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White Moves First, Part 10 ~ Edmund Pevensie

Hey y'all! Happy Labor Day! It's been a hot minute since I last posted something, sorry about that. This whole part-time job + 16 credits of postgrad classes is killing me. Hope you enjoy this part!

Summary: Despite the distance between their two lands, Y/N, princess of Archenland, is close friends with King Edmund the Just. But when push comes to shove, will friendship turn to more?

Warnings: none

Word count: 5k

I didn’t know how having sisters worked. 

Brothers, I understood. They cared in their own ways, not always evidenced with their sarcasm and grunts. If they were going to discuss anything, they talked about the falcons they were training or their swordplay. And when they fell silent, it wasn’t because their minds were too busy to speak, they’d just…run out of things to say. 

Edmund’s sisters felt like foreign dignitaries, never running out of topics. Wasn’t it a lovely day, with the sun shining? Would it rain tomorrow? Would Peter be so bored that he’d be glad to see us all arrive tonight? Hadn’t Susan been in Archenland for far too long? How lovely it was to be going home, even though the wedding yesterday had been beautiful. 

At that topic, my eyes were drawn to the man riding next to me. Edmund rode tall, his hips moving fluidly with Philip’s movements. He was looking straight ahead, lips pursed in a thoughtful pout. I hadn’t expected the mention of our wedding to make him leap from horseback into cartwheels, but did he have to look so serious?

Yes, weddings were serious things, and yes, our wedding hadn’t been exactly what we would’ve wanted, but from the gravity of Edmund’s expression, one would’ve thought it had been a funeral. 

“And Y/N’s dress was absolutely divine,” Queen Lucy sighed, “don’t you think, Ed?”

Edmund blinked rapidly three times, as if noticing his surroundings before glancing at his sister. “Huh?” 

“Y/N’s dress,” Queen Lucy repeated. “Wasn’t it one of the best dresses you’ve ever seen?”

“Oh.” A spot of red appeared on the cheek of Edmund’s that I could see. “Yes, it was.” 

“Although that red skirt that Lady Bote wore was beautiful,” Queen Susan mused, and Queen Lucy agreed. 

I tilted my head as Edmund settled back into his pensive position. If the strikingly serious look on his face hadn’t been from his sisters’ conversation…what had it been about?

Perhaps the catastrophe of breakfast with my family. Or maybe he was dreaming about returning home. Or…was he worried about returning? It would be natural to be so; having an unexpected wife would without a doubt disrupt parts of a routine. Or what if he was planning things for our future, both near and distant? 

The curiosity was a strangely painful pang in my chest. Why did I want so badly to know the thoughts in his mind? And why did it stupidly hurt to not know? 

I didn’t let myself look at Edmund after that, forcing myself to pay attention to the Queens. 

Slowly the terrain started sloping upwards and grew rockier. My mare slowed down, her hooves brushing the occasional rock as her footing grew less stable. The land on either side rose higher, making a mountain pass for us to travel through. The path grew narrower and narrower as we twisted this way and that on the walkways. At one point, my mare stumbled and moved closer to Philip. 

Edmund seemed immune to the changing scenery, not looking around at all. He’d taken this path every one of the countless times he’d visited my home. He was as familiar with this place as he was with my mother’s gardens or my drawing room. 

What a strange thought. 

A shout rose from the front of the procession, making me jump, glancing about for any hint of danger. 

“All is well.” Edmund was looking at me now, seemingly broken from his thoughtful trance again. “They’re just telling us that we’re about to cross the border.”

The border.

In a few steps, I was about to enter Narnia. Narnia had only ever been a concept to me, some far off place that housed fantastical creatures, magic, and…and Edmund. I was gaining so many new things…and letting go of the old. My customs. My land. My people. 

I glanced over my shoulder at the way we’d come. I hadn’t realized we’d climbed so high. The trees below looked more like little blades of grass. We were much too far away to see the castle, yet not catching sight of the red stone of my home made my chest feel tight somehow. 

Suddenly, I directed my mare off to the side and out of the procession. The trees that weren’t at all important to me before now made me ache. Lump in my throat, I surveyed it, wishing my eyes were strong enough to catch one last glimpse of something familiar. 

“Y/N?” I heard Queen Susan ask, but I didn’t look away from Archenland. 

How long would it be before I once again saw this? Before I was again in the country of my birth? From the heaviness in me, I felt as though I would never see it again. 

The sound of hooves against stone made me look to see Philip coming to stand just beside my mare, Edmund close enough to lay a gentle touch on my knee. “Are you alright?”

“It all looks so…small.”

A warm hand found mine, squeezing just slightly. I squeezed back, not looking away from the scene that represented so much more than it seemed. 

“It’s okay to feel sad.” Edmund’s words were tense, not at all in line with the comfort I knew he was trying to impart. A glance at his face revealed clear nerves. Was he afraid I was doubting our plan?

“I want to be in Narnia with you,” I told him, not wanting him to have a single shred of doubt on that subject. “It’s just…it’s all I’ve ever known. I’ve only ever been a princess of Archenland and now…” I looked away, but this time in the direction that the procession was walking. The direction of my future. 

“You’re so brave.” 

“Brave?” I snorted. Brave was a word meant for warriors, not for princesses moving from one cushy castle to another.

“Yes, brave. I’m not sure I would be able to trust anyone the way you’re trusting me.” The words hung in the air, and Edmund shifted in his position on Philip’s back. “For all you know, I could be a pirate who hired all these mercenaries to charm you away from the only home you’ve ever known.”

I laughed at the sudden image in my mind of Edmund wearing a hat with feathers and a scraggly beard. They did not suit him. “You know, you’re right. Cair Paravel might not even exist.”

“No, it exists, it’s just the name of my ship.”

“Oh, I see.” I grinned at Edmund. “You’re just a lonely captain who wanted company, and who is better company than a princess?”

“Apparently not talking horses,” Philip grumbled. 

Edmund laughed loudly, drawing the attention of a few more Narnian soldiers. Edmund had a nice face, but I liked the way it simultaneously tightened his cheeks and loosened his brows when he laughed. Once the laughter had finished, for a swift moment, Edmund’s face would settle into a content smile before the mirth disappeared from his face. If one blinked, they’d miss that flash of a smile, and it was not a sight to be missed. “I do mean it,” Edmund said softly and seriously. “I’ve never known someone as strong as you.”

A strange pang shot through my chest, feeling extraordinarily like fear. How silly. I wasn’t—couldn’t be—afraid of my husband. “Let’s go,” I whispered, unable to muster more volume. Edmund gestured in front of him, allowing me to direct my mare back onto the path, Philip joining beside me. 

And so I crossed the border into my new home country, with my new husband just beside me. 

-

Once we’d come down on the other side of the mountains, dirt once again instead of stone, the procession stopped beside a small stream. The animals all bent to take a drink while the fauns filled canteens for themselves, the centaurs, and the queens. 

Rona was scanning our surroundings, looking not at all pleased with what she saw. She never understood how passionate I was about seeing Narnia one day, but how could she, if she’d never heard all of Edmund’s stories?

Edmund brought two canteens over to where I was standing. “Care to stretch your legs?”

I accepted both the canteen and the offer. 

The trees were large and lovely, granting us shade from the sun but allowing the light through so that everything appeared golden. A butterfly flew past while I heard a frog croak interrupt the chirping of the crickets.

Edmund led me upriver, occasionally stopping to hold his hand out to help me over a fallen tree and a boulder. He looked contented, no sign of the cloudy thoughts that he’d been harboring all day.

We’d walked a few minutes from the rest of the procession when Edmund stopped and pulled me into his side. My breath got lost on its way to my lungs as I stared stupidly up into his face…which…wasn’t looking…at me. 

I followed his gaze and let out a gasp.

Naiads. 

The river nymphs, human-like creatures made up entirely of water, little ripples and ridges forming the features of their faces and long flowing hair. There were five of them beside a long, flat riffle. Little splashes sounded as the stream tripped over rocks that protruded from the water, adding to the melody of their bubbling voices and laughter. 

Then, as I watched, the bark of the birch tree nearest the water seemed to melt off the trunk, pooling to form a little girl with leaf green skin and an ashy white dress streaked with black. 

A young dryad.

Two more dryads left their trees, following the littlest one towards the naiads. 

Edmund’s hand, resting on my side, gave a quick squeeze before he left me behind, striding towards the spirits. “Hello!”

The naiads and dryads all turned to look and then leapt to their feet. “Your majesty!” the biggest naiad called in her rushing voice, racing up to him with glee written all over her face and the others not far behind. 

They recognized him without his crown?

I’d once walked among my own people without an escort or my nicest gown, and not one of them had even known that I was royalty. Yet these spirits seemed to know Edmund immediately without any hints. 

“How are the woods faring?” Edmund asked them. I could only see his back, not his face, but I immediately noticed the worry in his voice. “Are the dryads still well?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the greenest dryad replied, her voice like the clicking of beetle wings. “There have been no more signs of the Witch’s sickness.” 

A sickness of the trees? Edmund hadn’t ever mentioned anything like that. If it were some great secret, he wouldn’t be discussing it out in the open like this. So why hadn’t he ever told me? I waited for him to ask another question that would give me more insight, but instead, Edmund turned to hold out his hand towards me. “Ladies, may I introduce Princess Y/N of Archenland,” he grinned at me, “my wife?”

The spirits all gasped, one even covering her mouth with her green fingers. “You’ve married?” she gasped. 

“She’s so beautiful!” said another.

“Oh, Your Majesty, you look so happy!”

I felt my cheeks warm furiously, wishing I could reproach Edmund for making me a spectacle. I must’ve looked frightful after riding for so long. I wasn’t even in a proper dress, still in my riding habit. I raised a hand to my hair self-consciously.

Edmund flexed his fingers, silently asking for my hand. I shyly put it in his, and he pulled me in closer. 

“Where’s your crown?” the littlest dryad asked. 

The heat grew furiously. I hadn’t ever been embarrassed about a lack of a crown before, but standing in front of what were technically my new subjects, I felt like I’d failed to uphold a standard. “I left it behind,” I said, trying to remember that I hadn’t wanted it. “It wasn’t really mine.”

“Well, we can fix that!” Before I could understand their meaning, the nymphs and dryads scattered. The nymphs waded back into their river, bending over the surface of the water, while the dryads ran among the trees. Were they looking for a crown? Was this common in Narnia, for crowns to be lying around? Narnia was the land of the impossible.

Before long, they regathered, holding up what they’d found. Some white blooms, a handful of twigs with some leaves, a few colorful fish scales, and a singular, white pearl. They moved their hands in strange patterns, beyond simply fitting the pieces together. No, they seemed to be changing their acquisitions, shifting their shape as it all came together in a circle. 

The twigs bent together, joining in a continuous line with the abundant leaves and white flowers to form a garland. Then, the colorful scales were tucked in here and there to catch the light of the sun and make the whole garland sparkle. Then, the front of the beautiful piece curved slightly upwards to show off the pearl.

I was stunned long before the spirits stopped moving their hands and stood back with satisfaction on their faces.

The smallest dryad came closer. She did not move with the jerking, unbalanced strides of a human child—she glided forward, holding out the beautiful, freshly-made crown. 

“For me?” I asked, a bit breathless. 

The nymphs and dryads laughed their rustling, tinkling laughs. “Of course, Your Highness!” one of the nymphs said. “We can’t let our princess walk around without the honor she is due!”

Our princess.

Fighting against the sudden moisture in my eyes, I bent to allow the young dryad to place it gently on my head. The weight of the crown did not feel heavy atop my hair, yet I swore I felt strange tingling in my arms at the sensation of such a remarkable creation. However beautiful it was, it couldn’t replace metal and jewels, yet its presence meant more to me than any other beautiful thing in the world. 

“Ladies, you’ve outdone yourselves,” Edmund said, rescuing me from my lack of words. “You made a crown worthy of my wife.”

The dryads and nymphs looked delighted by his words, and I was thankful that he’d thanked them because words had thoroughly deserted me. 

“We must return to our party,” Edmund told them. “We’re hoping to arrive at Cair Paravel before sunset.”

“Farewll!” the tallest nymph cried, and they all curtsied once more before scattering back to their homes. 

As we returned to the horses, I waited until Edmund was busy loading up Philip’s lone saddlebag to wipe away the tear that was threatening to fall. They’d made a crown for me. I gazed down at it, stupified. It couldn’t have been given because of requirement or manipulation, for what could they possibly need from me that their four monarchs wouldn’t or couldn’t do for them? It could’ve been for Edmund’s benefit, but the dryads and nymphs seemed so genuinely pleased to gift it to me. 

Were they so genuinely pleased to have me as their new princess?

“Y/N?” Edmund asked, hovering uncertainly behind me. The leaves above us cast strange shadows on his concerned face, and the shadows which lay across his forehead and eyes suited him so well, I found that a smile was not at all hard to conjure.

“Helping me up?” I asked.

“In a moment.” Edmund moved closer, the pattern of the shadows shifting to allow a patch of sunlight to fall on his dark hair. “I hope I didn’t offend you by introducing you.”

“You’re actually worried about that?” I asked, and the grim set of his mouth told me all I needed to know. Shaking my head, I reached for his hand and held it tighter than the crown in my other hand. “I could never be offended by you calling me your wife.”

“You promised honesty,” he murmured, and my heart lurched, almost jerking my hand away from his. Why had the words of comfort left my mouth so easily without me even thinking of the truth of them? And why was it so difficult to speak honestly while I held his hand?

Pinching his signet ring between my thumb and forefinger, I twisted it around, stalling while I tried to calm my nerves. How much bigger his fingers were than mine. And how strange that he wore two rings now, one for his country and one for me. “You didn’t do anything wrong, it just…I wasn’t expecting it.”

His fingers tensed, as if his muscles were locking up with regret. “I never want you to be uncomfortable.”

I laughed in spite of myself. “I’m a living being, Edmund, I’m bound to be uncomfortable sometimes. But I trust you. I know that even if you do make me uncomfortable, you only want what’s best for me, just like I do for you.”

“Always.” A bit of the tension eased from his face, like admitting his good intentions helped him relax. “I’m sorr–”

I pulled my hand away from his to gently place it over his lips. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

He let out a long breath, the warm air tickling my fingertips. His fingers wrapped lightly around my wrist to move my fingers from his mouth to his chin. “You’ll tell me if I ever have anything to apologize for, right?”

“As long as you do too,” I replied, rubbing gentle strokes on his skin. 

Edmund gave a slight nod, his eyelids fluttering halfway shut as he looked down at my arm. “Marriage is weird,” he seemed to tell my skin. 

“The weirdest thing we’ve ever done,” I agreed. “But we've only been married for a day. We have time to get used to it.” Belatedly, I realized that referencing the longevity of our arrangement likely wouldn't comfort someone who had never wanted to get married in the first place. 

But instead of straining his smile, my words seemed to encourage it. He lowered his voice, leaning in conspiratorially. “I wouldn't want to get used to it with anyone else.” 

My heart fluttered, and just for a moment, I wondered what he would do if I leaned in to kiss him. The others could see us and wouldn’t be surprised to see a husband and wife being affectionate. Perhaps they even expected it. Really, a kiss would be a strategic thing to do. 

Edmund gazed at me, his eyes betraying nothing of the activity of his mind. Oh, but how I ached to know his thoughts!

“Edmund!” Queen Lucy said. “Come see these beautiful blue flowers!” 

Edmund rolled his eyes, but there was affection in the gesture. “Coming!” Lifting my hand, he pressed his lips to it. “I'll be right back.” He jogged away towards his younger sister. 

I was glad just then that my mare was not a talking animal, for I could not imagine what cheeky thing a talking beast might say if they'd overheard our conversation and observed the way I grinned at the grass. How was it that a simple and even uncomfortable conversation with Edmund brought me even more joy than the crown in my hand?

I loosened the clasp of my saddlebag. I wanted to keep such a beautiful thing safe until I once more had a trunk or wardrobe to keep it safe in. Lowering the crown into my bag, I shifted the objects inside to make room. I was just moving my handheld mirror over when something shifted beside my fingers, something sandpaper rough. Confused, I pulled the lip of the saddlebag open further to let more daylight in as I peered inside. 

I'd barely had time to think, I didn't pack any rope, when two sharp points pierced my wrist. 

The jolt of pain was so unexpected that a scream fell from my lips and I jerked away. Balance lost, I fell hard onto the forest ground. 

“Y/N!” I heard distantly as I stared down at the dull brown snake with its jaws clamped down on my skin. As if seeing it had triggered something, the skin of my forearm started to prickle.

“Get away!” Large hands with a silver signet ring surrounded the snake, wrenching the jaws open to release me.

Gripping the skin which was now burning, I watched dumbly as the snake slipped from Edmund’s hands and started slithering through the grass. 

Towards my mare. 

The grey creature swung her large head over to look at me, catching sight of the snake. With an alarmed whinney, her front legs lifted from the ground. 

Strong hands hooked under my arms, dragging me away from the horse as she continued to rear and stomp.

The snake drew nearer to the trees, but not fast enough. A faun’s hoof came down on its body and his sword found its place in the snake’s neck. The long body gave a few jerking movements before finally laying still. 

I stared down at my arm, two dark red spots on my skin. 

Blood, I thought dumbly to myself. 

And then my view was tipped up to Edmund, his wandering hands stroking my cheeks as he guided me to look at his panic-stricken face. 

“Stay as still as you can!” Queen Susan’s face appeared over Edmund’s shoulder. It was an odd command, but her evident alarm made me obey. “The venom will spread quicker if your heart rate is higher.”

The venom. That was the burning which was now spreading past my elbow. 

Edmund’s hands lowered me to the grass, and I stared up at the branches obstructing the blue sky. Numbly, I wondered if this would be the last sight I would ever see, which almost made me laugh when both Edmund and his older sister’s faces appeared as they bent over me.

“Are you in pain?” Queen Susan asked. 

“Yes,” I whispered, morbidly captivated by the anxiety in Edmund’s face. Why did it feel like a gryphon was standing on my chest, digging its sharp claws into my skin?

“Lucy, get your cordial!” Queen Susan cried, twisting her head around. 

Rona’s face appeared, upside-down since she stood by my hair. “My lady, do you feel pain anywhere other than your arm?”

“It's…” I gasped, my tongue feeling like stone. “It’s getting hard to breathe.”

Rona's gaze migrated to where I supposed my arm was. “It drew blood,” she said quietly. “The venom is in the bloodstream.” 

“Lucy!” Queen Susan shouted louder. 

“Coming!” 

Edmund’s hand braced beside my head, and he shifted so that his face was all I could see, only one hand touching my face. “Keep breathing,” he croaked, the first words I’d heard him speak. “Lucy’s cordial will fix it, she’ll make it better.”

His face was blurring, and I blinked hard, trying to bring back the clarity of his brown eyes. It was hard to focus as the pain spread into my shoulder. “It burns, Edmund,” I moaned. 

The hand pressed harder into my cheek. “I know, just stay still, okay?” With the fear lacing his words, I would’ve done anything he asked. Then, the blob that I knew to be my husband’s face shifted, making way for a new blob. I would’ve protested, but his touch only slid down to my hip, like he knew I needed to know he was there. 

“Hold out your tongue,” Queen Lucy said gently, her fingers on my chin to coax my mouth open. I did so, and a drop of what tasted like strawberries bloomed. “Swallow it.” 

I did so. 

“Did you give it to her soon enough?” Edmund asked. 

“Most certainly,” Queen Lucy replied, though both her touch and his lingered. “It has brought people back from the brink of death.” 

I blinked, still feeling the burning and still unable to see the details of Queen Lucy’s face. Deep dismay struck me. Was this it? Would it all end here?

“How do you feel?” I could almost feel Edmund’s fear like a reverberation through my body. 

“I…I don't know,” I gasped. “I think I'm in shock.” 

His touch on my hip grew firmer, and I clung to his arm like an anchor, the fabric of his sleeve pulling taut underneath my frantic grip. “How long must we wait until we know she’s alright?”

“I've never seen a snake like that,” Queen Lucy said, the blob of her face moving away until I could once again see fuzzy patches of the blue sky. “I–I have no idea how long until the danger has passed.”

“If Her Highness was in such pain so quickly, she might’ve been dead in a minute or two,” my lady-in-waiting suggested. 

“It's been longer than that,” Queen Susan said. 

Silence followed, and I moved my head to try and see what looks they were exchanging, but it was no use. I could barely tell which blob was Queen Susan and which was Queen Lucy.

Then, the burning receded. 

I blinked, my vision clearing to let Edmund’s freckles come back into focus, a sight I never wanted to take for granted again. I loosened my grip on his arm. “Can you help me up?”

Wordlessly, Edmund's arm slid across my back, propping me upright. 

Testing my eyes, I let them pass over Philip, who stood alongside my mare, soothingly pressing his head against hers. Then the sisters, clutching each other as Queen Lucy held a little glass bottle with gold accents to her chest. Then I saw a pale-faced Rona beside the unmoving snake and the dark blood leaking out onto the grass around it. 

Blindly, I pressed myself further into Edmund’s hold, tearing my eyes away from the minimized threat and shutting them tight. Edmund’s arms tightened around me, his touch bracing against my body. 

“I think the danger has passed,” Queen Lucy declared, and sighs of relief sounded from all over the clearing. Distantly, I registered that the whole entourage had likely seen the whole incident, which made me pull away from Edmund. The queen knelt beside us. “May I see your arm?” I held it out to her.

She studied the marks and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe away the half-congealed blood. “It doesn’t even look like the wound will scar,” she muttered. 

“Where did the snake come from?” Edmund’s voice was calmer now, his composure emphasized by the way he sought the facts of the situation from me. 

“I don't know, I just opened up my saddlebag and it came out at me.” Seeing movement out of the corner of my eye, I twisted to see Rona whisking over to my mare and carefully unfastening the leather pouch. She brought it over, opening it and pulling out my mirror so we could all peer inside. 

Bite marks littered the leather, dark stains of venom lining each bite.

“It must've been in there for hours,” Queen Susan breathed. “Before we even left the castle.” 

I felt a shudder course through Edmund’s body, but before I could comfort him, he got to his feet. “We must check all the luggage, to make sure there are no other threats.”

The rest of the procession all burst into action, opening saddlebags and chests and carefully searching the contents. Edmund flitted between them all, giving everything a second look with such intensity, he seemed to be daring another sign of danger to emerge. 

I pressed my hands into the grass to push myself onto my feet and then paused. A crumpled blue flower lay on the grass beside me, its long stem soft and drooping, like it mourned the petals that were now crushed. 

I looked up at Edmund, who was looking over a faun’s shoulder as the faun went through one of my chests full of dresses. Carefully, I picked up the creased flower as I got up.

Rona had reattached my saddlebag to my mare with great difficulty—the poor thing was still skittish. I went to her and reached out to rub her grey nose. Her head bucked backwards, away from my touch. 

“She’s too skittish.” I turned just in time to see Edmund reach out for my mare’s bridle with one hand and press against my side with the other, pushing me away from her. 

“Your Majesty!” a centaur said. “Everything’s been checked, nothing is amiss.”

Edmund looked down at the grass, a muscle in his jaw flexing. Queen Susan put a hand on his back, glancing around the woods around us with fear. “We should get moving.”

For a moment, Edmund didn’t respond, still glaring at the soft green sod. Then, he glanced up at the centaur and gave a nod.

“Prepare to move forward!” the centaur called to the group. 

I moved towards my mare, but Edmund stepped in front of her, blocking the saddle. “I don’t want you riding a nervous horse the rest of the way,” he said shortly. 

“She’s not–”

“I’m not taking any chances,” Edmund interrupted. 

Philip stepped forward. “Her Highness may ride on me for the remainder of the journey.”

“Thank you, Philip.” 

Before I could even decide to protest, Edmund wordlessly hoisted me up into Philip’s saddle, quickly fitting my feet into the stirrups. I watched as he patted down my mare, letting her smell him, and then mounted her. 

The procession continued, Philip moving at a steady pace beneath me. Instead of riding beside me, Edmund directed my mare to follow Philip, staying behind me and out of my sight. I rubbed my arm at the site of the snakebite, feeling the uninterrupted smoothness of my skin. Nothing was amiss. Yet, somehow, the woods seemed less bright than they had when we’d stopped. And when I looked down at the blue flower in my hand, it was already starting to wither.

-

Overall tag list:

@thelastpyle @valiantlytransparentwhispers

White Moves First tag list:

@thesecretlifeofpenguins @read-just-cant @chesh-ire-cat @emotionallyattachedteen @cassini-among-the-stars @uncontainedsmiles @mastermasterlist1p1 @goldfishinpainttubes @silverowl102 @daisyslife @ajwild220 @xxjewellynwatts

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Baby Fever

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader Fandom: Superman 2025 Description: You've been with Clark for three years now, and you've decided it's time to take the next step in your relationship. Notes: Mention of pregnancy, and very, very sappy vibes. I'm not used to writing things this soft and domestic, so I hope I did okay!

The apartment was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the fridge and the distant honk of a cab three stories down. Metropolis never really slept, but this was as close as it got. No emergencies. No calls from Bruce or the Justice Gang. No cities imploding, no fires breaking out, no Lex Luthor trying to collapse a star or take over the Middle East.

Just Clark. Home.

He sat on the sofa in the soft lamplight, laptop balanced on his knees, working through edits for tomorrow's article. His glasses, which he didn't need but wore anyway, had slipped down his nose as he concentrated, that little furrow appearing between his brows that you'd always found endearing.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, just watching him. Three years together, and sometimes you still couldn't believe this man, this literal superhero, chose you. Chose this quiet, ordinary life with you when he wasn't saving the world.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You'd been thinking about this for months, turning the words over and over in your mind until you caught yourself dreaming them. But thinking and saying were two very different things.

Clark's head lifted slightly. He'd heard you, of course. His enhanced senses meant you could never really sneak up on him, though he was gentleman enough to pretend sometimes.

"Hey," he said softly, setting his laptop aside without hesitation. "Can't sleep?"

Instead of answering, you padded across the room in your fuzzy socks, the ones with little penguins on them that he'd bought you last Christmas, and his sleep shirt.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

You nodded. Hesitated again. Then you climbed into his lap, knees to either side of his hips, your arms winding around his shoulders like it was the only safe place left on Earth. Your face pressed to his chest. His arms moved around you instinctively, wrapping you up like he’d been waiting for this exact moment all day.

“You sure?” he murmured.

You nodded again, but this time you spoke, voice muffled, almost shy.

“I want to have a baby.”

Clark froze. Not in a bad way. Just … like he'd been caught off guard.

You pulled back just enough to peek up at him, terrified of what you might see on his face. But his eyes, those impossibly blue eyes, were soft and filled with something that looked like awe.

"Really?" His voice cracked slightly, and you watched as a slow, beautiful smile spread across his face. "You want to…"

You nodded, tears pricking at your eyes. "I know we haven't really talked about it before, and I know there are complications with you being … well, you. But I want to have your baby. Our baby."

His hands came up to frame your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that had started to fall. "Sweetheart," he breathed, and then he was kissing you, soft and deep and full of promise. When he pulled back, his own eyes were suspiciously bright. "There's nothing I want more. Nothing."

"Really?"

"Really." He shifted you in his lap so he could look at you properly, his hands never leaving your face. "I've been thinking about it too. About little feet running through this apartment. About teaching them to ride a bike, to throw a baseball. About you singing them lullabies." He laughed, like he was embarrassed to admit how much he wanted it. "I've been dreaming about it, actually. I just didn't want to pressure you."

You smiled, watery but genuine. "We're two idiots, aren't we? We could have started trying ages ago if we'd actually just talked to each other instead of being afraid of it."

"We'll figure it out," he promised, pulling you close again. "The complications, the fears, all of it. Together."

You settled against him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. His arms around you felt like the safest place in the universe, and considering who he was, it probably was. "I love you," you whispered.

"I love you too," he replied, his chin resting on top of your head. "Both of you."

It took a moment for his words to sink in. You pulled back sharply, eyes wide.

"Clark Kent, are you using your x-ray vision to-"

"No! No, I meant future tense. Our future baby." He paused, then added, more teasing than anything. "Though now that you mention it, I could check if you wanted to know if …"

You put a hand over his eyes and snorted. "Don't even think about it. We're doing this the normal way. With sticks and some semblance of surprise."

"Deal," he agreed, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to the back of your knuckles. "Though my hearing might pick up a heartbeat pretty early on …"

"Clark!"

"I'll act surprised," he promised, all faux-solemnity. "I have enough practice. You can ask anyone at the Planet about my reaction to Superman's latest adventures. They don't suspect a thing."

"Idiot," you huffed, but settled back against him.

"So," he said after a moment, voice dripping with innocence. "Should we start practicing? I mean, I want to make sure we get this right …"

You swatted his chest playfully, but he was already standing, lifting you in his arms without effort, and carrying you toward the bedroom.

He made love to you like it mattered.

Like it was sacred.

He took his time undressing you, smoothing his hands over your curves like he was re-learning you. Memorizing. Marking. Worshipping. He laid you back against the sheets and kissed every inch of your skin like it was his to protect.

“I love you,” he whispered again against your collarbone, and again against your stomach, his hands cradling your hips as he kissed lower. “Everything about you.”

And when he pushed inside you, slowly, deeply, every inch making you cry out and cling to his shoulders, you felt it.

That weight. That promise.

The way he held your gaze while he rocked into you.

The way he cupped your cheek when your breath hitched and told you, “You’ve got me. I’m right here.”

The way he came with his forehead pressed to yours, breathing your name like a prayer, as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth.

You fell asleep afterward with his arm around your waist and your back to his chest, your fingers laced in his, your body still aching in all the best ways.

In the morning, he made you breakfast before your legs could fully stop shaking.

Because of course he did. What else do you expect from a man who rescues kittens and makes French toast like it’s a love language?

And he was already dreaming of tiny fingers curled around his pinky. Of first words. First steps. Of a home full of laughter, love, and the soft weight of your future curled up in his arms.

[namiusedbubble]

okay hear me out. Clark Kent with adrenaline junkie reader. Like reader’s the type to parachute outta a plane so when reader finds out/is told Clark is Superman, they’re practically begging him to essentially fly into the sky with them drop them and catch them.

anon i love your brain

༉‧₊˚.જ⁀➴

Clark watches you from across the café table with that particular brand of concern he's perfected—the one where his brows knit just slightly and his mouth does this soft, downturned thing that makes you want to kiss it away. Or maybe make it worse. You haven't decided yet.

"You're doing it again," he says.

"Doing what?"

"That smile." He adjusts his glasses, a nervous tic you've catalogued alongside approximately forty-seven others. "The one that means you're planning something that'll give me a heart attack."

You lean forward on your elbows, delighted by the way his eyes track the movement before snapping back to your face. "You're Superman. You don't get heart attacks."

"You jumped off a bridge last week."

"Bungee jumping is perfectly safe—"

"The week before that, you went cave diving."

"Also safe when done properly."

His hand finds yours across the table, thumb brushing over your knuckles with a gentleness that seems at odds with his size. Clark's got big, strong hands, more than enough for a girl to go a little wild over, you think.

"I just worry about you."

The thing is, you know he does. It radiates off him in waves whenever you mention your weekend plans, whenever you come back with new (mostly minor) bruises or scrapes, whenever you laugh off his concerns with a kiss to his perpetually furrowed brow. Sweet, anxious Clark Kent, who takes his coffee with too much sugar and can't sleep if he knows you're upset about something.

Which is why this is going to be so much fun.

"I have a proposition," you announce.

He releases your hand to push his glasses up again. "Why do I feel like I should leave?"

"Because you know me very well." You grin. "But also because you're Superman and could probably hear my heartbeat spike just thinking about what I'm going to ask."

His eyes do this thing where they seem to sharpen and soften simultaneously, blue gone electric behind those lenses he doesn't need.

"How did you—"

"Clark." You prop your chin on your hand. "Sweetheart. Darling. Love of my life. You literally flew past my window last Tuesday."

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. You wait, enjoying the way the afternoon light catches the subtle gold in his skin, the way his throat works as he swallows. He looks like he's buffering, like someone's unplugged him and plugged him back in but the system's still rebooting.

"I was—that wasn't—"

It's adorable.

"You were wearing the suit."

"...Oh."

"Yeah." You reach for his hand again, partly because you want to touch him and partly because he looks like he might vibrate out of existence. "Oh."

His fingers interlace with yours immediately, automatic. "You're not... upset?"

"Upset?" You squeeze his hand, feeling the barely-there tremor in it. This beautiful, impossible man who benches press planets and gets nervous about your reaction to something he should be celebrated for. "Nope. Do you have any idea what this means?"

Something in your voice must tip him off because his eyes narrow. "No."

"No?"

"Whatever you're thinking, no."

You lean back, letting your joined hands stretch across the table. "You don't even know what I'm thinking."

"You want me to throw you off something."

Damn. "Okay, so you do know what I'm thinking."

"Absolutely not." But his thumb's still stroking your knuckles, betraying the stern tone. "It's dangerous—"

"You're Superman."

"—and unnecessary—"

"You can literally fly."

"—and I won't do it."

You deploy the nuclear option: his name, with all your frustration and pouty neediness: "Clark."

He closes his eyes like he's in physical pain. "That's not fair."

"Nothing about you is fair." You tug on his hand until he opens his eyes again. "Your face isn't fair. Your shoulders aren't fair. The fact that you've been my boyfriend for four months and didn't tell me you could fly—"

"I was going to tell you."

"—is deeply unfair. So I think the least you could do is take me flying."

He studies your face for a long moment, and you can practically see him cataloguing every micro-expression, every tell he's learned in the months since you'd literally crashed into him at that bookstore. (You'd been reaching for the same last copy of a new thriller. He'd let you have it, and then insisted on buying it for you, and you'd insisted on letting him read it when you were done, and... well, here you are.)

"You're not going to let this go," he seems to conclude.

"Never ever."

"And if I say no, you'll just find increasingly dangerous ways to force my hand."

You beam at him. "You do know me very well."

He sighs, but there's fondness bleeding through every edge of it, affection pooling in the corners of his mouth as it reluctantly curves. "Fine. But we're doing this my way."

Victory surges in your blood like a drug. "Deal."

ʚɞ ⁺˖ ⸝⸝

His apartment at sunset is something out of a dream—golden light streaming through windows that face the city skyline, every surface touched with amber. You've been here a hundred times but tonight feels different, charged with the knowledge of what he is, what he can do. What he's about to do for you.

Clark emerges from the bedroom and your brain does a hard reset. You've seen him in the suit before, of course, but it's usually when he's saving the city from some catastrophe, from a place of terror and gratitude and general chaos. It's never been just for you.

The suit should be ridiculous. It's essentially pajamas in primary colors. But on him, with those shoulders and that chest and—

"You're staring," he says. He's trying to sound all cool about this (like Superman always does), but you're too close to miss the pleased flush creeping along his neck.

"You're wearing spandex." You cross the room to him, hands immediately finding the S on his chest. The material's strange under your fingers, not quite fabric, not quite anything else.

His hands settle on your waist, pulling you flush against him. This close, his pupils are blown wide, blue nearly swallowed by black. "You're sure about this?"

"I've never been more sure about anything in my life."

He laughs. "That's what you said about the shark diving."

"And look how well that turned out." You stretch up to kiss him (it's a real stretch), sighing happily when his grip tightens to hold you closer. He kisses like he does everything else—focused, intentional, all-consuming.

But if you let him keep going, he'll distract you with another type of adrenaline rush altogether and you really want this whole flying thing.

"All right, Superman," you say, pulling back. His lips chase yours for one brief, lovely moment before he lets you go. "I trust you."

Something flickers across his face—vulnerable and raw and gone before you can fully parse it. But his hands tighten on your waist, and when he speaks, his voice has that quality to it, the one that makes your stomach drop like you're already falling. "Okay."

The word's barely out before the world shifts. There's no warning, no count of three—one second you're standing in his apartment and the next you're cradled against his chest, the city lights a blur beneath you, wind rushing past at speeds that should terrify you but don't.

Because Clark's holding you like you're precious, one arm under your knees, the other around your back, and his face is so close you can see yourself reflected in his eyes if you focus hard enough. The cape whips around both of you, a cocoon of red that blocks the worst of the wind (and also looks really cool).

"Oh my God." You're laughing, you can't help it, the kind of delighted giggling that comes from pure, undiluted joy, that comes when something is so good you can't contain it all. "Oh my God, Clark!"

He grins, and it's not his Clark Kent smile or even his Superman smile. It's something just for you, you think. Unguarded. "Hold on."

And then he really flies.

The city becomes a watercolor painting beneath you, all streams of light and shadow. Clark does these impossible things—loops and spirals and sudden stops that leave your stomach somewhere around your ankles—but his hold never loosens, never wavers. You're safe, utterly safe, even as he climbs so high the air thins and the stars multiply.

"Ready?" he asks against your ear. There's laughter in his voice, boyish and thrilled, Superman having fun.

You know what he's asking. This is what you wanted, what you begged for. Your heart's pounding so hard he must be able to hear it, probably feel it through the suit.

You twist to kiss his jawline (you can reach when you stretch, and he obligingly tilts his head). "Yup. Do it."

He kisses your forehead. "Trust me?"

"Always."

And then, as promised, he lets go.

For a second—one impossible, infinite second—you're suspended. The world holds its breath. The stars pause. Your body doesn't understand what's happening, neurons firing error messages your brain ignores because this, this is what you've been chasing your whole life. This perfect nothing. This absolute everything.

And then gravity remembers you exist.

The fall is nothing like jumping off bridges or out of planes. There's no equipment, no safety net you can see, just you and physics and the rapidly approaching lights of Metropolis.

Air tears at your clothes, your hair, floods your lungs when you try to scream but all that comes out is laughter, wild and uncontrolled.

You've never felt more alive.

The city rushes up to meet you and some primal part of your brain starts suggesting that maybe this was a bad idea, that perhaps you've finally found the limit of your adrenaline addiction—

Strong arms catch you. You're not falling but flying again, held tight against Clark's chest as he swoops low between buildings before climbing again.

"Again!" you gasp into his neck, fingers fisting in the cape in a way you'll be embarrassed about later. "Clark, again, please—"

He pulls back enough to see your face, and whatever he finds there makes him laugh. "You're insane."

[namiusedbubble]

Betrayal, Baby!

Pairing: Lex Luthor x Reader Fandom: Superman 2025 Description: You're Lex's girlfriend, but you know what happens to women who bore him, and recently, he's been pulling away. So you try to get ahead of him, get rid of him before he can get rid of you ... except you fail. Explicit smut after the cut! Power dynamics, oral (f!receiving), minor humiliation kink.

You knew what Lex was long before you ever touched him.

Not just the name - Luthor, that meant power in Metropolis. But the man. The sharp mind. The colder hands. The way he paced like his brain was running a mile a minute and he was always trying to get ahead of it. You knew what he was. Everyone did. They just didn't see it the way you did.

You’d fallen for him anyway. Or maybe because of it.

It wasn’t easy being his girlfriend. Not in public. Not in private. He was... meticulous. Distant. Sometimes possessive in a way that felt like being held under glass; admired, studied, but never really touched. Still, he kept you close. He took you to fundraisers. Let you sit in during security briefings. Called you clever in the way he called things useful.

But the deeper he dove into his anti-Superman campaign, the more he began slipping away from you. And you knew what happened to women who Lex grew bored of. How they seemed to disappear without a trace, or end up destitute and penniless for displeasing him in some arbitrary way.

The more he pulled away, the more you paid attention.

What started as whispers in his office turned into late-night files half-deleted from his encrypted drive. You’d learned to read his notes, to follow the shape of his thoughts. You weren't just arm candy, he’d told you that. Again and again.

So when you started to piece together what he was planning, what he was truly willing to do, you knew two things.

One: Superman didn’t deserve to die like that.

And two: Lex had already stopped seeing you as someone who might say no. So you did what he never expected.

You collected the proof.

You copied what you could without tripping his security alerts. Enough designs, enough technical outlines, enough audio of Lex making veiled references to “neutralizing” Superman before he became a global liability. Enough to scare even the most skeptical editor.

You were on your way to deliver it to the Daily Planet when you realized your access key no longer worked.

That was your first clue. The second came when the elevator stopped short of the lobby and rerouted smoothly, efficiently to the top floor.

The executive suite. Lex’s office.

The third clue was his voice. “Do come in,” Lex said through the speaker, just before the doors hissed open.

The room was dark, with only the city lights flooding in through the floor-to-ceiling windows to cast him in silhouette. He stood with his back to you. Perfect posture, hands clasped behind his back. He didn't look angry.

Somehow, that was worse.

“I thought we agreed,” he said, almost conversational. “No secrets.”

You stepped forward, cautious. “We also agreed the world doesn’t need gods or tyrants. You never said you were willing to become one just to kill another.”

“Is that why you tried to betray me?”

You hesitated. “I didn’t betray you,” you said, quiet. “I was scared. You stopped talking to me. You stopped touching me. You kept going darker, and I thought if I brought it to someone who could stop you, maybe you’d … look at me again.”

Lex watched you carefully. That analytical expression didn’t flicker, but something behind it did. “You stole from me,” he said, more softly now. “You used my trust. My access. My affection. You played the role of a doting partner so well, and all while plotting to dismantle everything I’ve built.”

You swallowed hard. “You’re planning to murder a god. What do you think the metahumans will do when they realize you can kill one of their own? You think they’ll let you keep your tower and your smug little chessboard? I wasn’t trying to destroy you. I was trying to keep you alive.”

Lex stepped toward you, and you backed away.

“You lied to me,” he said. “And now you want to justify it with fear. That’s beneath you.”

He circled slowly, until he was close enough for you to feel the tension practically vibrating off him.

"You should have come to me. You should have asked."

"I did," you snapped. "And you told me not to concern myself with things beyond my grasp!"

His hand was at your throat before you saw it move. Not squeezing, just a firm pressure. A reminder of who is in charge.

“I was trying to protect you,” he murmured. “From what happens to people who meddle.”

Your pulse was hammering, but only half in fear. "I'm not your trophy wife." you said, breathing hard. "You don't get to parade me around like a doll and expect loyalty and submission without love."

Lex stared at you for a long moment, one side of his mouth slowly curling into a smirk you'd rarely seen directed at you.

"You want my attention? You have it now."

The next moment was heat. His mouth on yours, possessive and bruising as he pushed you backwards until your thighs hit the edge of his desk, and he lifted you onto it like you weighed nothing.

He kissed you like he hadn't touched you in weeks, which was true.

His hands were like ice against your skin as his fingers dragged up your thighs, shoved your skirt higher, and spread you open without asking.

You weren't sure if this was punishment or a bribe, but you didn't dare stop him.

You moaned when his teeth grazed your neck, when his fingers slipped inside your panties and felt how wet you already were for him.

He laughed into your skin. “Of course,” he said. “Of course you’re soaked. You little traitor. You love being broken.”

You dug your nails into his back, gasping when he pushed two fingers inside you and curled them upwards. “You don’t own me,” you hissed, even as your hips bucked.

“Don’t I?” Lex said, licking a stripe up your throat. “Then why do you fall apart every time I touch you?”

He knelt. He didn't always do that. Lex has always been more of a taker than a giver in all aspects of life, and that was no different in the bedroom. But this time, he dragged your underwear down and shoved your knees apart without a word, eyes dark.

You barely had time to register the cold air hitting your exposed skin before his mouth was on you. Claiming you. His tongue licked clear strips up from your entrance to your clit, circling and sucking exactly where he knew you liked it. His fingers kept working inside you, fast and demanding. He didn't stop when you moaned. Didn't ease up when you came. He just kept going until your legs grew numb and your voice broke around his name.

When he finally stood, he gripped your jaw and kissed you. Deep, lingering, and still tasting of you. "You want me to stop?" you didn't answer. Couldn't. You were too busy trying to catch your breath, so you just shook your head.

Lex smirked. "Good girl."

Then he flipped you over on his desk and pressed your face against the polished glass. You hear the sound of his belt being unbuckled, his pants hitting the floor.

Then he shoved himself inside you from behind; deep, fast, relentless, until you cried out and your nails dragged uselessly over the surface.

"Say it," he hisses. "Say you're sorry. Say you're mine."

You tried to resist. Tried to keep your mouth shut, but then his hand fisted into your hair and pulled you up until your back was against his chest and his mouth at your ear.

"Say it."

"Ah - ! I'm yours. All yours. I'm s-sorry!"

"Be more specific, darling. What are you sorry for?"

"F-for betraying you. For not knowing my place." you gasped.

He bit your shoulder. Hard.

When you came again, it wasn't soft or sweet. It was punishment.

He kept going. Fucked you through it until he stuttered, just once, and thrust as deep into you as he possibly could. His hand tightened in your hair, and he groaned loudly as he came inside you.

And when it was done, he pulled you into his lap on that stupid throne-like chair of his - fucked out, ruined, shaking - and kissed the top of your head like you're the only prize he ever wanted to win.

And when it’s done, he pulls you into his lap on that stupid throne-like chair of his—fucked-out, ruined, shaking—and kisses the top of your head like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted.

"If you ever try to walk into that newsroom again, I'm going to show you exactly what I do to people who think they can outsmart me." he says against your hair. "Understood?"

You nod.

He smiles.

“Good girl.”

[namiusedbubble]

The Truth Is Out

Fandom: Superman 2025 Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader. Reader is ... unhinged, to say the least. Disclaimer: This is more crack-fic-leaning at the moment, but it was fun to write so I might continue it into a fluffier/smuttier version at some point :) Warning, 'you' are an insane, DC-typical conspiracy theorist who might need a therapist and a nap.

You weren't a reporter. Well, not really, anyway.

Sure, you might have called yourself an "independent investigative journalist" on your blog, but even you had to admit to yourself that was mostly a cover for being a chronically online, overly caffeinated, severely under-qualified public nuisance with an unquenchable curiosity.

But that didn't stop you from marching into the Daily Planet building every few weeks with a manilla folder full of highly urgent documents and a series of pictures that might have been drones or pigeons depending on the lighting and whether you believed pigeons were LuthorCorp drones in disguise that week.

And to be fair ... you weren't always wrong.

Yes, you once tried to expose a “psychic lizard operating beneath City Hall” (he turned out to be a man named Dave who just liked heat lamps), but you were also the first to link Lex Luthor's subsidiary funding to those blackout tests. You had sources. You had gut instinct.

And lately, all that instinct was telling you was;

"There's something weird about Clark Kent."

It started, like most rabbit holes did, with a single throwaway comment.

You had arrived at the Planet's bullpen during a particularly frantic Tuesday, fresh off a two-day coffee binge and holding a folder labeled "IS SUPERMAN JUST A REALLY SEXY GOVERNMENT DRONE?" that you'd worked really hard on. You had the proof to back it up, of course. Mostly comments from the shady chatrooms you frequented in search of truth, but still.

Lois Lane had waved you off with a snort. Jimmy Olsen had rolled his eyes and snickered into his mug when you started your presentation.

But Clark? He'd smiled at you - smiled, the bastard - and said, "Well, I doubt Superman wants all the credit."

You blinked. "What?"

He pushed his glasses up, flustered. "Nothing! I just mean, he's not really the type to seek praise."

"How would you know what type he is?" you ask immediately.

Clark paused.

There was a moment, a flicker, where he looked like a man who had just realized the dog buried the murder weapon in the neighbor’s yard.

“I've interviewed him,” he offered weakly.

You squinted at him. Hard. “Huh. That's odd, because Superman isn't known to give interviews to anyone ... except you, apparently. Convenient.”

Then you left without another word.

And Clark Kent. mild-mannered, six-foot-something, supposedly normal, watched you go like a man watching a bomb disappear into a haystack.

Over the next two weeks, you developed a theory.

It wasn't solid, exactly. At least not yet. But you were convinced of it and once you were locked on? Not even Superman could stop that truth-seeking missile.

You started to notice that Clark Kent was always conveniently around right before a Superman sighting, and he was never in the office when Superman was saving the day. He stammered like a man with too many secrets and stood like someone who didn't know how to make himself smaller but wanted to.

And the glasses? Now that you were really looking at him, you realised you’d seen better disguises at the Target around Halloween.

So you did what any semi-insane journalist would do.

You tried to catch him in the act.

First, you followed him around Metropolis under the guise of "working on a community piece". You'd drop heavy objects near him, just to see if he'd catch them before they hit the ground. You'd yell things like "Help, help, my foot is stuck in the storm drain!" even though you were the one who shimmied it in there seconds earlier.

Clark helped every time, but slowly. Awkwardly. Like a man trying too hard to seem average while definitely holding back.

One afternoon, you threw yourself in front of a busy intersection with a box full of life-like plush kittens when Clark yanked you back by the collar with a startled, "Are you insane?!"

You blinked and looked up at him still holding the back of your shirt, his breath steady. You narrowed your eyes. "... Maybe I am, but you're suspiciously fast."

"I jog a lot."

"Right. With lightning reflexes?"

"It's a brisk jog."

You stared at each other.

Then Clark sighed, deep, world-weary, with the resigned air of a man who once tried to hold off a meteor with a garbage can lid, and let go of you.

“I have to get back to work,” he muttered.

“Sure. But I’m watching you.”

It escalated after that.

You started tagging your blog posts with #Kentspiracy and began carrying around a clipboard labeled Daily Observations: 'Clark K. Possible Alien Life Form??'

You never said anything out loud. But every time he spoke, you’d jot something down with a thoughtful nod.

Clark tried to ignore it. He really did. But when you came into the office and pointedly offered him a lead-lined cup of coffee, and he didn't immediately drop it, you knew. And he knew you knew because you wrote 'Strong grip confirmed: possible steel composite skeletal structure?' in red pen.

Lois choked on her coffee.

You weren’t cruel. You weren’t even mean. But you were relentless.

You wanted the truth, and you were pretty sure the truth was that Clark Kent, a man who wore beige cardigans and stuttered through interviews, was secretly the hottest alien on earth.

You didn’t want to out him. Not really. You just ... wanted him to say it. To you. And only you.

So when the opportunity to confirm what you already knew finally came about in the form of rooftop access to the city's tallest building? Well ... you took it.

You stood on the edge of the building. Not close enough to fall before it was time, but close enough that someone had called the cops. Someone was trying to talk you down, assuming you were troubled, or unwell, but you were fine. Better than fine, actually, because now you'd have proof of your theory. Clark would get off work in five minutes, walk past this building, see the commotion, and he'd have no choice but to step in and rescue you.

So you waited.

And when the alarm on your watch started beeping? You jumped.

You barely had time to regret your, admittedly, batshit insane plan before the wind rushing against your face abruptly stopped, replaced by the feeling of two strong arms wrapping around your legs and back until you were upright, pressed against something blue and solid, and most importantly, not falling to your death.

When you were gently placed back on ground level, you finally looked up, and sure enough, there he was. Superman, in the flesh, exactly where you knew Clark Kent should be.

He looked like a statue of a god someone had sculpted to look worried. Cape billowing. Eyes glowing. Jaw clenched.

“Are you okay?” he asked, already scanning you for injuries.

You crossed your arms. “Are you?”

He hesitated. “What?”

You stepped forward, lowered your voice so none of the other onlookers could hear you. “Tell Clark I said hi.”

The next day, Clark Kent showed up at your apartment with a coffee and the look of a man who hadn’t slept in years.

You let him in.

Said nothing.

He stared at the floor for a long time. “I didn’t want you to find out like that.”

You raised a brow. “So you admit it.”

“Yes.”

There was silence after that. You stepped closer to him, slowly, but he didn't move away. And with your hand resting gently on his chest, you said, quiet, serious;

“You owe me an exclusive.”

His breath caught, and then he smiled.

Soft. Real. Like the first time he’d finally stopped hiding.

“I owe you a lot more than that.”

[namiusedbubble]

Empire of Two (Lex Luthor x Reader)

Pairing: Lex Luthor x Reader Fandom: Superman 2025 Disclaimer: Still obsessed with Hoult’s Luthor, so here’s some smut. No real spoilers, if you haven’t already seen the film! He’s your boss, so mild powerplay.

You’re the last one in the building.

Well, you and the man on the top floor who never leaves, never sleeps, and somehow knows everything about everyone.

You’re supposed to be his assistant, though you’re starting to think you’re just the rebound for his last pretty thing that disappeared suddenly after disappointing him.

Either way, the elevator opens before you press the button and there he is. Lex.

Sharp navy suit, tie loose, top button undone just enough to see the smooth dip at the bottom of his throat. He doesn’t say hello. He doesn’t need to; you feel him enter a room before you see him.

“Come with me,” he says, and you do.

Of course you do.

He leads you into his office, floor-to-ceiling glass, city lights like an entire galaxy beneath his feet. There’s a decanter of something auburn on the sideboard - whiskey, you think, and he pours you a glass without asking.

“I’ve built empires,” he says, quiet and thoughtful. Like he’s sharing something personal, and you’re the only one he’d ever say it to. “You know that. The satellites. The algorithms. The weapons. I can move entire economies with a phone call.” He glances over his shoulder. “And it’s all bullshit.”

You shift slightly, eyebrows drawn. This is the most he’s spoken to you since you started, at least in a way that wasn’t just barked coffee orders, and he’s speaking in riddles. “Bullshit?”

He nods slowly. “It’s a distraction. Theatre. A magic trick to keep the world looking in the wrong direction.” He finally turns to you fully, and his gaze lands with the weight of something deliberate. “But I’ve figured out the trick I’ve been playing on myself.” You blink. “… Which is?”

Lex smiles. Cold and terribly intimate.

“You.” The word lands heavy between you. Not romantic. Not gentle. Just the truth stripped down to the bone in a way that causes you breath to hitch. “You’ve infected every corner of my mind,” he says, crossing the room slowly. “I dream of you. I second-guess strategies because I think, ’would she hate me for this?’ I walk into rooms and forget my own name if I smell your perfume on someone else.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You should stop him. You know where this is going. You know what happens to women Lex Luthor fixates on when he finally tires of them.

He keeps going. Calm. Controlled. Surgical.

“And I hate it,” he murmurs. “I hate that you occupy me. That you exist like a flaw in the system. That there’s no algorithm, no threat, no clean answer to the question of you.”

He’s in front of you now. Close enough that his fingers graze your wrist, featherlight.

“I’ve tried everything. Distance. Distraction. Deletion.”

“Deletion?” you echo, voice dry.

His mouth twitches.

“You were on a list once, briefly. But I knew I’d regret it.” He leans in, breath brushing your ear. “Regret, you see, is something I’ve never tolerated in myself.”

You’re frozen in place, but your body is hot all over. “What do you want from me?” you whisper.

His fingers slide up to cradle your jaw.

“I want you to say no,” he says softly. “Just once. I want you to look at me and mean it. Because if you don’t … I’m going to forget to keep pretending you don’t already belong to me.”

And then he kisses you. It’s not messy. It’s measured. Intentional. Precise, like a bomb timed to the exact second you’d fall into his trap. His hand at your throat is light. Not choking, just owning. And when you gasp against his mouth, he says, “There she is,” like he’s just found his new favourite game.

You don’t remember being lifted. One second, his mouth is on yours, and the next, your spine hits the desk, papers scattering to the floor like ruined blueprints, and Lex is above you, undoing his cuffs with slow, practiced grace.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?” he murmurs.

His hands push your thighs open and he steps between them. You’re still dressed, but he doesn’t care. He’ll go through fabric if he has to. There’s something in his face - focus, but laced now with heat. Almost hunger. But buried under it, the same control that’s made him terrifying.

He doesn’t grab. No, that’s not Lex Luthor’s style. Instead, he claims.

Fingers press into your hips, guiding you to the edge of the desk, and his voice drops as his mouth brushes your jaw; “Everything I build bends to me. But you bend only when you want to. And god help me, I’ve never wanted anything more.”

His hands slide up your thighs, your waist, your chest, pausing just long enough to see how far he can push before you tell him to stop. But you don’t. You stare back, almost daring him to keep going. Tempting fate.

Lex exhales through his nose like he’s amused. Or aroused. Or both.

When he finally undresses you, it’s not rushed. Buttons opened with precision. Fabric peeled away like an inconvenience. And all the while, he watches you. Not your body, your face. He’s taunting you. Driving you just close enough to the edge to make you beg.

“You should’ve left when you had the chance,” he says softly, dragging his thumb over your bottom lip. “I gave you an out.”

“You didn’t mean it.”

“No.” His smile is slow and sharp. “I didn’t.”

And then he pushes into you.

He fucks you like he’s proving something. Like each thrust is a statement of ownership. Not cruel, not desperate, but deliberate. Perfect rhythm. Perfect pressure. Like he’s calculated exactly how to ruin you without letting you fall apart too fast.

You whimper his name, and he stills. Because that? That’s the crack in his control.

He moves faster. Rougher. One hand on your throat, the other squeezing your thigh as if to keep you from disappearing. He watches you take it, your breath stuttering, back arching.

“Look at you,” he pants. “Fucking perfect. Giving in so easily. Letting me have you.”

You’re close. He knows it. He can feel the way your body clenches around him, sees how your eyes flutter and your lips part and your hands fist in his shirt like you’ll fall without him.

And then, just before you come, he stops.

Dead still.

You gasp. “Lex - !”

“Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Say you’re mine.”

You should resist. You should fight. Try to claw back any piece of self-control you thought you had. But you’re already gone.

“I’m yours,” you whimper.

He groans like it’s killing him, and then he fucks you through your release, your shaking, your surrender, driving into you like a man who’s finally found the thing worth breaking his own rules for.

Later, you lie sprawled on what used to be a $20,000 desk. Papers ruined. Lipstick smeared. Lex is still inside you, braced on his elbows, breathing hard.

He kisses you once, uncharacteristically soft, like he’s sealing a contract.

And when you whisper “What now?” into the crook of his neck, he hums.

Then says, without blinking, “Now I build the world around you.”

[namiusedbubble]

Say you want me (Eric Northman x Reader)

Pairing: Eric Northman x Reader

Fandom: Trueblood

Disclaimer: Smut after the cut.

You didn’t come here for this. You came here because he’d been ignoring your messages. You came here because you were pissed. Because he was impossible. Arrogant. Distant.

Because he wanted you to chase him.

You stormed into Fangtasia like a woman who wasn’t afraid of the thousand-year-old vampire sheriff.

And that was your mistake, because now you’re on your back in his office, desk cleared in a single sweep of his arm. Your legs are wrapped around his waist, and he’s inside you with no mercy.

“Still mad at me, lover?” he murmurs, voice dark silk.

You dig your nails into his shoulders. “Yes.”

“Mm.” He thrusts deeper. Slower. Cruel. “Then you’ll forgive me soon.”

He leans in. Mouth brushing your ear.

“You came here wet, didn’t you?" You gasp, and he smiles against your throat. “I could smell it when you walked in. All fire and fury and aching between your thighs.”

You slap his chest. He doesn’t flinch. He likes it.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say you want me.”

You refuse. So he moves—slow, deep, devastating. Rolling his hips like he’s trying to brand you from the inside out.

Your back arches.

He grabs your wrists, pins them over your head with one hand. His other slides down your stomach, fingers finding where you’re already pulsing around him.

“You’ve been thinking about this for days,” he murmurs. “Your fingers don’t touch you the way I do.”

You glare. “You’re a bastard.”

He grins. “Yes. But I’m your bastard.”

His mouth crashes into yours, all teeth, tongue, and domination. The kiss is filthy. He fucks you like you’re the only thing on the planet that still interests him. Like blood and politics and power mean nothing if he can’t make you scream his name into the dark.

You do. Eventually.

When he breaks you open with one perfect grind of his hips and his fingers and that damn voice whispering “Good girl” against your skin.

After, he doesn’t move. Just lies over you, half-smirking, half-feral.

“You’re mine now,” he says, and it's not a question.

And you don't answer, because you know you already were.

[namiusedbubble]

All That Power (Lex Luthor x Reader)

Pairing: Lex Luthor x Reader Fandom: Superman 2025 Disclaimer: Look, I know he's evil, but Nicholas Hoult is beautiful even when bald. His personality is mostly based on the show, so there's no spoilers.

You’re not supposed to be here.

Not alone. Not with him.

Your boss was supposed to come to this meeting. But he got “tied up.” (Lex's doing, you’re almost certain.) And now it’s just you, a stack of contract briefs, and Metropolis’ favorite sociopathic genius across the glass table, perfectly relaxed, arms folded, expression carved from arrogance and precision.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says, looking at you like he's already figured you out.

“I could say the same.”

“Really?” He leans forward just enough that the lights catch the curve of his skull and the sharp line of his mouth. “Because I find I’m usually exactly what people expect. Just with better tailoring.”

You hate that you notice the suit. The watch. The way he wears control like it’s stitched into his skin.

“You’re enjoying this,” you mutter, flipping a page just to have something to look at that isn’t him.

“Oh, immensely,” he replies without hesitation. “I get so bored of yes-men and sycophants. It’s refreshing, really. You have a spine. It’s cute.”

You glare. “You’re threatening my company’s autonomy.”

“I’m offering your company survival,” he corrects, tone clipped. “Don’t mistake pragmatism for cruelty just because I say out loud what others only whisper.”

There’s a pause. Then, quieter, like he can’t help himself:

“You’re clever. I like that. Clever people understand me.”

“Clever people run when they realize you’re circling them like prey.”

He smiles. Sharp and knowing, and it’s terrifying how attractive it is. “But you haven’t run.”

“I haven’t signed anything either.”

His gaze lingers. Not on your body. On your face, like the back-and-forth is intoxicating.

“I knew I wanted you on this deal the second I read your file,” he says. “But I didn’t expect to want to keep you.”

The room goes silent. You freeze. His words feel too personal, too unguarded. For a second, you forget how to breathe.

"... Is this your version of flirting or are you trying to poach me?” you manage.

Lex doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at you like you're a problem he's been trying to solve for years and now he suddenly has all the answers to. Then, with a tilt of his head: “I don’t flirt. I choose. And I don’t choose lightly.”

[namiusedbubble]

David Haller x Reader, Soulmate AU

Pairing: David Haller x Reader Fandom: Legion, X-Men Setting: Somewhere around season 2. So before he does the unspeakable thing, which he won't do in this timeline. Obviously. Warnings: Over-using the word 'like' because Legion is just giant metaphor, and it's the one time it felt necessary to use a billion similes and get a bit more poetic than I normally would.

David noticed her the first time he walked into the Astral Plane as a child, barefoot and scared. She was sitting cross-legged in the snow, like she'd been waiting. Not smiling, not speaking. Just … watching. Not the way the others did. Not like them.

Wherever he went, she was there. Through the soundproof rooms and screaming hallways, across fractured timelines and over the spiraling logic of his own mind. When he was older and discovered Summerland, when they thought him to conjure up oceans or doorways or entire cities inside himself, she was still just there, like the moon. Present, but not a threat.

He never spoke to her. He tried, once or twice. Got close. But every time, she would flicker and vanish before his lips could form the word “who.”

He gave up asking after a while. Just let her exist.

Some days, she was the only reason he didn’t let go entirely.

The day it happens, he’s buying coffee. He doesn't need it, David hasn’t needed caffeine since he figured out how to trick his metabolism, but because the place had people, normal people, and he misses that. The sound of the cups clinking, the awkward buzz of bad dates and laptops humming. It feels real.

He sees her in line ahead of him.

Same eyes. Same everything. Except now, she has a denim jacket and chipped nail polish and is muttering something about oat milk to the barista like she’s lived this life forever.

David doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t move. It’s like the entire café blurs around her.

She turns around, holding her drink, and their eyes meet.

Nothing flickers. He doesn't vanish or jump to the void or the Astral Plane.

She just gives him a polite smile, the tight lipped kind you give to strangers, and walks past him out the door.

He follows her. Obviously.

He tells himself it’s just to make sure she’s real, but he's lying. He wants to know. Wants to ask if she’s been dreaming about him too, if she remembers the Astral Plane, the snow, the years they spent not-speaking. Wants to know if she knows him.

She doesn’t look back. She puts her headphones on and walks like nothing is following her, like she’s not carrying decades of silent connection in the lines of her shoulders. And she doesn’t know. Of course she doesn’t.

But he does.

He doesn’t talk to her that day.

He could’ve. He had the moment. She stood at the crosswalk just long enough that he could’ve said something. Anything. But David has learned the hard way that when you meet someone who means something to you and only you, you don’t dive in swinging.

So he waits. He knows she doesn’t feel it the way he does. That’s fine. It has to be, because to her, he’s just a stranger.

But for David, she’s the constant. The one thread that never snapped.

He starts showing up at the café again. Not every day. He tells himself he’s being casual. Normal. The kind of normal person who might say, “Hey, do I know you from somewhere?” and not sound like he’s insane.

The first few times, she doesn’t show. Or he misses her. Or he gets stuck inside his own head, literally, and by the time he fights his way back out, she’s gone.

But on a Wednesday, she’s there. Again. Same order. Same tone. Different book in her bag. She takes her drink to a corner table and sits with one knee pulled up, flicking pages with her thumb while her other hand absently draws circles on the lid of the cup.

He orders something he doesn’t want and sits two tables away.

He doesn’t look at her. Not directly. But every nerve in his body is screaming. Not in a bad way. It’s not like when they come, or when he loses time. It’s quieter than that. Like every part of him is leaning toward her, gravitational. His mind doesn’t even have to warp the space. She pulls him.

And she doesn’t know.

God, she doesn’t know.

He doesn't talk to her for three more days.

It's not fear, so much as this is the only part of his life that's unbroken. This strange, silent orbit. He doesn't want to crash it by falling in too fast.

But on the fourth day, when she walks past his table and her sleeve brushes his arm, he swears he feels his entire body lock into place.

Her voice is the first thing he remembers when he wakes up in the middle of the night - soft, low, mundane, asking the barista if they have soy instead. Like it rewired something.

The next time he sees her, she’s wearing that same denim jacket from the first time.

And David speaks.

“Hey,” he says, blinking like he’s surfacing from somewhere deep. He’s standing in front of her before he can question it. “Sorry, this is gonna sound … crazy.”

She pauses, eyebrows lifting, polite but guarded.

“But I think I know you.”

A little furrow in her brow. “Really?”

“Not … not know-know,” David says, dragging a hand through his hair. He wants to laugh but he’s vibrating. “More like … I’ve seen you. Before. Somewhere. A lot.”

She tilts her head. “Maybe in the neighborhood?”

David shakes his head once. “No. Not here. Not … anywhere normal.”

Now she’s giving him the look people give when they’re about to excuse themselves gently and pretend they didn’t almost talk to a lunatic.

David sees it coming. So he softens. Shrinks a little into himself. And then, in the smallest voice he’s ever used; “I think you’re my soulmate.”

The word feels stupid on his tongue, too much, but he has no other way to describe it with flattening it.

She stares at him for a second too long. Not hostile. Just confused. Curious.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Um … I’m really not trying to be rude, but I don’t know you.”

David nods, looking down. “I know.”

“And you think I’m your soulmate?”

He lifts his eyes. And he’s not manic. He’s not wild, or scary, or doing that thing he used to do where he talks too fast and doesn’t blink. He’s just calm. The kind of calm you get after a hundred lifetimes of waiting.

“I think I’ve seen you since I was eight years old,” he says. “Every time my mind broke. Every place I ran to. You were always there. You never said anything. You just watched. I don’t know how. Or why. But I remember you.”

She doesn't back away, but her face twists slightly in unease.

“I know this doesn’t make sense.” he says, quickly. “It doesn’t have to. I don’t want anything from you. I just - I needed to say it. Because you’re real. For the first time.”

Then she smiles. Small. Not amused, but moved. Not love. Not recognition. But something gentle.

“… Okay,” she says again, like she still thinks he might be crazy, but not enough to run away.

“What’s your name?”

And when she tells him her real name, he feels like he's known it forever.

---

The first time she dreams of him, it’s subtle.

She wakes up with his name in her mouth and doesn’t know why. She’s pretty sure it was a dream where nothing happened. No story. No conflict. Just a room and someone sitting across from her. The only thing she remembers is the shape of his face and the way it felt calm.

Which is insane. Because calm isn’t how you should feel when a stranger calls you his soulmate in a coffee shop.

She tells herself not to think about it, but ends up spending the rest of the week thinking of nothing else.

But David doesn’t push. That’s the part that surprises her.

After that first conversation, he doesn’t follow her or show up at her work or do anything that screams 'unhinged'. He just exists near her. Once or twice a week, always at the café, always quiet, always polite.

It’s like he dropped that strange confession between them like a stone in the water and is content to just let her do what she wants with it.

He never says the word again. Soulmate.

But it’s there in the way he watches her like he’s memorizing the present. Like he’s trying to overwrite the dream-version of her with the real thing.

So she does what anyone would do. She Googles him.

At first, nothing. No social media, no LinkedIn, not even a shitty high school yearbook photo. That’s weird in itself.

But then she finds a name on a patient list from a now-closed psychiatric hospital. Just a name with no photo, no diagnosis, and no last known address.

She closes the tab after three seconds, heart beating too fast.

She doesn’t want to know. Not like that.

They talk again the next week. This time, she’s the one who sits near him.

“You always read that fast?” he asks, nodding to the book in her hand.

She smiles. “You always stare that much?”

He laughs, startled. The sound is soft, and something around his eyes relaxes for the first time since she'd met him.

They fall into a conversation that’s so normal it’s almost unsettling. Like two people on a first date pretending they haven’t already known each other in some invisible way for years.

He tells her he briefly worked as a coffee boy in a Fortune 500.

She tells him about her job, how she hates her boss, but her co-workers are okay and the work isn't too difficult.

And then, out of nowhere, she says: “I think I had a dream about you.”

He freezes.

“Yeah?” he says, voice almost too casual.

“I didn’t recognize you at first, but after we talked ... I don’t know. You just popped up. Sitting across from me.”

“Did I say anything?”

“No,” she says slowly. “You just looked at me. It wasn’t scary. It felt almost like you were waiting for me to remember something.”

David closes his eyes for a second, like she hit something soft inside his ribs.

“You used to show up in mine all the time,” he murmurs. “Still do, sometimes. But now you’re different.”

“Different how?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then:

“Now you look back.”

It’s subtle, the way things shift.

She dreams of him again.

And again.

Little things - shared silences. A red thread tied to their wrists. A hallway full of locked doors and one open one where he’s standing, waiting.

Nothing romantic, but intimate. Unnervingly so. Like he’s always one step ahead of the dream logic, waiting to walk her through it.

One day, she’s walking home and realizes she knows something about him that he hasn’t told her. That he doesn’t like the colour yellow. That it makes his brain buzz.

She asks him about it the next time they meet, and he stares at her like she’s just told him the sky was blue.

And then he smiles, a real one, and it breaks something in her chest.

He doesn’t tell her the truth right away.

He could.

He could sit her down and say 'I’m a mutant, I live mostly in a tangle of psychic doors and paradoxes, and you’ve been in my head since I was eight years old'. He could tell her about the Astral Plane. The parasites. The voices. The war inside him. The war outside him, with Division 3 and Summerland and The Shadow King.

But he doesn’t.

Because the thing is, David doesn’t want her to feel owed. Doesn’t want her to stay because he’s told her some cosmic story of fate.

He wants her to choose.

Wants her to feel it for herself, slowly, without manipulation. Wants her to want him not because the universe said so, but because she felt it.

She’s starting to.

She doesn’t admit it, but she starts sitting closer. Laughing more. She hugs him goodbye one day, and David walks home feeling like he could breathe for the first time in years.

He lies on the floor that night with his eyes wide open, whispering to the ceiling: 'She's real. She's real. She’s real'.

And in her apartment, across the city, she dreams of snow.

Of a little boy with blood on his mouth.

And herself, watching.

Like she’s done for years.

Like she always has.

---

It happens quietly, the way all inevitable things do.

There's no dramatic confession, and it doesn't happen during one of those moments when David feels like his chest might split open from wanting her. But on an ordinary evening, when he's walking her home from the cafe that has become theirs.

They’ve been talking about something mundane. Books, how the barista got their orders wrong again, nothing monumental. But the air between them feels like a stretched string finally relaxing.

She’s laughing at something he said. He's not even sure what it was, his mind’s already gone syrupy and electric just listening to her, and then she stops walking. Stops laughing. Just looks at him with her head tilted.

“What?” he asks, wary.

She shakes her head slowly, thoughtfully. “I don’t know. You feel familiar. And not just, like, ‘we’ve seen each other at the café a hundred times’ familiar. It’s ... bigger than that. It’s weird.”

David’s breath catches. This is the moment. He can feel it. He wants to tell her everything.

But he steps closer instead. Close enough that she can see the way his lashes brush his cheeks when he blinks, the way his jaw flexes like he wants to say something but can't.

“You know,” he says, voice lower, “you’re the first person I’ve met who makes the noise in my head quiet.”

It’s not a line, it's truth. And it lands between them like something undeniable.

She doesn’t answer, just keeps looking at him like she’s seeing him for the first time, like all the vague déjà vu is finally making sense.

David, for once, doesn’t think. Doesn’t spiral. Doesn't run away into his own head to a made-up version of her who already knows who and what he is. He just leans down and kisses her.

It’s not fireworks at first. It’s soft, tentative. The kind of kiss that asks, 'Is this real?'

But the second her mouth moves against his, he feels his whole body catch fire.

It’s like all the fragments of himself, the broken timelines, the memories, the versions of himself that exist across realities, snap into alignment for the first time. As if he's no longer David Haller the schizophrenic omega, but David Haller the man.

And for her, it's something different. Their lips meet, and it feels like something she didn't know she was missing just slid into place. She sees flashes; a snowy field, a little boy with blond curls, a shadowy place she doesn't understand but wants to. And this unbearable rightness that makes her knees go weak.

She pulls back first, breathing a little too fast. “What was that?” she whispers.

David’s still so close that his breath brushes her lips. His pupils are blown wide, but he’s steady, calmer than she’s ever seen him. “That,” he says softly, “is why I said soulmate.”

She swallows, glancing down like the ground might hold the answer. “I felt - I don’t know. I saw something. I think I’ve seen you before. Somewhere. When you were younger. Yesterday. I don't know.”

“You have,” he says, and there’s no hesitation. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

They stand there in silence for a long moment, and when she looks at him again, a little shaked but not afraid. "How long have you been waiting for this?"

He smiles, crooked and shy, “Since I was eight.”

[namiusedbubble]

Touch Therapy (Lars Lindstrom x Reader)

Pairing: Lars x Reader Fandom: Lars and the Real Girl Theme: First kisses, haphephobia, gentle guiding.

They're sitting on her front porch. A blanket around her shoulders, his hands twitching in his lap like he isn't quite sure what to do with them now that he's here. He's been walking her home every day after work since Bianca died in the spring, and now the air smells like rotting leaves and the pumpkin spice cocoa she'd given him, even though he never drinks it.

He’s talking about something, model trains, or the church bake sale, or maybe the neighbor’s dog who always wears little socks. Something small. He talks a lot more these days. Still stilted, still careful, but when he’s with her, he fills the space with his thoughts.

She’s not really listening tonight, though.

She’s watching his hands.

He doesn’t notice. He’s focused on the story. But her gaze flickers down to where his sleeves are pushed to the elbow, exposing pale skin and long, thin wrists. His arms are lightly freckled. One of his veins is visible. It twitches when he moves. And not for the first time, she aches to touch it. Not just to reassure him, but to feel him. To let her hand say something her mouth is too shy to.

She waits for a lull in his voice. “Lars?” she says, turning to face him fully now.

“I read something a while ago. About a thing called ‘touch therapy.’” She glances at him sideways. “Have you ever heard of it?”

He blinks. Stares at her like she just offered to perform open-heart surgery on the porch. “Uh ... Yeah. Yeah, once. My doctor, Dagmar, she, um, she tried it. A little.”

“Did it help?”

He shrugs, visibly uncomfortable, and she resisted the urge to tell him it didn't matter. “I don’t know. It felt ... it hurt a bit. At first. But then it wasn't so bad."

She nods, and takes in the way he shrinks in on himself, like he's afraid to take up space. How he still dresses in layers, even during the summer. How ever since Bianca, he's been a lot more open to spending time with her, when before, the most she could hope for was one of his polite smiles in the breakroom at lunch or at church before he skittered off like he was afraid she'd burn him.

"Can I try?" she asks, finally.

His whole body stiffens. Not in fear, exactly, but more like the idea surprised him so much he forgot to move. "... why?"

She smiles. "Because I care about you. And I want to help."

She doesn't tell him it's because she's been fantasizing about holding his hand like a schoolgirl with a crush for months. Not yet.

He swallows. "What would I have to do?"

"Nothing. You just have to sit there. I'd put my hand on your arm. Or your shoulder. Nowhere else. Only where you tell it's okay."

He stares at her for a long time, his eyes tracking her fingers as she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, waiting, quiet. Letting him choose.

"Okay," he whispers.

And then, so slowly it barely registers as movement, she lifts her hand and places it gently next to his, letting her fingers brush his knuckles.

Lars's breath catches, and he stares straight ahead, like if he looks down, that old frostbitten pain he used to feel when anyone touched him will return. But after a while, she feels it; his shoulders relax. Just slightly.

"You're doing great," she smiles, and shifts her hand the tiniest bit, just enough for her fingers to nestle between his.

He closes his eyes. Breathes in, deep, and spreads his fingers enough to let hers fit.

"Can I touch your arm?" she asks.

That makes him blush. He doesn't smile, exactly, but something in his face warms, and he gives an almost imperceptible nod of his head.

She moves as if he's made of paper, starting at his wrist, barely a graze, then rests her hand along his forearm. Not dramatic. Not invasive. Just warmth. Just her.

Lars goes very still.

“Okay?” she murmurs.

“It tickles,” he says after a pause. “But it’s okay.”

She smiles.

“It feels… nice,” he adds, so quietly she barely catches it. “You feel nice.”

Her face stays neutral, but her heart stumbles, and she moves a little closer, knees brushing his.

“Can I try something else?” she asks.

He nods. Slower this time. Braver.

She shifts her hand to his shoulder. He tenses, then exhales. She strokes upward, to the side of his neck. His skin is warm there. She can feel the flutter of his pulse under her fingers.

“Still okay?”

He nods again. His mouth is slightly open, his breathing shallow.

Then, gently, she brings her hand to his cheek.

He jerks - just a twitch, but he doesn’t pull away. His eyes are glassy now. Like he’s not sure if he’s about to cry or run away.

“You’re really here,” he murmurs, and she knows he's comparing her touch to Bianca's. So she lets her thumb graze the corner of his mouth. His head is tilted down, not touching, but close enough that his breath brushes her lips and it takes everything in her not to close the gap.

"You're not going to kiss me, are you?" he asks.

"Do you want me to kiss you?"

He looks down at her hand, then at her mouth, then back to her eyes.

“… I don't know. I think I do.”

But she doesn’t. Not yet.

She smiles and strokes his cheek one more time before letting her hand fall into her lap.

“Next time,” she says. “When you’re ready.”

And Lars leans forward, just slightly. Not to kiss her. Just to be near.

“I think I’m getting there,” he says, very softly.

---

It happens a few weeks later. It's late, and they've just come back from a slow walk through the neighbourhood. Lars always likes walking at night better. There are fewer people. Fewer eyes. The cold gives him an excuse to tuck his hands into his sleeves and not have to worry about what to do with them.

They’re sitting on the front steps of his house now. Not quite touching. But close.

She says something quiet and inconsequential, like “It’s nice out here.”

Lars nods. Then nods again. Then looks at his shoes. “Yeah. Yeah, It is.”

She watches him for a moment. Tilts her head. She’s not impatient, just … tenderly amused.

“You’re nervous again,” she says.

He flushes. “N-no. I’m not. I’m okay. I’m good. This is good.”

“Lars,” she says gently, “we’ve been seeing each other for a month.”

“Mm-hm,” he says. “We have.”

“And you haven’t kissed me.”

He freezes. His throat bobs with a swallow. “I - I wanted to. I just didn’t want to do it wrong. Or if you weren’t ... if you didn’t want-”

She shakes her head and moves closer and reaches for his hand, slowly, deliberately. He’s okay with holding hands now. Has been, since that first night of “touch therapy.”

"You can kiss me now. If you want to."

He glances at the treeline for a moment, as if debating whether it would be less awkward to just run away from the moment. But eventually, he meets her eyes again.

"You'd tell me if it was bad, right?"

She laughs. Laughs. But it's warm, not cruel.

"I'll kiss you back if it's good. Want to try and find out?"

His gaze flicks down to her mouth, and he nods. Sure and determined.

But he doesn't move.

She waits a second longer. Just in case. But he's not pulling away, just stuck, like always.

So she does.

The kiss itself is soft. Slower than it would be with most men, because she can read him like a book. She doesn't lunge or surprise him. She shifts closer by inches, letting him get used to the idea, watching his face to see if he flinches. He’s wide-eyed, bracing for impact. But then her hand is on his cheek, and that's what does it.

It settles him. Roots him.

And when she leans in and brushes her lips against his, he leans into her mouth like he finally realised he was allowed to.

There’s no tongue. No sudden rush. Just a gentle meeting of lips in the dark.

And when she pulls back slightly to check his face, he’s staring at her like she hung the moon. "Was that okay?” she asks.

He nods. Rapidly. “Yeah. Yeah. I just … I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

She smooths his hair back and kisses his forehead, still smiling. “You don't have to know everything before it happens. Sometimes you just have to let it happen, and then decide if you want to do it again."

He nods again. And after a few seconds, he kisses her this time. A little clumsy. A little eager. Still learning. But the intention is pure and unmistakable.

[namiusedbubble]

Ahhh I love this series too much <3 The poor Narnians being locked in a stable because King Loon is a prick to everyone, though.

White Moves First, Part 9 ~ Edmund Pevensie

I had to take a quick break from studying for my Microbiology exam to put the final touches on this and post it. Hope y'all enjoy!

Summary: Despite the distance between their two lands, Y/N, princess of Archenland, is close friends with King Edmund the Just. But when push comes to shove, will friendship turn to more?

Warnings: unhealthy paternal relationship

Word count: 5k

White Moves First masterlist | Main masterlist

The next morning arrived too soon. I blinked at the bright sun shining in my face. Why had Rona forgotten to draw the drapes last night?

I pressed my face further into my pillow, searching with my hand for a blanket to pull over my head. My exploring hands, however, didn’t find a blanket to serve as a haven from the blinding sun, but brushed something soft and warm. Groggy, I cracked open my left eye to see a blurry face. With a blink or two, my view cleared enough for me to realize it was Edmund.

Both eyes were wide open now as I stared dumbly at the face of my best friend. 

Oh. 

Wedding.

Edmund lay on his stomach, his head pressed so deep into the pillow, I could only see half of his face. His features looked exactly the same as they did when he was awake, smooth and relaxed. Did Edmund really express himself with his face so little?

My heartrate kicked up, pulling me to sit bolt upright. Edmund was asleep in my bed. Or was I awake in his bed? Technically, we weren't in his bedchamber or mine, so this was just...a bed?

I’d never slept in the same bed as anyone before.

Funny, I would've thought having company while I slept would've affected said sleep somehow, yet...I’d slept much the same as I had every other night. How could such a large change be so seamlessly integrated? 

Huh.

Wide awake now, I slowly rolled onto my side to stand from the bed as silently as possible. Gripping the heavy curtains, I pulled them closed. A glance over my shoulder confirmed that Edmund still slept, and I then made up my mind that he should sleep as long as he could. The last few days had been full of challenge and strife. Rest was paramount. I quickly changed into a light dress that Rona had left in the room for me yesterday morning. 

“Ring the bell for me,” she’d told me as she laid it down, “and I’ll bring you and your husband breakfast.”

But why would we need to take breakfast in the bedchamber? I’d spent my whole life eating breakfast with my family in our private dining room; I saw no reason to stop now. 

After rinsing my face in the wash bowl, I crossed to the bedchamber door and pushed down on the heavy handle. The worn metal let out a horrid, loud creak. Frozen, I listened to the sounds of Edmund shifting in the bed, then breathed out a soft sigh of relief when they stopped. 

Slipping out of the chamber, I walked to the family dining room. 

The corridors were full of servants running this way and that, carrying garments, bowls, buckets, rags, baskets, flowers from the chapel, everything imaginable. Every one of them seemed surprised to see me, their eyes widening and their pace increasing so they passed me sooner. 

I ignored them. The novelty of their princess being a married woman would wear off for them soon. 

Brushing into the room, I saw both Cor and Corin were seated. Slouching horribly, Corin shoved his eggs into his mouth as fast as his fork would allow while Cor was cutting his bacon into neat bites. From the way they behaved, one would think that Cor grew up in the castle while Corin was off in south Calormen. But no, Cor doubled down on the rules to make up for the years spent without manners and Corin disregarded them entirely out of spite. 

They both paused as I started dishing up my plate, looking at me with expressions similar to the servants’.

“Good morning,” I said pointedly. 

“We, er…didn’t expect to see you this early,” Cor said, with a strange twist to his lips.

“I don’t have much time left with my family before we leave for Narnia,” I replied. “I want to enjoy it while I can.” My brothers exchanged a look I could not understand before returning to their food. 

We ate in silence for a few minutes, allowing me to get halfway through my sausage before the door to the dining room swung open. The way my father rubbed his head as he walked gingerly told me that wine was indeed part of his jubilance the day before. 

“Good morning,” I said.

He quirked a brow. “Good morning,” he said slowly. “Is King Edmund joining us?”

I finished chewing my bite of biscuit. “He may. I didn’t wake him before leaving.” My father looked at the twins the same way they’d looked at each other. “What?” I demanded. 

“Nothing, my dear.” My father patted my shoulder before taking his place at the head of the table. “Nothing at all.”

Somehow I doubted that, just as much as I doubted my ability to pry the answers out of them.

The only sounds filling the room were the clinking of cutlery and the soft sounds of chewing. Many a breakfast had been spent this way…so why did the silence bother me so? Why did I so long for my father or one of my brothers to say something? It wasn’t as if this morning was like every other morning we’d ever spent together. I was a married woman now.

“When will you and King Edmund be returning to Narnia?” Cor asked finally. 

I smiled at him. “I’m not sure. We haven’t discussed it yet.”

“I imagine he’ll inform us when he wakes.” My father’s tone was careless, his eyes focused solely on his plate. 

“Well, if–” I began to say, but the opening of the door made me stop. 

“Good morning, all.” Edmund swept inside and took a seat beside me without any hesitation, as if it was natural. As if we’d been doing it all our lives. 

“Good morning, King Edmund!” my father boomed. “I trust you slept well?”

Edmund dished a healthy helping of scrambled eggs onto his plate. “I did indeed.”

My brothers glanced at each other, Corin with his mouth agape and Cor looking like he’d just swallowed his boiled egg whole. I paused in my chewing to give them a strange look, but upon noticing my attention, they quickly lowered their gaze to their food, their cheeks a deep shade of pink. 

How odd. 

“The banquet went on for hours last night.” My father’s satisfaction rang off his every word. “The nobles and council all send their compliments on a wonderful celebration.” I wiped my mouth with my napkin to hide my frown. King Loon was only addressing Edmund, as if the compliments from those on the guest list was some private victory to be shared between the two of them. 

Edmund inclined his head with an admirable grace. “That is very kind of them. I’m glad I wasn’t the only one who enjoyed the special day."

King Loon’s enthusiastic head bobbing was hard to watch. I lowered my gaze to my plate, trying to tune out the rest of the conversation and numb the hurt wrapping around my insides. 

A hand touched my arm, causing me to look up at Edmund. “Did you sleep well?” he asked softly. 

I smiled back at him. “I could not–”

My father laid down his goblet, making a loud clunk that drew all eyes to him. “So.” He leaned forward towards Edmund, bracing his arms on the table. “It's time to discuss Y/N’s coronation.”

Edmund didn’t look away from my father, but his hand, previously resting lightly on my forearm, slid lightly down until it could lace with mine. He squeezed quickly, and I somehow knew that he was waiting for a signal. If I squeezed back, he’d take the lead. 

I looked across the table at my brothers, trying to warn them with my eyes. They in turn glanced at each other, concern on their faces. They didn’t know what the eruption would be, only that it was about to occur. “Father,” I said lightly, “there isn’t going to be a coronation.”

King Loon let out some sort of laugh that sounded uncannily like that of a temperamental mare. “I know you don’t like having all the attention on you, but you have married a king. There’s going to be a coronation at some point, so it might as well be as soon as possible.”

Edmund let go of my hand, his jaw clenching. My hand shot out to rest on his thigh, making him look over at me. I shook my head minutely, begging him to remain silent. This was my choice. It was only fair that I should break the news and receive the brunt of his displeasure. “There isn’t going to be a coronation, Father,” I repeated gently, “because I’m not going to be a queen.”

Cor and Corin exchanged another look, communicating in the way that twins could. “Perhaps we should leave,” Cor suggested as they both stood. 

“Nonsense! You will stay,” my father commanded. Once my twin brothers were reluctantly but silently seated once more, my father turned to me, a smile breaking out on his face once more. “Y/N, you’re in such good spirits from the wedding that you jest!”

The muscle underneath my hand tensed, and I knew I was losing my opening before Edmund jumped in. “I’m not cracking jokes,” I said quickly. “I’m being serious.”

King Loon gave a short laugh. From the way Edmund’s fingers curled into a fist around his fork and the dark expression on his face, he seemed prepared to use the fork to eviscerate my father. “She speaks the truth, Your Majesty.” Even his voice seemed ready to cause damage. Edmund had seen my father’s arrogant stubbornness before; why was it affecting him so much more now?

Finally seeming to realize it wasn’t a practical joke, my father’s figure seemed to swell with indignance, but not at me. King Loon glared at my husband. “I did not let her marry you simply so she could remain what she already was.”

My mouth dropped in utter disbelief, and I wouldn’t have been able to muster a response. Edmund however, glowered with such menace, I could hardly find similarities between his face and the face of the man I'd woken up next to. “And I did not marry her simply so you could have all you wanted!” I stared at Edmund, dumbfounded by the volume of his words.

“It’s not what I want, it’s what she wants,” King Loon protested. 

“And how would you know that?” Edmund dropped his fork onto his plate, making a loud clang that made me jump. “You have not asked her what she wants!”

“That’s not true!”

But Edmund was just getting started. “You did not ask her if she wants to be crowned! You did not ask her if she was willing to marry Prince Rabadash! You did not even ask her if she wanted to marry me, and if she hadn’t already agreed to marry me, I would not have asked you for her hand!”

My brothers glanced at me with a mixture of guilt and horror, and it was then I remembered that they didn’t know I’d known about the potential arrangement with Rabadash. My father, however, had recovered himself and did not look at all abashed. He slammed his hands on the table as he stood, all pretenses of courtesy gone. “You tricked me! Convinced me to marry off my only daughter only to throw away any chance of her becoming a queen!”

“Father!” I said sharply. 

“Stay out of this!” King Loon snapped, without even looking away from Edmund. 

Edmund rose to his feet with a lethal speed I’d never before seen. I was surprised the very foundations of the castle weren't shaking from the pure strength of his fury. “If you must raise your voice with anyone, you will raise it at me.”

The two kings stared at each other, an exhibitionistic stubbornness on one side and a quiet, steely resolve on the other. 

I got to my feet, laying a hand on Edmund’s arm. “King Edmund.” Edmund tore his eyes away from my father, allowing me to see the depths of rage in his eyes. I tried to exude gratitude for his willingness to face my father’s unhappiness. “You needn’t strain yourself. This is a conversation between my father and I.”

For a long moment, the room was still. “What is the meaning of this?” my father asked me, his anger a pale monument beside Edmund’s. He turned his baleful gaze on my husband. “King Edmund, talk some sense into your bride.”

Edmund’s posture straightened, bringing him to his full, towering height. “She is not my bride, she is my wife.” He stepped away from the table, pushing his chair in before fixing my father with an exceedingly stony stare. “We are allies, Your Majesty. You do not command Narnia.”

King Loon went abruptly still, his shoulders finally sagging in the face of Edmund’s anger. He turned towards me for the first time, looking more uncertain than I’d ever seen. “Y/N,” said my father beseechingly, his voice suddenly small, “you should be queen. Surely you see that. You wed a king, that’s…” he gestured loosely, “that’s how these things go. You’re going to advocate to be queen, yes? Because you’re a good daughter.”

“Let me be more clear.” Edmund grasped my hand, so tight it bordered on painful. “I said you do not command Narnia. As of yesterday, Y/N now belongs to Narnia.”

My heart contracted harshly, though at what aspect of that truth, I wasn’t sure.

My father huffed and puffed, clearly trying to cover the hole my husband just poked in his authority. “I…I…you still haven’t received her dowry!” he spluttered. 

“You can keep it,” Edmund replied roughly. Without waiting for my father’s response, he tugged me out of the room. 

Tongue-tied by what just happened, I numbly followed Edmund through the castle, holding up my skirt to keep up with my husband’s furious pace without tripping. I didn’t realize where he was going until he turned the corner leading to my drawing room. As soon as we crossed the threshold, Edmund let go of me. I slowed to a stop as he marched to the windows and braced his hands on the window sill, staring out. 

We stood in silence. 

What was I supposed to do? I’d never seen Edmund like this. Did he want space and silence to calm down? Did he need someone to talk to in order to ease his anger? I’d never talked someone through their anger before. I’d never even been allowed to show it to any degree close to how Edmund was showing it. 

Cautiously, I approached him. He must’ve heard me coming, but his stare didn’t waver. 

“Ed?” 

No response. 

I rested a light hand on Edmund’s shoulder, light enough that he could shake it off. He didn’t. I almost withdrew, my instincts on what was appropriate telling me to pull away. But Edmund and I weren’t merely friends anymore. We were allowed to do whatever felt natural, and in this moment, I wanted to help him more. 

Encouraged, I slid my hand to Edmund’s face, nudging it over to me so that I could see his expression. When I finally did see it, I almost shrunk away from him.

The contortion of his face around his dark eyes was startling. A vein stood out in his forehead, pulsing in a way that felt like his anger had replaced his blood and was now coursing through his system. 

Moving slowly, I stepped closer, using my thumbs to smooth out the wrinkled skin between his eyebrows. “Breathe,” I instructed. Edmund’s inhale caught in his chest multiple times before he had enough air to exhale. As he did, my hands slid gently down the sides of his face, pausing on his jaw. “Again,” I whispered, and he obeyed.

My hands moved to his shoulders, trying to draw the anger out of him with gentle touches. 

Edmund’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, one of his hands leaving the window sill to rest on my waist. “Are you okay?”

Is that what he was angry about?

Cupping his jaw to keep him in place, I pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. “I’m okay. You don’t need to be worried.”

His shoulders slouched, the final bit of tension leaving them. Both hands were on my waist now, using me to hold him up instead of the window. 

I bit my lip, the next issue presenting itself. “We need to make things right with my father.”

Edmund twisted, whipping his face out of my hands as both hands left me. “Why?” he spat. “He’s trying to take advantage of you.”

Me? Wasn’t he really trying to take advantage of Edmund?

Not important. 

“We won’t let that happen. We can smooth things over without a coronation.”

“He’s in the wrong,” Edmund grumbled. 

“I know he is, just like I know that you’re trying to protect me. But…you don’t have to prove yourself to me. I know who you are, just like I know who my father is. I don’t expect him to change because of a marriage, and I don’t want you to change because of a marriage.”

“But who I am is someone who will protect you,” Edmund argued. “I made a vow.”

“You won’t be breaking it by making sure that Narnia and Archenland still have good relations.”

Edmund scoffed, his eyes moving to stare out the window again. “Relations,” he muttered under his breath. “As if I care about relations.”

A little chuckle escaped me. “You do care about relations. Maybe not at the moment, but you do.”

His eyes took on a dazed glint. “How are you able to think rationally right now?” he whispered. “How is the anger not eating you up inside?”

“I’m not more rational than you are.” I sighed, brushing my hand against his chin again, and a little knot in my chest eased when he let me. “I simply gave up on him a long time ago.”

Edmund pursed his lips. “I want us to leave for Narnia today.”

I hesitated. 

I’d known we would leave eventually, but that eventuality seemed much farther away before the wedding. As much as I’d longed for Narnia, I’d never left this castle, nor known any other home than the one I’d been born in. 

But if this disastrous fallout with my father told us anything, it was that it was time for change. Time for my best friend and I to call the same place home.

“Alright, we can leave today.” I started for the door, already thinking of where to look for Rona to pack my things when something tugged on my hand. I looked down to see Edmund’s fingers interlacing with mine. Gently, he pulled me back to my spot beside him, not saying anything until I looked up at his face.

I could still see the residual anger in the worried skin between his eyebrows, but his eyes were remorseful. “I’m not trying to make a deal. Regardless of when we leave for Narnia…if you want me to apologize, I will.”

I felt as though my heart had fallen through the floor, only to spread wings and flutter off towards the sun. “How did I end up with a husband as good as you?” I murmured. 

Edmund’s mouth spread into a small smirk. “You said yes.”

That I had, in almost the exact spot in which we were standing. He’d poured his heart out to me, all the while his pleading eyes tugged at every part of me, stealing away any possible resistance. He had no idea how tightly my heart squeezed in my chest when he first said the words: ‘marry me’. Not the slightest idea that all my protests hadn’t been for my sake, but for his. 

How many sacrifices had he made for me since then? And what had I ever done to deserve such loyalty? 

“Edmund?” I said quietly. 

“Yeah?” came the immediate response. 

“I’ll go smooth things over with my father.” I squeezed his hand. “While I do that, you can make the arrangements for us to go home.”

“Home.” Edmund’s eyes sparkled. It seemed he liked the sound of that as much as I did. 

-

Edmund had far more success than I. 

I went to my father’s study, the library, the gardens, and the throne room before one of the stewards said my father had retreated to his bedchamber. When I knocked upon the closed door and entreated my father to open it so that we might talk, I received no response. I paced back and forth for what felt likes ages before I lost patience and tried the handle.

It was locked.

My father did not want to speak to me. 

Feeling down, I went to find Edmund, a task that proved much easier. 

Somehow, he’d almost finished working with Rona to pack all of my things, directing her away from the things which would be supplied to me upon reaching Cair Paravel. I stood awkwardly in my bedchamber as Edmund and Rona flitted back and forth. 

Rona left the room to grab a set of combs that she’d been polishing for me, and Edmund pulled a dress from my wardrobe and began folding it himself.

Cheeks burning, I whisked forward and plucked it from his hands. “You shouldn’t be doing that,” I muttered, quickly folding it and stashing it in one of my trunks. Edmund’s eyebrows pulled together in concern. “You have so many more important things to do than help me pack.”

At that, Edmund’s face stretched into a grin, and he laughed. My flush deepened as I closed the trunk, and I knew Edmund noticed it. 

“I’m not laughing at you,” he told me, still chuckling. 

“No?” I arched a brow. “Because it feels like you are.”

That seemed to sober him. “I’m sorry.” He reached for me, sliding his arms around my back to pull his reluctant wife into a hug. “But when are you going to learn that my most important things involve helping you however I can?” 

I let out a humph on principle, even though his response made my knees soften like butter in the sun. Rona returned, and Edmund respectfully released me before resuming his task with my lady-in-waiting. 

Within an hour, our things were all packed and being loaded onto the carriages and wagons the Narnian monarchs had brought with them. 

Dressed in my favorite riding habit, I walked with Edmund through the Great Hall, glancing around at it as we walked. There was history in this room. The corner I always liked in the wintertime because the meager sunshine would pass through the nearby window. The stairs on which I’d fallen and skinned my knees countless times. I’d never given much thought until now. When was the next time I’d see that window or those stairs?

“The carriages are ready, your majesty,” said one of the Narnian soldiers, a faun who fell into step beside us “We must leave soon if we wish to be back in Narnia before sundown.”

Edmund nodded and thanked him, before leaning closer to me. “Time to say our goodbyes.”

“We ought to wait for my father,” I said.

A flash of the earlier anger settled on Edmund’s face. “If we wait too much longer, we won’t make it before dark.” 

I gave a quick nod before approaching my brothers, who’d been watching the process of packing up the procession with great interest. As I walked closer to them with goodbye on my lips, my eyes started welling up with tears. I’d been separated from them before. Cor lived in Calormen for years, and Corin grew up attending events in Narnia and Calormen. But this time was different, because for the first time, I was the one leaving them behind. 

“You’ll write us, right?” Cor asked. His transition from peasant to prince hadn’t been easy, and he’d needed much help from me in the past few years, which must’ve been why he looked so worried. “And stay out of trouble, won’t you?”

“Of course. On both counts.” 

Corin placed his hands on my shoulders, looking me directly in the eye. “Get in as much trouble as you possibly can.” 

I laughed, pulling them both into a bone-crushing hug. “I’m going to miss you guys.” The twins held me just as tightly as I did them, and it seemed none of us wanted to be the first to let go. 

“Now, now, don’t make a scene,” said my father’s voice. 

Reluctantly, we separated, my brothers stepping away to allow my father forward. 

He was clearly still upset from the conversation at breakfast, I could see it in his face. But I was reservedly glad he’d come to see us off. Leaving at all was strange, but leaving without saying goodbye would’ve been far worse.

“Thank you,” I said softly, hoping my softness would soften him. I didn’t dare give him a hug, so I curtsied. A sign of respect, a gesture of my allegiance to the king of Archenland before all who watched. But the words I spoke were quiet because they weren’t performative. “I love you.” 

My father nodded. Say it back, I silently pleaded. I’m leaving. Please tell me you love me. King Loon opened his mouth, and my hopes rose. “I will see you in a few months.”

My hopes fell like doves stricken from the sky, and the winces on my brothers’ faces did not stop the free fall.

He could never love me in the way daughters ought to be loved by their fathers, if he even loved me at all. Something inside of him was so broken, so warped that he couldn’t give me what I needed from him. 

But I didn’t need him anymore. I folded my hands in front of me, staring into my father’s eyes. I will never curtsey to him again, I promised myself. “I left Mother’s crown in my bedchamber,” I told him. “It means more to you than to me.”

And with that, I turned to rejoin my husband. 

My father would most certainly retake my mother’s crown, holding onto what was quite possibly the last remnants of love in him. 

If I were ever to die, would Edmund break in the same way my father had broken? Would he shut himself off from those who loved him best, hiding behind locked doors? Sinking deeper into titles and formalities and pretension, all of which isolated him? 

I hoped not.

Edmund inclined his head to my father and brothers before leading me to two horses in the middle of the procession. 

One I recognized: my grey mare. The other must’ve been Edmund’s, a stallion of a deep reddish-brown with a white star on his forehead.  

“Your stallion is beautiful,” I said. 

The horse lifted his head and stared directly at me. “Thank you, your highness.”

My mouth fell open, and Edmund started chuckling at my gawking. “Y/N, this is Philip. Philip, Y/N.”

“You’re Philip?” I asked. “Oh, Edmund’s told me all about you!” Particularly their adventures that more often than not ended with Philip saving Edmund’s life. Of course, Edmund hadn’t mentioned that Philip was a horse. “I didn’t know you were staying with us.”

Philip tossed his head. “I wish I could’ve attended the nuptials, but I’m afraid your father declared the chapel for people only.” 

“What?” I blurted. He hadn’t mentioned that, let alone asked. Edmund’s face soured. He already knew this, I realized. I knew how hard it was not to have his older brother at his wedding, but my father hadn’t even allowed one of Edmund’s dear friends to attend? How was it possible that Edmund’s sacrifice for me kept growing?

Conflicted, I hadn’t even noticed Edmund had guided me to my mare until one of the Archenland soldiers stepped forward with the customary step to allow me to get up on horseback. But before the soldier could even set the step down, Edmund’s hands found my hips. “Jump,” he said.

I jumped. 

With the added momentum, Edmund easily got me up into the saddle. “It’s handy having a husband,” I said, smiling down at him as he guided my foot into the stirrup. 

Edmund grinned. “Well, I could hardly trust anyone else to take such good care of you.”

My cheeks warmed, and I ducked my head as Edmund checked that my other foot was securely in its position. He got onto Philip with a fluid ease that made me flush and avert my eyes.

“Forward!” the faun from earlier called, and slowly the whole procession stirred into motion. I glanced around, trying to locate where all my possessions were, but all I could see was how large the procession seemed. It hadn’t felt so grand when I’d watched Edmund arrive. I counted nearly a hundred Narnians, none of which I had seen in the castle.

Where had my father told them to stay? I dearly hoped he hadn’t condemned them all to stay in the stables; there was no way they could all fit. 

I turned to wave at my brothers, but we were far enough away from the castle that I noticed a figure on the topmost balcony, watching us depart. Proximity wasn’t needed; even if I couldn’t see the face, only one person at the castle would wear robes of such outrageous orange.

My lips curved up in a smile.

Checkmate, I silently told Prince Rabadash. 

But when my eyes lowered to see my brothers, standing right where I’d left them, my chest ached in a way it never did during victory. As if feeling the ache as well, my brothers lifted their hands, waving me off into my new life.

I sat forward again, brushing away a quick tear, my heart heavy. “At least I don’t have to say goodbye to you,” I whispered to my lady’s maid, who was riding behind me.

Rona smiled. “No, you don’t, your highness.” 

“Nor you,” I said, turning to look at Edmund, feeling suddenly shy.

“Never again,” Edmund said back, his hand leaving the reins to lace through mine.

-

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prom night (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: 18+, angst, mature/dark themes, Roman adores reader so much aghhhh<33, fluff, Roman is bad with words lol, blood, mentions of death, attempted kidnapping, amnesia, Dr. Pryce is scary omg, dead dove do not eat tbh, silly bf Roman because why tf not

summary: going to prom with Roman Godfrey had been a dream of yours for longer than you could remember-- but suddenly, that was the only thing you could remember. seriously. what the fuck happened last weekend, and why is Roman keeping you in the dark about it?

word count: 16,708 (oh my fucking god)

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9, PART 10, PART 11, PART 12

a/n: celebrating 900 followers (??? WHAT) with the biggest chapter yet!!! I've spent a month preparing it, and this has been the chapter I've been building up to ever since I started this series... I suggest you read it in one sitting because I intended it to be read that way, (although I know that is a lot to ask!!! not necessary boo), and I'm sorry about everything in advance aghhh😭 I would also like to give special thanks to @mentallyscreamingsincebirth for being such a great support and for guiding my brain through this enormous chapter, THANK YOU LYNDI<3 much much love, ENJOY, and read at ur own risk!!!<333 MWAH

Have you ever thought about death? Of course you have, everyone has-- but have you ever felt it?

Have you felt it lingering in your forearms, like you're pressing them up against a flaming stove? Have you felt it pressing at the sides of your head, waiting for it to cave in on itself? I always thought it would feel like going to sleep; that no matter how you pass, you reach a point where your mind flips over into delirium, and then you feel drowsy until it's over. Yet somehow, I was suddenly convinced it was nothing like that. I was sure that it felt like nothing but pure panic, accompanied by a crippling fear unlike any other. Because it hurt, everything hurt, and I was sure I'd be stuck in an endless loop of hell where I would forever be semi-conscious and in excruciating pain. 

And why?

Because right now, I was sure I was dead. 

That I was done. Deceased. Expired. I was so, so sure, and I had no idea why everything was black, why I couldn't move, or why I felt my lungs freeze over with the inability to breathe. 

It lasted for too long. Way too long. An eternity. 

Up until it felt like a scream was being dragged out of me by force, like someone had grabbed hold of my tongue and tugged me forward-- a bright light shone through my lids before they sprung open in pure panic, and I arched off the bed with a shriek. It felt like I was taking my first breaths again, and I clawed at my chest as my nails dug into the fabric of my shirt, suffocating, suffocating, dying, tearing, tearing, panic, panic, why, where, how?--

"Pryce, do something!" 

"Mr. Godfrey, sit down!--"

"Do something!" 

I was still screaming when my hands were pried off my skin with an annoyed groan, still heaving for air as a man in a white coat now hovered over me. He forced my left eye to open wider with his cold, bony fingers, shining the light directly at my pupil. He was searching for any lack of reaction as I emptied my lungs, crying out in fear; it wasn't until I felt the scent of a familiar cologne fill my body that I started to fight my screams of panic. 

I was sure it was Roman who was now pinning my hands down to the bed-- his indexes were pressing against my wrists, checking my pulse, the classic Godfrey move. He usually only did that when he was trying to make a point about him making my heart race, and that's how I was certain it was him.

Once the doctor finished, my cries had largely quieted down. All that was left was a series of whimpers and shaky breaths. "What's happening?" I struggled to ask, my voice cracking. I saw the doctor scowl at Roman, clearly frustrated by something. My lower lip quivered; why was I here? What was happening? 

Why couldn't I remember anything?

When the doctor spoke, he was still not looking at me; "You're at the Godfrey Institute, getting what is considerably the best care in the world," He moved away, tutting as he sat down on the chair opposite the bed I was lying on. Coming to my senses, my eyes traced the room. The walls were painted an uncomfortably bright hue of white, and I was afraid I'd go blind looking at them for too long. However, the doctor's voice caught my attention once more; "You don't seem to be concussed, but I'll check your reflexes. Have you exhausted your lungs, or must I put you under as well? If you keep screaming and resisting, you will only make things harder for yourself."

"She'll be fine!" Roman barked, letting go of my hands. With swift, nervous steps, he now stood by my side as he stroked through my hair. I could sense his anxiety through the slight tremble in his fingers, and he squeezed my shoulder with his free hand as he spoke to the doctor with a lowered voice, as though I wouldn't hear him if he softened his tone; "She will be, right? Pryce?"

Doctor Pryce rolled his eyes as he looked over at the metal tray beside him, scanning the neat display of medical instruments. "Did you bring this girl to me to question my care, or because you trust that I'm the best?"

"I'm!--"

"I was the one that delivered you into the world, Roman, don't forget that. Your mother trusted me with your life, so you have all the reason to exert some patience and trust me with this very simple task," Pryce picked out his preferred instrument and leaned forward, pressing on a button that made the back of my bed raise. 

I yelped, still trying to catch my breath; "What's happening?" I breathed, hoping to contain the wave of tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. It felt like I had died and come back to earth. "Please, why-- why am I here?"

With one final anxious glance at Pryce, Roman finally looked down at me. It was the first time I had been properly acknowledged. "Hey, you," he said, gently running his fingers through my hair. "We were in a car crash, and you passed out. This is Doctor Pryce, and he's just making sure you didn't faint because of anything serious. You could've also lost consciousness because of shock, fear... Many factors. This is just a precaution."

"Car crash?" I echoed. "What-- Why can't I remember?-- Ow!" 

A panicked cry escaped me, and I looked down to see Pryce with what looked like a hammer, striking the supple area beneath my knee socket. My leg jumped up automatically, and the doctor let out a satisfied hum before he moved on to my other leg. "Miss, do you get enough sleep?" he asked. "On the regular, that is?"

I had never been this disoriented in my life. "I don't-- I don't know?"

With an exasperated sigh, Pryce muttered a simple alright. He sat back down in his chair, now gazing at me with a blank, neutral look. Something told me he had practiced that exact expression for his patients. "You seem to have experienced what is called a situational syncope. You must've gone into a deep state of shock, which caused your blood pressure to drop, ultimately knocking you out. Based on the tests we got done on you when you were unconscious, there seems to be nothing wrong with you," 

I forced down a sob as I squeezed my eyes shut. My body was still frozen with panic. Despite my efforts, I couldn't conjure the memory of the supposed car crash; what was happening to me? "There has to be something wrong!" I cried. "I can't-- I can't remember anything!"

Sighing, Pryce got up, but not without glaring at Roman once more. "You might have a minor case of amnesia. It's most likely short-term and will resolve in twenty-four hours, or it might not," He moved to a nearby table, writing down something on a computer. "It might be time to lay off the nocturnal activities, Roman. It's important that she sleeps."

My face had never been redder. Never. To be told to lay off sex in front of your boyfriend's family doctor? Awful. Not something I recommend anyone else go through. 

However, in true Godfrey fashion, Roman didn't seem to care about that part. "Thank fuck," he said, letting out a relieved breath as he bent down to kiss my forehead. I could sense the ease settling in his body, and it made me wonder when it could transmit to mine as well. "So she's completely fine?"

"Yes," Pryce grumbled, absentmindedly tapping away on his keyboard.

"No internal bleeding, no injuries?--"

"She's fine,"

Roman nodded, and I thought that would be the end of it until he spoke again; "Will she remember... everything?"

My blood ran cold. Something about the way he said those words made me feel like it was ominous. I blinked, staring up at Roman as my heart beat hard in my chest. 

Pryce's clacking stilled. He turned, moving sharply, as his eyes narrowed; "For your sake, I hope not,"

It only took me a second to reach for Roman's hand, grabbing it as fear ran through my veins. "Rome," I echoed, begging him to look at me. I needed to know. It didn't feel like a simple car crash; why was I still shaking? Was this normal? I was terrified that I wouldn't remember anything. "Please, you have to-- you have to tell me what!--"

"Shh, it's okay," Roman cooed, wiping that terrified look off his face in an instant. "Everything is fine, see? The nice doctor says you just need to sleep, so what do you say I drop you off at your place and make sure you sleep well tonight?" 

I could hear Pryce snicker as he got up, gathering what he needed from the room. "The nice doctor," he echoed, shaking his head. Everything he did felt oddly sterile. Everything from the smile to the polite tilt of his head. "Sleep would be the best remedy, yes. And maybe some shopping."

Roman scrunched his nose-- "Shopping?"

Pryce nodded, pointing to my shirt which I had partially clawed up. "Shopping,"

I couldn't imagine I would ever get any redder than this. Why couldn't amnesia take this memory too? I wanted to disappear-- however, when I thought about the black void I had been thrust into before I awoke, I changed my mind. I was happier than ever to be alive. When Pryce left the room, I let out a shaky breath as I locked eyes with Roman; "Rome, please tell me how the fuck we ended up in a!--"

My words were stolen as two large hands grabbed my face, and my favorite pair of lips came crashing down onto mine. Roman was now partially on my bed, rushing his kisses as he pulled me close in sheer desperation. "You had me so scared," he breathed. "So, so--"

Grabbing onto Roman's hair for support, I could only yelp as he practically toppled me, kissing me with urgency. "You can't do that," he begged. "You can't, you-- you can't--" 

I was beyond overwhelmed. Exhausted. Still, I could sense that Roman had almost been as scared as me. "Please, Rome!--"

"What would I have done if you got hurt?" He grabbed my face harder, forcing me to look into his teary eyes when he relented his attack on my lips. "It would've killed me. It would've killed me." The desperation, the panic, was evident in his big, green eyes as they searched mine. 

When would this be over? "I don't even know what happened!" I cried. "I don't remember, and it scares me! What if I won't-- won't remember it?" 

I hoped he would tell me. I hoped Roman would sit me down and tell me in excruciating detail. However, his brows came together and drew upwards in a look of pure pity; "It doesn't matter. Look at it like it's mercy,"

"Mercy?" 

"I'm glad you don't remember," Roman breathed, pressing a passionate kiss to my lips before he leaned his forehead against mine. "I don't want you to remember it... I'm kinda glad you don't. You don't need to remember the bad stuff, right? I only want you to be happy. Happy, safe, and with me. Forever."

Forever. 

I let out a shaky breath which fell against Roman's lips, defeated. It still lingered in my body-- death. Like something really, really bad had happened. 

... Had it?

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The air smelled like freshly mown grass although it was growing freely all around us, untamed. The long branches of the willow tree kneeling above us swayed with the breeze, and the leaves rustled with a gentle buzz; it was beautiful to look up at, even in the dark of the night. 

Roman was lying next to me, eyes shut in peace that had only recently settled in his body. His chest rose and fell in slow, calm motions as his brown hair wove into the long strands of the grass. I had an inkling that he was getting comfortable with it now-- with the idea of forever. That I was his for as long as he'd have me. That he had someone to go through life with, after all this time finding solace in fleeting moments of intimacy with the girls that were lucky to be near him at the right moment. 

Roman was unbelievably beautiful. Unreal. 

I still had no idea what happened that day I woke up at the Godfrey Institute a week ago, convinced I had died. It was hard not to think about it, but sleep had done me good-- Doctor Pryce had been right. My memory of the incident hadn't returned, and I had a feeling it never would. Every so often, I would get specs of it when I heard a particularly loud car, or whenever the smell of diesel got very strong from Roman's red jag, but that was the end of it.

However, the whole car crash incident had set Roman off into a weird state of possessiveness. Not one night had passed without him sneaking in through my bedroom window, lying next to me to make sure I wasn't on my phone until three a.m., and that I was getting enough sleep. I had watched Roman doze off into slumber countless times, both next to me and on top of me, and I had loved to stroke his hair and watch him sleep every time. It was the only time I felt he ever got to rest properly. Never ever during the day. Which is why, now that Roman was doing the same for me, I started to feel more at peace with what had happened. With the crash. With what I didn't know. As long as I had Roman, I would be fine, right? I was sure of it now.

Not only had the car crash left Roman and I in a weird state, but my parents as well. They were wary of me needing to get enough sleep and rest, so they had given me a rather strict curfew up until prom night. This curfew also involved not having Roman over as much, meaning we had to get creative-- so here we were, lying next to each other in the grass at his secret hiding place around midnight, where we had previously exchanged our blood. 

"Rome," I whispered, watching the swaying willow branch above me. "You put on an alarm, right? I can't be out for too long, I'm scared my parents will find the pillow concoction we put on my bed and know I'm not home..."

He hummed, his eyes remaining closed-- "We have about thirty minutes until I have to take you back. I'm keeping track of it,"

"You don't seem to be keeping track of anything right now,"

"Nonsense,"

"... You look like you're sleeping,"

"But I'm not, am I?" Roman's eyes met mine, his lashes hanging heavy over the green color of his irises. With a tug at the corners of his lips, he sung a short, mocking line; "I don't want to close my eyes!--"

Oh no. "Rome, don't!--"

"-- I don't want to fall asleep, 'cause I miss you, baby!" His laugh was as melodious as his half-assed attempt at serenading me. 

I snorted, no longer sleepy. This was beyond cringe. "You're an idiot,"

"And yet you're crazy about me," Roman purred, moving closer to me on the grass. The tips of his fingers, which had barely grazed mine a minute ago, were now running along the back of my hand in soft motions. "That says more about you than it says about me."

I turned my hand as I smiled to myself, feeling my chest burn with the warmth I got from being near him. If only he knew I was more than crazy about him. If only he knew. "Yeah, you're right," I mumbled, intertwining our fingers with a content sigh. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

I didn't deem my words to be as heavy as Roman suddenly made them seem-- it was as though the leaves stopped rustling. As though the air no longer smelled like grass, and the only thing I could smell was suddenly only Roman's heavy, expensive perfume. Something stilled. Was it the waves of the water nearby? His eyes softened with his next exhale, pupils rounding out. It was almost as though I could see the pounding of his heart as his chest fell. "I don't know how I ever lived without you in the first place," he confessed. "It kills me that you were so close all this time, and... I didn't notice."

Thinking back at the time when Roman would barely look my way was excruciating, even now. "It doesn't matter--"

"We had chemistry together," he breathed. "You were so close." Roman no longer looked at me, and instead turned his gaze to the hanging branches of the willow tree we were lying beneath. "I used to think I was the center of the universe, y'know? That the world was mine, along with everyone living in it. I thought I was everything I ever needed, that no one else truly mattered except for me, but then..." He cleared his throat, an empty look in his eyes. "This is getting cheesy, isn't it?"

Silly, silly boy. "You were literally singing at me a minute ago, I think I can take you being sweet,"

The small upward tug of Roman's lips lifted an ache in my heart. "The past doesn't matter. But the future does, as long as you're in it with me,"

I love you, I love you, I love you. It was echoing in my head. "Grow old with me, Roman?" I hoped it would come off as a joke. I hoped he'd sense the smile in my words, the lightness in which I proposed the hypothetical. 

But he was so serious. So, so serious, as he turned to meet my eyes. And just for a second, I was scared he'd open his mouth and tell me he couldn't get old-- I had read too much of that upir book. "I don't want to get old," he mumbled. "Old people don't have a lot of sex."

It was impossible not to laugh. "They probably do,"

"... Gross,"

Rolling my eyes, I gave his hand a squeeze. "I'd have sex with you. You'd still be the Roman I lo--" 

Fuck.

Oh, fuck. 

I choked my words with a cough; "This damn grass," I cursed. "I might be allergic..." Gathering courage, I glanced over at Roman as I held my breath. 

He seemed to be holding his too. 

It took longer than expected for any of us to say anything. With small movements, Roman slid his hand up to my wrist, pressing his index against my pulse. 

I cleared my throat, breaking out into a nervous laugh. "Okay, let me clear that up. The coughing made it sound like I was saying something that I wasn't saying."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Why was my throat so dry? "I was gonna say that you'd still be the same Roman I long for."

"Oh..." He seemed both relieved and disappointed. I couldn't read him. It was too dark. "Okay. I'll hold you to it when we're eighty, then."

My heart was still racing. Had I gotten away with that or was he letting me? "So you're basically saying you won't be jumping me when we're old? I'm disappointed. And on top of that, I think you'd still be yourself at eighty, no? Or will you no longer be so nympho when you reach a certain age?"

"... You have a point," Roman's classic smirk was back-- I had never been happier to see it. "I'll always want you, I'm afraid."

"No matter what?"

"No matter what,"

"Are you a hundred percent sure about that, Rome?"

"I'll do you one better. Hundred and one,"

It was impossible not to smile. I loved him so much it hurt; I needed to mend it. "... Even if I turn into a worm?"

The groan he let out blended in with the ringing of the alarm he had put on.

As Roman pulled me up from the grass, I realized how much I loved everything about this night. I loved that he wanted to see me so bad that he was sneaking me out of my room. I loved the feeling of my hand in his, loved the sight of his smile, loved every inch of him. I only wished we could stay this happy for an eternity-- an eternity with him would be so unbelievably nice.

And if Roman loved me too, I'd let him love me forever. 

I'd love him till the day I died, tirelessly, endlessly.

... Even if he was a worm.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

There was a lingering warmth in my body, yet I waited for the other thing to leave. The feeling. The doom. The terror I didn't remember.

And while I waited, prom was a wonderful distraction.

My parents were out of town for the weekend, which allowed us to skip the awkward photos in the hallway that were usually customary for prom. I was sure Roman would've rather died than go through that.

Actually, I was half convinced someone else had told Roman to man up and ask me to go with him, because it seemed like I was getting too much of the good thing recently. It didn't make sense to me that he wanted anything to do with something like this. And for a second, I was convinced I had been right about it all along; when I walked down the stairs of my porch, it was impossible not to smile from ear to ear at the sight of Roman in his tux. He was sitting on the bonnet of his car, smoking a cigarette as always-- 

... Without so much as a reaction to me in my dress?

It felt like my whole body was on fire, like I was one of Roman's cigarettes. My smile faltered as I approached, not saying a word. I held my breath, watching the green of his eyes pierce mine. He didn't blink. He didn't budge. He simply held his cigarette to his lips, exhaling the smoke through his nose. 

Something felt off. I should've known Roman Godfrey wasn't the classic prom-man. "Do you not like it?" I breathed, feeling my confidence collapse as I toyed with the fabric of my dress.

Roman's eyes immediately darted down to my fingers-- "Don't tear at it. I know you like doing that," He held out his cigarette as he scanned me. It took a few seconds too long. With quick steps, he got off of his car; "Get in."

What? "No,"

Roman turned to me, cocking a brow. "No?"

"No," This was nerve-wracking. "You're being weird. Tell me what's wrong, or I turn around and go right back in again."

Visibly taken aback, Roman let his cigarette fall to the ground before he pressed his heel to it. In our moments of intense eye-contact and silence, I could see the way he had styled his hair differently tonight. It wasn't slicked back or messy, which were the two alternatives he always alternated between-- no, it looked like he had put effort into giving it a bit more volume, like something out of an old Hollywood film with James Dean as the lead. I couldn't understand him, where he stood in front of me in his ridiculously expensive tuxedo; it was obvious that he cared about this, so what was happening here?

"Nothing is wrong," Roman finally answered. "I just don't have the words."

"Words for what? What's going on?"

"Nothing is going on," he muttered under his breath. "It just makes me feel stupid."

"What does, Rome?" 

"I... have never been good at finding the right words. I always screw these things up," Frustrated, Roman put his hands in his pockets as he no longer met my gaze. "Saying you look good doesn't feel like enough... and telling you that you look beautiful feels weird, because I don't use that word for anything and that makes it sound rehearsed, so... I'm screwed. I'm looking at you, and I'm blanking. My heart is beating too fast."

Oh.

Oh.

"Take your time," was all I managed to say. I love you regardless was the thing I would have loved to add. 

Roman chewed on his lip, sitting down on the bonnet of his car again. He dared to meet my eyes as he reached for my hand; I took it, ready to take a step forward, before I caught Roman shaking his head. "You'd help me if you did a twirl," he said, a smirk nudging at the corners of his mouth. "Come on, now."

My heart lightened with the giggle that escaped me, and I could only blush as I did as told. 

"There you go," Roman cooed, warmth dotting his cheeks when I faced him again. "I like your dress. You kinda look like a cupcake."

"What? I do not! This is a-line!"

"A what line?"

"No, it's!-- Oh, forget it," Men.

Roman laughed, reaching for my waist to pull me in between his long legs. Softening his grin, he glanced down at my dress; had I not been watching him so intently, I wouldn't have caught the way his eyes subtly rounded out when they met mine. "I never realized how unfair it is,"

I frowned; "What's unfair?"

"You. Looking like this. Making every other girl on the planet look like an afterthought," Roman paused, his smirk softening with something genuine; "And it's not just tonight, y'know? It's everything about you. It's the way you laugh, it's the way you think, it's all that is you, along with how you look at me like I'm not completely messed up. You're just perfect." Roman stilled, his thumbs rubbing circles into the fabric around my waist as his smile turned self-conscious. "Sorry, that probably sounds cheesy as hell... What the fuck is up with me these days?"

If only he knew. If only he saw that I was fighting the welling of tears in my eyes. I love you, I love you, I love you. "As long as you don't start singing again, I'll be fine,"

Roman's smile was soft, and so was the kiss he gently pressed to my collarbone. Everything about the way he was holding me made me blush. "Come on," Roman cooed, a mischievous look shimmering in his eyes. "I can't wait to arrive with the prettiest girl in town. Everyone's gonna hate us even more than they already do, and I need the fuel of their spite and fear to survive."

I rolled my eyes, muffling my laugh against the following kiss. "Okay, Pennywise. Just keep the carnage to a minimum tonight, alright?"

"Deal,"

Just as Roman was about to lean in to kiss me, I remembered something important-- I grabbed his shoulders, watching his eyes widen as I pinned him to his place. "And we need to keep you far away from Brooke Bluebell tonight, by the way,"

"Uh, not that she was on the agenda, but... why?"

"Rumour says she's bought a needle. For revenge, and all,"

Roman let out a laugh of disbelief before it dawned on him that I wasn't joking. "Oh," he breathed, frowning. "Seems like there might be some carnage after all, then."

"No, that's not funny!--"

"Come on, it kinda is!"

"Roman-- ugh, fuck it, let's just go!" I placed a soft kiss to his lips; "Don't say I didn't warn you."

After more back and forth banter, it was finally time to get going. However, as Roman opened the car door for me and I sat down in the seat, I was hit with a major deja vu when he started checking out his hair in the rearview mirror. I knew that he did that every time before starting the car, this wasn't something out of the ordinary-- but for the first time since the incident, I remembered something clearly. 

I remembered just a fragment. A feeling. I had been upset the day of the crash, and so had Roman. Had we fought? 

It was at the tip of my tongue, there was a faint taste of exactly what had happened, and I was about to roll right into the memory when Roman put his hand on my thigh. I looked over at him, my breath high in my chest; he noticed it immediately. "You okay?" he tried.

It was lingering in my forearms, like I was pressing them up against a flaming stove. It pressed at the sides of my head, waiting for it to cave in on itself; death. It felt like a countdown.

Counting down.

Tick.

Tick tick.

I will know soon.

I put my burning hand over Roman's, forcing a smile;

"Never been better," ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Walking around at prom, hand in hand with Roman Godfrey as he talked to a couple of his friends, was only something I had imagined in my wildest dreams. I used to bury my face in my pillow and blush just at the thought of him even looking at me.

Back in those days, I had a specific image in my mind; since I hadn't ever thought I would go to prom with Roman, I imagined I'd be there with someone like Daniel. Someone I didn't like. I don't know, it wasn't too important. However, my date would be the type to not want to dance, and I would be left sitting with him by some table while everyone danced. And this would (of course) be the point where I'd imagine Roman walking up to me, charming, cocky, and high on his sky-high self-esteem, to reach for my hand. He'd ask if I'd like to dance, and I would glare at my date before giving Roman an affirmative yes.

Then we'd dance. Slow. Close. 

And in my dreams, Roman would look me in the eyes and tell me that he had loved me all along, that he would love me and only me for the rest of his life, that he had secretly been pining for me since the day he first saw me, that he was actually planning to propose right now actually, and then the whole prom would stop and gasp in jealousy as he got down on one knee, and then!--

I bit down on my lip, suppressing a laugh at the memory. It seemed so childish, now more than ever. I told myself to excuse my old, stupid daydreams; the mind wanders when you're crazy about someone.

Roman squeezed my hand; "What are you laughing about?"

Fuck. "Oh, just..." I glanced up at him, smiling uncontrollably. Alas, now that Roman was my boyfriend, I didn't need all of that ridiculous stuff. I only needed him by my side, and that'd be enough for me forever. "I just remembered something stupid."

Roman cocked a brow, the green of his eyes shining down on me despite the darkness of the room. "Keen on sharing?"

"Not so much,"

"Alright," he said, tsking. "Pervert."

"Hey!" My cheeks turned a peculiar shade of pink which I hoped wasn't visible beneath the dim lights. Why did he have to say stuff like that while standing next to his friends? Not that they were listening, anyway. Nonetheless, the cheeky look on Roman's face told me everything I needed to know about it. "It's nothing like that!" I tried. "It was actually kind of sweet..."

"Oh, yeah?" Nodding, Roman's hand went to the small of my back, excusing us before he started leading us away from his circle of friends. "Tell me, then."

"It's stupid!" I giggled, my blush deepening with the kiss he pressed to the top of my head as we walked. Giant man. 

Roman rolled his eyes; "Tell me before I spike the punch and get us kicked out," We had now reached the other side of the room, and he turned me around to press my back against the wall. Like this, he was towering over me as always. Just the sight of it made my heart beat harder. 

"It should be illegal," I muttered under my breath, reaching for his tie. Sweet-talking him would hopefully be distraction enough. "You in a suit--"

"Tux,"

"Tux," I didn't want to tell him about my childish dreams about prom. I was aware how stupid it sounded, anyway. I didn't need to give Roman more things to tease me about, did I? "You're very, very handsome."

"Aha," he hummed, unimpressed. "How long would my sentence to be, then?"

"If it was illegal?"

"If it was illegal,"

"Hmm... I was thinking six years and nine months."

Roman bit down on a grin. "Do I spot a subtle sixty-nine reference?"

Yes. "Pervert,"

We shared a laugh as my hands slid down his tie, but my brows drew together when I felt something hard between the top and second button of his shirt. My mind flared red lights-- "Is this what I think it is?" I asked, gazing up at Roman as my eyes rounded out. 

He didn't seem to understand my reaction. "I always wear it," he said, shrugging. "Didn't want to take it off."

"Ah," I suppose it was sweet. That's all it was. It most certainly didn't remind me of my least favorite passage from The Avoidable Vampirism - The Upir;

There are even some upirs that are so assimilated, they can do experiments with blood or carry vials of it with them wherever they go— which is an inclination that should not be encouraged.

Should not be encouraged.

Should not be encouraged.

... Certainly not. 

"I like feeling you close," Roman murmured, his long fingers now running past my waist as the sound of his voice pulled me back into the moment. "I don't like being apart from you, and having your blood with me at all times... feels like I'm carrying a piece of you, which I technically am." He bent down, his soft lips brushing against my ear-- it made my breath hitch. "What do you say we get as close as we can later tonight?" he whispered, a small kiss to my ear following. "Just you and me... And me in you?"

I could only smile. Especially as I spotted Brooke Bluebell and her cheerleader friends by the punch a little further away from us. I was sure my smile started to look rather sinister as my hand went into Roman's hair, pulling him closer as my eyes locked on Brooke's. 

Fucking cheerleader whore. I hated her. I hated everything she represented. And honestly? I couldn't quite remember why. All I knew, was that seeing the jealous look on her face made my heart race with pride and joy.

... Something told me that Roman and I deserved each other. We were both evil in our own ways. 

"That sounds perfect," I purred, leaning my head against the wall as Roman pressed soft kisses to my neck. "My parents aren't home, so..." I could feel him smiling against my skin at the reminder. It was such an exhilarating feeling. Especially when I knew Brooke was watching. 

"Great," Roman murmured, pulling away to look down at me with a mischievous look shimmering in his green eyes. "Can't wait to fold you and hear you whimper."

My blush deepened in record time; "Pervert,"

Roman only grinned. I was sure he was gonna say something much, much worse, something that would've made my toes curl on the spot if they weren't currently pressed against the front of my slightly uncomfortable heels, if one of the prom chaperones hadn't started walking towards us with hasty steps and a grumpy look on his face. It hit me that we were probably standing too close for his liking, and that he was there to make sure the students were being appropriate, which... let's face it, we weren't. 

I shook my head with panic as Roman opened his mouth to speak, and he seemed to catch onto what was happening rather quickly. With a quick nod, he took a long step away from me and held his hands up with a cheeky grin as the strict-looking chaperone approached. "Yes, officer?"

The chaperone sighed, passing fed-up glances between the two of us. I wondered where I had seen this man before. He was certainly someone's father who I had seen around drop-off hours. "I'm not the police," he grumbled. "You can put your hands down, Godfrey--"

"I invoke the fourth amendment!" Roman chimed in, winking at me. It was impossible not to smile.

The chaperone proceeded to groan, shaking his head; "Just-- no touching, okay?"

"Of... anything?"

"You can hold her hand, Godfrey, but anything else--"

"Oh, so it applies to things like... if I touch the wall?" Comically slow, Roman pressed his finger to the wall, hissing as though he was being burned by the law. "I'm a man of many crimes, as you see, officer!" He lowered his voice to a whisper; "I even touched the punch earlier! Actually, now that I think about it, I think I deserve to be kicked out... Can't believe I have allowed myself to commit such atrocities." With one last pout, Roman held his hands out to the chaperone, bowing his head in defeat. "Take me, oh, lead me away, kind sir! I will serve my time, and I will do my due diligence!--"

"Enough!" The chaperone barked. "As long as you didn't spike the goddamn punch, you're free to go!"

And with that, Roman's gig was up. He bit down hard on his lip to suppress his smirk, not to great success. "I wouldn't dare to, officer," he cooed, reaching for my hand in the smoothest manner known to man. 

The chaperone rolled his eyes, probably rethinking all his life choices, as Roman led me away with the both of us trying not to topple over from the laughter we were suppressing. 

"You're crazy," I said, squeezing his hand. I was worried my eyes had formed hearts. 

Roman shrugged, glancing down at me with a knowing smile. "And you're crazy about me," he murmured. "But, speaking of crazy..." He raised our hands, making me do a little twirl as I giggled. When I faced him again, Roman wrapped his arms around me as he glanced over at the punch not too far away from us; "What do you say actually spike it?"

"... What?" 

"It could be smart," he purred, swaying with me a little on the dance floor. "Brooke and her girls have been drinking it all night, and they just walked away... Maybe if they all get drunk off their asses when they come back, they won't be able to take their needle-revenge on me?" 

Roman was right. We had kept a bit of an eye on them all night, just to make sure they were at a safe distance at all times. It was a fun game, if I were to be honest, but... Roman was right. It was an unusual occurrence that he was, so I couldn't help but smile as I felt myself get convinced. 

"Fuck it,"

What ensued, were three nerve-wracking minutes at the table with the large punch-bowl. I stood in front of Roman, blocking the view of any possible chaperones as he skillfully got a silver flask out of the pocket of his jacket, and we spent a good amount of time positioning ourselves to make it all look casual, as though we weren't pouring straight vodka into the punch. Why Roman had any on him in the first place was a conversation for another time.

The second we saw Brooke and the cheerleaders approaching again, I felt my breath hitch-- had we made it or were we about to get caught?

However, Roman's timing was impeccable. With a smooth slither of his hand down to mine, he pulled me back to the dance floor, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to be escaping the scene of the crime at this pace. 

And suddenly, it felt like I had entered that silly dream of mine. Cause now, we were dancing. Slow. Close. The remnants of our silly escapade were visible across our lips, corners pulling up into knowing smiles as we held each other close. Roman's cologne was alluring as always, and so were his big, green eyes; I could see everything now. The scar on his right cheek, the way his pupils practically pulsated at the sight of me, the way he was drinking me in, the beautiful upturn of his nose, all to the way his warm breath fell against my cheek.

Roman's long, slender fingers intertwined with mine as his other hand rested at the small of my back; it was perfect. Better than I could've ever imagined it. It was intoxicating. Deadly, in the best of ways. 

If I were to say anything, now would be the moment. If I were to say the words that I had longed to say, now was the time. All I could hear was the sweet sound of Roman's breath, the dimmed shuffling of the tulle of my dress, and the mellow remnants of the slow song playing in the background. "Rome," I breathed. "There's something I need to tell you." My heart had never beat harder in my life, I was sure of it now.

I was sure of it.

Roman let out a short hum, lovingly nudging his nose against mine. "I need to tell you something too,"

The more I thought about the beating of my heart, the more I was sure it was going to beat its way up my throat. "Yeah?" I tried. Breathless. Breathless. 

"Yeah," Roman closed his eyes, gently pulling me closer. "But this might not be the place to tell you."

"I beg to differ," Something told me all my dreams were coming true in one go. If he was gonna say what I thought he was gonna say-- "There might never be a better moment than right here, right now." Please. Please. I wanted to beg him to say it first, if he wanted to say those three words at all. 

It felt like the air was a tissue. A tissue falling into me, which was pulled out with Roman's next intake of air. Every breath felt sharp, yet exhilarating, yet draining, yet filling, yet emptying.

"Not here," he whispered. "You'd have a heart attack."

It felt like I was about to have one anyway. "I doubt it," God, I was about to spill, wasn't I? "What if I go first?"

Roman's brows drew together as he pulled away just a centimeter or two, looking more confused than ever. "What?"

My mouth pulled into a line. Was I reading this wrong or was this one of those situations where I just had to grow a pair of balls on the spot and walk on the burning charcoal? "Like... if you're saying what I think you want to say?"

"And what do you think I want to say?"

"... Uhm," It hit me that my mouth had never been drier. Could I do this? Should I do this? "The... thing?"

"What thing?"

"That you, y'know... That you--"

"That I what?" Roman's words were insistent, rushed. It almost scared me into silence. "Baby?"

My lower lip trembled as I gathered the courage to let out a breathy laugh, shaking my head. This was my sign to retreat. With a defeated sigh, my eyes shied away from his as my cheeks burned. "Forget it,"

"But..." Roman looked beyond lost. "Okay, I feel like I'm messing things up here. Let's start again."

"Start again?--"

"Start again," he insisted, his green eyes burning into mine as I dared to meet them again. "You were gonna tell me something."

Fuck no. Now, I was sure that'd be a fate worse than death. "I-- I don't know, I'm a little lost now, could we just forget?--"

My nervous ramble was interrupted by a loud groan from Roman. At first, my eyes widened at his weird reaction to me stumbling over my words, all until I realized his phone was vibrating in his pocket. Thankfully, the song in the background wasn't so quiet and slow anymore, and nobody around us seemed to mind. "I'm so sorry," he breathed, letting go of my hand to fish out his phone. "This is fucking ridiculous, who in their right mind is calling at this time of night?!--" 

Roman's anger came to a halt as he saw who was calling him. I was praying to all the Gods I could think of at the moment that it wasn't Letha. 

"It's Peter," he said, eyes rounding out. "I haven't gotten a hold of him in a while, I-- will you kill me if I take this?"

I let out a sigh. Typical. I suppose some things simply remain a dream. "No problem," My ass. 

"I'm sorry," Roman tried, placing two fingers beneath my chin to tilt my head up, placing an apologetic kiss to my lips. It was quick, hurried-- something told me I'd remember it. "I will be right back, and then you're gonna tell me that thing, okay? I'm dying to know. Dying."

"Sure," 

"Just-- meet me by the door leading to the hallway, okay? Not the exit, not the one leading outside, but the--"

"Hallway, yeah. I got it,"

The look on Roman's face told me he was genuinely sorry. That was a consolation, at least. "We're gonna talk, I promise. I really need to tell you what I wanted to say,"

I swear, if he ended up telling me he was getting a new car instead of telling me he was in love with me, I'd wack him with the first heavy purse I'd find. "Go, Rome,"

Roman disappeared from the crowd rather quickly, making his way outside with hurried steps, leaving me alone and frustrated on the dance floor. Muttering curse words under my breath, I waddled to the door leading to the hallway, leaning against the wall next to it with a disappointed sigh. The momentum of that whole conversation had left me a bit of a panting mess, and my heart had yet to slow down. I wondered how I was supposed to get out of telling him that I loved him. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl!

However, as I scoured my brain for something else to say, I felt the familiar smell of overly-sweet perfume fill my nostrils.

I stiffened in fear. 

Oh no.

My mouth dried in record time as Daniel approached me, his stride calm and calculated. It was odd to see him out of his blue varsity jacket, yet he hadn't disappointed; his tux was blue too. The more I kept thinking about the color blue, the more I thought about the ocean, and the more I thought about the ocean, the more clearly I saw myself holding Daniel's head underwater until he drowned. 

Daniel's smirk was nastier than ever. I couldn't believe I ever thought it was cute. "There you are," he purred, getting too close for my comfort. "You look like you're having the time of your life, as always."

I snorted. "Well, what do you expect of a brainless slut, as you so poetically called me? You've always had a way with words,"

"Damn," Daniel mumbled, pulling his hands into his pockets as he chuckled. "Did I really say that?"

"Yep," Asshole.

He nodded; "Ah... It seems you remember that night more than I do, then," Daniel's perfume had now infiltrated both my nose and my will to live. If only I could melt into a puddle on the floor and become immaterial-- that would've been mercy enough. 

"I bet you haven't come here to apologize, am I correct?" I asked. 

Daniel shrugged, amused. "I was actually coming here to ask you for an apology,"

"Me?! For what?" He never failed to say outrageous things, I could give him credit for that much. 

However, Daniel seemed taken aback by my response. "Are you really going to act like nothing happened?" 

"What?! Are you talking about you and I those thousands of years ago?--"

"No," Daniel's face fell. "I'm talking about what happened last weekend." 

Something was awfully wrong. My intuition made the hair at the back of my neck stand up to the sky, and I realized I was pressing myself up against the wall. "Last weekend?" I mumbled. What did I do last weekend? I couldn't remember. All I could remember from last weekend was waking up at the Godfrey Institute because of the car crash--

Wait.

Daniel took a step forward; "I've been waiting for you to get away from that boyfriend of yours for a while," he said, his words low and threatening. "Cause you and I are gonna go have a little talk, aren't we?"

"About what?" My voice came out frail, scared, as my breath continued to catch in my throat. For a second, my attention darted to the person coming out through the door to the hallway, and it reminded me that I was in a room filled with people. Roman was coming back any time now, too. Nothing could happen to me. "I don't know what you're--" 

And then it happened. Daniel stepped forward with speed I didn't know he had in him, and he jammed his foot between the door as he grabbed me with strength I couldn't fight. He clasped his hand over my mouth as I tried to fight him off, yet to no avail-- it didn't take many seconds before he managed to get me through the door, dragging me down the hallway and away from the party. 

I let out a cry against Daniel's palm as my heart raced. Biting him didn't work, as my teeth barely grazed his skin-- I tried to dig my nails into him, yet I didn't manage to reach any exposed skin. The grip he had around me was crushing, and I knew my ribs would ache for days to come. 

"We're gonna have a real nice talk," Daniel hissed into my ear. It was disgusting to have him so near, repulsing. His breath was unsteady as he spat his words, yet there was an exhilarated tone to his voice, like he was getting the biggest kick in the world out of this. "And I'm gonna let you go in one piece if you stop-- stop resisting!" 

Daniel managed to drag me down the hall and around the corner before he threw me down. I hit the ground with a hard thud, wincing as I tried to get up with my heart threatening to beat out of my ears. However, Daniel bent down and grabbed a fistful of my hair, twisting me to look at him as I cried out in pain, eyes watery with tears as I met his angry blue eyes. I tried to drive my nails into his hand, yet he only tightened his fist in my hair-- the pain was blinding. 

"Your spoiled brat of a boyfriend won't even pay for the damages," Daniel hissed in my face. His breath was warm, but in the most unpleasant way; it made me squirm as a tear spilled down my cheek. "Not a cent! The fucking Godfrey lawyers are blocking everything my family could've ever gotten as a compensation!"

I didn't manage to kick him away, no matter how hard I tried. "For a car?!" I yelled. "For a fucking car, Daniel?! Let me go!--"

"It's not about the car!" Daniel shouted, a few drops of spit landing on my face as I grimaced. "It's about the person driving it, you psycho!" 

"I don't-- Fuck!" It was impossible not to curse at the agony. It didn't help that he was now dragging my head backwards, making me wonder whether he'd snap my neck. Would he? Would he actually? "I don't remember anything! I don't-- I don't fucking know! Were you in it?!"

This only seemed to anger him further, and Daniel proceeded to bend down next to me to properly get up in my face. I wondered whether he saw how clumpy my mascara was getting from the heavy tears weighing down on my lashes. I wondered whether he perhaps was hard right now from staring at the terrified look on my face. I wondered if he'd be sadistic enough to shove his dick down my throat if he was. These thoughts only made me panic more, yet I felt my body going limp from the pain; my hands were still fighting. I was still trying. There was no way I'd give up, but it also felt like there was no way for me to win.

"Not a single thing?" Daniel hissed, fury burning in his eyes. "You don't remember how you and your prick boyfriend left my father bleeding in his car? You don't remember how he swerved off the road and got the front of his car completely smashed in?!"

The more I tried to conjure the image, the more the feeling of all-taking panic and dread infiltrated my veins. I tried to claw his hands out of my hair, my nails digging into his skin, suffocating, suffocating, dying, tearing, tearing, panic, panic, why, where, how?--

My current state unlocked the one I had been in on the day of the crash. 

And with the panic, I remembered everything. 

Tick. 

Tick tick.

I could almost hear Roman's voice. 

Tick tick tick.

Right now, I was there.

I was living through it again.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The sun was blinding, although the air was cold. I hurried down the steps of the school that day, running to Roman.

"Where were you?"

I was confused. "I was just!--"

"I've been waiting here for, like, ten minutes!" Roman hissed, getting up from the bonnet of his car. He was in the middle of what I could only call a fit of fury, and his hands were flying as he marched towards me with heavy, angry steps; "Get in the fucking car!" He grabbed a hold of my arm, forcefully pulling me toward him.

I let out a squeal of shock, yet I didn't resist. It was impossible not to jump when he put me in the passenger seat and slammed the door behind me. "What the hell, Roman? What's gotten into you today?!" 

When he got in the driver's seat, he didn't waste any time turning the engine on. "I don't like you lingering in math class," he grumbled, fixing his hair in the rearview mirror. Typical. If Roman had been a woman, he'd have been the type to get extensions and acrylic nails; I was sure of it, with how obsessed he was with his looks. "I don't need you fraternizing any more with the enemy than you already have."

"The enemy?-- Are we talking about Letha?!"

"Yes!" he barked, driving out of the school parking lot with a little too much speed. Had he not been the son of Olivia Godfrey, I was convinced he'd have about a dozen parking tickets for this type of driving. 

"Roman, are you serious right now?!"

"Dead serious,"

"You're being crazy!"

That was it for Roman, who immediately started yelling; "Don't fucking talk to me about crazy! You wanna see real crazy?! Let me crash the car and laugh as we bleed out on the side of the road, then you'll see that I'm acting more than reasonably!"

Instinctively, I reached for the handle of the car door. My breath was stuck in a loop in my chest, too thick to pass my trachea. "Please stop shouting," I echoed. "You're scaring me."

Roman's ears were red with anger. I used to think it was a cute trait of his, all until he threatened to kill us both in this vehicle. However, at the frail sound of my voice, he glanced at me for a second or two as he leaned one arm on the rolled-down car window; his big, green eyes rounded out with the realization, with the weight of his words. "I'm not--" He cleared his throat, returning his gaze to the road. "I'm not being serious. I wouldn't actually do that, you know me."

I could see the guilt settling in the lines of his brows coming together, yet my breath had yet to escape me; it was hard to think while being suffocated. "Stop the car,"

"Baby, I'm about to get on the highway!--"

"-- Stop the fucking car!"

Roman's anger returned as he struck the steering wheel, ignoring the way I jumped; "Fine!" With the speed he was driving at, it didn't take long before he managed to park by the road. He turned to me with a fed-up look in his eyes, one that brought my blood to a boil. It only got worse with the next words rolling off his tongue; "Christ, woman, what is it?" 

For the first time in my life, I hoped I'd get superpowers and lazer-blast his stupid head off. Watch it blow and fly away in chunks, with his blood splattering all over the car. I bet it was the same dark-red color as his beloved Jaguar. Without saying a word, knowing I'd only spew profanities at him if I stayed, I made my way out of the car despite there not being a walkable road in sight.

"Hey-- Come on!" Roman yelled, watching as I started walking away on the side of the road. "Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

I shivered with the incoming breeze. "Far away from you!" Pissed out of my mind, I wrapped myself tightly in my jacket and ignored the sight of a car passing by me at full speed. 

Roman got out of the car with haste, following me with urgency in his steps. "I'm not gonna drive us into a tree, I was just trying to make a point!" he yelled, dragging his hands through his hair to make sure his hairstyle was preserved in the wind. "Baby, please, come back here!--"

"It's not about that!" I yelled back, turning around to face him. Now, there were only a couple of meters between us as we gazed at each other, one with remorse, one with fury. "You say that you trust me, and then you explode when I come back a few minutes late from my class with Letha!"

"Well, of course I'm!--"

"No!" I barked, clenching my fists. "You've been acting so damn weird ever since the day we exchanged the ancient blood capsules, or whatever the fuck they are! You're being erratic! Are you still on cocaine, maybe? Have you relapsed?"

Roman's mouth opened and closed, offended. "I'm not on drugs!" he shouted, flailing his hands to make his point. "I'm not crazy!" 

"Rome, you can tell me!" It felt as though my heart was beating out of my chest, and I pressed my hands to the thumping motions of it. I could feel the tears welling in my eyes; this whole week with Roman had been so weird, intense, and it had all come down to this. All this pain, all these emotions. "I'm your girlfriend, I care about you more than anything else in the world, you can tell me if you're back to!--"

"I'm not on drugs! I'm not crazy!" He was chanting it to himself now. 

"I can get you the help you need, Rome, please!--"

"I'm not!" With the last boom of his voice, Roman seemed to grow taller on the spot. I was sure I was imagining the way his pupils dilated, the way his jaw twitched, and how he genuinely seemed to be growing an inch or two on the spot, as though he was about to pounce on me. 

Was I maybe tired? That had to be it. After math class, my brain was always fried, anyway. Nonetheless, my breath hitched in my chest as I took a step back in blinding fear-- yet what I thought was a step back, was more of a step to the left. I didn't have much control over my body as my hands trembled, paralyzed at the sight before me. Roman didn't look like himself. It was him, I was sure it was the man I loved, yet something was so terribly off. 

I hadn't realized I was standing in the road.

I was frozen to my spot.

I couldn't move. 

And as the sound of a car honking repeatedly hit my ears, I saw nothing but the way Roman's pupils shrunk in an instant. Sheer panic filled his eyes. I barely registered how he got to me, but it took him less than a second when it should've taken him at least three. 

Roman was too late, yet exactly on time-- it felt like a breeze wrapped itself around me with the swiftness of light, and before I knew it, I screamed as I was lifted off the ground and swept up in his arms. Too scared to register where we were, I only felt the prickling of grass in my hair as I soon heard a crash, a bang, and an alarm going off. 

I held onto Roman's strong body for dear life as my high-pitched screams refused to subside, and tears welled up in my eyes which were squeezed shut in fear. He had wrapped himself around me in a protective hold and made sure I had landed on top of him in the grass by the road, a little too far from where we should've naturally landed, and Roman clutched onto the fabric of my jacket as he tried to shake me out of my shock. 

It didn't work. My throat was getting sore, and I was trembling like a wet, abandoned kitten. 

"Are you hurt?" Roman called out. "Hey, are you hurt?!"

With my next sob, the words came rushing out; "N-No!" 

He let out a sigh of relief as he pressed me tighter to his chest, now stroking the back of my head and kissing my teary cheeks. "You're alright. It's okay, I'm here, you're alright," he cooed, gently rolling me down to the grass beside him. 

I didn't want to let him go. I held onto his hair like a newborn, sobbing. "I'm sorry! I-I'm so, so-- so sorry!--"

"Shh, it's okay," Roman kissed my lips which were salty with tears. "It's not your fault, it's okay. Try to breathe, alright?"

I would've stayed like that, horrified and shell-shocked at our near meet with death, had I not heard pained groans in the distance. I dared to open my eyes, and immediately saw the cloud of smoke coming from the car with the peeping noise. There was a man groaning in pain, and his body was splayed over the steering wheel. And just as I didn't think it could get any worse, I saw the indent of a footprint in the car door-- 

My shaking subsided as I rose from the grass, sitting up in a zombie-like state. My eyes refused to leave the image before me. 

Had Roman... kicked the car away?

Had he kicked a car coming our way at about a hundred kilometers an hour?

Before I could ponder it any longer, Roman grabbed my chin with the gentlest touch known to man and turned me to him. He didn't have a single scratch on him. Shouldn't he be gasping in pain at the blow of landing on his back with me on top of him? His eyes were round, worried, as he scanned me for any injuries. "How does your head feel? Are you dizzy? You didn't hit your head, did you?"

"No," I breathed. "Roman, the car--"

"Fuck that for a second, do I need to take you to a hospital?" The look in his eyes quickly went from worried to crazed, like he was angry that I was choosing to have sympathy for the person in the car instead of caring about myself first. 

I blinked. Once. Twice. "Roman?"

"Yes?"

"The guy in there might be dead. Or dying," 

"I know," he echoed. "But he might also be bleeding."

"Exactly," With shaky steps, I tried to raise myself to the ground. The beeping of the car was driving me mad with guilt and worry. "He might be bleeding, so we need to--"

"Call an ambulance, I know," 

"No, we need to check if he's!--"

"Bleeding? Dying? Yeah, I can't," Roman grabbed my hand, forcing me to look into his eyes. They were round with a look I hadn't seen before, like he was trying to convey something I'd hopefully understand. "I shouldn't go near it when it's that much fresh blood." He squeezed my fingers before he brought them to his lips, kissing my knuckles. "And you're about to faint."

"... What?" 

"You have about five seconds,"

"How do you?--"

"I'm not crazy," Roman said, an end statement. "I'll make sure you won't remember most of this, but trust me. I'll take care of it."

The worst thing was that he was right. I couldn't do anything to stop it when I started seeing white spots, and I let out a panicked yell. It felt like my head was caving into itself; that was a feeling that would stay with me. I covered my ears before I realized I couldn't feel my toes, and just as I went down, Roman went up to catch me in his arms.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

And as I faded out of the memory, it took longer than expected to snap out of it.

I was done.

Done.

I was so, so sure, and I had no idea why everything was black, why I couldn't move, why I felt my lungs freeze over with the inability to breathe.

It lasted for too long. Way too long. An eternity. 

Again.

Up until it felt like a scream was being dragged out of me by force, again, like someone had grabbed a hold of my tongue and tugged me forward, again-- the bright lights of the school hallway shone through my lids before they sprung open in pure panic, and I arched off the ground with a gasp for air.

It felt like I was taking my first breaths again, or like I had been drowning, all over again. I clawed at my hands, my nails digging into the fabric of my dress, suffocating, suffocating, dying, tearing, tearing, panic, panic, why, where, how, again?—

There was a release. I no longer felt like my neck was about to snap, and there was no longer pressure on my scalp as I was released from Daniel's grip on my hair. My body fell limp against the floor as I heard a loud thud to my right along with a shrill cry of pain. 

As I slowly came back to my senses, I realized that Daniel was being repeatedly punched against the lockers by none other than Roman Godfrey. There was no way for him to fight off the repeated attacks, no way at all, as Roman's fist landed blow after blow with no mercy.

"Rome," I wheezed, coughing and wincing as I tried to get up from the floor. I barely had any power in my body anymore-- it didn't work.

The sound of his nickname had Roman letting go of Daniel in an instant, who fell limp to the floor with a cry of pain. Roman looked completely out of it; his green eyes were wild with fury, worry, and an untameable thirst for revenge. I hadn't seen him like this before, so possessed. 

He opened his mouth to say something, yet Daniel let out a wail; "He can't even walk anymore, Godfrey! You fuckers left my father in a coma, and when he woke up, he was fucking paralyzed from the neck down!" 

My head was pounding. This couldn't be true. This was a nightmare.

"You ruined his life!" Daniel yelled, tears spilling down his cheeks as he tried to get up. "And you ruined mine! You took my father from me, and he will never be the same again!"

Roman took several deep breaths. It was clear that he wanted to beat Daniel to a pulp, yet he was holding back. "You think I wanted any of that?" he tried, balling his fists. "Accidents happen all the fucking time!--"

"He says you kicked the car!" Daniel shouted. His voice was shaking. Profusely. It dawned on me how scared he truly looked. "That you-- you kicked it off the road!"

Roman's fists remained clenched. "Did you maybe have too much of the punch?" he asked, attempting to incorporate a calm tone. "You can't possibly be hearing yourself now, Goldman. Explain how I'm supposed to have kicked away a car coming at me at full speed?"

Daniel's lower lip trembled as it caught a few of his tears. "Everyone knows something's wrong with you, Godfrey. It's just a matter of time until someone figures out your secret," A beat. A snarl. "You're a freak."

There was a long pause. Roman was so furious that he could only glare. I could see the way his jaw clenched and how his hands were now balled so tightly they were shaking. 

Daniel caught onto it. Despite looking scared out of his mind, tears still staining his cheeks, he conjured a victorious smile which only confused me further. "You gonna hit me again? You gonna beat me to a pulp in front of your girl?" He nodded towards me, a mocking laugh following as his eyes shone with evil glee.

Roman's eye twitched. I held my breath. 

"You think she'll stay with you once she knows what you're capable of? You think she'll still be yours?" Daniel wiped his nose, staring up at Roman through his brows with his vicious eyes. "You and I are one and the same. The way she looks at me, the hate, the disgust? You're going to know exactly how I feel."

"No," Roman hissed, breathless. "I'm nothing like you," 

"Oh yeah? Do you really believe that?" 

"You're scum!--"

"And you're a fucking sadist, just like me!" Daniel didn't even try to wipe the grin off his beaten face. He simply sighed as he rested his head against the lockers, closing his eyes as though he was reliving his best day; "Bet you would've killed to see the look she had in her eyes when I nearly snapped her neck in half, just before you came... The tears, the fear. She has these pretty whimpers when she's in pain, y'know?" Daniel opened his eyes, staring up at Roman through his brows. "Are you going to let me get away with that?"

I couldn't stay quiet anymore; the panicked cry I let out was unlike anything I ever had before. "No, don't listen to him!--"

"I would've left her here for you to find, just like what you two did to my father!" Daniel chanted. "I would've ruined her, and it would've been all your fault, Godfrey!"

That was it. It was over. I knew it the second those words filled the hallway. His fault. 

Roman snapped. He yelled out in fury, and his hands flew to Daniel's neck where he was on the floor, crushing his windpipes along with any hope for breaths or protests. The look in Roman's eyes was too wild, too uncontrolled, too unstable for my liking-- he looked like he was two seconds away from snapping his neck like a twig, just like what Daniel would've done to me.

"Stop it!" I screamed, terror freezing me to my spot. "Stop it, Roman, stop!--"

"Do-- it!" Daniel wheezed, grinning. "Show her-- what a monster you are!"

My heart was pounding in my ears. No, no, no!

Roman's voice boomed throughout the hallway; "I will break your fucking hands if you touch her again, do you hear me?!"

The amusement in Daniel's eyes quickly disintegrated into abject horror. It was the lack of air. This was the moment he realized one very crucial detail; that all his taunting, all his encouragement, could actually get him very, very badly hurt. "W-Wait--"

"Do you hear me?!"

"Y-Yes!--"

"I will tear you apart!" Roman yelled, tightening his grip. "Is that what you want?!"

Daniel's face was turning a peculiar shade of purple as panic settled in his body. His hands went to Roman's, clawing at them, but to no avail. It was essentially a match he couldn't ever hope to win. It would've been impossible. Roman was too strong, too quick, too sharp-- Daniel didn't stand a chance.

I didn't think it could yet worse, yet somehow it did. In a moment which shouldn't have been possible, not so easily, Roman dragged Daniel's sputtering body up along the locker, lifting him from the ground with no exertion or effort. It made me gasp as I propped myself up from the floor, tears rushing down my cheeks as I watched the scene before me, scared into silence.

When Daniel's legs were dangling off the floor, I knew he had a few seconds before he was out. It was clear in the way his eyes started bulging and how his hands fell limp by his sides. 

Roman's last words were chilling; "Let me show you how much of a monster I can be,"

Daniel let out a short, defeated wheeze. Had he not been choking, it would've been a laugh. He had won, but now he had to pay the price. He squeezed his eyes shut with his last efforts, ready for the beating of his life, all until--

"No, that's enough!" I cried, exhausted by the terror. "Roman, enough!"

It was as though something changed in Roman at the sound of my voice, and the veins were no longer bulging from his hands as he realized the weight of what he had been about to do. With that, he let go of Daniel, who collapsed down along the lockers for the second time tonight; air rushed to his lungs with massive gulps, and his face was no longer purple from the blood rushing to his face.

Now that I remembered everything from the day of the crash, I saw the similarities. The way Roman seemed somewhat taller, how unnaturally wide his pupils dilated, and the way his jaw twitched. 

For the first time, I was seeing him for what he truly might be.

For what he... was. 

Upirism lives beneath their skin, scratches at their teeth, and corrupts their minds through dark urges in constant attempts to drive them to the edge of genesis. Do you suspect you are a upir, or do you recognize a darkness in your loved ones? 

I do.

I do.

Gulping, I finally found the courage and strength to get off the floor. My hands were shaking, and so were my knees-- I was sure my mascara had stained my cheeks at this point, and I felt more breathless than ever as I faced the man I loved. 

What made everything worse, was that Roman looked more beautiful than ever. Hair disheveled, broad shoulders raising with every shaky breath, lips parted. The tux only added to the sight-- he was perfect. Despite the sleeves of his jacket being rolled up, and a part of his shirt being untucked from his pants, he was perfect, and he always would be. His round, green eyes were barely green with how big his pupils were, pulsing with adrenaline; "Are you okay?" he asked, taking a step forward and away from Daniel. "Are you hurt? You were practically unconscious when I came--" 

Roman's words came to a halt when he saw how quickly I took a step back.

My breath was stuck in my chest. I couldn't speak. 

"You look scared. Don't be," he tried. "He's fine, see?" Roman turned around to face Daniel's body, where he lay limp and barely conscious, and proceeded to shortly kick him. 

It made me gasp, clasping my hand over my mouth as Daniel let out a pained whimper. My stomach felt uneasy-- I really didn't want to throw up here.

When Roman saw my horror, he immediately took a step away from Daniel. It hadn't yet dawned on him why I was so scared. "I'm so sorry about this," he said. "I'm sorry I stepped away. I should've never left your side."

I tried to speak, yet nothing would come out. Only tears rushed from my system, peaking at my chin before dripping down to the floor. 

Suddenly, there was a loud cheer from down the hall, a reminder of the prom going on just a door away. It made me jump, frozen in fear.

It was clear that Roman found it to be ironic, and he alternated between glancing down the hall and looking at me. "You still look good," he mumbled, a trying smile tugging at the corners of his perfect lips. Those perfect, plush lips that used to softly press against mine. Was he hoping we could go back inside and act like nothing had happened? "I have a comb you can use, if you want? The mascara is easy to wipe away, I think, and I bet there'll be no one in the restroom, so we can both go and fix ourselves and--"

When he took another step forward, I took another step back.

Roman stilled. His eyes softened with hurt. "Baby,"

I shook my head. That was the only thing I could do.

"Didn't you hear what he was saying? He wanted to-- wanted to do all these awful things to you, I had to do this,"

I couldn't breathe. 

Roman insisted; "I was just protecting you," Despite his calm tone, I spotted the slight shake he had to his hands. "Don't think about all that bullshit he said, okay? He's not in his right mind, he's clearly insane!--"

"His dad, Roman!" My ability to speak returned to me with my growing frustration.

"-- Was a very sad, tragic thing, yes! I'm not denying it!" With the next step Roman took, I stayed in place. He let out a string of controlled, short breaths, trying to calm himself down. "But he didn't have to come after you. I would've given him the money he needed, but it's my mom who controls the assets. All our dear Daniel had to do, was to talk to me. No one had to get hurt."

I squeezed my eyes shut, yet my tears still fell past my lashes. 

Roman let out a sigh which resembled a soft hum. "All that matters is that you're okay. That's all that matters. To me, you're all that matters,"

As his big hands framed my face, holding me when he finally got close enough, I still didn't open my eyes. I couldn't. I was scared out of my mind. Roman's touch was no longer a comfort-- it was chilling to know that they were choking someone less than a minute ago. 

"Are you scared?" he whispered, worry coating his deep voice. "You don't have to be scared of me, I'm not-- I'm not some monster."

I couldn't believe him. His words echoed in my head. Let me show you how much of a monster I can be. 

Let me show you.

"I'm not," Roman insisted. He didn't sound like he believed it much himself. "I'm all yours, only yours. That's all I am, and that's all that I ever will be. You need to know that."

Let me show you.

"Please look at me," 

Let me show you.

"Please," he begged. "I-- I've made some mistakes, but I'm still your Roman. Can't you stomach it anymore? Is me wanting to protect you repulsive to you?" 

I shook my head; not at all. My hands found his chest, feeling it raise against my palms. I used to lay there. Fall asleep there, listening to his beating heart. 

"What did you want me to do, then?" Roman whispered. "You're my everything. You're everything. I couldn't let him get away with doing all of that, I-- I couldn't. I'm sorry if it scared you, I'm sorry you had to see me like that, and I'm so sorry I ever left... I should've stayed with you. I'm a fool. I should've stayed and heard what you wanted to tell me."

I didn't need to look at him to know he was crying, now. His voice was breaking. Actively. It shattered me. 

"Cause... you still want to tell me, right?" 

Something told me he knew what I had wanted to tell him.

My hand crept further up Roman's broad chest as I quietly sobbed, my whole body shaking. My fingers were at his neck, tracing his soft skin.

Roman's grip on my face tightened in desperation, yet his voice came out in a frail, low murmur; "Please-- Please tell me," 

I love you. I love you. If only Roman could read minds. I couldn't conjure the words, not in this state. 

My silence only broke him further. Hopeless, he pressed his tear-stained lips to mine in a sheer cry for mercy. "Please," he whispered between repeated kisses I couldn't reciprocate. "Please-- Please--"

My fingers had managed to slip between the two top buttons of his shirt, and they now grazed the vial of my blood around his neck. As Roman continued to kiss me, desperately pressing my body up against his, I let out a sob as I twisted the capsule, just like I had once practiced; his breath hitched as I wrapped my hand around the vial, clutching it as I pulled it away from him without a word.

Roman's hold on my face disappeared as his hands floated an inch away from my face, his big eyes watery with hurt and confusion. 

I told myself it was for the best. The blood had poisoned his thoughts for too long. 

My first step away was slow, trying.

Tick.

Tick tick.

My second was quickly followed by a sprint down the hallway, away from Roman, away from Daniel, away from everything.

Tick tick tick.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Have you ever thought about death? Of course you have, everyone has-- but have you ever felt it?

It felt like I was dying for the hundredth time this week. The agony was pressing at the sides of my head, and it made me hope it would finally cave in on itself just to spare me the torture of being awake. 

It was the fear that brought me to Letha's doorstep. The thing I didn't want to be true. Everything had balled up into a ginormous travesty of a boulder, and I could no longer try to push it over the side of the mountain-- I was no Sisyphus. 

I couldn't begin to comprehend how shocked Letha must've been when she opened the door. She opened and closed her mouth, scanning the mascara which had stained my cheeks, and the state of the top of my hair. "What the fuck?" she cursed under her breath, grabbing my hand to pull me inside. "What are you doing here? What happened?"

I felt like a shell of the person I used to be. Like I had been cracked open like a lobster, with someone actively scooping out my insides. Letha's house smelled of expensive fragrance sticks you'd buy from Rituals-- I recognized the one she had in her house at the moment, the ritual of hammam. It was her favorite, I remembered that much. I felt at home. It was an odd feeling.

"Your dress," Unsure what to do, Letha bent down to fix the way my dress fell. "Seriously, what happened?--"

"A while ago, you said you wanted to tell me the truth about Roman," My voice was sharp, hollow, as I stared at the girl who was once my best friend. I had cried into her shoulder before, we had shared countless laughs-- what had I done? "What was it?"

Letha stilled with shock when she straightened up, meeting my troubled gaze. "Shouldn't you be at prom?"

"Letha, I need!--"

"Where even is, Roman, actually?"

"You need to tell me!" I cried. "You need-- I need to know, I need to hear it from you, because I need someone to tell me that I've gone crazy!"

With slow motions, Letha stretched out her hands to place them gently on my shoulders. "Let's take some deep breaths, okay? Whatever this is, I bet you and Roman will get through this. Did you have a fight? It can be painful to argue with your boyfriend, and it really can feel like you're going crazy. I get it, and--"

"-- I have this book," I interrupted, feeling my tears press up against my lashes once more. "It's really long and dreadful, but I've read the whole thing over and over about five times now."

The worry streaking across Letha's face turned into a look of confusion. "Okay...? As long as it's not Fifty Shades again, I'm listening,"

It was odd to speak to someone that knew me so well. She knew I had read that stupid book several times, despite how ridiculous it could be at times. It almost threw me off. "The more I read the book, the more I saw the... similarities with Roman,"

Letha grimaced; "Fifty Shades?"

"No! The other one!"

"Oh, alright. Phew,"

I groaned, rubbing my temples. I was exhausted. "You said I deserved to know the truth about him, so I'm begging you, Letha, to put everything aside," My breath struggled to steady. "What was it?"

Her palms lifted from my shoulders. "I-- I don't know how to say it, or whether I should tell you at all. I only ever mentioned it because I thought you were in danger, but--" Letha stilled. It was clear on her face that she knew she had said too much.

"Danger?" I echoed. "Letha?"

With a quick hitch of her breath, Letha made her way past me with hasty steps and disappeared into the living room.

"Please!" I followed her, watching as she paced back and forth in the big room, anxiously biting her nails. "Letha, I need to hear it from you, I need to know that I'm wrong, I need to hear that it's something else than what I think it is!"

"I-- I don't, I can't!--"

"Tell me!"  I needed to hear it out loud. I burned to hear it from someone else than the voice in my head.

"N-No, I!--"

"Letha!"

"It's too-- I can't!--"

"Say it!" 

Letha stilled with the boom of my voice. She stared back at me from across the room, no longer pacing as she finally dared to face the crazed look in my eyes. There was a long pause, a silence that laid itself over us like a cold blanket-- "What book was it?" she breathed.

"The--" I hated this title. "The avoidable vampirism, the--" I couldn't say the word. I couldn't.

Letha nodded. It was barely noticeable, and it resembled an involuntary tic. "Yes,"

Yes?

"Yes, he is,"

"Say it," I whispered. "Please."

Letha closed her eyes, resigning;

"Roman's a upir,"

The house was dead silent. You could've heard a pin drop. There were faint remnants of the wind brushing past the large tree outside the property, with the rustling of the leaves filling the sonic void. Letha wasn't moving. Neither was I. How does one process such news? It was a peculiar feeling-- I felt like I had already known for a long time. There was no shockwave, as I had expected there to be. 

"Ah," was all I said. It left Letha to raise a brow, visibly off-put by my reaction. 

I nodded to myself a couple times, glancing around the living room I used to know better than the back of my hand. A small huff escaped me, similarly to a laugh; I wondered whether my brain was melting. It surely felt like it. 

For a second, I thought that was it. That there would be no blow to the reveal. That I was handling it surprisingly well, and that it'd be the end of it. However, the more breaths I took, the less I felt like I was breathing. The less I felt I was breathing, the more I could feel the painful thumping of my heart against my ribs, every beat serving as a reminder that I was still alive, still in this moment, still processing. 

My breath got stuck in my throat with the next heave-- my hands flew to my necklace, trying to find the clasp. It was too tight, too tight. With shaking fingers, I tried to get it off, needed it off, right now. It didn't work, no matter how hard I tried, and my eyes welled with tears as I ripped my necklace off with a gasp, hoping I'd finally be able to breathe. The beads rolled along the hardwood floors as I clutched at my chest, hitting my chest in hopes that air would fill it.

Letha's big, green eyes were filled with worry as she rushed to me, unsure how to help. "Hey, hey, breathe, okay?--"

The corset of my dress was suddenly an agonizing pressure around my waist, and my fingers went to the ribbons at the back to slacken it. It didn't work, no matter what I tried, and the sob I let out was followed by a broken plea; "Help-- H-Help!--" 

Letha hurried to get behind me as I slowly sank to the floor, choking on my tears as she untied the ribbons at full speed. My hands were tearing at my dress, choking with my last breaths as I descended into the heap of tulle around me-- I tried to scream, yet no sound would come. 

In a last attempt, Letha grabbed the ribbons with full force and pulled them apart, ripping the fabric in half as my corset finally came apart. 

What followed was a mix of a sob and a heave, a choked sound filling the room as I leaned forward into the tulle, taking sharp breaths of release. I could finally breathe. I was breathing again. I wept into my hands as Letha's soft hands stroked my exposed back, sitting down on the floor next to me as she brought my body as close to hers as she could. 

"I'm sorry," she whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "I'm so, so sorry."

I shook in her arms, drowning in tears. It was true. Roman was a upir. I had been right all along, yet I had also been stupid enough to suppress it. The sadness, the heartbreak, that hit me felt like a death-sentence, and I held onto Letha as my whole body trembled with the realization; "I love him," I cried. "I love-- I love him!"

"I know," Letha stroked my hair, sighing. "I tried to get to you before you got that far, but there always comes a point when you can no longer do anything. I've learned that the hard way, now."

This was worse than death. "What do I do?" I breathed. "I don't-- I don't know what to do!"

"... You know what you have to do," 

It only made me clutch onto her harder, and I squeezed my eyes shut in hopes of stopping the stream of tears. I wondered how I had any more of them in my system. "I don't-- think I can!"

"I only want what's best for you," Letha cooed, patting away my fallen tears. "And I know that Roman can be charming, and he can be very nice when he wants to be, but... now that you know what he is, how are you going to believe him ever again? He's lied to you all this time, and he would've never told you himself. You're aware that he's putting you in danger every time he's near you?"

I shook my head; "N-No, Roman would never!--"

"If you read a whole book about upirs, you probably know what he's capable of?"

"He'd never-- never hurt me!--"

"Maybe he wouldn't hurt you, but you know he can control people, right?" Letha sighed once more, tilting my head upwards so that I would meet her eyes. "He did that to me our whole childhood. His favorite thing to do in the winter was to make me stick my tongue on metal poles and watch me cry when I couldn't detach it."

What? "But!--"

"How can you ever be sure that your actions are yours?" Letha's eyes were so intense, so desperate to get her point across. "How can you ever trust him again?"

How many times hadn't I thought he was mesmerizing me? I could count them on my fingers, but the thought was still unsettling. "I... don't know,"

Letha shifted to sit on her knees, watching my mascara paint my cheeks with long, black streaks. "I'm glad you came to me," she murmured, softening her look. "I'm glad you see that I'm the only one that can help you. We should put everything behind us and stick together again, and we have to. I'm all you have now. Roman... he's dangerous. You're safe with me."

I was so, so tired. I didn't have the energy to fight the free help coming my way, yet... something felt off. "He's not dangerous," I tried, in denial. "He's--"

"He's what?" Letha insisted, hardening her gaze. This was giving me whiplash. "Seriously! He could snap any day, can't you see?! And who would be closest to him the day he's overcome with thirst?" 

"No!--"

"It'd be you!" Letha grabbed my face, and it only made my tears flow faster, hanging from my quivering chin. "It'd be you, and I can't lose you again, not in that way!"

The more my vision blurred, the weaker I felt. "I love him,"

"I know,"

"I-- I love him,"

"But you need to love yourself more," she whispered. Letha let go of my face, wrapping her arms around me in a warm embrace. She smelled just like she did all those months ago. My best friend, Letha. I missed her more than anything. 

How could I ever love anything or anyone more than I loved Roman? I didn't have space for that in my body. I didn't have the capacity. 

"Do it for your life," Letha pleaded, her voice smooth as honey. It felt like she was talking me to sleep. "Please."

A life without Roman? I couldn't imagine it. Not when we had promised each other forever.

But... forever for him probably meant forever. 

Roman is a upir. 

Roman is a upir.

I let out another cry into Letha's shoulder; this was a nightmare I wouldn't ever wake up from.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

When you get devastating news, you never think of what happens afterward. It's similar to when someone dies-- you get the news, in comes the shock, and then you get handed the papers on what to do with the body. No one ever thinks about having to design the flyer for the funeral, right? 

There is a certain weight in your body as you go through the motions you know you have to go through. Your hands feel heavy as you hold your next meal before your mouth, realizing that life moves on, whether you want it to or not. You still need to drink water, eat, wake up, and function. 

And just as I opened the door to my empty home, I felt all of that at once. I wanted to freak out and sob in despair to the end of my days, yet I had to get back home. I had to get out of the clothes Letha had given me after I ruined my dress, I had to eat something to fill my rumbling stomach, and I had to sleep. How was I supposed to do any of that when it felt like my world was crashing down on me?

It felt like someone had pressed a button at the top of my head, putting me on auto-pilot. I didn't even notice that I was still wearing my jacket as I made my way to the kitchen with heavy steps, mindlessly opening the fridge and taking a... cucumber?

Why was I holding a cucumber?

Fuck it.

I couldn't think. I didn't even close the fridge. My mind was empty as I put it down on the kitchen island, not even bothering to find a cutting board. I didn't want to think. The more I thought, the more I thought about Roman. Roman and his perfect lips, Roman and his beautiful laugh, Roman and his green, green, green eyes. Roman, the man I loved. Roman, the upir. 

Involuntary tears rushed down my cheeks as my face remained stoic. I was exhausted. I had no idea how I was still moving. My hands were mindlessly tapping the kitchen surfaces around me, hoping I'd somehow find a knife that way. Not that I'd be particularly successful, but maybe I didn't want to be? I wasn't even planning on washing the cucumber. Maybe I hoped the germs would kill me. Could you die from an unwashed cucumber? I had no idea. There was probably a higher possibility that Roman would kill me first. 

... I hated that thought. 

I wish I didn't have to have it.

However, as my hands found the selection of knives, I heard a sound coming from behind me. It came from the other side of the kitchen island, the one I had my back turned to. I didn't think much of it first; houses creak all the time, surely. But then came the scrape-- a deliberate, jarring screech of a chair being pulled out from the kitchen island.

My parents were out of town. 

Someone was in my house.

Someone was pulling out a chair.

I froze, every muscle in my body locking up, my breath catching in my throat.  The sound of slow, deliberate footsteps sent a chill crawling down my spine. They weren’t hurried or hesitant-- they were purposeful, unhurried, as though whoever was there wanted me to hear.

I gripped the counter with trembling fingers, my pulse hammering in my ears. I didn’t dare look back, but every inch of me screamed to run. My fingers brushed the cold handle of the biggest knife I could find, finally. The familiar fight-or-flight surged through me, but I couldn’t choose. All I could do was grip the knife and hold it as though it were a lifeline.

When the footsteps stopped, I thought for a moment that maybe, just maybe, I had imagined it. 

But then-- the breath.

A low, soft exhale just inches behind me.

Now or never. I spun around with a panicked yell, the knife held high, ready to plunge it into whoever had invaded my home-- My scream got stuck in my throat when the blade pointed at the chest of a tall figure standing in the dark, his face barely illuminated by the faint glow of the refrigerator light.

Roman.

Roman didn't even bother to stop me, didn't jump away, nothing. The tip of my knife was barely dipping into his solar plexus, yet I was sure it would've been enough to draw blood on any other person; it didn't even pierce his skin. 

I couldn't believe what was happening. He somehow didn't look like himself-- it was Roman like I’d never seen him before. His expression was blank, too blank, the kind of blank that made my stomach churn. He didn’t flinch at the blade hovering just below his sternum. His green eyes locked onto mine with a kind of detachment, as though I wasn’t holding a weapon to his chest at all.

“You done?” he said, his voice carrying an eerie stillness.

I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. My knuckles whitened around the handle.

Roman’s eyes flickered down to the blade, then back to me. “Put it down,” he said, his tone measured but firm.

“No,” I whispered, my voice trembling.

Roman took a quiet step back, glancing down at the large knife I was holding at him with an unreadable emotion shimmering in his big, green eyes. "Right..." he huffed, sucking in a sharp breath. His gaze darted up to meet mine in the dark of the kitchen. "Is that how you want to do this?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. There was no other way, not when I knew the truth. 

Roman’s lips parted, and the breath that escaped wasn’t human—it was low, steady, and calculating, like a predator sizing up its prey. His gaze locked onto the knife, then slowly dragged up to meet mine. His pupils were darker now, swallowing the green of his eyes, and the silence between us stretched too long.

“If you’re gonna do it, don't hesitate,” Roman's voice was soft, yet laced with something cold and merciless. He took a single step forward, the tip of the knife now pressing harder against his chest. “You won’t get another chance.”

I gasped, stumbling back, but Roman didn’t follow. He stayed in the shadows, his figure looming over me like some unholy force. “Fine. This is how it's gonna go,” he continued, his tone so calm it made my blood run cold. “You’re going to put that down and listen. No running, no screaming. I deserve that much."

I tightened my grip on the knife, my chest heaving. “Why should I listen to you?"

A huff-- Roman was pissed. "Cause I'm really not in the mood for chasing you. It'd be over in less than three seconds, and that's never fun," Roman's voice dropped to a near whisper; "You wanna fight me, or do you want to be smart about this?"

I didn't lower my knife. I couldn't. "Alright," I breathed. "Talk, then."

Roman tilted his head, studying me, his lips curving into the faintest ghost of a smirk-- it didn't reach his eyes. "There you go," he said. 

"Good girl."

(a/n: ... are u still breathing? cause I'm not!!!! AGHHH😭 thank you for reading this if you got this far, this is so so much lore so if your brain is overheating pls pls go grab an icecream, you deserve it, and I LOVE YOUUU MWAHHH CAN'T WAIT TO SHOW Y'ALL THE REST OF THIS STORY!!)

here are all the chapters!<3: PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9, PART 10, PART 11, PART 12

loveliest taglist of all time:

@mentallyscreamingsincebirth @putherup @corawithfanfiction @vladsgirlxx

@iamaslytherin0 @sexualparkour @the-universe-is-complicated @heavenly-bratt

@lafemme-nk @namiusedbubble @useyourwandbro @strmborns @literally-lani

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@lilithskywalker @likecherriesinthespring @sadheartjellyfish @vadersangel

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@taintandviolent

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An Heir

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x reader

Summary: You and Feyd intend to be together forever--marry, have children, lead Giedi Prime side by side--but your plans are disrupted when the Reverend Mother of the Bene Gesserit reveals Lady Fenring is pregnant and, to Feyd's utter shock, the baby is his.

Notes/Warnings: This will be a two or three part fic (happy ending). Based on a request from @tgmreader. Implied sexual manipulation (assault), mention of pregnancy, feelings of betrayal.

Words: 2350

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag list

Reader POV

A woman always knows when another woman is scheming. And you can practically smell it on her. She’s been working to draw him in for days, sneaking looks at him out of the corner of her eye; looks she makes sure he notices. She peers at him from under her blonde lashes like she holds a secret she’s willing to share with only him, and being a woman yourself, you know what kind of secret she is hinting at. 

You just can’t decipher what she wants with him. Yes, he’s linked to power and that power will one day be his, but for now and for a long time to come, he is the na-Baron only. Compared to her, he’s still a boy in some respects, which makes you fear Feyd falling prey to the manipulation tactics you know she’s gained from her Bene Gesserit studies.

She’s mature, bewitchingly beautiful, she knows the ways of sex, of life, and she watches him in a manner that you’ve seen tug at some sort of string inside of him. With each day that has gone by, he’s seemingly grown more accepting of her sneaky advances. The seductive tone of her voice when she whispers words in his vicinity as she passes him, the subtle quirk of her red-painted lips, the sparkle she cleverly plants in her eye—he questions it less and less. 

It’s not until you follow her the night of his birthday that you understand just how far she intends to go. You follow her following him, hiding from the bursts of light that fireworks outside are shooting through the windows. She’s a venomous beast in the shadows, the bright flashes illuminating the beauty she dons, a perfectly crafted mask. 

As she trails after him, you observe her steps—her quiet, seductive advancements—that do not go undetected by Feyd. But she does not fear him, and she does not startle at the blade he holds to her throat once he’s tired of her games.

“You’re following me,” he says, and for a moment, you feel a sense of relief. He’s not entranced. He’s not so blinded by her wiles to be tricked. But then he releases her and says, “I dreamed about you last night,” and your heart drops into the pit of your stomach. 

“A pleasant dream, I hope,” she replies. 

Her voice is altered. Too smooth. An odd pitch. He follows this time, his head twitching as he tries to block out the words you know are slithering into his mind. 

They continue through the hallways like master and pet until they’ve entered an unrecognizable wing of the Harkonnen fortress. Only once she disappears behind a door do you step out of the shadows. You’ll grab him, you think—take his arm and pull him away from the range of her influence so he will snap back to his senses—but he’s following her through that doorway before you can reach him. 

She’s successfully lured him in, and you don’t know what to do. She can control you if she wants, have you slit your throat right in front of him if you make yourself known. And being under her spell, will he even notice that he’s losing you until it’s too late? Or will he stand there with a blank expression as your body drains of life?

You tiptoe to the entrance he had not fully closed behind him and peek through the sliver of space between the door and its frame.

With a gasp, your hand flies to your mouth. Tears pool in the corners of your eyes. Your eyelids beg to squeeze shut at the sight of him on his knees before her. And it’s then that you realize she has yet to use the full power of the Voice on him. Had she, you surely would’ve heard it. It’s a distinct sound, immediately identifiable.

Some part of him must want this—to be at her mercy. 

Your chest caves as your knees begin to wobble. Your heart shatters.

He leans closer and you can’t watch anymore. You can’t watch their lips meet in a kiss he swore he would only ever give to you. So you take a step back, then another, and another, until you’re running. 

—

Feyd POV

Feyd stands before them: three figures that, when concentrated in a dense grouping, mold into a formidable foe. The Baron, whose features are hard. The Reverend Mother, whose aged mouth is set in a frown detectable through her veiled headdress. And the Fenring Bene Gesserit, whose lips curve in a soft smile and eyes glance down at her feet every time he looks at her as if she’s some bashful girl untouched by man, which, given the circumstances, is far from true. 

“It’s not mine!” Feyd snaps. 

The Reverend Mother lets out an irritated huff—her third of the morning. “My Lord–”

“It’s not!”

Feyd turns his head to where you’ve been standing off to the side. He wants to see your face; he needs to reassure you that the information relayed in the last few minutes is nothing but sick lies, but you’re not there. He didn’t notice you leave. Did you sneak out? Did you run? Did your heels click on the floor with your retreating steps and his ears were too fuzzed from vile words to hear it? You’ve been avoiding him for days, but he didn’t expect such asinine chatter would get you to completely abandon him now. You’re smarter than to believe what they say, and you know him better than that.

“The child inside Lady Fenring belongs to you, my Lord na-Baron,” the Reverend Mother repeats, drawing Feyd’s burning gaze back to the trio. “That is a fact.”

His fists ball at his sides. “It’s impossible. I didn’t touch your witch.” And he never would have. He’s had other plans. Plans with you. He intends to marry you, to put his heir inside of you, and he wouldn’t have jeopardized that future for anyone, let alone a Bene Gesserit. 

“Do you not recall the night of your birthday, my Lord?” Lady Fenring asks, her voice soft. “I was with you for hours.”

No. She’s wrong. He was with you, beside you, your warm, bare skin against his as the celebrations for his coming of age took place outside the walls. He was in the only place he ever chooses to be once darkness has descended upon the city. Not once has he strayed from the consistency of bringing you to his room under the noses of your parents and his uncle. And on that night barely three days ago, he’d fallen asleep with you in his arms after you were both spent. He remembers the lull of your soft breaths brushing his chest. 

“Stop with your lies, you–” 

Flashes invade his mind, almost painful as he tries and fails to shut them out. His eyelids pinch. His jaw ticks. The guest quarters are a blip of an image in his head. A body on top of his. Unfamiliar touch. Foreign moans. A scent that isn’t yours. 

As the fogginess fades, Feyd shakes his head. No. He didn’t. He couldn’t. Not to you. 

“I would’ve thought the time we spent together would be worth remembering,” Lady Margot says.

“You got in my head,” he grits out through clenched teeth. 

“It matters not!” the Reverend Mother snaps. “The child is yours and it must be legitimized. Once Lady Fenring gives birth, you will wed.”

—

Reader POV - Three Months Later

You’re disappointed. 

You’d spent days preparing yourself for what was to come—hours upon hours of strengthening your resolve by talking yourself through every possible scenario—and yet, as you step off of your family’s ship onto Giedi Prime soil, you must begrudgingly accept that it was all for naught. 

Touching the ground is like touching him. What belongs to him is a part of him, and you sense his presence in every grain of white sand under your shoes. 

Your heart jackrabbits in your chest, pressing against the cage of your ribs. If it could free itself, you wonder in which direction it would leap: back to the ship, ready to return to the protection of your home planet? Or toward the fortress, toward him. You wonder if his hands would be willing to catch it, brush it free of dust and grime and keep it close to his. But there’s no way to know until you’re in front of him. You lost the right to expect him to cradle your most precious organ when you left him without explanation, before he could level you with excuses for what he had done. 

Noticing your absence from their sides, your parents pause and turn back to face you. 

“Have you frozen, dear?” your mother asks with a chuckle. “You don’t appear to be breathing.” 

She glances at your father, whose brows raise and lips curve into a lopsided smile. Your mother loves that smile. It’s one of the qualities she finds so endearing about your father. The first time he smiled that smile, she claimed it soothed her nerves over the arrangement your grandparents made for her future as his wife. And you know that feeling, that sense of calm; the safety of a lover’s company. 

Your body aches as the memories of Feyd settle onto your shoulders. The way he looked at you, the way he touched you, the way he kissed you, held you, moaned your name—all unique to him. They are what persuaded you to open your body, allowing him to wrap a hand around your love and hoard it for himself. And it pains you to know that if he has chosen to let it go, if he no longer cares for it, your love will never be the same. It will not make its way back to you. It will not heal. Like your rejected heart, your love will lie at his feet, shriveled and abused and begging for his attention. 

“Come now, we don’t want to keep the Houses waiting,” your father says. 

Your eyes are sandpaper. You blink. Damn the Houses. The frequency of meetings, which once seemed reasonable considering they afforded you and Feyd more time together, now feels like a nuisance; torture. There is no logical reason why every House member must be in attendance. Your being here changes nothing of the outcomes of negotiations and thinly veiled threats. 

Your mother grabs your hand. “Come,” she demands, towing you toward the aura of darkness.

You flinch as you enter through the doors. You’ve been predicting that upon returning to this place, you would have to fight the urge to cower into a corner, but as your eyes scan the fortress’s interior, all you can think is: home. Black walls and cold floors and hovering orbs of harsh light—a comfort that unexpectedly welcomes you as a former lover rather than rejects you as a traitor. 

Guards lead you further into the fortress toward a familiar room. You’re the first family to arrive—so much for making people wait—and you run your palm across the metal table in the center of the room. How many times have you sat at this table, imagining the rest of your life? Teasing one another? How many times has he taken you on it? As Lords and Ladies join your family, you find it best not to think about it.

You settle into a seat beside your father and, like everyone else, patiently wait for a machine to bring the Baron into the room. As he arrives, so do his nephews. 

You stop breathing.

Feyd’s eyes scan the space until they find you, and though you plead with yourself to look away, you can’t. He’s a force outside of nature. A magnetic presence much too alluring for your willpower to resist. And the longer he looks at you, the quicker the protective shell you’ve worked to build up chips away. 

He chooses to sit across from you rather than by his uncle. Not a seat he was meant to take, but no one argues. 

The Baron talks. Feyd stares. Your body heats. 

Eventually, you find a shred of strength and use it to rip your eyes away from his, but it doesn’t stop the ghostly caress of his gaze. What is he thinking? He doesn’t appear to hate you, but appearances can be deceiving. He’s capable of tamping down his emotions in front of others. There’s no telling what he would do should he get you alone, but you’re determined not to let that happen. You have no reason to be alone with him. He’s not yours. You’re not his. And people who do not belong to one another do not need to spend time secluded from others. 

You remind yourself of that many times over the duration of the meeting, repeating the words in your head until they’re at their barest bones. You’re not his, he’s not yours, never be alone together. Not his, not yours, never alone. Never alone. Never. 

But the harder you push, the more you want it; the more you want to drag him away, put your mouth on his, bite him, feast on his skin, swallow the groans you know you can pull from this throat. 

Fuck. 

You need to get away from him. 

You fidget with your fingers under the table, praying for the seconds to tick faster. Each one passes as if trying to outlast the one before it, and it’s sending you into a spiral of anxiety. Blurry vision, rushing blood, dry throat that’s beginning to overpower your ability to sit silently and still as you are meant to. 

But then, by some miracle, you’re granted mercy. The Baron dismisses the meeting, and you’ve never been more relieved in your life. A chance to escape. To breathe. You rise so quickly that your chair nearly flips over. 

And then you realize your mistake. 

Feyd’s eyes drop to your stomach. 

You swallow hard. 

A flutter fills your belly from the baby’s kick. 

---

A/N: Thank you for reading! If you liked it, please let me know! It makes my day <3 Also, let me know if you wanna be tagged for the next part.

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White Moves First, Part 8 ~ Edmund Pevensie

In another life, y'all, I get to stay at home and drink tea and nibble on snacks while I furiously type my stories like there's no tomorrow. In this life, sadly, I am a student who must spend her time writing chemistry lab reports, giving immunology presentations, and settling the occasional choir drama. Sorry for the three-month-long wait, I hope you guys enjoy!

Summary: Despite the distance between their two lands, Y/N, princess of Archenland, is close friends with King Edmund the Just. But when push comes to shove, will friendship turn to more?

Warnings: none, other than Mr. Rabbitdash being his creepy prince self

Word count: 5.8k

White Moves First masterlist | Main masterlist

Who knew wedding feasts were so overwhelming?

Moments after Edmund and I entered the candlelit hall, my father grabbed my arm, tugging me away from Edmund before I realized what was happening. “There is Lord Dalor, you must greet him and thank him for his attendance.” 

And so it began. 

Everywhere I turned, there was another courtier I’d never seen before congratulating me. I politely listened, trying to keep my eyes on the speaking courtiers instead of Queen Susan’s decorations. She’d done a wonderful job, placing the lavender arrangements I’d chosen in beautiful places, along with pale green and purple ribbons flowing in every direction like a spiderweb. 

I thanked everyone until I was blue in the face. Pretending to be an elated bride got steadily more difficult, and the buzzing of the nobles talking all around me was slowly driving me mad. 

Lord Bote held his goblet aloft, allowing him to place his other hand on his chest in genuine gladness.  “Truly, I was so honored by your invitation to your nuptials.”

Forcing a smile, I nodded. “My father insisted on it personally.” A good reply. Flattering, succinct, and upholding of the impression that I’d been the one to invite any of these people to my wedding. 

Lord Bote beamed. “I do suppose that your–” The rest of his words were drowned out as my father—all the way at the end of the hall, standing at the king’s seat of honor—stood up and called for everyone’s attention. 

My heart sank. What could the king possibly have in mind now?

“Friends, we are so honored by your presence here!” King Loon’s voice boomed. A large cheer rang through the room as goblets were lifted in the air. The king beamed at all his guests, basking in all the attention. “Today is the day of love’s celebration!” A second cheer rose, louder than the first.

“He means his celebration,” muttered a familiar voice beside me, and I slid an arm around Edmund’s back, grateful to have something to hold onto. Edmund wrapped his arm around me in kind, and I squashed the urge to lean into the comfort which was rare on this day. 

“But now is a time of great honor for the couple, an auspicious moment that Archenland has the privilege of witnessing.” My father held out his hand to us. “King Edmund, take your bride onto the dance floor.”

I looked up into Edmund’s face, my high strung heart loosening a bit at the sight I knew so well. 

Edmund’s lips hovered beside my ear. “Shall we?”

I nodded, taking the hand he offered to me as he led me into the center of the dance floor. The music began, sending Edmund into a low bow. I curtsied.

Edmund’s hand slid across my side, centering on my low back to push me closer to him than I’d ever been during a dance. My first impulse was to pull away, as a lifetime of instruction on deportment had instilled in me. But Edmund and I weren’t merely friends anymore. Marriage changed the little courtesies forming the perimeter of our friendship. I tipped my head back to look at Edmund’s face, trying not to blush at how close it was to my own. 

“Finally,” I said quietly as we began the slow steps of a waltz. “I can take a breath.”

I could see the exhaustion tugging at Edmund’s eyes. “Won’t be long now,” he said softly. “Once they’ve all had their fill of ogling the new couple, we can leave.” 

Oh, how I couldn’t wait to do so. All the staring, the comments, the festivity that filled the room. All these courtiers were celebrating because their princess wed, none of whom knew Edmund well and none of whom knew of the narrow escape Edmund was for me. I knew no one in this room would be celebrating as grandly if it were a Calormen prince currently dancing with me for the first time as my husband, just as I knew none of them would’ve outright protested the arrangement. 

I shook my head.

Thirty minutes. For the rest of my life, I would never underestimate the importance of a half-hour.

The cause of my marriage predicament caught my eye, the Calormen prince lingering at the entrance to the hall, watching us with the posture of indifference, but the eyes of a hunter. 

I gulped. “Rabadash is by the door.”

When we were younger, Edmund pursed his lips whenever he held back words he wanted to say. As he got older, he outgrew the habit, but occasionally, I could see the slightest twitch in the muscles of his cheek. If one didn’t know him, they might think he was fighting a smile instead of the urge to speak. Edmund spun us, his eyes lifting for a moment as he confirmed what I’d just told him, and his cheek muscles twitched.

I longed to know what it was he wasn’t saying. 

Edmund spun us again so that he was once more in between the Calormen prince and I, as if to shield me from any possible harm from that predatory stare. 

“Will he never leave us alone?” I said in despair. 

Edmund’s eyes were fixated on me, his freckles standing out even in the low candlelight of the hall. “When the song ends,” he whispered, “I’m going to dip you.”

I glanced at the prince again, trying to ignore the fear worming in my gut. “And kiss me.”

Edmund grinned, and for a moment, I believed it was the idea of kissing me that made him look so eager and lively. “Adding to my strategies again?” he asked, with fondness that was even better than the eagerness. 

“I can hardly help it,” I replied. “If there’s room for improvement, I should speak up, should I not?”

“You should indeed.” Edmund twirled me and then brought me back to him, even closer than before, making me crane my neck to keep eye contact. “Since you’re the expert, what kind of kiss would you recommend?”

My heart stuttered as I lowered my gaze to the ruffles of Edmund’s doublet, suddenly bashful. “I’m hardly an expert,” I hedged. “After all, my first was only a few hours ago.”

Did I imagine the tremble in the hand at my back? “But you are the lady,” Edmund replied. “Ladies should dictate what kisses they want…so they’re expecting them.”

“But a wife expects any and all kisses from her husband, does she not?”

Edmund’s lips parted for a moment, his chest rising and falling in a quick breath. “I don’t know, I’d have to ask mine.”

I maintained eye contact, trying to uncover the unspoken words. What was he trying to say? Was he asking permission? Or was there something deeper?

Eyes never leaving mine, Edmund gently braced his hands on my hips before lifting me into the air. With his hands holding me up and my feet apart from the floor, my lungs couldn’t quite draw breath. Even once he set me down to stand on my own merit, the breathlessness didn’t subside. 

Edmund’s Adam’s apple bobbed, clueing me into the nerves he felt. My friend and husband was someone who sought out knowledge, who liked to know what to expect, who preferred a foundation of things he could understand. Perhaps, in asking my opinion on what kiss he should give, the man was looking for that same foundation. 

I didn’t know what kind of kiss was most likely to discourage Rabadash. I had a sinking feeling that if Rabadash wanted to be encouraged, anything could fuel his fire. But how did I want Edmund to kiss me? Well, I wanted him to kiss me the way he had earlier. Like he meant it. Like there was no one else in the world he’d rather kiss, even if a roomful of people watched. 

“I want you–” My voice was hoarse, so I cleared it, trying not to lose my nerve. “I want you to kiss me slowly.” Edmund met my gaze, and my heart jumped in my throat. His gaze had no right being that intense, it scrambled the words in my brain. “If…if you really wanted to kiss me,” I stammered, “i-if we really want Rabadash to think we’re in love, then you should take your time. Like there’s nowhere else you want to be.”

The only answer I got at first was a slow nod. Had I overdone it? Was he uncomfortable? 

But when Edmund finally spoke, it wasn’t a change of the subject or a rejection. “What else?”

I squeezed the steady, calloused hand in mine. “Put your hand on the back of my head as you dip me…like I’m precious to you.”

“You are,” Edmund said immediately, then blinked as if surprised by his own words. He seemed to waver on taking it back before quietly repeating himself, sounding more sure now. “You are.”

I smiled warmly, to ease the striking caution I saw on his face. I knew what he meant. Edmund was precious to me too, especially when I could tell that his mind was attempting to untangle his uncertainty in this unfamiliar situation. “Don’t open your eyes right away afterwards, no matter how everyone reacts. Just…stay in the moment with me.” I waited for Edmund’s response, too terrified to keep talking. 

The corners of his mouth turned up, and underneath my hand, his shoulder relaxed. “It’s easy to stay in this moment. With you.”

Suddenly, looking up at Edmund's almost-smiling face, I wanted the song to end. 

In the way my father was basking in attention, I’d been basking in the proximity with Edmund, dreading the moment the song would end and separate us again to face the sycophantic crowd. And now I wanted the music to trail off, to lean backwards and know that Edmund’s arms would be there to catch me and his lips to greet me.

By Aslan, what was happening to me?

Now I was more nervous than before. This wedding was confusing, in every possible way, and also not anything close to what I expected. 

As a princess, as a spare for the throne, I’d never held the power of choice, but even if that luxury had been mine, I never would’ve dared to presume my groom would be a king, and King Edmund at that.

I also never expected a wedding to happen so quickly. Royals were sometimes engaged as children, having almost a decade to get used to the idea of marriage. Even if engagements were sudden, royal weddings didn’t come together almost overnight as this one had. 

And my mother wasn’t here.

She’d been gone for years, taken from me so long ago that the idea of an alive mother seemed more foreign than having a dead one. This was an event where she would’ve been hosting. She would’ve been the one picking the decorations, ensuring the food was prepared, standing at my father’s side as they celebrated their daughter’s good fortune. Perhaps that was why my father kept moving amongst the crowd, never staying in one place for too long lest the grief could catch up with him. Perhaps he was right by having me try on my mother’s dress. All he wanted was for her to be here tonight. 

Or was that too generous an assessment? 

“What’s wrong?”

Shaken from my reverie, I came back to the present moment, blushing a bit when I realized I’d just done the opposite of what I told Edmund to do. “I was just thinking about my mom.” I poked my tongue against the inside of my cheek, trying to figure out whether or not to continue.

“Thinking what?”

“Thinking…about how my dad must feel.” I gave a half-hearted smile. “If your daughter is getting married…it’d make sense that you’d miss your wife, right?”

Edmund didn’t answer, looking characteristically thoughtful. But when he replied, it wasn’t an affirmation or denial. “Do you think she would’ve liked me?” 

“I…” My cheeks flushed. I didn’t remember her well enough to know. “I hope so.”

The responding expression wasn’t confused or pitying. It was discerning. All my life, I’d been a transparent princess—I existed. Ignored as easily as I was made a show of. Unreachable by rank. Mysterious by design. 

But when Edmund was in the room, I did more than exist.

I was corporeal. I had feelings. I carried importance. 

The music grew softer. Edmund let go of my hand to brace his at the base of my neck, guiding me backwards. Resting my hands on his shoulders, I allowed him to hold my weight. 

He kissed me, not moving from the dip position. 

At first, my mind raced. Were my lips too tense? Did I need to relax? Or was I supposed to move my lips? Edmund was moving his lips a little. I tried to match the movement, but it was peculiar. My hands tightened on his neck, my body starting to panic a bit at still being held above the floor. Would Edmund’s arms get tired? Would he drop me? 

And then Edmund’s tongue brushed my bottom lip, and I stopped thinking. My body loosened, like I was silver softening in a smith’s flame, and, by Aslan, Edmund held me like I was something precious. 

Slowly, without breaking the kiss, Edmund lifted me up again, setting me on my feet just as the warmth of his face disappeared from mine. I opened my eyes, too curious to help myself.

Edmund’s eyes stayed closed, just as I’d instructed, and his brow was furrowed as though he were in pain. I gazed at his pale complexion, drinking in the noble bridge of his nose and the dark locks of hair resting on his forehead. Then I noticed his lips looked pinker than normal. Was that from our kiss? 

Applause broke my trance, and Edmund’s eyes opened, a warm smile crossing his face. 

“We survived,” I said lightly, biting my lip to keep from grinning in too undignified a way for a princess. 

Someone in the crowd let out a particularly loud cheer, and Edmund’s cheek muscles twitched again. “Twenty more minutes,” he said quietly, “and I’m tying the tablecloths together to get us out of here through the window.”

I laughed, marveling at Edmund’s ability to put me at ease. “I happen to be an excellent knotter.”

“One of the many perks of marrying you,” Edmund said before stepping away to hold out his hand. I took it, allowing him to guide me off the dance floor. We were not among the courtiers for a moment before my father came and whisked Edmund away, leaving me behind. 

I frowned at my father’s rush to separate us but quickly had to rearrange my face into a gracious smile as Lord Mor appeared out of nowhere. With no polite way to extricate myself from the situation, I had no choice but to listen to his inane chatter while searching the crowd to see where my husband had gone. 

“Excuse me, Lord Mor,” Cor said politely, appearing at my side. “May I speak with my sister for a moment?”

Lord Mor bowed cheerfully and left. 

“Thanks for the save,” I mumbled, turning to face my oldest brother. 

“What are brothers for?” Cor smiled. 

An arm slung around my waist in a casual move only the other twin would do. “Next time you dance with your husband,” Corin said, lifting his goblet, “tell him to save the kiss for later.” 

I blushed furiously. Funny, I’d only been thinking of Rabadash seeing our kiss, not the hall full of others and certainly not my brothers. What would a happily married woman say to her brothers after comments like that? When the women of court were married, they seemed to laud their status and knowledge as married women over all the unmarried ones. “When the two of you fall in love, you’ll understand.” I tried to say it as loftily as the other women did, but my brothers just gave me strange looks. 

“Gross,” Cor said, his face pinched. 

“Heads up,” Corin said, his tone more serious than I knew to expect from him. He gestured with his goblet, and the three of us looked over to see Edmund deep in discussion with my father. King Loon looked more relaxed than I’d ever seen him, and I momentarily wondered how many goblets of wine he’d drunk. Or perhaps it was the court’s undivided attention he was drunk on. 

Edmund, on the other hand, stood rigidly; the only part of him moving was his fist at his side, which clenched and unclenched repeatedly. 

Immediately, the three of us whisked across the room to join the kings. “Father, you haven’t spoken to Lord Mor,” Cor quickly said as I slid my hand across Edmund’s middle, trying to comfort my friend. 

The king grinned, clapped Edmund on the shoulder, and loudly said, “we’ll discuss it tomorrow, my boy!” And with that, my father allowed Cor to lead him away with Corin on the other side. 

“What was that about?” I asked Edmund, twisting around so that I stood in front of him.

Edmund worked his jaw, staring the way my father had gone. “I’ll tell you later.” The tense set of his face made my chest ache a little. He’d given so much to me and my father and my people. All day, he’d done what was expected of him, with no complaint. 

All of it was too much, and more than enough for tonight. 

Winding my hand through his, I tugged him gently into a walk beside me. 

“Where are we going?” Edmund asked. 

“Bed,” was all I answered. 

-

It was customary for a husband to bring his wife to his own bedchamber, but Edmund was glad when Y/N instead brought him to a different guest chamber. It was almost identical to his, but minus the possessions strewn about the furniture and carpet. He’d have to pack those in the morning before they left for Narnia. 

“I have never been so tired in my life,” Edmund groaned, falling onto the bed. “Are weddings always like this?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Y/N fell onto the bed beside him. “Ours is the first I’ve ever been to.”

“I would be satisfied if it was the only one I’d ever have to go to.”

Y/N huffed in agreement. 

Oh, it was a relief to lay down. It was as if Edmund’s body exhaled out the tension of the day, finally allowing him to relax. Before dancing together, King Loon had directed Edmund through an endless stream of sycophantic men and women. It wouldn’t have been so terrible, if only King Loon had allowed Edmund and Y/N to discourse with the guests together, but it almost seemed as if the king were trying to keep Edmund away from his daughter.

Edmund shook his head. No, it was far more likely that King Loon intended to take advantage of having Y/N and Edmund around while he still could.

Then the dancing.

Dancing with Y/N was much more pleasant than talking with people he didn’t know, but then again, doing anything with Y/N was much more pleasant than most anything else. 

Including foiling a certain prince.

Yes, that was very pleasant. 

It’s too bad there were no teams in chess. Edmund had no doubt that he and Y/N would decimate any opponents. He sat up, looking at his wife. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, for what felt like the tenth time that day. He could hardly help it if their wedding warranted constant check-ins with his friend’s wellbeing. If the wedding had truly been an event born of ‘love’s celebration’, he’d be able to read into Y/N’s smiles and expressions of excitement. But with the pretenses they were holding up, Edmund couldn’t assume anything. 

But when Y/N smiled at him just now, it wasn’t like the smiles of the day. Her lips spread into a soft smile, setting Edmund at ease in the way only Y/N could. “I’m good. Are you?”

“Better now,” Edmund answered honestly. Here, in the privacy of their temporary chamber, they didn’t have to force anything. They could just be who they were. 

Too soon, the happy moment ended as Y/N squeezed Edmund’s shoulder and got to her feet. “Time to get ready for bed.” Edmund groaned, too comfortable to move. Astonishing, really, how exhaustion reordered one’s priorities. 

Y/N stood, unclasping her necklace and pulling out her earrings before placing the jewelry on the bedside table. Edmund watched her slide his old signet ring off her ring finger and back onto her pointer finger. Perhaps he should’ve felt slighted by the action, but really, she was right, it looked much better on that finger. 

“Um…” Y/N shifted, fiddling with the laces on the back of her dress. “Do you mind?” 

Edmund stared at her reddening cheeks, confused at first by what she meant. Then realization dawned, and his own flared. “Ah, of course.” He quickly jumped off the bed, walking around to meet her. 

Y/N turned around, presenting the laces to him. Edmund nervously wiped his hands on his pants, staring at the neat knot at the bottom of the bodice, right where his hand had been while dancing. Funny, he hadn’t remembered feeling the knot there. 

Taking a quick breath, he started on the knot. The little cords were tinier than Edmund was accustomed to working with. On a ship, the knots of a rope were much thicker and easier to undo, even if they did cause ropeburn. His fingers felt awkwardly large as he tried to undo it, but the knot held firm. “You’re too good a knotter,” he grumbled. 

Y/N’s delicate shoulders shook, from shivers or laughter, Edmund couldn’t tell until she spoke with great mirth. “Having a spot of trouble?”

“Blast,” Edmund muttered, and her shoulders shook a little again. “How secure does a dress need to be?” he groused, suddenly thankful that men’s fashion didn’t require a helper to get in and out of. No wonder Y/N had a designated lady’s maid, she had to do this every day, sometimes multiple times.

He tried to use his thumbnail to get some leverage on the knot, but it continued to make him look inadequate in front of his wife. Another minute, and he’d rip the damn dress apart out of pure frustration.

As soon as he thought the thought, his fingers slipped on the laces. Calm down, he told himself sternly. You’re a king, for crying out loud. Act like it. 

“You never told me what the problem with your dress was,” Edmund said. 

With his hands fidgeting with the knot at her back, he felt her spine stiffen. “It was nothing.”

“Y/N. Honesty.”

The princess let out a heavy sigh. Edmund could imagine her face, slightly irritated and anxious, weighing her words as he knew her to do. He wanted to know if he was right, if his mind could predict what she looked like, but he had a hunch this conversation would be easier for her without being face-to-face.

 “My father…wanted me to wear my mother’s dress.” Edmund’s fingers froze, the stubborn knot still in his grasp, as he waited for her to go on and attempted to control his anger with more CHARACTER than King Loon attempted to control Y/N. Y/N shifted her weight. “He said I was always meant to wear it.” 

“Did you like it?” Edmund asked with extreme care. “The dress?”

“It was pretty,” was her only answer.

“So you didn’t like it.”

Y/N’s hands slid down her skirt, her fingers sweeping across the fabric. “Not the way I like this one.”

Edmund nodded, satisfied. Finally, the knot gave, and he made quick work of the loops, freeing his wife at last. He turned away from her to face the wall, silently allowing her the privacy to step out of the dress. Then he looked down at his own clothes. Normally he slept in only a pair of sleep breeches, but doing that tonight felt indecent. So he simply took off his boots and fancy doublet, leaving his trousers and undershirt. Anything more could wait until they had a space of their own to solidify their nightly routine. 

He could still hear Y/N rustling about, so he stayed where he was, stifling a large yawn with his hand. The rustling continued. 

“I’m done,” Y/N finally announced, and Edmund turned to see her already sliding in between the covers of the bed. She fought a large yawn as she ran her fingers through her unbound hair.

Had her hair always been that long? It tumbled over halfway down her back, a few short pieces in the front to softly frame her face. Suddenly, the Archenland hairstyles peeved Edmund. Y/N should’ve always been wearing her hair this way. 

He reprimanded himself again. Not appropriate thoughts to have about his friend. 

He got into bed beside her, feeling glad he’d sent a note ahead to Cair Paravel to Peter to prepare the bedchamber where they would sleep. He couldn’t imagine bringing Y/N into the chamber he’d had for years in Cair Paravel. Literally. His mind couldn’t conjure the image of her walking in and staring at the organized chaos of Edmund’s things. 

The maids at Cair Paravel long ago learned not to disturb Edmund’s chambers for something as disruptive as cleaning. Once, they’d rearranged all of Edmund’s books from his ordered yet overflowing stacks onto his bookshelves, and Edmund nearly had an aneurysm. Sure, it looked messy to the outsider, but really it was an intricate system of information in the forms of books, parchment, and broken quills. An outsider would never be able to appreciate all the little marks on Edmund’s bedpost from Edmund’s attempts to master knife throwing just for the sake of knowing how to do it. 

The idea of bringing some mysterious wife into that space troubled Edmund, but he had a feeling that Y/N, his friend, would gladly stand next to him and learn knife-throwing. 

And grow more accomplished at it than he.

Nonetheless, Edmund requested Peter move all his parchment and books to a new study while having the furniture replaced and the chambers thoroughly cleaned. The only thing that Edmund had asked to remain was his solid gold chess set, a gift from a foreign dignitary whose name Edmund had forgotten. Y/N had never seen his chess set. Considering she always teased him for choosing to play black, he could already imagine the two of them chuckling over the black pieces being gold instead. 

“I can’t wait to see Narnia,” Y/N said suddenly, as if she’d been thinking similar thoughts. 

Edmund grinned up at the ceiling. “I can’t wait to show it to you.” What fun the two of them could have. He could show her the library and point out the best armchair by the window with just enough light in the evenings to read by. Oh, and she’d adore the sweet pastries he sometimes nicked from the kitchens while all the staff pretended not to see. And the best place to go in the castle to see the stars at night. The constellations would be the same as Y/N had grown up with. Maybe it’d make her a little less homesick on nights when she missed her homeland. 

They laid side-by-side in silence, and Edmund felt his eyes getting heavier and heavier. 

“What were you and my father talking about?” Y/N asked, as quiet and light as a flame. 

A flash of anger doused Edmund’s insides, waking him up immediately. He rolled to his side, propping his head up on his fist so that he could look down into her face. “Your father was asking when your coronation will be. He wanted to plan it for the day after tomorrow.” In Archenland. King Loon wanted to crown a Narnian monarch in Archenland’s hall. On a day’s notice. Nevermind the concern of crowning a queen in what wasn’t to be her new country, Y/N deserved more than a rushed and disorganized coronation. 

Y/N seemed to shrink into the comfort of her pillow, as if she wanted to be swallowed up by the soft down and feathers. “Oh.”

“Y/N?” He waited until Y/N looked at him with curious eyes. “Do you want to be a queen?”

Y/N’s expression was marble smooth, giving him no clues as to her thoughts. Finally, she said, “Narnia already has two queens.”

Edmund narrowed his eyes, trying to analyze her tone. “If you wished it, a coronation could easily be arranged. But…should you not wish it…remaining a princess would be…satisfactory.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, bestowing Edmund with her sudden humorous twinkle. “Satisfactory?”

“You know what I mean,” Edmund grunted, falling flat on his back, preferring the sight of the ceiling for his sanity.

But instead of leaving him to privately stave off embarrassment, Y/N turned onto her side, her thankfully serious face appearing in his view. “Shouldn’t this be a conversation between you and your siblings?”

“It will be. But I want to know what you want before I talk with them.” 

The princess seemed to digest this, her eyes drifting off to the side as she thought. She had this habit of puckering up her lips when she was deep in thought, Edmund saw it often when they played chess. Her mind was the most appealing part of her, so it was unfair that whenever she was lost in it, her lips furrowed together as if begging to be kissed. 

Edmund shook his head. Really? Was he coming down with a fever or something? 

“Is it even wise to have a foreign queen if there are already two?” Y/N asked. 

Edmund shrugged. “Susan and Lucy weren’t born in Narnia any more than you were.” Y/N glanced down at the bedding, her hair falling into her face. Without missing a beat, Edmund reached up to tuck the traitorous locks behind her ear. 

Y/N’s eyes fluttered as his fingers brushed the shell of her ear. “Do my duties change based on my title?” she asked. 

“Officially? Perhaps.” Edmund withdrew his hand. “Practically? Likely not.”

Y/N nodded once, meeting his eyes again. “Then I think I would like to remain a princess. Coronations sound scary.” 

Edmund sat up, and Y/N leaned back so they didn’t collide. He intended to ask her if she was sure, but the sight of her contented expression in front of her unbound hair across the pillow told him all he needed to know. Maybe later she would change her mind, and they would organize a coronation then, but for now? She didn’t want that, and Edmund wasn’t about to give her something she didn’t want. “Okay,” he said softly.

She smirked. “Though I still hope the Narnians might grant me a nickname like they have you and your siblings.”

“Oh, certainly,” Edmund replied. “Especially if they see your fear of coronations.” He gestured grandly. “Princess Y/N the cowardly.”

His friend snorted, running her hands through her unbound hair. “More like Princess Y/N the prudent.”

“Y/N the theatrical.”

“Y/N the eloquent.”

“Y/N the laughable.”

Y/N held up a finger. “Y/N the modest.”

“Y/N the loquacious.”

She burst into giggles at that one, a sound that was impossible not to love. Edmund chuckled, unable to help himself. 

Their laughter quieted as both settled into their pillows. “Blow the candles out?” Edmund asked. 

Y/N hummed, and both of them blew out the candles on their bedside tables. 

They didn’t talk anymore. The only sound in the darkness was the occasional rustle as Edmund or Y/N changed position. 

Edmund had never shared a bed before. Was Y/N a light sleeper? Would adjusting his position wake her up? Edmund’d never been able to fall asleep quickly; his mind was too active. What if Y/N didn’t feel comfortable falling asleep until he was asleep?

Oh, Aslan, what if Edmund snored? He didn’t think he could ever live it down if he snored and she couldn’t sleep because of it. If he did snore, they’d have to sleep in different bedrooms. Maybe they needed to do that anyways. Would Y/N prefer her own room at Cair Paravel? Would she tell him if she did, or would she simply follow his lead? Maybe Edmund needed to just assume she would prefer a different room. But what if she found it insulting? In the morning, he could ask her, she had promised him honesty if he asked for it. 

There, it was settled. He’d ask in the morning.

Oh, he was an unthinking moron. He should’ve asked her before they settled in to sleep tonight. But then again, he didn’t doubt that the Archenland court and staff would gossip wildly if they knew Y/N and Edmund slept in different rooms on their wedding night. The staff at Cair Paravel would be much more understanding, so maybe they needed to wait at least until they were in Narnia. 

“Edmund?” Y/N said tentatively into the darkness. 

“Yes?” 

“Remember when you promised to do whatever I requested?”

“Yes.” Oh no, was she about to ask for a different room? Edmund decided he would be the one to leave. He didn’t want her walking around the halls on her wedding night, people were much more likely to question her than him. 

“Will you…will you hug me?” 

Edmund blinked. “Of course.” He shuffled over to her, and Y/N shuffled into his arms before he could decide on the logistics of hugging while horizontal. 

His right arm acted as a pillow for Y/N’s head while his left curled around her back, holding her close. His fingers unintentionally tangled up in her hair, and it felt exactly as he’d expected. Y/N tucked her head just underneath his chin, the tip of her nose brushing the hollow of his throat. He rubbed her back gently, wanting to reassure her. 

This was…surprisingly nice. Sure, maybe Edmund’s arm would fall asleep with Y/N laying on it, but until it fell asleep, it was very comforting. Y/N seemed to agree. He felt rather than heard the long exhale from Y/N’s body as she nestled into his embrace.

When he sleepily laid back a little so he wasn’t directly on his side, somehow Y/N’s head ended up in the crook of his neck. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was Y/N’s hand slowly coming to rest on his chest.

-

Overall tag list:

@thelastpyle @valiantlytransparentwhispers

White Moves First tag list:

@thesecretlifeofpenguins @read-just-cant @chesh-ire-cat @emotionallyattachedteen @cassini-among-the-stars @uncontainedsmiles @mastermasterlist1p1 @goldfishinpainttubes @silverowl102 @daisyslife

[namiusedbubble]

say it (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: 18+, mentions of sex, jealousy-schemes, depictions of violence, blood, angst, fluff, Roman using his powers for no good as always

summary: many questions have been left unanswered-- was Roman really going to take revenge on the girls that hurt you, and would the avalanche of events lead him to finally tell you the words you've longing to hear?

word count: 9,208 (holy fuck)

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5

a/n: celebrating 400 followers (???) with an extra long chapter!! thank you all again for the support of this series!! all the comments have warmed my heaaarttt omg hope you enjoy!!!<3333 love u!!

Roman had always been highly unpredictable-- but this, I should've expected.

My hands trembled as I reached for the brand new phone in my locker, realizing he had bought me the most recent model he could find. As I picked it up, I slowly pried away the attached post-it note;

taking care of things - the one thing I do well

Knowing I had asked him not to do this, I could only sigh as I tucked my new phone away in my pocket. The day had certainly started on an odd note, but my main concern wasn't this-- it was rather the question of what Roman had done after he stormed away from my house that kept my mind occupied. 

Roman could be scary, and I was aware of this. But gifting me a brand new phone for several hundred dollars? It just proved I could never foresee his next moves. This only made me more anxious to learn why he had left my place in such a hurry shortly after seeing the cuts Jasmine had left on the back of my hands. 

As I closed the door to my locker, a group of girls passed me, their whispers catching my attention. I turned around, ready to face off with another group of bitches just like yesterday, all until I realized what they were whispering about. It wasn't me. 

I followed their gazes which were focused on something further down the hall, and it was at this moment that I spotted the man who hadn't answered any of my panicked messages or calls-- instead, he stood talking to Jasmine. 

Thankfully, it seemed to be quite a heated conversation, unlike how he usually spoke to girls. Roman's brows were drawn together in anger, nearing her slowly in his typical tactic of intimidation, clearly telling her off; I stood frozen by my locker, not bothering to suppress my growing smile at the sight. My stomach fluttered with warmth as I realized that he was standing up for me.

... However, my smile quickly faltered as I caught the change in Jasmine's face. Her lips had been pursed, her finger had been drawn forward to point at him in defense, but her whole fight-back demeanor faded within the snap of a second. It was as though she lost all the blood in her face, eyes not blinking as they met Roman's intense gaze-- everything about her state reminded me of mine yesterday, when I suddenly couldn't control my own words when I looked into his eyes and he interrogated me about my wounds. 

I couldn't deny how dangerous Roman looked, watching as he told her one last, short thing, before harshly nudging her shoulder and disappearing out of view.

Jasmine stood by her locker, completely frozen. I wondered whether she was still breathing, all until she finally moved. She slowly turned to stare into her reflection in the mirror she had hung up on her locker, still not blinking. 

I didn't think I could shriek the way I did-- the extent of my voice was something I discovered as Jasmine unexpectedly slammed her head against the mirror, a loud thud echoing through the hall. 

I wasn't the only one who had been caught by surprise, and I watched the people around her jump away in a mix of both fear and shock. 

Jasmine didn't look like herself; her eyes were dull, hollow, as she brought her head to her locker once more, now leaving bloody cracks in the mirror. 

I recognized Jasmine's posse of girls flocking to make their way through the crowds, and Letha appeared almost out of nowhere to grab her and pull her away from her locker. A shrill cry followed from Jasmine, who was clawing at Letha as though possessed. I watched as she fought, yelled-- I couldn't look at it anymore. I couldn't look at the tiny trickle of blood running down her nose, similar to Roman yesterday, or the small shards of glass she had managed to get lodged into her forehead. 

I turned away, clasping a hand over my mouth as I squeezed my eyes shut; something told me that the sight of the whole thing would burn itself into my mind forever.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡��┈• ｡ﾟ

Oh, how right I was. I kept replaying the whole scene, but I had oddly enough fixated on something that wasn't the blood-- suddenly, my mind kept replaying how ridiculously hot Roman looked leaned over Jasmine with his intense, big eyes. 

I did my best not to think too much about it. I couldn't; it all brought back thoughts of how soft his lips were against mine.

Speaking of Roman, I didn't expect to talk to him at all today. He still hadn't answered any of my messages, so I assumed he needed time away to cool off.  However, I knew I had him cornered when I accidentally walked into the chemistry lab, catching him in the middle of... an experiment?

This was certainly a new side of Roman which I hadn't seen before-- I had never seen him do anything school-related, as I had gathered he didn't care much for it from our study sessions at Letha's place before everything happened. But here he was, so consumed in whatever he was doing that he didn't acknowledge that I had closed the door, leaving us alone in a confined space.

I pressed my back against the cold door, watching him from afar. Something about how calm he was made me uneasy; why was he so focused? Roman, captivated by the small, compact container before him, kept his eyes on his work as he spoke; "Are you lost?"

My brows drew together as I watched him pour a liquid gel into the container which contained what looked like blood-- he was so meticulous that it gave me an inkling that he had done this several times before. "No," I mumbled, clearing my throat as I fought my queasiness at the sight of his experiment. "What are you doing?"

Roman barely reacted to my question, busy with putting the container into a machine nearby. "Genetic testing,"

"Since when do you know how to do that?"

Annoyed by my continuous interruptions, Roman's gloved hand put the blood-box into the machine and pressed a button to start it, finally looking up to meet my nervous, flickering gaze. "You certainly have a lot of questions today," he huffed, adjusting his protective glasses. "My turn. How are your hands?"

I suddenly became very aware of the cuts on the back of my hands, and my eyes diverted down to watch my thumbs nervously brush over my wounded skin. "They'll heal. I'm not too worried about it," My next inquiry was one I was wary to say, but it became obvious to me that I had to; "I'm more worried about why you stormed off like that last night."

Roman didn't move a muscle, watching me with a blank look on his face. "You told me to go,"

"Come on," I was reminded of what my state had led me to yesterday; the way I wanted to push Roman away, to never see him again. But here I was, standing before him with no greater wish than to run to him. "I was worried sick that you'd do something... You looked like you were ready to kill someone." It was at this moment that I dared to look back at him and suddenly caught a glimpse of the hickey I had left on the side of his throat-- I immediately felt a familiar warmth creep up my cheeks, leaving me with a flustered, reddening expression on my face. "What did you do?"

Roman tilted his head to the side, scanning my state. "I haven't done anything--"

"Then why did you?--"

"Major," Roman bit down on his lower lip, trying to suppress his shameless grin. The familiar spark in his green eyes returned, and I could see it perfectly clear through his protective gear-- no matter how worried his words made me, that look never failed to make the butterflies in my stomach explode all over the place. 

I had to pull myself together, but my voice came out frail and shaky; "You're kidding, right?"

I recognized Roman's wish to remain reactionless and the way he fought the rounding out of his big, green eyes. It seemed to dawn on him that I was genuinely concerned. "... Sure. But what did you think of what happened this morning with Jasmine?"

"What?" That was certainly unexpected-- "Why?" I wanted to ask what he had said to her, but something told me he wouldn't tell me the truth about it anyway. Instead, I opted to find comfort in the fact that he had confronted her for my sake. 

Roman shrugged before his attention moved back to the machine. It was beeping rather obnoxiously, a sound impossible to ignore. He got back to work, pressing a few buttons here and there; "Just wondering. Did it not make you feel good to see her like that?"

I couldn't put my finger on why he was asking these peculiar questions. "Well... No? I was mostly scared. I've never seen anyone have a nervous breakdown before, and I didn't expect something like that to happen to Jasmine,"

"Nervous breakdown," Roman echoed, checking some numbers he had written down on a sheet nearby. Something told me he was upset I wasn't over the moon about it. "Don't you feel like she deserved it?"

It was mind-boggling to hear him talk like this, with such nonchalance about a girl slamming her head bloody-- I had suppressed the memory of this side of him. The inclination to anything pain-related, the scorching look of amusement in his green eyes at the sight of my flaring anxiety, and the infamous fucking needles. How he had gotten hard when seeing how scared I was when we hid from Letha on our first date. 

I hated every reminder of this side of Roman. Hated it. 

"I don't think anyone deserves to be driven to that," I mumbled, picking at my nails out of nervous habit. "I didn't know she was dealing with anything that would lead her to do that. Maybe that's why she acted out yesterday? I hope that's the reason, and not because Letha sent her to do it... " With a sigh, I brought my hands up to rub my temples. "It was so damn scary... The whole thing. And ever since, my head has been hurting like crazy."

Taking in the silence that ensued, Roman tapped the spot next to him on the counter-- come here.

I held my breath as I made my way over with shy steps, hoisting myself up on the cold surface. I watched as Roman removed his gloves along with the protective glasses, now reaching forward to part my legs and make space for himself between them. He listened to the hitch of my breath as he laid his hands on my hips, his calculated gaze scanning mine whilst pulling me towards him. 

By instinct, I rested my hands on his broad shoulders, taking in the moment our breaths became shared. Right now, it was impossible to believe that I had made the wrong choice in choosing him over my friendship with Letha-- something about the tenderness with which he was touching me, told me he was changing right before my eyes. 

With baby steps, of course.

Roman seemed to be taking pity on my state, softly nudging his upturned nose against mine. "Try not to think about it too much," he breathed, watching as I closed my eyes to savour the moment. "Trust that I know how to take care of this."

No, no, no-- "Please don't say that," I pulled away, my hands slowly reaching for his face, searching for the intent behind his eyes. "I know you well enough to know that you're capable of things I don't want to get into, and honestly? You scare me when you say shit like that."

Roman's brows drew together in a troubled look; "I scare you?"

"Yeah," I breathed, stroking my thumbs across his cheeks. "You and your infamous needles and stuff."

A drawn-out groan ensued-- "Again with the fucking needles!--"

"Roman!" My grip on his face hardened in an attempt to keep his focus. I watched his green eyes widen, clearly not used to being handled like that. "Whatever it is, please snap out of it! You can't even tell me that you're into me, but you're ready to go back to being all dark, and for what? My honour?"

Something in Roman's eyes changed-- For once in his life, he was stunned, unable to utter a proper response. 

Overcome by a newfound sense of confidence in his unproclaimed feelings for me, I gently twisted my fingers into the nape of his neck, pulling him in for a soft kiss. Roman let out a relieved sigh against my lips, his grip on my hips tightening as he moved me closer to the edge of the counter, closer to him. 

It took a lot of willpower to disconnect our kiss, the warmth of his touch luring me in. "I'm serious," I said, nudging his nose as I felt his breath hot against my upper lip. "I can stand up for myself--"

"Shut up," Roman's lips came crashing against mine with a hunger I hadn't expected, especially knowing we could be walked in on at any moment. But I gave in, letting his greedy hands travel further to grab my ass, pressing me against him as his tongue moved softly against mine. 

Usually, I'd taste the hints of his cinnamon cigarettes, but today there was nothing-- I knew he didn't smoke the days he knew he had to be focused. There wasn't much time to ponder why, especially now that our kiss heated further.

As I felt Roman drive his teeth into my lower lip, I could only whimper against him. My grip on his hair tightened in an attempt to pull him even closer, but the sharp sting of the tug only fueled Roman's obvious growing need for more. 

It was building in me as well-- in my anxious daze, I had forgotten how good it felt to feel him against me. How thrilling every touch, every kiss, every little breath was. And if anyone had told me a month ago that Roman Godfrey would be grabbing my ass in the chemistry lab, I would've probably fainted; which I struggled not to do right now.

And I knew we would've gone further, beyond all restrictions and rules of the school, had the door not opened with a loud creak.

Squeaking, I pushed Roman away out of pure instinct. He didn't go very far, feet planted to the ground, as his hands trailed down to rest comfortably at my thighs when he met the eyes of the intruder of our moment.

Letha still held onto the doorknob as though her life depended on it, knuckles nearly turning white at the sheer force-- she inhaled sharply, not yet able to exhale. 

I felt like an icicle, frozen by fear on the counter after meeting the eyes of my ex-best friend. Roman's hands on my thighs burned, the realization of being caught in such a compromising position making me want to burst into flames like the witches of Salem. 

Roman took the lead, catching onto the intense staring-contenst which ensued between me and his cousin; "Did you need anything?" he asked, gaze hardening. 

Letha cleared her throat, letting go of the door. I couldn't help but notice the slight shake of her hands. "I need to talk to you, Ro," 

"I don't want to talk," 

She sighed, visibly fed up with her stubborn cousin; "We didn't finish this conversation yesterday. Don't act like we're not still talking because she's here,"

Oh? I held my breath, my nervous gaze moving to Roman. He remained unfazed, but the minuscule twitch of his eye revealed that he didn't enjoy that information being aired out. "What do you want?"

"To talk. It's important," Letha glanced at me once more, an unintelligible emotion glossing over her eyes as she looked back at me; "Could you please leave?"

It took a few seconds before I realized she was talking to me. The coldness in her voice broke my heart all over-- I didn't have the energy to fight her. Uncomfortable and mortified by the situation, I nodded to myself before sliding off the counter, Roman's hand never leaving me. He now held onto my arm, not letting me gi just yet. Leaning down to my level, he made sure he had my attention before he spoke in a hushed tone; "My number is already in your phone. Give me a text when you're free for lunch,"

My heart leaped up into the air as Roman pressed his lips against my forehead, the sincerity of the gesture flustering me beyond any previous point-- it was especially meaningful now that he did it in front of Letha. Realizing there was no going back, I got up on my toes to give him a short, soft kiss, feeling the plushness of his lips against mine before making my way to the door.

Passing Letha might've taken less than a second, but it felt like hours. I felt her green eyes burn into me, a sense of shock apparent in her body. We exchanged a short look, and I wondered whether I imagined the look of longing that so clearly streaked across her face; I didn't allow myself to dwell on it.

After closing the door behind me, I realized I had been holding my breath. I took a moment, regaining my composure before I got ready to kick off the door-- all until it dawned on me how clearly I could hear Letha's voice through the wall. My heart stopped, realizing I was about to do something I never thought I'd do; I pressed my ear against the door, mentally beating myself up for doing this.

"I see you guys are still getting along," Letha said, her fingers tapping against the door. "That's longer than any of the other friends you've stolen from me."

Roman groaned-- I didn't need to see him to know that he was rolling his eyes. "Get to the point,"

I drove my body closer to the door to hear them better, hearing Letha stepping away from the other side of it to come closer to her cousin. "Tell me why I had to drive Jasmine to school today because the wheels of her car had been punctured? Or even worse, how she got a note under her bedroom door saying she should watch her back?"

There was a long silence before Roman finally answered, a hint of humor in his voice; "... Maybe she should, then?--"

"Ro, you were in her house! Are you out of your mind?!"

As he groaned, I could almost see his usual annoyed stance and the way he grabbed the surface in front of him as his anger simmered to a boil. "Me? I would be more concerned about your own mind if I were you! Your cunt of a friend would've done it all again in a heartbeat if I hadn't scared her a little!"

Letha gasped; "What are you talking about? You have no right to call her a!--"

"That bitch hurt her!" Roman's fist came down against the counter, the thud making me jump away from the door. "Have you seen the state of her hands? How do you expect me to react when our petty bullshit comes down to this?!" 

I imagined the stunned look across Letha's face, the way her eyes widened as her lips parted, unable to find the right words. Eventually, she spoke; "Jasmine did what?"

I pressed myself harder up against the door, closing my eyes as it dawned on me how concerned Letha sounded. Everything about it made my heart swell with hope-- this meant she hadn't been the one to send Jasmine and her girls. If anything, she sounded horrified about the ordeal.

"Yeah... She did. And when I talked to Jasmine this morning, she seemed quite proud of it. You should be damn happy I didn't kill her on the spot," I heard the humming of the blood machine starting again, along with the snapping of gloves being pulled back on, indicating that Roman was back to work. "But does Jasmine suspect it's me?" he asked, a certain nonchalance about him. "The car and all?"

Letha sighed, trying to contain her outbursts; "She has no idea. And now she's just rambling incoherent things after what happened this morning... I think she's concussed,"

A hum. "Good,"

I clasped a hand over my mouth to suppress a snort. Against my palm, I could feel my growing smile as I realized this confirmed that Roman wasn't motivated to take revenge on Jasmine to quench his thirst to cause fear, but that he cared for me.

He cared for me.

My smile only grew as I stepped away from the door-- He cared for me. He cared for me!

Now, what remained was for Roman to actually own up to it... And I realized I was grinning as the perfect idea of how to get it out of him came to mind. But my plans came to a hard stop when Letha's voice sounded through the door once more; "Whose blood are you using this time?" she joked, trying to lighten the mood. I grimaced as I walked back to the door; I felt bad listening in on their conversation. Still, I imagined Letha was pointing at the machine Roman was using, as it kept making noise. 

"Jasmine's," Roman mumbled. "Got enough scraped off her locker to make a sample."

"Ro, that's not funny!--"

"Why haven't you girls made up yet?"

Letha sounded confused as she mentioned my name, not having foreseen the change of subject. "Are you seriously asking me that?"

"Yeah? It's getting annoying at this point. I thought this would blow over several weeks ago," With another loud beep, Roman stopped the machine. "She talks about you a lot. Gets all quiet when I tell her we're having family dinner at your house... And she still has a picture of you two by her bed."

"Oh, and how do you know that? Did you spot it one of the times you were reaching for the condoms on her nightstand?"

His breathing got harder, choppy, before his frustration sounded through his answer; "It's not like that,"

"Okay, then," Letha snorted, clearly not sold. "I'll put it simply for you. How would you feel if I fucked your best friend?"

"Ew, don't give me that mental image!--"

"Fuck you, just imagine a world where I would be enough of an asshole to do that! Imagine I slept with Peter. How would you feel?"

Roman took his time to answer, clearly flustered. "... I get it, okay? I get it!" 

"No, you don't," I could almost see the way Letha now avoided his gaze. "But... did it have to be her? Why couldn't you mess around with anyone else, why did you choose the first girl I trusted to get close to me after you screwed all my other friends?"

Learning of his previous conquests with Letha's long line of friends made me sick, but I focused on the fact that Roman remained quiet. Honestly, I would've cut off my left arm in exchange for seeing him right now. I wondered whether he could meet her eyes or not, and whether he was defensive or anxious. 

Eventually, Roman answered; "She... sees me. And she makes me feel good about myself. So I'm sorry your bitch-friend got hurt or whatever, but I'm just trying to return the favour,"

I had to do a lot to contain my instinctual jump of joy-- I was two seconds away from skipping down the hallway like a German child in a fairytale. Everything about this conversation made me want to squeal and melt into the door. 

However, the other part of me hurt for Letha. Hurt for the girl who knew me better than anyone else, hurt for the first person to have shown me true friendship. I hoped that we could get together someday, to talk it out like people, and not like the two crazy families from Romeo and Juliet. 

The rest of the conversation quickly became a childish spat similar to one between siblings-- I stepped away from the door, making sure to keep breathing. 

The most important thing I gathered from that conversation was the fact that Roman saw me and that he definitely had feelings for me. However, I couldn't quite put my finger on why he couldn't say it to my face. If he was willing to go so far as to scare off Jasmine for my sake, why couldn't he look me in the eye and tell me what he truly felt about me? I knew it would make me feel much better to get his feelings for me confirmed-- the fact that he was evading it left me uneasy. Uncomfortable. And quite frankly, it only made me further insecure.

What if I had sacrificed my relationship with Letha for someone who would never commit to one with me? 

My mind returned to the plan I previously made up with my ear pressed to the door; maybe Roman just needed a push in the right direction?

Either that, or I had been led on like the biggest idiot of the century.

I couldn't do this anymore-- I needed to know.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

And so, it was all set in motion. 

The first part of the plan was to find out whether it was necessary to have a plan at all. This, I decided to investigate in the backseat of Roman's car. 

It used to be a place that I refused to step foot in after hearing of his cheerleader-conquests. However, right now, it was a place of comfort and peace; he had parked it somewhere desolate, per my request. My parents had gotten suspicious after hearing steps on the roof the other day, and were now watching the whole area around our house like hawks to spot any possible intruders. So, as I didn't want to be caught sneaking a boy into my room, I told Roman to get creative-- and he had hit the jackpot.

This summer night was nice and warm, and we lay curled up in the back of his car as we stared up at the starry sky; this was one of the perks of Roman's car having the function of pulling down the roof. He sat with his back against the car door, me between his legs with my head leaned on his shoulder, the both of us looking up at tonight's constellations decorating the darkness above. 

"I'm not even going to act like I know what that one is," I mumbled, pointing up at the scatter of stars. I wrapped myself further up in his sweater, tracing patterns over the arm he had around me-- the night air was crisp, filled with the earthy scent of grass and the faintest hint of rain as my body filled with a certain satisfaction I hadn't felt in a while.

Roman chuckled, pressing a kiss against my cheek as his arm pulled my back flush against his chest. Like this, I could spot my hair ties still worn around his wrists. "It's the Little Bear constellation," he murmured, his long, slender fingers rubbing circles into my side. "See how it looks like a bear cub?"

I decided not to lie; he'd see right through me, anyway. "... No,"

"No?" Roman reached forward to grab my hand into his, closing one eye to position my hand properly with his vision. "Even if I trace it for you?"

It was impossible not to blush. His hand against mine, his warmth against my skin-- everything about this was so incredibly intimate, and I had to hold myself back from simply jumping him out of pure joy. "I-- Well," It was hard to speak when I was this flustered. I swallowed hard before trying again; "I don't think bears have long tails like that."

Roman seemed amused by my answer; "You make a good point," he purred, gently intertwining our fingers before bringing my hand towards his lips, pressing a kiss against my cuts. "As always."

I only blushed further, not bothering to suppress my smile anymore. Turning to him, I watched his big, green eyes meet mine with a softness that nearly made me melt right into him. "How do you even know all of this?" I asked, leaning my head on his shoulder. "You don't strike me as a constellation nerd."

Roman rolled his eyes, feigning annoyance. Something told me he was charmed by the subtle compliment of his intellect; "Is it hard for you to believe I'm not braindead?"

"Maybe," I turned back towards the stars, hoping he wouldn't spot my grin. "Pretty boys usually don't even know how to count to forty."

Chuckling, Roman nuzzled his cheek against the top of my head, wrapping both arms around me again. "So now I'm pretty, huh?"

"Yeah," I mumbled, deciding to be blunt-- I didn't gain anything by lying to him about it, anyway. Not after everything we had been through. "I think you're really damn pretty."

Something told me he hadn't expected the frankness, or for me to even be truthful at all. Roman remained quiet, taking in the sweetness of the moment. He took the time to kiss my temple, humming against my skin; "I think you're pretty too," he murmured. "Very, very pretty."

There was no way to suppress the blush burning its way up my cheeks, and I closed my eyes to savour the moment he kissed me. Roman was being so gentle, so loving-- I couldn't believe this was the same boy I had been running away from because I was scared he'd prick me with his scary needles. He seemed to notice how flustered I got from the compliment, letting out a warm chuckle as his gaze turned up at the sky again. As he pointed out a new constellation, Roman's voice was laced with a kind of wonder that made me smile; "If you want the full answer, it is the fact that there's something more up there that makes it interesting. Something much bigger than us... Something worth reaching for, y'know? The stars are just a blatant sign,"

I turned to look at him, watching the way his green eyes sparkled almost as brightly as the stars above us. Roman was so painfully beautiful, and so wonderfully at ease-- there was nothing I wanted more than for him to feel this peaceful all the time. I knew it would be good for his soul. 

I wondered whether Roman knew that he was something worth reaching for, as well. 

Everything about this evening made my body feel like gelatin. I couldn't even feel my fingers anymore, engulfed in the euphoria that was Roman. This was the perfect distraction from everything that had happened this week, and I realized it was also the perfect time to set my plan in motion; "So... you're willing to admit I'm pretty, but you're not going to say it?"

"Say what?"

I shrugged, feeling myself grow nervous. Roman was usually the one to mess up cute moments by saying something stupid, but I wondered whether now was my turn. "That you like me,"

However, he remained unfazed-- or, at least he was very good at acting like he was. His silence made me further anxious, now starting to wonder if I was the reason he wasn't able to say it to my face. Maybe he wasn't as into me as I had thought? Maybe this was just how he treated every girl he liked? 

I knew it wasn't, but I realized I was spiraling; I needed him to spell it out for me. I really, really hoped he would-- then I wouldn't have to go that dreaded extra length and go into phase two of my plan.

Roman pressed his lips against the top of my head, clearly lost in thought as he brought me back from mine. "Do you need me to?"

That was a good question-- one I knew the answer of. "I think so, yeah..."

"You need it spelled out?"

"Yeah,"

"Verbatim?"

"Verbatim, Rome,"

The nickname seemed to throw him off; he let out a breathy chuckle, shifting to get a good look at me. "Since when am I Rome to you?"

I shrugged, meeting his green eyes. "Since... now?"

Roman smiled down at me, clearly flattered. "Cute," he breathed, leaning in to place a sweet kiss against my cheek. I giggled as Roman's fingers dug into my skin, pressing me further up against him in a flash of passion-- although this moment was perfect in theory, I knew I hadn't gotten what I wanted out of him tonight, and I dreaded what I had to do because of it.

Quite frankly, I dreaded it mostly because I was very well aware that the second part of my plan was incredibly high-risk. Stupid. Reckless, even.

However, I didn't see any other way of forcing those three words out of Roman that I needed so much. How else was I supposed to prove to myself that I hadn't sacrificed my friendships for nothing?

I dreaded every single step up I took as I made my way through the cafeteria the next day. In my peripheral view, I saw Roman sitting next to his best friend, Peter, chatting away about something as none of them had noticed me yet. It was only when I caught Roman's eyes that my heart started racing-- I watched his confusion build as I started walking in the opposite direction.

Determined, I knew this was the perfect moment to execute the second part of the plan. I did my best to keep my face neutral, hoping not to be visibly bothered by Roman's watchful stare, as I deliberately sat down next to Daniel-- the guy who had flirted with me at an assembly a month ago. 

I specifically chose Daniel because I remembered Roman saying he had noticed me talking to him; I also knew that this guy was the key to making him see the consequences of staying unofficial. 

I didn't need to look at Roman to know he was seething.

Daniel turned to me, putting down his fork. We hadn't talked since I started seeing Roman and stopped responding to his messages-- he was visibly confused, but there was a certain sparkle in his blue eyes that gave away his delight. "Hi?" He quickly turned to his friends who were all staring at us and motioned for them to get back to their own shit. 

"Hey, you," I shifted in my seat, attempting to make myself comfortable whilst Roman's gaze drilled holes into the side of my skull. "Haven't seen you in a hot minute. How are you?" Putting on my nicest smile, I tilted my head a little as I spoke-- that used to work on him. 

Daniel blinked twice, clearly unsure what to say. "Uh... Yeah, of course I haven't seen you, you've been busy with Roman," His eyes darted over to the latter, watching as my very unofficial boyfriend glared daggers his way. "I'm fine now, but I'm afraid I won't be later if you don't move soon."

This had been one of the driving factors of me not falling for Daniel-- this guy was an absolute wuss. I did my best not to roll my eyes, knowing how to rope him back in again; I placed a gentle hand against his arm, rounding out my eyes as Daniel turned back to me. His blonde hair fell over his eyes, a bright contrast to the dark blue of his varsity jacket, as his heart visibly skipped a beat. 

"You want me to move?" I tried, keeping my tone soft as I gave his arm a short squeeze.

In my peripheral view, I caught a glimpse of Roman stiffening in his seat. His green, intense eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched, and his fingers tapped impatiently against the table as his mood darkened. That same, unmistakable anger looming over him like a dark cloud worried me-- I knew I didn't have much time to make my point before he'd explode. 

However, distractingly comical, was the sight of Peter next to him, debating whether to put his hand on his best friend's shoulder in an attempt to calm him down; his hand kept jerking back and forth, jumping with every twitch of Roman's eye.

Daniel swallowed hard, his gaze never leaving mine. "Well... You don't have to move," He cleared his throat, giving in to a nervous chuckle. "You're already here, I guess. Pretty as always."

I had to fight my instincts to not throw up in my mouth-- it made me physically ill to flirt with him when I was so sickeningly crazy about Roman. "Oh, you're too kind," I tried, forcing a smile.

Daniel flashed me that typical heartthrob smile of his, finally giving in to my antics. He tilted his head, mimicking me, as his eyes sparkled with want; "Fuck, I've missed seeing you around,"

That seemed to be enough for Roman-- his possessive intensity came to a simmer, boiling over. He kicked away his chair as he got up, an angry groan escaping him as stormed off with balled fists. Peter sent me a sharp look of come on before he left his food behind to follow his best friend.

That was my cue to leave. "I, uh... Sorry," Releasing Daniel's arm with a quickness I didn't know I had in me, I practically jumped out of my seat, allowing myself to shudder when I was out of view. I didn't like touching any other guy like that, but I hoped that Roman would take the time to let it dawn on him that this could be his reality if he didn't step the fuck up.

... I really hoped that would be his conclusion. 

However, it dawned on me that this might've been my biggest misstep so far. I had learned that one of the most important things for Roman, was loyalty-- maybe I shouldn't have toyed with his perception of mine?

Putting it all together, I realized I should've expected it to blow up in my face.

The third and final part of my plan had been simple in my head; Roman would confront me about what had happened in the cafeteria, and then he'd tell me he couldn't stand the sight of me with another man and therefore wants us to be official.

... It seems that I had gotten in over my head.

The exact opposite of that happened. Now, Roman wasn't answering my calls. He would walk past me in the hallway as though I was a ghost, even though the fading hickey on the side of his neck served as a reminder of our time together. I hadn't expected him to ignore me like this, I really hadn't-- he was utterly unforgiving.

It had been three days of no contact. No shared glances, no exchanged words, simply because I got too confident. Why had I thought it would be so easy to get what I wanted? Why had I felt the need to drag a confession out of him when his actions spoke for him?

Roman had made sure none of Letha's friends would touch me again-- or, at least in the near future, seeing as the main instigator was at home with a severe concussion. He had put in a good word for me with Letha, he had bought me a new phone, and he had opened up enough to both accept and enjoy physical affection. Why hadn't I seen it this clearly before I messed it all up?

It all came down to one moment in the hallway. 

Exhausted and alone, I had zoned out like I usually did to distract myself from everything as I rummaged through my locker for my book. My body felt heavy with the sadness coursing through my veins, knowing I had no one anymore. No one. My every moment was slow, not having the energy to hurry much as I spent an unusual amount of time looking for the specific book I needed.

Up until my body froze at the sight to my right.

My head slowly turned to watch what was happening a few meters down the hall. There he was, the man that had haunted my every waking moment, vexed my every thought, with a girl. 

Roman had that classic heartbreaker look about him as always, leaning his hand next to the girl's head against the locker. From this angle, I could see the upward turn of his nose, the way his smirk painted across his lips, and the way his eyes practically sparkled at the sight of his next prey.

The most jarring part about it was the fact that I could still see my hair ties around Roman's wrist as his palm lay flat against the locker behind her, almost as though it was on purpose.

It became downright nauseating when the girl giggled and started twirling her finger around her hair-- I did my best not to throw up my breakfast. Questions raced through my mind, fogging up my brain; why was he doing this here, in front of me? Why was he doing this at all? 

I was sure this was what people meant when speaking of tasting their own medicine.

I stood frozen by my locker, one hand still shoved beneath the rubble of books, as involuntary tears pressed up against my eyes. I tried to ground myself with a few deep breaths, yet the world around me felt as though it was crumbling. All these games were so damn childish from the both of us; when would it end? I was living through my worst nightmare, and it became a hundred times worse when I realized I had been warned about this before by Roman himself.

I was reminded of the first night we kissed in that closet during seven minutes of heaven;

Roman stilled, eventually letting out a hum which sent a shiver down my spine. "You know nothing about nightmares," he breathed against my lips. "If I tell Letha we fucked in here, you'll be living through your worst one."

Oh, if only he'd known how right he was. Now I had no one to run to, no one to seek comfort from, all because of my own stupidity. Not only had I managed to lose all my friends, but now I had lost the one thing I had sacrificed everything for; Roman.

A pit formed in my stomach as I watched him lean closer to her, laughter dancing between them. Didn't he know how much that hurt? Didn't he see me standing here, shattered? I was so lost in the shock, that when Roman turned to face me, revealing that he knew exactly where I was and that I was watching, I barely registered it. My eyes had welled up in tears, looking completely shell-shocked as I watched his smirk immediately falter at the sight of my watery gaze.

In a flash of action, I slammed my locker shut, not bothering to look for my book anymore. I needed to get away. Now.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

When I got home that same day, I had expected to be left in peace-- that was the most logical conclusion. My parents were at a loss with what to do with me, and of course I had no friends reaching out to check up on me. I was quite sure I had hit the lowest of the low, simply sinking into a state of forced apathy as I lay with my face down into my pillow, spreading out on my bed wearing Roman's enormous sweater. I was quite sure I had been like this for hours, not getting up, not eating-- I didn't care anymore.

I couldn't care; it would break me. Just like that sight of Roman with that girl. 

I touched my neck, feeling the soreness of my fading hickeys as lightning struck outside. There were barely any traces now, and the realization that they would be gone in a day or two hit me like a truck. Thankfully, I didn't have many tears left in my body. I lay in the coldness of the puddle of grief I had left on my pillow, shivering as it dawned on me that I might never feel Roman's lips against mine again. Never feel his hands around my waist, never be in the back of his car, and never get to lay in his arms ever again. As the heavy rain continued to tap against my window, every drop felt like a reminder of the moments we'd shared, slipping away.

I remembered that first time Roman smiled at me in class. Every memory came to me; the rush of excitement coursing through my veins during our first kiss, the feeling of laughing with him at that café on our first date, and the way I would sometimes wake up to Roman's arm tightly wrapped around me in a protective, loving embrace. He wanted to hold me, even in sleep. 

He wanted me. Roman Godfrey wanted me, and I threw it all away because of my incessant need for him to commit.

And just as I was about to choke out any remaining tears, I heard a knock at my door. I didn't care to move, knowing my parents knew of my state, as my words got muffled against my pillow; "What is it? I'm not having dinner!"

"That's not it," My parents seemed to be whispering between themselves before one of them continued; "Sweetie... there's a boy for you at the door."

I bounced off of the bed as though I had heard a gunshot, and I landed on the floor with a groan as I crashed down against the hard wood. Wondering whether the thud had sounded through the ceiling downstairs, I realized I didn't have time to think about that; "Okay, give me-- Give me a second!" I got up from the floor, feeling my breath get stuck in my chest as I ran to my mirror, doing my best to fix the way I looked before leaving my room.

My thoughts were racing as I made my way past my parents, realizing they were staying upstairs to give us some space. I didn't need to guess who the boy at the door was-- still, I froze halfway down the stairs at the sight of him.

There he was, drenched in rain. Roman took a deep breath at the sight of me, watching the way his sweater draped over my shoulders with his big, green eyes. He, too, seemed to have frozen to his spot like an icicle, and a thick silence ensued as I gripped onto the banister of the stairs-- I was afraid I'd faint and roll right down. As he stood there, cold and vulnerable, I felt the walls of insecurity I had built up begin to crumble; his presence was both a comfort and a reminder of everything I'd lost.

Even worse was the way I tensed up, ready for him to yell at me and blow up. My grip on the banister tightened to suppress the subtle shake of my hands as I held my breath.

Finally, Roman spoke-- but it was far from what I had imagined him to say; "I don't know what happened. It doesn't make sense," His eyes rounded out, so heartbreakingly sincere. "We were good, and suddenly we weren't. I made sure you were safe from those girls, and then you went and flirted with that assembly guy... It doesn't make any sense."

I let in a long, shaky breath, feeling the guilt seeping through my veins. "I thought... I thought I needed you to say it,"

"Say what?" Roman shivered, clearly cold from his wet clothes. It made me wonder how long he had paced back and forth in the rain before approaching the door. "That I like you?"

My cheeks burned-- "Yeah..."

Another wave of silence ensued as Roman no longer met my gaze, biting his teeth together as he tried to steady his breathing. I could feel hints of his brewing anger beneath his attempts to keep calm; "Did you need me to say it so bad?" he mumbled. "Have I not shown you what I feel for you? Was it not blatantly obvious?"

Everything about his tone made me want to burst into tears-- it made me feel seven again, being told off in front of the whole class. "I'm sorry," I didn't know what else to say, at a loss for words. "You're just so hot and cold sometimes, I thought it would make me feel better if I got it confirmed. I sacrificed so much to be with you, and it was freaking me out that you couldn't say you want to be with me as well... I guess it really got to me."

It was clear that Roman was conflicted, consumed by a storm of thoughts. His green eyes softened, his brows drawing together in a look of melancholic sorrow as he let out a sigh. "I hear you, but it's just... Those girls went after you because you were with me. I know you've had a tough time, and I didn't want to make it any worse for you by making us official... By making my feelings official," His voice trembled, revealing the cracks in his tough exterior-- it was as though the weight of his own fears had finally become too much to bear.

Another wave of guilt washed over me, knowing I had driven him to this point with my schemes. "Why would that make it worse?" I dared to take another step down the stairs, letting go of the banister. "Wouldn't it be a good thing? Don't you think it would've made me feel better?"

Roman's eyes fixated on the laces of his wet shoes, and I watched him change his weight from one foot to the other. It was obvious that he was nervous, especially as he cleared his throat. "I don't think I'd be a good boyfriend," he mumbled. "I shut down. I retaliate when I'm angry. And I don't know whether Letha would ever forgive you if we got into a relationship, and I know that would crush you."

Despite the reminder of Letha, I had to bite down on my bottom lip to suppress my growing smile-- it warmed my heart to hear how he had thought this through down to every last detail. 

Roman was rambling at this point; "I was just so shocked when you went to Daniel, I thought I was going to faint. The way you smiled at him, the way you touched him... I couldn't even look at you these past few days, and then I couldn't stand the silence either, hence that show in the hallway... I just didn't expect you to cry. I fucking lost it,"

I reached the end of the stairs by the time he was done, now close enough to see that his drenched clothes were leaving small puddles of rain along the hardwood floor. "Roman--"

"--And I just don't want to hurt you, y'know?" He finally looked up to meet my gaze, an unfamiliar emotion swimming in his green eyes. There was a certain desperation about him as his words came out like a stream in a never-ending river; "Because even though we're fighting, you're still in my sweater. And even though you're fucking infuriating, I still want to hold you. No matter what people think, you're good. You're sweet, you're kind, you... There is a sanctity about you in my mind. I really don't want to hurt you, but it's fucking inevitable with me! That's just who I am!"

I was batting away tears at this point; "Rome, please, that's not!--"

"--Of course I like you!" Roman's eyes glossed over, letting his emotions shine through his tough exterior at the sound of his new nickname. "If anything, I adore you half to death, and you doubting that makes me feel like I've failed! I've failed to keep you happy, I've failed to make you feel seen, and I'm just-- I'm a mess!"

Attempting to pat away my tears with the sleeve of Roman's sweater, I sniffled as I realized I was unsuccessful, my tears now spilling down my cheeks. Suddenly, many parts of him made sense to me; after finally letting me hear his true, inner thoughts, I had never seen him more clearly than now. 

Roman sniffled as well, head hanging low in shame. "Why would you want a mess?" he echoed, his voice breaking. "I don't want to hurt you. I really, really don't."

Enough-- It was breaking my heart to hear him so broken. I finally dared to step towards him, slowly reaching for his soaked jacket. Roman's eyes widened as he watched me hang it up in the hallway; "What are you?--"

"Stay the night," I placed myself in front of him, having to get up on my tippytoes to brush his wet hair away from his forehead. "My parents probably won't mind if I ask nicely."

Roman's green eyes rounded out with every soft touch against his skin, and he placed his hands over mine as I cupped his face; it dawned on me that I hadn't felt so calm in a while. "I want to be yours, Rome. In every sense of the word," My thumbs stroked over his cheeks, watching his heavy lids fall over his eyes as he keened against my touch, succumbing to the comfort. "So what if you're a mess? You think I'm not, with the way I've been running around you for months like a dog?"

It warmed my heart to hear him laugh, even if it was for a few seconds-- I knew my eyes weren't deceiving me when I spotted a tear or two heavying down his long lashes, making their way out of hiding. 

I had to bat away my own, my voice barely baring through the sentence; "You're much kinder than you think you are, much more gentle... If only I could make you see it yourself," Getting up to his level was impossible, but I was able to tilt his head down enough for me to place a soft kiss between his brows. "I want us to be together. I want us to at least have each other,"

Roman's breath hitched, letting his hands travel down to rest at my waist as he opened his eyes. revealing an ocean of tears about to spill down his rosy cheeks. "We're going to crash and burn,"

"... Let us, then,"

It was as though time stood still in the moments I waited for signs of a yes. My thumbs stroked over his temples, realizing our chests were rising and falling at the same time, trapping us in one breath, one body. For a second, it felt as though Roman and I melted into each other, the green of his eyes engulfing me with a look that told me everything I needed to know. 

Roman's breath was hot and heavy as he searched for the right words. I was sure he'd said enough dumb things for a lifetime to know he needed to choose wisely for once. But hence, his lips curled up into the sweetest smile known to man as he spoke against mine--

"Let us," he breathed. "Let's burn together, then."

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5

(a/n: if you've come this far, thank u so much omg)

[namiusedbubble]

promise me - cato hadley

Cato promises you he won't volunteer for the Hunger Games, and then he does. When Plutarch Heavensbee offers you a chance to get back at the Capitol for taking your boyfriend away, of course you're going to say yes.

masterlist

Cato is dying. So they say. You haven’t been watching. 

It sounds bad. It is bad. But you had made your boyfriend promise that he would stay as far from the Games as he could, and you’d actually believed him when he said he would, that he’d live to old age with you. Cato has been wanting the Games as long as he’s been alive, but you’ve been wanting him to stay with you for about that long, anyway. It took forever to wear him down enough for him to say he’d give up his dream of being a Victor, and just when you felt sure of yourself, he’d gone and volunteered.

It was stunning how quickly everything fell apart. You’d heard the representative from the Capitol read out the name of the male tribute, and when you didn’t hear your boyfriend’s name, you thought you were safe, you were fine. Another year guaranteed. Before you could even take another breath, though, a familiar voice rang through the town square. In your nightmares, you’d seen Cato volunteer a hundred times over. It was fitting, somehow, that when he volunteered in real life, it was exactly like every other time you’d seen it.

He’d looked at you from the stage, tried to find you in the crowd. You weren’t smiling. And, when they’d asked for the last visitors to see the tributes before they were shipped off the Capitol to die in glorious combat, you’d never even had the chance to talk to him. You’d tried to go to him, but the small holding room was swamped with adoring fans. You know Cato saw you over the heads of all the people saying how proud they were, how they were so sure he’d win. He saw you, and he saw you shake your head at all the people cheering for his imminent demise, and he saw you go.

You regret it half the time he’s been gone, leaving so early. It wasn’t like you would have been able to talk to him anyway; by the time you were turning around, the Peacekeepers were already starting to usher people out, and Cato, breaking another promise, hadn’t kept a space clear for you to find him. But, at the end of the day, you didn’t just leave because it was impossible to get to him. You left because you couldn’t stand to hear everybody praising him for going to his death, and you couldn’t stand to hear one more word about how his betrayal would make him a better man.

At the end of the day, you almost saw it coming. Winning the Hunger Games is Cato’s big dream, and it has been since you were kids. Even when you were small, you remember him staying late to train. He was proficient in the sword before most kids got their first kiss. You had always hoped that he would love life enough to stay away from that arena of death, but the last of your hopes were gone when he volunteered.

You don’t watch a second of his Games, you can’t stomach it. You try to picture watching your boyfriend die live on camera, your own falling face broadcasted live to the Capitol. Would your neighbors approve of your reaction when the love of your life was run through or shot or poisoned? It makes you want to throw up, so you stay at home and try to stay away from the screens, but nothing works. Even clamping your hands tight over your ears doesn’t stop you from hearing the roars of the crowds outside when something happens. 

You have to assume Cato is doing well, but recently, people have been saying it looks bad. When Clove died, the mood shifted in the entire district, and that sense of jubilation over a seemingly guaranteed District Two victory has never returned. They say Cato is hurt, maybe. They say Katniss and Peeta are going to kill him.

Night falls when someone gets you, tells you that you have to head to the square, now. You get there just in time to see Cato on top of the cornucopia in the dark, trapping Peeta with the baying hounds below him. Katniss shoots. He falls. The cannon rings, and you’re dead along with him.

You’re numb for days. You don’t even remember the laments around you, strangers you’ve seen on the street telling you how sorry they are as if that does a damn thing when they pushed him to this. You get home, apparently. You get to bed. Somehow, you live when he doesn’t. You wouldn’t know how it happens. You don’t know a thing at all.

You stop leaving your room. You don’t want to see anyone, or have to witness the awkward guilt when they recognize who you are and why you look like the whole world has burned to ash around you, because to you, it has. Your parents try to bring you food, and you eat it, tasting nothing. You drink water and wonder why you bother when it just lets you cry again hours later.

When someone knocks on the door, you don’t bother answering, assuming it’s your family. The knock sounds again a few seconds later, smart and unavoidable. It doesn’t really sound like the tentative rap of your parents, so against your better judgment, you rise and answer.

There’s a man looking back at you, one you’ve never met before. He’s in his forties, maybe, his hair an early white. He looks Capitol, but you can’t fathom why he’d be here. He invites himself in, taking a seat at your desk and looking back at you once he’s settled himself.

“You should close that,” he says, gesturing to the door.

You’re not really energized enough to start arguing, so you do as told and sit down on your bed, hands clasping at nothing in your lap.

“Who are you?” You ask, voice scratchy from tears and lack of use.

The man glances once at the windows, once again at the door, and finally a quick scan of the room before he speaks quietly. “My name is Plutarch Heavensbee. I’m going to be the new Head Gamemaker.”

You eye him dolefully. “I didn’t realize the Head Gamemakers did personal apology tours for the dead tributes.”

He chuckles dryly. “We don’t. To speak plainly, I’m here because I need something.”

His honesty, however brutal, is a relief after all the saccharine half-meant apologies from the rest of Two. “What could I possibly give you?”

Plutarch steeples his fingers together, thoughtful. “Your unwavering loyalty.”

You laugh, now. It’s a far colder sound than his. “You and your Games killed Cato. Why would I ever follow you again?”

Plutarch’s eyes lock onto yours. “I may make the Games, Y/N, but I do not believe in them.” It’s a radical statement, and he lets it hang in the air for a few seconds before he continues. “We have a possibility of taking a stand against the Capitol. I’m looking for inside sources. You’re the perfect fit.”

You arch a brow. “I have no connection to the Games. How could I possibly help you?”

“Your lack of connection is the exact reason we need you,” Plutarch argues. “You’re not on the Capitol’s radar as anything more than a grieving ex-lover. Two is valuable to us.”

You lean back, considering this. “You want me to be a spy so I can get revenge on the Capitol for killing Cato. That’s it?”

“That’s it?” Plutarch scoffs. “You have no idea of the risk we all suffer just by meeting. Let me be clear, Y/N, what I am about to ask of you is dangerous to you and everyone you have ever known. The Capitol will butcher you and display your rotting body as a lesson. This is not something you pick up to pass the time. This will become your life, or you do not join. I want you here because you want to get back at the Capitol as much as the rest of us, but I will not permit you to be near us if I suspect you are not fully committed to the cause.”

His voice is steely, and it cuts through the haze of your grief like one of Cato’s knives. Briefly, the anguish gives way to fierce, bitter pain. You miss Cato with everything you have. There were a thousand things you were supposed to do, places you were meant to visit together, people you were supposed to become. You have been robbed of everything in the world. This is your chance to get the Capitol back, and you– you are going to take it.

“I’m in,” you say before you can stop yourself. “I want Snow gone.”

Plutarch’s thin lips curl into a smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”

He stands, but pauses before he gets to the door. “We’ll be in contact. Keep your eyes open, and stay safe. Spies don’t have a long life expectancy. We’d hate to lose you before you even start.”

You nod grimly. “You as well.”

He almost smiles, then sweeps from the room. You can hear the distant sounds of him thanking your parents for the visit, and expressing his sincere sympathy for the loss of Two’s tributes this year. Then he’s gone, and you’re left wondering what you’ve done to yourself.

Your parents are thrilled when you get a job offer from the Gamemakers later that week. You’re able to pass off Plutarch’s visit as a last interview/congratulations before your new position begins. You’ll work in Two, mostly, deep within the district government, but you’ll have weekly meetings in the Capitol to update the Gamemakers on your progress.

In reality, you’ll be gathering everything you can and checking in with Plutarch once a week. The first time you take the train to the Capitol to meet him, you can’t help but wonder if this is how Cato felt, too, watching home rush away from him, knowing that success or death would await him in the Capitol. Your throat burns by the time you get there, torn raw with unshed tears.

Plutarch is careful, always careful, but as the weeks wear on, he trusts you little by little. He confesses eventually that having a spy in Two was crucial to his future endeavors. He won’t mention what those future endeavors are, not completely, but you understand why. It’s too risky to spill everything to someone he’s only just met.

You don’t know that Plutarch is truly certain of your loyalty, though, for another three months. By now, you’ve had several close run-ins with curious Peacekeepers, and transmitted enough information to feed Plutarch’s flames for years. As a reward, he takes you down to a secret room in the hidden headquarters of the rebellion, and in those cool, dimly lit rooms, he says something that transforms your life completely.

“We have Cato.”

At first, you think they mean the coffin. He was buried in the Capitol, they all were. There’s a broadcasted ceremony every year for all the tributes. That one, you watched. They wouldn’t let you or his family come. No one was by his side when he entered the earth. You sobbed for hours.

Plutarch shakes his head, though. “He’s still alive.”

You have to lean against the wall to steady yourself. “Impossible.”

“Not impossible,” Plutarch says. “We grabbed his body before rigor mortis set in. He’s been in a medically induced coma for months while our medical staff stitches him back together. It’ll be a while before he’s even conscious, and longer before he can walk and talk, but he’ll be back.”

You feel dizzy, head rushing from loss of blood. “They would have noticed,” you fight to say. “He was dead, Katniss shot him. The Capitol would never let him go.”

“They don’t care about the dead,” Plutarch says. “Not yours, not mine. I collected him.”

You glance up sharply. “You wanted him as a bargaining chip, didn’t you? If I didn’t agree so easily, you would have told me that you had my boyfriend.”

Plutarch nods, paying no mind to the storm in your heart. “I would have done anything to secure a spy in Two. You know that. I would go to any lengths to do it. Even, yes, hold Cato over you. That was the whole point.”

Of course it was. Clever, plotting Plutarch, would always have a second option. If he had doubted your loyalty back in your house in Two, he would have ensured he had a safety net to stop you from going to the Peacekeepers the second he left. You hadn’t needed it, so he’d kept his ace up his sleeve until now.

“Why tell me, then?” You croak. “You don’t care what happens to Cato. What do you want from me now? I’ve given you everything.”

“Not everything,” Plutarch muses thoughtfully. “Not your life, not yet. The time may come. But you’re right, Y/N, I do want more. You’ve been with us a long time. Long enough to grow complacent. I want to ensure that you will remain just as sharp as ever. As we draw closer to the Quarter Quell, our plans will accelerate. I need to know that you will guarantee our success.”

“I would have done that without you threatening to kill Cato a second time,” you spit.

Plutarch just sighs. “I can’t guarantee that.”

You can’t stop staring around the room, trying to find a curl of blond hair, a wicked smile, any sign of the boy you’ve loved for so long. “Where is he? I want to see him.”

Plutarch nods, gesturing for you to follow him. “I wouldn’t expect you to just take my word for it.”

He leads you through a series of locked doors to a small care unit. There’s a body encased in a blue cell, the encircling glass walls just large enough to thread the limbs and chest with tubes pumping some sort of liquid throughout. Through the misty aqua glow, you can make out a face.

You stumble. You’d know Cato anywhere, even almost dead, even almost back to life. You stare at him, eyes wide, and a tear falls from your face and drips onto the glass. You didn’t even realize you were crying again. You didn’t think you could, anymore, but this hope– it brings you back to life along with him.

“When will he be awake?” You ask, breath harsh in your chest.

Plutarch straightens up from where he’s been glancing at a nearby readout. “A month or two, perhaps. He’ll be functional by the time of the next Games, which is good. If all goes well, we will need to run.”

You look up at him. “Tell me what you need me to do and I’ll do it. Anything.”

His lips curve up into a smile. In the ghostly blue light of Cato’s healing cell, he looks like a phantom. The ghost of Games gone by, perhaps. The ghost of the tributes to come. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

With that, you let the rebellion consume you. Not a day goes by that you aren’t traveling between districts, gathering information, and spreading contraband from rebel group to rebel group. Plutarch keeps you busy. Most nights, you don’t sleep for more than a few hours at a time, any rest caught in brief snatches between train rides. If you ever had a home, it’s no more than a memory now. You don’t stay in any place long enough to remember it. You’re certain Peacekeepers have been following you for days now, but maybe you just can’t tell the difference between the white-armored soldiers in every district.

You’re stopping by the rebel headquarters in the Capitol to bring news of the developments in Thirteen when Plutarch asks you to stay a while longer. You assume he wants you to take on another project, but instead he tells you that Cato has woken up. He couldn’t risk mentioning it through the usual comms, but he remembers his promise just as you’ve remembered yours.

You fly down the stairs to the med center, flying around the corners until you’re back in the care unit. The blue glass cell is gone, replaced by a hospital bed. A patient is sitting up and arguing with one of the doctors. You notice he’s been cuffed to the rail of the bed, and can’t help a small smile. That’s your Cato, isn’t it? Always a fighter.

He falls silent when you enter, eyes wide. For a moment, you wonder if the healing damaged his brain, if he might not remember you, if anything would ever be the same, and then a tentative hope enters his voice as he says, “Y/N?”

You’re across the room in a moment, and then you’re in his arms again, and maybe everything will be okay again. His free hand, the one that isn’t cuffed to the bed, is pressed against your back, drawing you ever closer to him.

“Y/N,” he says in a choked whisper, “Y/N, I died.”

“No,” you murmur, drawing back so you can see his face. It’s the same face, somehow. Still him. Still Cato. “They brought you back. You’re going to be okay.”

“How is that possible?” Cato asks, raising his free hand to touch your face lightly as if he can’t believe it’s you.

“Don’t ask me,” you chuckle weakly. “All I know is that you’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Cato glances warily at the doctors, then returns his gaze to you. He looks more carefully now, taking in the hollows under your eyes, the scars and scrapes on your arms. “What have you done, Y/N? What did they make you do?”

You choke on a laugh before you can stop yourself. “The star tribute is asking me what I did? I haven’t been in the Games, Cato. I’m not the one who signed themselves up to die.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” he says. “You’ve got– you look like us now.”

Dully, you realize what he means. There’s a sort of innocence in the faces of people who haven’t had to take a life. Even the hardiest of the careers still have it if they haven’t been in the Games. Cato sees it now in you. The last year has destroyed you.

You let out a slow breath, taking his hand in yours. “Losing you destroyed me, Cato. I had to do what I could.”

Cato looks around the room again, his hunter’s eyes taking in the details of the workers, the sparse decoration of the room. “We’re not with the Capitol anymore, are we?”

“No,” you admit, “we’re not.”

Something savage twists his face. “Good.”

You weren’t sure how he would take the news that you were working with the rebels, but surprisingly, Cato is in favor. He’s mad about what they did to secure Katniss’ victory. The whole point of the Games was that the strongest would win, he says, but they interfered. All that hard work to get to the Games, and then the Makers cheated him out of it.

What Cato doesn’t realize is how deeply entrenched you are in the workings of the Rebels. Cato isn’t allowed to go back to normal, obviously, Panem thinks he’s dead, but he hadn’t counted on you joining him in that fate. They find Cato a place in Thirteen where he can help train the soldiers; it’s good for him to stay busy, and he tries to work his body to the limits so exhaustion will fight off the nightmares of dying for him, but Cato wants you there with him.

Only, that isn’t the case. Plutarch didn’t give you Cato back so you could stop working with the rebellion. If anything, it makes you work even harder. Now that you have Cato, you finally have the brief, glimmering hope of a better life, but you won’t get it if the Capitol still exists.

By now, you’ve been clued in to Plutarch’s master plan for the Games. The rules for the Quarter Quell were announced a few days ago. The dominoes have started to fall. All that’s left to do is make sure the ruin runs where you want it.

Cato doesn’t see it that way. Every time you’re at Thirteen, you make time to see your boyfriend, but it’s never enough. It never will be, not until the Capitol is gone, not until the war is over. For Cato, though, he’s already died. He wants to stop running.

You’re with him now, tucked into his arms on his bunk with your back up against his chest, pretending that you won’t have to leave again in just a few hours. He’s tracing absentminded circles on your forearms, and when he speaks, his breath buzzes against the top of your head.

“Stay with me,” he says. “They’re going to kill you if you keep this up. Stay here.”

“You know I can’t,” you sigh. “Not until it’s done.”

Cato blows out sharply, annoyed. “Let them die, not you. You’re better than that.”

“All our deaths are the same,” you contradict. “Might as well be me.”

Cato’s grip around you tightens possessively. “I’d let all of them die before you.”

You shift slightly so you can look up at him. He’s frustrated again, jaw tight as he tries to control himself. “I have to do this. All of our work depends on the Games going in our favor. If we give up now, it was all for nothing. I can’t let that happen.”

Cato shakes his head tersely. “Promise me you won’t get hurt. Promise me you won’t die for them.”

The twisting guilt of deja vu curls around your stomach. You can’t help but remember a similar moment, a similar promise, almost a year ago exactly. You had said almost the same thing to Cato when he was talking about volunteering. At the time, it had seemed so easy. All Cato had to do was stay with you, and he would have been safe. But Cato had to go, it would have killed him not to go. And it’ll kill you to stay. Both of you know this. It doesn’t make it any easier.

You kiss him once, twice. For past and present. “I’ll see you soon.”

You won’t. You’ll be in the Capitol until after the Games at least, and although Plutarch has promised he’ll get you out with the rest, there’s always the small chance that it won’t work out.

Cato pulls you up in his arms so you’re eye to eye. “Soon,” he says.

“Soon,” you repeat. This close to him, you’re sure he can feel your pulse thundering in your veins, carrying with it the weight of this lie. He would know how to sense it, too. All that time in the arena, he’d know how to tell when someone was about to die.

Cato doesn’t want to let you go, but he has to, piece by piece, second by second, letting you go in the bed just to crawl off and hold you by the door, then walk you to the jet, then hold you again one last time before you’re taken away. You watch through the window as he shrinks away to nothingness, one arm still raised. You’ll see him again, or never at all.

Plutarch is waiting for you in the Capitol. “It’s time to play,” he says.

“It’s time to win,” you return. 

He smiles without meaning it and turns back to his screens. There’s a lot of data to get through. Some of the tributes you weren’t expecting, but you have who you need. Finnick knows, Johanna knows, but you can keep Katniss and Peeta in the dark for as long as possible.

Thus, the Games begin, and, electrifying as an arrow in the night, they end. You watch Katniss looking down her bow at Finnick, then turning her weapon towards the sky. Plutarch slips away from Snow long enough to get you, and the two of you hurry towards a transport that will take you back to Thirteen in the dead of night. Voices are hushed. The tributes get out, but not all of them. Peeta, you think, was left behind. Johanna too. Still, it’s a better collection than you’d hoped.

And, when the jet docks in Thirteen, there’s someone waiting for you in the hangar, your golden boy. Cato comes running over before the landing gear is even fully tucked away. He waits, impatient as a coiled spring, while the doors open, and then he’s rushing inside and pulling you into his arms.

“No more separation,” he says against your temple. “We fight together now.”

“Together,” you whisper back, and you mean it, too. 

Whatever happens after this, the cards are all on the table. Cato can come back to the public eye. You’ll fight in the war side by side. If you die before the rebellion wins, you’ll do it together. Some would call that tragic, but all of this is a tragedy. At least you’ll have him. Two is gone to you, so too is any dream of normalcy, but Cato– Cato, you will always have. That, at least, is your victory.

hunger games tag list: @w1shes43, @ilovexavierthrope

all tags list: @wordsarelife, @supervoldejaygent

[namiusedbubble]

His and Yours

Summary: When you're told your pregnancy could cost you your life, Feyd demands you do whatever necessary to keep yourself alive. When you decide to have the baby anyway, it creates a rift in your relationship. Only when you go into labor, does Feyd show himself for who he really is.

Warnings/ Notes: Very angsty, but ends on a happy note. Very sensitive topics about pregnancy, abortion, and conversations about potential death. It’s Feyd here people, and we can imagine how he’d be with sensitive topics. Please only read if you understand this. Requested by @tgmreader

**While it is not necessary to read my other work to read this fic, this works also as another part to my "His" series. However, (even though it ends on a happy note) if this content makes you uncomfortable, it is not necessary to read in order to understand any future parts in the series. I know people love them together and that this is a difficult issue, so do not feel obligated.**

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag list

Words: 2950

“Feyd…” you sigh as you watch him pace back and forth. He doesn’t so much as acknowledge you until you attempt to get up from your seat to go to him.

With an outstretched arm and a finger pointed directly at you, he says in a harsh tone—harsher than you’ve heard in a long time, “Don’t you move a fucking inch!”

You plop back into your seat. “We have to talk about this.”

“No!” he snaps. He descends upon you with rushed stomps, his hands gripping the armrests of your chair. You have to tilt your head back to meet his fiery gaze. “There will be no talking about this,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “No discussion. No negotiations. No weighing the pros and cons.” You swallow as a tear builds in the corner of your eye. Feyd groans and pushes away from the chair. “Stop crying.”

“What do you expect from me?”

“To not die!” he shouts, his voice echoing through the vast, empty room. “I expect my wife to do whatever she has to in order to keep me happy! That’s your job!”

You glance down. Your hand runs over the slightly bulbous shape of your stomach. A tear creates a dark patch on the fabric of your dress. A dress he picked out for you. He’d been so enthusiastic about every element related to your pregnancy, including dressing his wife in new gowns as you grew with the passing months. This is one of the first he’d chosen. 

“I thought my job was to provide you with an heir,” you say.

“Not at the cost of your life!”

He had almost missed the appointment for more professional matters. Now you wish he had. When the doctor told you that you might not survive giving birth, he gave you a choice: risk having the child anyway or drink a tonic that will terminate your pregnancy while it’s still safe. You knew Feyd’s mind was made up in that very moment. But yours wasn’t. This is your child, a perfect combination of you and the only man you’ve ever loved, and yet, your questioning of what is best has your husband looking at you like you’ve lost your damn mind; like you’re a fool with a knack for selfishness.

“I’m the na-Baron,” he says. “You’re under my authority. I decide for the both of us.”

You shake your head. “That’s not fair.”

“I don’t care if it’s fair! We can make a hundred heirs, but there isn’t another you!” he screams. You wonder if the rest of the Harkonnen fortress hears—the soldiers, the servants. You wonder if they fear for their lives because of an outburst that has nothing to do with them. They should. Your husband is likely to go on a rampage throughout the place the moment this conversation ends, should it ever.

When you shrivel in your chair, a crease dents the center of his brow. Feyd returns to you, his warm palms cupping your cheeks, his forehead resting against yours. “You can’t ask me to let you do this,” he says with a subtle whimper. “I won’t ever forgive you.”

“What about my forgiveness of you?”

Feyd jerks back. The pain in his eyes shrinks under darkness. “You have nothing to forgive me for.”

Finally, you stand. “You want me to give up our baby,” you argue. “You don’t think I deserve to–”

“No!” You jump. “I care about you! I love you! Not some thing that wants to take you away from me!”

“Feyd–”

“I refuse to continue this conversation,” he says. “I’ve made the decision. It’s done.”

—

He’d tried everything. He had meal preparers mix it in with your usual dinner drink until the nasty sludge color disappeared. He attempted to have your maidservants slip it into your morning tea, your evening glass of warm milk, and, even more desperately, into your bathwater. However, the only servants close enough to you that he could demand such a task from became primarily loyal to you after your marriage six months prior, and as a result, each one informed you of his plans. Five servants fell to your husband's blade before he surrendered that tactic to attempt anew. But with his final effort, what died between you was nothing other than what had been keeping you together—affection. 

With your feelings numb, there was little foundation for your relationship to stand upon. When he took you and made you his concubine, Feyd kept you safe. He did the physical work to protect you in a newly twisted relationship while you did all of the emotional work. You broke down the walls he’d built, got him to open up, showed him that caring for you wouldn’t be the end of the world. Convincing you to get rid of your baby was the hardest he’d ever emotionally worked for you, and since failure was not a thing he had known, nothing was going to stop him. 

He didn’t understand that kissing you with the tonic filling his mouth was too far, even for what he’d already done. He didn’t understand that he had already lost so much of your trust with his deceit and that that kiss was enough to scorch the rest of it. You might have left him had you not been able to wash the substance from your mouth before it could do its damage. 

When you first turned him away, he threw his fits. He screamed at you and for you every day until you made it clear you weren’t coming to him, but even then, he didn’t allow you to neglect the expectations he had for you. In front of others, you were to act as his wife—stand by his side, attend meetings in silence, kiss him goodbye before his trips to Arrakis—but the larger your belly grew, the less he was willing to have you near. 

You don’t sleep in the same bed now. You don’t take your meals together or bathe together or, frankly, see one another. He looks the other way when he crosses your path. His fists clench like he wants to touch you, his Adam’s apple bobs like he’s holding back from kissing you, but his eyes refuse to meet yours, and he won’t go near you. 

You know he's preparing himself to lose his wife. Anger, while present, hasn’t been the dominant fuel for his behavior for a while, and neither is it yours. You were furious, but with your baby due in a month, you struggle to bear the loneliness, and the longer he continues to treat you like you’re a plague, the more you miss him, and the more you fear for your child. Who will love it if you are not here? Who will protect it and teach it and nourish it? Certainly not the one who should and once promised he would. And as the days close in, you wonder if he was right. If you made a mistake. 

—

I need him—that’s all you can think as your baby fights to leave your body. You need your husband here, and the reasons are far too overwhelming, but you can’t focus on anything else. You miss him. You can’t do this alone. And if you die today, you have to say goodbye. You have to tell him you love him and make him swear to protect your child, or it was all for nothing. 

“I need him,” you screech through your teeth with the contraction that hits you.

“My Lady–” one of the nurses begins. Her voice is shaky, worried eyes flicking back and forth between yours and the doctor between your legs who has just reached for another clean rag after discarding a blood-soaked one. “My Lady, the na-Baron–”

“I don’t care! I need him!”

He must’ve been there, listening, because Feyd’s through the door in an instant, and as his eyes lock on to yours, everything else—all the pain and lies—is shoved behind you. He takes a step forward but pauses, momentarily distracted by the wear on your body, before he blinks and continues forward, shoving people aside to get to you. He falls to his knees by your bed and when your hand reaches out, he clutches it tightly in both of his. Too tightly. You can feel your pulse throbbing harder from the pressure on your veins, but you don’t care. 

“Feyd, I–”

“Don’t do this to me,” he mutters as tears well in his eyes. The first you’ve ever seen. He didn’t so much as shed a tear on your wedding day or when you told him you were pregnant, but as the first one falls down his cheek, you realize he’s about to make up for every missed opportunity. 

You can’t respond. You don’t have it in you to tell him that you won’t do anything to him, that you won’t hurt him, that you’ll be fine, and that you’ll be a family. You’re too exhausted to lie. He seems to know it because he doesn’t make the request again. Instead, he kisses your fingers over and over, repeating words of love that are not often said. 

“My Lady, I know it hurts, but if you can shift downwards a bit,” the doctor starts. “At this angle, we might be able to–”

Feyd wipes his eyes and shoots to his feet. “You can save her?”

“There might be a better chance.”

You groan as you maneuver your body. Feyd does what he can to assist, but it doesn’t ease the searing, stabbing feeling at your core. 

“That’s better,” the doctor praises. 

“She’s your priority,” Feyd says sternly.

You gasp. “N-No…”

Your husband’s head whips back to you. “I’m not watching you die,” he growls. 

“For…our baby,” you say to Feyd’s hardened features. You cry harder for the pain of realizing that out of you and your baby, he would still choose you. You don’t know why you expected any different. In the five minutes of his presence, he gave no indication of a change of heart, but it’s disappointing all the same. “P-Please.”

The doctor doesn’t look up from the task at hand but listens for further instruction. “My Lord?”

Feyd stares at you for a long while, his expression unchanged. He doesn’t squeeze your hand or kiss your forehead or brush away the damp hair from your forehead with your next contraction. He doesn’t flinch at your joining shriek. He’s gone, lost in the world of his thoughts until he decides to come back. His eyes close. He grinds his back teeth. His brow pinches and he shakes his head.

“The baby,” Feyd struggles to get out. He pauses before he says, “And then my wife.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

The next half-hour is white-hot, blinding agony. You can no longer move—a statue as the doctor slices pieces of you open to accommodate your child’s position. He doesn’t want to come out. He doesn’t want to leave his mother. You can’t blame him. If you had the same fate awaiting you upon joining the world, you might not rush to leave the confines of comfort either. He has no reason to separate himself from everything he’s known to fall into the hands of a man who does not love him. But his unwillingness to leave you is what will eventually take you from him. 

You can feel it. The draining. Of blood. Of life. Your energy is long gone and at this point, you can’t imagine lasting long enough to be saved, even if you survive just in time to hear your baby’s first cry. 

“We’re almost there,” the doctor says. His words are hazy as your brain drifts, struggling to keep you conscious. But then you feel a release of pressure, a missing weight. Emptiness. Solitude.

“Save my wife!” you hear in the aftermath, but you’re not worried about that. You need to know he’s ok and perfect and that he has all of his fingers and toes. You need to know if he has a dusting of hair on his head, or if he’s like your husband. Does he more resemble his father? Complexion and eyes and lips poutier than yours? You need to know these things about your son. 

But you suppose you never will. Your vision is too blurry to make out his tiny form, but among Feyd’s shouts, you hear a beautiful little wail as your eyelids flutter closed. And that’s enough. 

—

The last thing you heard upon your death is the first thing you hear when you wake. And it terrifies you. Surely, you should not be hearing that sound. If you can hear him, then he’s with you, and he can’t be with you because you’re not here. Not really. You don’t exist on the plane he should be existing on. You exist in darkness now, and he was only ever meant to see the light. That’s what you saved him for. That’s what you used every remaining ounce of your will and soul and heart to do. You left so he could stay. So how could he be with you?

“Can you hear him?” 

Yes. You cannot see him, but you can hear him. He sounds so much like you remember. His coos are not the wails, but the noises are brothers. You part your lips to call his name only to realize you never got the chance to give him one. 

“He’s perfect,” the voice says. “Everything about him.” A tear trickles down your cheek. “I need you to meet him. He wants to see his mother.”

You want to see him, too, so badly, and as you feel the desire, a flash of light shoots across your vision. One flash, and then another. Another flash, and then one more. Brightness obscures every image as your eyes shift, attempting to take in your surroundings. You’re not sure this is better. In the darkness, you can rest. This is simply torturous, and your baby is not even here. 

Heat from a heavy, shaky sigh hits your skin. Relief. Lips land on yours for a long beat before finding your forehead. A skull presses to your skull. The breath is taken from your lungs by another kiss. A droplet splashes onto your cheek. 

“You don’t ever do this to us again.” When your vision adjusts, your husband is there. “Do you understand me?”

You nod before you can think not to, before you can think that Feyd is not meant to be here, either. But if he is here, then why does he look so happy? Would he really rather the three of you be gone forever than to raise your baby without you? You scold your idiocy. Of course, he would. 

“You were out for three days,” he says. “Longest three days of my life.”

Out. Not dead. Not gone. 

Feyd helps you sit up. He disappears and then returns with a bundle of fabric. “Look,” he says, smiling, sniffling, and then smiling again. Two of his fingers gently nudge a section of the blanket aside to reveal a tiny face. Tiny nose, tiny lips, tiny eyes. Lashes that rest on tiny cheeks. A much smaller spitting image of your husband. “He’s got your eyes, I promise,” Feyd says, and your son proves it when his eyelids flutter open. 

“Do you think you’ve got the strength to hold him?”

You nod again. “Y-Yes,” you say, like it’s your first word. 

Feyd uncurls his arms from the baby and settles him into your awaiting ones. He’s lighter than you expected—probably to do with coming a little early—but the weight of him snaps the bits of you that were lagging behind in the unconscious world to the present. You gasp.

You’re alive. Your baby is alive. Your husband is here. They’re both beautiful. “I’m alive.”

Feyd sits back down in the chair that is pulled up to the side of your bed. He swallows. “Yes. Barely, for a moment, but…yes.”

You cuddle your baby to your chest and run your finger down his nose. He’s softer than the blanket that snuggles him. Soft like you rather than his father. He’ll grow strong like the man you can’t help loving, but he’ll have more heart, and that balance will make him a great Baron one day. A great man. 

“Do you hate me?” Feyd asks. “For what I did?”

Your head hurts and you still feel groggy, but you’re aware enough to know that you don’t hate him. You can’t hate him. It shocks you that he doesn’t know that, but then again, he’d never done anything like what he did before, and if you’re honest with yourself, you don’t know that he wouldn’t do it again should you fall pregnant with another child. You don’t trust him right now, and there’s only one thing that could ever convince you to attempt repairing that trust. 

“Do you love him?” you say as you gently rock your baby. 

Feyd glances down at your son. There’s no contemplation. “More than anything.”

“You’ll protect him?”

His eyes flick back up to yours. “With my life,” he says. And you believe him. 

You became a mother the second you felt that little life growing inside of you, but you can accept that upon looking at your son, spending time with him, your husband learned to become a father. Had you died, you don’t know what would have happened, but you can’t dwell on that and hope to keep your family together at the same time. He loves the child you made together, and that’s all you ever wanted. 

“Then, no,” you tell him. “I don’t hate you.”