and lasted until the announcement the club was closing, at two am.

Neither of you had wanted to move apart, but it was late and you both knew it. So, you exchanged numbers and texted while you got yourselves home, then fell asleep. Making the promise to have a proper dinner the next day.

All of which snowballed to this moment. Sitting in the car at the hospital, married and staring at each other between contractions, discussing the name you wanted for your first born, for your son.

“It's perfect.” He nodded, reaching out to cup your cheek. “I could ask for nothing more for Christmas, than you and our son, for Charlie.” He choked up, leaning across to kiss you deeply.

@winter2112rose / @littlefreya / @kemillyfreitas / @thereisa8ella / @courtlynwriter / @starfirewildheart / @beck07990 / @goldenirishpotato / @pipsqueakkitten

#viking-raider fics #A Christmas Miracle #A Christmas Miracle *Fic*#Henry Cavill #Henry Cavill RPF #British Actor RPF #Fluff #Cotton Candy Fluff #Christmas Fluff #Christmas Story #Christmas Fic #new fic #henrycavill #In-Laws

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harrywavycurly · 2 months

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Texting Joseph Quinn Part 23: Fandom

Masterlist: Here

A/N: This was fun and I’m so sorry yall have had to wait so long for an update but I hope you enjoy and happy Valentine’s Day!💖

#texting Joseph Quinn #joseph quinn #joseph quinn rpf #joseph quinn fanfiction #joseph quinn fandom #joseph quinn fluff #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn x you #joseph quinn x y/n #joseph quinn x fem!reader #Joseph Quinn social media au #joe quinn fanfic #my little British baby

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simonsapelsin · 5 months

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What if Wilhelm starts posting anonymous Erik Lives fics in the Swedish Royalty RPF tag on ao3? What then?

#there isn't really one #but there is a british royalty rpf tag #young royals

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just-some-random-blogger · 1 year

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Hey I wanted to ask you if you also write for the actor Tom Sturridge.

If so, could you write a Tom x british princess reader story in wich the princess is born the last child of Diana bevor she died and is a really fascinating person. Like she is very serious about er work and duty but is a really funny and sarcastic person outside of it and makes fun with the queen and her brothers.

Could you pleeeaaase write that for me my love?❤️

Wild Child

Tom Sturridge x Princess!Reader

Summary: There was a reason why you were called the wild child, and one particular man was going to find out for himself during his time volunteering at a nonprofit.

Word Count: 1k+

Warnings: British Princess!reader, reader is blonde cause duh her mom is princess Diana, fluff, typos, etc.

A/N: this is such a wild request. peak delusion i think. and i am so here for it HAHAHH PLEASE I AM SO A PRINCESS AND DIANA IS, LIKE, MY MOM FR T_T I LOVE HER SM HAHAHAAH i just like i cant believe im writing this aHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH it's such a niche request HAHAAHAH idk why but writing about the royal family made me apprehensive lol HAHAHH IDK ITS SO CRINGY TO WRITE FOR ME TO ADD THEM so i decided forGET THEM IMMA DO A FREESTYLE I REALLY HOPE YOU LIKE IT MY LOVE I LOVE YOU SO MUCH THANK YOU FOR THE REQ IT WAS SO WILD AND FUN THAT I EVEN MADE THIS HEADER LOL ig im still tagging @pinksirensong because of course i must that was our deal

I spit out blonde strands of my hair when it flies into my mouth. I release a huff as I bend down and pick up a box from the pile which was unloaded from the truck. I then head back inside the place, watching my step as I went.

"Oh, my dear, you didn't have to!" one of the head organizers calls out to me from across the room, interrupting the instruction she was giving to the rest of the volunteers.

I shoot her a lopsided smile, "are you calling me weak, young lady?"

The grey haired woman named Berta laughs as I make my way to the back. She calls out, "not at all, princess!"

Berta, and the two people she had been instructing, watch me go to the back. One of the two whispers to the other, "ya know she's actually the princess, as in the literal princess of the country."

Gasp, "wait, really? I was gonna say she looks so much like the princess!"

"Yeah, she does cause she is the princess! She volunteers here often."

"Hush you two," Berta chides, "enough gossip!"

I release a breath and roll my shoulders back when I put the heavy box down. I take a moment to stretch and then head to the door to repeat the process. That was until someone walked in, grunting, carrying two boxes in their arms.

"Hey, you need some help there?" I say walking over.

I see blue eyes and dark hair peek from behind the brown object. I offer him a smile and move to get one of the boxes from him.

"It's alright, I've got it," he calls as I move to take one from him.

I give him a quick nod and instead watch him as he puts the boxes down.

When he straightens up, he huffs and turns to me, in time to see my smirk before I speak, "an impressive feat, considering the weight of those boxes, superman."

He catches his breath and returns my expression, exaggeratedly biting his lower lip as he grips one of his biceps, "these guns are no joke."

I snort and raise a hand, "lucky for me, I know how to disassemble artillery."

He pulls his head back, lips still curved up into a smile, "wait, really?"

I nod with a brow quirked, "quicker than you can say Worcestershire."

We share a chuckle because of my words. I then extend my hand to him, saying my name in introduction. He obliges, taking my hand, telling me his name is Tom.

"Do you volunteer here often?" he asks after we withdrawing hands.

I hum and narrow my eyes, "I'd say alternatively would be more appropriate."

"Ah."

"And you?"

"I think, is the third time I've come back here."

I nod, motioning to the door, silently leading us out. I turn to him as I say a quick thank you when opens the door, "is there any particular reason you've come back?"

"Honestly, the people here are kind and I've grown to love the company of the elderly chaps I've met."

I match the smile on his face as we make our way outside to get the rest of the boxes. "Yeah, I'd say the same reasons have drawn me back to this place as well."

"Oh, good," someone calls just before we could exit, making Tom and I turn to the speaker. It was Berta, "you're both here. We need help giving the seniors grub. I'd love it if both my prettiest volunteers gave out the food so they wouldn't be so cranky."

Tom and I chuckle, catching each other's gaze along the way.

"Come on, lovies," she beckons, waving her hands, "I've got enough people on the job for the boxes."

When she walks off, I turn to Tom, who raises a hand, "after you."

I give him a nod and a soft smile as I trail after Berta.

Once we get to the cafeteria, it was apparent they really did need help giving out food, for not only were there many old ladies and gentlemen queued up impatiently, there were very apparent individuals giving the poor youth volunteers a hard time over the food.

Berta gives an exasperated gasp.

I place a hand on her shoulder as I watch the scene that was stressing her out, "I've got it," I mutter, walking over to the elderly gentleman and the young lady he was scolding.

Berta watches the scene play out, as does Tom behind her. Tom cannot help but chuckle at the exaggerated expressions and the big smile that replaces the loud remarks that was being thrown.

Berta lets out a sigh as he watched the periodically difficult man walk off happily, "that girl is truly a gem."

Tom nods, humming softly.

"Come along now, love, the food is not going to serve itself."

After disarming the intense argument, I release a sigh and find my way to the food stall, smiling at Tom who was there, blushing at the compliments the elderly ladies were giving him.

"Quite a popular fellow, aren't you," I tease, coming up to his side, as I ask the next person in line what they wanted to eat.

Tom smiles at the lady that tells him he's got gorgeous blue eyes. I chuckle to myself upon hearing it. He turns to me as he grabs an empty plate, "not nearly as popular as you though. You're clearly a fan favorite. Everyone has been asking me about you."

"Hmm, and what have you been saying?"

His lips curve, "that I have but only met the princess today myself, but I am sure she is as brilliant as they have been describing."

I playfully roll my eyes at him, just as a woman greets me by name and title. I match her small curtsy with a nod, as she then begins to trail off about how much she loved my mother, "I remember watching her wedding in '81. Oh, the princess was such a beauty, and you my dear, are the spitting image of her."

I offer her a smile, "that is truly such a compliment. I do try to be more like her everyday."

She sighs, "such a shame. She was gone too soon."

I nod, "yes. Yes, she was."

After that conversation, I the air between Tom and I became a bit rigid. I couldn't blame him. The topic usually elicits that type of reaction. I work on breaking the ice then.

"Tell me, Tom," I say, once we served the last of the people in line. I lean on the food cart as I turn to the taller man.

He nods and peers down on me, brushing off his sleeves along the way.

"Are you one of the very few people on earth that don't like Princess Diana?"

He chokes on his spit.

I snort, "I mean," I raise my hand in surrender, "I do recall how she kept me from eating chocolates to my hearts content, and I say, I still have a bit of resentment in me over that, even after all these years."

Tom breaks into a fit of laughs. It is enough to break his tension.

I join him with much softer laughter before adding, "or perhaps you're just upset you didn't manage to snag a roll in one of the many biographical shows about my family being produced."

Tom snorts again, pressing his lips tightly.

"I have the ladies over there to thank for the information of you being an actor," I tilt my head to the right.

He gathers himself and allows his chuckles to die down a little before continuing. Tom withholds his laughter as he jokes, "I'm actually rather upset over the fact you haven't seen my work."

I match his sarcastic expression with a sigh, "unfortunately, my time watching on the telly is quite limited. I don't have room for bad acting."

Tom hollers, gripping his chest as he throws his head back in laughter, "ok, now that hurts!"

I shrug, pouting as I pat his shoulder, "the truth hurts."

Before Tom could rebut, I hear my name get called by a woman. I pull away from Tom and spot Lizzie. She was, quite frankly, my biggest fan in the place. I wave to her as she does me. Soon enough, she is beckoning me over.

I nod as I smile at her, turning to Tom after, "duty calls."

"I'll be here waiting," he offers, "you've got this, your grace."

I raise a brow at him as I walk off, "it's your royal highness to you."

#tom sturridge #tom sturridge fanfic #tom sturridge fluff #tom sturridge fanfiction #the sandman fanfic #royalty au #princess fanfic #dream of the endless fanfic #rpf fanfic #the sandman fluff #dream of the endless fluff #tom sturridge x reader #tom sturridge x princess!reader #tom sturridge x british royal!reader

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zingaplanet · 1 year

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What the fuck even was that instagram live????????? Sorry???? Jamie Carragher in a spa getting his nails done and missing his call sheet on a cup final day??? GARY ADMITTING HE WAS WORRIED AND CALLING HIS ROOM MULTIPLE TIMES??? GARY - I DON'T LEAVE ANYONE BEHIND - NEVILLE?? GARY - "MY DEAR FRIEND JAMES" NEVILLE?? Jamie walking out shirt untucked 36 minutes late chill af cause he can't be arsed for a ManU match 🥲🥲??? GARY ASKING HIM IF HE'S GOING TO CHANGE (IN THE CAR) IN FRONT OF EVERYONE (AND EHEM HIM)??? GARY MAKING FUN AND EHEM IMAGINING WHAT CARRA WAS DOING (In "his robes and slippers", "in the jacuzzi")?????

Just generally JAMIE CARRAGHER OF BOOTLE, MERSEYSIDE having a spa in a 5 star hotel in London??

+ Floyd mayweather being the best supporting character in the world BLOCKING A LONDON BUS TRYING TO DO A 3 POINT TURN IN FRONT OF THEIR HOTEL IN WHITEHALL?? (Ik exactly where they are actually and pretty sure 90% of those stopping and staring are MPs and civil servants lol🥲 way to have a couple's fight in front of the whole queen, country and prob the Prime Minister lads)

JUST THE WHOLE CHAOS OF THAT INSTAGRAM LIVE?????!!!

#sorry this is british couple chaos at its peak #??how is it possible they're still more idiotic than we thought they were? 🥲#noth's official before you have a full on lover's quarrel in front of queen god country and floyd mayweather #carraville #jamie carragher #gary neville #sky sports #manchester united #fa cup final #football rpf

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mistyrocks · 1 year

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Hockey RPF writers - what do you write in? American English? Canadian English?

#hockey rpf #how jarring will my british english be?

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ephhemeralite · 2 months

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Since you came to ask for my process, I'd like to come over here and ask about yours!! I see you also do drafts, and I'd love to hear how that looks for you 👀

There is no pressure to go as in depth as I did for mine though!!! And there is no rush <333

I hope your writing is going well!!!

hello!! i have written, honestly, so much in response to this. thank you very, very much for asking, because i love to talk about writing!! maybe more than i enjoy writing, even. lord.

one caveat about me and prose: my thing is very, very definitely poetry. i write poetry about every other day and i have done for years. i adore fanfiction -- to write it, to talk about it, to brainstorm about it, to help edit my friends'. i love how collaborative it is, i love its unique sets of tropes, i love when people talk to me about my fics and their own. i LOVE fic. i do not adore writing it the same way. sometimes, i think of it as a means to an end (having a fic i would like to read and am proud to have written). the way that i go about writing fics reflects this, i think.

my process is pretty shaky and i can be bad about sticking to it (i try to 'trick' my brain out of needing the things it needs to complete longform writing. like a FOOL). the general shape of my process is: an inciting idea (a song lyric, a poem, another fic, a tumblr post, "wouldn't it be cool if [blank] happened in a fic?") -> an actual concept (what would actually have to go on in a fic to make [blank] plausible) -> first draft (me telling the story to myself, ugly) -> second draft (rewrite with a lot of influence from the first draft but, like, good to look at). all throughout this process, i tend to take the time to line edit when my brain gets too overwhelmed with the actual writing, since i find editing to be leagues easier. it's a good way to take a break while still working on the fic, but it is deeply inefficient from every other angle. but, hey, the first rule of fic is to have fun and be yourself.

i'm going to go into detail under the cut bc no one's dash deserves what i've done to this ask.

warning (?) for the fact that the fic i'm currently writing is hockey rpf.

i usually start out with rambling to my friends, too! when my hrpf first possessed me, i sent about 15 messages to my friend cara (who doesn't give a shit about hockey or hrpf) that outlined the (hrpf-specific) trope i liked, what fic inspired me (x), and the goal of my own fic. an abbreviated snippet of that:

it could be interesting to play with the two ways the trope manifests (violent/aggressive and protective) (needing to be taken care of/reassured by teammates) via having them both nest. it has the potential to be so tender . . . i have this mental image of ullmark, who is spacy (clue that he's due for nesting on his own) at practice doing drills or smth when he hears swayman yell/yelp/smth (depends on what sets him into nesting, hurt/confronted/whatever) and goes to check on him only to be met with a fully nesting goalie. while trying to calm him down, he ends up nesting, too.

i imagined this as a oneshot with an extended version of this scene and, perhaps, another. i knew what vibe i was shooting for and what content might pair with it. i skipped the concept step, because i am a fool and i hoped it might be short enough to get through writing it with momentum. i did not do that. more on this later.

what an idea turning into a concept should look like:

i want to write a version of the batfamily/white collar crossover that deals with all related topics the way that //i// think they should be handled

into

a two-chaptered fic, heavy on parallels, split between peter and dick's povs. lots of unreliable narration where the parallels draw attention to how unreliable everything is. both chapters should include the same or similar scenes with the characters' first impressions of each other, moments when they clash (insert scene ideas where dick loses agency, peter invades his privacy, a major plotpoint from the show, etc), how that results in a rise in tension, and when that tension breaks in the climax (burning building?? dick fakes his death???), and closing scenes. dick's pov is going to include a lot more family stuff, focus on the issues of the fic, etc, while peter's pov obscures the issues and completely misses the presence of dick's family.

this is only a recreation of what my 'acquainted with the saint of never getting it right' fic's concept would have looked like, since i've lost all of this since i drafted it two years ago, but the thought stands. it's really sparse -- less than your zero draft, even, but the next step in my process is more than a zero draft, so i'd say they hold the same place in my process. i might include references to ideas i have for scenes if i have them, but they're usually few-word clues like "sketchbook" or "peter in apartment for coffee."

since i like to swim without a paddle, my next step is draft one. my goal is to get it down; if the details feel good and come easy, i will include them, but i don't let them trip me up. it's easier to add shit into the next draft than it is for this one to go uncompleted, basically. some word choices from this draft might remain in the final piece, but rarely does sentence structure or much else.

Sway is growling from deep in his chest, projecting the sound out across the ice. The rest of the team is inching away from Sway’s crease and towards Linus, which upsets something in the back of his mind — Sway should have the team around if he's upset. Clearly, with the growling, he doesn't want them close, but that doesn't mean that they should leave him, either. Once he settles down, he's going to want them. Linus knows, he'd had his fair share of triggered nesting episodes when he was younger. Unless there was something specific that’d set him off — then things would be different, according to what he needed — but Linus doubts that. It was mostly likely that this was just a simple rough start and Sway could get into proper nesting the moment he settled down and relaxed in the net. He could show Sway that easily, Linus thinks. His drifting forward comes to a gentle stop near the front of the pack of teammates and coaching staff carefully not crowding Swayman. He registers, in a distant way, that what's happening right now is going to cause a heaping helping of issues for somebody, but he's also not worried about it. At all. What he's worried about is how Sway needs to feel safe right now and how he doesn't. Linus knows that he's never felt safer than while nesting for this team and that he could give Sway that, if he tried. He just has to get Sway to a nest. All he needs to do is tell Sway that and Sway will surely listen. He lets out a loud chirp, cutting off whatever the head and goalie coaches were trying to say to Swayman. Usually, he'd feel pretty guilty about interrupting, but it's alright. He's going to fix the issue; they'll understand. Sway moves from eyeing up the coaches to staring straight at him so fast that Linus worries about him pulling something; all of the more reason to get him safe and tucked away, somewhere where they can both relax. The growl dies abruptly in his throat, which makes Linus want to preen. Clearly he knows his teammates best. Linus chirps again, eager to get this moving along. Eyes locked onto him, Sway chirps back.

this is a pretty long excerpt, sorry, but a lot happens between the first and second draft and this has plenty left unworked.

the first paragraph is alright -- some imagery i like (the growling and the team's movement), linus' thought process toes the line between coherent and incoherent the way i'd like it to (might lift that, wholesale, to the second draft), although the phrasing "which upsets something in the back of his mind" is... eugh.

the second, third, and fourth paragraphs' main use is to outline where linus' mindset is going, although it's clunky and off-target. i just need the reminder to write his mindset in and its vague shape, for this draft, though. if i kept any of this, the phrasing/sentence structure would need to be changed, but it's more likely that i'd scatter it through the movement and description i'd add into the second draft. my first drafts tend to be either all-internal or all-external, so my second drafts act as the equalizer.

beyond that, my second drafts also make everything... longer. so much longer. it helps me move everything from a barebones "this is what probably happens" to "this is what experts call a nice reading experience," you know? plus, i can move forward with draft one with questions still unanswered, like: i haven't actually decided how i want the narration to refer to these characters, yet. the first name vs last name vs nickname and WHEN debate is an important one, but if i got hung up on that first, i'd never actually write the damn fic itself. instead, we can get it moving.

the difference between a first and second draft might look like this for me:

Nile is in the desert. Her boots are stiff with sand, her hands grasping her rifle, her body weary under her gear. She's marching. On the back of her tongue, she tastes blood. There's not another person around for miles. No squadmates, no commander. No civilians, no insurgents. The sun beats down on her from its place at perfect zenith. Nile stumbles to a stop, heaving for the heat. She casts about for her water, but it's not where it should be or anywhere it shouldn't be, either.

Nile is never going to get out of the desert. That’s most of what she knows. There are other things, like: her boots are stiff with sand, her hands are grasping a rifle, her body is weary under her gear. She’s marching. On the back of her tongue, she tastes blood. She’s alone. From horizon to horizon, the terrain is empty of everything but herself. Her squadmates are missing, her commander absent. There are no civilians, no insurgents. The sun beats down on her from its place at perfect zenith, millions of miles away. She stumbles to a stop, heaving for the heat. She wishes, desperate beyond words, for water, but her bottle is missing. It’s not hooked onto her vest or around her hips; she’s never spent a moment more aware of each of the trillion grains of sand that surround her, dry as dust, as in this moment.

(this fic, even the sun knows where you sleep, has been languishing as a half-finished second draft since may of last year. it's a crossover between the old guard and the sandman, where nile has a series of dreams influenced by morpheus. this is one of them) the first draft of this fic is about 5k, but the finished second draft could end up around 15k. long as hell, by my poet standards.

this second draft is lacking line edits, but bloop (my beloved sister, muah, ily, etc) helped me comb through it months ago so the proposed changes are available. the phrasing is prettier, the structure less repetitive, the imagery and setting clearer. the parts of this that are written are just a stone's throw away from being of posting quality. unfortunately, i'm also of the camp no-posting-before-completed, so it won't be.

i have a gomens fic sitting unfinished on my account because i lost steam and interest before i finished the second draft of its last chapter, which is just... so unfortunate. i'd love to finish it, and eventually i might, but i've acquired a bit of distaste for gomens in the meantime and (in the spirit of being myself and having fun) i'm not beating myself up about it. but, like, lesson learned.

back to the point: sometimes, the second draft can change more of a fic (warning for non-graphic violence):

Nile is standing at the window at the top of Merrick's skyscraper, Andy's labrys in hand. The window is shattered again, though there's no other proof of their battle that Nile can sense. Andy is nowhere to be seen, nor is Merrick. Nile doesn't look down through the window, but she knows there's no crushed car or mutilated body, either. There is Nile, standing at the shattered edge, weathering the sharp breeze snapping against her. There is the ax in her hand, the wooden handle rough. Grainy. It hasn't been smoothed by use or through craftsmanship and Nile can feel splinters bite into her grip. The wood is hot, she realizes suddenly – not skin-warm, but the type of hot that comes from holding something porous as it burns and vents heat through places yet untouched by the flame. In panic, she raises her head to find the source and is blinded, completely. The shock of it is such that she stops moving entirely and blinks, uncomprehending – the sun.

Nile is standing in the moment before the fall. The precipice. She’s at the top of Merrick’s tower again. Behind her lies a cold and empty room, made more of shadow than substance. She knows that she is supposed to continue through – see the moment to its end – but she has been given the opportunity to pause, as time comes to a standstill. Some things have changed; Andy and Merrick are missing. The evidence of their fighting is gone, except that the window is already shattered. A cold wind rushes through the absence, knocking sharp teeth against her body, frozen in its lunge forward toward empty space. In her fist is the labrys that should be cutting into the meat of Merrick’s shoulder. Nile can feel the tackiness of blood in her grip on the wooden handle. She wonders at the grainy texture caught beneath it, surprised that time nor craftsmanship hasn’t smoothed it over, before she understands that this is not Andy’s handle. Instead, the roughly-hewn lumber extends from the floor to a place over her head to become a sort of halberd, its point on the floor supporting most of her weight. It's hot, too – not skin-warmth, but the type of heat that comes from holding a porous item as it’s being consumed by fire, venting heat out through places yet untouched by flame. Nile isn’t injured by the blister of it, but the sensation of burning without pain unnerves her and she raises her gaze to find the blade and the flame. Only, she doesn’t make it that far. Lifting her face out of her hunched position brings it to look toward the window, where she discovers the opposite of Merrick’s abyssal building as it inundates her: an immense deluge of light.

there's a lot more definitive changes to structure, phrasing, and imagery here than in my last snippet. i do, in a literal sense, go through and rewrite each word of my fic between drafts, but how many of those words are carried over from the first to the second can vary depending on the quality of the draft. it's way easier for me to rework a pre-existing piece than make something, wholesale, which i'm well aware of and try to cater to. this is the method that's seen my writing improve the most, even though i think it's wildly impractical and unwieldy. i've even done it with this exact post, which part of why it's taking me so long to finish it!

i'm trying something new with the process on the hrpf, since it's been giving me so much trouble. the theme's changed a bit, with a wider scope and something specific to say, but i also want to incorporate a social media/journalism/outsider's perspective element, which will let me move around outside of the characters' narrations while establishing the wider world of the au. this new step is as close to a zero-draft as i've gotten, even though it's still way less detailed. it looks like this:

MOST VIOLENT VS MOST AMIABLE GOALIES TO NEST IN THE NHL listicle Sway and Linus discuss nesting, Linus has settled into a pattern Could gentle-nester ullmark be a calming influence over swayman or will he dull his edge? speculative piece, focus more on the first option maybe to contrast the move towards understanding anger. Bruins vs buffalo, ullmark in net (dec. 7 game? If the timeline for that works), linus is upset at the loss/it goes bad somehow. Sway is supportive in a more assertive way than typical. It doesn’t start here but it turns here Can’t decide if tweets or something would be good here Internal, staff-only memo advising to keep sway away from linus when he’s feeling broody.

each line represents a separate 'chunk' of the fic. with the added elements, i need to know what will go where so that i can make sure the storytelling tracks throughout. i'm still on this part of the draft, but i'm having a good time with it again which is what i think is most important.

anyway, thank you for asking!! i definitely love to talk about writing! i'm always sooo down to chat, too, except for maybe right now because i am going to pass out asleep i think. <3!!!!!!

#answered ask #experiencing the horrors of this british literature class but we keep going!!!!#<- this was uhm ten hours ago i am in bed now.#sorry if you didn't want to hear about rpf. that's where im at tho

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lokidokieokie · 1 year

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Friends With the Green-Eyed Monster

Request by @laufeysonbarneslover: please can you do an imagine with prompts 9 and 11 where tom hiddleston and reader are best friends and live together but reader had a wet dream about chris hemsworth with a fluffy ending. thank you so much, love your work xxx

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Roommate!Reader

Warning(s): Language (like two naughty words), maybe some slight angst (we’ll see how we go), fluff central towards the end!

Prompts:

#9 - “I read your diary...”

#11 - “Wait a minute...are you jealous?”

At first, everyone had advised you that moving in with your best friend wasn’t the best idea. That you’d probably “get fed up with all his little idiosyncrasies” and want to move out after a couple weeks.

But that wasn’t the case at all.

Living with Tom was probably the best decision that you had ever made in your life. From the 3am snack runs to the nearest convenience store to the weekly tickle sessions on the couch; home with Tom was the one place you always wanted to be.

But something was off today. Tom didn’t greet you with one of his cheesy one-liners as he walked through the door, he didn’t give you his daily little kiss on the cheek. He just walked straight to his room and shut the door behind him.

Maybe he’s just had a rough day on set? You thought to yourself, but shrugged off the worry and continued on with your work. Writing that one romance novel about best friends falling for each other wasn’t going to write itself...and the hope that the universe would give you some real experience in the area was slowly dwindling.

By 10pm, Tom still hadn’t come out of his room, and you were beginning to worry something bigger had happened. However, the thought that he may have fallen asleep deterred you from knocking on his door.

Quietly opening your bedroom door, you made your way inside, softly shutting it behind you. Walking over to the bed you began changing into your pyjamas, the knotting feeling in your stomach growing as every second passed by.

You were incredibly worried. Tom had never acted like this before; granted, he had his bad days, but he never locked himself away in his room to deal with them.

Sighing, you crawled into bed, hoping to whatever higher being was out there that Tom would be okay.

It was now 3:24am, and your attempts at slipping off into a leisurely slumber were pretty much pointless. Your worries for Tom were churning your insides and kept you wide awake.

Finally having enough, you opened your door and quietly walked across the hallway. Now that you were standing in front of his door, you took a deep breath. It was now or never.

You raised your fist and gently collided it with the dark wood.

“Tom? Are you awake?”

You waited for a response, but it didn’t seem like you were getting one. The knot in your stomach continued to tighten.

“That’s it! I’m coming in.”

When you opened your door, your heart absolutely shattered. Sitting on the bed was a dishevelled Tom. His hair was all over the place, eyes rimmed red. Had he been crying?

Quickly rushing to the other side of the bed you climbed in and pulled him into a hug.

“Tom? What’s wrong? Did something go wrong on set yesterday?”

He shook his head and your face twisted into confusion. “Then what’s wrong? You never shut yourself off like this.”

He sighed, “I read your diary...”

You jolted back, a frown beginning to form on your face. “What?”

He refused to face you and continued staring off into space.

“It wasn’t on purpose, Darling. It was open when I found it, and you had been acting unusual all day. I- I just wanted to make sure that you were okay.”

You scowled and pulled away from him, “And that gives you the right to read something extremely personal about me?”

Finally turning to face you, his red-rimmed eyes stared straight into yours.

“It doesn’t in the slightest, Love--and I sincerely regret doing so. What I found in there was something that I never needed to know about you.” He spoke with such disdain that you could tell what he read wasn’t what he was expecting to find.

You huffed, “And what in there disgusted you so much, Tom? Was it my inner thoughts and feelings? My rants on how work my co-workers treated me like shit one day? How normal and boring my life is compared to yours?”

“No! No at all...It was just...”

“Just what Tom? Do I really disgust you that mu-”

“You had a sex dream about Chris Hemsworth! A very vivid sex dream if I have to go into detail.”

You tried so hard to stop a laugh from escaping your lips, “That’s it? The fact that I had a sex dream about Hemsworth?”

The look on his face radiated pure anger with a hint of something else...was that?

“Wait a minute...are you jealous?”

He didn’t answer, but the drifting of his eyes from your face to the floor spoke a thousand words.

“Why does that bother you? I’m a grown adult, I can have sex dreams about whoever the fuck I want, Tom. I don’t see why you need to care about it.”

That seemed to push Tom over the edge, “I JUST DO, Y/N!”

You were stunned. Tom had never yelled at you before; his eyes widened in realisation.

“I- I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

“Tom, I just don’t understand why you’re so worked up about it. It’s nothing to be upset over.”

He just sighed, “I can’t stand the thought of you dreaming about sleeping with other men, and you still can’t see why that bothers me? I thought it would be obvious after my outburst...”

You shook your head, still not understanding whatever he was trying to say.

He lifted his eyes to face you once again and let out a little smile, “I love you, Y/n.”

Your eyes widened; your mouth slowly opening in shock. He loved you?

“I understand if this changes the foundations of our relationship, but I can’t lose you; especially to someone as close to me as Hemsworth, he’s like my broth-”

You cut off his rambling by pressing a soft kiss to his lips. The wires in his brain seemingly short-circuiting in the process, enabling him unable to speak for a few moments after you pulled back.

You pressed a kiss to his reddened cheek, “There’s no reason to be so held up on losing me to Hemsworth when my heart is already owned by you, Hiddles.”

A small smile graced his face at your confession, “That...that is music to my ears, Darling.”

A/N I was so excited to do this one. I hope you enjoyed it!

Taglist @thewaithfuckingannoyme

#requested #tom hiddleston #british rpf #hiddleston #hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston x reader #hiddles #jealous!Tom #jealousy

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viking-raider · 1 year

Text

A Witcher's Legacy - PART FOUR: MUTAGENS

Summary: What should have been a short stay in Beauclair, turns into something much more complicated. Both to your and Geralt's present and future.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia/Reader

Word Count: 6.6k

Parts: I II III

Warning: PG - Witcher!AU, Dad!Geralt, Protective!Geralt, Sassy!Reader, Language, Nicknames, Medical Experiment, Portals, Monster Fight, Mention of Smut, Fluff, Mention of Grave Robbing, Witcher Mutagens, Bickering, Mage Technology

Inspiration: A subject from my story, A Witcher’s Destiny, Season Two of Netflix’s the Witcher and the quest, Turn and Face the Strange, in The Witcher 3!

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy it! Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

If you would like to be added A Witcher’s Legacy Tag List, please message me!

I also have the story on my AO3

If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLIST and turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy!’

“Who's the letter from, Geralt?” You asked, watching the little carrier boy run off, excited about the ten crowns Geralt had kindly given him.

Frowning, Geralt unfolded the parchment, finding another piece of folded paper inside with a familiar writing in black ink. “Yennefer.” He said softly, casting his eyes up to you for a moment.

“Oh.” You replied, a tight smile pulling across your lips. “A wonder how she found out we were in Toussaint, since we just arrived.” You commented to yourself, moving to a vine covered staircase, with roses the size of your hand, the color of butter and the finest Toussaint Red, making the air so fragrant.

Letting out a humming grunt, Geralt read the letter aloud.

“My dear friend, I've been told you're on a jaunt in Toussaint, with your sweetheart. I've come upon some information which might be of interest to you. While browsing through a colleague's, Tomas Moreau's, book collection, I found mention of him conducting research into mutations.” Geralt scowled at the letter, a troubled feeling brewing in the pit of his stomach. “The details I've come to learn are rather vague and his laboratory's location remains a mystery. Yet his journal should at least provide hints as to both. It is said he was laid to rest with it in his tomb. I enclose a map I found in the tome I happened upon. Though less than completely legible, I trust it will prove useful.”

“Your friend, Yennefer.”

“So, mutations.” You echoed, turning back to Geralt and folding your arms tightly over your chest. “What kind of mutations? Was he trying to mutate the normal stuff or do you think he was trying to fuss around with Witcher mutations?”

“It's hard to tell without finding his laboratory and discovering more about his research.” He replied, pushing his jaw forward has he stared down at the letter, mulling it over in his mind. “I need to look into this. If he was testing mutagens for Witchers, then I have to find it and get it back to Vesemir.”

“Before anyone else finds it.”

“All right then.” You nodded, chewing on your lip, just as concerned. “Where to first?” You asked, wishing to help.

“Yennefer's letter said he was possibly buried with the location of his laboratory.” He said, unfolding the map the Sorceress had enclosed. “So, we go there and find it.” Geralt examined the map for a long moment, his brow twitching in his concentration. “It looks as if he was buried in Orlémurs Cemetery. That's not too far from here.”

“We can walk.”

“Lovely.” You smiled, then glanced about. “Which way, you big grump?” You asked, eyes sparkling with amusement.

Geralt smirked back at you, waving a hand towards the gently sloping, pathway. “This way, Firefly.” He replied, with a cock of his head.

Nodding yours at him, you started down the brick street, Geralt following closely behind you. The Capital city of Toussaint, Beauclair, was gorgeous and it filled you with a light, gaiety that put a skip in your step and a pleased smile on your face. As you looked about. Taking the architecture in, the hot sun beaming down on top of your head and shoulders, reflecting your mood. Geralt smiled at the back of you, seeing and sensing the joyfulness inside of you. He felt it seep into him.

You had an effect on him and his ordinarily sulky moods.

“It's so beautiful here.” You commented, glancing at Geralt over your shoulder.

“That it is.” He agreed, looking about, seeing the bustling stalls and shops, the Toussaintois going about their business and day. “We'll have to make our stay a more serious one.” He said, moving around to your side, his arm wrapping around your waist as you passed through a thick crowd. “I know this is your first time here.” He smiled, dipping his head slightly to press his lips to your temple, in a rare show of public affection.

“Hm.” You hummed, nudging your shoulder into his side. “That would be nice.” You cooed, looking up at him, trusting him to guide you. “You do still have a few injuries to nurse from that Wyvern contract, you took in Caravista.”

He grunted back at you, still smiling as you crossed out of the city gates. “It's settled, then. I'll investigate this matter, and afterwards, we'll find the best room in the best inn, and we won't leave until you wish to.”

“So, until they kick us out?” You quipped, giggling.

“As you wish.” Geralt chuckled, as you both stepped off the paved path of Beauclair and onto the well trod trail to the large, Orlémurs Cemetery.

Making it to the Cemetery, that looked like a manicured set of ruins with grave-sites dotting it, you and Geralt drifted apart, searching the faces of cracked and crooked, tombstones, that had seen many years out in the open weather and tears of loved ones.

“What did Yenn say, this colleague of hers name was?” You called out to Geralt, reading the worn name of Patrick Moulins, who, according to his headstone, had talked himself to death.

“Tomas Moreau.” Geralt returned, walking along a line of graves, before stopping. “Found him!”

You joined him before the overgrown and disheveled grave, the heavy stone that was meant to seal Professor Moreau's coffin in the ground, slightly askew. You looked at Geralt a confused and questioning expression on your face. Frowning back at you, Geralt moved closer to the grave, dropping to a squat to read the mossy etching.

“Typical Mage. It's in Elder Speech.” He huffed, shaking his head. “Ellas k'havani allder aen Dol Naev'de, ellas allder n'corrason. Glorsann a'Aelirenn.” He read aloud, despite it sounding like gibberish to you. “Salvation lies not in Dol Naev'de, but in our hearts. Glory be to Aelirenn.” He translated, as he reached into the grave, through the small opening, feeling around.

“Oh god.” You frowned, biting your lip and imaging his hand touching one of the Professor's bones.

Not the worst thing he's ever touched, honestly. You thought, shaking your head.

“Do you think it has anything do with what you're looking for?” You asked, as he glanced side to side, knowing he was falling into his Witcher seek and find mode.

“Maybe.” He rumbled back. “Someone's robbed the grave, the journal isn't inside.” He said, narrowing his eyes against the bright, cloudless sun and looked around, before standing back up. “The grave won't tell us anything more.” He said, pull Yenn's map from his back pocket.

“A regular ol' treasure hunt.” You quipped, peeking around his arm. “Anything helpful?”

“The map has mention of Aelirenn and Dol Naev'de, also known as Valley of the Nine.” He said, pointing them out on the map for you. “There's a small mark on it. So, it's worth a look. I'll have to grab Roach to make the trip though. It's a long way from here.”

He folded the map up and tucked into his pocket, then turned back towards Beauclair.

“Geralt.” You called out to him, motioning to the grave, when he turned back to face you.

“What?” He frowned, not catching the meaning of your gesture.

“Close it.” You cooed at him, with a somber expression. “It's not right someone disturbed him for a book.”

“We just disturbed him for a book, min minne.” Geralt countered, the corner of his lip twitching.

“Still, Geralt. He deserves his rest, as we all do.” You entreated him.

Drawing a soft sigh, Geralt returned to the grave side and leaned over it, he used the strength of his powerful arms to shove the thick stone slab back into its rightful place over Professor Moreau's coffin. He straightened up and looked at you, lifting a brow, and you nodded at him, satisfied.

“One less dead person risen from the grave you have to deal with.” You commented, sarcastically. patting him on the back and kissing his cheek.

“Funny.” Geralt chuckled, giving your bum a playful smack, making you yip. “You can't come with me.” He said, as you returned to Beauclair and where you had left Roach.

“Why not?” You frowned, a bit disappointed, you enjoyed helping him with his contracts.

“I don't know how dangerous this could be.” He reasoned, grabbing Roach by the reins. “I won't endanger you. So, I'm going to take you to the Rose and Knight inn, in the center of the City, and you'll wait for me there.”

“What if something happens to you?” You argued, following after him, while he led you through the streets.

“What else would be new?” He chuckled at you over his shoulder.

“The new thing is this matter isn't about you going to slay a monster in the countryside.” You huffed, annoyed by how nonchalant he was being. “This professor was mucking about with mutations.”

Geralt's shoulders slumped and he stopped, his head hung for a second, before he finally turned around to look at you. He could see all the concern and fear in your eyes over this task, more so than usual. Which he understood. Considering it for a minute longer, Geralt tugged Roach around and mounted up, then reached down and pulled you up behind him.

“If anything should happen-”

“I know, I know.” You assured him, leaning against his back. “Tuck tail and run.”

The ride through the Toussaint countryside was stunning. The rolling hills of vineyards baking in the cloudless sun, their vines drooping with fat grapes waiting to be picked and turned into area's finest wine. Homey and extravagant villas dotted the landscape as well, abuzz with their daily chores as you Geralt rode by them.

You sighed, pressing your cheek against Geralt's shoulder blade, relaxing. “I could stay here forever.” You cooed, as Geralt guided Roach onto a path that led in a thicket of trees, cooling you with their leaf-y shade, after the unrelenting heat.

“Oh.” Geralt answered, his chuckle rumbling against your cheek. “That's because you haven't seen it in the winters.”

“It can't be much worse than Kaer Morhen.” You commented, smirking.

“Oh, you'd be surprised.”

Coming out of the woods and around the bend of a sloping hill, Geralt pulled Roach to a stop on the shore of a large and startling clear lake, where the two of you got down. Geralt took a sword from a holster that hung the horse's saddle and the pouch of his vials from in the bag, before the two of you started looking for any indication of an entrance to a mysterious laboratory. You walked along the one side of the shore, where the bank was built up, eroded from years of the lake water lapping at, while Geralt check the water.

“What is it with Mages and their mysteries?” You sighed, shaking your head.

“They live too long.” Geralt grunted back. “After so many years on the Continent, they become paranoid and full of themselves.”

“Starting to make a lot of sense.” You agreed, spotting a unique little rock sitting on the edge of the sand and grass. Going for the rock, you noticed a narrow, grassy culvert that went back a good way. You couldn't see where it ended, or if there was an end, with the limbs of several trees flanking the culvert drooping over it, like a leafy curtain.

“Geralt.” You called out, cocking your head and taking a step into the ditch. “What about over here?” You mumbled, inching further.

The Witcher turned, just as you disappeared and called out your name. “She'll be the death of me.” He sighed, hurrying to follow after you. “Wait.” He hissed under his breath, grabbing you by the wrist as he came up behind, pulling you to a halt. “We don't know if the Professor's lab is down here or what is.”

“You need to be careful.” He softly scolded you, protectively.

“Sorry.” You whispered back, but cast your eyes up ahead. “But don't you think we should check it out?”

“I will investigate it. You will stay behind me.” Geralt corrected you, pulling his sword and moving forward.

You stayed on Geralt's heels, while he used the tip of his sword to part the tree branches, the muscles of his body tense and every one of his keen senses on high alert for anything out of the ordinary and wishing ill intent. You jerked and gasped softly at the whoop of a bird in the distance, instinctively grabbing the back of Geralt's black shirt.

Coming out of the other side of the foliage, you and Geralt discovered a decayed stone wall. It was covered in moss and dead, creeping vines, several of its ashy stones laying in the spongy, overgrown grass and mud. You saw nothing special about it and figured Geralt hadn't either, so you started to turn back.

“Fuck.” Geralt growled under his breath, stopping you.

“What's wrong?” You frowned, turning back to him.

“I hate portals.” He scowled, moving closer to stone wall and bent over, picking up what you had figured was just a rock, then slotted it into one of the gaps.

A low hissing, hum filled the space around you and the hair on your forearms stood up as the static from the portal mounted. Geralt stepped back from the wall, took a deep breath, and with a jerk of his arm, produced the Sign of his Aard. The Aard hit the stone, making it wobble in its base, before it started to glow and an arched portal appeared on the face of the wall.

“That's promising.” You commented, looking at Geralt with a lifted brow.

He shot you a dark, narrow eyed look and approached the portal, taking deep slow breaths. “What's wrong with a good, solid locked door?” He complained under his breath, before stepping through.

“Kills giant, poisonous monsters for a living. Terrified of portals.” You grinned, hooting with laughter, and following after him.

You came stumbling out the other side, gasping for air, disoriented and nauseous. But managed to land on your feet and was slowed down by Geralt's strong arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you against his torso. He looked you over, with an expression that wanted to make sure everything was in the right place and you had all the part you were meant to have.

“I'm fine, Geralt.” You cooed at him, gently kissing his stubbly cheek.

Nodding, he let you go and glanced around the cavernous room you had been spit out into. It smelled damp, moldy, airless and like a nest of Kikimore had been using it as a litter box. You could hardly see more than two feet in front of you, but thankfully Geralt had no such issue. His sharp, cat-like eyes could see around you, as if it was a well lit room. So, you made sure to keep near him, putting your feet where his had been.

The place was like Elven ruins that had caved in or been covered over across time. With tall arches and columns. Rubble and rubbish littered the ground, making your footing unsure as you went deeper in. Geralt stopped, causing you to bump him, your lips parting in question of why he had halted, until you saw the spark of his Igni, lighting something you couldn't quite make out in the shadows. Until, it ignited, a iron brazier, casting an amber glow against the wall and a small radius around its base.

“This is a crazy place to have a lab.” You criticized, giving the place a better look, now that the brazier was lit. “I can understand wanting to do your research in peace and privacy. But hiding your portal in such away, then having to navigate through a ruin to get to it.” You shook your head, confused.

“It seems like over kill.”

“It is.” Geralt agreed, lighting another brazier, that revealed a crumbling set of stairs. “It's only making me more suspicious of what type of mutagens he was working with.”

Your eyes shot up to the back of his head, an uneasy feeling filling your stomach at the thought of Professor Moreau testing Witcher mutagens.

Carrying on, you descended the stairs and passed through a narrow hallway, coming out into an elevated cross way, leading off in three directions, one of which was blocked off by a large statue of a panther. Sighing, Geralt moved forward, investigating the other two paths, in doing so, he discovered the body of the grave robber.

“Hm.” He grunted, shaking his head at the poor soul, but nevertheless, he searched his person for the Professor's journal, only finding a few loose pages of it.

“Geralt.” You called out, softly.

“One moment.” He answered, scanning the pages, learning the Professor had become paranoid with someone trying to break into his laboratory, and had installed security measures.

“Geralt.” You called again, a bit more urgently.

“What is it, min minne?” He sighed, turning on his heels to look back at you.

Your eyes were fixated on the panther statue standing menacingly above Geralt. “Is-is that-” You licked your lips, trying to compose yourself. “Is that statue-the panther's eyes—supposed to glow?” You asked, your voice squeaking a bit at the end as your eyes flared.

Geralt's head jerked upward to the statue, just in time to have the creature strike out against him. “Run!” He roared back at you, fumbling for his sword.

Not needing any other prompts, you turned on your heels and bolted down the hallway from where the two of you had just come. The panther knocked Geralt flat onto his back, forcing him to brace his forearm against its throat in prevention of its powerful jaws from biting into anything vital. Unable to grab his sword, Geralt brought up one foot, yanking a dagger from inside his boot and driving the needle thin blade into the snarling animal's neck. The panther gurgled, then dissolved into a pile of ash, revealing itself to be a specter, one of Professor Moreau's security attempts.

Getting up, Geralt searched for you, running almost full speed down the passageway and up the crumbling stairs. But skid to a halt, when he found you by the first brazier, a look of terror and worry on your face. Seeing Geralt was all right, you ran to him, colliding into his chest and locking your arms around his torso, to hide your face in his neck.

“You see now, why I didn't want you to come?” He sighed, resting his head on top of yours.

You nodded, still to overcome to speak for a second. “I do, but I still want to help.”

“I don't know what help you can be.” He countered, tipping your head back, so you looked at him, studying your eyes. “You are the most stubborn woman I've ever met.” He chuckled, shaking his head, knowing he couldn't deter you.

“It's why you fell in love with me.” You quipped back at him.

“One of the reasons.” He teased back, before becoming serious again. “You'll stay in the room I've cleared, before going any farther, do you understand me?”

“Loud and clear, Witcher.” You nodded, pushing up on your toes to kiss him.

Continuing on, You and Geralt navigated through the maze, hoping you were getting closer to the Professor's lab and the answers to your questions. There hadn't been any more specters to jump out and attack either, but there had been a few traps Geralt needed to disarm, before either of you could move forward. Such as a spike trap, that came up out of the floor.

“This place is endless.” You remarked, edging around the disarmed spikes, heart pounding in your chest.

“Seems that way.” Geralt answered, waiting for you, then entered the next room. “The fuck.” He barked, brow wrinkling.

“What?” You called out, staying in the other room, just like he wanted you to. “Is it safe?”

Geralt took a deep breath, studying the creepy Gargoyles that lined alcoves on the main level, with an inactive portal, while the next two levels were lined with inactive portals. “Stay there.” He barked, slowly approaching two pedestals in the center of the room, on either side of a massive statue, and examined them, finding scrap marks on the sides.

Looking at the Gargoyles, he noticed two of them were missing hands. Narrowing his eyes, Geralt approached one and broke the hand off with blast of his Aard. Taking the heavy piece of stone to the pedestal, he rested it on top and a loud clicking noise echoed in the room, followed by the unmistakable whoosh of a portal opening. Turning in a circle and casting his eyes around, Geralt found one of the portals on the upper level active.

“Geralt.” You shouted, planting you hands on your hips.

“Just wait.” He growled, seeing if he could map out a way up to the portal, but wasn't sure where it would take him or if he could get back.

Taking the stone hand off the first pedestal, Geralt shifted it to the other one, gaining the same results he did with the other one, but opening a portal on the middle tier. Humming, he broke off another Gargoyle hand and set it on the other pedestal, activating both portals, but not the portal on the main level.

“What's the issue, Geralt?” You called out to him, growing curious.

“Mage shenanigans.” He growled under his breath, circling the statue and regarding the other gargoyles and inactive portals.

Impatient with waiting for Geralt to tell you the way was safe, you strode into the room, but jerked back a step, surprised by the thick set of grotesque gargoyles. You recovered quickly though, spotting the singing portals and your frustrated Witcher.

“What's the rub?” You asked, lifting a brow at him.

“That portal-” He pointed to the portal in question. “needs to activate. But so far, only these two have.” He explained, motioning to the others.

“Mmhm. Quite the situation.” You nodded, biting your lip.

“Yes.” Geralt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I loathe mages.”

“Didn't you date one?” You inquired, giving him a teasing and sharp gaze.

“Against my better judgment.” He replied, rolling his eyes.

“So, what happens, if you only have one of the pedestals active?” You asked, studying them.

“Only one of the portals open.”

“Have you tried going through one of them?”

“No, not yet, and I'm not really in a rush to.” He answered, pacing. “I don't know where they go, or if once I go through them, that I can get back here.”

“Perhaps, you're right.” You sighed, gazing at the statue. “Mages do live too long.”

That brought a soft chuckle out of Geralt. “They do.”

Seeing no other options, Geralt began climbing towards the portal on the middle tier, just as you noticed a crevice, low in the robe of the statue. Glancing between it and Geralt, you slipped your hand inside of it, praying not to come into contact with any unsavory creatures that could make their home in the small space, and felt around.

“Geralt, wait!” You called out, your fingers coming into contact with something.

“What is it!” He called back, spinning around as he stood before the portal. “What's wrong?”

“I found something! But I can't quite manage it.” You told him, staining.

“Don't touch it!” He warned you, jumping back down and quickly moving to your side. “It might be a trap.” He told you, his breath hot on your neck.

“And if it's not?” You asked, looking up at him.

“Move, I'll do it. Go back into the other room. In case, something happens.” He ordered you, jerking his white head towards the door.

Knowing that arguing with Geralt was useless, you did as he asked of you, but angled yourself so you could see him. Geralt pulled his glove off and wedged his large hand into the crevice, just finding the button that was hidden inside. With a little wiggling, he pressed on the button and yanked his hand back out again, readying himself for the worst.

Several of the gargoyles turned on hidden bases in the floor, all turning to face the statue and the direction of the inactive bottom portal, and a suspenseful moment later, the portal came to life. Geralt let out a huff of amused surprise, looking the portal over.

“It worked!” He called out to you. “And, it's safe.”

You ran into the room and grinned at the portal, proud that you had figured out a Mage's security system, but felt your stomach twist a little bit. “So, do we go through it?” You asked, looking up at Geralt.

“It's through there or back the way we've come.” He replied, pulling his glove back on. “I'll go first, in case there's anything dangerous.”

“Very well, I'll wait a minute, then follow after you.” You nodded, lightly touching his arm.

Nodding, Geralt stepped through the portal with no further ado and you waited anxiously for a minute or two, stomach in knots not knowing if Geralt was in the fight for his life on the other side, wherever it led. Unable to wait any longer, you slipped through the portal after him, coming out the other side gasping and sick to your stomach, but intact.

“Geralt?” You called out, pressing a hand to your tummy.

“Welcome to Professor Moreau's laboratory.” He replied, coming from around a corner.

You looked about the strange and disheveled space with a shake of your head. “I expected more.” You answered, moving down a set of stairs.

Geralt had lit the many braziers and standing candelabras situated around the room, giving the already unsettling room an unsettling feeling. You found cluttered tables, bookcases, tall brass instruments, a Mage communication device, a large, iron cage and a huge and grotesque, glass specimen jar with something black and almost human floating in it.

“Well, have you learned anything yet?” You asked, hugging your arms against your chest, even with the braziers, there was an eerie cold about the place.

“There are Megascope crystals on a pillow next to Moreau's Megascope.” He motioned to them, next to the mage communication system of three stands, that stood in a circle, a loop at the top, where the crystals rested and a powerful piece of glass to project the image magically etched onto the crystal. “I found another on that desk over there.” He added, motioning over to it.

“I'm going to see what our dear Professor has on them.” He said, moving over to the Megascope.

“I can dig around, see if there are anymore.” You said, glancing about. “Or anything else of interest.”

“All right, just don't touch whatever those are.” He said, pointing to the brass instruments, one of which looked like a strange Iron Maiden.

“Don't have any plans to, love.” You gulped, getting goose-bumps as you edged by them.

Geralt picked up the three crystals, slotting them into the Megascope and turned the rune cylinder at the bottom of one of them, activating that specific crystal's information. A bleak image of Professor Moreau, devoid of color, flickered to life in the center of the Megascope stands. Professor Moreau wore typical mage robes, he had a wrinkled face with a pair of pinch glasses perched on his nose, and spoke with a typical Toussaint accent.

“Today, I begin my great life's endeavor, one greater and more significant than any I have thus far undertaken, for it relates to me personally. To me and my son.” He spoke, confessing his son, Jerome, was a Witcher and he made an oath to recover him, his apparition turning in circles as he spoke.

“So, it is Witcher mutagens.” You said, poking around a bookcase.

“Yes.” Geralt nodded, troubled.

The crystal ended with the Professor vowing, Gods being on his side, to reverse the Witcher mutagens in Jerome and make him an ordinary man again.

“I wonder if the Professor managed to do so.” He frowned, turning on the next crystal.

“Observation twenty-two, despite applying a surfeit of toxic substances, significantly more than usual, the subject displayed no symptoms of overdose.” Professor Moreau's reanimated projection explained, as Geralt stroked his scruffy cheek. “This is a minor success. Jerome may be able to tolerate better toxicity.”

The crystal ended with a soft pop and Geralt moved on to the next crystal, explaining how to make the mutagens less taxing and listing the mutagen base. He slotted the last crystal he had in, listening to Moreau speak about how one mutagen could be transmuted into another through the addition of certain ingredients, and of his subject, though on the brink of death, was much stronger than he had been and came back from the edge of death.

“It seems he's enhanced his subject, instead of cured them.” Geralt commented, more to himself than you.

“Have you never met this Jerome?” You asked, coming to stand beside him.

“No.” He shook his head. “But that's not too uncommon. He might be from another Witcher school or dead.”

“Ah. Well, I did find the Professor's journal on Witcher Mutagens.” You informed him, holding up the worn, purple, cloth bound book to him. “I suppose, you want to take it and the Megascope crystals back to Kaer Morhen with us.”

Geralt gave you a golden glance from the corner of his eyes, that told you he did, but not before getting into something you weren't going to be happy about. You sighed at him, letting your hand drop back to your side, eyes falling shut for a moment.

“You want to test this mutagen stuff out, don't you?” You asked, needlessly.

“I do.” Geralt answered, with a short nod.

“Why?” You groaned, looking up at him with a pleading look. “Can't we at least go to Kaer Morhen and do it in a safe environment, with Vesemir? That way, if something happens, we'll have him to revive your stupidity?”

A broad grin passed over his lips. “But all the equipment is already here, min minne.” He cooed at you. “We'd have to build all of it at the Keep.”

“Then, you'd have to fight Eskel and Lambert for first go inside.” You added, knowing that was going to be his next argument. “I thought you were over the whole Trial of the Grasses! You bitch about how hard it was! How much it hurt and blah blah! But you're all pony up to do this?” You scolded him, shaking your head. “Jaskier would be tripping over his lute, if he was here to witness this.”

“What if it fails and you die!” You protested, waving the book in his face.

“I'm sure I'll be fine.” He smiled, kissing you lightly on the forehead.

You rolled your eyes at him. “It's not like I can talk you out of it. So, what do you need me to do?” You sighed, giving in.

“I want you to go through his book and tell me what ingredients I need.” He said, brushing the back of his fingers against your cheek, trying to pacify you.

“Very well.” You glanced around and found a low stool by the table, next to the strange Iron Maiden, and took it up, starting to skim through the book, while Geralt investigated the rest of the laboratory.

“Something about a Pale Widow.” You said aloud, still skimming. “Getting a syringe full of mutated giant centipede albumen from the Pale Widow and the Ashwagandha herb.” You looked up at Geralt.

“That's all it states.”

“Well, he has to have it readily here.” Geralt answered, scanning the room, spotting an opening in the stone wall inside the iron cell and a well used needle on the wooden table you sat beside. “Stay here, I'll be right back.” He said softly, heading that way.

“Ger-” You started to call after him, before giving up and going back to reading the book.

Geralt ducked into the opening in the wall, finding a dank and dripping tunnel, following it into a large, cavernous space, the floor deep with stinking mud. He slowly pulled his sword as he dropped into the mud, knowing a space like this was a ripe place for a creature to live and attack. But he only saw the walls lined with eggs, quiet and dormant. His medallion was still, giving no indication of magic or monster wishing ill intent upon him.

Though, he kept a firm grip on the hilt of his sword, approaching one of the eggs. He squatted down and pulled the dagger from his boot, slicing open the egg, to be greeted with a putrid scent, making his nose wrinkle. There was a long dead, juvenile, mutated giant centipede inside. Geralt wouldn't have been surprised if the Professor had been keeping its parent as a pet, breeding it for the eggs in his countless Mutagen experiments, then killed the elder after he gave up, leaving the babies to starve and rot off.

Stuffing his dagger back into his boot, Geralt pricked the curled up corpse with the syringe and drew out what little albumen was left inside of it, getting half a syringe full. He cut open another, until the needle chamber was full, then returned to you.

“All right, Albumen acquired.” He said, holding up the syringe.

“I found the herb, Ashwagandha, in one the chests.” You answered, pointing to where you laid it on the table. “All you have to do, is put them both in that boiler, then get into the machine yourself.” You told him, a hard lump forming in your throat, at the thought of your beloved Wolf getting into the iron maiden contraption.

Nodding, Geralt set the syringe down carefully, along with his sword, before pulling off his boots. He stripped naked and looked at you, seeing the worry and conflict on your face. “I'll be fine, Firefly.” He cooed at you, reaching out to cup your cheek for a moment.

“You best be, or I'll never forgive you.” You whimpered back, turning your head to kiss his palm.

Adding the ingredients and activating it, Geralt stepped into the machine, while you stood there, helplessly. You paced before the machine for several minutes, figuring that's all it would take, listening to it pop, hiss and clank. But ten minutes went by and Geralt didn't step out. Thirty minutes, still Geralt was inside. You grew concerned, debating on whether or not you should open it and check on him.

Perhaps he'd passed out and couldn't open the door himself? Or what if he was-

No, he's fine. You cut off the thought, pressing a fist to your mouth. He knows what he's doing. Geralt knows his limits. You tried reassuring yourself, pacing from the bottom of the stairs to the back of the room, your restless impatience growing as the hour and half mark was passed.

You started at the sound of unoiled hinges opening, lifting your head from the table you had rested yourself on, several hours before. However, seeing the door to the machine open and realizing Geralt was finally coming out, you jumped to your feet and rushed to him, just getting your arms around his torso as his legs gave out from under him.

“Geralt!” You panted, feeling his burning skin through your clothing, his head heavy on your shoulder as you both went down to your knees. “Are you all right?” You inquired, hearing his breathing slightly labored.

You cupped his face in your hands and pushed his head up, shocked to find his eyes glowing, the skin of his face dark and marked with black lines, as if he had taken one of his potions or elixirs. He didn't speak for a long time, just catching his breath and resting against you, his eyes and skin returning to normal.

“I'm all right.” He rasped, gulping thickly, his throat and mouth dry. “I'll be all right.” He groaned, pushing himself up onto his feet, wobbling for a second. “How long was I in there for?”

“Hours.” You replied, standing as well. “I was starting to think you weren't coming back out.”

He nodded, moving around the table for his clothing, which in your anxious impatience, you had folded. “We should go.” He said, sluggishly pulling them on.

“For fuck sake, Geralt, sit down and rest for a moment.” You barked at him, pointing to the stool by his leg.

“I'm fine.” He grunted back at you, bunching up his black shirt to pull it over his head and jamming his feet into his boots.

“All right, fine.” You huffed back. “While you were having a merry jaunt in there, I found a map of this place in the Professor's journal.” You told him, with a lifted brow. “Behind that bookcase is supposed to be a hidden passage out, that's shorter.”

“Good.” He nodded, looking towards the Megascope.

“I have the crystals and the journal.” You assured him, resting your hand on his back, feeling the tense muscles there. “I took care of all that, while waiting for you to finish cooking in your Mutagen steamer.” You quipped, forcing a smirk.

Grunting and nodding again, Geralt continued and shoved the bookcase out of the way, finding a vulnerable wall behind it. Without hesitation, he used his Aard on the loose bricks, blasting them inward and rocking the room around you.

“Gods alive!” You gasped, grasping the back of Geralt's arm.

Geralt chuckled and the two of you followed the low ceiling tunnel, finding another portal, that was simply activated by a crystal that laid on the ground. Stepping through, you found yourselves back on the shore of the lake, but a mile or two down from where you had originally entered. With a shrill whistle, calling Roach, you and Geralt walked along the water, to meet the horse, while also enjoying the fresh and cool air.

“I look forward to that luxurious room at the inn.” You commented, getting up behind Geralt on Roach. “To a nice, hot bath. That experiment has made you a bit-foul.” You chuckled, resting your chin on his shoulder and peeking around at him.

“More than usual?” He asked, cocking a brow at you.

“Just a tad.” You laughed, squeezing your arms around his waist.

He spurred Roach back to Beauclair and got a handsome room for the two of you, at the Rose and Knight Inn, that sported its own tub and a balcony, letting you see the vineyards and apiaries in the rolling hills past the city gates in the distance. You stayed for two weeks, not leaving the room for anything. Having your meals brought up to you. Preferring to stay in bed or the bathtub together. It was romantic and refreshing.

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harrywavycurly · 11 months

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Can I get a fluffy joe where shes sick and she has to stay upstairs and he has to stay down stairs because he has to work and can’t get sick but it’s making him crazy and he keeps texting her reasons he needs to come up (she’s needs soups , she needs hugs, she needs him to scratch her head and play with her hair just how she likes ). He finally caves and says he has to come be with her

Hii babes!! So I hope you enjoy this, it’s the same prompt I just changed it a little bit with you trying to keep him away😂💖

*Joe just wants to be the best boyfriend and nurse*

#fluffy Friday #joseph quinn request #joseph quinn fluff #joseph quinn fake texts #joseph quinn x fem!reader #boyfriend joseph quinn #joseph quinn rpf #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn x y/n #joseph quinn x you #joseph quinn fanfiction #joseph quinn #my little british baby

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burningvelvet · 17 days

Text

My latest fic about the Romantics is now on AO3! Part of the Lake Geneva University series, this one (surprise surprise) focuses on Byron...

Byron's Adventures in Therapy by unravelingdreams

PREVIEW:

Mr. Murray reached over to his desk drawer and rummaged through some papers until he found a little pink pamphlet titled “101 RANDOM ACTS OF KINDNESS.”

He handed it to Byron who hesitated before taking it, staring at it with his brows crooked suspiciously like it was some ugly little creature that might bite him.

"This is the same one you gave me last time," Byron said.

"Yes, but this time I want you to actually read it. I've highlighted some things for you."

"'Give someone a compliment' it says. Well, I guess I'll start by telling you that you're not the worst therapist I've had," Byron laughed.

"We may have to work on that one..."

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bakanokiwami · 11 months

Text

TOP 10 CELEBRITIES & REAL PEOPLE FANDOMS ON AO3 BASED ON NUMBER OF FANWORKS, SINGLE CATEGORY TAGS ONLY VERSION (2009-2022)

If you want to see the Celebrities & Real People bar chart with the multi-category fandoms included, please check this post.

To make these bar chart race, all series titles in the Celebrities & Real People Category on November 29 (or the closest date to it) of every year were copy-pasted from Wayback Machine to Google Sheets, rearranged according to number of fanworks, manually filtered for fandoms belonging in only one category, and then inputted to Flourish to turn into a bar chart race.

Locked fanworks aren't included in the count because Wayback Machine can’t view those, only Ao3 users can.

Japanese Actor RPF was reduced to 9.66% of its total fanworks by 2015 because Johnny's Entertainment was removed from its subtags.

British Actor RPF was reduced to around 70% of its total fanworks by 2017 because RPF of various media was removed from its subtags.

Fandom tags that are no longer in the Celebrities & Real People category tag as of posting this are left out of the bar chart race. These tags are usually either miscategorized or already have other tags referring to the same fandom.

For tags that existed on the same years before eventually merging into one tag later on (such as CW Network RPF which later on merged with Actor RPF, I use the data of whichever tag has the highest number for that year.

Please refer to this post for more bar chart races.

Thanks for understanding and hopefully I didn’t mess up anywhere! 🙏

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romansmartini · 4 months

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just went through ur tag for ur rpf quiz and im having the time of my life, i just submitted some weird political vague rpf stuff and i have to ask, since ive seen u talk about actors and bandom and youtube and sports, have you gotten many political rpf submissions? it's a whole fucking rabbithole trust me.

HI ANON i'm so glad you're having the time of your life i'm also having the time of mine <3

i haven't gotten to your submission yet i don't think but i did in fact just get my very first political rpf response. slay.

no details here and i haven't had time to research but now i'm on the edge of my seat. is this RPF exclusive to the UK? are more countries involved? is the 2010 british election a big moment? TELL ME MOREEE

#asks #rpf quiz #if whatever they have going on in the political rpf fandom is anything like famed british sitcom the thick of it i'd be into it. tbh

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xiaoluclair · 11 months

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20 chalex. 😁😙

20. laughing into the kiss // [ rating: G ]

There is a strip of Hubba Bubba between Charles’s fingers that Alex knows isn’t his because Charles would take one look at Sweet & Sassy Cherry and say, how can a cherry be sassy?

Alex is about to nudge him under the table, make an unambiguous wiggle of his eyebrows that might perceive as a mating dance to ask where he got it. Only: “Wrap,” announces Jin right into his ears, pats Alex once on the shoulder. Cue the scrape of metal chairs on hard floor, Nirei’s nose wrinkling, a shout as Fred remembers the headphones on his head when the wire recoils him back to the monitor.

When Alex looks back, the Hubba Bubba is gone; Charles is chewing. Stops when Nyck bumps into his shoulder, starts talking to him and Alex can lip read: sector three, turning apex, almond chainsaw.

They’re all in the same car back to the hotel, two rooms stacked one atop the other. Alex does what he did yesterday and the day before: talks, laughs. Gives Nyck a noogie on the hard tusk of his skull. Steals Nirei’s phone to watch PIXAR Shorts with Charles’s chin hovering over his shoulder, cherry happiness in his ear.

They split in the elevator, Nyck and Nirei leaving Alex and Charles. In the few seconds it takes for the LEDs to change from six to seven, Alex has aquired a small, thumb–sized bruise on his elbow. Charles, ever oblivious, continues to pop a pale pink bubble around the bright of his tongue.

“I am thinking,” he says ponderingly as Alex unlocks their door with a tap of the keycard, slips it into his back pocket, “we should go to Old Zealand after I win.”

“All bark no bite,” replies Alex with a grin. “Also, Old Zealand? Mate, are you tripping?”

Charles, paused in front of him suitcase, glances over his shoulder for a moment. Meets Alex’s eyes with his mouth slightly shiny between his teeth before turning back around. “People always talk about New Zealand,” he says flippantly, pulling off his hoodie, polo in the odd way he does: head halfway out first, then pulling it the rest of the way from the bottom, horrendously endearing. “But no one ever says Old Zealand, and I think we should go.”

Alex, shrugging on his own sweats as the moles on Charles’s back are swallowed by a Tee, laughs. “Just to check, you want to go to Old Zealand because you’ve never heard a peep about it in your life?”

“Yes. I think it would be fun. There could be these, um.” His brow furrows, hand twists after dropping his clothes into a pile just to the side of his suitcase — where they are meant to be. Filip will have a fun time glaring them down tomorrow. “How do you say, old, like, rocks.”

Familiar with the situation, Alex giggles as he flops to his bed. “Fossils?”

Charles snaps his fingers. Brightens with it, eyes on Alex as he sits on the edge of the mattress by his knee, completely disregards the other bed in the room. To be fair, Alex isn’t exactly giving it much attention either. “Yes, fossils! We could find a dinosaur. You know people get famous because of dinosaur bones.”

Alex, grinning, offers, “What about ghosts? Haunted houses? Malicious spirits? There must be a reason folks don’t chat the place up, right?”

“There will not be ghosts,” waves off Charles, then hesitates, “will there?” and his bubble deflates timidly with it.

“There could be,” continues Alex, leg moving until his bone could dig into the flesh of Charles’s thigh where his black shorts have ridden up. “Big scary ghosts that really want to try French for dinner. Zoo animal ghosts.”

Charles sours, “I am not French,” but Alex is already grinning, shaking his head: predictable, easy. “I am Monegasque,” presses on Charles, but he is starting to smile now too, mouth slipping into it like the syrup sliding down Alex’s throat, “and there are not zoo animal ghosts in Old York, Alex.”

“There are!” says Alex. He is not sure when it begins, but suddenly his hands are half out and Charles is between them, pinching his giggles like thumbs round a candle wick. He tastes like: pink sugar, coarse sand, cotton candy.

Charles pulls away first, eyes wide. Mouth opens and out falls his wad of gum, right onto Alex’s chin, sticky with saliva, cold and wet down his neck. “Ew, ew,” says Alex, batting it off, half a shriek in his throat that comes out like a cackle. Charles scrambles for it, shoving it back into his mouth like a reflex. His fingers glisten with spit after, loud in the silence.

Alex starts to laugh. His eyes close with it, fizzy cola under his ribs. Charles is the black in the red of his blood, heat under his hands, and soon, he starts to shake too until they’re both silly with it. His arms must hurt, couldn’t not. But when Alex blinks open again he’s still there, head hung against Alex’s neck, limbs out and bent, slightly awkward around his body.

Alex taps him on the hip. “Come on,” he says, goads, “When I win the championship—” Charles snorts against his nose, “you can come to Old Zealand with me. Just in case they like super sexy British–Thai food and I need a guardian.”

“Keep dreaming, Albon,” says Charles, and he laughs again, hardly stopped. Alex leans up into him, is tugged maybe. He tastes like: pink sugar, coarse sand, cotton candy. He tastes like: joy.

#chalex #ficlet: cl16.aa23 #f1 rpf #xiao: writes #FINALLY writing for them #it’s a christening #anon my beloved #side not: alex should not take charles with him if he wants to be protected from things that like super sexy british thai good #*food #*note

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write-r-die · 2 years

Text

By Tomorrow - Part 8

Masterlist

A/N: Did not proofread, just wanted to get this up b/c I’m in a slump and it makes me feel better to post

Sybil felt like a new woman when she descended the stairs the next morning, freshly bathed and wearing clean clothes that she borrowed from Catherine.

Sybil didn’t care for them overmuch – the Cavill plaid was made of lovely, bright jewel-toned colors, but everyone wore the same thing, which made it considerably less exciting. No matter. All she needed was needle and thread and she’d remedy the sartorial monotony in no time at all. And perhaps teach these women proper embroidery – surely they would have altered their clothes if they knew how.

Henry waited at the bottom of the stairs while his kinsmen pretended to eat. He didn’t offer Sybil his arm as she approached but she took it anyway.

On the journey here, Henry and the others wore the clan’s hunting plaid, composed of muted tones, rather than the colorful formal tartan. But today Henry was all done up in purple and green. Such bright colors didn’t seem to suit him.

Arran waited with his hands clasped behind his back. Patrick and their sons stood further off.

“Laird,” she said with a smile, dropping into a curtsey.

“There’s no need for that,” Arran said, guiding her back to her full height. “Welcome.”

Catherine appeared at her side. “She’s English, uncle,” she said. “Failing to curtsey is the equivalent of spitting in one’s face.”

“Catherine!” Sybil chided. “There’s no need to be vulgar.” She turned back to Arran. “She is right, though. I would hate to offend you in any way, especially after failing to greet you properly yesterday. I am terribly sorry about that, by the way, but Henry is terribly pushy and I was quite tired. Though I’m sure you know how bossy your nephew can be, since he is, after all, your nephew. . .”

Everyone’s eyebrows seemed to rise in unison as Sybil spoke. They looked at Catherine and Henry in amusement or disbelief or a combination of the two.

Patrick outright laughed when he saw the look on Henry’s face.

Sybil fell silent, cheeks reddening with embarrassment. Of course they would laugh at her – didn’t everyone always tell her how annoying and odd she was? She wanted to melt into the floor.

Catherine and Henry both shot death glares at Patrick. It was hard to tell which cousin was angrier at his rudeness. Even Arran turned to frown at his brother. But that was just Patrick’s way.

“Forgive me, niece,” Patrick said, still chuckling. “It was the look on Henry’s face that amused me.”

“Oh. Of course.”

Sybil made an effort to speak less while they eat their breakfast but she was too curious and excited for it to make much of a difference. She wanted to ask a thousand questions of each of her new family members.

Catherine, God bless her, knew this and steered the conversation to fit her friend’s desire without Sybil having to speak too much.

Patrick really hadn’t meant anything by laughing – Sybil was already mostly recovered from the incident; everyone else at the table had already forgotten it – but Henry was still furious. It was his job to make sure Sybil was comfortable and happy in her new home. So far Patrick wasn’t helping.

Henry was distracted from his anger by a tug at his shirtsleeve. Finn stood at his elbow. Henry relaxed immediately. “There you are,” he said. “Are you pleased to have Catherine back?”

Finn nodded. “New horse,” he said, gesturing in the general direction of the stables.

“Yes, he was a present from the MacPherson’s brother,” Henry replied.

“MacPherson gave you a horse?” Hamish piped in.

“We were traveling on foot,” Sybil explained. “The first horse abandoned us after we fell down the slope. He said it was a wedding present. Henry neglected to thank him,” she added.

She expected his family to react to his rudeness somehow, but they didn’t. Perhaps they didn’t hear her right? She looked to Catherine, who rolled her eyes and shrugged. This was just one of his peculiarities to them.

They finished eating. Sybil offered to help the two serving girls carry everyone’s dirty dishes back to the kitchen. One of them thanked her and insisted that Sybil not trouble herself. The other girl ignored Sybil entirely.

“Don’t be upset,” Catherine said to her friend. “She’s only sour because she fancies herself in love with Henry.”

Sybil deflated. “Oh.”

“He never liked her,” Catherine assured her. “She can’t hold a candle to you anyway.”

The breakfast party disbursed. Sybil stood by the foot of the stairs as she pulled on a pair of borrowed boots and wrapped a spare plaid around her shoulders as a shawl so she would be comfortable as Catherine showed her around.

Henry appeared at her side.

“Catherine’s chosen a cottage she thinks will suit,” he said. “She’s done something or other to it, but it’s yours now. Make it however you like.”

“Henry,” she said softly, putting a hand on his arm to catch his attention. “I’ll be glad to go back to our cottage with you, but I don’t think it will work for the two of us to go to bed together at this point – both for practical and religious reasons, as I’m sure you understand. The Church says –”

Henry’s nostrils flared. “You’re speaking in tongues.”

“It’s only for a few days.”

“A few days?” he repeated.

“Usually six.”

“Usually?”

“Yes, that’s generally how long it lasts.”

His patience was at an end. “How long what lasts?”

“My courses.” Henry kept looking at her. “My monthly courses.”

It took a long moment for Henry to work out her meaning. He half-growled, half-grunted, and walked away without another word. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was embarrassed.

They’d begun just this morning, not a moment too soon. she didn’t know what she would have done if they came while she was traveling.

Henry reappeared a few minutes later when Catherine announced her intention to show Sybil around the village. He took her arm and pulled her aside; only Arran took note of iy.

“Are you lying to me about having your courses now?” Henry murmured.

“Why would you think that? You think I wanted to tell you?” she asked, tone dripping with revulsion. “Of course not! It’s private. And you’re a man. Men aren’t supposed to know such intimate –”

“Husbands should,” Henry interrupted.

She disagreed, “Well, you know already so I don’t have to tell you again. Why are we discussing this?”

“I wondered if you were lying,” he said casually. “It’s a fine excuse.”

“Excuse for what?”

Henry sighed. “I know you’re worried about the bedding,” he said, “but you have no reason to be.” She began to speak but he silenced her by holding up his massive hand. “We can wait until you’re more comfortable with me to consummate our marriage. But I won’t wait forever.”

“That’s . . . very reasonable,” Sybil said after a moment. “Thank you.”

He grunted again – more of a frustrated growl this time – and walked away.

That’s very reasonable. Had she expected him not to be?

***

Catherine spent the rest of the morning leading Sybil from place to place and introducing her to everyone they passed. Finn flitted in and out of their company like a woodland fairy.

Catherine explained early on that her little brother had free reign within the clan, able to come and go as he pleased. But wherever he went, he seemed welcome.

He had difficulty focusing or staying still for very long; he and Sybil had that in common.

The children stared at her and whispered to one another as she and Catherine ambled down the hillside where the bulk of the cottages were laid out.

The boys’ parents told them the English had horns and cloven hooves; the girls were intrigued by her relative exoticism and the fact that she’d snapped Henry up as her husband at first sight. They were in love with him, of course, the way all little girls are in love with all older boys who are handsome and sweet.

Sybil greeted everyone in broken Gaelic, but her horrendous accent quickly exposed her as a foreigner. Not that everyone didn’t know already. Henry’s unexpected marriage to an Englishwoman was a hot topic of conversation ever since Catherine and the others returned and explained what happened on their journey.

It was so sensational, in fact, that hardly anyone paid attention when Cameron Maclean, the laird’s second and most decent son, sent his condolences to Catherine in a note wrapped with a lovely purple hair ribbon.

Patrick and Arran were a bit leery of the offering – Cameron, like all living men (including his brothers) – fancied Catherine. But it was a polite, innocuous gesture. He actively sought to smooth relations between the Cavills and Macleans, though everyone knew it was a futile effort.

They made the wise decision not to share the news of this gift with anyone else. Henry was liable to throw a table if he found out.

Catherine intended to tell Sybil eventually, but now was not the time. She had too much on her mind as it was.

“Sybil here is my very best friend,” Catherine said congenially to one particularly displeased old Cavill woman. She looped her arm through Sybil’s in a subtle show of solidarity. “We are blessed that my cousin chose to take her as his wife. Don’t you agree?”

The woman relented, politely inclining her head at Sybil, before stalking off.

“I appreciate your loyalty, but you don’t need to threaten old ladies on my behalf,” Sybil said. “I’m English. Your countrymen naturally dislike me.”

“I didn’t threaten her. And hating you for no reason other than your heritage is ridiculous.” Sybil was surprised by the passion in Catherine’s voice. “I would have been a Scottish pariah in England were it not for you. I intend to return the favor.”

“You were not a pariah.”

“The women all hated me at first,” Catherine countered.

The men, however, were too busy worshipping at her feet to have a care for her nationality. It made Sybil furious sometimes. Catherine was married yet drowning in male attention; Sybil was as forgettable as she was single. But it wasn’t Catherine’s fault.

“And before you say it, I don’t consider any of those Englishmen to be friends,” Catherine said as if she heard her friend’s thoughts.

Sybil cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, really? I dare say they were very friendly with you.”

Catherine rolled her eyes and then grinned. “Come. Let me show you your cottage. I’ve had it all made up for you.”

Sybil looked out at the vast body of water at the very foot of the hill. “Can’t we stop and see the lake first?”

“Loch,” Catherine corrected. “And no.”

The cottage should have been underwhelming to a noblewoman such as Sybil – she was accustomed to luxury – but she found it charming. It was one large room with a dirt floor. The furniture was sparse to say the least: a bed, two wooden chests, a table, and a handful of stools. The bed was piled with quilts, pelts, plaids, and pillows. It looked almost as luxurious as Sybil’s bed at home.

She was so overwhelmed by her friend’s kindness that she started crying. She covered her face with her hands. “Thank you.” Her voice was muffled. “This must have taken a long time. It’s lovely.”

Catherine chuckled “You’re welcome. Oh, don’t cry.”

“You know I can’t help myself,” Sybil said. “Leave me be.” She kept talking but her voice was too muffled for Catherine to understand. She finally wiped her cheeks, cleared her throat, and straightened up. “It really is wonderful, Catherine.” She sniffled one last time before her thoughts, as always, turned to other matters.

“I will need at least two more chests, though, for my gowns.” She walked the perimeter of the cottage, poking at just about everything she passed by. “And before you say it, yes, I know I won’t be wearing gowns here but I do like them. I’ll find a way to make them work. Maybe if I separate the tops from the skirts? In any case, I shall find a use for them. And I’ve got to make Henry new clothes now, too. Have you seen the state of his shirts?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have a tough time trying to civilize the fellow.”

“He will have a tough time trying to remain uncivilized, you mean,” Sybil corrected.

A male voice came from the doorway. “Who’s uncivilized?”

Sybil turned to see the man step into the cottage and away from the door.

It was her husband, but it wasn’t. The man before her had only stubble dusted along his cheeks and jaw, was missing at least two inches of curls, and looked some ten years younger. But there was no mistaking it. This was Henry.

“What have you done to your beard?” Sybil asked once she was composed enough to speak. Catherine slipped out of the cottage and her cousin quietly shut the door behind her.

“Trimmed it,” Henry said flatly.

Sybil shut her eyes to keep from rolling them. “Yes, but why?” Would she really have to drag every word from this man for the rest of their lives? Each attempt at conversation was like pulling teeth.

“You said I was too furry.”

Sybil was so surprised she actually stepped back. “I beg your pardon? I said no such thing.”

“Aye, you did,” he countered, doing his best to bury the smirk attempting to crawl onto his face. “On the road.”

“Henry, women in England are raised with etiquette. We do not say such things to our husbands, especially when we’ve only known them for a few days. Perhaps Scottish women do, but we in England are far more civilized. Furthermore, I have no recollection of ever -”

“That night in the cave after the storm. You were asleep,” he said, the slightest smile playing over his full lips. Lord, she was long winded. One of these days he would have to measure how long she could go on for without stopping for air.

Sybil’s blood drained from her face. She looked absolutely horrified.

“Did it upset you that I said that? I do apologize. That’s a terrible thing for anyone to say, especially a wife. It’s certainly not my intention to make you self-conscious, and I was asleep so I can’t be held entirely responsible for whatever I may –”

Henry grinned, flashing his immaculate teeth. “No, you did not upset me.”

The smile threw her a bit off-balance. “Then why did you change your beard?”

To please her, of course.

Sybil realized that as she spoke. Henry was large and quiet and cryptic, but he wanted to please his wife.

Under normal circumstances, she would’ve wept at that kindness – she wept at everything, especially now when she had her blood – but she managed to restrain herself.

She was hesitant at first as she rocked up on the balls of her feet and reached to brush her hand over his short whiskers. He didn’t tense or flinch, but he followed her with his eyes like he was worried she’d pounce. “You look much younger than before,” she said.

“Did I look very old?”

“Older than you are, certainly, but not old. Not exactly. I couldn’t see your face properly under all that hair. And you’re always frowning.”

He began to scowl at that but caught himself and neutralized his expression before she could say anything.

“You should have let me do it for you,” she continued, brushing her fingers through his hair. It was uneven, but his curls made it hardly noticeable. It was surprisingly soft.

Her touch felt divine. Henry couldn’t remember the last time someone touched him like this. He didn’t understand why it mattered so much.

Sybil wanted to thank him, but like two nights ago when she simply leaned against him, she wanted to do it without words.

She impulsively put her voluptuous lips against his. It was the best way to let him know that she appreciated his actions and what they represented, she decided.

When she pulled away he looked curious and cautious and amused. She looked confused by her own actions. Her eyes didn’t meet his, instead resting on his plush lips. They were surprisingly soft, like his hair.

Henry slowly leaned forward, lowering his head until they were face to face. He stopped just before their lips met and waited, knowing he might drive Sybil away if he was too aggressive. But the moment she closed the distance between them, he became ravenous.

This was very different from when he kissed her at their wedding.

She suspected she felt his tongue then; she knew she felt it now. Not poking or prodding like she imagined it might be, but all soft and warm and lingering. She started to relax against him, leaning into him, and his hands – which were previously folded behind his back – came forward, his arms encircling her waist.

Henry was doing his best to be careful, taking all his cues from the way she responded to him. The last thing he wanted was to scare her off. But there was no danger of that. Sybil was enjoying this just as much as he was. Too much.

Henry’s heart sank when she put her hands on his chest and pushed herself away from him. He loosened his grip on her but didn’t let go.

“Wait,” she gasped.

He grunted questioningly. He sounded concerned. If that was possible. Could someone grunt in a concerned fashion?

Sybil still couldn’t meet his eye. They’d have to work on that, Henry decided.

She shifted her weight uncomfortably. “It’s just – we ought to stop now since we cannot . . . because of my courses . . . and it can cause men pain when they can’t be fulfilled – you know – if they don’t complete – and I do not want to cause you injury –”

Henry arched an eyebrow. “What?”

“I said – I – you know what I said, Henry. Please don’t make me say it again.” She was already flushed with embarrassment – and from something else, something Henry had stirred inside her, but that she was reluctant to name.

“Where did you hear that?” he was clearly suspicious. “Who would say that in front of you?”

Her father’s friend told her so when she asked him to stop. She didn’t want him to be in pain, did she? She didn’t want to damage his health or injure him, did she? Of course not. So she mustn’t ask again. She must be quiet and let him –

“I must’ve overheard the servants talking,” she rushed out.

He grunted. He shouldn't be surprised she heard that – it was probably a common excuse among Englishmen when their wives were unwilling – but he didn’t like that she heard it.

“That’s not true,” Henry said. “It’s unpleasant not to finish once you’ve started, but it doesn’t cause any harm.” It was downright painful actually, but it didn’t cause any harm. He decided to keep the painful bit to himself.

Sybil stared down at her hands, probably too embarrassed about it all to meet Henry’s gaze.

He ducked his head low to catch her eyes. His voice was all gentle and soft. “Any time you want me to stop, I’ll stop. Whether or not you have your courses.”

She looked up, surprise clear in her warm brown eyes. “You will?”

“Yes.”

“Always?”

“Yes.”

So not only would he wait to bed her, but he would also stop dead in his tracks if she asked him to when the time finally came? That didn’t make a bit of sense.

She told him so, and her heart sank at the look he gave her.

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