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tothemeadow · 3 years

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Commissioned by @hinokami-s

Kamado Tanjiro x OC

- When the days seem gloomy and Hayami’s obviously stuck in a rut, Tanjiro decides it’s on him to make her feel better, but with secret little notes... -

warnings: none

words: 3.5k

And when the world treats you way too fairly, well it’s a shame that I’m a dream…

It hurts. It hurts so, so much. No matter how far she tries to escape it, the visions keep coming back, haunt her during the dragging hours of the night. It shouldn’t come as a surprise when Hayami firsts starts to see the darkening bags underneath her eyes, the way her fair skin loses its gentle glow. It’s only a nightmare, she constantly tells herself. That may be so, but this certain nightmare shouldn’t be revisiting her so often, just waiting for her to drift asleep.

Even now, her memories of the dreadful dream run through her head, make her days dimmer than what they should be. How long is this going to last? Hayami desperately needs her sleep, but if this continues, well… She doesn’t know what to do.

On the other side of the door, there’s a gentle knock. “Yami-chan? Are you alright?” Nezuko’s sweet, twinkling voice sounds. “You’ve been in the bathroom for a while, now…”

Oh, yeah. Hayami supposes Nezuko is right; she has been in the bathroom for some time now, absentmindedly staring into the mirror, at her horrified eyes and dark circles. If anything, she looks more like a shell of her usual self.

“Give me a moment!” she calls back. No, she doesn’t want Nezuko to worry. Frankly, she doesn’t want anyone to worry, but the Kamado family has a certain way of creeping into people’s hearts and rooting themselves onto their souls. Quickly splashing some water in her face, Hayami releases a long, shaky breath. Pushing the loose strands of hair behind her ears, she takes one last glance at her reflection before finally turning away and opening the door.

As expected, Nezuko’s large eyes glitter with concern, her eyebrows furrowed. She looks too much like Tanjiro whenever she does it, and it never fails to pull at Hayami’s heartstrings. “Yami-chan, you know I don’t want to pressure you or anything…” she starts, voice small. Tapping her fingers together, she glances around, makes sure that the two of them are truly alone. “But what’s bothering you?”

Ah, there it is – the inevitable question. Now, Hayami’s always been one to turn away her own problems, rather choosing to focus on the other people around her, but when the tables are turned… Well, it leaves her feeling icky, to say the least.

Still, Hayami forces a smile, both for her own sake and for Nezuko’s. “What do you mean?”

Nezuko sighs, much like she was expecting this exact response. “You look… tired. Dead, even. And, well, your hair is down, so I thought…” Trailing off, Nezuko shifts her weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable and unsure of how to approach the subject. Like Tanjiro, her senses are keen; she’s able to pick up on the slightest of troubles, but she usually stays to herself, not wanting to bring discomfort to others.

It’s one of the things Hayami admires about her, but at the same time, she wishes Nezuko would drop it. She has a point, though; instead of her usual ponytail, Hayami’s long hair hangs loose, brushes against the entirety of her back. At times like these – at times of unease – her hair is the closest thing she has to a shield. Granted, only few people know of this so-called “habit,” so she can’t necessarily blame Nezuko for asking the reason why.

“Don’t worry about it, Nezuko,” Hayami tells her, albeit softly. “I just haven’t been sleeping well. It’s no big deal.”

Nezuko opens her mouth, seemingly ready to complain, but then she’s abruptly cut off by excited squeals. Shigeru and Rokuta come barreling down the hallway, cowboy hats on their heads and horse figurines in their hands. A chorus of neechan! greets her; both boys hop up and down in their spots, beaming grins on their faces.

“Neechan, play outlaws with us!” Shigeru exclaims.

“Yeah! Yeah! Outlaws!” Rokuta echoes, his voice a bit more chipper than Shigeru’s.

“Now where are those sneaky no-good-doers?” a voice drawls. Tanjiro comes into the hallway, then, a cowboy hat of his own sitting on his head. His face instantly flushes upon seeing Hayami. “O-oh… Yami-chan, how are you feeling? I was afraid you fell ill or something!”

“Uh-oh, the cop’s here!” Shigeru yelps. Both he and Rokuta scramble to hide behind Hayami, giggles spilling from their lips.

Hayami can’t help but laugh, the unease settling over her heart dissipating for once. Nezuko’s expression softens at that, but the look in her eyes still yells concern. Hayami ignores it, opting to forget her woes, even if it’s just for a little bit.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she says to the two boys behind her. “I’ll keep him distracted while you two make your getaway! Go on, hurry!”

And, just as fast as they appeared, the boys take off again, proclaiming their gratitude as they scurry down the hall. With an amused huff, Tanjiro walks over to the girls, pushing his hat further away from his face in the process.

“Thanks for that,” Tanjiro says, a smile spreading easily on his features. “I swear, it’s like everyone else in this family wants you to be the eldest sibling rather than me sometimes.” His eyes flitter over Hayami’s loose hair for a moment; the smile on his face flattens into a straight line, the happy gleam in his eyes melting away into something sadder. “Yami-chan…”

“Listen,” Hayami interrupts, putting her hand up, “is it okay if I can crash here for the night? It’s just… Things are a little trying at home right now. I could really use the company.”

Cocking his head, Tanjiro seems bewildered by the sudden request, but the surprise quickly dwindles away. Sharing a glance with Nezuko, he nods his head, that familiar, soft expression coming back to his face. “Of course you can. You know you’re welcome here anytime, right?”

At that, Hayami’s heart flutters, both from gratefulness and well, something else. “Thank you, Tanjiro.”

Now, Tanjiro may not be the brightest bulb in the box, but he does have heart. His empathetic nature is one he was born with, one that developed into something strong once his younger siblings graced his life. And, considering that he and Hayami are extremely close, it’s only natural for him to pick up on her continuous crestfallen behavior. He doesn’t want to push it, though, because he knows that she’s just like him, always willing to put others first and ignore her own problems for the sake of others.

He still wants to support her, no matter what. And so, he does the only thing he think that might actually help…

“A note?”

Both of Hayami’s friends – Shinobu and Mitsuri – say it simultaneously, although in different tones. Mitsuri’s in more whimsical, romantic; Shinobu’s is more or less skeptical. Hayami nods at them, feeling just as confused as they are. It was mysteriously left in her locker this morning, and it had no name on it whatsoever. No initial, no hint, nothing. In fact, if it didn’t have her name on it, Hayami would have thought it belonged to someone else.

Granted, finding something so… special… waiting for her sent her heart flying into the clouds. The note itself was made of pink construction paper, neatly folded and even tied with a white ribbon. The sheer amount of effort put into the outside of the note only left impatient wonders for what could possibly be written on the inside. Hayami has already reread it, like, three times, but that’s not the point.

Handing it over to her friends, she watches as Mitsuri eagerly pulls off the ribbon; she’s practically shaking with excitement at this point. Knowing Mitsuri as much as she does, Hayami is more than aware of her romantic side. She’s not surprised as Misturi releases a delighted squeal, a lovely blush blooming on her face.

“Calm down,” Shinobu tells her, but a shit-eating grin is on her own face. “Let me read it.” Taking it from Mitsuri, she holds in before her, clearing her throat before she begins.

|Hayami,

I know things haven’t been the best lately. I can tell you’re hurting, but I just want you to remember something important. You’re important to so many people (me included) and you’re truly incredible. It pains me to see you without that beautiful smile of yours, but I’m not sure how to help. You always keep your pain hidden, and I want nothing more than to take it away. I want to see you smile again.

Sunny days are coming, I promise.

<3<3<3<3 xoxoxo|

“Oh my gosh!” Misturi gushes. “Look! There’s even little doodles on the paper!”

“Is that… supposed to be a cat?” Shinobu asks, cocking her head and squinting her eyes. “I don’t wear glasses, but I might need my eyes checked out after looking at that.”

“Shinobu!” Hayami squeaks. “Don’t say that!”

“Yami-chan, you have a secret admirer!” Misturi continues. Clutching her hands to her chest, her eyes glaze over with a joyful, love-stricken glow. “Think about it! Somebody is just waiting out there, wanting to confess their love to you! This is great!”

“Okay, but don’t you remember Valentine’s Day?” Shinobu interjects, a neat eyebrow raising on her forehead. “She got – what? 23 different people confess to her?”

At that, Hayami scratches her cheek in embarrassment. While it is true that she’s had so many people confess to her throughout the years, something about this note strikes her as different. For once, it doesn’t outright say that the anonymous sender holds any romantic feelings for her, but the choice of words leaves much food for thought. At most, this person is only wanting what’s best for her – pure, unadulterated happiness. It’s sweet, nonetheless.

Mitsuri pouts. “But this is different! This is secretive! Clearly whoever sent it doesn’t want to be outed for their feelings just yet. They’re giving chase! I say we try and figure out who it is!”

“Isn’t that a bit… irrational?” Hayami says. “There’s so many people who go to this school-“

“I agree with Mitsuri,” Shinobu cuts in. Hayami does not like the mischievous expression playing on her face. “We can single out the person who wrote this. Look at the handwriting, for example. Whoever left it obviously took their time writing it – it’s neat, but their natural handwriting still shines through. It’s messy.”

Both Hayami and Mitsuri gawk at the other. “You got that just by looking at it?” Mitsuri exclaims. “That’s so cool!”

“Hang on. Aren’t you two taking this too seriously? I doubt it’ll lead to anything more…”

Shinobu rolls her eyes. “Oh, to be young and naïve. It’s only because you’re super popular and have people practically drooling at your feet to have a chance with you. If we can find out who sent it, it shouldn’t be a problem. Like you said, it probably won’t lead to anything more.”

“Except that it will!” Mitsuri says with a giggle.

Hayami doesn’t know why her friends are so adamant about something so trivial – silly, even – but she supposes they have a point. Though, in the back of her mind, she’s almost positive that it’s some random admirer, just like the others. However, there’s another part of her that’s saying the exact opposite.

Either way, her friends have set their minds to discovering the so-called “culprit” or whatever their selected codename is. If one thing’s for sure, it’s that the hunt is on.

By the end of the school week, there’s still no obvious suspect.

Shinobu and Mitsuri are still hellbent on figuring out who’s leaving the sickeningly sweet notes; they’ve been popping up every day, much to Hayami’s secret pleasure. Something about them makes her heart soar, the overwhelming sense of joy and love flooding her very being. The feeling can only be described as beautiful.

Even now, she stares down at the folded piece of pink paper, the darling white ribbon wrapped neatly into a bow. Heart beating furiously against her ribcage, she gently pulls at the end, loosening the ribbon and opening the note.

Like usual, the various doodles decorating the edges catch her attention first. Pictures of cherry blossoms, mochi, crude cats… They’re all so delightful, and Hayami cherishes each and every single one of them. Little stickers join in alongside them: fluffy little animals, Sanrio characters, cute things like that. Whoever’s been leaving these notes obviously knows what Hayami likes, that much is clear. The attention to detail makes the note so much more special; worrying her bottom lip, she flicks her gaze over the neat-yet-messy handwriting, absorbing each and every word carefully.

|Hayami,

I’ve noticed you’ve been wearing your hair up again! Things are looking up, right? You always had this habit of wearing your hair down when something’s bothering you… Not that I mind (I think your hair is really pretty!) but it’s nice to know that your old self is coming back. I’d like to think these letters are at least bringing a smile to your face 😊 You’ve always been special to me, you know that? I wouldn’t know what to do if you weren’t my friend. We should have frozen yogurt at my house sometime this weekend! I think I have some strawberry froyo in the freezer… You like strawberry, right? I can always pick up another flavor if you don’t!

<3<3<3<3 xoxoxo|

That’s just… so cute!

Holding the note close to her chest, Hayami suppresses a squeal. How could somebody be so sweet? Pulling it away, she rereads it over and over, the smile on her face growing to such a point that it hurts her cheeks.

Now that she’s really looking at it, it says that she and the anonymous writer are friends. Plus, they mentioned frozen yogurt, and not many people know that’s one of her favorite treats! Does this mean that this mysterious person is going to give themselves up? If they were going to follow through with their plans and invite her over for froyo, then they’d have to, right? It only makes sense.

As much as she doesn’t really want to admit it, her curiosity is getting the best of her. Maybe – just maybe – if she follows in Shinobu’s and Mitsuri’s footsteps and plays detective herself, she can find out who’s been leaving the notes! It shouldn’t be that hard…

Right?

And so, at the end of that very school day, Hayami sets her little “plan” into motion. Well, it’s not really a “plan,” but it’s pretty close. Instead of going on a whole shebang of deciphering handwriting and dusting her locker for fingerprints (and yes, Mitsuri did think of that idea), she’s choosing to sit and wait. Call it intuition or simply a gut feeling, but the person whoever was responsible for the notes was bound to show up again. And, if they were going to show up and invite Hayami to their house, this is the time to do so.

As the last stragglers hanging around in the hallway finally take their exit from the building, Hayami slings her backpack her shoulder. A mix of anticipation and excitement boils within her blood, makes her nerves frantic and tingly. She isn’t quite sure how she should she go about this; after a moment or so of silent thought, she decides to hide around the corner and wait for this “knight in shining armor.”

Time passes – seconds, minutes, hours, Hayami doesn’t know. All of it feels like days to her. Before long, she’s mindlessly scrolling through her phone, debating whether if she should ditch the plan or not. With a sigh, she slips her phone away, drawing herself to a stand. Her knees ache from crouching so long; taking a moment, she winces at the slight pain, but then she immediately clamps her mouth shut at the sound of footsteps drawing near.

Slapping a hand over her lips, Hayami peers around the corner, her long ponytail swinging behind her. Wait, wait – are her eyes deceiving her? Tanjiro? What’s he doing here?

And if that wasn’t enough, Tanjiro glances around, seemingly checking out for any bystanders. Hayami ducks away just in time, her breath going still in her lungs. She watches on as Tanjiro shucks his backpack off his shoulders and brings it around his front; digging around inside one of the front pockets, he pulls out a folded-up piece of pink paper, a white ribbon wrapped neatly around it. Quickly, he walks up to Hayami’s locker, pops it open, and then gently places the note inside.

It was Tanjiro the whole time…?

The revelation sends Hayami’s heart wild; forget about the clouds, the clear blue sky. Her heart is flying through outer space, becoming one with the millions of stars shining through the darkness. Her best friend, this sweet, sweet boy… Now that she knows, it doesn’t seem surprising. Actually, she should’ve figured that it was Tanjiro the entire time, considering how his personality is.

“Tanjiro,” Hayami calls out, stepping away from her hiding place.

Upon hearing his name, Tanjiro flinches. Whirling around, he drops his backpack, his jaw dropping once he sees who it is. “Y-yami-chan!” he stammers, his face immediately heating up. “What are you doing here?”

“I should be asking you the same thing,” Hayami says, a delicate smile coming to her pretty face. “Tanjiro… Have you been the ones leaving the notes behind?”

If possible, Tanjiro’s blush turns even darker. Rubbing the back of his neck with a hand, he looks away, a sheepish smile spreading across his lips. “I… I can’t lie, and there’s no point if you saw me…” Clearing his throat, he dares to look at Hayami. “…It was me. It’s just… You’ve been so bummed lately, you know? And I wanted to do something to help you out – gah!”

Hayami suddenly slams into him, then, her arms snaking around him as she buries her face in his shoulder. Although she’s taller than Tanjiro, their bodies fit well together, almost like two long-lost puzzle pieces. He’s warm, delightfully so, and he smells like the bread his family’s shop makes.

“Thank you, Tanjiro,” Hayami mutters. “Really. Those notes you left… I love them. They mean a lot to me.” She squeezes him harder. “Thank you so much.”

Tanjiro releases a pent-up sigh. “Of course,” he says, his arms wrapping themselves around Hayami’s form. “You know that I’ll always be there for you, right? No matter what it is, thick or thin… I’m here for you.” He pulls away, then, just far enough that the two are looking face-to-face. “It hurt to see you so sad like that.” His face crinkles with concern. “I didn’t want you to be sad anymore.”

Oh, lord, is this boy an angel or what? Saying such sweet things like that…

“Tanjiro…”

Looking at each other like that, eyes glistening, cheeks rosy, Hayami doesn’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s the both of them, drawn to each other like magnets or something easily as cliché - it doesn’t matter, though. Tanjiro’s lips are ridiculously soft as they slide against Hayami’s; it’s a dream of hers that she’s never dared to speak of, one that she thought of frequently. But to finally be able to live it, to make it a reality…

Her mind goes completely blank as her fingers slink into Tanjiro’s hair. He’s just so soft, so tender, so dreamy. Here’s literal perfection standing before her, kissing her with a gentle passion. After a moment or so, Tanjiro pulls away; eyes fluttering open, Hayami looks to him, to his pleasant smile and mirthful eyes.

“That was nice,” she hums.

Tanjiro’s earrings clank as he bobs his head. “It was perfect,” he chirps. Pressing his forehead to hers, his eyes fall shut. “You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that,” he confesses, his voice just barely above a whisper.

Something irresistible and warm caresses Hayami’s chest, whisks her away to a world of fairy tales and happy endings. She’s only heard of such feelings in movies and in writing, but to experience it for herself – well, it’s a little off-putting, if she’s being honest, but it’s so wonderful.

“Same here,” she replies. “What… What do we do now?”

Leaning back once more, Tanjiro opens his eyes, a hopeful gleam to them. “I guess… If you want… We can be together? You know, be more than friends?”

At that, Hayami can’t help but release a giggle. “Is the famous Kamado Tanjiro nervous? You’re one of the most confident people I know, and this is what gets you?”

“Hey, don’t be like that! I’m not experienced with this sort of thing…”

“I know, I know. I’m just teasing you, Tanji. I’d love to be more than friends.”

“Wait – seriously? For real? I-I mean… Of course! That’d be great! Yami-chan, I’m so happy!”

Again, that cheek-hurting smile comes back to Hayami’s lips. “I’m happy too, Tanjiro. I’m happy too.”

#kny #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #kny x oc #kimetsu no yaiba x oc #demon slayer x oc #tanjiro kamado x oc #kamado tanjiro x oc #tanjiro kamado #kamado tanjiro #kny tanjiro #commission #hinokami-s

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punkandsnacks · 4 years

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Between Wolves & Doves; Chapter Seven, Savagery.

Author: @punk-in-docs & @adamsnackdriver

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: !!! Violent thoughts in this chap !!! Kylo’s getting somewhat, territorial. Shall we say-

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

When he came to her that night, her tears of grief were still drying on her cheeks. Catching in the fires light, like ribbons of sparkling amber.

If he had a soul, it would be crumbling in despair for glimpsing the sight of her like this.

“Oh, My little dove.” He sighs, weary and heart sore for her. She didn’t even have anyone to cry to or to embrace in her sadness. She always had to cry alone.

Tears staining onto the clasping embroidery of her laced pillow. Her supple form curled up into a fitful tense shape on the bed. Her toed off brown boots are strewn on the floor by the end of the bed.

Concern weights down the heavy lentil of his stern brow as he rounds the end of her bed to come closer. His big hand cupping the polished twists of the wood pillar of the mahogany frame. He steps over her boots. Coming to tower over where she rests on the mattress.

She’s still wearing her gown. The ash grey wool she wore earlier today. Her hair is still bound. Though it’s strictness is softened by wisps that have worked their way loose. Spilling over her cheeks and straying across the pillow. Like dark twisted roots.

She won’t wake. She never does. He sets himself carefully on the bed. Feels it give and creak beneath his weight. He watches her rest. Brings his hand up to stroke a thumb across the soft cushion of her damp cheek. Wet and salt clings to his skin.

He whispers to her. “I felt it. I felt your sadness. I felt it reach out to me. Calling to me.”

He leans down and kisses the tear away. When he does, when he tastes that sadness on his lips - a shatter of emotion and memory cracks through him. Like thunder splintering and charring an old oak. He is struck by it. Well and truly.

He can hear her mothers snarls, feel the crush of guilt and righteous anger drowning his sweet little dove. Being told she must obey to her family expectations. Start making them proud. Start thinking of marriage.

He sighs deeply as he pulls away. He didn’t even register the pretty floral of her skin he so loves. Not tonight.

Tonight, he is not a baying monster seeking for blood. He is a suitor who has deeply concerned, rushed to her side as he felt the worst woes of his lover.

He felt her despair. Her dying hope. He felt the waning happiness of their day wither. Like a dried flower hardening up in the frost or the heat. Seizing up it’s bright petals. Or shedding them. He’s felt how her family’s expectations strip her bare and leave her shredded and bruised.

Here, he just feels his jaw grit at the rage of it all. He grows wilder with anger. Can feel the black of it, thick like rotten honey, bleeding flushing into his veins.

“I wonder, do you feel me too? Are you so struck by all the things I perceive?” He asks to her. Not intending at all for his questions to be answered.

Their bond is strong - this cannot be denied. It’s tug engulfed them both from the second their eyes met. That blazing dazzling storm that took his breath away. The tempest of her influence quakes inside his chest.

Yet this...fondness, for her. A mere mortal. A simple, human girl. It is not so perishable. To look upon the last love and bond he has felt in his life, it seems so dangerously frail in comparison. Adoring her is like cherishing a birds eggshell. Like a faint ember glowing, about to extinguish. Yearning and waiting to be made bright.

Humans. All of them are so fleeting. So quick to bud and even quicker to fade. Like a dying little spark. Extinguished before it barely even thrives.

He can feel this spirit. This entwining of their souls. This dense entanglement of emotion. Can sense how it hungers to grow. Like him; it’s a bloodthirsty beast. Demands heart and cartilage and inky black ichor of blood to sustain it.

His yearning is more than he ever thought. And he knows how she wants it desperately also. Wants him. Their feelings have found symmetry in each other. This is the first time a woman has been more to him than a collection of veins to drink off.

“I confess; I care not if you can sense me yet. Because I sensed you the minute I saw you, Iris Ashton. And now I feel how trapped you are.” He explains softly.

“Little Dove. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to see you freed.” He promises.

He’s stroking her hair back off her face. Trying to soothe away the crinkling frown in her brow. The one that spoke highly of her turmoil.

“I would rip those pathetic beings you call relatives to pieces for making you suffer like this. I wouldn’t even drink them. Dove. I’d kill purely for the pleasure and the sport of it.” He pledges.

Somewhere in his mind, faintly, upon a distant echo of an echo, he can hear his makers voice. He can hear Draegan calling him a savage, chiding him for those words. He always was the one between the two, blessed with more leniency.

“Your mother is desperately trying to keep us apart. It will not be so. I will not stand for it.” He confesses.

“I will not.” He makes plain. Shakes his head. His words are quiet venom with the resolute strength of iron, but he’s softly caressing her cheek. Taking away all the tears and salty sadness with his fingertips.

“I have a foul temper and when people deny me the things I want. They will inevitably lose.” He growls.

He will kill. Maim. Slaughter and hunt without any whiff of so called or feared consequences. He’s a vampire. He’s above emotion. He does not subscribe to petty human clemency. There is no point in mercy being instilled in such savage beasts, after all. It would wither and die in the face of all the foul things he’s committed. The gore. The pain. The massacres. The bloodlust.

“I came tonight because you cried out for me. You cloud up every moment in my head. You live behind my closed eyelids when I rest at night...” He expresses.

He reaches his hand to cover her collarbone. Very close to the space over her heart. Warm skin soothes his icy palm. It’s been so long since he felt the flurry and flush of warmth. He can feel the quivering muscle tremble and tick under her skin. Gushes and guides her blood. The rattle of it pulses and echos through her vulnerable bones.

The fragility of her tiny timpani heart, beating away her time.

“And now your body beats for me. Each pump of your heart I can hear; and it sounds like it’s calling out my name. And I will always answer to it.” He promises. “I cannot ignore it, even should I wish too.”

He cannot fathom the enormity of this strangle hold she has across him. He can only nurture it’s budding into being. He will help blossom and thrive, whatever this may be.

He quirks a slight tip of a smile. It breaks the stoic nature of his scowl hardened face. Like strong waves being dashed on the rocks. It yielded.

“When I think back upon you sitting astride Kana today, it makes me smile. I had not thought you to be such a wild creature so ready to dash the rules.” He says in mirth.

He’d only looked at her and seen the etiquette she adheres too. He was pleasantly surprised to find she was no shrinking violet. He’s enamoured with uncovering more such stubborn wilderness within her.

“How glad I am for it. That little spit of fiery spirit that not even your foul mother can hope to tame. I’ve always been so enamoured with wild things.” He smiles.

He rubs his thumb across her forehead. His own brow creases when he feels the tremble and agony of her aching head. The raw sting of her red eyes. He rubs until that grey nimbus of her pain passes away. Like smoke on the gentle breeze. He soothes it away.

He is sure to put vastly happier thoughts into her head. Plants them there like seeds ready to sprout. He helps her recall every smile they’ve shared. Every ghost of a touch. Every look of their eyes clashing that sent rattles of desire wracking down her spine. His too, though she had no clue as to the potency of her charms.

No clue whatsoever- it’s one of his favourite things about her. Here is a power she doesn’t even know she wields. He will gladly instruct her to see it used.

He lets her see them this afternoon. Riding side by side in the frosty sunshine. Stroking the horses in their stalls. The way he caught her and reeled her in when she slipped off Kana’s back. He lets that warm happiness flow through her like golden ambrosia. The sweet honey nectar of happiness they share together.

He will have more. He will make it so.

He feels how her body is growing colder. He twists around and sees the fire in her hearth is crumbling low. Barely sustained. He crosses and sees to it. Stokes it with the iron poker and piles on more logs to see her kept warm.

Silently he walks back to the bed, to her side. Pulls up the fluffy eiderdown over her where it lay crumpled at her feet. The feathery down of it rumples and crushes and he tucks it around her prone body. Her human well-being, hangs loosely by a fine thread compared to his stronger senses.

He exhaled an amused sound to himself. “And they say I am the creature who bears no soul.” He speaks in detriment to his caring touches.

But so long as he is near, he will not see her suffer. From cold. From sadness. From anything that may ail her.

He has seen worse things than his own kind being blights upon humans. He’s witnessed plagues, wars, outbreaks of diseases too foul to name. The awful crippling frailty of suffering a human existence.

He places his hand on her elbow, atop the covers he shrouded her in. Her dreams eased by his influence. Her strains and stresses plucked away by his hands. He could do more than merely enchant her senses. He could alter them. Make her witness things if he wished to.

“How is it a creature like me can find such solace in even being near you.” He asks gently. Big fingertips of his grooming through her hair. Feeling the spun-bronze soft of it combing through his fingers.

He may never have an answer to that musing. An eternal query for him to ponder over through his ages. All he knows, is that he won’t be kept apart from her. Not for anyone’s wishes.

He stays until a cresting red-gold dawn. Blood and gold copper coins, spill slanted across the sky. The birds outside in Westwell’s meagre garden begin their song to herald to the new day.

He leaves her. Parts with a kiss to her cheek and before he slips from her sight and off into that blaze of a dawn, he leaves his initialled kerchief crumpled up in her hand.

The thought as to her confusion of how it got there, will make him smile. Now she has a token of him. That happy thought keeps him smug in temper, and buoyant for the whole day. He hopes it will jab at her acerbic mother.

Should teach her that no one stands in Lord Ren’s path. And even fewer live to tell the tale of having done so.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

Iris really did applaud her mothers cruel sense of efficiency. Not but the next day, and Sergeant Armitage Hux and Mrs Hux call at Westwell to take tea.

As they alight from their carriage, Iris is sat at the window armchair. Watching their newcomers. A flash of brilliant red catches her eye, stark in the icy landscape of the frosted green and creamy cotswold stone gravel drive.

He wore his full ceremonial uniform under his black cape. Wool coat the shade of split veins. On his head, covering the copper of his short hair, sits a cocked half moon army hat. Fluffy red and white plumage darts up, sprouting from one side. Blood spattered on snowy doves feathers. The ultimate homage to war.

He looks terribly neat and well groomed. Meticulously so. Coat brushed. His cape is spotless. His white breeches are about as pristine as the snow that fell around the estate last night. His black boots gleam. Freshly polished and waxed. Iris bites her tongue when she sees he’s fully dressed for battle. Even his gold rapier sword hangs at his side. Bumping against his hip.

Hux turns and helps his mother down from the carriage. She is a stout woman of late age, with greying hair and a face that always looks pinched. Her pale face hidden in her frilly bonnet. A ruffled frill secured around her neck. A chemisette collar of rippled muslin, peaking in cresting white waves. Tied in a bow around her neck. Brushing under her chin. Collar starched and stiff. Holding her chin precariously high. Incredibly precocious.

Then again, the woman did always adore and admire looking down upon people. Haughtily peering down on her lessers.

Much of her dress is covered by her deep plum pelisse. She has lilac gloves on and is pinching her skirts up. Afraid of the mud. Sniffing in disdain at muddying her rose pink and mauve half boots with it. Iris shuts her book with a harsh snap. A sigh leaves her lips.

She sets her book aside. Mother appears in the parlour. Lifts up the arched curtain to better glimpse at their guests. She turns a casting eye over Iris’s dress.

“Your skirts are wrinkled and your hair is loose at the back. Fix it.” She instructs snappily with quick hurrying. Before turning back to seat herself elegantly on the settee opposite.

Their parlour was not quite the finest room in Britain. But it was cosy. Heavy blue velvet drapes line the windows with gold tassels trimmed on their edges. There is upholstered walnut settees and arm chairs with white and pink rosebud pattern on the seats.

The fire is lit and roaring amber in the austere grey of the stone hearth surround. Mother arranged an ostentatious vase of tall spilling blooms on the French end table across the room, by the door. Perfuming the air with violets and bluebells. Sugared fruit of exotic variety lay in the only silver bowl they have in the house. Polished especially. Desperate to show off their finery.

Mother is fussing with the crocheted lace doily on the table. Tugging it straight. Setting her grey satin skirts to fold nicely and neat around her knees. Tugging on her finest shawl around her shoulders. Hissing at Iris to set her legs straight. For she always sat most uncommonly. With one knee folded under the other.

Iris is in the upholstered linen armchair opposite to the settee. In the chair has seen better years. A twin set. They creak and crack under her weight. But it’s always done that ever since she was a child. It’s her favourite spot. The light is adequate for reading. Until Posy or Flora come marching in and clamour and demand the chair for they have to fix up their bonnets for church on Sunday. Heaven forfend they are seen out in the same bonnet twice.

Luckily today they preen and fuss in the parlour mirror before the housekeeper shows their guests into the front parlour. Posy is in a duck egg blue with a green ribbon at her waist. Flora is almost matching in a cotton white with a peony pink ribbon. They preen a moment longer until the door handle cracks and twists across the room. The two littlest Ashton’s dart quickly to take their places. Squeaking with giddy excitement. Plonking artlessly onto the furniture.

Iris’s mother frowns at her eldest daughters dour smile. She’d tugged her out of bed nearly at dawn this morning. Ordered her up. To bathe and wash and then dress her hair for Hux’s call.

Laced her tight into stays and her whisper-blue silk dress. Barely blue. Like a sky just turning at twilight. It had three quarter sleeves and handsome train. It it showed off the prettiness of her neck and shoulders. Especially when she wore her pearl sapphire earrings. They sparkle all across her neck.

She puts down her book on the end table. And looks up into the parlour doorway as Mrs Hux enters, preceding her son. Their stout almost-elderly matron of a housekeeper, Simpson, opens the door to them and curtseys. Announcing them. “Maratella Hux and Sergeant Hux. If you please, Ma’am.”

Maratella glides in first. Still with her parasol hooked upon the crook of her arm. She snaps her fingers at Simpson to take it and her bonnet.

“I would have disrobed more in the hall. But your entryway is most drafty and I do so fear getting dust on my bonnet. For it will never be gotten out easy in all this fine lace.” Simpson takes her bonnet and her parasol off her. She curtseys to Caroline.

“Mrs Ashton. You do keep such a snug parlour.” And then she turns and offhandedly stresses Posy, Flora and Iris. The whole bouquet. As if suddenly surprised they’re all here. “Oh. And I dare say such a pretty flock of gels.” She compliments.

“You remember my youngest’s. Posy and Flora. And of course, Iris. My eldest.”

Hux nods and lays particular care in Iris’s intended direction. He turns back to Mrs Ashton.

“I feel I must ride into town to immediately fetch the constable. Ma’am. You have been charged with a criminally beautiful set of daughters. Mrs Ashton.” Hux flatters. With an easy charm of a smile.

Two thirds of the Ashton bouquet giggle wildly, enamoured with the praise. The remaining third bites her tongue to guard it. To keep from rolling her eyes.

“You are very good, Sir. Please. Do come, be seated. I have rung for tea.” Mrs Ashton floats delicately to retake her seat. Mrs Hux daintily comports herself next to her friend.

Armitage remains stood. Arms tugged behind. Sword clanging his belt where he stands with a jaunt to one hip one leg kicked out.

“How are you? My dear Mrs Ashton...” Maratella greets. Taking Caroline’s hands into her own. She wore spotless calfskin gloves. Before she unbuttons the pearl fastenings and makes a show of peeling the expensive things off her tubby hands. Delicately pinching each fingertip and caressing the thing off her hand like she was doing it for exaggerated show. She wasn’t. She was merely acting elegantly as she thought she must.

“I am in good health. I thank you Mrs Hux.” She answers. “Your Armitage looks extremely well. London air must agree with you, Sir?” Mother simpers.

“It did serve me most splendidly. Ma’am. But I am more than pleased to be home. And most thankful for your invitation.” He bows politely and his sea foam green eyes flicker over to find Iris. She smiles meagrely at him, averts her gaze.

He cuts the figure of a tall man standing there, behind his short mother with his hands crossed precisely behind his back. Trying to make his lean chest look impressive with all his gleaming medals and polished gold buttons resting stitched to their black braiding wool patches. Soot. Gold. And blood. All in one uniform.

Armitage Hux had missed the main war of late. The Napoleonic wars which happened of 1815, just this last year gone. Iris wondered if Hux really ever equated the finery of such a uniform, with real true war.

Here he is. Trussed up like a clockwork toy-soldier. With his boots shining and his composure spotless. He’s a young man who has not seen the full horror of war. Iris can’t exactly boast of knowing any more than he. But his uniform spoke of such hope. Time will tell if he can seize the bravery needed to march onto a battlefield.

“Iris looks exceedingly well. Do you not think so Armitage?” His mother urges.

“Indeed she does. Most handsome.” Hux says to the matronly mama’s. But he’s smiling right at her. He crosses the few short steps to the unoccupied twin chair where she’s sat by the window. Gracefully deposits himself into the chair.

Iris takes a subtle breath before she turns towards him. Sat demurely with her hands clasped on her knees and her back straight. When all she really wants to do is lounge. And slouch. And do anything to put him off the idea of marriage.

She was doomed to its sentence. She’d have rather sat here today and stuck pins in her eyes. Rather than conform to conversations about the weather, the local gossip, the tea or the snow outside. When all their mothers were really trying to arrange, was, when it boiled down to it? A forced mating ritual between the country gentry.

The way Mama and Mrs Hux are peering at them from their settee, is like they can already envisage the wedding clothes. And the names for the Hux babe they want to see, soiling in its cloth, and squalling loudly it’s bassinet.

Iris is sick to death of all this match making- but. She is the eldest Miss Ashton. She persists. When all she wants is to flee the room screaming.

“How did you find London this time of year? Must be miserably cold and busy.” Iris seeks.

“Yes. It was rather. Lucky my visit didn’t extend for too long. I am not so enamoured of city living. The society may be fine and resplendent. I did not suffer for a dinner invite the whole time I was in town. But the lifestyle suits me very ill. I much prefer my time spent back here at Walford.” He tells.

“And how is your regiment?” She enquires. He answers. They talk about his militia training. His fellow officers. His sword. His commission. They just lapse to the weather. When the door handle creaks again and in comes their procession of maids with the tea and cake.

Assam tea with a side of Cooks buttery baked ginger biscuits. Seed cake, and finger sandwiches. Made of fluffy pillow soft white bread. Filled with sliced tongue, or ham, with cornichon or yellow piccalilli.

Cook has even made her violet macarons. Gorgeous silky little round cakes of smooth, bright purple. Wedged either side of cloying sweet ganache. Almonds and sugar and all things made sweet with violet essence.

Iris knew mother must’ve gone through a fair amount of their family budget for such an indulgent French fancy. Sugar and eggs and coconut didn’t come cheap. Of course she would pour every hope and penny farthing they had spare into this venture. Anything to catch a suitor.

Caroline pours, and Julia hands around the cups. Leaves a macaron perched on Iris’s saucer. Waggles her brows at Iris, poking with good natured chiding fun for Hux, who was sat opposite her. Looking most keen.

Iris sips her tea from her blue and white spode cup and pays their silly maid no mind. Just because they both flutter eyes at anything of Male born, with nice thighs framed by their breeches.

He’s a soldier too? The maids will state that every romantic girl must get her heart broke by a soldier, just the once.

Hux sets his tea on the end table between them. Leaning a tad closer to initiate more intimate conversation.

“Do forgive my speaking bluntly, Miss Ashton. But I believe it is brightening up. Would you care to take a turn on the lawn with me?” He seeks. They had finished their tea. After all. And she must be polite.

“I’d be delighted to. Sergeant Hux.” She accepts. She stands and deposits her empty teacup down. He tells their Mothers of their plan. He sees Iris into the cold foyer and they pull on their coats. She wished she could find something repulsive in him. But really, he is a gentleman. He holds the door. Helps her into her pelisse. He’s not a horrible suitor. Maybe if he was she could hate him more keenly.

She wished she could be repulsed by his every action and snobbery. But he is, genial. He smiles warmly at her.

He takes her arm when they get outside. They walk along the drive in companionable, yet slightly awkward silence. Iris just knows their mothers will be fussing like clucking hens at the parlour window watching them. Planning a wedding for the spring after a suitably long engagement. Posy and Flora will be marvelling at every barest touch they share.

‘Did you see how he took your arm?’ Or ‘How he doted upon you... I should so like for a man to hold a door like that for me.’

Hux breaks the silence. They walk arm-in-arm around the curvature of the frozen pond.

“I know men aren’t supposed to be appraised of such matters. Miss Ashton. And if you’ll forgive me, I shall speak plainly-“ He declares to her.

He brings them to a stop. Ten to rly reaches out. His gloved fingers take her hand. She admires it. The plumage on his hat is battered in the wild wind. The only sounds she can hear is her bonnet ribbons fluttering and snapping on the wind. The birdsong chipping sweetly at her ears. The terrified drum of her heart.

“I came here today with the express purpose and intention of paying court to you, Iris.” He tells her. A hopeful smile on his lips.

His eyes crinkle at the corners with hope. His stark inky cape flaps on the breeze. She smells wool and boot polish. Stuck on the frosty landscape that glittered in his eyes.

Her chest breaks. Crushing in on itself.

She looks up into his face. The sun kissed gold upon her icy-white cheeks. Red tinted from the cold breeze. She swallows. Tipping her head slightly back so she can see his face past the woven peak of her bonnet.

Her mouth gapes and she looks down where he’s holding her hand- and it doesn’t feel right.

She feels like she wants to burst. Needles of hot and ice cold stab at her ribs like ferocious ten thousand little knives. She wants to be sick or run away. This isn’t the pair of hands that should be holding hers.

Sergeant Hux is terribly nice. Courteous and well bred. And more wealthy than her. But- but he’s not...

Lord Ren’s face strikes at her mind with so much power. She almost loses her breath. And her footing. She regains her composure. Even though it feels like something just yanked up inside her chest and tore away her lungs from where they are joined to her throat.

She plasters on a false meek smile.

“I see...” She remarks. Anything more witty or feeling was beyond her. She felt like soon, she’d fade into the air, like smoke. Just drift away.

“I know it is the especial wish of your mother, aswell as mine, that we are to consider each other as potential spouses. And I would very much- I should very much like to spend more time with you, if you’ve no objection?” He asks. Still clasping her hand.

“You are kind sir...” She stutters breath around the words. “Your attentions would be most welcome.” She lies.

She feels rotten.

“I know we know a little of each other. I believe there is some fondness between us. That could grow into respect, and, and possibly- one day, maybe more than that.” He approaches cautiously.

She nods. “You speak very bluntly of such matters. Sergeant Hux.” She says. He speaks as if they are already truths, come into fruition.

“I merely speak what is present. Miss Ashton. My- words are not finely crafted or driven by passion. They do not fall prettily. I am no astounding orator. Nor poet. But I do so believe that we might have a chance of making each other passably happy.” He declares once again.

“You shall never want for anything should we marry. You’d be a Sergeants wife and all that is offered it it’s income. I would treat you dearly, and- admire you as any husband should whilst you see to raising our offspring. These are, after all, matters that fall rightly to women.” He adds.

“Yes, indeed.” She guards her tongue before it becomes uncivil.

“We are invited to the Elton’s musicale, two nights forth. Thursday next. Would you do me the honour of your hand in the invite?” He seeks.

“Well. I-“ she swallows the sticky grey lump in her throat. How she’d love to be selfish and refuse. Her eyes still rimmed and raw from crying over all this last night. Heart sore. A great crack splintering through the middle of it like ancient rusted clay pottery. Her heart so badly wants anything- something more. Someone else.

She can’t do it. Mother would have her crucified. She wants her sisters to have a better comfort in life than what she’s had to suffer with being the family puppet. She wants her father to have new clothes and not have to worry. She wants to see Westwell safe from the bailiffs.

“I should be thrilled to attend.” She smiles. Her shattered heart crumbles that little bit more. Morphs into a wet mush of clay. Drowned by disappointment.

This wasn’t for her benefit- it’s for everyone else’s. And that was no reason to marry. She believes first and foremost in living for herself. Iris so badly wants to live for herself. To be her own person. She does not have that luxury and it’s suffocating.

She agreed because it was polite. Because he was a genial man and she didn’t wish him upset when he’s done nothing wrong, but let himself be manoeuvred into matrimony by his mother.

She agreed. For her sisters. For her father. Definitely not for her mother though. She doesn’t deserve even an ounce of her thoughts or considerations.

She agrees, even though all of Hampshire society knew that the musical performed by the Elton’s made all the local dogs howl. Even though several ‘accomplished’ young ladies of the ton, played their instruments so ill, everyone swore they could hear the thud of the long deceased composer banging their skull in lamentation and sheer agony on the lid of their coffin.

Even though she’ll be sat next to a man who has promised only to love her dearly. He is a nice man. That is simply it. She feels unworthy and ignorant. She doesn’t want the things she’s supposed too.

She’s overwhelmed. Her head is spinning, and her mouth as sticky dry as a chasm of sand. They’re not even courting properly, or engaged and she wants to pick up her skirts and flee across the horizon. She wants to run. To breathe. To be free from this nice courtesy that she doesn’t want.

She wants more out of her life than that of being a broodmare of a sergeants wife. The expectations don’t stop the day she says ‘I do.’ The fetid things will live on and on. Until she becomes the perfect bride. Then the most perfect housekeeper slash wife. Then a doting mother to a child she’s sure she doesn’t want. Fathered by a man who loves her with lukewarm and polite affection.

Can a soul really be satisfied by such a light caress of passion?

Hers is begging and screaming for more. She’s read in books about exotic cities and lands. Blue blue, so very blue seas and oceans, vaster than her comprehension. Wide wide skies filled with sunsets she could only dream of glimpsing at.

She’s read of snowy mountains and thick pine woodland. Air full of sap and snow. Of sunny cities entirely made out of blue bricks in Morocco. Or ones in Asia painted the entire street rosebud pink just for one visiting dignitary.

She’s heard teasing dribbles of exotic accents and tastes and cultures. She wants to see the bursting heated streets lined with saccharine Mango trees in India. Perfume of it in the air, of spices and sweetness. Wants to see the terracotta catholic loud renaissance of Florence. She wanted to see Castles and chateaus and forts and grand ballrooms. And American railways across the plains of the wild west and-

She’ll never have any of those things. Not a one. Her future was written and decided. And it is appearing bleak.

She thirsts and wants things she’ll never see. Such opulence in the world out there. And instead? She’ll be manacled to a husband and the children and the stove in this tiny savage spit of a village. Until old age and death comes to take her away. Return her to the heat and rot of earth and maggots to help fade her to nothing. Until all that remains of her, is dirty bones and her loved one’s scraps of memories.

Hux smiles. Brings her hand up to lay a gentle kiss upon her glove. “I anticipate it eagerly.” He says. She offers a wobbly smile that she tries to make stand strong.

She can feel eyes stabbing into her back - most likely from the direction of the parlour window. Mama and Mrs Hux stood at the parlour’s front facing windows. Appraising their fine match.

But there’s something else- something that raises the hairs on the back of her neck. Something altogether much more unwholesome. She feels a cold chill burst and slither up her spine. Horribly slow.

Hux has taken her palm to place it in his elbow once again. And they wander now around the rest of the pond. He remarks how beautiful the great spreading horse chestnut tree must be in spring. Iris smiles her agreement.

Peering around. Everywhere in her garden she looked, all was empty. She can’t see their gardener, Higgins, trimming verges or shrubbery. She looks between the copses of the vast spread of trees that shield her view, past the shrubs and the neat hedges. There was nothing. They were the only two people outside the house, out here.

So why does Iris feel as if they aren’t?

Her eyes catch on the bare mulberry tree, the sprawling trunk is bare and black. Like dead curled up spiders legs. Swaying in the breeze.

A black shape sits in that tree. A raven or a jackdaw bird possibly. Onyx black. Curling feet and a sharp inky beak. Fixated its beady glittering honey-black eyes on the both of them. Not moving an inch. Hunched and peering down over them.

Iris looks at it for a long moment. Watches the wind ruffling it’s feathers. It stays fixing its look on her. And it doesn’t move. Not scared. Not at all intimidated by her presence.

Hux jolts her out of her gawping at an unsuspecting bird. It gives a scratchy caw of a call, and spreads its flapping great wings. Soars up into the icy soft of the pearl sky and soars away over the house.

“Miss Ashton?” Hux asks again. A tad louder to capture her attention.

“Forgive me. Lost in my thoughts...” She laughs explains in mirth, turns back and smiles to him. He smiles awkwardly and ducks his head. Discusses the weather with her once again.

They head back into the house for more tea. Caroline gives Iris such a sickly smile when they come back into the room.

Hux announces to Mrs Ashton that he should like to pay call to Iris and escort her to the Musicale next week. Mrs Ashton accepts delightedly.

Mrs Hux adds onto that enjoyment. “Why, we should get a party together. Such a merry gathering! The Ashton’s and the Hux’s shall all attend. You know we have two carriages, Mrs Ashton. Hux may escort all your lovely daughters. And you and Mr Ashton May ride with me and Brendol.” She organised with a giddy grin. Tapping her companions knee.

Iris stands there next to Hux. Feeling very much as if her life is being lived for her. She has no choice in the matter. She is chattel.

Thankfully, after arranging the outing. Maratella and Hux take their leave. They are going on into Pembleton for a general perusal. And Hux needs more boot polish. And she is in desperate need of new ribbons for her hat. Iris shrewdly eyes the hefty bonnet on the woman’s head, groaning under the weight of lace and ribbons and muslin.

Hux kisses her hand again. Bows to her before he leaves. Iris swallows nervously. But doesn’t let her expression betray it. Flora and Posy giggle and whisper to each other. Flourishing into gossip as he leaves the room.

Iris stands looking at the door for a second after it’s shut. Mother sees them off to the front door.

Iris waits to hear the latch on the front door go. When she does she strides quickly for the parlour door, she yanks it open and tears across the foyer and upstairs. Her feet loudly slap each step as she holds her skirts bunched in her fingers.

When she gets to her room she throws the door open with such ferocity the door handle smacks loudly to the wall. She starts getting at the fastenings of her dress. Unloops them and manages to get down to her chemise and her stays. She throws the fine dress away to crumple to her bed. It balloons on the air and floats gently down. Mourning the loss of being worn.

She is at her wardrobe, ruffling through angrily. She’s so breathless. Her lungs are not getting air. Why can’t she breathe? Her mind is racing a million miles a minute. She’s sweaty and clammy and her temples are pounding straining pulsing. Every heartbeat hurts her head. Throat clawing shut.

She won’t cry. She wilfully clamps her teeth shut-she won’t.

She skips herself into her simple beige muslin dress. And shoved her arms through the old wool blue pelisse. Stabs her feet into her boots. Heads back downstairs with her scarf to hand. Every nerve balances on the precise of a knifes edge.

She gets to the front door when her mother appears, peering into the hallway from the parlour doorway. “Precisely where do you think you’re going?” She seeks. Frowning. Face pulled into a scowl.

“I’ve done my duty for today surely. Have I not? What more do you want from me. I’m done parading myself like a witless idiot. I need a walk and some air.” She offers curtly. Slipping out the front door.

Slamming it shut behind her before her mothers next shrill words pierce her ears. No doubt cursing her daughter for daring to have such an insulting commodity as a functioning brain.

She walks quick. Off up the front drive. Let’s the sting of cold rip at her eyes and her cheeks. Taking deep dragging breaths. It feels like she’d swallowed an entire ream of dressmakers pins. Stabbing and squeezing more pain into her.

She puffs and pants and finally feels like she’s gained some breathing space. Coming into the woods near Westwell and shuts her eyes and lets the sounds soothe her frayed self.

The wood pigeons. A cuckoo’s call. The hiss of leaves scratching against their branches in the wind. High above. The crunch of her boots on twigs and frosted leaves mushed underfoot.

The tactile scratch of her gloves hands scraping across the rough bark of trees around her. She leans back against one of them. Looks up at it’s dead brown leaves. Elm tree.

It’s nice to let something sturdy take her weight for once. She doesn’t often have that luxury.

She regains control of her senses. Of her ragged breath and thumping heart. The cold wind wraps around her snugly. Letting her envelope herself in this silence. Breath escapes silver and wispy from her lips.

A twig snaps far off in the tree’s-

Her eyes shoot open. Scanning all around. Sickly bile rising to the back of her throat. She steps away from the elm tree and lets her eyes flicker all around the woodland. Over the ash brown of the trees and the brush of golden leaves mingled with crystals of frost on the ground.

She turns her head around and then loses her breath. Except this time, it is not of her own making.

There is a dark shape looming out of the trees. A big shape. A monstrous shape. A big meaty tangle of black-grey smudged fur. Pointed ears, a long snout. Eyes standing stark. Eyes that are more golden than a tuscan sun.

A wolf.

She watches as this beast assesses her from afar. Gently picking its paws over the foliage and mess of brittle twigs and mud on the wood floor. It’s paws were as big as dinner plates. It’s not baring it’s teeth at her. She imagines those teeth are bigger and sharper than most silver daggers or pocket knives.

It’s ears are swivelled in her direction. Eyes fixed on her too.

She stays still. Frozen to the spot she’s rooted too. Trying not to tremble in fear as tears, hot and molten silver, fill stinging at her eyes. She shivers with the ache of staying so still. Not daring to move one muscle.

This is the beast that’s been attacking the soused farmhands. The one that’s been hunting for blood. She doesn’t quite appreciate how much of a true statement that is.

When it’s about a foot away from her- it suddenly stops. Raises its lowered head. She sees the long line of its shaggy neck. Fur shining the shade of matte coal. It regards her with casual concern. It’s not growling. Or stalking her every move.

She stops holding such tension in her body. She’s used to the wolf hounds they have on the farm. Shaggy slobbering lumbering dogs who go insane for the dried liver, and fresh bones cook saves for them when she had a haunch of pork.

She remembers how their dogs go apoplectic for them. Gnawing at the fresh gummy blood and meat on those bones. She swallows at the not so appropriate visual of bloodied bones, right at this second. When she could have her throat ripped open by this savage wolf.

She watches as it comes closer by two steps from those big lethal paws. Then it sits.

She swallows. The way she knows canines. Sitting is not a sign of a rabid beast baying for blood.

“You know, you shouldn’t be afraid.” Lord Ren’s voice ricochets through her head. Like a distant echo. Smoke on the air. Did she imagine it, or recall it?

What else was it he had said? She can vaguely recall. “Wolves are not just blood thirsty beasts. They are intelligent and sociable animals. They are more likely to be spooked by a human than want to kill them.”

So she does the only thing she can think of. Maybe it’s foolish. Maybe she’s putting herself in greater danger? But the wolf’s tranquility makes her brave.

She makes herself look less like a threat. Slowly sinks to a crouch, joining it. Her knees stab into the frosty ground as she sinks down. Coming eye to eye with the creature.

So close now she can see the various flecks of honey in its eyes. Can see every strand of fur where they stand rigid from its sleekly shaggy coat.

She rests fully on her bent knees. Damning her dress. Dancing the wet frost and mud bleeding into her dress. She tilts her slightly head at the wolf.

“Where did you come from then?” She asks it. Seeing the huge ears turn to her.

Where she’s crouched, it’s almost taller than her, sat down. On all fours it would have come up well past her hip she’d imagine. It was no stretch to perceive how this could be the creature that’s been attacking men around these parts of late. It is a brutely sized beast.

Meaty shoulders, a slim body, long strong legs and a powerful tail. Immense and strong.

“I know I should most likely be scared of a creature like you.... But you don’t seem very dangerous, to me... I’m sure if you were hungry enough to kill me you would’ve done so by now.” She counters to it.

It tilts his head and licks its chops. Flashes her the ivory sabres that it had for teeth. She looks down to it’s intimidating big paws. The claws almost bigger than her fingers. Another flurry of fear shivers through her.

“Are you the only one of your kind? You must be lonely. Are there any more of you hereabouts?...” She seeks. Wobbly voice straightening out when she unknots her tongue.

The wolf just sits. And watches her. Doesn’t move. Just looks.

Those gold eyes harrowing in their ferocity. She feels like they burn her. Yet. Why does she feel like she’s seen those buttery-honey eyes once or twice before-

She must be mad. They should call the doctor to come take her away to the nearest mental institution and pin her into a straight jacket. Here she is sat talking to a wolf.

“I know better than any what being lonely is like I suppose...” She adds softly.

Maybe she is insane. She has the oddest inclination- she reaches up. But not before stopping to take her gloves off. She leaves them crumpled in her lap. And extends her hand towards the beast.

She somehow already knows it won’t harm her.

It still sits there. Even as she gets her fingers to stroke the side of its neck. Fur so soft and thick under her palm. Silky smooth. She’d never felt a pelt this smooth.

It makes a deep appreciative growl in the back of its throat at being petted. A deep husking rumbling noise. A chuff of breath.

A sudden noise makes her shrink back. The wolf sharply turns its head. She looks too. A horse and rider galloping through the far lane, off in the woods

By the time she twists back, the wolf is gone. Sprinting off through the trees. Far to the horizon.

A black blur in the woods. And she is alone once more.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

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justanotherwannabeclassic · 6 years

Text

Finding Neverland (12/?)

Summary: When Juliet Jones and Gideon Gold fall through a time portal and find themselves in Neverland, finding a way back home is the least of their worries. One wrong step can irreversibly change the course of history, placing both of their existences in jeopardy. As Juliet attempts to ensure her parents are on course to falling in love, Gideon struggles with the realization that he’s about to meet his deceased brother for the very first time. Will they succeed in preserving the timeline, and what happens when these star-crossed lovers realize their respective families’ goals are at odds? Relationships: Gideon Gold x OC Swan-Jones kiddo, Captain Swan, references to Rumbelle and slight Swanfire

Read now on AO3.

Previous Chapters: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11]

Chapter 12

Over the years, Emma has imagined kissing Neal again. How could she not? He’d been her first love, and everything between them had felt so unfinished. She’d never truly found closure -- still hasn’t, if she’s honest with herself -- so, she’d find herself fantasizing. Fantasizing about kissing him, about raising Henry together, about all the things they couldn’t have because he betrayed her.

He left her.

Maybe that’s why, when he kisses her for the first time, she doesn’t pull away immediately. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t introduce him to her right hook -- she thinks, vaguely, that Killian might be amused by the pun. Instead, she stands frozen as his lips mold to hers. There’s a part of her that thinks this kiss might be something out of a fairytale. It’s the same part of that’s still seventeen, and hoping against hope that something went wrong, and that Neal didn’t let her take the fall for the watches.

But here’s the thing: Emma Swan isn’t seventeen anymore. She’s twenty-nine, with over a decade of pain and baggage under her belt. And there’s more than just that, the anger and resentment, there’s --

“Stop it!”

Neal jerks away suddenly at Juliet’s cry, and Emma does her best to ignore the wave of relief crashing over her as she draws her attention to the young woman who had previously been missing. Juliet stares at them, wearing an expression that can only be described as betrayal. It’s only then that Emma remembers that she’s in a crowd, and embarrassment floods her. Juliet must notice it too, because her cheeks turn a bright pink as she begins to stammer, “You, um, you can’t just grab people and kiss them.”

“It’s basic consent,” Romeo chimes in, and Emma wonders if she’s suddenly been transported into some after-school PSA about healthy relationship dynamics. Not that it would be any stranger than being in Neverland.

Neal raises his hands in supplication, “Hey, I didn’t mean it that--"

“You know, Juliet is right,” Emma hears her father cut in from somewhere behind her. She wonders if the ground might swallow her whole. She doesn’t want to deal with the overprotective father bit at the moment, especially since she is an adult who didn’t even want to be kissing Neal in the first place.

“More to the point, we have more important things to worry about than...that,” Regina adds, her voice dripping with barely concealed venom as she levels a dark glare toward both she and Neal. Emma feels a bubble of anger, even after Regina crosses her arms, and redirects her attention toward Juliet. “Where were you?”

Good question, Emma thinks. They had spent the past day or so worrying about Juliet, and suddenly she appears unharmed, Hook, Romeo, and Neal in tow. It’s suspect, especially since Neal is supposed to be dead. He should be dead. I watched him die.

“Kidnapped by Pan. We both were,” she gestures toward Neal. Juliet then looks back up to Gideon. “And these two were were attempting to find us. Keyword being attempting, because we got out just fine.”

“I wouldn’t say just fine,” Neal cuts in.

Juliet glares. “We’re not dead yet, are we?”

Though Emma appreciates Juliet’s spunk -- she’s never been a fan of the damsel-in-distress thing, herself -- Emma can’t help but notice something strange about the way Juliet and Neal are speaking. Almost as if they talking around one another, judging by their use of emphasis on words.

“So how did you escape?”

“We traded secrets,” Juliet shrugs. Ah, secrets, Emma thinks, this is probably why they sounded weird. “There’s a cave, and its whole schtick is secrets. We shared secrets, so we were able to leave.”

“And what secrets did you share?” It’s Regina who asks this, one perfectly manicured eyebrow raised. Her gaze is intense, and Emma is thankful she’s not the one on the receiving end -- for once.

“It’s a secret. You can’t share secrets,” Juliet says, surprisingly defiant.

“This isn’t some middle school slumber party, this is--”

“My secret was that I would rather my mother have been killed by pirates than have her abandon me, and hers is that she’s having second thoughts about her relationship with her boyfriend,” Neal cuts in. Juliet’s jaw drops, and her gaze darts to Romeo.

“Babe, I--”

“Secrets, right?” Romeo disentangles his hand from her, and moves a step away. For moment, Juliet looks as if she might cry, and Emma once again finds herself wishing she were anywhere but here. She tears her gaze away from the couple, only to find Hook. His expression is stony, but there’s a certain sadness in his eyes. She’s about to wonder why, until she recalls Neal’s half of his confession.

“I would rather my mother have been killed by pirates than have her abandon me.”

She knows Killian wouldn’t have made the same trade. She wants to say something, she isn’t sure of what. David steps in before she can find words.

“That takes a lot of courage to admit,” he says, reminding Emma why some take the Prince Charming moniker at literally. A glance over to Romeo and Juliet makes Emma think that they would rather Neal be a coward. Hook likely feels the same way, too. “So, I take it after leaving the cave, you met up with Hook and Romeo?” David’s expression turns sour. “Thanks for telling us you were leaving, by the way. We really appreciate it.” Hook lets out a broken laugh. “Believe me, if I thought I had the time, I would have. Our star-crossed lover over here was quite eager to find his lady love.”

“Something could have happened to you.”

“Why, Dave, I didn’t know you cared.” Hook adopts stance that Emma can only describe as ‘cocky asshole’.

“I don’t. I just prefer to be aware. You’re the one who’s always going on about how dangerous this island is. You could have died, and we wouldn’t have known.”

“Oh, I’m sure Pan would have flaunted my head on spike sooner or later, but I appreciate your concern.”

“Excuse me, do I need to take out a measuring tape so you two can finish comparing sizes, or should we get to the matter at hand. Your squabbles are--”

“Can we please not talk about comparing sizes?” Emma overhears Juliet whisper in response to Regina’s admonishment, and she can’t help but agree with the young woman.

“--doing nothing to help us find my son.”

“Our son,” Emma emphasizes, because even if she can’t control Neal or anything else in this fucked up situation, she can control this. No matter what, she still Henry’s mother.

“Right.” Regina only manages to look somewhat annoyed.

“And we do have the upper hand on Pan,” Neal adds. “I doubt he thinks all of us would end up together as quickly as he did.”

“Neal’s right. It’s likely the demon wasn’t preparing us to progress so quickly.” Hook casts a dark look toward Romeo. “As it stands, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’ll appear quite vexed to find his plans foiled.”

“I don’t care about how vexed he is. I care about saving Henry,” Emma tells him. The idea of Henry being trapped by an irate Pan makes her sick.

“And we will, Swan. Of that I have no doubt.” Hook stares at her meaningfully, and Emma realizes that he actually means it. He honestly doesn’t have any doubt in their ability to rescue Henry. She avoids dwelling on why that means so much.

“Thank you.” “As heartwarming as that was to witness, it’s still not a plan.” So they plan.

Or, at least, attempt to plan. They settle the outline of something -- capturing Pan’s shadow, and it’s Regina who offers to go off and find Gold, much to Neal’s relief -- with minimal debates. But by the time they have half of the plan settled, everyone is exhausted. The lack of sleep weighs heavily on everyone, adrenaline only carrying them so far. Juliet had been the first to turn in, retreating to her makeshift bedroll before any plan had been settled upon. However, considering the circumstance of her recent capture, no one brooked argument. Not even Romeo, who had kept his careful distance from her, still apparently spurned by the Neal’s reveal of her secret. But when they all settle for what’s left of the night, Emma still notices that he retreats to sleep near Juliet, albeit at an arm’s length of a distance.

It would be easy, Emma thinks, to fault Juliet for having second thoughts about Romeo. After all, everyone here had recently witnessed the level of Romeo’s dedication to the woman he loved. How could anyone have second thoughts about someone so devoted? But Emma reminds herself that she doesn’t know Juliet or Romeo that well. They had been in a fight earlier. And for all she knows, Romeo might have done something unforgivable in the past. And if Juliet is having second thoughts about that, can anyone blame her? Some transgressions just can’t be forgiven or forgotten, not matter how much the other party wants them to be. As Emma settles once again in her own bedroll, she hates herself for finding the couple’s relationship woes a welcome distraction. It’s much easier to focus on theirs than hers, and analyzing their dynamic keeps her from thinking about all the terrible things that could be happening to Henry. Regardless of the questions she has, Emma can’t help but find herself still rooting for the couple, which is something she can’t say about Neal.

-/-

Everything is slower in the morning. Gideon can feel the weight of the restless night in every aching muscle. He knows he ought to move up from the ground and his makeshift bedroll, but after an extended period of being separated from Juliet, he revels in the warm press of her body against his and the way she buries herself into his chest. Despite falling asleep separately in an effort to keep up the ruse of quarrelling lovers, they had gravitated toward one another in the night. Even though it doesn’t aid their cover, he doesn’t fight it. Her soft, even breaths tell him that she’s asleep, and he doesn’t relish the idea of waking her. She had gotten just as little rest as he had, maybe less. She needs this, he thinks as presses a soft kiss to the crown of her head.

It’s still early yet, but Gideon can hear the slight stirring of the members of the camp -- another reason for him to feign sleep. As much as Gideon appreciates Neal’s quick thinking at concocting secrets, he still feels uneasy around the man, mostly because he hadn’t been prepared to see Neal at all. He’d known it was an inevitability, but Juliet’s disappearance had made him briefly forget that the brother he’d never met was here. Knowing that Neal also knew of his identity only elevates the dread. He doesn’t have the cover of pretending to be a stranger to talk to the man. Neal knows that Gideon is his younger brother, and all interactions going forward would be that of brothers.

Neal can no longer be an abstract concept to him. This is his opportunity to get to know his brother as a man -- his traits, his personality -- and not just the sketches that his father, Henry, and Emma had drawn with their stories of him. And, in turn, this is his chance for his brother to get to know him, Gideon Gold.

It’s terrifying.

And it’s made all the worse by knowing their motivations for whatever happens in Neverland are in direct opposition.

They both want to save Henry, sure, but Neal is approaching from the perspective of a worried father, whereas Gideon -- though he loves Henry -- just wants the situation to play out how it’s supposed to. His brother’s earlier display, however, highlights something else: Neal wants to rekindle his relationship with Emma, something that Gideon absolutely cannot allow to happen.

Gideon’s well aware of the tropes that appear in TV and movies. Falling for the older sibling’s significant other has been a plot played out at least a hundred times, but Gideon doubts any media has covered what happens when you fall for the daughter of the older sibling you’ve never met, and whose existence depends on your brother staying very far away.

The running joke in his and Juliet’s relationship, and their ability to vaguely play the parts they’re playing now, has hinged on their fathers’ mutual history of hostility. Neal had been an non-issue, except when Henry had expressed his own personal discomfort with his “uncle” dating his “baby sister”. But now Neal very much is an issue, and Gideon can’t help but feel as if he, himself, is a roadblock standing in front of his brother’s happiness -- a complication he never once considered.

“If you squeeze any tighter, I’m pretty sure you’re gonna break my ribs.” Juliet’s voice is soft, a whisper into his shirt that he knows no one can overhear.

“Sorry,” he mumbles into her hair. He loosens his grip slightly, but doesn’t make any further movements to untangle themselves, continuing his own game of pretend. “You rest any?”

“Not really,” she tells him. “Stressed.”

“Yeah.” Gideon wants nothing more than to stay ensconced like this in their small bubble of warmth, but he knows they can’t, not with what’s at stake. He wishes they were at home, cuddled under the massive blankets that Juliet insists on sleeping under. That would mean they were safe. They would be home. “We’re kinda fucked right now.”

“‘Kinda’ is an understatement.” She tightens her own hold on him. “But, I’m still here, so we’re not totally fucked.”

“No, instead you’re having second thoughts about me.”

“Yeah, only so we can have a fight and get to the makeup sex later.” He feels her grin against his chest, and it takes everything in him to hold back a laugh.

“Later being when we get home, because I cannot imagine anything happening here with everyone around.”

“Oh God, don’t put that picture in my head. The library was bad enough.” This time, it’s Juliet that has to suppress her giggles. She sobers quickly enough. “You know I have no second thoughts, right? About you and me?”

“I know.” He’d been afraid his reaction around the others had been too much, but it would have been unnatural had he done nothing. Juliet had thankfully caught on, but pretending to fight had been unpleasant.

“I’m glad Neal had our backs.”

“Mmmhm.”

“You’re going to have to talk to him about why...and, you know, to not kiss Emma.” He’s too busy not wanting to think any more about Neal that he completely misses the first part of Juliet’s sentence.

“Wait, me? Why me?”

“Because no matter how weird things with my brother, it’d still kill me if I never talked to him. And I think he wants to talk to you. So, talk,” Juliet whispers as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And maybe it is,but he’s unwilling to admit it right now due the absolute weight of the conversation he knows will come.Besides, talking to Neal will mean letting go of Juliet and putting on yet another act of pretending to be mad at her. That, too, is an unfavorable next action.

“When I’m with Neal, what are you going to do?”

“Get my parents together, of course.”

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs au #cs canon divergence #s writes fic #s writes finding neverland

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benjaminschreave · 6 years

Text

her

a/n: BEFORE YOU READ, I just want to thank you all for this experience. for participating, writing such amazing fics, developing your characters, and most of all, allowing me to see ben fall in love with such wonderful girls. I wish everyone could win (truly, I spent hours upon hours analyzing this decision from every possible angle) but in the end, you all put in the most amazing of efforts. this is my farewell to the oc as a participant (round four is a lot my dudes lol) and from the bottom of my heart, thank you, thank you, thank you. BLESS ES FOR JOINING ME ON THIS WILD RIDE, for all of you when we couldn’t write what we wanted, and for being so patient. much love, and I’ll see you all around <3

es: so Brianna deserves the recognition ™ for getting Wyatt pretty well on this. I’ve been on intense orientation all week, but she still finished this fic and iM HYPE. Hope u guys had lots of fun with the weird challenges this selection. Ik we had less people this time around, and we couldn’t write as many fics as we would’ve liked (lol maybe one day) but I had lots of fun reading yours wih brinna and writing a couple of our own and rPING. Maybe in the next few days I’ll be able to rp more with a couple of you for the other stuff and future life HEHEHE. Thank you for giving me the chance to end my participation in these with the 5th Selection— as a host! It’s been a wild ride to see how things have changed as selections came and went. Love y’all from aMERICA now. <3

—————

b e n

—————

Discussing my brother’s new girlfriend didn’t do much to take my mind off my own ‘female woes of the heart,’ as Layla so affectionately put it. Said brother and I were hit with the same idea of having another heart-to-heart, though with different intentions. His about Gabby, mine about… well, the last three.

Last three. The phrase alone gave me anxiety considering I knew I was on the brink of narrowing it down to the final girl.

I sucked in a breath, nodding to Wyatt’s question. “Now about you and your mystery girl, I presume?”

“Yeah um, I’m conflicted. What’s new?” I intoned. A short, tired laugh.

That earned a slight chuckle from him as he headed over to the sitting area and plopped down on the sofa. “So you need to figure it out soon.” Less a question and more a statement, but still mostly true.

If I chose to, the Selection could have gone on for months more. There was no pressing need to choose right away. My family, advisors, they all understood this delicate process.

But I knew in the end, I couldn’t extend this for much longer. Because I knew I was in love with Elle, Lia, or Viv. The question was with who.

So I reiterated this out loud, my feet beginning to shuffle across the floor in an anxious pace. “I want to yes. I know I... I know I love them, but like mom said I don't-I need to figure out which one I love in the way I should love her, like in love you know? Which is hard and makes my mind go nuts because they're so great, I hate thinking about hurting them and—” my sigh cut me off. My thoughts were starting to feel as scrambled as my ramble.

A quick glance at the currently more level-headed Schreave lounging on the couch revealed a raised brow, sitting up straighter. Wyatt stared at a random space on the wall, thinking for a moment. “Have you considered talking with dad?”

“I did,” I admitted, several hundred times, “But... well, I wanted to talk to you.” That was the simplest way I could put it.

He hummed and looked back to me. “Talk to me about them first. I’ve missed on a couple of things.”

My lips pressed together. Trying to sum up everything about my— no, not my girls. Not in any possessive way, at least. More like they had each wedged a little piece of my heart to carry around in their pockets, so it felt like they were mine somehow. And I was theirs too.

The words came out in a strange, jumbled rush. “I know how you feel about Ophelia, but even though she's... well, you don't always see eye to eye, she's kind and has something about her that sets her apart. Elegant. And with Danielle, God, I can't believe how far she made it, how far we made it I mean. She was so grumpy, and still kind of is, but she's so much more, you know?

“Viv is all her own person. She's been through so much and still manages to be who she is, it blows my mind. Same goes for Lia, but in different ways. They just…” I had begun to pace again, though I stopped in front of the couch, facing Wyatt head on. My shoulders slumped. “I don’t know.”

He stared at me for a beat. A look I couldn’t decipher until he stood up and clapped his hands once.

“Let’s try an exercise.”

My brow rose. “Uh… what?”

He then proceeded to explain he would pretend to be me and I a Selected. I didn’t understand why until he dropped to one knee in front of me and looking entirely like the over dramatic, actor-in-another-life sibling I knew all too well.

“My love, my life, my everything,” he began, hands over his heart. I shot him a flat look and he snickered before sobering and clearing his throat.

“Insert romantic monologue of how much you love her, probably some crying and then down to the real, stroke-inducing moment.” He glanced around, searching. In a few seconds, he settled with using the ring on his right hand and held it up, expression sincere. /Why is he weirdly good at this?

“Your laugh…” Deep and sincere. Elle never wasted one.

“Your eyes…” How I could always read Viv, the wonderful parts she hid but revealed through her stare.

“Your smile…” Lia’s is… warm. Sweet.

“They all encompass everything I love and want to see every day for the rest of my life. First thing in the morning and last thing at night. In the end, it all comes back to you.”

There was a ringing in my ears, my breaths becoming short. It wasn’t Wyatt pretending to propose anymore, but me.

I was kneeling in front of her, saying everything she was, except the image of her was suddenly becoming clear. It all comes back to you.

That was it.

“And so, my absolute dear,” a touch of sarcasm I couldn’t quite catch, overwhelmed by the realization that my heart was yelling what my head had just begun to grasp. “Will you do me the highest of honors of marrying me…?” Wyatt’s voice trailed off in the silent question that I would fill the space with her name.

There she was.

Soft hair and the safest of hands and a pillar of peace I couldn’t even begin to describe how much I was thankful for, smiling in a way I had only ever seen her do for me.

She loves me. And… I love her.

I loved them all. I knew I did, only in different ways. I saw myself becoming good friends with the other two, comfortable in that kind of love. Even if I did pick them for some odd reason, they’d make me happy. Except… I knew I’d spend the rest of my life looking back and wondering what my life could have been if she had been my choice.

Luckily, I didn’t have to wonder. She was here, if she would have me. And I was almost giddy with the thought that I had found the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

I smiled.

“Elle. It’s… Danielle.”

#here it is guys #congratulations to the winner and to the other amazing girls #you all are absolutely wonderful #thank youuuuuu #selectionoc

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beautifulramblingbrains · 7 years

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Bound By Honour - Chapter 5

Pairing: Eric/OC *Sarah* Fandom: Divergent/Insurgent Rating: M - Some very expressive content within the depths of this post.

Eric has the best hand in all the factions, but can’t seem to get to grips with his life as a parent to two grown Dauntless members. The honour is passed to Sarah as she battles with the woes of an unruly daughter and a wayward son. Balanced with a intricate web of personal struggles and outsiders, can they stop their family from falling apart?

A/N: I’m sorry for the delay. Some of you may well know that I’ve been distracted, and I will be taking a lengthy break from writing fanfiction. I have some things I want to do for myself and I feel I’m ready and it’s about time. I will still be around to chat etc, just not participating in uploading fics, at least until my current muse ends anyway. Thank you for reading and supporting me for so long.

Tags: @singingpeople@equalstrashflavoredtrash@pathybo@beltz2016 @ariwolff14@lostinthebeans@kiiiimberlyriiiicker1995@jojuarez26 @tigpooh67@mom2reesie@lilu46 @murmelinchen @lauraaan182

“And how’s school, Eliza?” Sarah asks over a stew Mary had made earlier that day. She wasn’t meant to stay for so long but it just ended up being that way with Mary telling her that Eliza would be home from school soon. She had felt obliged to stay, seeing as her husband Mark was also away during the weeks now because of her own son.

Eliza was a pretty brunette with long brown ringlets loosely falling by her ears. Her mannerisms were faultless as she sat straight, holding a spoon that seemed too large for her hands. Mary wasn’t forceful with correcting sloppy behavior, Eliza had seemingly picked up her mother’s ways through instinct. It was nothing like how they were brought up. It felt calm and peaceful, an easy home to belong to. In fact, it wasn’t even like Sarah’s home, because of the constant play on parenting and Eric’s obnoxious ways.

“I love school, Auntie Sarah.” Her voice is so small and quaint. It makes her think of April and how different she is to her cousin. April has never been quaint or delicate, the quirks of her father had taken her genes and entrapped them. Though April didn’t have height on her side, her attitude carried her much further. If only she could learn how to embrace it.

“I also remember someone who loved school,” Sarah says, hinting to Mary who grins quickly at her. “You remind me of her so much.”

“Is that my mommy?” The little girl questions, tilting her head shyly while they watch her.

“Yes.”

With a small giggle, they grow quiet, finishing their food. Sarah politely props her spoon in the bowl and sighs. “Thank you for dinner. It’s nice not having to make it myself. It tastes better.” It was also earlier than she was used to. Most nights, Sarah’s family were never really ready to sit down to eat until well after eight.

“We should do this more often…” A wry smile forms on Mary’s face. “I also like the fact that the leftovers get delivered by Eliza to Mother.”

“I still haven’t been to see her.�� Sarah feels guilty, but not that much. She hadn’t been in the mood to visit Meredith; it would be question upon question, insulting Eric to the tenth degree, and moaning that April and Jack never visit

“That woman is as hard as nails, she isn’t going anywhere anytime soon…” Mary strokes her daughter's hair. “Why don’t you take the bowls out to the kitchen for me? Then when you’re finished, go up to your room and sort your things out for tomorrow.”

Eliza swings her legs down from the long bench and walks over to Sarah on the other side of the table, hugging her quickly. “Good night!” Then she gathers the bowls and heads for the kitchen.

“She’s growing so quickly,” Sarah comments, staring off after her. When Mary doesn’t reply, she frowns over to her. “What?”

“What’s going on? I know you. I know that look. I know the tone. I know the heaviness.”

“Work’s been a little strange. I’m working with Erudite and the new… maybe new Leader.” Sarah fidgets, leaning her arm on the table. “He’s not what I expected. I feel out of my depth and intimidated, I suppose. What’s also strange is that Eric seems to have every confidence in me. I thought at first that he just did it as a way to swindle Erudite while he was busy patching up Candor. I showed him some other information about another major problem, a serious problem, and he hasn’t mentioned it. Maybe I’m just overthinking… I seem to be doing that a lot lately.”

“Overthinking what?” Mary asks, watching Sarah’s eyes remain on the table.

“Everything…” Eliza reappears and they wait until she vanishes upstairs. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course! You can tell me anything. Do you want a drink or something, though? A hot drink?”

Sarah looks out to the sun setting. “No, it’s getting late. I can’t have another relapse of last time.”

Mary scoffs. “Go hard or go home Sarah.”

“You’re not funny.” But she does laugh a little. “I’ll just come out and say it… Blake is being suggestive.”

“And Blake is who again?”

“He’s Blake Hammond, the guy from Erudite that I’m working with. It may just be me, but I feel his persona towards me is mixed. It’s like… it’s like I can’t work him out.”

“So, you mean like, flirting, or...?”

“Sort of. His words are all work related. But it’s the way he expresses himself - his actions.”

“Mommy! I can’t find any hair ties!” Eliza shouts down the stairs, sounding like she was about to descend any minute.

Mary snaps her head over her shoulder. “Honey, just wait two minutes!” Her eyes flicker over Sarah for a moment before she gestures for her to continue. “And?”

“Well, that’s it.” But she begins blushing. “He kissed my cheek after I accepted his work proposal. And he touches my hands a lot,” she rushes, realizing how immature it sounded. “I can’t explain.”

“Have you given him any reason?”

“Nothing at all.” She shrugs, frowning for a moment and then her eyes widen at Mary. “He must be half my age. He knows I’m married.” Sarah bites her lip still under her sister's scrutiny. “Eric doesn’t know any of this. And I can’t tell him. How could I possibly? It sounds preposterous just telling you.”

“I could have guessed that. But to me, it doesn't sound like anything to be worried about. Maybe that’s just what he’s like.” Mary smiles, trying to comfort her older sister. “It may be a big thing to you because you’ve always had Eric breathing down your neck, let alone the chance to interact with, I’m guessing, single and successful men.”

“I have an active social life, Mary. I’m not locked away.” Sarah rolls her eyes. “There is something off with his behavior,” she stresses.

“He hasn’t technically done anything. And as you say, he’s all words, about work from what I’m understanding.”

“It’s his disclosure.”

“Do you... like him?”

It takes Sarah by surprise, scrunching up her nose, she exclaims, “Oh gosh, no!”

“If it happens again, maybe then you should say something.” Mary smiles at her. “Everything is okay with you and Eric, though?”

Sarah thinks about the extra effort Eric has put in lately, especially when he had taken it upon himself to help April the other night. “We are more than fine,” she reassures her sister. She pauses for a moment, wiping a crumb from the table. “Can we keep this between us? I just needed to get that off my chest. And it’s not particularly something I can approach Eric with.”

“You don’t even have to ask. A problem shared is a problem halved. You sure you don’t want anything?”

Sarah stands up, straightening her skirt. “No, I’m going to make a move. It’s getting dark. And I think Eliza is waiting for you.” She finds her boots by the door, slipping her feet inside, and then pulls on her long cloak, shrouding her head with the hood while her sister watches with clasped hands. “If you hear anything from Mark about Jack, let me know as soon as you can.”

“All I know is that signal is bad and they are extremely busy. I barely hear from Mark as much as I’d like,” Mary lies. But it’s for the sake of Sarah’s state of mind, so that can’t be a bad thing…

They hug quickly, and as Sarah steps onto the graveled path, she waves over her shoulder, the light from inside dying with the door closing.

It’s colder than she had realized, the night sky clear and freckled with masses of stars, the moon bright overhead and appearing as if it leads the way home. Of course, Abnegation is like a ghost town, the opposite of Sarah’s Dauntless lifestyle. Most of the people here would be dining with their families and tucked up by nine, not long after their children’s heads had hit the pillow.

Sarah knew this route like the back of her hands. It took her through a patch of abandoned buildings and old streets. She admired the way nature had tried to claim back some of the carnage left behind; growing through the brickwork and sprouting in the cracks in the sidewalk. She even thought the space between Abnegation and Dauntless was like a different solitary world. It was usually the place where the bulk of her thoughts were left to run wild and the only witness of her dreaming was the sun or moon itself. The old buildings were like long forgotten whispers of the past, only still present to be remembered for what was - like gravestones, sad but beautiful.

But something has Sarah peer over her shoulder. Not once had she ever feared walking the short track home, but like the connection she processed when people's moods changed, the same feeling slipped down the back of her neck unexpectedly.

She increases her pace a little more, no longer able to wander in her thoughts - when she hears a sharp scrape behind her. She gasps, having heard it so evidently, twirling round to… nothing. Staying completely still, though her breath left raggedly through her open mouth no matter how hard she tried to control it, the old street remained silent.

After the initial fear, her anxiety creeps in. “Get yourself together, Sarah…” she whispers to herself. “This is stupid.” Turning and heading back towards Dauntless once again, every piece of her skin is on alert. The urge to run ahead screamed in her thighs, but her mind kept her locked with indecisions and uncertainty of why she actually should if there was nothing physically there.

She doesn’t need to be convinced further when the sound of rocks scatter behind her. She grabs the front of her skirt and sprints without looking back. Turning a corner, she pushes herself up against the cover of a building. What sounded like debris is now large striding footsteps, approaching closer and closer. Peering down the dark street to her right, a path set away from her destination, she doesn’t know where it leads, or at least can’t remember precisely in this moment as adrenaline pumped through her veins and blocked her thoughts. Her fingers grip into the concrete behind her and she prays the person will pass without noticing her. The fight or flight instinct was a terribly blurry line between possible stupidity; standing up to whoever was coming behind her, or maybe a chance of escaping and unknowing.

She decides to face her fears, stepping out determinedly, though shaken and comes face to face with… Thomas. She doesn’t hesitate and throws herself into her younger brother’s arms.

“What are you doing?” he questions while chuckling as if she was insane for embracing him so tightly.

“You frightened me!” She whacks his back for good measure.

“I’m sorry. I just saw Mare and she said you’d just left and I didn’t want to miss you.” She still doesn’t let go. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine now.” Standing back she wipes her nose, beginning to smile as the threatening feeling evaporated. She even laughs. “God, I feel so stupid.”

“I’m not surprised. You looked it.” She whacks him playfully on the arm. “What are you so afraid of?”

“I thought I was being followed or… I don’t know!” Putting a hand to her hip, she breathes deeply. “Can you walk me home?”

“I would be delighted.” Enthusiastically, he guides her hand to the crook of his arm and covers it with his own. Sarah feels safe like this. Her once small and young brother; the one she used to protect from all the happenings of the past, now a strong man she could rely on who had changed roles with her. How things had changed. But his next words make her blood run cold. “I only saw you step around the corner, thank god I did, as I don’t think I would have spotted you.”

Sarah quickly calculates the time between when she had stopped and gazed down the path, back towards Abnegation. She swallows dryly. “Just now?”

“I sprinted the whole way. I got my daily dose of exercise.” He continues talking aimlessly, and Sarah peers back behind her, Thomas dragging her forward. What was that?

Sarah opens the door to the apartment and Eric is sitting at the dining table. He’s passive when he sees her, appearing as if he has been waiting. There is no work in front of him and his phone is under one of his hands. “You do realize you have a phone, right?” he asks sarcastically. But she ignores him, unwrapping herself from her long cloak and kicking her boots off.

Eric stands up and rounds the table, waiting a few feet from her.

“April?” Sarah questions.

He shakes his head before replying, “Nightshift.” She doesn’t miss the cocky lift in his lip from his own doing. “Double shift, too.” He seems proud of his own trifling.

Sarah pulls out her hair, unbuttoning the top buttons of her dress. She kicks her boots to one side, rolling down her stockings and lifts her dress over her head in one fluid motion. Standing still, Eric inclines his chin, another way of asking what she was up to.

For the final revelation, she unclips her bra, dropping it to the ground. That’s where Eric’s eyes flick to and then back to her face. “Well, this is a surprise.”

“Stop talking,” she says tremulously. Her last garment is her underwear, flung carelessly without breaking his eye contact. “Take your clothes off.”

Eric stares blankly at her for a moment. Ever so slightly his eyes narrow, his hands reaching up to undo his uniform. His jaw is set as he strips away his top layers, revealing a solid body etched with tattoos and specific marks gained from his line of work. As he breathes, his muscles flex under his skin as if in anticipation of her next move. And he takes a wide, confident stance under her perusal.

When she doesn’t move, he goes for his belt, but that is when she steps forward. “Wait.” She pads over, instantly caught by the close heat of him towering over her, a nervous shake tinging her fingertips. Unclipping his belt, she slides it from the loops of his pants. “Keep this.”

It’s an unusual request that throws him. In his pause, she unbuttons his pants, sliding them down his legs, then straightens, allowing him to remove them.

And then she offers her wrists to him with a mild blush on her cheeks.

“I don’t know what’s happening right now. But I’m not going to question it.” His voice is steady, pulling his belt tight over her desired destination. Tugging on the strap, she tags him along with her and he holds onto the belt until they reach the bedroom. Wrapping the loose leather a few times to secure her, he already knows what she wants.

Eric pushes her onto her front, moving up quickly behind her, and Sarah pants in anticipation. Rubbing the tip of his cock slowly over her clit, he nudges forwards to feel her center when he passes, easing his way in.

Sarah gathers the sheets into her fists, just as he charges forwards. She whimpers semi-consciously, arching her back, trying to spur him on, listening to the raggedness of his breath as the slow strokes are abandoned for hard thrusts; Eric’s control and awareness slipping. Sharp jolts knock her stability, constantly squirming to readjust as his grip tightens on her hips.

“Harder,” spills from her lips. But it’s not what she wants. Eric does what she says, a grunt escaping from his effort. “Harder, Eric. Harder.” Sarah was coaxing him, coaxing him to understand. “Harder!” When his palm connects with her thigh, half playfully, half in frustration it seems, she entices him further. “Yes, like that.” She turns around only to make eye contact, to tell him it was okay. “Again!”

The sound as his palm meets her skin, echoes in the air and she mewls, enjoying the sting. “Again!” And he does so on command. She can feel her body tightening, along with the build-up of guilt and stress she felt and pushed away on a daily basis; it all beginning to unravel. It gets to a point she doesn’t even comprehend what’s she’s saying, murmuring the same word over and over.

It’s only when Eric stops, she glances over her shoulder, irritated and unsatisfied. He’s sweating, panting, rubbing at his temples. “Eric… what-”

“I’ve come, Sarah.” His tone is something she’s barely ever heard before. He’s disappointed.

Lost for words, she awkwardly rolls over to face him in the transcending silence. “What? You mean…”

“You made me come. The way you were talking. What you were saying.” His face is pained, almost disgusted with himself. “Why do you want me to hurt you?”

Did she say that? “I… I…” It’s a fiery burn of embarrassment and loathing for herself that forces its way to the surface of her cheeks. “That’s not…”

“You made me take you like a whore!” Eric explodes, beginning to pace, constantly rubbing his face. “You’re my wife!”

“Exactly!” she retorts. “I am your wife. I… I…” She obviously wanted this, but not with this outcome. She hadn’t thought of the consequences of her over-exhilarant actions. “I am not a whore, Eric!”

“Then don’t make me fuck you like one!”

Sarah’s mouth drops open. Ultimately, she had caused this; she had done this. Eric had his kinks and they were never exactly conventional with their lovemaking but he was always in control. She had taken it to another level, something he wasn’t happy with. In her shame, she pulls the sheet up to cover herself.

Without another word, Eric heads for the door. “Wait! Where… where are you going?” Could she fix this? She could try if she could only talk to him for a moment. But deep down she knew he couldn’t, not in this raging state he was in.

“I can’t even look at you right now.” Eric slams the bedroom door shut. Sitting in the silence of their bedroom, Sarah doesn’t move; she doesn’t cry, doesn’t wallow in her own pity. What she felt, she deserved, and she embraced it.

Jack’s busy staring up at the ceiling. The pain is manageable, causing his mind to be restless. Most of the night he had all the time to think, which he usually wished for. But right now it was too much. Too quiet.

Hearing the door open to his small room, he glances over slowly to Chip smiling. “Came to see the patient. The others sent their regards,” he explains, his eyes traveling to Jack’s arm supported up to his chest to help aid his shoulder. “It suits you.”

Jack scoffs, sitting himself up further. “I’m done with this place.”

Chip strolls more into the room and touches the array of different wildflowers beside Jack’s bed. “Interesting… I would be more surprised if we hadn’t have gone on our woodwalk. I take you for a nature guy now.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Day off.” Chip shrugs, taking a seat on the spare chair next to his bed. “Kind of missed my grumpy friend.”

“You should be with the others.” Jack’s voice is husky, low, almost sounding defeated.

“The others are all doing boring shit or sleeping. Plus, half are still working. I’m just lucky I was picked first. They get the day off tomorrow.” They stare at each other too long until Jack looks away. “And I’m not going anywhere before you say it.”

“Why do you bother?”

In confusion, his friend’s face scrunches up. “What?”

“Why are you here? Why do you bother?” he repeats, sharper than before.

“I can see past the evasive front you put on. It’s getting rather boring now, Jacko Smacko.” Chip pushes from the bed to tilt in his chair. He seems to remember something and pulls out a notepad and pen and begins scribbling. “Jenny asked about you.”

“Great.” He rolls his eyes, his voice laden with sarcasm. “...I’ve been thinking about her the whole time I’ve been in here.”

“What have you been thinking about?” Chip mumbles and Jack looks over to his friend’s tongue sticking out the further he gets into whatever he’s scribbling. He doesn’t acknowledge him, or the fact his question is heavily prying as per usual.

“Honestly?” he asks after a moment. “I’ve been thinking about capping the dick who shot me.”

Rotating the notepad to a weird angle, his friend's voice is almost absent when he says, “You’re going to have an awesome scar.”

“I keep thinking…” He feels himself becoming irritable and hot, letting his head fall back onto the pillows propping him up. “...About my mom.”

Chip pauses now. “I don’t know whether to ask as you told me not to talk about your mom-”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Jack interrupts him and sighs. “I just keep thinking about her. I think about April too.”

“No offense, but I’ve never liked April. She’s such a bit-” He looks up at Jack and licks his lips. “…She’s a horrible person, man.” Chip looks down to his notebook. “She tipped a drink purposefully over me once in the Pit. We were in initiation together. She branded me a loser and…” He touches his hair, messing the top of his dark, sandy locks; a thing Jack noticed he did when Chip got nervous. “...She made my life practically hell. Typical class A bully.” He snorts to himself and begins scribbling quicker than before.

It shouldn’t be Jack’s burden to carry the guilt of what April’s done in the past, but he can’t help it. “Mate, you are not the only one. She’s my sister and at times I find it hard to like her.”

“She turned that entire class against me and ever since I’ve been trying to win back people’s respect because of her. She wasn’t that bad with anyone else. I was the only one. Do you have any idea what that is like?”

“I’m sorry.”

Chip inhales sharply, meeting Jack’s gaze, and this time neither breaks it. Obviously, an apology on April’s behalf was not what he was expecting. A smile reflects on both their faces slowly, and Chip turns the notebook to show him. “I’m a little rusty. Not my typical notepad either, it’s a bit small. And ignore the page lines, that’s-”

“You drew me?”

“I like to draw emotions… expressions. It just so happens you have so many of them.”

Cautiously Jack studies him. He’d never met anyone so persistent and open by Dauntless standards.

“You’re even doing it now,” Chip mentions with a smile and points at his friend to emphasize his point.

“Habit,” he mumbles quickly and looks down at his free hand.

“Shall I get coffee?” Chip asks, a coarseness to his voice as he drags himself out of the chair.

“Definitely,” Jack replies and watches Chip leave the room. A heavy feeling of confusion washes over him as he glances at the notepad left open on the chair next to him.

Sarah decides to have lunch back at the apartment with the pitiful hope Eric would come back to find her. He hasn’t. She’s aware of the sound of April banging around in her bedroom getting ready for the day after her night shift.

She sips a coffee, something Eric had got her accustomed to years ago as April makes an appearance, almost dashing by. “Hi, April,” Sarah says with a smile, putting down her coffee cup.

“Oh, hey mom,” she chirps back with a head of bouncing waves. Her eyes land on Sarah’s cup and she comes directly over and snatches it up, sipping it. Sarah was used to it by now.

“I like your hair.”

Vainly, April pulls on a strand. “Thanks! I thought it may be a bit much… You don’t think so, right?” Expectantly, she looks at her.

“I’ve always said you should leave it natural.” Sarah gets the vibe she is about to leave at any minute. “How was work last night?”

“Long, boring, irritating. The usual.”

“Will you sit with me for a minute?” April seems surprised, biting her lip, but does so anyway.

“Where’s dad?”

“I… I don’t know.” Sarah scoffs sadly, peering down to the table.

“You’re not going to cry or anything, are you?” April rolls her eyes. “You know I’m not good with that stuff.”

“No, no! I’m fine. Turn around and let me see the back,” she motions to her hair. April does so, her frame slender and petite from this angle and Sarah revels in the slight attention she has from her daughter, scrunching the ends. “You know, my little sister Elizabeth, Lizzie, your aunty, had very curly hair. I think you two would have gotten on really well, she was... something. You share a lot with your dad, but with her too.”

“Nobody really speaks about her,” April says quietly. “Mary gets all teary whenever she thinks about it or if it’s mentioned.”

“It’s... a hard subject.” Sarah tilts her head, still tending to her daughter's hair.

“What happened? I mean, I know it was an accident…”

Sarah has always avoided the facts as the children were always too young, but she couldn't find fault in the open truth anymore. “We were too late.” She stops, and April turns to face her questioningly. “Me and Mary went to find her after she ran away. The stupid girl wanted to be with the factionless. She couldn’t stand living with Grandma and Grandpa anymore. We found her, but it was too late.”

“Was dad there?”

“He has always been there.” It’s one thing she couldn’t fault him on. Still to this day, she couldn’t work out if Eric saved her that day; stopping her from devotedly crossing the train track to get to Lizzie.

“Is that what happens when people die? They just get forgotten?”

“It’s not that we have forgotten her. She was so full of life, she wouldn’t want us moping around.”

April’s blue eyes narrow. “That’s where you and me are different, mom. When I die, I hope people can’t live without me.”

“Don’t say such a thing! I couldn’t live without you. And I’m sure your father would have the same reply.” April shakes her head, looking out towards the door. “April,” Sarah says sharply. “It’s not forgetting about someone, it’s genuinely just time. It never stops. It never ceases.” She grabs her hand and holds it. “I wanted to keep you small forever, but without time, you wouldn’t have turned into the young and beautiful woman you are today.”

“Forced compliments make me cringe.”

“I’m serious. No matter what, you will always be my little girl. Can’t you see that?”

“This is a real nice mother-daughter moment, mom, but I’m going to be late for work.”

Sarah holds her hand tighter. “Please don’t shut me out anymore. I need you just as much as you need me.”

“I hate to break it to you, but you didn’t need Meredith. So, how could you possibly know about how much we need each other if you hardly had a mother yourself?”

“She’s the exception, not the rule.”

“You’re just like dad, rules to suit yourself - like Jack, for instance. Don’t try and fool me, I know you wish it was me out there and not him. It’s written all over your face, day in and day out.”

Sarah snaps her hand away as if she had been burnt. “How dare you say that!”

“But it’s true!” April stands up, knocking the table. “And you sitting here feeling sorry for yourself, I guess that you and dad have had another row. The quicker he sees you for what you are, an Abnegation, the better. You’ve changed him. I hear all these great stories of this incredible Leader and I never get to see any of it! Why are you forcing yourselves to click with each other? You don’t match!” This was something April had kept submerged and she really couldn’t have picked a more harrowing time to vent them. They were her most inner thoughts and opinions on Sarah’s situation - and it was crushing. More so, because she couldn’t grasp what love is; what it took for them to finally find each other for who they were, sounding like the many bitter people who put themselves in the way of their relationship before. She didn’t see her; her mother, a person willing to see past any front April tried to depict. A friend; Sarah spent so many nights praying to be. All she ever saw was gray. “...And when he divorces you-”

Sarah is possessed with such an awful hurt which unpredictably drags itself to the surface, that she stands up and slaps April’s face with force, just as the front door clicks and Eric steps into the room. Whether his face was like thunder before, she doesn’t know.

April lurches towards Sarah threateningly and Sarah loses her nerve, cringing back.

“April!” Eric bellows. The young girl pants in anger, a red swelling on her cheek from her mother’s hand, the payment of her awful words, and storms past him while all he does is watch.

“I… I didn’t mean to do that…” Sarah runs a hand through her hair, pushing flyaways back in place. “You didn’t hear what she was saying…”

“Have you gone mad? Have you lost your mind? I come back to talk, at the very least, and see you taking a swipe at April now?”

“She was saying hateful things. She loathes the very ground I walk on over something I can’t control. You know what she is like!”

“Oh yeah, I know. But I also thought I knew you.” Eric wipes at his mouth quickly, an irritable fashion he usually did before he exploded. “If you want to take your anger out on someone, take it out on me, not our daughter.”

“You’re defending her?” Sarah says exasperatedly, throwing her arms up. “No… no… Of course you are. I’m stupid to think otherwise.”

“You’re acting pretty fucking stupid right now.”

“I wonder why!” Nothing short of hysterical was the only thing Sarah could begin to describe her tone of voice.

“That’s a question I keeping asking myself!” He steps forward and Sarah’s arm shoots out to stop him.

“She wants you to divorce me!”

“Oh, she does? Is that what you think I’m going to do? If you do, you don’t know me very well either. I took my vows seriously, Sarah.” He proceeds to approach cautiously all while she stands numbly with her outburst, hand to her forehead. “Do you want me to?”

She looks up at him. “No, of course not...”

“At least we’ve got that settled. You’re listening to a lonely girl’s cry for help with a plate load of shit waiting for you back at the office. If it’s too much, just say so.” The head tilt with his reply is a test. She’d seen it so many times now. She knew he had expectations of her and she didn’t want to fail him. He looked completely fresh in his uniform, down to his spotless boots. And she felt sweaty and disheveled, her nerves trip-wiring while he always managed to make it seem effortless.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers defeatedly.

“What for?” His voice is low, not threatening anymore, almost comforting.

“I’m not strong. I’m not like you.” It started to give her a sense of why Eric was how he is. Until put into a similar position, she couldn't fathom her mind being drafted into different sections. She’d always been primed with tasks that were never too much of a responsibility. Yes, she sounded for the council in Abnegation on other topics people relied on, but never to this difficulty of Erudite. With the added effects of April and Jack, it was a recipe for personal and professional disaster. “I try, I really do.”

“Sarah...” As always, he lets his fingers tuck her hair away, gently tilting her face up to him. “I’ve always wanted you for who you are.” He shrugs. “Maybe, at first, I couldn’t quite get that. But I see it now. And always have since. I don’t want you to be like me, sweetheart.”

“But I’m not weak,” she stresses.

“No. You certainly aren’t.” He scoffs, his hands leisurely enveloping her waist. “Who else could stand me for nearly eighteen years? If anything, I feel kind of lucky.”

“Last night-” she rushes to say but he interrupts her.

“Forget about last night.” He dismisses it with a wave of his hand and swiftly cradles her head, pulling her forward, his lips in her hair, he lets her rest in the crook of his neck. “Forget about it. And forget about April too, she’ll get over it. Plus, I have something to show you.” She pulls back to the picturesque sight that is his smirk.

Eric had guided her to the Leader’s suite and covered her eyes as the elevator appeared on their floor. He walks her slowly as she grips his wrists, anxious and a little excited about what was in store that was so top secret that he couldn’t just say.

“You’re scaring me a bit,” she comments, her hands gripping his wrists tighter while she is constantly driven forward by his chest hitting her back.

“That’s alright,” he whispers close to her ear. “Being scared makes you hold me closer.” He pushes up purposefully from behind. “And it reminds me of a time, years ago, down in the dark of the basement when we were trying to find those shitty panels.” His hands tighten on her skin as he mumbles, “Your wide eyes, open mouth, that quivering break in your voice.”

“There was no way, at the time, that you were thinking that.” She scoffs and laughs at how she remembers Eric back in the day. “You were stomping your feet, and you were mad that you had to go and fix the problem yourself.”

“How do you know exactly what I was thinking?” He bites at her neck suggestively, and as she flinches to stop him, he keeps his hands steady over her eyes. “No looking.”

“I remember thinking, ‘what would he do if I reached out and touched him’, as we were descending the steps. I was truly frightened then. I couldn’t see my own feet.”

“Honestly, I was hoping you would.”

Sarah beams, biting her lip to control herself as they swayed to a stop, the familiar waves of heat beginning to tighten pleasantly in the pit of her stomach. “Can I open them now?”

“Hold on.” It sounds like a door clicking open and Eric flicking on a light. A strong smell of fresh paint and something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on entranced her senses in a rush. It made it almost impossible to wait any longer, Eric was really drawing this out, until he says, “Okay, you can look now.”

Sarah opens her eyes and gasps.

#bound by honour #chapter 5 #eric coulter #eric divergent fanfiction #divergent #insurgent #beautifulramblingbrains #eric and sarah #jai courtney #fanfiction #fanfic #third installment #continuation

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