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thecassadilla · 3 years

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Halloween prompt : "look I dressed as you" kristanna please!!!

This prompt has been sitting in my inbox for far too long, and I am deeply sorry for that, anon. But!!! You do get an award for being the only person to send in an autumn prompt!!! I really hope you enjoy this Halloween themed, kinda rivals to lovers modern au!!! 💕

Special shout out to Rhianne (@tamorasky) who helped me come up with the idea for this fic!!! Her idea was way better than everything I had come up with, and she deserves all the praise for the idea and for betaing for me. 💕

🎃 “Look, I dressed up as you.” Send me a prompt! 🎃

College parties just weren’t Kristoff’s thing.

They weren’t when he was an undergrad, and they certainly weren’t now that he was a grad student. He just didn’t see the point; he honestly had more fun staying home and having a drink on his own than he did going to a party and being forced to socialize with a bunch of people he barely knew.

The only person he really knew in his entire cohort was Anna, a girl who’d been in some of his undergrad classes, but actually claiming to actually “know” her was a stretch. They’d only ever interacted on a minimal basis, with most of the words exchanged between them landing somewhere between sarcasm and contempt. On top of all of that, he had a ton of complicated feelings attached to her; not only was she his direct competition, as they were both battling over the same research position, but he also felt a certain level of attraction towards her.

Apart from being one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, she was social, and outgoing, and friendly - to everyone except him, of course. He admired her from a distance, wishing they could push past the petty and teasing behavior they both exhibited towards each other. But because of the lack of sincere interaction, choosing to stomp down thoughts of pursuing her and his own feelings was decidedly the best course of action. He only had to get through three more semesters with her, and then he’d never have to think about her again.

Suffice to say, Kristoff wasn’t quite sure how he ended up at a stupid Halloween party that night. Truthfully, he didn’t even know who was hosting it, and going had been such a spur of the moment, extremely last minute decision, so he didn’t have any real explanation as to why he decided to go when it definitely wasn’t the type of scene he was interested in. He felt like a fish out of water as he wandered around the crowded house sans costume, debating whether or not he should just leave.

Until he spotted Anna from across the room, his heart skipping a beat at the sight of her laughing and drinking with her friends. He didn’t mean to stare at her, he really didn’t, but the tight, red tube dress and fishnet stockings she was wearing were making it painfully difficult for him to tear his eyes away from her. Everything about her was tantalizing, and he could practically feel gravity pulling him in her direction.

But before he could do anything stupid, he managed to stop himself; the last thing he wanted was to come off as a creepy weirdo staring at a pretty girl - especially one who he didn’t get along with - from the opposite side of the room. So instead, he turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction, hoping he could find someone else he recognized and spend the duration of the party with them.

He wandered around the house for a bit, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans as he searched for a familiar face. There were people filling up every corner and crevice, almost to the point where he was beginning to feel a bit claustrophobic and overwhelmed by the lack of free space. When he finally came across the table with all of the alcohol, he paused, perusing the beer options before choosing a can of cheap supermarket beer.

And then he felt someone gently tap his shoulder.

Kristoff spun around, surprised to see that Anna had been the one to request his attention. “Hey.”

“Look, I dressed up as you.” Anna motioned to the horned headband that sat atop her head with her free hand, an air of smugness radiating from both the movement and the smirk plastered on her face. “A devil.”

“Ha ha.” Kristoff narrowed his eyes, giving her the dirtiest look he could conjure up despite the feelings he held for her creeping up on him and tugging on his heart. “But I think what you meant to say is that you dressed up as yourself.”

“Good one,” she sneered, rolling her eyes before scanning his body. “What are you supposed to be, anyway?”

“A broke grad student who came to a Halloween party in search of free booze,” he shrugged, holding up the can of beer so she could see it.

She scoffed. “You do know that you were supposed to wear a costume, right?”

“Yeah, I know. But you missed the memo, too, so I don’t feel that bad.”

An awkward silence fell between them as Anna pouted, obviously unimpressed by the way he kept throwing her choice of a costume back in her face. He almost apologized - almost - but decided not to at the last second, instead choosing to wait for her to say something back to him.

“Well…I hope you have fun.”

He nodded. “You too.”

“Thanks.” She wavered for a moment, shifting her weight from side to side before she pushed off and strutted away to meet up with her friends.

Kristoff watched her for a moment before resuming the task at hand - finding someone else that he recognized. He strolled around for a bit, taking the occasional sip of the gross beer before coming across a few of his classmates, who he quickly approached. It took him a minute to warm up and get used to the socializing, but he soon realized that he had more in common with the people in his classes than he thought he did, and that not interacting with them earlier in the semester had been a mistake on his part. So, he socialized, and joked, and got to know the people he’d be spending the better part of the next two years with until he decided he had his fill for the night and that it was time to go home.

After bidding goodbye to his newfound friends, he made his way out of the packed house. He paused on the top step as he caught sight of Anna standing alone on the sidewalk, her arms wrapped around herself. Against his better judgment, and instead of walking over to where he parked his car, he walked straight towards her.

“Hey,” Kristoff said softly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Anna started at the sound of his voice, but after looking him up and down, seemed a bit relieved by his appearance. “Hi.”

“Are you alright?”

“Oh! Yeah, I’m totally fine. Just waiting for my cab,” Anna explained. She fidgeted in place, running one hand up and down her bare arm and holding her phone in the other. “I didn’t want to drive here tonight...for obvious reasons.”

“Do you want a ride?” he offered, his lips betraying him before he could think twice about what he was offering and who he was offering it to.

She gave him a skeptical look. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sober,” he said, holding up his hands as if that would somehow prove his sobriety status. “I only took, like, two sips of that beer earlier, and I haven’t had anything since.”

“That’s not what I -” she cut herself off, meeting his gaze for a split second before returning her attention back to the ground.

Kristoff swallowed thickly, suddenly cognizant as to why she appeared to be surprised by his offer. It wasn’t because she was worried about him getting in a car and driving while under the influence; it was because they weren’t even in the realm of being friends, and it was weird for him to offer her a ride home. “Oh. Right.”

Anna waved a dismissive hand, peering down at her phone. “It’s fine. My driver should be here in, like, ten minutes.”

“I can wait with you until it gets here,” he suggested before quickly adding, “If you want.”

“Oh...yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.”

He nodded, turning his attention to the road. They stood for a few moments in a painfully awkward silence, the only sounds coming from the house party that was continuing on behind them and the cars whizzing past them. He wasn’t quite sure how much time had managed to pass, but the silence was maddening.

It wasn’t until he noticed Anna visibly shaking beside him that Kristoff decided to say something. “Aren’t you freezing without a jacket?”

“Yeah, a little.” Anna smiled shyly, tucking a tendril of hair behind her ear. “But I didn’t want to carry it around all night.”

“No offense, but that’s a silly reason to not wear a jacket.”

“Yeah, well…” she trailed off. “Too late now, isn’t it?”

“I guess.” He wavered for a moment, unsure if he should offer her his own jacket; she really did look quite cold in the skimpy little dress she was wearing, but offering his jacket to someone he was barely friends with seemed like it’d be overstepping some invisible boundary.

“But I’ll be home soon anyway, and then I can take off this stupid outfit and put something warmer on.”

Kristoff furrowed his eyebrows. “If you think it’s stupid, then why did you wear it?”

“Maybe I was trying to impress someone.” Anna shrugged, looking away from him again. “Maybe I was trying to get someone’s attention.”

“Did it work?”

“No,” she mumbled, her voice teetering between defeat and sadness. “I don’t think it did.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat, unable to ignore the fluttering in his abdomen or the way his heart was pounding in his chest.

“Don’t be. Like I said, it was stupid.”

There was a part of him that wanted to reassure her that it wasn’t stupid, and that while he was sorry she hadn’t managed to impress or capture the attention of the person she wanted to - despite the little twinges of jealousy that were poking at his heart - she had managed to impress him and capture his attention. But, once again, his brain reminded him that they weren’t friends and therefore he had no reason to say anything at all. “So, uh…what’s the ETA on your cab?”

She peered down at her phone for a moment before closing her eyes and sighing deeply. “They just canceled my ride. I’ll have to wait for another one.”

“Oh, okay.”

“But you don’t have to wait with me until the next one comes,” she insisted. “I wasted enough of your time already. You can just go home.”

He fidgeted in place, uncomfortable with the idea of leaving her alone on a random dark street in front of an entire house full of intoxicated people. “Are you sure you don’t want a ride? I really don’t mind, and it’ll save you a few bucks. And I can blast the heat so you’ll warm up.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Anna asked after staring at him for a moment, her voice cracking and eyes watering.

Kristoff blinked, confused by her sudden change of emotion. “What?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just…I’m not nice to you, and you’re not nice to me, and we’re both competing over the same research position, so we’re not supposed to like each other. But I like you a lot, and you don’t even pay attention to me unless I say something awful to you, but now that you’re being so nice to me, I feel so bad for always being so mean to you because you...you don’t deserve it. And maybe if I had been nicer to you all along, you’d actually like me back.”

He shook his head, hardly able to comprehend any of the words that had just flown out of her mouth. “How much have you had to drink tonight?”

For some reason, his question only made her cry harder. “Not enough.”

“Okay, okay,” he soothed, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over her before gently placing his hands on his shoulders and guiding her towards his car. “Come on, let me take you home.”

After managing to get her address out of her, the drive back to her house was shrouded in silence, with Anna’s sniffling barely audible over the heat blasting through the air vents. But as Kristoff focused on the road ahead and not the woman beside him, he pondered their conversation on the sidewalk; how could he have not realized how drunk she was earlier? Surely, everything she’d said had been a result of the liquid courage she consumed throughout the party, and he wouldn’t bring it up to her ever again.

It was difficult to not think about everything she’d said, though. She liked him a lot? She thought that if she’d been nicer to him from the get go, then he’d like her back? Hearing that was...kind of shocking, and though he was assuming it was just drunken babbling, there was a part of him that was hoping she meant it. And then there was the other thing she’d said - ‘You don’t even pay attention to me unless I say something awful to you.’ It was partially true; he didn’t really pay her any attention unless she said something first, not wanting to come off as creepy, or rude, or anything, really.

But he was reminded of something she’d said before that; ‘Maybe I was trying to impress someone. Maybe I was trying to get someone’s attention.’ Was he the ‘someone’ she was trying to impress? She’d seemed awfully sad after admitting that she hadn’t received the attention she so desired, and he hadn’t paid her a lick of attention after their brief interaction earlier that evening. He shook his head, trying to rid his mind of the thought. There was no way she could’ve been talking about him - there had to be at least a hundred people at the party, and she could’ve been wishing for attention from any one of them.

Kristoff finally pulled the car to a stop in front of the sprawling mansion that matched the address she’d given him, somewhat surprised to learn that Anna lived in such a huge house.

“Thank you for taking me home,” Anna mumbled apologetically, slipping the jacket from her shoulders before handing it to him. “And thank you for lending me your jacket.”

“Of course.”

“And...I’m sorry for being such a mess.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Kristoff assured her. He teetered back and forth for a moment, trying to decide whether or not he should address the elephant in the room and find out if she was serious when she said she liked him. The last thing he wanted was to take advantage of a girl who didn’t appear to be in the right state of mind, so he chose to leave it alone.

But Anna seemed to have other plans.

“I’m probably going to regret this in five seconds when you reject me,” she started, meeting his gaze with sad yet hopeful eyes. “But I think I made it clear earlier that I really like you, and I was wondering if we could go out for a cup of coffee or a drink sometime?”

“Yeah,” he blinked, his lips uncontrollably quirking upwards. “I would like that a lot.”

“Really?”

“I kinda spent the whole drive wondering if you meant it when you said you liked me because I like you, too, so yeah. Really,” he chuckled.

"You like me?" she inquired, beaming as her eyes widened.

"For a long time now," Kristoff admitted sheepishly. "But I think I'll save that story for when we go on our date."

Anna leaned over the center console, throwing his arms around his neck. “Yay! That would be great!”

And as he wrapped his arms around her, Kristoff instantly knew that going to the party that night had been one of the best decisions he'd ever made.

#kristanna #kristanna fanfiction #anna #kristoff bjorgman #frozen #frozen fanfiction #my writing

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morwensteelsheen · 3 years

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I’m starting grad school this autumn and honestly I’m getting nervous. Like yes I am v excited about the whole prospect overall and I do miss being a student but am intimidated by 3 hr long seminars and thesis writing and massive amounts of reading… everyone keeps saying it’s gonna be very different from undergrad so okay, but how specifically? Is it the large amounts of reading? I already had insane amounts of reading (humanities degree hurrah) especially in my last two years but could you expound on your own experience and how you take notes/read quickly/summarize or just how to deal with first time grad students?

Oh, yeah for sure! A necessary disclaimer here is that I'm at a certain poncy English institution that is noted for being very bad at communicating with its students and very bad at treating its postgrad students like human beings, so a lot of these strategies I've picked up will be overkill for anyone who has the good sense to go somewhere not profoundly evil lol.

So I'll just preface this by saying that I am a very poor student in terms of doing what you're supposed to. I'm very bad at taking notes, I never learned how to do it properly, and I really, really struggle with reading dense literature. That said, I'm probably (hopefully?) going to get through this dumb degree just fine. Also — my programme is a research MPhil, not taught, so it's a teensy bit more airy-fairy in terms of structure. I had two classes in Michaelmas term, both were once a week for two hours each; two in Lent, one was two hours weekly, the other two hours biweekly; and no classes at all in Easter. I also have no exam component, I was/am assessed entirely on three essays (accounting for 30% of my overall mark) and my dissertation (the remaining 70%), which is, I think, a little different to how some other programmes are. I think even some of the other MPhils here are more strenuous than that, like Econ and Soc Hist is like 100% dissertation? Anyways, not super important, but knowing what you're getting marked on is important. I dedicated considerably less time than I did in undergrad to perfecting my coursework essays because they just don't hold as much weight now. The difference between a 68 and a 70 just wasn't worth the fuss for me, which helped keep me sane-ish.

The best advice anyone ever gave me was that, whereas an undergrad degree can kind of take over your life without it becoming a problem, you need to treat grad school like a job. That's not because it's more 'serious' or whatever, but because if you don't set a really strict schedule and keep to it, you'll burn yourself out and generally make your life miserable. Before I went back on my ADD meds at the end of Michaelmas term, I sat myself down at my desk and worked from 11sh to 1800ish every day. Now that I'm medicated, I do like 9:30-10ish to 1800-1900 (except for now that I'm crunching on my diss, where, because of my piss-poor time management skills I'm stuck doing, like, 9:30-22:30-23:00). If you do M-F 9-5, you'll be getting through an enormous amount of work and leaving yourself loads of time to still be a human being on the edges. That'll be the difference between becoming a postgrad zombie and a person who did postgrad. I am a postgrad zombie. You do not want to be like me.

The 'work' element of your days can really vary. It's not like I was actually consistently reading for all that time — my brain would have literally melted right out of my ears — but it was about setting the routine and the expectation of dedicating a certain, consistent and routinized period of time for focusing on the degree work every day. My attention span, even when I'm medicated, is garbage, so I would usually read for two or three hours, then either work on the more practical elements of essay planning, answer emails, or plot out the early stages of my research.

In the first term/semester/whatever, lots of people who are planning on going right into a PhD take the time to set up their applications and proposals. I fully intended on doing a PhD right after the MPhil, but the funding as an international student trying to deal with the pandemic proved super problematic, and I realised that the toll it was taking on my mental health was just so not worth it, so I've chosen to postpone a few years. You'll feel a big ol' amount of pressure to go into a PhD during your first time. Unless you're super committed to doing it, just try and tune it out as much as you can. There's absolutely nothing wrong with taking a year (or two, or three, or ten) out, especially given the insane conditions we're all operating under right now.

I'll be honest with you, I was a phenomenally lazy undergrad. It was only by the grace of god and being a hard-headed Marxist that I managed to pull out a first at the eleventh hour. So the difference between UG and PG has been quite stark for me. I've actually had to do the reading this year, not just because they're more specialised and relevant to my research or whatever, but because, unlike in UG, the people in the programme are here because they're genuinely interested (and not because it's an economic necessity) and they don't want to waste their time listening to people who haven't done the reading.

I am also a really bad reader. Maybe it's partially the ADD + dyslexia, but mostly it's because I just haven't practiced it and never put in the requisite effort to learn how to do it properly. My two big pointers here are learning how to skim, and learning how to prioritise your reading.

This OpenU primer on skimming is a bit condescending in its simplicity, but it gets the point across well. You're going to want to skim oh, say, 90% of the reading you're assigned. This is not me encouraging you to be lazy, it's me being honest. Not every word of every published article or book is worth reading. The vast majority of them aren't. That doesn't mean the things that those texts are arguing for aren't worth reading, it just means that every stupid rhetorical flourish included by bored academics hoping for job security and/or funding and/or awards isn't worth your precious and scarce time. Make sure you get the main thrust of each text, make sure you pull out and note down one or two case studies and move right the hell on. There will be some authors whose writing will be excellent, and who you will want to read all of. Everything else gets skimmed.

Prioritisation is the other big thing. You're going to have shitty weeks, you're probably going to have lots of them. First off, you're going to need to forgive yourself for those now — everybody has them, yes, even the people who graduated with distinctions and go on to get lovely £100,000 AHRC scholarships. Acknowledge that there will be horrible weeks, accept it now, and then strategise for how to get ahead of them. My personal strategy is to plan out what I'm trying to get out of each course I take, and then focus only on the readings that relate to that topic.

I took a course in Lent term that dealt with race and empire in Britain between 1607 and 1900; I'm a researcher of the Scottish far left from 1968-present, so the overlap wasn't significant. But I decided from the very first day of the course that I was there to get a better grasp about the racial theories of capitalism and the role of racial othering in Britain's subjugation of Ireland. Those things are helpful to me because white supremacist capitalism comes up hourly in my work on the far left, and because the relationship of the Scottish far left to Ireland is extremely important to its self definition. On weeks when I couldn't handle anything else, I just read the texts related to that. And it was fine, I did fine, I got my stupid 2:1 on the final essay, and I came out of it not too burnt out to work on my dissertation.

Here is where I encourage you to learn from my mistakes: get yourself a decent group of people who you can have in depth conversations about the material with. I was an asshole who decided I didn't need to do that with any posh C*mbr*dge twats, and I have now condemned myself to babbling incomprehensible nonsense at my partner because I don't have anyone on my course to work through my ideas with. These degrees are best experienced when they're experienced socially. In recent years (accelerated by the pandemic, ofc), universities have de-emphasised the social component of postgrad work, largely to do with stupid, long-winded stuff related to postgrad union organising etc. It's a real shame because postgrads end up feeling quite socially isolated, and because they're not having these fun and challenging conversations, their work actually suffers in the long term. This is, and I cannot stress this enough, the biggest departure from undergrad. Even the 'weak links' or whatever judgemental nonsense are there because they want to be. That is going to be your biggest asset. Talk, talk, talk. Listen, listen, listen. Offer to proofread people's papers so you get a sense of how people are thinking about things, what sort of style they're writing in, what sources they're referring to. Be a sponge and a copycat (but don't get done for plagiarism, copy like this.) Also: ask questions that seem dumb. For each of your classes, ask your tutors/lecturers who they think the most important names in their discipline are. It sounds silly, but it's really helpful to know the intellectual landscape you're dealing with, and it means you know whose work you can go running to if you get lost or tangled up during essay or dissertation writing!

You should also be really honest about everything — another piece of advice that I didn't follow and am now suffering for. The people on your courses and in your cohort are there for the same reasons as you, have more or less the same qualifications as you, and are probably going to have a lot of the same questions and insecurities as you. If you hear an unfamiliar term being used in a seminar, just speak up and ask about it, because there're going to be loads of other people wondering too. But you should also cultivate quite a transparent relationship with your supervisor. I was really cagey and guarded with mine because my hella imposter syndrome told me she was gonna throw my ass out of the programme if I admitted to my problems. Turns out no, she wouldn't, and that actually she's been a super good advocate for me. If you feel your motivation slipping or if you feel like you're facing challenges you could do with a little extra support on, go right to your supervisor. Not only is that what they're there to do, they've also done this exact experience before and are going to be way more sympathetic and aware of the realities of it than, say, the uni counselling service or whatever.

Yeah so I gotta circle back to the notes thing... I really do not take notes. It's my worst habit. Here's an example of the notes I took for my most recent meeting with my supervisor (revising a chapter draft).

No sane person would ever look at these and think this is a system worth replicating lol. But the reason they work for me is because I also record (with permission) absolutely everything. My mobile is like 90% audio recordings of meetings and seminars lol. So these notes aren't 'good' notes, but they're effective for recalling major points in the audio recording so I can listen to what was said when I need to.

Sorry none of this is remotely organised because it's like 2330 here and my brain is so soft and mushy. I'm literally just writing things as I remember them.

Right, so: theory is a big thing. Lots of people cheap out on this and it's to their own detriment. You say you're doing humanities, and tbh, most of the theory involved on the humanities side of the bridge is interdisciplinary anyways, so I'm just gonna give you some recommendations. The big thing is to read these things and try to apply them to what you're writing about. This sounds so fucking condescending but getting, like, one or two good theoretical frameworks in your papers will actually put you leaps and bounds beyond the students around you and really improve your research when the time comes. Also: don't read any of these recommendations without first watching, like an intro youtube video or listening to a podcast. The purists will tell you that's the wrong way to do it, but I am a lazy person and lazy people always find the efficient ways to do things, so I will tell the purists to go right to hell.

Check out these impenetrable motherfuckers (just one or two will take your work from great to excellent, so don't feel obliged to dig into them all):

Karl Marx and Fredrich Engels (I'm not just pushing my politics, but also, I totally am) — don't fucking read Capital unless you're committed to it. Oh my god don't put yourself through that unless you really have to. Try, like, the 18th Brumaire of Louis Napoleon for the fun quotes, and Engels on the family.

Frantz Fanon — Wretched of the Earth. Black Skin White Masks also good, slightly more impossible to read

Benedict Anderson — Imagined Communities. It's about nationalism, but you will be surprised at how applicable it is to... so many other topics

Judith Butler — she really sucks to read. I love her. But she sucks to read. If you do manage to read her though, your profs will love you because like 90% of the people who say they've read her are lying

Bourdieu — Distinction is good for a lot of things, but especially for introducing the idea of social and cultural capital. There's basically no humanities sub-discipline that can't run for miles on that alone.

Crenshaw — the genesis of intersectionality. But, like, actually read her, not the ingrates who came after her and defanged intersectionality into, like, rainbow bombs dropped over Gaza.

The other thing is that you should read for fun. My programme director was absolutely insistent that we all continue to read for pleasure while we did this degree, not just because it's good for destressing, but because keeping your cultural horizons open actually makes your writing better and more interesting. I literally read LOTR for the first time in, like February, and the difference in my writing and thinking from before and after is tangible, because not only did it give me something fun to think about when I was getting stressy, but it also opened up lots of fun avenues for thought that weren't there before. I read LOTR and wanted to find out more about English Catholics in WWI, and lo and behold something I read about it totally changed how I did my dissertation work. Or, like, a girl on my course who read the Odyssey over Christmas Break and then started asking loads of questions about the role of narrative creation in the archival material she was using. It was seriously such a good edict from our director.

Also, oh my god, if you do nothing else, please take this bit seriously: forgive yourself for the bad days. The pressure in postgrad is fucking unreal. Nobody, nobody is operating at 100% 100% of the time. If you aim for 60% for 80% of the time and only actually achieve 40% for 60% of the time, you will still be doing really fucking well. Don't beat yourself up unnecessarily. Don't make yourself feel bad because you're not churning out publishable material every single day. Some days you just need to lie on the couch, order takeout, and watch 12 hours of Jeopardy or whatever, and I promise you that that is a good and worthwhile thing to do. You don't learn and grow without rest, so forgive yourself for the moments and days of unplanned rest, and forgive yourself for when you don't score as highly as you want to, and forgive yourself when you say stupid things in class or don't do all of (or any of) the class reading.

Uhhhh I think I'm starting to lose the plot a bit now. Honestly, just ping me whatever questions you have and I'm happy to answer them. There's a chance I'll be slower to respond over the next few days because my dissertation is due in a week (holy fuck!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) but I will definitely respond. And honestly, no question is too dumb lol. I wish I'd been able to ask someone about things like what citation management software is best or how to set up a desk for maximum efficiency or whatever, but I was a scaredy-cat about it and didn't. So yeah, ask away and I will totally answer.

#asks

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tirednotflirting · 4 years

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haunting me forever from the start

some spooky season Cake for @ashesonthefloor‘s halloween fic event :)

so so much thanks to ainslee for organizing such a fun event !! i feel so fortunate to have the opportunity to take part in something with some of my favorite writers and people and if you haven’t dug through everyone else’s posts i recommend checking out the event masterlist here !!

alright you’re gonna have to forgive me because i have never been to a haunted house and i wrote most of this in the middle of the night after work and I was always too scared to find haunted house pov videos at that hour. so i took some creative liberties on some of this.

also this is likely pushing the limits of how much fluff i should be allowed to fit into something but i promised miss meg Cake fluff after the other piece i posted of them earlier this week sjdflksdj

soooooo my prompt was: “We’re part of the same group in this haunted house, and you won’t stop clinging to me every time we get spooked.” Or, one person is really clingy with someone else in their group. It’s a good thing they’re cute. They can either know each other or not.

okay enjoy the silly fun and happy halloween !!!

{read on ao3 here}

Genuinely, Calum should have expected this when he told Michael he could pick out their Friday night activity.

Or well, Calum really hadn’t gotten the choice in picking what they did since he only got out of his calculus midterm probably forty-five minutes earlier and Michael picked him up, and rather than driving back to their shared apartment for another movie night, they’re now somewhere on the north side of town in a parking lot. It’s the parking lot at the fairgrounds which at first had Calum confused because Michael hasn’t been a fan of this fair since the trouble he had with the corn dogs here about a year ago. But then Michael asks him to grab the folded papers out of the glovebox and after just a bit of inspection, Calum learns the real reason they’re here.

“No. No way.” Calum shakes his head, his arms folding across his chest, defensively.

“Come one, Cal,” Michael whines. “You’ve barely left campus or the apartment in weeks because of midterms. You can’t tell me that you really wanted to spend another night watching superhero movies in the living room.”

“That’s literally exactly what I wanted to do tonight. Mikey, my brain basically melted during that exam.”

“Great,” Michael starts as he swipes the papers from Calum’s hand and moves to open his car door. “Then this haunt probably won’t even scare you too bad like the ones we tried last year.”

Calum huffs out a breath as he opens his own door, slamming it closed a bit harder than probably necessary and joins Michael in front of the car. It’s early October so the air in their college town is cool but not yet cold. Either way, he’s thankful for the hoodie he had decided to bring to campus that morning. They head up in the direction of the fairgrounds and Calum lets Michael lead since he obviously has a bit more of an idea about where they’re headed.

“Or that’ll just make it even worse.” Calum tries to argue. “I’m barely a functioning human right now. My head is filled with integrals and fear, Michael.”

“You’ll be fine. I’ll be right there with you the whole time and if it really is that bad, I’ll owe you a hot chocolate and funnel cake once we get out, okay?”

Calum purses his lips in thought for a moment because that is a pretty good deal, all things considered. Plus he hasn’t had anything to eat since the late lunch he had a few hours before his exam and his stomach is yelling at the mere mention of junk food. “Fine.” he concedes. “But you aren’t allowed to make fun of me like last year if I get freaked out in there, okay?”

“You got it.”

They continue through the fair, the bright lights around the food and game booths starting to light up all colors of the rainbow as the sun makes its final descent below the horizon. It’s an awfully cheery prelude to a haunted house, Calum thinks, and he’s kinda surprised Michael somehow found a haunted house nestled into the middle of a fall fair. Around them, families and groups of high school kids wander with bright eyes and smiles from booth to booth. Kids clutch sugary treats and oversized stuffed animals while parents follow closely behind. Young couples wait in line for the ferris wheel and share clouds of cotton candy. It’s all such a rosy picture of an autumn evening and Calum wishes he were taking part in this rather than heading up toward the nightmare factory Michael is leading him towards.

Eventually, they reach a barricade where some kid in a neon t-shirt with the name of the haunted house printed across the front scans the printed tickets that Michael has and they’re pointed toward a line forming outside of the metal building that’s likely has some other not-so-spooky purpose outside of the month of October. In front of Michael and Calum are a group of boys probably around middle school age, if Calum had to guess. He’s considering how mortifying it’s going to be when a bunch of actual children hear him scream when Michael chimes in, as though hearing Calum’s thoughts.

“See, Cal,” Michael lets his elbow drop to lean on Calum’s shoulder. “These kids aren’t even scared of this. You’ll be totally fine.”

Calum is moments away from giving a snarky response when he catches a glimpse of the people in line behind them as he turns in Michael’s direction.

And of course the most beautiful boy he has ever laid his eyes on is just steps behind him and also about to witness Calum shriek like a baby at the sight of a clown or something.

The boy is accompanied by another (though their body language seems to be mimicking Calum and Michael as they laugh at something on a phone screen so for the time being he decides they are not on a date) and he’s tall, taller than Calum by a few inches probably. He’s got curly blonde hair tied up back into a little bun though the cool evening breeze has some of the hair around his face blowing into his blue eyes. Calum is trying not to be overdramatic but he thinks he might be looking at an angel. (Or a really pretty demon. He is like, seconds away from walking into one of his greater fears, after all.)

He shakes his head before abruptly turning back toward the front of the line to avoid staring when Michael, of course, decides to take a look at what Calum had been glancing towards. His face lights up and Calum assumes he’s about to be teased until they head into the haunt when Michael himself blushes just slightly across his nose before speaking. “Ashton! Is that you?”

The boy walking up with the angel pulls the hood from his sweatshirt off from around his head and smiles brightly. “Michael, funny seeing you here. How’s it going?”

“Doing well. Finally got the roommate out for an evening on the town since he’s been studying like it’s his full time job for the last three weeks.”

“Michael, we’re sophomores. Studying actually is my full time job,” Calum pouts. Great, he thinks, now the cute boy is going to think he’s a total nerd. Which he absolutely is but that’s not the point.

Ashton laughs at the exchange. “He’s got you there,” he starts while extending a hand out toward Calum. “I’m Ashton. Michael and I took developmental psychology together during summer session. This is my roommate, Luke.”

Calum accepts Ashton’s hand and smiles shyly first at him and then Luke, who holds his hand up in a short wave as Ashton introduces him. “I’m Calum. It’s nice to meet you guys.”

Similar greetings are exchanged among the four of them as they go through obligatory What’s your major? Where are you from? undergrad small talk as the line inches toward the entrance.

Michael and Ashton eventually pull the conversation toward what they’re taking in their psychology classes this semester (Ashton is a year ahead of the rest of them and Michael very obviously wants the low down on the finals he’ll be taking at the end of the semester but also Ashton’s number if Calum is reading the signs correctly). Luke laughs and turns his eyes toward Calum's as they’re shut out of the conversation.

Suddenly Luke is leaning in toward Calum's ear and he swears his heart skips a beat because Luke is very cute and smells very nice. Luke giggles softly before speaking quietly enough that it’s obvious he’s trying to avoid the other two hearing him. “Ash used to come home from that class with heart eyes, I swear. If he doesn’t get the guts to ask Michael out before the end of the night, we may need to take matters into our hands.”

Calum grins, feeling accomplished that he read the situation correctly. “You like playing matchmaker then?”

“Only when it’s for people being that dumb.” Luke gestures over to the blushing pair standing a couple feet away from them. He’s got a point, Calum admits silently. He’s been friends with Michael since they were kids and he knows that flirty face anywhere.

“Alright so if we get to the other side of this and they’re not exchanging numbers, how subtle do we go about suggesting they get together again to geek out about psych theories?”

Luke shakes his head, a playful grin playing at his lips. “Oh no, I’ve always found greater success with a more direct approach. It’s the engineering major in me. We like to face our problems head on.”

Calum is opening his mouth to make another comment back (though he will admit, trying to fit flirting into an exchange about setting up his best friend is a bit of a challenge he’s realizing) when the line starts moving again, bringing them just about to the front of the line. And of course, Calum was too distracted by the short banter the line allowed to pay attention to how much time had passed and now he’s just about to step into this mess of an idea of Michael’s.

The group of kids that had been in front of Michael and Calum are let in with the family that had been just before them, and the person running the door lets the four of them along with the couple behind Ashton and Luke know they’ll go through the haunt as a group. Ashton lets out a short laugh once the kids head off into the darkened doorway. “Honestly, glad we’re not going through with them. Love a haunted house but I swear kids will just scream so loud for fun in these things.”

Calum watches the three of them agree and he finds himself nodding but also silently preparing himself for being the annoying kid screaming. Though in his case it’s more because he’s a bit of a wimp and not just doing it for fun.

He chats back and forth with Luke for a few more minutes while they wait for their turn to head inside. Luke’s telling him about some ridiculous thing that happened in one of his labs the week before and Calum finds himself a little shocked at how quickly their conversation has become so comfortable. He’s not used to feeling so at ease with people so quickly that aren’t Michael or maybe his sister. He would sit with the feeling for longer, really let himself think on why he might be feeling that way, but then the kid at the door is telling them to head on inside.

The haunt starts basically in Calum’s least favorite kind of way. (Though given his disdain for these things, it’s not like he has a favorite but that doesn’t change how this is his least favorite.) It’s nearly pitch black as the group of six step inside and it’s just a little bit too quiet, the only sound in the room being the wind blowing against the metal roof of the building. He hears some snickering coming from the group that he tries to focus on as he squeezes his eyes shut and wills them to adjust to the lack of light.

Soon enough though there’s some scratching noises coming from the corners of the room and a couple actors in dark, obscure costumes pop out in the direction of their group. Calum contains most noises of panic, really just gasping as his feet stop short. The chest of the person walking behind him collides with his back while a gentle hand grabs onto his shoulder as the person steadies. Automatically, Calum assumes the person to be Michael since he’s typically the one jumping to comfort Calum with such little hesitation.

But then just in front of him he hears a giggle that he knows belongs to his best friend and he feels his forehead scrunching up in confusion until a voice speaks quietly near his ear. “You good?” Luke asks him, his hand still placed comfortingly against his shoulder. Calum feels his face relax then, his mind just a bit more at ease knowing that it’s not that other couple with them stuck behind his panicked body.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” Calum whispers back to Luke after clearing his throat. Luke’s hand drops from his arm after what feels like a gentle squeeze and they continue on ahead. Calum takes a deep breath both in an effort to calm himself and in annoyance. Not only is he going to have nightmares for weeks after this but there’s also no way in hell he’ll be able to make eye contact with Luke once they’re out of this thing.

The scary noises drift in and out and Calum finds that those aren’t too bad. The hissing of a smoke machine lets him anticipate the floor of the next room being covered in a fog and he feels pretty proud of himself when he gets it right. The room isn’t too bad; the actors in there are obviously meant to be some brand of zombie and it was only about a week earlier that Michael and Calum did a rewatch of Zombieland for movie night so the memory leaves him giggling along with everyone else for once.

Calum is just starting to believe that maybe he’s got a grip of things this time around in terms of containing his fear at the whole situation when suddenly the room is filled with strobe lights and loud noises (chainsaws, maybe?) and Luke’s chest is once again colliding with Calum’s back as he shoots back some at the noise. This time around Calum feels gentle hands moving to hold onto his arms, the touch instantly one that calms him and gets his feet to start moving in the direction of the rest of the group again. Calum focuses on the feel of Luke’s warm hands tapping out a beat against the fabric of his sweatshirt and his view of the back of Michael’s head as they move down the path set out in the room to avoid looking at his surroundings too much.

The haunt isn’t a long one and according to what Calum had heard Michael saying about this place on their walk into the fairgrounds earlier in the night, there should only be a couple more rooms before their group reaches the end. Calum continues to jump at most of what is set up throughout them but he feels a lot more grounded and at ease than he typically would since about 75% of his attention is laser focused on the hand that Luke eventually moves to rest between Calum’s shoulders.

Soon enough though they’re back outside in the cool fall air and under the colorful lights of the fair. The settings oppose each other quite extremely, Calum thinks while he makes a little huddle with the other three boys. He can’t help but notice how Luke’s hand has yet to drop from his back and he leans just slightly back into his touch. Michael and Ashton are babbling along together and don’t notice the silent actions of the other two but when Calum turns toward Luke, their eyes meet and Luke’s already blushy cheeks go just a bit more pink.

Luke’s hand drops away from Calum’s back then and a confused look drops to his face. Luke looks toward the ground, a nervous smile playing at his lips. “Sorry I didn’t like, ask before trying to comfort you in there. Not exactly appropriate of an almost stranger, I guess.”

Calum shrugs. “It was welcomed, honestly,” he starts, his grin growing as Luke looks up at him a bit shocked. “I mean, I was very obviously ready to run out of there like two minutes in. You’re basically the only reason I didn’t turn and immediately head out. So, thank you.”

“Any time.” Luke smiles brightly.

They continue to just stare at one another for a few moments, neither really knowing what to say next, when Ashton clearing his throat pulls them out of it. Calum turns his face toward the other two and tries to control his shock when he sees Michael’s lazy grin and strong grip on Ashton’s hand. Ashton gives them a knowing smile.

“We’re gonna go grab some snacks and maybe try out some of the games. Meet back at the entrance to the fairgrounds in an hour?” he coordinates, already starting to walk backwards away from the two of them.

“Sounds like a plan,” Luke answers for them. “Have fun, boys.

Ashton raises his free hand to give a short salute before turning and pulling Michael toward the row of food booths. “So they figured things out then?” Calum says as they watch their friends walk off.

“Apparently.”

Calum laughs quietly and moves to step in front of Luke. He’s not that great at being bold (especially after being terrified for twenty minutes straight) but he figures he could at least give it a shot. “Guess it’s our turn?”

Luke’s gaze pulls away from their friends to meet Calum’s eyes again. “What?”

“Let me buy you a hot chocolate as a thank you for protecting me in there?”

Luke smirks and replies quickly with his own request. “Only if you’ll let me take you out for coffee next week.”

Calum sticks his hand out between the two of them. “Deal.”

They giggle as they shake on it and then start off in the direction that their friends went just a few moments before them. Luke is quick to reach for Calum’s hand and weave their fingers together as he starts a rundown of questions that should feel like small talk but for some reason they don’t. Calum figures it has to do something with the attentive look in Luke’s eyes or the smile pulling across his face as Calum speaks about something as mundane as the calculus exam he took earlier in the night. Though it also again feels like it could be something more, something bigger than that.

But Calum’s mind is a crazy mix of adrenaline from the haunted house and endless thanks to Michael for bringing them out tonight and trying to pick out the perfect way to describe the blue of Luke’s eyes. For now, he decides, it’s enough to squeeze his palm against Luke’s to pull him in the direction of the hot chocolate with sprinkles and worry about the bigger stuff another day.

It’s a year later when Calum is sitting at the kitchen counter, staring at his statistics homework like it’s in another language and Luke is laying on the couch scrolling through his phone, his homework already finished. The university was closed that day due to the snow so Luke had decided it wasn’t worth it to go back to his own apartment after reading the email notification that morning.

Calum is too focused on the problems on the page in front of him to hear Luke pad over into the kitchen so he jumps just the slightest bit when he feels a pair of warm arms wrap around his middle. Even on the coldest days Luke is warm like sunshine, Calum has come to know and love in the last year. He lets his pen drop against the counter as he lifts a hand to play with the curls around Luke’s ear when he leans down and lets his chin rest against Calum’s shoulder. “What’s up, love? I’m almost done with this and then we can watch a movie or something while we get dinner going.”

Luke hums in agreement with the plan, his face turning a bit to press a kiss against Calum’s cheek. “I was thinking about date night next week. And I think we should do that haunted house at the fair again.”

Calum sighs and turns his head then. “Luke, I love you but despite the incredibly cute, horror loving boy that guided me through half of that thing, I still really don’t like haunted houses.”

Luke pouts then and huffs out a little sigh. “Fine,” he starts, his arms wrapping a bit tighter around Calum. “We should do something special though. Think anniversaries are supposed to be celebrated, right?”

“We could still go to the fair if you want?” Calum suggests with a shrug. “I’ve always wanted to be kissed at the top of a ferris wheel.”

“I think that could be arranged,” Luke smiles before pressing another quick kiss against Calum’s hair.

Luke stands up straight then, not giving Calum more than a moment to respond to the sweet words, and heads into the kitchen. Calum lifts his arm to rest against the countertop and lets his chin fall into his hand as he watches while Luke starts pulling things out of the fridge to make dinner. (It’s my night to cook, Cal, don’t you dare try getting up.) He decides then that he’ll probably go ahead and buy a couple tickets to the haunted house as a surprise for when they go to the fair the following week. Because if there’s anything Calum has learned in the last year, it’s that nothing can ever feel too scary or unsafe with Luke at his side.

#5soshalloweenevent2020 #cake #cake fic #will say i asked my friend who used to work in a haunted house a couple questions but i think he immediately got suspicious #so i uhhhh stopped #i won't lie i fully rewrote most of this thing like two nights ago so there are likely some errors w grammer and such #but this was my first like #not really sad cake and i had a lot of fun #baby's first fic event !!!!!#i am SO excited to get off work tonight and read everyone's fics with ice cream and celebrate halloween a few hours late :)))))

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yesyoutubeisruiningmylife · 4 years

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I'm getting ready to do my last semester of undergrad online as well. 😅 I've done it before for health reasons but doing it now because of corona seems so much harder. Good luck to you! When do you start?

hiii! oh, good luck to you as well! i actually still don’t know if it’s going to be online or not (and i probably won’t know until last minute) but based on the stats and the fact that it will probably get even worse in autumn, i’m not really hopeful...i start beginning of october so i still have quite a bit of time, but primary and secondary school students are going in two weeks and they still have no idea how it’s all going to look like. when do you start? also, if i’m not being to nosy, what are you studying?

#answered #anonymous #i love getting asks like this by the way

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sadienita · 5 years

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I’m Fine - Part 1

Joshua x Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

You’ve got enough on your plate right now that you really don’t need to add a soulmate to the mix.

You groaned as you rolled out of bed and made your way across the room just to turn off the alarm. You figured being early autumn that it would still be warm in your room but apparently the weather had decided it wanted to leap right into fall so your room was slightly chilled. You hurried to throw on your robe and got yourself to the shower as quickly as humanly possible. Letting the warm water thaw your body, you stayed in just a little longer than you needed to.

Once dressed and organized you went to grab breakfast and finally checked your texts.

Every single one of them was from your mom.

[Hi honey, good luck today]

[Make sure you eat a good breakfast]

[I checked the weather forecast and your city should be nice and cool all week. No overheating, yay!]

[Did you book your next appointment yet? You said they were supposed to call last week.]

You sighed and your housemate, Iseul, looked up from her breakfast.

“Your mom?”

“Yeah, I mean I know she’s just worried but I can take care of myself.”

Iseul nodded thoughtfully as she finished her toast. “But with everything that started happening in the last year, doesn’t she have at least a little reason to be worried?”

You shot her a look. “I’m an adult, I know she’s going to worry but it can be overbearing and it doesn’t need to be.”

She looked unconvinced but let it go. “You should at least text her back.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumbled, typing up a quick response. Your mom was kind but she could be a real handful. She worried easily, though so did you so it wasn’t much of a surprise to see where you had gotten it from. You did your best to ease her worries with your response, hoping she would stop pestering you.

In truth it made you anxious when she was anxious. You had worked so hard throughout your whole undergrad to get your anxiety under control and you had finally managed to work with it and cope with it when things changed. And you mom had been on your case over it since she realized something was going wrong with your body.

You did you best to shove that from your mind, even though your stomach was telling you that your anxiety was building, but you were used to having an uneasy stomach at this point so you finished up packing your stuff before heading out to class.

Today would be a good day. That you were determined about. It was a new semester, a new year and the last one that you would have to do to get your degree. You had prepared yourself. You had snacks for the day, you mentally readied your speech for your profs.

“Hi, so I’m one of your students this year. I wanted to let you know that I’ve been dealing with this health issue and it might become a problem during class. I-”

“Hey stranger!”

Your thoughts were interrupted by Youngmi, as she caught up to you on your walk. As much as you were trying to be excited about meeting new people this year and making new friends, seeing a familiar face was like a breath of fresh air.

“Hey Youngmi, how was your summer?”

“Eh, it was work so not overly exciting but hey, I made money. You?”

“About the same, and more hospital and doctor’s visits.”

“Did you figure out yet?”

You sighed. “I guess we’re getting somewhere slowly. It’s just frustrating.”

“No that’s totally fair. Are you sure you’re good to walk to class.”

You shifted your backpack to the other shoulder. “Yeah, I’m fine. I feel fine. Just first day jitters, that’s all.”

Youngmi nodded and you continued your walk. The building was busy when you got there and your stomach started to flip flop. You took a few deep breaths as you followed Youngmi through the crowd to find a seat in the auditorium. The feeling of butterflies and nerves in your stomach was only getting worse and you could swear your face was getting hot. You started to fan yourself and Youngmi gave you a curious look.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I think so. I’m just feeling really warm and my stomach is nervous.”

Youngmi was about to say something else when the lecturer grabbed your attention. The both of you stopped chatting and focused on the lecture, trying to at least be good students the first day.

But you were distracted. You didn’t feel faint or like you would pass out. You just felt hot and jittery, but you had never experienced this before so you had no clue what it was. You just prayed it wasn’t something new on top of everything else.

After the lecture you and Youngmi made your way out of the auditorium. You found a quiet spot to eat lunch while you were between classes.

“Are you feeling any better?” She asked.

“Yeah, a bit, that was so weird. God I hope it’s not another symptom or something.”

Youngmi grinned at you. “Well I can think of one thing you probably haven’t considered yet.”

You gave her a curious look but before she had even opened her mouth again you caught onto what she was implying. “Hey! Don’t joke about that! I already have enough stress, that’s the last thing I need to add to my plate.”

She chuckled. “Okay but I’m serious, it might actually be-”

“Well hey look at the time!” You jumped up and gathered your stuff. “Best be getting to class!”

Youngmi whined your name but you ignored it. “Think about it, though.”

“Nope!” You took off down the hallway. That whole idea made you anxious. There was a right time for that sort of meeting and a wrong time and this was the wrong time, so it wouldn’t happen just yet. You had way too much on your plate for a relationship right now. You felt like way too much of a mess.

You found your classroom, a much smaller one than the large lecture theatre, and grabbed a spot. You made sure you had room to lie down and as soon as the professor came in you told her what you might need during the semester. You thanked your lucky stars that she was nice about it and had no problem with you doing what you needed to be healthy. More students filed into the classroom and it filled up quickly. You introduced yourself to the people at your table and listened to them talk about their summers or undergrad experiences. As the prof caught everyone’s attention to start class you started to feel the butterflies in your stomach again. You could feel your face heating up and you fanned yourself. There had to be some reason this was happening.

A boy came through the door in a hurry, looking a little flustered about being late. Your heart started to race as a fresh round of butterflies erupted in your stomach. You quickly looked down but you could feel his eyes land on you and bore holes in the top of your head. You knew he had noticed you too and you thanked the powers that be that there were no more seats at your table.

For the whole two hour class you avoided looking at him, though you could feel him staring. You were distracted and stressed. Now was not the time, really really not the time. You needed a plan for the end of class, some way to get passed him and out of the building fast.

The end of the class seemed to creep up on you though, but when the feeling started to subside you looked up and realized he was gone.

You breathed a sigh of relief and packed up your things. Today might not be a disaster. It just might end well.

Or you might have spoken too soon.

The second you left the room your heart started racing and you looked up to see him. He was leaning awkwardly against the wall, waiting for you. He looked up at you and smiled.

The second you made eye contact your stomach erupted with new butterflies and you knees started to feel weak. Some part of you wanted desperately to stay and talk with him for hours. To hold his hand, to kiss him, to fall in love with every little thing about him.”

“Hi,” he said a little shyly, pushing himself off from the wall and approaching. “I’m Joshua. And you must be my soulmate.”

It took you a moment to find your voice and come to your senses but when you did you shook your head.

“I, uh, I have to go.”

Joshua frowned. “Is something wrong, are you upset I didn’t come talk to you right away? Or this morning after the lecture?”

You shook your head. “I just- Now isn’t a good time, okay?”

“I don’t understand…”

“I-I’m sorry, I really just…” Your heart was pounding and you had no idea if it was from your soulmate or your anxiety. You were starting to feel dizzy and you were determined to get out of there as quickly as possible. You darted around him and took off down the hall, not daring to look behind you.

#is it fate #Seventeen #seventeen imagines #Svt #svt imagines #seventeen soulmate au #soulmate au #college au #joshua hong #joshua imagines #hong jisoo #joshua #the first of many parts #im so excited about this you guys

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feuillesmortes · 6 years

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Fic update! Sorry to keep anyone waiting. This is the last chapter before our season finale as I’m finishing (part 1 of) this fic next chapter. It’s been an incredible journey, so thanks everyone for sticking with me. Tagging my mates @queenbessofyork and @harritudur, who I love dearly <3

You can also read it on Ao3.

April was the cruelest month, but she had never felt it so keenly before. Her bedroom bathed in sultry light, the curtains filtering the sunbeams, Lizzie opened the windowpanes to look at the passers-by walking on the street. The sun was up again, and another day prepared for work and silence.

Not the type of silence found in quiet strolls taken beneath the scrawny branches of winter trees. No, but the tedious, everlasting silence hanging heavily between textbooks and libraries while life outside grew greener each day. The urge to go out on town had never felt so tempting now that she was bound to a desk in hopes of memorising every tiny detail she had been taught across two semesters. The education system was hardly fair on the students.

She leaned out the window, her morning apple in hand. Down below people came and went like busy bees. Were these streets always so filled with children? Were they ever so crowded? Lizzie mulled unhappily. It must have been the time of the year. A few feet apart, on her bed, her mobile buzzed with yet another text from Katie and Joan.

Just arrived in Regent's Park Are you coming? We brought a picnic basket xx

Lizzie resigned herself to a heavy sigh and a sorrowful reply.

Sorry, I can't. I've got two chapters to finish today. But have fun you two xx

As much as life outside called to her, Lizzie felt undeserving of a picnic. Her fingers hovered above the mobile screen, frozen in air. Her contacts list showed the name of a Henry T, the picture one she herself had cropped out from a group photo. The mention of Regent's Park had reminded her of one particular afternoon, autumn leaves, late roses and... him. The last message he had sent to her dated from the 2nd of April.

Spoons will be perfect. 7 it is then. x

Lizzie had not heard from him since. All that was left was a long, uncomfortable, unyielding silence. Rodrigo too had noticed his absence.

"Is Tudor always so busy now? He never drops by anymore." That was his simple remark on the subject, and yet kindly, as if sensing there was something wrong, his only one. Her "How could I know?" was met with a sad and sympathetic look, like the ones bestowed on patients going through a difficult surgery. Rodrigo, him too, had not talk about it since.

As much as she tried to hide it, the truth was that she missed Henry. She missed watching his smug, mischievous smirk unfold. She missed hearing his voice, his quips, that sarcasm that often said everything she thought but was too polite to admit. She missed looking at him, at those eyes that absorbed it all — that hunger that shone through to enquire of all things, to take possession of all things. She missed the thrill of being under that gaze, disarmed in the face of a danger she longed to know, a burning desire to just melt into his arms.

And yet, she would not text Henry. She had thought of hundreds of things she could say to him. She had typed and erased, typed and erased. But what should she say after all? There had been nothing going on between them before. She wasn't even sure she should say something in the first place. Her eyes lingered on the necklace he gave her, that expensive gift laying on her nightstand. She should at least return it.

A wild frenzy took over her then. Hands trembling, Lizzie brought her phone to her right ear and waited.

"Hello?”

“Hi! Is this Maud?” Lizzie tried her brightest, chirpiest tone.

“Yes, it’s her.” The voice coming from the other side of the line, though, didn't sound so bright. “Sorry, but who’s this?”

“Oh, sorry! Sorry, I forgot! It's— It’s Lizzie. Henry’s… friend.” There really wasn’t a right word to describe her status. “Do you remember me? You gave me your number last year. You said I could ring you... if anything should...”

“Oh, Lizzie! Of course I remember you, luv! You alright?”

That was it, her last resort: ringing the girl she had once thought was Henry’s girlfriend. There should be at least some sort of reward for the most desperate of measures.

“Yeah. Hmm, listen… Have you talked to Henry lately?”

“I think we texted a week ago or so. Why? Did something happened?”

Maud sounded oblivious enough, so Henry mustn't have told her. Why not fake it then?

“No, no. Everything’s fine.” She chuckled, forcing again her easy voice. Lizzie didn’t know why she was fake smiling when Maud couldn't see her. “It’s just that, well, I haven’t been able to talk to Henry since... last week, I reckon.”

A lie. It had been more than a fortnight since she had last seen him. “I don’t know what happened. Maybe he’s changed his number?”

“I don’t think so, no. Have you tried his flat?”

Relief flooded over Lizzie. Henry had not moved out yet, her biggest fear. “Yeah, I— I have. But I couldn’t find him there. At least the times I tried.”

Another lie. Lizzie hadn’t had the courage to simply… go to his flat and knock on his door. She had passed in front of his building a couple of times, had longingly stared at his window, but hadn’t done much further. How could she think of meeting him face to face when she couldn't even come up with a text? If she was to meet him, it had to look like it happened by chance.

“Oh, have you checked the campus library? I wouldn’t be surprised to find him there. Harry said your exams are coming up. Yikes.”

“Just so.” Lizzie chuckled, nervously. For the last couple of weeks she had been constantly telling herself she should have started revising ages ago. She had thought that worrying about her exams would be enough to get Henry out of her mind. She had been wrong. “Yes, I’ve checked the library but no. I couldn’t find him.”

In fact, Lizzie had checked every place on campus she had ever seen him at. The library, the café, the students' union hub. She had even gone to a meeting of the Tolkien Society. Not only she had not found Henry there, she had to explain she actually had never seen the last Lord of the Rings film. Embarrassing to say the least.

“Maud, did Henry… Did Henry tell you if he’s doing anything this weekend?”

“Oh, you know what? He actually did!”

“DID HE?!” Lizzie almost dropped her phone.

“Yeah, he said he was going to this party— Promoland, melodrama, something like that.”

Her heart sunk with that strange information. Henry going to a party? Unless… “Oh, I think I know the one. Propaganda. It’s a indie rock scene.”

“Sounds about right."

Lizzie remembered one time she shared earphones with Henry. "Did he… Did he say if he was going there by himself? Or if he’s going with friends?”

“No, luv. I’d be surprised if he told me that much. You know how Harry is.”

Unfortunately, she did. It was hard enough to find a person who didn’t want to be found, but finding someone who didn’t use social media was especially difficult. Henry did have a facebook profile — a meager thing with his basic information and a simple enough profile picture that Lizzie had kept looking at for the past few weeks — but he had not updated it in months. Some employers like to check your profile, he had once said, and that was the only reason he had an account in the first place.

“What if he’s a psychopath?” Her sister Cecily had asked her. She was the only person Lizzie had opened up about Henry. They were sitting cross-legged on the floor, Lizzie on her laptop. It looked like stalking really wasn't her forte.

“I mean, why isn't him on twitter or instagram? I wonder what he’s hiding.”

“He’s not hiding anything.” Lizzie took it almost personally. “He’s just a private person, is all.”

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t think he's safe.”

“Safe? What— Cece! We lived in the same flat for months! He’s not a psychopath. Henry is just… Henry.”

“Lizzie, are you still there?”

“Oh, yes! Sorry, I was reminiscing. Yeah, I know exactly how he is.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be of much help.”

“Oh no, no! You’ve helped me tremendously! Truly, thank you.”

A pause.

“...You know you can tell me if anything’s wrong, right?”

“There’s nothing wrong.” Lizzie tried her sweet voice again, her most melodious pitch. Easy lies coated with sugar. She had learned it from her father.

“Yeah, but if you need to talk—”

“Maud, I think there’s someone’s calling me. I should really go.”

“Alright, luv. I won’t press it any further.”

“Thank you again, Maud. Just… please don’t tell Henry I called.”

So this was how Lizzie found herself outside the legendary Electric Ballroom on a Saturday night, elbowing the hordes of undergrads desperately trying to forget about their exams with some late night partying. Those famous clubs of Camden Town, the ones that had seen the likes of The Smiths, U2 and many other rock legends, those were always crowded on the weekends. That would certainly pose a challenge to her quest.

“Is your name on the guest list?” The bouncer asked Lizzie, her voice barely audible above the loud beat reverberating off the club’s brick walls. She tried again, spacing her words and raising her pitch. “Miss, is. your. name. on. the. guest. list?"

"Hmm, yes. Yes, it should be there.” Lizzie tried her best blank face. Of course her name was not on the list. “Name's Elizabeth Regina York.” She hoped her nonchalant tone would do the trick for her.

But her arm was held down when she tried to scurry past the door staff. “I would need to check your ID, miss. But I don’t see your name here.”

“It should be there. There’s got to be some mistake. Certainly it’s there.” Lizzie tried again to step around to get to the ticket booth, but the bouncer blocked her way and held out a hand to her.

“I will have to ask you to get back in the queue.”

Lizzie glanced at the number of people queueing up behind her. At the pace it all was going, Lizzie would get to the club at the end of the party. Who knew if Henry would still be there! “Look, is there anything you can do for me? There’s been some mistake surely.”

The security guard was adamant. “Miss, if your name’s not on the list there’s nothing I can do. House’s full.”

“But I really need to get in there! If you could just—”

“I’m sorry, miss. Not my job, not my problem.”

She tried to grasp at something, anything. “See, my boyfriend’s in there! I really need to talk to him.”

“Then he should’ve waited for you outside, shouldn’t he?” Yes, he should have. Only he wasn't her boyfriend at all. She opened her mouth to plead again but was interrupted. “Get back in the queue, miss.”

A wild commotion was heard. “MAKE WAY! MAKE WAY! MAKE WAY!” People cleared the path as a drunk girl with a fluorescent pink top was carried outside, hanging on the shoulders of two friends. She vomited, splashing a few people on her way out.

“Teens these days...” The security guard shook her head. She turned back to Lizzie, only to found that she had already vanished inside.

The loud beating of the club partially deafened Lizzie. As her eyes tried to adjust to the darkness, the inevitable question came to her: how on earth would she find Henry at such packed and poorly lit rooms? She stood in the corner of the main room, tried to discern the dancing heads from one another. The flickering lights made her uncomfortably dizzy, the heavy boom of the bass shook the floor under her feet.

The DJ on stage made a sign and everyone started cheering. Soon enough the lyrics of Mr. Brightside were heard, people singing along from the top of their lungs. A few Alex Turner’s face masks swam among the crowd.

♫ Jealousy, turning saints into the sea Swimming through sick lullabies, choking on your alibis But it’s just the price I pay, destiny is calling me Open up my eager eyes, ‘cause I’m Mr. Brightside ♫

People spinning around, arms raised, bobbing their heads, singing. The blasting music was contagious. Everyone looked like having such a good time. Lizzie had never felt so out of place before. Feeling half-defeated, she decided to go to the bar — eventually Henry would have to stop there, she reckoned. Realising she could not simply stand there indefinitely without being asked her drink, she asked for her traditional pint of Strongbow Dark Fruit.

“We don’t have that here.” Lizzie tried to think of another drink, but the bartender’s impatience made her unable to think fast. “Would you like a Carling instead?” She accepted the beer, if only not to let him waiting any longer. She hated letting people down, from people working service jobs to family and friends.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. “If you come with me outside I can buy you a Strongbow.” The voice barked at her ear. “There’s a Liddl just down the street.” Lizzie turned her head to look at the unknown man with such a “who-the-fuck-are-you” look that he felt compelled to present himself. “Couldn’t help but notice you standing there, princess.” He offered her a crooked smile and extended his hand to her. “Hi. I'm—”

“Goodbye.” Lizzie grabbed her pint and dashed away.

She stopped by the stairs leading to the ladies and gents. That was another place Henry would have to pass by eventually, wasn’t it? The minutes ticked by, her pint glass was emptied. She bought another. Lizzie checked every guy’s face that came her way, some who looked back unkindly. She sat down, no longer caring whether her seat was too dirty to rest her bum. Further inside The 1975 and other bands were playing. She pulled out her mobile — No messages, no texts, no nothing. Muteness. She decided she didn't care anymore.

Where are you?

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

I miss you.

It felt like carving her heart out. How could those simple words make her feel so vulnerable, so naked? Everything was coming into place, and oh, she was most certainly an idiot! If only her foolish pride hadn't rendered her so blind, she might have seen that... that...

Lizzie wiped the single tear that dared to roll down her cheek. She would not let herself be seen like this. She thought of all the girls she had met crying at nightclubs. She would not be like that, and yet, the thought only made her sadder. She hid her face behind her hands and wept silently, one tear at a time. Bitter tears of frustration.

Not so silently as she would like to. A warm hand landed on her shoulder. “Are you alright?” She peered through her fingers to find the blurred vision of a girl smiling at her. Lizzie cleaned her cheeks.

“I’m ok, thank you.” Maybe if she wasn’t feeling like utter rubbish she might have remembered the features of that girl.

“You don't look ok. What happened?”

Lizzie laughed bitterly. “I happened. I've fucked up everything." The words sounded harsh even to her own ears. "I've botch it all up. That’s what happened.”

The girl offered her that same sympathetic smile Rodrigo had given her. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be.” Lizzie sniffed and smiled weakly. She felt so unbelievably pathetic. She wanted to be left alone to her misery, but it wouldn't be the polite thing to say. "Sorry, there's something I must do. I've gotta go."

She got up from her place and almost ran to the first floor. That was it, Lizzie had decided: she would find Henry right there and then, even if it was the last thing she did. She circled the dance floor, touched shoulders and arms. "Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me. Sorry." Not him, not him, not that one either. The flickering lights started making her dizzy again, the loud beat hurt her ears.

♫ Well are you mine? are you mine tomorrow? Are you mine? or just mine tonight? Are you mine? are you mine tomorrow? Or just mine tonight? ♫

"Henry!" Her heart jumped. She saw the back of a head that looked just like him. The same haircut and the same slope of the shoulders. She grabbed his arm and he turned and... It wasn't him. She backed off by small tentative steps. "I'm... sorry!" Her steps soon turned into running. She wanted to flee, to disappear. She needed to get out of there.

________________________________________

"I need to get out of here." Henry almost shouted, trying to get his words across. The music was loud enough to muffle his voice.

"What, really?" Ed shouted back. "The party's just started."

"I know." Henry had tried to battle his growing discomfort to no avail. He just wasn't feeling up for a party.

"Alright, mate. Just let me get Tom."

"There's no need to—"

Ed took two long strides and tapped Tom on the shoulder. Though he couldn't hear him, Henry could see the words coming out of his mouth. Tom snapped back his head as if a teacher had just caught him sleeping in class. "What? Now?!" Ed uttered some words back. "He can go. I'm not leaving."

"Tom, c'mon!" Ed's frustration was loud enough to be heard this time.

"I'm not leaving yet! They're playing absolute bangers tonight! And not to mention the girls."

Henry rolled his eyes but moved to intervene. "Guys, guys. There's no need. Stay, both of you. Have a good time."

He strode along the crowd to get to the exit door, the same one that was used as an entrance. He received a few bumps along the way. Thrice damned people. Didn't they all have anything else to do on a Saturday night other than flooding that club? Henry could swear the whole lot of London had rushed to Camden Town.

"Tudor, wait!" Edward shouted behind him. "I'm coming with you!"

They fought their way out, not before witnessing a girl wearing a bright fluorescent top throwing up. She left what could only be called a proper pavement pizza at the entrance door, but they were able to sneak around it unscathed.

Outside, Henry was finally able to raise his arms without hitting someone. He inhaled the nigh air, relishing the feeling of freshness filling his lungs once more. Not that he had really cared about those things in the past few weeks, not in the least. He pulled out his cigarette pack and lighter.

"Hey, mate..." Hands on his pockets, Ed eyed him curiously. "I'm sorry about Tom. He can be quite the prick sometimes."

"Sometimes?" Henry raised an eyebrow at him, lighting up a cigarette.

"I know he can be a dickhead when he wants, ok? But he can also be a good friend... In his own way."

"Yes, I believe you." Henry sniggered, taking a drag. He almost pitied Edward for relying on such poor friends. Or maybe that was his own case, actually, though he preferred not to dwell much on the thought.

"Anyways." He sighed. "Why did you come? Go back to the party. You've still got your wristband. Go. Go have fun."

"No, no. It's quite alright." Ed dismissed it with a simple head shake. "There's a nice takeaway just around the corner where we can buy kebab for a fiver. Oh, and they've got chips for a quid!"

Traditional drunk food. "I'm not pissed enough for that amount of grease, thank you. I think I'll pass." He offered his friend a sardonic smile and clapped him on the shoulder as a way of goodbye.

"Tudor—"

Henry stopped and turned. "What?"

Ed hesitated, looking as if unsure of what to say. He scratched his neck. "Why are you acting so bloody weird lately?"

"Weird?" Henry forced a laugh. "I'm not acting weird."

"C'mon, mate! You so are! You've been sulking like a stroppy cow!"

"This is the normal me." Henry puffed and exhaled a thick white cloud, unfazed. "Nothing's wrong with that."

"Of course something's wrong! See, you took up smoking again. I'm trying to help—"

"Why are you trying at all?" His voice came out strained, harsher than he meant to.

"Cause that's what friends do, you daft old sod!"

Ed losing his cool was a novelty, but not something that could unnerve Henry. "At the moment this daft old sod wants to be left alone. Can the friend understand that, or is that so difficult?"

Ed nodded begrudgingly and looked away. "He can."

"Good." Henry flicked off his cigarette and stepped on it. "And goodbye." He moved to leave, not caring if he was littering. Bloody waste of a good fag, that's what.

"Wait, Tudor!" Henry turned once more, seething. "Just don't do anything stupid, ok?"

"Stupid like taking Tom's pills, for instance?"

Their colleague had offered them his ‘magical’ pills as soon as they entered the club. He had said something along the lines of letting go and forgetting their troubles for the night. Of course Henry wasn't daft enough to be tempted.

"Yeah. Precisely like that. Don't do anything you might regret later."

Henry narrowed his eyes at him. "I'm not like that."

"So you say."

"Truly, Ed. You flatter me." He waved him off. "Goodnight."

Henry took the night bus but didn’t go home. Instead he found himself at the banks of the river Thames, feet dangling from the railing. He had another lit cigarette between his knuckles, though he barely kept track of the times it touched his lips. At his side the bright lights of Millennium Bridge crossed the river like an arrow to lead into a pitch of nothingness. They had turned off the lights of St Paul's cathedral that night. It looked abandoned and alone among the financial buildings of the City. A dreary thing that had outlived its time. How very apt, Henry thought, that it should be dark tonight.

Henry sat on the railing looking at that shadowed dome for long stretching minutes. The Bankside area was oddly deserted that hour. If Henry were to go to, say, Covent Garden, or Soho, or Mayfair, or any other area around Westminster, he'd found more than the distant sounds of the passing ambulances or the occasional tourists walking along the river. He liked it that way. He had sat on that same spot another time.

Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.

She had recited, the sun setting brightly on her hair. They had stopped at that place one winter afternoon, having visited Bray's office in the City. Lizzie had fetched some papers to take to her mother that day. At the time, the lawsuit against her uncle was an ugly business, one tainted by greed and long-held family grievances. Henry, who had grown up with a loving and supportive uncle, couldn't quite image how it felt like.

"I like to think there's more to life than simply struggling." She said, crossing her ankles and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I like to think there's happiness to be found, if only we look for it hard enough."

"There is." His reassurance, though honest, was feeble.

"I want to live." She gave him a straight look, one that spoke of resolute determination. "Not just survive."

Henry didn't quite know how to respond to that, he simply chose a silent nod. He felt the urge to kiss her there and then, but she looked so unbelievably sad. He wanted to kiss that sadness away, hold her warmth close, bury his nose in her hair. He wanted to shower her with kisses till he heard her laughing under his lips. Lizzie was made for happiness, he knew that with as much conviction as a father knew his child.

He gave her one of his earbuds. "Fancy some music?"

She plugged it and scooted closer. "What you've got there?" She smiled, lips parting slowly.

The sunset had turned her hair to a shade closer to red. Flame and gold.

Sweet Thames, run softly, she had said, till I end my song. Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.

Oh, he would never fall in love again! Lizzie was his first, and his last. From atop the railing, Henry swept the city with one bitter look. And to think he was starting to like it. He had even thought of buying a house there, for God's sake! All the tips Lizzie had given on how to look like a real Londoner — how he should always have his oyster card in hand (not in his wallet, nor in his pocket), or how he should always look like he was running late, even if it was 10 pm and all he had to do was going home. Make yourself look important. — all those tips and... for what?

"Why?" He blurted aloud, though he didn't know if he asked the city, the universe, or himself.

His only answer was silence. There wasn't even the wind blowing that night. The air was stalled; heavy dark clouds gathered in the sky promising rain. Down below, the river ran through silent streams. And for a moment only, he could believe he was deaf.

His phone suddenly buzzed with a text. His cigarette on the lips, Henry instinctively moved his hand to take out his mobile, but thought twice. Why should it matter if anyone was texting him? It was probably one of the lads. Probably Edward asking after him. He slipped a hand through his pocket and turned it off. It was not the best way to thank his friend, Henry knew that much. He cooly contemplated himself for what he was: a bitter man with great ambitions, with the makings of a great leader.

Maybe he didn't deserve love after all. Well, he surely wanted to be loved — maybe that was one of his great ambitions — but did he deserve it? Or better yet, did he need it? He would dissect the feeling, look at it through a medical lens, turn it into numbers and compute it, if only he could. A sudden anger built inside him then. He lifted himself up and stood straight with his two feet on the railing. He surveyed the buildings across the river with one appraising look. He would conquer that city, that country. He would not let himself down. With one look of defiance, he proclaimed: "I will not!"

"Yeah, man! Fuck them!"

Startled, Henry lost his balance. His cigarette fell on the waters below. His right foot slipped, but a hand immediately took hold of him and pulled him backwards, bringing him back to the safety of the ground.

"Careful, bruv! Careful!"

Alarmed, Henry gasped for air, soon undergoing a fit of coughing. One of the strangers patted him on back. "There. Easy, man."

His coughing slowly subdued. Fixing his clothes, Henry eyed the two men standing in front of him warily. Bloody stupidity to let himself be overcome by emotions like that. He could not let that happen again.

"You alright, mate?" The men were sharing a bottle hidden inside a brown paper bag. It was illegal to drink on most streets of London, but that didn't actually stop people from drinking. Of course, one could always engage their local policemen into confiscating their booze in case of insufficient sneakiness.

They passed him the paper bag. "Here, have some. For your coughing."

Henry debated whether he should take the offer or not. Oh, sod it. He took a sip of the drink and gasped, immediately regretting it. "What even is this?!" He pulled out the bottle and searched the label for a definition.

"Shhh. Just drink it, man. You'll feel better."

Henry could almost laugh. "Cheers." He raised the bottle and took another sip. Then another one, and another one. He wiped his mouth before returning it to the strangers.

"I get why you're angry, man." One of them said, gesturing at the financial district across the river. "Briefcase wankers, the lot of them."

Henry supposed he was a briefcase wanker too. Or soon to be one.

"Not worse than the tax-evaders at Buckingham Palace, heh?" The second added, causing them both to laugh. They looked throughly drunk.

Henry felt like he had just walked into a feverish dream. "I'm sorry, you are?" Asking for names was the first step to intimidation, his uncle had taught him once.

"Dev." The first man answered. "And this is Andrew."

"Well, Dev, Andrew. Thanks for the drink." He fake smiled. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

“You're sure you're alright, bruv? We caught you perched on the railing. Not cool, man. Not cool.”

Definitely not cool. Henry felt incredibly stupid. “Mmm, yeah. I’m... fine, thanks.”

“Right. Take care, man.”

“And watch your step!” They laughed again.

Their giggle resonated into the long shadow of the night as Henry walked away. He couldn’t believe he had just received advice from two drunks. Tired, he finally let himself go home. Before entering his flat, though, he sat on the short steps leading to the building and lit another cig, for the smoke alarms in his studio flat prevented him from doing so indoors. It was a nuisance, to say the least, but better to smoke outside than waking the whole block with the noisy alarm. Taking a long drag, Henry looked at his watch: 3:07 am.

He heard footsteps approaching. A pair of ankle boots stopped in front of him.

"Henry?"

He looked up to find Lizzie. Wide-eyed, mouth slightly parted. A question danced on her lips.

No fucking way.

#henry x lizzie #my fic #modern au #flatmates au #henry vii x elizabeth of york #heee #i'm SO sorry to keep you waiting for so long #here's a thing

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secret-captain-swan-blog · 6 years

Text

Castle on the Hill

English Literature PhD student Emma Swan just needs money to pay for her last semester of grad school tuition. Killian Jones has always dreamed of opening a bookshop but has never been able to afford it. So when the small principality of Misthaven is looking for their lost princess, the pair decide that this might just be the perfect money making scheme.

A Multi-chapter Modern Day + Lost Princess (think Rapunzel/Anastasia-esque) + Book Lovers in a Coffee Shop AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 60928/ ?

Prologue (Part 1 + 2) // Ch 1 // Ch 2 // Ch 3 // Ch 4 // Ch 5 // Ch 6 // Ch 7 // Ch 8 // Ch 9 // Ch 10

Read on: Ao3

“Emma no-middle-name Swan,” Belle announces, as she fills up the screen on Emma’s phone. “I have the greatest beyond greatest news for you.”

It’s Friday night in Emma’s apartment. Facetime is open, her phone propped up by a stack of books on the coffee table as she drinks a mug of tea in her pajamas. Her hand is wrapped in a complex bandage. Killian insisted on having her stop by a clinic on the way home from the farm. The doctors had assured her that she didn’t need stitches for the cut on her hand, but they did some testing to make sure it hasn’t been infected and then gave her a butterfly band aid to keep it together. Killian had then set off to his evening shift, after Emma reassured him for the ninetieth time that she actually fine and he didn’t to fuss over her. In turn, she headed back to her apartment to skype her best friend.

Who apparently has the greatest news.

“Tell me,” Emma says, pulling her grey blanket around her and smiling at the camera.

“I got a grant to do a bit of research in London at the end of the month,” Belle tells her. “I’m coming to Europe! And you have to hang out with me.”

Emma bursts into a huge smile. She doesn’t realize how much she’s needed her best friend until now. Killian’s been great, more than great. But Belle is her soul-sister, the only friend she’s ever managed to make. And she’s going to see her in person. They’ll be able to talk, really talk. And see London.

“Belle, this is amazing!” Emma ooes. “I’ll book my trip there right away. Do you think it’s cheaper to fly or take a ferry or a train? What days are you getting here?’

Emma dives to grab her planner off the coffee table and starts to pen in the dates as Belle lists them off.

“Wow,” Emma exclaims, running her hand through her hair as she stares fondly at the newly penned dates in her planer. “This is really going to be amazing. I can’t believe this is happening.”

“I know,” Belle says, “You’ll be able to tell me everything about your little schemes and teaching foreign undergrads and your thesis and oh, yeah, the boy.”

“What boy?” Emma repeats.

As if she doesn’t know who Belle is talking about.

“The opera boy,” Belle says.

“Oh, him,” Emma says.

Who else would it be? Killian is her only friend in town, if she didn’t count the Queen of Misthaven. And maybe Professor Hood.

“Killian,” Emma tells her, “His name is Killian.”

“Hmm, now tell me about him,” Belle prompts. “Have you seen him again?”

Ugh, Emma is totally not ready to talk about him. About earlier.

“I mean we hang out most days a week,” Emma explains, hiding her blush in a gulp of tea.

“Oh, do you?” Belle asks, flashing a cheeky smile.

“He’s been showing me around,” Emma tells her, rolling her eyes, “Taking me to see different parts of Misthaven, going to the opera with me, teaching me how to horseback ride- just normal stuff.”

“Teaching you how to horseback ride? Shut up, Emma! That’s super romantic,” Belle ooes.

Emma ducks her head, her blush unable to be blocked any longer.

“Emma,” Belle gasps, “I’ve never seen you make that face before.”

“God, I know, Belle,” Emma mumbles.

“Did you kiss him?”

Emma doesn’t reply.

“Emma Swan! You kissed a boy!” Belle squeals.

“It was just a one-time thing,” Emma says quickly.

“No, no,” Belle says, “You like him. It’s not allowed to be a one-time thing. I forbid it.”

“You can’t forbid it,” Emma says, “I am a strong independent academic woman and I don’t need a man.”

“Obviously, you don’t need a man,” Belle says, “But the marriage plot isn’t about women needing a man. It’s about women making choices that make them happy and fulfilled.”

“My thesis makes me happy and fulfilled,” Emma protests.

“Yeah uh huh,” Belle laughs, “I wish I believed you.”

“I’m not doing any dating until this dissertation is turned in,” Emma sighs, “No matter how much I might be secretly in love with my Misthaven best friend.”

“We need to have a serious conversation about this at some point. In London, shall we?” Belle tells her, “But until then, don’t hurt that boy too much.”

Emma rolls her eyes.

“No, I’m serious, Emma,” Belle tells her, “He obviously likes you a lot. Be careful with his heart.”

Emma runs her good hand through her hair.

“I will,” She vows.

“What about you?” Emma asks, trying to change the subject.

“What about me?” Belle asks.

“How are things for you? Boys?” Emma prods.

Belle sighs, “Delightful. But complicated. Delightfully complicated? I’ll tell you all when we are in London. I can’t explain here.”

“Fine, whatever. I’m glad you are coming to Europe, you loser. Or else I’d never hear all your gossip,” Emma laughs.

“And I’d never have the opportunity to persuade you to stay with your boy,” Belle teases back.

“Ugh, okay. I promise I’m booking my ticket soon,” Emma tells her, “But I should probably sign off now. I’m going riding with the queen tomorrow and I need my beauty sleep.”

“Oh, horseback riding with the queen,” Belle says in a horrible British accent.

“She has a Misthaven accent, you goon,” Emma tells her.

“Oh, horseback riding with the queen,” Belle repeats in an even more atrocious Misthaven accent.

“I’m hanging up with you,” Emma says.

“Alright, let me know when you buy that ticket, will you?” Belle says, “And seriously, girl, don’t be afraid to kiss that boy again.”

“Bye Belle,” Emma laughs, turning off her phone before her friend can give her any more advice.

It’s the next morning when Emma finds herself astride a horse. Again.

Seriously, she never expected her dissertation research to involve so much horseback riding.

But it seems that Prancer is even better behaved than Blaze was, so that’s something. Clearly someone has been riding this pony even though Princess Emma isn’t.

Which brings about the worst part: this pony is tiny.

Seriously, the poor thing was made to carry around 4-year-old Princess Emma, not 25-year-old Fake Princess Emma. What if she squishes the poor thing and it dies? Then the queen will hate her and never give her the money? This is such a mess.

“Do you ride often?” The queen asks her. She’s astride her mount, a large, dark horse named Diego.

“No, not at all really,” Emma says, “I had a lesson with a friend yesterday and it didn’t go very well.”

Emma raises her hurt hand.

“Oh you poor dear,” The queen exclaims, “Are you quite alright now? Is this frightening?”

Emma shrugs, trying not to say, “Get me off of this fucking horse.” Because honestly this pony is too tiny to be scary.

“Oh no, I’m grand,” Emma says, smiling kindly. “It’s so nice of you to take me out to ride.”

And it’s true. The forests here are very well maintained. Clearly the queen employs an extensive grounds crew. While the Du Bois forest was wild and whimsical, the Royal forests are neat and regal. There are tall trees that must have been there for centuries of Nolan rulers. There are ancient looking fountains, classical statues, and strategically planned flowers in color schemes. Emma is refined enough to appreciate it, but she thinks she prefers the enchanting feel of the Du Bois woods better.

And then there is the horses themselves. They are kept in tip top shape, groomed, well, preened more like it. Each horse has identical neat manes, saddle pads with the royal crest on it, and shiny saddles. If anything, Emma feels underdressed in her cable knit sweater and ankle boots that she picked up from the New Look in Old Town. If she ends up getting asked to ride this often in Misthaven, she’ll likely have to invest in some actual riding boots. She can’t believe it. Her, Emma Swan, foster-child-orphan-fraud, buying boots just for horseback riding.

“So, what does your mother think about you spending so much time with the Queen?” Mary Margaret asks, “I know I’ve been mentoring you a bit, but I hope she doesn’t feel like I’ve replace her.”

Emma stops her horse. It’s a conversation that they definitely should have had before now. But even in a situation like this, even when her whole deception relies on her being an orphan, a ward of the state, she hasn’t brought it up yet. It’s still a secret she guards carefully. She always has. It even took Killian a few weeks to coax it out her, Belle even longer.

But it’s got to come out at some point for this whole thing to go any farther.

“I don’t have a mother,” Emma whispers, her soft words echoing into the chattering forest, “Or a father.”

She tries to brace herself for the pity in the Queen’s face. That’s Emma’s life, always the subject of pity. The emotion is raw across Mary Margaret’s visage- grief, sympathy, and a hint of hope.

Oh. It’s that tiny glint of hope that Emma recognizes in her eyes that lets her know that she is really deep in this.

“I’m sorry, Emma,” The queen murmurs.

She reaches out to take Emma’s hand, despite the horses. It’s a solemn moment. To be honest, Emma’ a little annoyed by it. She’s not in the mood to relive her sad story. She doesn’t want to think about the trauma of growing up moving from house to house. Emma just wants to enjoy the gorgeous autumn weather and the daunting task of horseback riding.

But then again, this woman watched her family and friends get murdered. She lived in secrecy and exile for years. Maybe Emma can reveal a bit of her hardship to her.

“When did they pass?” Mary Margaret asks and Emma has to try not to roll her eyes in front of royalty. Because oh my god. This lady is totally fishing. She has it bad.

But maybe it’s more than that. The Queen also lost her family. They have that in common.

“I don’t really know,” Emma tells her. “I was found in an airport when I was three. They could be out there, but clearly they have no interest in me.”

“Emma-“

And Emma truly hates everything because just like with Killian, when she told him everything, it’s not a story she can tell without turning into an emotional, vulnerable, sobbing thing. This story is part of her neat little wall of bottles. And well, un-corking the bottle, is like un-corking a heaping grossness of emotion.

“Like people forget their water bottle in airports, and sometimes their winter gloves. But when they forget their luggage or their cellphone or some valuable, they go back and get them. So clearly I wasn’t valuable to anyone. Not to my parents. Or Aunts or Uncles. Or Grannies. Or whatever. And it’s taken my whole life to feel like I’m valuable to anyone.”

Queen Mary Margaret sees the unshed tears in Emma’s eyes and dismounts her horse. She gives Emma a gentle nod, and Emma slides off her mount. The mud squishes underneath her ankle boots. She looks down at her hands.

“Do you feel valuable to people now?”

Emma nods.

“To my best friend, Belle. She’s the first time I felt like I could trust anyone truly. Like I actually had a friend entirely on my side.”

She grits her teeth because she isn’t sure she’s ready to say it, but adds, “And Killian.”

“Killian Jones?” The queen grins.

“Yeah,” Emma says, “Him. He’s really great and I care a lot about him. Which is weird for me to care about other people. Sometimes caring for myself seems like a full-time job. But yeah.”

“And you like him?” The queen prods.

Emma sighs, “I don’t know. Maybe? The fact that I’m even saying that is impressive. I don’t like people. I just like surviving.”

The queen takes a step forward and puts her hands on Emma’s shoulders.

“You should know that you are valuable to me,” She says, her voice firm.

Emma swallows a sob that tickles her throat.

“I know I’m a crazy queen of a tiny country that swooped you up under my wing, but you matter to me. I really care about you, Emma.”

Emma wants to run for a moment. Because this is like Ingrid all over again. Because this whole thing is super fake and Emma has become the master manipulator she never wanted to be. Because Mary Margaret can’t actually love her, she just loves the idea that she’s her daughter. Because once someone cares about her, then they have infinite power to break her.

But for the tiniest flicker of a moment, she feels something stir inside that she’s never felt so entirely before. She feels like she has a mother.

And somehow she closes the space between her and Queen Mary Margaret. Here they are in the middle of this random ass fairy tale forest crying together as fake-mother-and-daughter and Emma knows this isn’t her thing. But it feels right. And recently she’s discovered that she can feel things she didn’t think she could feel before. So she hugs her, and lets her snot stain the sovereigns’ elegant riding jacket, and lets herself for the second time in two days, take a risk and feel something for someone.

“Have you ever cantered?” The queen asks, decades later, when they pull away.

“Uh no,” Emma replies.

“Would you like to learn?”

“Sure I guess, but I’m a little worried about my hand,” Emma murmurs, raising her gloved hand, that’s a little chubbier with her complicated bandage.

“You’ll be fine. Come on, get back on your horse. Let’s go.”

Emma remounts Prancer. Luckily, the pony is so tiny she doesn’t need a mounting block.

“Now, take up your trot,” The queen says, as she begins to bob up and down as her horse takes up its uneven rhythm.

Prancer and Emma follow. She tries to remember Killian’s instructions the day before on how to post, using the momentum of each stride to rise up and down.

“Alright, now give Prancer another firm squeeze,” Mary Margaret tells her, demonstrating on her own horse.

Emma thumps her legs against Prancer and the pony switches to a smooth, faster motion. Emma’s face breaks out into a smile. There is something so freeing about this. She feels connected with the horse, the world around her.

Suddenly the forest trail gives way to a valley, it’s nestled between two mountains, but it’s all open field. Emma’s heart skips a beat because there is something achingly familiar about this field, this valley. It’s like she knows it. She can’t know it. She’s never been here before.

It’s probably some fake déjà vu. She probably hiked in a valley similar to this with Killian. She probably saw something like it with Belle during their road trip to DC during college. Something, anything.

She pulls on the reins and slows the horse the down. She shoves the thought into a bottle, into the wall. But dang it. She’s getting worse at the wall thing. She’s getting worst at bottling things up.

“Are you okay?” The queen asks.

“Yeah,” She replies, “it’s all just a little overwhelming.”

“It’s okay, Emma, we can start slow,” She tells her.

Start slow. She breathes out and in. It sounds like a solution to more than one problem.

She glances at the queen who gives her a warm smile. Emma smiles back.

Trust. Emma thinks that the word. That’s why she’s having trouble bottling things up. She’s starting to trust people.

Emma and Queen Mary Margaret finish their ride an hour later. A groom meets them at the stable doors. He helps them dismount, before whisking the ponies away to be untacked and cleaned.

“Would you like a cup of tea before you head home?” The queen asks.

Emma nods, “Sure.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Mary Margaret tells her, “I so want you to see the house here. It’s the one that was meant to be my daughter’s.”

Emma remembers this. Princess Emma’s future home in the Southern Valley. Except there is no Princess Emma, so the house sit ominous empty.

“I still have a few staff who keep it running, of course,” Mary Margaret adds. “It’s a nice place to go to pepper up after a long ride.”

Emma smiles. They walk through the gardens up to the entrance. While these gardens are more subdued compared to those at her hilltop palace, the plants are still well cared for, flourishing in autumn colors- oranges and soft reds. Clearly the grounds are well taken care of.

“The library here is very nice as well,” The queen explains. “It’s bit more subdued than the library at the Summer Palace, but it’s cozier I think.”

Emma grins, already anticipating another book filled room. She wonders if this one will contain any secrets about Misthavian fairy tales. Her fingers already begin to tingle at the thought of all the books and worlds that they open up.

“Oh, Regina, how lovely to see you,” Mary Margaret remarks suddenly, as they watch a tall, elegant woman walk through the gilded doors out into the garden.

There is something incredibly familiar about this lady. Emma’s sworn she’s seen her before.

“Your Majesty,” The woman replies, giving a small curtsey to the Queen.

“Emma darling,” Mary Margaret says, “This is my dear friend, Prime Minister Mills. Regina, this is my friend Emma.”

The Prime Minister gives Mary Margaret a sharp look, raising one eyebrow incredulously.

Emma shifts uncomfortably, “Nice to meet you Madame Prime Minister.”

She puts out a hand. The woman gives it a dubious look, but shakes it.

“Please to meet you as well, Miss…” The woman waits for Emma’s reply.

“Swan,” Emma tells her, “Emma Swan.”

“Emma is an opera aficionado,” Mary Margaret explains. “And a literature Ph.D. from the states. She’s working on a research fellowship here.”

“From the states?” Regina repeats.

For a moment Emma is lost as to why this woman hates her so much. They’ve only just met. And she’s like the Prime Minister of the country and Emma is just a nobody.

“Can I speak to you a moment, your Majesty?” Regina requests, “Alone.”

Emma cringes as she watches the two step into the building. Emma sits down on one of the stone steps in the garden, bending over to wrap her arms around her legs. All of a sudden, the autumn air feels chilly.

All of a sudden, the feelings of trust that Emma felt so strongly before flicker before her. She wants to believe that she can trust the queen, but well, she’s been through this so many times before and she knows what’s going to happen.

As Emma holds herself together through the cold, she imagines the conversation going on inside the house. The Prime Minister is probably convincing the queen that she is delusional. She’ll explain how Emma is obviously a fake. I mean it’s ridiculous to be true- a girl named Emma who is from America, who loves literature and goes the opera. It’s like someone created to simply manipulate the queen into believing that it’s her daughter. And Emma knows it’s all true. She is the perfect person because it is all true. But that doesn’t prevent the tendrils of worry from wrapping their way around her stomach. What if the Prime Minister convinces her that she’s an imposter?

The jig is up, is all Emma can think, as tears threaten her eyes, her worries swimming before her. She’s going to be deported for impersonation. She’s going to be sent back to Duke and never finish her thesis and she’s going to go back to being a lonely-ass foster child with no friends and no prospects. God, she’s so stupid. She never should have trusted anyone. This happens every time she does. Why did she even think-

“Emma?” The queen interrupts.

Emma looks up at the sovereign, who sits down beside her.

“Oh, sorry, you shouldn’t have to sit on stone, you’re like a queen and-“

“It’s not a bother to me,” the queen says, “abet a bit cold.”

Emma chances giving her a smile.

“Is everything okay?” She ventures to ask.

“Regina,” The queen says softly. “Prime Minister Mills, that is. She worries about me.”

Emma is silent. Her stomach still fluttering with worry, the tears from earlier still stuck her in eyes- not yet shed, not yet dried.

“You must know, I suppose, that I’ve had a problem over the years. I don’t like giving up hope. And because of that, I’ve convinced myself that a variety of imposters were my daughter,” she admits. “I’m not proud of it. I know I’ve made myself into a fool in front of the kingdom and I know that Regina is just trying to prevent that from happen again.”

So, Emma isn’t wrong. Regina is on to her. Regina did just try to talk some sense into Mary Margaret. Which granted, to honest, Mary Margaret probably does need some sense talked into her at some point.

“But I told her that it’s not like that with you,” Mary Margaret says and Emma looks up.

She still doesn’t know what to say, some she swallows and raises her eyebrows and widen her eyes, hoping the expression will beckon a response out of the queen.

“I told her that you’ve become something of a mentee to me. That we share a love of books and culture. But regardless, that you’ve lived a life where people have left you. And I’ve lived a life where people have manipulated me and used me. Maybe our friendship is something that is purely healing for both of us.”

The tears that been threatening her eyes start to trickle down a little. Just the day before Emma vowed to cry less, but clearly that isn’t happening. This is now twice in just one outing.

“I told you that you are valuable to me, Emma,” the queen says, “And I wasn’t lying. You are valuable to me.”

Emma sniffles. The word trust echoes in her ears from earlier. A wave of something, some emotion, rolls over her. She’s right to trust Mary Margaret. She can’t believe it, but she is. She’s not like Ingrid or someone from her past who is going to desert her. She’s actually going to stand by her when it counts. Emma’s heart swells a little.

“It’s cold out here, isn’t it?” The queen says suddenly. “Let’s go inside, shall we? Find that cup of tea we discussed?”

“Yes,” Emma manages.

As she stands up, the queen pulls her into a hug and Emma feels herself melt a little. Then they walk inside and the queen talks to a servant and asks them to prepare for them tea in the library.

The library, it turns out, is Emma’s new favorite she’s seen in Misthaven. It’s not as big as the university one, or even the Summer Palace library. Instead, it’s circular and cozy. There are tall windows around the room and the ceiling is painted like the night sky. There is a crackling fire and blue armchairs. Emma has always assumed she’d be a Ravenclaw and this here is exactly how she’d imagine the common room.

They sip their tea together, munching on fresh pumpkin scones, as they discuss books they’ve read and horses and autumn, until the late afternoon cusps on evening. The October sun sinks slightly low in the sky.

“I suppose I should return home,” Emma says.

“Yes,” The queen responds, “I’ll call the car for you.”

“Do you mind if I grab a few books while I’m here?” Emma asks. She wonders if this library will have any more interesting fairy tales volumes.

The queen gives her a smile, with a slight twitch in the corners, “Help yourself my dear.”

The sovereign leaves the room as Emma takes to the shelves. She finds that many of the books here are Princess Emma’s own books. There are many more children’s stories than she’s seen in the Queen’s collection. Despite this, there are still a decent amount of fairy tales scattered through the shelves. Emma helps herself to a pile of books. She finds a volume of Dutch fairy tales that look promising. She’ll have to translate it, but that could be an adventure of its own. The she discovers a book of literary criticism on fairy tale based literature, which is pretty weird to find a kid’s library, but whatever. She adds it to the pile. Then finally, she comes across a thin hard covered book with an black cover embossed in gold reading, “Misthaven Fairy Tales.” Emma flicks open the cover to see an inscription from the queen herself.

“Shall you stop by on Tuesday for tea, as usual?” The queen asks, returning to the room.

Emma hastily shoves the books in her tote bag. She knows she has permission to take books, but this last one seems intimate. She didn’t get a chance to read the inscription, but she has this feeling as if she’s stumbled upon something precious. She nods, “And I’ll bring some things to study after if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, darling,” The queen says. “Thanks for joining me for tea and a ride today.”

“Thank you for the invitation,” Emma says, offering a shy smile. “And for all the kind words.”

“Hey, I think you might be glowing,” Ruby tells Killian, as they swap shifts.

“I’m not glowing,” Killian tells her, though he can feel a blush creeping up his cheeks to the top of his ears.

“You are. Are you pregnant?” She teases, as she tosses her hair up in a ponytail.

He rolls his eyes. Then smiles, because he’s clearly taking up Emma’s mannerisms.

“So did you and Emma bang?” Ruby asks.

“Ruby, no,” He says, “I would do no such banging with Emma.”

“Okay fine, did you and Emma make love?” She says it super dramatically, mimicking his accent.

“No,” He snorts, “We kissed. That’s all.”

“You kissed? Killian that’s great!”

“It was just a one-time thing,” He shrugs.

“Uh huh,” Ruby grins, “That’s how those things always start.”

“Honestly, I respect Emma and if that’s what she wants-“

“Oh please. One kiss from you and I bet she’s dreaming of another.”

“Whatever Rubs,” Killian groans.

“You can doubt me if you want, but I bet you are going to get laid before Christmas,” Ruby remarks.

“It’s just October.”

“Exactly, I’m giving you a wide berth just to be safe.”

“Maybe never say wide berth again,” Killian replies, as he exits the bar area.

“Hey, I did say you were glowing!”

“Good bye,” Killian says, turning promptly away from his ridiculous friend.

He heads out of the bar and into the heart of old town, smiling as he feels the autumn sun on his skin, his eyes adjusting from the darkness of the bar. He knows that Emma is off with the queen and he probably won’t hear from her for a couple hours. But he can’t stop thinking about her and that kiss. It was like everything he dreamt about. And better. God, she’s a marvel.

He decides to wait for her return by finding a book to read. For such a literary city, Misthaven has a woeful number of bookstores. Which of course is even more reason for him to want to open his own- he’ll definitely have the market. So instead, he heads towards one of the many charity shops in town. They’ve been his favorite place to find books, since he arrived in Misthaven years ago. What is the point of spending a fortune on books, when he can adopt orphaned ones for pennies?

He turns into his favorite shop along high street and walks inside. After nodding at the woman at the counter, he heads straight to the back where the books are. As usual, the section is stocked full of paperback mysteries and romance novels. Not that Killian doesn’t like these kind of books, or looks down upon them, but today he wants something classic. Emma is so well read, and while Killian knows that he isn’t too shabby himself, he feels the need to prove himself regardless. He studies the shelves and eventually decides on Jane Eyre. He’s never read it before, but knows enough about literature to think that the gothic themes might strike a nice autumnal tone.

He purchases the book and heads outside. It’s nice enough that he can take a seat outside Mamie’s, reading and drinking coffee in the autumn air. He’s drawn in immediately by the young foundling girl and her lonely childhood. He knows a thing or two about lonely childhoods. He’s so entranced in the book that he startles when his phone rings.

“Hello?” He asks, frowning at the unfamiliar number.

“Is this Mister Killian Jones?” A voice asks with an English accent.

“It is,” He answers.

“I’ve got some new for you,” The voice replies.

And the news makes Killian drop his phone.

Tagging some pals: @sambethe @lenfaz @pocket-anon @the-corsair-and-her-quill@kmomof4@kiwistreetswan@princesseslikepirates @timeless-love-story@shady-swan-jones@katie-dub@1handedpiratewithadrinkingprob@midnightswans

#cs ff #captain swan #emma swan #killian jones #cs fic #cs mc #cs modern au #cs au #cs mafia #cs crew

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peacefulwriter88 · 7 years

Text

Space In Between - Part 1

Synopsis: You’re a grad student studying aerospace medicine that’s transferred from Berkeley to Yale with the hope of getting recruited for NASA. Christopher Beck, taking a break from visiting the SpaceX Station, is your professor. What happens when your paths cross?

Warnings: None for now

TAGS ARE OPEN

Permanent Tag List: @gratittie

Phase 1 - Autumn Equinox

Stone meets earth as heavy sun rays beat down on the large, expansive campus. It goes unnoticed, students too busy jumping off their bikes as they bustle to classes, student groups posted on lawn space trying to recruit fresh new faces, students already over the semester lying lazily in grass, reviewing textbooks and schedules.

School season had started.

You were part of the crowd. But no longer were you a fresh faced undergrad. Those years had long passed. You were walking Yales campus as a second year grad student, transferred fresh from Berkeley pursuing your degree in a Master of Science. You were being watched by NASA, you had been informed by a professor when you decided to transfer over, and the best way to really stand out in their eyes was to go to a school that specialized in your field. You had spent the six years between your undergrad and grad school doing a small residency program and interning at NASA centers across the country and now you were ready to make that next jump before trying to snag a job. You were ready for this.

You walked slowly into the small lecture room, your close and longtime friends Mara and Hector beside you.

“I don’t believe you decided to switch over to Aerospace Medicine.” Hector says, easily finding a seat a couple of rows back from the front. You shrug as you slide in beside him, Mara taking a place on the other side of you.

“Agreed. You were all about engineering your whole time at Berkley. Lived for it.”

You dig in your bag for your notebook as they continue their battle.

“I mean, we appreciated your cute little pre-med second major. Enjoyed seeing you in class. But I thought you wanted to be more than a doctor on a space ship.” Hector remarks and you roll your eyes as you sit up, shaking your head.

“I know guys! But then I read this autobiography this past summer on this astronaut who served alongside Watney. The Mark Watney,” They groan, rolling their eyes but you ignore them and continue “And it helps to have more than one skill. I know machines. Know I can get better at mastering them but I know them. The math makes sense in my head. Bodies though…it’s fascinating the science that changes once you’re in space. I want to master that.”

Hector and Mara exchange glances at each other before Hector says,

“You are like, balls to the wall obsessed with Watney and his crew. An autobiography? That’s what you did this summer. Instead of sleep and party and do what you’re supposed to do at 28 years old. You really got to get a hobby. Or a boyfriend.”

You punch him as Mara laughs, throwing her head back.

“She needs to get laid.”

“Shut up!” you yell and she giggles loudly as the door to your classroom opens up. The classroom silences, minus Mara’s giggles and you nudge her as a tall man with brown hair walks in, a leather satchel in one hand and a thermos of coffee in another. He’s wearing dress pants and a thin dark blue sweater, the material hugging over his defined muscles. He places his items on his desk before walking to the white board, writing out Environmental Medicine on the board in messy, scrawled out letters. Your mouth drops open as he turns to the classroom, his plump lips tugging into a smile as he rubs his hands together.

“Who’s ready to learn about Environmental Medicine?”

The rest of the room groans, Hector and Mara included. This was one of the toughest courses in this field and the professor was also a killer grader. At least the sixty year old man who was supposed to teach this course.

Not Dr. Christopher Beck, the 35 year old astronaut who had completed three trips to SpaceX Station and six EVA trips.

Not the Doctor Beck that you were absolutely obsessed with and had admittedly read his two books on Biomedical and Environmental Science.

Mara catches on to the way you’re staying, still flabbergasted and she pokes you.

“Something up?” she asks in a mild whisper and your mouth is instantly finding its voice, speaking all too loud and clearly,

“What happened to Professor Grant? I thought he taught this course. He’s infamous for it.”

Chris finds your eyes easily, a playful smirk on his face.

“Decided to go on sabbatical in Ireland. But don’t worry, I’ll be equally if not more critical on the assignments I send out.”

This has the class mumbling as you lift an eyebrow, falling back in your seat and shaking your head.

“Of course you will. You’re a highly trained, intelligent astronaut that’s made six notorious trips into space, one of those serving with the infamous Mark Watney. Of course the university replaces the man who redesigned the Environmental Sciences with the one who was able to see those sciences come to life next to the world’s leading botanist and engineering. Of course, of course, of course..”

You don’t realize how loud your words are as you ramble, pinching your eyes together as you try to get your thoughts to focus. Trying not freak out. Trying to figure if you can get a course with anyone, anyone but him.

Not because you didn’t want to learn by him. But because of the deep, fangirly attraction that you’ve developed for him over your entire university life.

The words, however, hit every student and they start to gasp and Chris shakes his head, falling back on his desk with his arms crossed.

“Well, guess the cats out of the bag. Your classmate is right, I’m Dr. Chris Beck and I will be your Environmental Science teacher. No, I will not call Watney for your personal pleasure. No, I will not detail you every lecture with the details of my travels. I’m here to teach you one thing and one thing only. How the environmental shapes the human body. On earth, in space and in Mars. Now if you don’t have any other questions or comments,” he intentionally looks at you and you blush. “Shall we begin with today’s lecture?”

The rest of the hour is torture. You can’t focus, your brain distracted as Chris moves from one end of the classroom to the other. He was actually a good lecturer. He knew how to keep the room engaged as he droned on about molecular science, a topic that was as dull as plain oatmeal. Knew how to deliver jokes in between pertinent chunks of information. No, his teaching wasn’t the problem.

He was.

The sweater was an absolute sin. It moved against his body like it was part of his skin, and the defined contoured muscles underneath strained as his hands moved animatedly in the air. His bright, cerulean eyes popped with amusement as he delivered one line to another and you had to flit them away each time you found yourself staring at them too long. His hair had grown out a bit then the photo you had seen him in from his journey, and some ends curled in natural array.

He could be the best mistake that could ever happen to you in the world. And the thought made it that much more alluring.

You didn’t write a thing down either, your pen firmly gripped around your pen as you doodled mindlessly, biting your lip. Trying to will yourself to focus. This wasn’t like you. You didn’t get tripped up on men. You focused on school and work. You focused on your dream of working for NASA and going to space.

This was going to be a problem. Then, toward the end of the lecture you perked up. He was married. Everyone knew he married his fellow shipmate Johannsen. And they had a child together. Perfect. He had a perfect little family and there was no chance of your happily ever after with him.

You were able to finish the last part of the notes, promising to get the rest from Mara as he closed his argument. You hurriedly grabbed your things, stuffing them in your bag as you walked down the steps.

He had his back turned, placing his book and notes away before he glanced up, catching your eye.

“Didn’t catch your name.”

You turn, looking at Mara and Hector and he smiles as he points toward you.

“You know who you are. The one who unveiled my secret in front of the entire class. Bet that gets around by my afternoon lecture.”

“Ahhhhh, well I just you know, I just spend way too much free time reading SpaceX Station essays.” You try to brush it off as students file past you and Hector snorts as Mara says,

“More like 28 years of her life. This girl has read everything about that station, the astronauts who have visited, all your wo-“you elbow her in the chest before smiling at Chris who raises an amused eyebrow.

“We got a uuhhhhh, study session to make it to. Gotta go. Looking forward to your class Dr. Beck.”

You tug on Mara who’s laughing hard, Hector not too far behind.

“What the hell was that about?” Mara groans, rubbing her chest and Hector chuckles shaking his head.

“I think Y/N has a crush on our professor.”

“Shut it.” You grit through your teeth and Mara looks at you astonished.

“No way dude! Isn’t he married?”

“Yes! I don’t have a crush on him, just don’t want him knowing how I spend my goddamn free time okay. Let’s drop it and catch lunch.”

There silent before Mara whispers, a smile on her face.

“It’s literally 10 in the morning…”

“Whatever!” You huff, storming off without them. You had to get your shit together. For your sake.

#chris beck #chris beck x reader #sebastian stan #the martian

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