#Both are stubborn mules that refuse to let the other surrender

[welcome-to-green-hills]

Is Shadow gonna get the painful Knuckles handshake in the third movie or will he be spared?

And if he does get it, how much trouble is Knuckles in?

Hmmm…. I’m sure that they’ll both be fine. If anything, I think a fight between Knuckles and Shadow would be hilarious!

[ratonnhhaketon]

Still Breathing

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Summary: Six months after the defeat of Thanos, the world is still in chaos. The threat of the Flag Smashers combined with the new headstrong Captain America means it’s time for Valencia Zicari to help save the world one more time. But, in doing so, she also has to pick up the pieces of a broken relationship.

Warnings: Major TFATWS spoilers, Swearing, Angst, Fluff, Slow-Burn

A/N: Original character backstory reveal time!! Sorry this took longer than anticipated, I planned on having weekly updates for this fic, but I’m trying to finish up this year of college and my classes have been draining me of any motivation. Hopefully I’ll be able to update quicker in 2 weeks when I’m finished. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this chapter and as always if you have any questions or comments about my oc or the story feel free to send them my way! Feedback is always accepted and appreciated!

Chapter 2 - So We Meet Again

The entire way to Berlin, Valencia just felt off. Going to see Zemo, after everything he did to tear apart the only family she had left, just did not sit right with her at all. Especially when she considered everything he put Bucky through. Her mind was preoccupied as they walked through the facility, her body on autopilot as it followed closely behind Sam and Bucky. She didn’t realize they had stopped following the guard that was escorting them until a gloved hand rested on her shoulder, her confused gaze snapping up to meet a set of icy blue eyes. 

“D’ya hear me, doll? I’m gonna go in alone.”

Valencia’s eyes widened in horror at his words. “What? Like hell you are!”

Bucky’s eyes moved from Val to Sam. “Both of you are Avengers. You know how he feels about that.”

Sam rolled his eyes at his words, his hands settling on his hips as his patience grew thin. “Buck, it's not like you two were known for frolickin' in the sun together.”

The super soldier held back his own eye roll at his words. “He was obsessed with HYDRA,” he spoke in a firm tone, his voice dropping with the last word. Bucky looked between the two people in front of him and noticed how Valencia was practically staring him down. 

She spoke up in a monotone voice, “This is an absolutely horrible idea.” 

“Look, we have a history together. Trust me. I got it.” As he turned to leave Valencia reached a hand towards him, catching his wrist. He immediately stopped and turned back to look at her.

“Bucky, just.. Be careful. Please,” she spoke in a small voice. Her eyes were pleading with him just as much as her words. 

“I always am.” He shot her a small smile as he turned back around, walking down the hall towards Zemo’s cell. She felt her heart sink watching him walk off. 

Valencia leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her chest and a defeated sigh slipping past her lips. Sam copied her body language on the wall across from her. “So what’s going on with you two?” 

Her brows furrowed together. “What?” 

“I know you two aren’t still together but you seemed real friendly back at the police station.” The corner of his lips turned up as he spoke. 

“Oh, my god,” she rolled her eyes at him. “I haven’t seen my boy-” she stopped mid word, mentally cursing herself, “best friend in almost a month and suddenly I’m not allowed to hug him? Especially when I thought he was going to be imprisoned?” 

Sam put his hands up in surrender. “All I’m saying is that it looked like more than just a friendly hug.”

“Even if it was, we’re still broken up.” Her foot nudged a small clump of dust on the ground. “Besides, I know he’s been trying to move on.”

He let out a chuckle. “Oh I call bullshit on that.”

“I’m serious! He’s been going on dates. His friend Yori set him up with a waitress a few days ago.”

Sam sighed, pursing his lips and shaking his head to the side in frustration. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Val. His feelings haven’t changed.”

 “I just..” she huffed. Her teeth chewed on her bottom lip as her mind worked to string her thoughts into a coherent sentence. “I’m worried. He called me the other night. At three in the morning. Which means his nightmares are coming back and I just hope to god it isn’t about what I think it is.”

“Have you thought about taking a break from work and going down to see him?” She stared at him, her jaw tightening as she held back. It was obvious where he was going with this. “He needs you, Val. Now more than ever.” 

That one sentence was enough to send her over the edge. She pushed off the wall and stared at the man across from her, tears starting to blur the edges of her vision. “Do you think I don’t want to be there for him? That I want him to suffer through his trauma in silence?” With each word her voice rose until she was practically yelling. “When Steve left I made him a promise that I would be there for Bucky to help him recover. And I was, for so long. I made sure he went to his therapy appointments and was working on his list. But I can’t exactly do that anymore when he was the one to push me away!” Her chest heaved, hot tears running down her cheeks. 

“Val, I’m sorry.” Sam stood up, crossing the space between them and planting both hands on her shoulders. Her figure shook gently from the bottled up emotions leaving her all at once. 

“I don’t even care about what happened with The Winter Soldier anymore. I wasn’t even a year old, it barely matters now.” she sniffed, looking up to catch Sam’s gaze. “I just want to make Steve proud. And I thought that letting Bucky push me away was what he needed in the moment but.. now..” she trailed off, eyes turning down to the floor. 

Sam pulled her towards him, his arms wrapping around her shoulders. “You did what you thought was right, no one can blame you for that.” Valencia pulled her eyes closed tightly, her hands clutching onto the back of his jacket. She clung to him as she cried, holding on for dear life as if she would slip away if she let go. 

After a few minutes she had calmed down enough that she was only sniffling. “Do you think I made the wrong choice?” Sam mumbled, breaking the silence. 

“What?” Valencia looked up at him, eyes still glassy from residual tears. 

“Do you think I should have given up the shield?” 

“Sam, that was your decision. And I’ll stand by whatever choice you made because I know you did what you thought was right.” He wanted to do right by Steve, just like she did, but it was difficult. He didn’t truly know if he was capable of handling everything that came with carrying the shield. 

His eyes moved from the patch of wall he was staring at ahead of him and back down to Val as she pulled away from him, her left hand coming up to wipe away the stray tears from her cheeks. “I’m not mad that you gave up the shield, Sam. I understand that it was your decision and you thought it was just going to sit at the Smithsonian exhibit. I’m only mad at the goddamn government for giving it to that prick who wishes he could be half the man Steve was.” 

“Thank you. That means a lot.” 

She smiled back at him, letting out a deep breath before tugging at his hand. C’mon. Let’s go see what’s taking Bucky so long.” 

~~~~~

The three of them slowly trudged through the darkness, one of Valencia’s hands gently holding on to the back of Bucky’s jacket as she tried not to trip. “Buck, where the hell are we?” she practically whined out at him. 

“Are you serious? You wanna break Zemo outta jail?” Sam questioned from behind them, causing Bucky to turn around sharply. The flashlight he held in his right hand flashed directly across Valencia’s vision, a hand coming up quickly to shield her eyes as she grimaced. 

“Do you have a better idea?” Bucky asked in a curt voice before turning back around to keep walking. “We have no leads, no moves, nothing.” 

“But what we do have is one of the most dangerous men in the world behind bars.” Valencia pointed out, nearly falling as Bucky stopped abruptly in front of her.  

She watched as Bucky’s eyes scanned over the control panel in front of him. “And there’s also eight Super Soldiers that are loose.” 

“Zemo’s gonna mess with our minds. Especially yours. No offense.” As soon as the words left Sam’s mouth Bucky had finally flipped the lights on, revealing the angry expression he wore.  

“Offense,” he said with a pointed glare. “Super soldiers go against everything he believes in. He is crazy but he still has a code.” 

“Yeah, and all three of us have been on the wrong side of that code.” Valencia interjected before Sam could speak. “Remember Bucharest? Him bombing the UN and blaming you for it? Because the Wakandans certainly didn’t.” 

Bucky sighed, his hands finding purchase on his hips. “Look, let me walk you through a hypothetical. Can I walk you through a hypothetical?” 

Before he could begin to explain a loud crash came from the next room over. Sam and Valencia’s heads snapped over towards the sound, leaving Bucky to hang his head in defeat. 

Off to a great start. 

The vague outline of a person started to approach them, to which Valencia’s eyes widened as she whipped around to face the blue eyed man behind her. “You broke him out?!” she practically yelled. 

“Hell no,” Sam spoke up, pointing a finger towards the man standing before him. “You’re going back to prison!” 

Zemo stood timidly in the doorway, taking his hat off to hold between his hands before saying, “If I may-”

Immediately the trio turned and shouted “NO!” before returning to the matter at hand. 

“Okay, just, listen.” Bucky spoke in a low voice. “When Steve refused to sign the Sokovia Accords, you two backed him. You broke the law, and you stuck your necks out for me. I'm asking you to do it again.”

Valencia’s gaze repeatedly flickered from Bucky to Zemo, the same uneasy feeling from earlier in the day resurfacing in the pit of her stomach. She just knew this wasn’t going to end well, but also knew that Bucky was as stubborn as a mule and would not take no for an answer. Especially when Sam finally agreed. 

Bucky looked down at her expectantly, his icey blue gaze piercing her soul. She let out a breath she did not realize she had been holding before nodding. “Yeah. I’m on board.” 

“Alright Zemo,” Sam said. “Where do we start?”

~~~~~

After finding out about Zemo’s wealth and joining him on the jet, they learned that their destination was Madripoor. Zemo explained that they had to disguise themselves and gave each of them a set of clothing to change into for their roles. 

Valencia was in the back of the plane, the curtain pulled across the doorway for privacy as she pulled on the deep red cocktail dress given to her. After repeatedly struggling to reach behind her and pull the zipper up her back, she threw her hands up into the air as an exasperated sigh left her lips. Admitting defeat, she peeked out of the curtain and spotted Bucky standing a few feet away with his back towards her. With one hand Valencia pulled the back of her dress together while the other pushed the curtain back. “Bucky? Would you mind?” 

He ducked past the curtain behind her, a warm hand taking the zipper from her grasp and a metal one landing on her hip. He slid the small zipper up her back, hand lingering between her shoulder blades for a second before she turned to face him. 

“I have a bad feeling about this,” she said in a low voice, barely above a whisper. She didn’t like seeing him dressed up as The Winter Soldier. That part of his life was behind him. That man was gone. 

His gaze met hers and he could see all of the apprehension, the fear, in her eyes. He wanted to pull her in close, to kiss away all of the uneasy feelings, but he couldn’t. Not after everything that happened. Everything he did to her. Instead he put a gloved hand on her shoulder, his thumb rubbing light circles into the exposed skin. “I know, doll. I’m not a fan of this plan, but it’s all we have right now.”

“Hey,” Sam called, walking towards where they were tucked into the back area of the plane. “You two ready? We’re landing soon.”

[katerinawinters]

The Witcher: No Turning Back Chapter 5

Geralt watched her as she took a deep breath and pulled back the bow string. About forty yards away stood a whitetail buck. With its broadside facing them, the shot was perfect. Calmly, he looked at the young woman at his side and observed her intense expression as she lined the shot. Raising its head, the deer's tail flicked as he looked around cautiosly. Taking a hesitant step forward it quartered-away, angling its rear toward them and its chest in line.

 Ciri released the arrow.

 Imbedding the arrow deep into the lungs, the deer fell instantly.

 Sliding his gaze to hers, Geralt already knew she would be wearing that cocky smile of hers.

 "You thought I was going to miss the shot, didn't you?" she accused good-humoredly.

 Already kneeling on one knee, Geralt crossed both of his forearms on his bent knee comfortably and turned to her with a wry smile. "Well, at first I was wondering why you wasted a perfectly good angle, but then I just assumed you were trying to starve me tonight since it’s your night to cook."

 Her beautiful faced scrunched up into a sulky scowl. "Oh, come on," she whined as she stood up. "You are such a better cook. Why do you want to take the chance and have me ruin all this meat?" she flung an arm into the direction of the downed deer. "Everything I make is either burnt, bland, or too salty. Your food taste amazing."

 Standing up, he started walking towards the deer as she followed alongside of him, tucking the bow over her shoulder like he taught her. "Yes, but you will never get better if you do not practice."

 Grumbling something under her breath she forged ahead through the high brush and went to field-dress the deer. Wearing buckskin pants, a dark blue shirt tucked in into the waist, and a smile on her lips she was practically a different girl from the one he had taken in his charge weeks ago.

 Not long since they arrived at their new home, he had taken them to the nearest town. Buying a few supplies for their new home he had given her a few crowns and a strict order to get some practical clothes she could train and move around in. He had gotten more than tired of seeing her in the worn dirty clothes he had found her in. Now however, he was filled with a bit of regret at the decision. She had come out of the shop with two large parcels that she showed him proudly, describing with enthusiasm that she found clothes similar to his, but Geralt did not miss the small delicate package she kept hidden under her arm. It wasn't until that night when she had gotten done bathing from the stock pot in the far corner of the room behind that worthless curtain she hung that he spied her carefully slipping on new undergarments and smiling with such a pure feminine smile it made him wish he had given her more money. His regret unfortunately did not stop there, it was the pants. He was convinced they had to be too small but she assured him with a tug of the waist band as proof that they were plenty roomy. By God's teeth, the fuck they were! They fit her like a second skin.

 Leaning against a nearby tree, he refocused his thoughts to the present and off the wretched pants and watched as she carefully sliced the animal open.

 "Ok, how about you supervise as I cook to ensure I don't leave us both hungry and angry tonight?" she spoke over her shoulder as she removed the pieces of meat.

 "The last time I instructed you on how to cook the meat you ended up making a pie, I was essentially teaching your backside," he countered.

 "But it was good pie was it not?!" she laughed. "What luck to find a place with a baker's oven."

 Shaking his head, he grabbed the buck's antler preparing to drag the carcass further away from their property.

 Placing her hand on top of his, she gave him an offended look stopping him. "I'm supposed to be doing this remember?"

 Smirking, he lifted both hands in silent surrender and stepped back. Waiting for the inevitable.

 Folding the fabric containing the meat tightly she strung it up on a tree limb off the ground as he taught her. Walking pridefully around him, she eased herself in front of him to take the position near the antlers. Geralt nearly laughed, the girl was so stubborn and prideful all the while only reaching the center of his chest.

 Grabbing the antlers, Ciri tugged at the carcass. It did not budge. Frowning she tried again, this time bending her knees and putting more power into the move. The carcass moved one whole inch. Giving off an exasperated sigh, Ciri reluctantly brought her gaze to his and immediately regretted it. Smiling fully now, Geralt did not stop his silent laughter this time.

 "You're as stubborn as a mule," he said shaking his head.

 "Well," she began with a petulant little whine. "The whole point is to teach me so that I can do this on my own if needed."

 "Yes, but if you were on your own you would get smaller game, just enough to feed yourself."

 "Yes, well I won't ever have to worry about that right?" she said haughtily, tossing back a few strands of her ashen hair that had come down from her bun at the top of her head. "I belong to you by law and I don't see any reason that I will ever need to hunt for one."

 Though technically it was said as a statement they both heard the lilt in her tone towards the end and they both knew it was a truly indeed a real question. It was something she did often with him. Constant little hinting questions, constant inquiries about their future. Her need to be reminded that he would not abandon her was vital. And just as he usually did, he obliged the young woman, unable to ignore the desperate need for confirmation shining in her large gray eyes.

 "Yes of course," he agreed as he stepped around her towards the buck, laying a hand on her back.

 The resulting shiver that ran down her spine and through his fingertips burned his senses like magma. Removing his hand, he steeled his expression to show nothing, a skill he had yet to teach her. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her lips part with a silent gasp and her eyes widen slightly at the contact.

 Fuck.

 It had been two weeks since they took over the cottage. Two weeks of sleeping on the floor side by side. Two weeks of nightly bathing in the living area while the other turned their back. Two weeks of his iron will being tested in a way he would have never dreamed.

 Not for the first time Geralt cursed himself for finding the girl so late. No longer berating himself for simply enacting the idiotic fucking Law of Surprise, no, just for claiming her so late. Though granted, he thought with a heavy sigh, the line was a fine one. If he were to have walked into Cintra and claimed her too early he would have had a child on his hand but waiting until now as he had done…well he had something he wasn't quite sure to handle on his hands. A young woman who looked at him as if he was the savior of the world. Hell, to her maybe he was. He certainly did seem to get to her just as her life had turned to shit, plucking her from the ravages of the world and keeping her safe it made sense why she viewed him with wide eyed heroism. It was her smart-mouth and surprisingly wry personality that he fucking liked. When her initial fear and wariness of him wore off leaving him to discover the actual princess beneath, Geralt knew then that he was fucked. Used to getting her own way and far more knowledgeable than standard nobility Geralt often found himself trading barbs and witticisms with the ashen haired young woman. And to make matters somehow worse, it was exact moments like these that was killing him. Moments of instinctual feminine reaction and appreciation to him that was undoing their innocent relationship and slowly and infernally building something else.

 He refused to let it happen goddammit. Grabbing the buck's antler, he channeled his anger into his strength and easily slid the heavy carcass behind him as he stormed off into the woods. Damn his witcher libido, he thought, placing the blame there. Normally his heightened sex drive was always something he could control unlike some of his other witcher brethren but he must have miscalculated. He needed a good fuck, he surmised, that would solve this issue and let him resume looking after the girl without fucking everything up.

 ~*~

 Letting off a small groan in her sleep, Ciri frowned at the soreness of her muscles. Not really wanting to, she forced herself to open her eyes. The rafters above were no longer dusty and decorated with cobwebs and various nests. The holes in the thatching were fixed allowing the cottage to stay even warmer with the use of their wood stove. With only a week of repairs the cottage felt like a real home. Of course, there was more that needed to be done, namely the bedrooms. It was a task neither one of them were looking forward to and both for completley different reasons. Geralt had told her he needed to stack the stones just right if he didn't intend on having to repeat the whole process at a later date and between her daily training and other chores that needed to get done, he simply hadn't had the time to focus on it. For now, their camp in the middle of the living area would have to suffice. Stuffing a few rags underneath the bedroom doors to block the wind from seeping through and their heat out, Geralt looked to be in no rush to get the job done. Something she was immensely happy for.

 Turning onto her side towards the radiating heat to her left, Ciri sucked in a breath at the sight of the witcher sleeping. It wasn't often she was up before him and even less that he was still asleep. Each night as they laid down for bed, he would teach her all about the different monsters to be hunted, describing their features with such crystal-clear clarity she could envision them almost perfectly. He would explain their weaknesses, their likely or theorized origins and sometimes he would tell her stories of growing up in Kaer Mohren, a place that seemed magical and frightening to her. At some point during his tales without fail sleep would catch a hold of her taking her under, no matter how hard she struggled against its pull and each day she would wake up next to him wishing she could have had just a few more minutes.

 Tracing his features with her gaze she smiled at the stern expression he had even in his sleep. Firm lips, a strong jaw line, and straight nose this sleeping warrior was beginning to infect every one of her waking thoughts. At first, she just needed to know he would be by her side, that he would not leave her like everyone else did, but at some point, during their daily training, their nightly bathing, and sleepy conversations her heart started to constrict with each amber glance cast her way. Ciri found herself blushing like a fool as he wrapped his arms around her to show her how to properly hold a sword.

 Dropping her gaze to his exposed collarbone she bit back the urge to grin at the sprinkling of chest hair peeking over the material. Geralt in armor was imposing indeed but it held not even a single candle to Geralt wearing just a simple shirt and pants. Built like no man she had ever seen his body seemed to bulge with muscles, it was almost obscene. When he lifted the heavy stock pot to the floor each night so they could wash off the day's grime, a privilege they afforded themselves along with twice a week soaks in the large tub, Ciri watched with open fascination at the flex of his biceps at the action.

 When did her admiration for the stoic man evolve into this? When did her beating heart turn from nervous thrashing into blood racing heat spreading throughout her body? Dropping her gaze further she examined the broad width of his chest as he lay on his side, following each rise and fall of his breath until she could feel her own match his rhythm. Once, he had mentioned off-hand in conversation when she questioned him about his mutations that everything from his hair to his eating habits were changed, she wondered…was he changed elsewhere, perhaps? Settling downward she settled on his crotch with a blush. Her grandmother, Calanthe, was a very progressive woman she did not endorse the same beliefs that most nobility believed in when it came to their daughters. She believed from an early age that Ciri should know the facts about sex and not be led to fear it like some girls were taught, in fact, Calanthe believed quite the opposite and was not afraid to expound on the joys of rigorous sex no matter how much Ciri cringed.

 Closing her eyes with a sigh, Ciri let her thoughts shift to her grandmother with a painful smile.

 "And what has you smiling so early in the morning?" Geralt's deep voice caused her to flinch.

 Startled she looked at him realizing how close they were before sitting up. Running a hand through her loose hair she shook her head and gave a nervous laugh. "Oh, um nothing really. For some reason I was just thinking of a rather inappropriate story my grandmother told me, of course before she married Eist," she added.

 "Mmm," Geralt replied deeply, in a way that made Ciri suspect that he did not believe her. "I'm sure that woman had quite a few encounters that would make even a sailor blush."

 Standing up, Geralt moved to the bowl of water they kept on the nearby table. With his hair down from his normal tie he kept it in, it fanned around him like a white curtain as he leaned forward to splash his face with the frigid water.

 Standing up from her pile of quilts, which had been mostly layered on her, she stepped over the mattresses and reached for one of the shuttered windows. Sunlight spilled vertically through the seam of the wooden shutters, enticing her to let it in. Kneeling and leaning forward on the chair in front of her, she reached out and obliged letting the warm light spill into the dim cozy room. Smiling, Ciri stared out at the beautiful day though she knew how cold it was judging by the radiating cold from the glass.

 "Where did you get that gown?" Though the question was asked in the witcher's softest tone yet, there was still a dangerous quality to it that made her heart skip a beat.

 Still kneeling on the chair, Ciri turned and looked over her shoulder at him, light spilled in from behind her bathing her and the surrounding area with bright morning sunlight.

 "I…I got it from Goldencheeks, I had nothing to sleep in so she let me have it," she explained, watching his eyes take in her form and suddenly feeling very self-conscious.

 His scowl deepened as she shifted to face him directly. "It doesn't look warm," he groused.

 Looking down her chest, she tried to see the simple white cotton gown how he did. It had no lace, no frills, no ribbons, or embroidery, it was just a sheaf of white fabric with long sleeves. It might not be much, she thought with a frown, but it was darn warm and it was all she had.

 Putting her hands on her hips she stood straighter and gave him a menacing look. "I will have you know it’s very warm, so unless you plan on buying me a new one you can keep your opinion to yourself, witcher."

 Her statement was so bold, so audacious that Ciri was momentarily proud of herself. In that moment she truly channeled the lioness spirit of her grandmother Calanthe, in such a way she was sure the woman would be proud. Sadly, pride was not the emotion she inspired from the pale witcher standing across the room who was currently giving her a look so menacing it could turn water into stone.

 Resisting the urge to take a hesitant step back, partly for her pride's sake and due to the fact, there was a wall directly behind her, Ciri swallowed nervously.

 Taking a step forward, Geralt stepped from the hazy shadows of the room into a spear of light that fell across his face illuminating one of his amber eyes. "Say that an again," his voice was so low in the quiet room, Ciri almost had a hard time hearing it over the steady percussion of her heart.

 Ciri made no sound, no movement at the command. Taking a few more steps forward, Geralt easily closed the space between them until he was standing only inches from her, staring down the bridge of his nose at her with hard gleaming eyes.

 Fear swirled like a cold winter gale within her gut as she looked up at him. Unable to meet his gaze any longer Ciri let it drop to the column of his neck and down further to the breadth of his chest. Muscled and strong, she imagined a man trying to fight this huge witcher, imagining their punched landing on his chest and bouncing back. The thought of his strength combined with the feel of his emanating heat reacted within her in a way she could not fathom. Tingling awareness traced up and down her skin leaving her breasts feeling tight and sensitive while a deep flush colored her skin as she looked back up at him. A flicker of awareness ignited in the depths of his eyes and Ciri knew in that exact moment that he realized what she was feeling. Pride thankfully bubbled back to the surface within her, overshadowing that odd foreign moment of consciousness she felt towards this man. Stepping sideways, she nearly tripped over a small chest sitting against the wall near the door. Edging towards one of the small bedrooms she had been using to change in, she raised her chin, trying her best to give off a confidence she did not feel.

 "I am going to get dressed," she announced as if she was the one that ended the battle of wills on her on terms.

 His gaze narrowed, dropping to her neck and further down before abruptly coming back up to meet hers with an unholy flame lighting them. "Good, because today we train--hard."

 ~*~

 She was snoring face down in her pillow. A deep heavy snore that told him that pretty much nothing at this point would wake up the princess. Good, Geralt thought with a snort. Turning to the large stock pot of boiling water, he lifted it from the hot wood stove and lowered it to the ground in the corner of the room. Stripping his clothes, he paused for a moment, the deep snores continued on in the background. Smirking he continued with the removal of his clothes. Grabbing a clean rag, he began washing off the dirt of the day. Training had been brutal. He drilled in the basics of defense for what felt like hours, using a long straight branch he found as a rod to assist in "training." Mostly, he used it to whack at her whenever she stepped out of place during the footwork drills. By later afternoon, a hatred so deep and consuming filled those beautiful gray eyes of hers it completely washed away that awakening look of desire that ignited within them that morning.

 Letting out a deep groan, Geralt let his forehead rest in both hands as he propped his elbows on his knees. What in the fuck was he thinking? That morning she had caught him completely by surprise. Kneeling in front of that window like that, the sun had enveloped her like a long overdue hug, completely penetrating through the white gown until it outlined every detail of her body. Rounded pert breasts that sat high on her chest like a pair of ripe apples; nipples that stood proudly against her gown scratching maddeningly at the fabric until Geralt could swear he could hear the delicate rustle of each movement. Lust so powerful and depraved spread through him like wildfire, gripping all of his senses willing his body to act until he could feel his feet begin to move on their own accord. Calling upon his iron will he called his baser instincts to a halt as he savagely reminded himself that she was his ward--nothing more.

 Clean now and wearing just a pair of pants he grabbed one of his clean shirts, grimacing at it. He hated sleeping with clothes on especially surrounded by sturdy walls. But sleeping in the nude wasn't practical for the life of a witcher nor would it be appropriate at a time like this. Glancing back at the girl's still body he watched the slight rise and fall of her back as she slept, he could risk leaving the shirt off at least. Laying down, he folded one arm behind his head and closed his eyes.

 His eyes opened seconds before the shattering clap of thunder struck the sky. The walls of the cottage shook and Geralt could here bits of stone fall away from the mountain wall at the disturbance. A sharp intake of breath and the jolt to his right was expected. Holding out his right arm he barred the girl from getting up from the spot. Soft and warm Geralt inwardly cursed at the feeling of her breasts pushing against the side of forearm as he kept her still.

 "You are fine, it's just a storm," he reassured her, hoping his voice sounded calm to her rather than as rough as it sounded to his own ears.

 Breathing deeply Ciri looked around the dark room in a confused panic. He could see her mind slowly putting together reality as she finally let her gaze settle to him. The light from the stove's grate had died down only casting a small circumference of orange glow. It was the occasional flashes of bright lightening piercing through the shutters' cracks that illuminated the room in sporadic spurts. Watching her gray eyes slowly take him in with recognition and clarity Geralt tensed at the reminder he wasn't wearing a shirt.

 But her eyes did not widen in shock nor did that tiny spark of feminine arousal ignite this time. Looking down she gave him a shaky nod before laying back down, turning her back to him. Pulling back his arm, Geralt laid there completely still listening to the sounds of the storm rage around them. He let the deafening sounds of rain hitting the cottage file themselves into individual sounds: rain hitting the thatched roof, the stone siding, the metal chimney of the wood stove, even the sound of rain hitting the side of the mountain. All of the sounds he categorized and filed away. Scents were inhaled and labeled immediately--all except one. One scent, one salty tang that pierced the air around them took him a few seconds longer to confirm. The scent of tears.

 Turning onto his side until he mirrored her position, he looked down at the slender back of the girl next to him. Bunched up around her waist the quilt left the outline of her shoulder and upper arm exposed. Observing her carefully, he watched the small almost indiscernible tremors shake her shoulders and he listened to the soft sounds of her irregular breathing.

 Geralt debated his next move longer than usual. Quick thinking was key to survival as a witcher but when it came to just a handful of weeks with this girl, he realized there was still things to learn.

 Laying a hand on her shoulder, he felt her tense but he said nothing he simply waited. Seconds trickled by like sand through an hourglass and Geralt couldn't help but focus on the heat of her skin through the fabric of her gown. It felt as if her skin was a river of heat pulling his hand like a strong current to sink deeper to urge it to glide to the natural dip in her hips. Fuck! Why had every one of his past encounters with a woman been sexual? His instincts were worthless if not sexual. Resisting the urge to move his hand he waited.

 Without turning she spoke. "I dreamt nothing had changed. For a moment, it was all just a terrible nightmare," she began, her voice thick with tears. "I miss grandmother, I miss Mousesack, I miss Cintra…I miss my old life," she whispered weakly, barely audible over the din of rain surrounding their cottage. Turning over under his hand she looked up at him her eyes watery and desperate. "Please don't be mad, I don't mean to sound ungrateful I…I just…I…"

 Letting his hand rest onto her other shoulder, he pulled her against him without a word. There was nothing he could say that would ease her pain, no great words of wisdom that would help her through her grief any faster, he had nothing he could give her but his presence. Pressed tightly against his bare chest Geralt ignored the warnings in his head about their positions, closing his eyes he waited until her shock slowly dissipated and her body relaxed. He felt her tears renew even as her arms wound around his neck bringing her closer and closer until she was tucked into him perfectly.

 Raindrops and tears continued to fall while lightening veined through the night sky, briefly illuminating their entwined embrace.

[danfanciesphil]

too high (can’t come down) by @danfanciesphil

Suspending himself 7,000 feet above the rest of the world seems likely to be a sure-fire way for Dan to escape normality, and isolate himself for the foreseeable future. The Secret of the Alps, a small hotel tucked into the side of the Swiss mountains is too niche for most avid adventurers to have heard of, making it the perfect place for Dan to work as he sorts through his problems. Unfortunately, privacy is a coveted thing, and as Dan soon finds out, the hotel harbours one guest who values it more than most.

Rating: Explicit Tags: Enemies to lovers, snow, mountains, skiing, hostility, slow burn, secrecy, longing, repression, nobility, classism, cheating, eventual sex

Ao3 Link

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five

Chapter Six

For a moment, no words will come. The blood in Dan’s wrist pulses in odd, shifting patterns beneath the skin. He swallows, caught on the edge of a gelid blue stare. “I… can’t.”

“You can’t ski?” Phil asks, his sneer an anchor that yanks Dan back down from the astral plane into which Phil’s touch had propelled him.   

“Of course I can ski,” he retorts, bristling. He chooses not to mention that he hasn’t skied since he was fourteen, when his family went to Chamonix for a week, and his mum and dad complained the entire time that it was too cold. At a ski lodge. “But I have to… y’know, work. Hotel stuff.”

Mesmerised by the slight twitch of the corner of Phil’s mouth, which still doesn’t quite count as a smile, Dan’s hostile stance falters, then wanes. Like it’s a perfume wafting from Phil’s skin through the air between them, in the next second Dan smells the imminence of his own surrender.  

“Come on,” Phil says, his voice quiet, like it’s just for Dan. It doesn’t seem to matter that nobody else could have heard him anyway. “What else are you gonna do all day? Cook lunch for the hotel ghosts? Sit at reception and pretend you’re not playing on your phone?”

A spurt of blood shoots into Dan’s cheeks; he’d thought he was so stealthy, hiding his phone under the desk as he attempted to load a single meme at a time on Tumblr mobile, using tenuous 3G.

“I- I don’t have any skis,” Dan says lamely.

“Lucky for you that my old ones were repaired by the elusive hotel elf, then,” Phil quips, already stepping away. “I’ll meet you by the front door, shall I?”

He’s gone before Dan can muster up a further refusal. He stands gormless in the middle of the kitchen, gazing around at the pristine surfaces. If only he’d resisted the urge to clean everything already, then he could at least have the excuse of needing to scrub the day away. Perhaps he could quickly throw open all the cupboard doors, ransack the fridge and hurl ingredients and coffee everywhere, feigning a wolf had snuck in somehow, or a snow leopard. 

An image flashes into Dan’s mind, of Mona’s deepening frown as Phil explained to her that not only did Dan let some wild animal break in and contaminate the kitchen, but that he also refused to grant the one request of the only guest. He shudders, closing the door on that image before it can develop. Mona is already far too close to a stark realisation of Dan’s utter hopelessness; despite the words of any fortune-telling crows, a voice lingers at the back of Dan’s mind, assuring him that it’s only a matter of time before he slips up and disappoints everyone. His only hope is to stall that inevitability for as long as possible. 

Plus Phil is, annoyingly, right. There is nothing else for Dan to do today; he and Mona did a deep clean of the whole hotel before she left, and the place is spotless. With no guests to look after, and a low chance of anyone phoning given that the Swiss news helpfully predicted a terrifying blizzard, Dan really is at a loose end.  

It takes about two minutes of dithering in the kitchen before he has to admit defeat. Dan lets out a dreaded sigh, pushing all the air from his lungs, and then goes to wash up the two mugs he’s still holding. As he’s scrubbing the coffee stains, he decides that caffeine is the only acceptable (or available) drug he can utilise to get through whatever lies in store, so he places the mugs on the drying rack, and rinses out a thermos flask he finds, along with Louise’s percolator. He makes the coffee very strong, pours it into the flask, then thinks for a moment, and adds a dollop of soya milk. 

*

As soon as he opens his chest of drawers, Dan is struck once again by how ill-prepared he is for a sudden, impulsive foray into the snowy wilderness. As he lacks proper ‘ski-wear’ - whatever that might be - Dan Instead chooses to go for layers. A clingy t-shirt that barely fit him when he was sixteen, then a baggier, long-sleeved t-shirt. He covers these with a shapeless grey jumper, then a black jacket, and then, finally his warmest coat. He adds thick socks, a hat, boots, sunglasses, gloves and a scarf. By the time he feels he’s ready, his arms stick out stiffly from his sides, but he figures that a little loss of movement is a fair price to pay for not getting frostbite. 

He slots the flask into one of the deep pockets of his coat, and tries not to think too hard about what he’s about to do. Or with whom. He deliberately takes his time getting down to the lobby in order to prolong the inevitable, and also because he likes the idea of the Fresh Prince of the Alps having to wait for him. Phil lowers his phone as Dan approaches, pushing off from where he’s leant against the wall. It takes a moment for him to drink in the sight of Dan, and then his eyebrows shoot up, and he seems to swallow something suspiciously close to a laugh. 

“Err, think you’ll be warm enough?”

Dan rolls his eyes. “I didn’t exactly pack for extreme sports.”

Phil just makes a ‘hmm’ noise, turning to the collection of skis and poles leaning against the wall. “Not sure cross-country skiing could be classed as an extreme sport, but you do y- er, suit yourself.”

If Dan tries to reply, he’ll probably swear, so he clamps his mouth shut, and sticks an arm out to grab for the the red skis. Phil snatches them up first. 

“I’ll wear these,” he says. “You take the new ones.”

He doesn’t look at Dan, just pushes the shiny new skis into his hands. Bewildered, Dan stares at his warped reflection in the electric blue varnish. 

“What? Why?”

It takes a minute for Phil to respond; he’s tugging at the repaired bracket on the red ski, seemingly to test its durability. This alone is enough to make Dan want to slap it out of his hands. Then, he turns to Dan, that vague almost-smile still tucked beneath his smug expression. 

“Haven’t tested the new ones out yet,” he says with a shrug. “Reckon it’d be better for my caddy to fall on his face than me, right?”

Dan splutters, outraged. “Caddy?”

“Grab those ski poles for us, would you?” Phil asks, a spritz of amusement perfuming his words. 

Dan might be intrigued by the lightness of his tone if it weren’t for the fact he were quietly steaming inside his many layers. The heating in this place does not fuck about. Worried he’ll boil alive unless they get outside soon, Dan chooses to just do as he’s asked. If Phil insists on calling him a caddy again, at least Dan will have four long weapons to wield. Dan gathers the four poles up in his arms as best he can, along with his own skis; on the verge of dropping everything, he opts for speed, and scurries after Phil out of the front door.

“If you expect me to haul all of this up some peak or other-”

Dan can’t see, as he’s got a number of pointed objects obscuring his view, so he doesn’t realise that Phil has stopped directly in front of him, a few paces beyond the door. Dan bumps straight into him, and instantly everything he’s holding drops to the ground. When he looks up, Phil is aiming an exasperated gaze down at the pile of poles and skis, as if he’s already regretting inviting Dan along.

“No, I don’t expect you to actually be my pack mule. We’re going to wear our skis,” Phil explains slowly, like he’s talking to a child.

He’s already got his skis laid neatly out in front of him - two bright red parallel lines striking through the snow. As Dan watches confusedly, Phil pushes the tip of his right boot into one of the skis. Dan’s stomach squeezes with discomfort; he’d been correct before, when repairing the skis. The fastenings are not the same as he’s used to.  

“Erm,” Dan says, moving his attention to one of his own skis, laying at an angle in the snow. It has the same unfamiliar fastening, much to his dismay. 

Mind racing to figure out every option available to him that doesn’t involve swallowing his pride and asking Phil for help, Dan moves to inspect the contraption. As if he’s sensed Dan’s incompetence, Phil drops into a crouch anyway, and reaches for Dan’s boot. Instinctively, Dan jerks his foot away. Phil lifts his head to look at Dan. Viewing him from this angle is strange. From this perspective, he seems hunched, small, insignificant. He has none of his Lordly airs about him, hunched down in the snow near Dan’s feet. Phil doesn’t say anything, he just waits, hand calmly outstretched towards Dan’s boot. Wordlessly, Dan moves his foot back into Phil’s reach, and watches as Phil carefully rights the ski, then pulls his foot towards it. He fits the toe of Dan’s boot into the unusual strap. 

“They’re telemark skis,” Phil says, tightening the strap around the ball of Dan’s foot. “I’m guessing you’re more used to Alpine skis? They’re the ones with the strap at the back as well.”

Dan bristles again at the condescending tone. “I’m familiar with both,” he says, because he’s a stubborn moron. Phil says nothing, but that near-smile returns as he reaches for Dan’s other foot; Dan wobbles slightly as Phil guides it into the left ski. “But, uh, it’s been a while. So... remind me again of the difference between, er, telemark and…”

“Alpine,” Phil supplies, standing up. He holds Dan’s gaze for a moment, and then laughs, short and quiet, but just enough for Dan to catch a glimpse of two rows of pearl-white teeth, with a flash of pink tongue caught between them. It’s the most Dan’s seen him smile yet, though he’s obviously laughing at Dan which isn’t ideal. “Telemark skis are designed so that you can wear them for both hiking and skiing. You can move your ankle in them, see?”

He demonstrates, twisting his un-strapped heel to and fro. Dan tries to do the same, and almost falls over. “Why do we need to use our ankles, exactly?”

Dan doesn’t remember skiing requiring a lot of joint movement. From what he can recall of his brief experience as a teenager, he strapped the skis on, let the lift drag him up a big hill, and gravity did a lot of the work getting him to the bottom again.

Phil is full-on smirking now. Dan thinks he preferred the non-smile. “You may have noticed that we don’t have chairlifts up here. We’ll be hiking to the slopes on foot. I’ve put skins on the bottom of these to give us more grip, but we can take them off when we get there.”

Dan tries not let the alarm show on his face. They’re going to be walking up hills? In skis? “And... I suppose once we ski down the slope we’ll be having to...” 

“Walk back up again? Yes. Unless you fancy setting up camp down there.” 

An ill-timed image of the Brokeback Mountain tent attacks Dan so viciously it nearly knocks him sideways. “No! No, no. Walking back up. Cool. Good thing I’ve been practicing with those bloody hotel stairs, right?” 

Dan forces a laugh, but this time Phil’s face remains unmoved. Clearly it’s only Dan’s unintentional idiocy that can procure a genuine smile from him then, right. 

Phil looks to the sky briefly, seeming to assess something in the heavens themselves, and asks, “ready to go, then?”

He doesn’t wait for Dan’s reply. He picks up his ski poles, then turns and begins sort of slide-walking away from the hotel, in seemingly no particular direction. There’s a large thicket of trees ahead of him, but then there are thickets of trees in a few other directions too. Nevertheless, Dan has no choice but to trust this man’s sense of direction, so attempts to move after him; to his horror, his legs immediately split apart in a move he is certainly not flexible enough to achieve. He manages to stab his ski poles into the earth and rectify himself before pulling anything, but in doing so he flails, and almost falls. Luckily, he’s gotten back into a reasonably dignified standing position by the time Phil turns to him, wondering what the hold up is.

“Sorry,” Dan says, making a valiant attempt to copy Phil’s movements exactly as he inches forwards again. It works, sort of, though he doesn’t do it anywhere near as gracefully as Phil seems to be able to. When he gets to Phil, he shrugs, like he’s totally fine. “Just… admiring the view,” he explains. “Lead on.”

*

It takes over thirty gruelling minutes to cross the plains of the mountain in pursuit of a supposedly safe ski-area, but eventually they reach an abrupt dip, where the mountain begins its gradual slope downward. This close to the edge of the mountain, the view is breathtaking. Dan can’t focus on it, however, because his thighs ache, the moisture in his lungs has turned to ice and is freezing him from the inside out, and for the last twenty minutes, Phil Novokoric has been unhelpfully telling him everything he’s doing wrong with the stupid ‘telemark’ skis.

“Is this where we do some actual skiing then?” Dan asks crossly, jamming his poles into the snow.

He’s so glad to get to a point where he actually knows what he’s doing that he’s already shuffling up to the edge of the slope, more than ready to get this over with. He’s so keen, in fact, that he’s only just about saved from teetering over the edge and hurtling down in an enormous cartoon-style snowball, by a far more sensible Phil. He grabs Dan by the hood of his coat before he can topple to his untimely death.

“Careful!” he exclaims as he yanks Dan backwards. Yet again, the irritating warning is at least ten seconds too late. Dan has already been an idiot; unless Phil expects him to travel back in time to ten seconds ago, and take heed of Phil’s caution. Phil pulls him so sharply that Dan jolts backwards, skis slotting between Phil’s as his back crashes against his chest. His heart pounds incessantly. Or maybe that’s Phil’s heart. “Are you some kind of moron?” Phil asks, then pauses, like he’s actually waiting for an answer. “Just wait a minute, we’ve got to take our skins off. Then I’ll lead the way.”

“Remind me why I agreed to this,” Dan mutters, carefully sliding away from Phil whilst trying not to accidentally fall down the slope. 

Sulkily, he stands to the side and watches as Phil removes one ski, and peels a thin black strip from the underside, then does the same to the other. Dan copies his action in silence, though he has no idea why on earth this is necessary. Phil monitors Dan wordlessly, but thankfully makes no judgemental comments.  

“Ready?” he asks once Dan has his de-skinned skis back on. 

Dan shoves the bunched up skins into his jacket pocket. No. “Yep.”

And then, with enviable ease, Phil pushes himself over the edge of the slope, and begins drifting downwards, swaying gracefully to and fro as he descends. Somewhat alarmed by how quickly that just happened, Dan swallows his nerves and shoots after him. It’s terrifying. 

Dan hasn’t experienced this level of self-propelled velocity for years, let alone the searing chill that whips his cheeks, or the sensation of being at once in control of his own speed, and simultaneously ill-equipped to do so. He grips his ski poles tightly, attempting to copy Phil’s swooping motions up ahead, leaning left and right as much as he dares in order to slow his pace. The slope had not looked particularly steep from the top, but Dan should probably have been more concerned about the amount of debris on the path that he has to keep swerving to avoid. Annoyingly, Phil was completely right in insisting he went first, as otherwise Dan would have crashed several times into boulders and tree stumps and icy patches.

It can’t last particularly long, but it seems to Dan that he’s skiing, teeth gritted, eyes frozen open, for hours. Eventually however, the slope evens out, and flattens enough that they slow to a stop. Somewhere in the recesses of Dan’s brain, he scrounges up his knowledge of how to point the tips of his skis together to halt himself. Phil does some kind of impressive, sudden, 90 degree turning move, but he doesn’t outright laugh at Dan’s less stylish method, thankfully.

Dan is just about to collapse to the floor and weep, relieved he survived that and didn’t so much as fall over once, when Phil pulls off his sunglasses, and gives Dan the widest, most brilliant grin. His teeth are as white as the snow surrounding them. Seeing such animation on his usually sullen features is so unexpected that Dan swears his heart literally skips a beat, though that might be on account of all the adrenaline from plummeting down the side of a mountain. Dan removes his own sunglasses, somewhat shakily, and aims a tentative smile back at him.

“Not bad,” Phil says, eyes bright and crystalline in the light. “If you did some fitness training, you might be halfway decent.”

The smile wipes itself away again. “Thanks,” Dan mutters.

“What did you think?” Phil asks, elbow resting on one of his upright ski poles. He’s a tiny bit breathless, which gives his words a whisperish quality. In another setting that wasn’t as eerily silent, it might be difficult to hear him. “Fun, right?”

“I’ll get back to you on that,” Dan replies, heart still pounding at double his normal rate.

Phil chuckles. “This is probably the gentlest path I’ve found.”

“Found?”

“Yeah. I can’t be certain of course, but I doubt anyone else has ever skied up here.” He grins again, jarring and hypnotic. “I’m the Columbus of the Alps.”

This seems highly unlikely. Dan’s no expert in mountaineering, but surely other adventurers have come up and explored the mountain before now. Phil being the first one to ever scope out reasonably skiable pathways seems incredibly dangerous, and probably illegal.

“Are you, like, allowed?”

Phil shrugs, slipping his shades back on. “Who’s gonna stop me?”

It’s this offhanded, entitled flippancy that Dan detests about the rich. He chooses not to respond to such an irritating question, and instead asks, “so, what now?”

“Climb back up,” Phil says, already pulling his skins from his pocket. “Unless you wanna check out one of the trickier slopes?”

“No, thank you,” Dan says tightly.

Phil chuckles again. “Alright then, skins on, Howell.”

*

In hindsight, Dan should really have given more thought to the idea of climbing back up the hill they’d just skied down, in skis. To say it was difficult would have been generous. By the time they reach the top (it shouldn’t go unmentioned that Phil was much, much quicker than Dan at getting back up, and then shouted helpful suggestions of how he should turn his heels, or dig his skis in to the snow from the summit) Dan is so exhausted he never wants to lift another limb in his life, let alone slide down a hill just to climb it yet again. Phil is raring to go, of course, but Dan simply unfastens his skis and falls back onto his bum, unconcerned that the snow immediately begins seeping into the seat of his trousers, and gestures for the other man to go on without him.

“Suit yourself,” Phil says, snickering, and pushes over the edge.

From his position, Dan is able to watch as Phil airily glides down. It’s obvious, from this vantage point, that skiing gives Phil an air of freedom that he lacks in everyday life. His limbs are loosened of their usual tension, and even from a distance Dan can see that he is calm and happy. As Phil re-climbs the slope, Dan peels off the weird skins from the underside of his skis again and studies them for a bit, then stuffs them into his pocket, deciding they’re just flaps of fabric you could make in five seconds, probably sold in sports shops at an absurd cost. He then attempts to browse the internet on his phone, though given that they’re currently in the middle of absolutely nowhere, this does not go well. He quickly abandons any attempt to check his Facebook feed, and plays Crossy Road until a shadow washes over him. He looks up just as Phil slumps down beside him, panting.

“You’re a bad influence on me,” Phil says between breaths. “Usually I do this about twenty times, up and down. On the steeper slopes, too.”

Dan snorts. “Excuse me, but screw that. Nobody told me there’d be climbing involved. Give me a terrifying ski lift any day.”

“Anywhere there’s a ski lift there’s a hundred tourists crammed on, waiting to dawdle in front of you on the slope on the way down.”

Again, Dan doesn’t remember this being particularly true from his previous skiing experience. On the red and black runs, there were only a handful of other people to avoid. He can see nothing wrong with something being made safe by professionals. Deciding it’s probably wise to keep this thought to himself in order to keep the peace, Dan instead digs the flask of coffee out of his pocket, pulls both the plastic cups off the top, and hands one to Phil.

“So you’ve skied in a lot of places, then?” he asks.

Phil is looking down at the cup like Dan just pulled it out of his rear end. “Er… yeah. Quite a lot.”

Dan ignores the curious expression being aimed at him, and just focuses on pouring out the coffee. He’d remembered at the last minute to bring sugar for Phil, so he digs out the packets from his pocket, and presses them into Phil’s free hand along with a wooden stirrer.

“Cool,” Dan says. “Where abouts?”

For a moment, Phil says nothing. It’s as though he’s forgotten how to move, or speak. Dan just waits, the warmth of the coffee cup in his hands starting to spread through his gloved fingers, melting the stiffness. He sips his own coffee until Phil regains composure and pours the sugar in.

“Uh, lots of places. My family used to go every year at Christmas.” He stirs the coffee slowly, gazing out at the thick, snow-frosted trees lining the slope. “I’ve been to Andorra, Saalbach Chamonix…”

This peaks Dan’s attention. “Chamonix? I’ve been there.”

Phil’s eyes go round. “Oh my God… I knew I recognised you.”

Dan’s stomach drops. “W-what?” Surely this cannot be happening.

“The New Year’s Eve party…” he gushes, placing a hand on Dan’s shoulder. Fuck, fuck, fuck, abort, abort, abort. “There was karaoke... we were dragged on stage to sing a duet…”

For a split second, Dan’s mind is hurtling in circles as he tries to remember any such awful event, and then he notes the twitch of Phil’s mouth, the glimmer of obvious teasing lurking in his expression. Right as Dan’s about to grab a handful of snow and smash it into that obnoxious mocking face, Phil clutches his chest and belts out, “this is the start of something newww!”

Dan groans, eyes rolling so far backwards he can see the folds of his brain. “As if you’re making an actual High School Musical reference right now.”

“Hey, you’re the one that got it,” Phil points out, giggling softly.

“You’re so irritating,” Dan mutters, sipping more coffee.

The snow has officially soaked all the way through his trousers, and his bum has gone entirely numb from the cold. If he has to sit here and listen to Phil’s annoying, posh-boy teasing for a second longer, he’s going to ski directly into a nearby tree.

“Are you supposed to call your guests irritating?”

Dan fights a smile, hiding his mouth in his cup. “Depends how much they piss me off.”

This makes Phil laugh; a sound Dan is sure he will never grow used to. “At least I have a dry bum right now. Your idea of appropriate ski attire is as shocking as your technique.”

“You know what?” Dan says brightly, and stands up. He pretty much instantly regrets doing so as the cold water that’s been soaking his bum for the last half hour trickles down the backs of his thighs. He chucks the remainder of his coffee into the snow, and pockets the cup along with the flask. “Being the official laughing stock of the slopes is not part of my job description. It’s been a blast, Mr Novokoric, but I have a hotel to run, so if you’ll excuse me-”

“Ooh, back to Mr Novokoric, is it?” Phil asks, standing up as well. He drains the last of his own coffee, and gathers his ski poles. “Hang on then, let me-”

“No, no,” Dan says, swishing his ski pole at Phil as he tries to slide closer. “I’m clearly stopping you from throwing yourself down some more death-defying hills or whatever. I can get back to the hotel on my own just fine.”

He shoves his feet back into the skis one by one, thankfully able to tighten them to his feet without help this time, and then awkwardly shuffles around to face the direction they came from. There’s a bit of a hill ahead, but in comparison to the one he climbed up not long ago it looks tiny, so he slides towards it with determination.

“Dan, hold on,” Phil says impatiently, still strapping himself back into his own skis. “You can’t just-”

“I said I’m fine,” Dan says through gritted teeth. In truth however, gaining any sort of momentum on this incline seems a lot harder than it had been previously. “Just go do your thing.”

He’s about halfway up the small hill, and he feels alarmingly unsteady. The skis seem to have a mind of their own, and keep threatening to slide out from under him. Dan just shoves his ski poles into the snow as hard as possible, using them to help drag him upwards.

“Dan,” Phil is calling from somewhere behind him. “Can you stop being so pig-headed for a minute? You’ve forgotten-”

Dan cuts him off with an embarrassingly high-pitched yelp as his right ski slips sharply backwards, splitting his legs wishbone-style. With the help of his ski pole, he manages not to rip his own crotch in half, but the back of his right ski crosses over his left, and in trying to correct it, Dan falls backwards. His right ankle seems to not want to cooperate with the angle Dan is toppling, and twists beneath him; his boot still being attached to the ski, this hurts like a motherfucker.

“Shit! Ow, ow ow-”

Pain, scorching and sudden, shoots up Dan’s leg. His ankle is bent somehow beneath him, and it’s agony. He only has mere seconds to revel in the pain however, as then hands are on the strap of his ski, scrambling to unattach him, and blissfully his ankle pops free.

“I told you to wait for me!” Phil shouts, though the sound is fuzzy and distant from the leftover cloud of pain hazing Dan’s senses. “You forgot to put your skins back on, you idiot.” Dan barely understands, too focused on his throbbing ankle. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes it bloody hurts!” Dan snaps, clutching the ankle. "What kind of idiotic question is that?!”

“Let me see.”

“What? No!”

“Dan, I need to see how bad it is.”

“It’s fine,” Dan protests, but Phil is already picking at the knot of his laces, clearly not listening.

As he reluctantly surrenders to Phil’s insistence on acting the hero, Dan realises for the first time just how… close he is. At this level of proximity, it’s possible to detect notes of the shampoo Phil uses dancing on the thin, icy breeze. Coconut, possibly. Or watermelon? In the distraction of trying to place the smell, Dan doesn’t realise what’s happening until his laces are untied, and Phil begins carefully pulling off his boot. He removes his gloves, and blows quickly on his hands before reaching out and rolling down Dan’s thick sock. Something about this whole scenario is so intimate that Dan wants to squirm. Presumably, he’d only blown on his fingers to warm them - to ease Dan’s discomfort. Dan wouldn’t expect such consideration from his own mother, let alone this dick-brain. To stifle his drumming heart, Dan bites down on his lip, and turns his face away.

“Looks swollen,” Phil mutters as he pulls the sock down. Gently, he presses the pads of his fingers to the puffed, pink skin around Dan’s ankle. It doesn’t hurt any more than the existing pain, but Dan twitches nonetheless, and Phil’s blisteringly blue eyes flick up to his. “It doesn’t feel broken. Do you think you could stand on it?”

Experimentally, Dan tries wiggling his toes. It’s unpleasant, sure, but not completely unbearable. “I’ll try,” he says, attempting bravery.

Phil begins rolling his sock back up. “Good choice,” he says, reaching for the boot. “It’s just you and me up here, so unless you fancy spending the night in minus six degrees under the stars, I’d advise hopping if you can. It’ll start getting dark in a few hours.”

“Gee, thanks for the sympathy,” Dan snorts, batting Phil’s hands away to re-tie his laces.

Phil waits, saying nothing, and when Dan is done, he holds out his hand. For a moment Dan just stares at it. He’s seconds away from slipping his own hand into it, when Phil says, “your skins? I’ll put them back on for you.”

“Oh, right,” Dan says, hoping Phil doesn’t notice his odd behaviour. He has no clue what the fuck this mountain air is doing to him recently. He digs in his pocket and pulls out the skins, then shoves them into Phil’s hand. “Cheers.” 

*

“You’re much more… bony than you look,” Phil huffs. 

They’re about halfway through the hideous journey back, as far as Dan can tell. Approximately three minutes in, Dan had realised that attempting to walk on his own, wearing the damn ‘telemark’ skis, was not an option.

“I apologise sincerely for having bones,” Dan replies scornfully. In truth, he feels like a pile of boneless goo, so it’s surprising that Phil seems to think he’s the opposite. His arm is wound around Phil’s shoulders, allowing Dan to lean a great deal of his weight onto the other man. He’s got one ski on, the other is in his right hand. Phil is carrying all four ski poles, tucked under his arm. 

They’ve been moving at a torturously slow pace, so the sun is already dipping towards the horizon at their backs. Even in the space of a few hours, Dan can feel the drop in temperature, and it wasn’t exactly warm before. They were lucky, in a way, that Dan’s little accident had happened whilst there was still a lot of light left. He leans closer into Phil’s body heat, hoping the other man doesn’t notice.

“Are you cold?”

Crap. “Um, a bit.”

They hobble further on in silence. Dan wonders what the purpose of Phil’s question might have been, as now he seems to be deliberating something silently. Please, God, don’t say that Phil Novokoric is about to hand over his snow jacket to invalid-Dan so he can tell the story of his chivalry to some doe-eyed journalist months from now. 

In a way, Dan is almost glad when Phil, predictably, says, “another reason to invest in some proper thermals. Might have been an idea, considering you’re living up a snowy mountain.”

“Noted,” Dan says through gritted teeth. Finally, the sight of the hotel crests the horizon, some way off still, but at least within view. “Thank the fucking Lord,” he mutters under his breath.  

“You could get on my back for the last bit, if you like,” Phil suggests, tone lilting into something like a tease.

“You’re alright, thanks,” Dan replies tersely. He sincerely wishes he could extricate himself from this infuriating human and sprint the rest of the way back, but unfortunately he thinks he might snap his own ankle off, brittle as it is now from the cold. “Can we just focus on getting to the hotel without any further injuries, please?”

“Sure,” Phil says, then effortlessly hitches Dan’s arm a little higher across his shoulders, taking on significantly more of his weight. For a reason Dan refuses to analyse, this action makes his stomach flip multiple times, but he has no time to dwell on the how’s or why’s, because Phil has doubled the pace now, near-dragging Dan along.

(Chapter Seven!)

[bookaholic1012]

Prythian Magazine Part 7

Hello! I hope you guys will enjoy this chapter!

Tagging: @sugarcoated44​ @ourbooksuniverse​ @unicornbooks​ If you want to be tagged on future fics or you want me to stop tagging you, let me know!

PM Masterlist  My Writing

“...Nuala deals with hair and makeup and Cerridwen deals with wardrobe. You meet them soon. Anyway, do you guys have any questions?” Mor finished, spinning around to face Feyre and Lucien.

A couple days prior, Mor brought the forms as promised. Lucien and Feyre officially signed on as Night Court models, Amren became their manager, and she was able to quickly score a small shoot for them. Finally, they were given a tour of the building and introduced to everyone, courtesy of Mor.

“Not right now,” Feyre said.

“I got one,” Lucien said, his voice rough from screaming during the night. Feyre could tell he was tired, but Lucien could be as stubborn as a mule sometimes. He admitted to being exhausted was one of those times.

“Shoot!” Feyre was pretty sure Mor was enjoying the tour guide thing.

“Do we choose the gigs we work? Or does Amren have the final say in what we do?”

“Amren finds you jobs, but the decision to take them is ultimately yours.”

“Good,” Lucien replied, his broad shoulders relaxing a little.

Feyre recalled what he revealed to her about Ianthe Naomh when they were still in Spring. She didn’t just control Feyre’s wardrobe. She was also the biggest manager in the Spring Court Agency. Ianthe managed Lucien, Tamlin, Andras, Bron and Hart, and so many other models. One night, right after dinner, Lucien came storming into Feyre’s room, looking ready to throttle someone. Andras, whom she’d gone out with earlier to eat and had been chatting with, calmed Lucien down. He soothed whatever emotions were raging within Lucien with gentle words and small pecks here and there.

Apparently, towards the end of the meal, Ianthe came into Tamlin’s mansion, saying she needed to speak with Lucien. Lucien told Feyre and Andras that she got him on the cover of Vogue. The downside: he was to be featured on the cover with Eris Vanserra. He declined, but Ianthe wouldn’t hear it. Ianthe went on about how she was his manager. Therefore, it was she who decided what Lucien did and didn’t do regarding his career. Unable to do anything about the matter, Lucien went to the photo shoot. He wasn’t the same for a few days after. A haunted, pained aura was always around him. He refused to speak with anyone, excluding Andras.

Feyre never did find out what had happened, but she knew Lucien began searching for a new manager, one who allowed him to have the final say.

“Okay,” Mor continued on, “So, if that’s the only question, then we are basically done. I just have one more room to show you, and it’s the most important one.”

Apparently, the “most important” room was the break room. Couches, tables, and other various pieces of furniture were strewn about. The rest of the Inner Circle were relaxing around one of the tables, eating pizza. When Mor, Lucien, and Feyre walked in, their attention snapped to them.

“Foxboy! Feyre! Want pizza?” Cassian called.

“Hello? I’m right here, ya know.” Mor told Cassian, feigning annoyance.

“Hmm? Do you guys here that? I thought I heard a voice.”

“Ha, ha, ha, very funny Cassian.”

Cassian let out a gasp, his hazel eyes widening. “I think there’s a ghost in here.”

“Who you gonna call?” I said.

“Ghostbusters!” He yelled.

“Seriously, Cass?” Rhys groaned though amusement was sparkling in his eyes.

Cassian put his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, Feyre was the one who said ‘who you gonna call.’ I was simply completing the thought. Besides, it was too good of an opportunity to pass up.”

“Idiots,” Amren muttered, going back to her slice of pepperoni pizza.

Mor sat down next to Azriel, who was intently watching the TV. Cassian and Rhysand moved aside, making room for Lucien and Feyre. She stole the seat next to Rhys, leaving Lucien to glare at her while planting his butt in the seat next to a Cassian. Conversations continued, Rhys and Cass betting on who would win the upcoming football game, Feyre and Mor talking about her latest designs. Azriel continued watching the television, occasionally interrupting the boys’ sports debate to put on his own thoughts. Amren and Lucien quietly sat, wolfing down food.

Feyre could get used to this.

When lunch was finished, they dispersed, Feyre heading to her dressing room. When she entered, a dark-haired, brown-skinned girl was already inside. She looked up at the sound of the door clicking shut.

“Hello! I’m Nuala! I am in charge of hair and makeup.” Nuala said.

“Hello, Nuala. I’m Feyre.”

Feyre sat down in one of the chairs, while Nuala got what she needed to get Feyre ready for the shoot. As Nuala styled Feyre’s hair, she asked her about her previous life and how she got to Night Court.

It was easy to talk with her; when Nuala asked a question Feyre was uncomfortable with, she would move on, noticing her distress and would apologize for asking such a question. Feyre reassured her that it was alright and was grateful for her moving on. When Feyre mentioned she was a former makeup artist herself and asked if she could do her own makeup, Nuala let her. The bruises were starting to fade, but Feyre didn’t want her to see the amount of makeup she put on to cover the marks. She was sure Nuala noticed anyway, but if she did, Nuala didn’t mention it.

When they were both done, Feyre was blown away by who she saw. Her hair was curled and braided back, some stray pieces framing her face, making her appear to be at a healthy weight despite how starved she was. Feyre was satisfied with her makeup job. She used darker tones but still managed to not appear as though she was weighed down by the amount of product used. She felt confident and beautiful and strong, as she should. Nuala stepped out, going to get her twin Cerridwen so Feyre could start getting dressed.

When a knock sounded on her door, Feyre was expecting Cerridwen to walk in, not Amren. Amren’s grim expression worried her, but before she could ask what was going on, Amren shoved a magazine into her hands. Feyre didn’t catch what the title was; her focus was on the cover.

A cover featuring a photo of Feyre’s ex-boyfriend Tamlin and his manager Ianthe kissing.

Hope you enjoyed! Please let me know your thoughts! Updates Wednesday-Friday weekly!

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bookaholic1012

[evieshook]

fonder hearts

pairing: harry/evie, some platonic!ben/harry, and platonic!evie/uma/mal rating: pg-13 words: ~3200 a/n: i enjoyed writing the first bit of this haha, but hope you all enjoy.  prompt: Evie and Harry fic where Evie is mad at harry and isolated herself from him read on: [ao3] [ffn.net]

He couldn’t say he was exactly surprised, rather the situation had really been a long time coming. With the way Harry was, it was only a matter of time he did something that would warrant the use of the silent treatment from the normally composed princess. While it was no secret that the two had clashing personalities, the beginnings of their relationship essentially characterized by their endless bickering, it was always in good fun. Whenever the two fought, it would always be resolved within the hour, mainly because of their inability to keep their hands off each other.

But if Evie had gone this long without talking to him, the pirate must have done something extremely dire to evoke such a reaction. Whatever it was, it had Ben truly worried because this wasn’t affecting just the both of them, no it was affecting everyone in their friendship circle too. Harry seemed to have retreated with Uma and Gil, and the VKs had resorted to their previous hostility, with the AKs more or less caught between the two.

Ben knew that he needed to do something before it became unsalvageable, yet he didn’t expect the opportunity to come around when the pirate had gone to him for help. If anything, he would have expected he talk to Uma or Gil about it, and perhaps to an extent Carlos because aside from Evie, Carlos was the only one of the four who could initially tolerate him, with Mal and Jay taking longer to come around.

And yet he had come to him. While they weren’t exactly enemies like before, they weren’t exactly close either. To Ben’s distaste, they had never really had the chance to develop a friendship like he had originally been hoping for, with the only times they were able to interact due to their respective girlfriends. It wasn’t that he had been avoiding him, but rather that there was never really a chance to become friends, especially because his workload had gotten twice as heavy as before. Nowadays, only Mal was able to seem him daily but then again they were only a few short visits.

But much to his fortune, his work had been cleared and now he had been enjoying his free time until the pirate had sauntered in without a care.

"Have you ever heard of the saying, absence makes the heart grow fonder?”

He watched as Harry raised a brow, unable to follow. He sighed, thinking of ways to make his argument more understandable. He couldn’t screw this up, not when his friends’ relationship was counting on it.

"And yer point is?”

"That this separation is good for you. You two haven't really separated much from the moment you got here, which isn't bad but I think this distance will make you guys stronger in the long run,” Ben explained as clearly as he could, observing the pirate’s reaction.

To his disappointment, he offered a scowl in annoyance. "What kind of bullshit are ye spewing out now? I only came to ye because ye'd have the most experience with this, and I thought ye could help me."

"But I am helping you."

"If that's how ye help people, then I fear for the future of Auradon,” Harry snapped, Ben wincing at his tone. This was going to be harder than he thought, he sighed.

"Look, do you want my help or not?” he asked in exasperation, the pirate bristling in irritation.

"That depends if yer help involves this 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' bullshit.”

Ben shook his head. ”Listen Harry, you said it yourself. You came to me because I've got experience, and I do. If Evie's anything like Mal, which I'm sure she is, then you have to play your cards carefully. So when I say that this distance will make your relationship stronger, it will. In the meantime, give her her space and she'll come around.”

He seemed to gauge the words carefully before nodding in understanding.

"Or wait until I'm in danger and she comes rescuing me like what happened with ye,” Harry added mischievously, Ben rolling his eyes. At least the male finally understood.

"I'm being serious Harry. Give her space.”

Harry sighed, placing his hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright. Thanks beasty boy.”

He couldn’t stop the grin from spreading on his face at the words of gratitude. Harry Hook didn’t normally thank anyone, so this was an honor in itself. “Your welcome.”

He nodded, turning to leave before halting in his tracks. Ben raised a brow as the boy turned back, eyeing him curiously. “Out of sheer curiosity, what happened when Mal gave ye the silent treatment?”

Memories suddenly flashed through his mind, Ben frowning in distaste. It was all in the past now, but those times had been one of the worst during his relationship, and no man should ever have to go through the same thing. “It wasn’t pretty.”

This appeared to pique his interest as he turned to face the king fully, eyes urging him to go on. Ben ran a hand through his hair. “The worst silent treatment she gave me lasted for two weeks.”

Harry whistled in awe, almost impressed. “Two weeks? Whatever did ye do to anger her so much?”

“I said things I shouldn’t have said and let’s just leave it at that. Anyway, when Mal gave me the silent treatment I bugged her quite a bit about it. I would always try to clear my schedules just to see her, make new schedules so she’d have to see me, and so forth. But she managed to thwart me every time, and I realize the reason she got so good at being unable to talk to me during that time was because she charmed herself not to. She would only speak to everyone who wasn’t me, and she never allowed herself to pass messages to me so I never knew what was going through her mind.”

“Ye seemed to have had it a lot worse than I do,” Harry remarked, “But who says mine won’t be worse? Princess can do spells even though she chooses not to, so maybe Mal charmed her too.”

Ben shook his head. “I would no. Mal tells me everything.”

“So, how’d ye get through it then?”

“It was only after Evie advised me to give her some space that things began looking up. I realized that after being the one to keep approaching her, in the end it had to be the other way around. She’ll come to you when she wants to, so don’t force her into it otherwise it just goes longer. And when she does come, I advise you to grovel.”

Harry looked appalled at the idea. “Grovel? Pirates don't grovel.”

He shrugged. “Neither do kings, but if you want your queen back, you have to. Just apologize for everything, and don’t fight her on it because it’ll only make matters worse. Once she accepts the apology however, that’s when you can even out the playing field because soon she realizes that we’re both in the wrong and eventually just let everything out.”

“Are ye sure that works?”

Ben nodded firmly in affirmation, giving the male a pat on the back to wish good luck. “Space and grovel. That’s the key.”

//

“He’s as stubborn as a mule that one. He’ll never apologize you know,” Mal noted as Evie combed her hair. The two were gathered in Evie’s room, along with Uma, who despite previous hostility, had eventually reached out to the two. They were all more or less filled in with the previous events, and Uma surprisingly had taken Evie’s side, noting that he had really messed up this time.

“Yeah. Unless he’s absolutely certain that he's in the wrong, he won’t do anything. He has too much pride for that,” Uma added, the queen nodding in agreement.

Evie sighed as she faced the both of them, shaking her head. “I know he won’t, but I’m still hoping he’ll try. I mean, we were both in the wrong but—“

“But nothing,” Mal interrupted, “Even though you may have had your part in all this, Harry’s the one who screwed up. Big time. He needs to apologize if he ever wants to gain your trust again.”

Uma nodded in agreement. “I have to agree with her on this one. Harry’s told me everything, but so have you, and even if he doesn’t see it yet, I know that he’s more in the wrong than you are. Until he’s got that figured out, just leave him be. You’ve avoided him for a week already, who says that you can’t go on for a little longer?”

“Yeah. I mean, I avoided Ben for two weeks and if he hadn’t gotten the message after the first week, I was prepared to go even longer.”

The pirate raised a brow in curiosity. “What did beasty boy ever do that was so bad you had to avoid him for two weeks?”

Mal frowned. “That’s a long story and—“

“She’ll tell you it another day, I promise,” Evie cut off, standing up as she placed her comb on her vanity table. “But right now, tell me something. What do I do if he doesn’t apologize? Should I go up to him to do it myself?”

Both girls opened their mouths in protests but after a look from Evie, held their tongues. “I can’t lose him. I don’t want to lose him, not when I have the chance to make things right. It was all a misunderstanding, and I refuse to let our relationship crumble because I was too stubborn not to put my pride away and reach out to him.”

Uma and Mal shared a look before Uma took the initiative to take a step closer, looking Evie straight in the eye. She put a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder, squeezing gently to offer some reassurance. “You won’t lose him, I promise. If Harry doesn’t apologize, I’ll make him do it myself.”

The princess smiled gratefully at her, placing a hand over hers in gratitude. Never did she think she’d share this sort of friendship with Uma, but she was glad she had. After Mal and Uma had finally put aside their differences, Evie had begun to learn that the girl wasn’t as bad as she thought, especially when she wasn’t angry. After being Mal’s friend so long, she too was blinded by the hatred she had felt for the pirate but it was thanks to Auradon and the true goodness in her heart that she was able to think otherwise. While Uma wasn’t her best friend, they were very close and Evie was forever grateful she had managed to find a good friend, confidant and advisor in her, especially when it came to her own stubborn pirate.

“One more day Evie, keep your silence for one more day and then you can take action. But give him the chance to do it all on his own first,” Mal advised, coming to take her hands in hers.

The girl nodded, squeezing her hands gently. One more day, she thought, don’t screw this up Harry.

//

Perhaps before he had left the king’s good company, he should’ve asked on the specifics of how long he should give the princess her ‘space’. How long did he expect him to wait? Another day? Another week?

He didn’t think he could go on another week without her talking to him. One week had been seven days too many, but it had been his pride that had kept him from marching up to her and conceding his wrongs. Perhaps he had screwed up big time, but he was absolutely certain that she wasn’t in the clear either. They both had their parts to play in all this, and until she realized all this, he refused to take the initiative and apologize first.

But that was a week before he realized that she wasn’t going to such a thing sooner or later. And thus seven days had passed with her silence, the both of them unable to repair what could have been fixed so much earlier had they decided that enough was enough. It had made him desperate enough to seek out the king, who he would begrudgingly admit wasn’t wrong with that stupid motto of his.

What was it again? Ah yes, absence makes the heart grow fonder.

His heart had definitely grown fonder that was for sure, and it was true that since his coming to the Isle, they had hardly separated unless it was necessary. Evie made his life on Auradon more tolerable, being surrounded by all this goodness that had him reeling in disgust. But he had to admit that his disgust had grown weaker until he almost no longer minded, almost. But that didn’t mean he would become like one of those prissy princes the princess would always fantasise about. He was still a pirate at heart, and once the time of graduation came, he would be out of there and sailing the seas for all his cared, with his princess at his toes.

But he was uncertain of that ever happening now, not when she was still set on blatantly ignoring him. He really should have asked how long this ‘giving space’ would last because he didn’t think he would last a day. But that meant he would have to grovel at her feet, and did he really want to grovel?

He was pulled back from his thoughts when he caught sight of a mop of blue hair at the corner of his eyes. Harry’s eyes immediately followed the blue hair as it got swept away in the crowds before it finally disappeared.

No, he wasn’t grovel. He was too prideful for that.

However that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to put away his pride and finally admit that yes, perhaps he had gone overboard and that his misdeeds were far worse than hers. To see that blue hair without getting close enough to touch it was torture in itself, and he had missed her with all his heart. Truly.

Without hesitation, the pirate spurred forward to follow where he had last seen her. He navigated himself skilfully through the crowds, fixing a glare on his face as they decidedly parted for him to let him through. Harry smirked inwardly; he still had that effect on people.

He reached the end of the corridor, head whipping around to search for the familiar figure of his princess but only to come empty. Harry cursed inwardly, running a hand through his hair in aggravation before that sliver of blue came into sight again.

His legs moved before he could think otherwise, the male walking briskly to reach her before he lost sight of her again. It was her, he thought joyously as he came closer. He hadn’t seen her up close in days, and he almost worried that his memory of her didn’t do her justice.

And it truly didn’t. She was as beautiful as he remembered; royal blue hair, painted ruby lips and warm hazel eyes. Before she could move any further, Harry reached out to grab her arm, spinning her to face him.

He heard a sharp intake of breath when she finally looked up to face him, eyes widening in surprise. “Harry,” he heard her breath and he felt a surge of confidence soar within him. He was glad to know that her feelings for him hadn’t changed after all, despite him being a complete and utter douchebag.

“Princess,” he greeted softly, nodding his head in acknowledgment. He still kept his hand wrapped around her arm, and she didn’t move to remove it, instead staring at him as thoughts swirled in her mind. What was she thinking?

“What are you doing here?” she finally asked after moments of silence, Harry clearing his throat.

“I’m putting away my pride for this,” he began with a wry smirk, “But I should’ve done this days ago.”

She raised a brow in confusion. “Wha—“

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, “I’m sorry Princess for everything. It was all my fault. I shouldn’t have said those things, and I’m sorry.”

Evie shook her head, the pirate wincing as he came to another conclusion. But his fears proved useless when she raised a hand to cup his cheek tenderly, again shaking her head.

“I’m sorry too. It wasn’t just you who was at fault. I also said some nasty words.”

“I said worse,” he protested as she continued to shake her head.

“I’m certain I said worse.”

Harry’s eyes twinkled in mischief as he suddenly chuckled. “What is this? A competition for who said the nastiest words?”

Evie joined in his laughing, giggling at the thought. “We are villains after all. Our words have always been wicked.”

He grinned, removing his hand around her arm and instead to rest it atop hers on his cheek. “But forgive me Princess.”

“Of course,” she replied, “Only if you forgive me however.”

He raised a brow. “I would be stupid enough not to.”

Evie’s lips lifted before she caught the both of them off guard when she abruptly pulled his neck down to meet her, promptly smashing her lips on his. He was almost taken aback by her boldness but quickly returned her kiss with as much vigor as she had, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her closer. Evie held his head gently in place as she poured her emotions of longing and love into that one kiss, after having been separated from him for so long.

They only broke apart when a shout of, “Oi! Get a room!” cried out in the distance, Harry pulling away in irritation as he whipped his head around to look for the source of the voice.

“Fuck off and mind yer own business!” He shouted in retaliation, turning back to look at Evie who was now biting her lip as she looked down in embarrassment. Harry eyed her amusedly, adoring the little blush on her cheeks.

“I forgot we were in public,” she admitted, Harry shrugging nonchalantly.

“I really don’t care. Let them stare if they want, I’ll still kiss ye.”

Her cheeks flamed as she lifted her head to glare at him. “But not in public! We should probably take his advice and move this to a room.”

Harry’s eyebrows lifted at the implications, his smirk turning roguish. “My room then. Gil’s out with Chad so I have it all to myself. We can continue this there.”

The blush on Evie’s face refused to go away when she finally realized the extent of her wording before she slapped him on the chest lightly. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

A chuckle left his lips as he pulled her to his side, lightly kissing the top of her head. “I’m only doin’ what ye asked me to Princess. Besides, it’s been far too long and my bed has been cold without ye.”

Evie slapped him again before leaning into his chest, carefully admitting, “Mine has too.”

Harry grinned a crooked grin. Absence definitely makes the heart grow fonder.