Summary: While talking to your very new friend, Lady Fanny, all of your emotions and stories about your past come out. Over one tea, you reveal that you think you're too in love with your best friend who happens to be the very good, noble man who married you to save your reputation. Fanny encourages you to talk to your husband, and insists that it will go better than you think.
Author’s Note: This work can also be found here at my ao3. It is unreal to me that this is the first posted Henry x Reader fic on either site. I can't wait to see everyone else's take on him. I never intended to start out with a piece this angsty for Henry, but I loved where this ended up and I hope you enjoy! Divider below credit to @saradika-graphics
TW: Mentions of past pregnancy and infant loss (neither are described).
Even before he was your husband, he’s long been the kindest man you’ve known, and before that, he was the kindest boy you knew. It’s something that always gave you a sense of pride – that this kind, noble, wonderful man was in some way yours. First a childhood of being your friend, then the years of being your dearest, closest friend, before becoming your husband.
The only trouble is, he’s not yours. Not really. At least, not in the way that you’d like. And it’s that trouble that’s brought you to your current situation: sitting in the back garden at Government House, about to blurt your secrets out to the Governor’s youngest daughter.
You met Lady Fanny and the rest of the Governor’s family shortly after your arrival in Port Victory with your husband. In that time, you’ve been introduced time and time again as the Inspector’s wife, Mrs. Boxer. It’s been an adjustment – prior to Port Victory, most everyone in your immediate vicinity knew you and Henry before your marriage, so they watched your transition to husband and wife, never needing the formal introduction. Or, they were introduced to you as the new Mrs. Boxer, or the newlywed Boxers. Port Victory has been the first place where you’ve been introduced as a married unit without any designation given to the length of your marriage.
Maybe that’s why it’s been so difficult. It feels like when you were a little girl and you’d step into your mother’s dress, feeling the material swish around and wondering how it might look when you’d have a grown-up dress of your own. It feels like play acting, like the days when you and Henry would run between your childhood homes, telling tales of treasure and mystery. There are days and thoughts you’re too ashamed to ever admit, where you wonder if it would still feel that way even if there wasn’t another Mrs. Boxer first, if you hadn’t gotten married for the reason you had. If you were simply the Mrs. Boxer.
For whatever reason, it all comes out this afternoon. You’re having tea with Lady Fanny and she’s asking you something about your marriage, but you’re so lost in your thoughts that you’re not sure what she’s said.
“I’m in love with my husband.” It comes out quietly. Words you’ve never dared say to another person before. It’s clear that you’ve shocked yourself by even saying them out loud now, as you raise your hand to your mouth, as if you could fit the words back in with enough effort. You’ve been married nearly a year, in Port Victory for just under a month, and here you are about to confess everything to a woman who isn’t quite a friend, not yet anyways.
“Well, I think that’s the goal, no?” It’s clear that Lady Fanny recognizes that there’s something deeper to what you’re telling her, but doesn’t know how to help you get there. You open your mouth but no words come out, you’re both at a loss for how to help you express yourself. You know what you want to say, you just don’t know where to start.
“Would it help if I told you a secret?” She offers. “You can’t tell anyone, especially not your husband.”
“Alright, I promise.” You nod solemnly, without a clue of what to expect but recognizing it for what it is: an offer of friendship, the opening to a soft place to land.
“I killed a man. Well, it was an accident. But then I asked some criminals to cover it up. Which was not an accident. So I think it’s sort of half an accident.” She says, matter of factly.
“Oh.” Well, you certainly weren’t expecting that.
“Does that help?”
“Oddly, yes?” And it does. You know that whatever else, there is trust between you now. That even if the most ridiculous story were to come out of your mouth, she might not understand, but she won’t judge.
“Please don’t tell your husband.”
“I won’t. Besides, I’m sure he won’t think to ask you about an old disappearance.” You don’t think that’s exactly the right answer, but it’s the best you can come up with.
“Oh no, it just happened.”
“What?”
“It was Phineas.”
“Oh.” That’s recent. You’ve heard talk of his disappearance.
“Yeah.” She sighs.
“Okay.” You nod gently, not quite sure what to say.
“Do you want to talk about it? Your – love?” She kindly loops the conversation back to you.
“He married me because he’s a good man. Because it was noble. Because I needed him.” You start, and she doesn’t know you well, but the combination of the soft look of love in your eyes paired with the crease in your brows and the way that your mouth can’t seem to decide what shape to take feels like a vise on Fanny’s heart. So she does what she can, she reaches out to offer you her hand and when you take it, it seems to steady you enough to allow you to continue.
So you do. You tell her a story of two children who grew up as friends, good friends, dear friends. Wherever one went, there was the other. Sure there were other friends, but none as close as these two. Your face lights up when you tell her of all of the books you’ve read together, a book club of two, your mothers always called you. Taking turns passing books back and forth, crowding together under a tree to read a book you simply couldn’t wait for your turn for.
And then you tell her of when a new friend came to town, Sophia, and how Henry was captivated. This doesn’t shock Fanny, she’s heard through the grapevine that Inspector Boxer was a widower and you his second wife, but she gasps anyway, so engrossed in the story you’re telling her.
“Oh she was lovely. If Henry wasn’t already my best friend, it would easily have been her. I couldn’t have hated her if I tried. Not that I could have tried.” Fanny grips your hand tighter at that, and her grip maintains throughout the story of Henry and Sophia’s courtship, through the way you watched it from the beginning, supported it. Happy for the both of them, and too selfless to ever say anything about the way you felt.
“I don’t mean to make it sound like I simply trailed after them, or that I wasn’t happy. I was. He was hers, and she was his, and that’s how I think it was meant to be. But I was happy to have him in my life, to have both of them in my life.”
“And then —” you pause, gathering your voice, “and then there was no more Sophia, and our lives were darker, both of them. I lost a dear friend, and my best friend lost his wife.” You pull your hand away from Fanny just long enough to take a sip of your tea, slipping it back into hers even as the first tear falls from your eye.
“How long have you loved him?” She asks.
“As long as I’ve known him. I stopped telling myself long ago that there would be a day where he’d love me like that, and I thought it was okay. It was okay. Until it wasn’t.”
“What happened?” She prompts you to continue. “If you’d like, that is.” She seems to realize suddenly how much you’ve already told her. Fanny doesn’t have a lot of friends, she has people she knows and people who want to know her, but she’s never had a lot of practice with this part. She loves Belle dearly but their conversations are so often one sided.
“Yes, I want to continue.” You bring your other hand up to gently brush away your tears. “Thank you, I know it’s a lot. I didn’t–.”
Fanny cuts you off before you can apologize, “what are friends for.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had a new friend, Lady Fanny.”
“Just Fanny.” She offers, and it feels like a port in the storm. To know that you have a true friend, new as you may be to one another, but true nonetheless.
“Thank you, Fanny.” This time, it’s you who squeezes her hand.
“I met someone. Henry introduced us, actually.” You continue your story, telling her about how you grew closer with the man – Percival, someone Henry knew from his early days at Scotland Yard. Henry was busy with his promotion to Inspector and you were busy with your courtship with Percival, you saw less of each other but when you did, things were good. Finally, Percival asked you to marry him and you were delighted, enough so that you finally agreed to go to bed with him. It only took a few months for you to fall pregnant, and within a week of telling him, Percival was gone.
“He left a note. He wanted me to know that he wasn’t coming back. He never wanted marriage, or the consequences – that’s what he called them, the consequences.” Your hand flutters to your stomach. “He had been coming to stay the night with me so I wouldn’t notice that he was moving out of his own house, ready to depart as soon as he could. It took a few days before I could even consider telling anyone he left. I was mortified. I was humiliated. And I couldn’t bring myself to want to tell anyone. But when I did, it could only be Henry.”
You close your eyes, and for a moment you’re back in London, greeting Henry. You still remember the way his eyes scanned your body up and down, knowing something was wrong before you even opened your mouth. He would tell you later that he’d known you too long, had spent too many years by your side to be fooled by the way you were trying to pretend you were okay.
At first, he brought you into the kitchen, hoping that a cup of tea would help but it didn’t take long for you to ask to speak in his study. It was your favorite room in his house, you had spent so many hours there reading on the couch in front of the fire, a habit that had carried on from your childhood. Sometimes it would just be you, sometimes you and Sophia, sometimes you and Henry. But it’s where you felt you needed to be in order to tell him. It felt the safest.
You had only just sat down in front of the fire and handed Henry the letter when you began to cry. It was a quiet cry, but still, Henry noticed immediately, reaching for his handkerchief. You took it and waved him off, telling him to read the letter first. It was the most vulnerable you had ever felt sitting there, in front of your dearest friend, while he read the cruel words from the man that you thought loved you – and oh were they cruel. It seemed that neither leaving you nor leaving you in your condition was enough, that Percival wanted to make sure that it hurt. You sat there, the words from the letter you had already ready too many times swirling around your brain while you tried not to watch Henry’s progress down the page.
“Do you want – I can find him.” You let out a laugh watching Henry move as if he was going to stand and begin the search immediately upon finishing. Of course Henry, your sweet, noble best friend, would be immediately moved to action on your behalf. No, you told him, that wasn’t what you wanted and you grabbed his hand to tug him back to you. Delicately, slowly, but assuredly, Henry slid his arms around your shoulders. It was one smooth motion as he pulled you towards him and your hand slid up to the front of his shirt, as if that fistful of material was the only thing keeping you together. And then, you sobbed.
The two of you sat there for a long time still holding onto one another, long enough that your tears had run dry, when Henry finally spoke.
“What if I were to marry you?” It was only by the way that he felt you tense in his arms that he knew you heard him. “I mean it. You haven’t begun to swell, and we could be married by then.”
“Henry, people would talk.” You knew Henry too well, he wouldn’t make an offer like this if he didn’t mean it but still, your instinct was to deny, to push back.
“Yes, but only at first. We’d tell them it was a whirlwind courtship. We’ve been friends so long, I don’t think anyone will doubt it.” He tried to remain neutral, he drew from all of his experience from work in an effort to be steady for you, to give you whatever you needed.
“Listen to yourself. You’re mad.” You pulled back, dropping your hands from Henry. Even still, he kept holding onto you. You were angry, at Percival and mostly at yourself but right then it was all coming out of you directed at Henry for having the audacity to be the only person in the room with you.
“I am listening. I never expected to marry again. You are my best friend. You were her best friend too. If I marry you, it keeps you safe, both of you.” For the first time, Henry’s hand moved towards your abdomen, not quite touching, but close enough for you to feel his warmth.
“You can’t possibly marry me.” You flew away from the couch in a flurry.
“Why not? You’re my best friend. I care for you, you know that I care for you.” Henry wasn’t letting you away that easily, he stood to follow, taking your hands in his.
“What if you fall in love again? I can’t take that away from you.”
“I don’t think I ever will. You won’t be taking anything from me. You’ll be giving me someone to come home to, a family, the knowledge that I can protect you. Both of you.” This time, when Henry’s hand moved, it was to touch you. As with everything else you’ve ever known him to do, the touch was gentle, but firm, and reassuring as he cupped your stomach.
“Oh. I think – well, I’ve never had occasion –” You knew what he was trying to say, that he didn’t expect to feel the slight swell to your stomach.
“Yes, I know. My dresses hide it, but there she is.”
“She?” His eyes flicked up to yours.
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“There she is.” Henry smiled so sweetly that you couldn’t help but to agree.
Within the month you were wed, and if anyone thought your stomach was swelling rather quickly, they respected Inspector Boxer too much to say anything. But you knew what they thought, you heard the “about time with those two”s and the “ah, newlyweds” comments as you walked down the street. You refused to tell Henry about them, too worried that it would hurt, that he would think you were trying to replace Sophia. So instead, you let them burrow their way into your skin, where they’ve lived ever since.
“What happened next?” Fanny asks, and she’s trying so hard not to look down at your flat stomach that you almost wish she would just to get it over with. Even after all of this time, all of these months, you can’t bring yourself to say it, so you just shake your head, closing your eyes because you can’t bear to see the moment Fanny realizes. She feels guilty for asking, she knows that you two don’t have a child, there’s never been mention of one, but it felt like the only question available to her.
“I’m so sorry.” And she truly is.
“Thank you. It was nobody’s fault. The doctor said these things happen. But it happened, and I was so ill, and two weeks later Henry got his new orders to come here. Here we are.”
“Here you are.” Fanny agrees. She lets you have a moment before she asks what has been on her mind since you began the conversation. “Do you think, perhaps, that he does love you? I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
“Oh, no.” You laugh, in spite of yourself. “That’s how Henry is. It’s loving, and caring, and maddening. I think he sees me as his duty, which somehow hurts more.”
“Have you ever…?” Fanny trails off.
“No. A kiss at our wedding, nothing more. That is to say, we share a bed, he’s the perfect gentleman. He was perfect through the rest of the – the pregnancy. He never shied away from holding my hair when I was ill, or rubbing my back or my feet when they were swollen. I guess, from there it was easy to continue the small things.” You look past Fanny, bittersweet thoughts of nights in front of the fire, Henry rubbing your swollen feet while you read out loud, one hand cupping your stomach.
Fanny doesn’t know what to say, and you don’t either. It doesn’t seem like there is anything else to say, so you sit there for a while just quietly drinking your tea together. Eventually, she asks if you’d like to take a walk and you oblige. At some point, around your third or fourth lap around the garden, Fanny directs the conversation back to your earlier confession.
“I think you should tell him.”
“Fanny.” You sigh. “It’s not that easy.”
“I know, I don’t think it will be easy. But I still think you should. Besides,” she nudges you, “would a friend steer you wrong?”
Before you can answer, you can hear someone approaching you from behind. When you turn around, there he is. It’s incredible how after all of these years he still takes your breath away. When he got his orders for you to move to Port Victory, you never expected how golden he would look in the Australian sun. This, here, this quiet admiration, is one of your favorite parts of being his wife: you get to look as long as you’d like, and instead of inappropriate, it’s charming.
“Lady Fanny,” he nods at your companion, “Darling.” He smiles at you.
“Good evening, Inspector.”
“Hi, Henry.” You smile.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He says, and you know he means it. You know that if either of you so much as suggest you continue walking, he’ll find a chair and wait patiently for you.
Fanny knows that he’s treated you well, that he’s always done what was right but still, she finds that she wants to tell him to get lost, to scream that she’ll protect you, that you're her friend now too, to bring you up to her room and gently braid your hair like she does with Belle and let you cry. But she meant what she said to you, she sees the way your husband looks at you and she thinks that maybe it’s time for you two to talk. So she makes a choice, stepping forward to take your arm out of hers and place it into your husband's. You end up on the wrong side of him, and she watches as you seamlessly pull your arm out of the crook of his elbow, careful not to knock his cane down, as he easily side steps, allowing you to remain where you are as you switch to hold onto his other arm. She can’t believe neither of you can see it. It’s more than duty. She’s never been much of a betting woman before, and maybe she’ll learn along with the rest of her new criminality, but she’d bet on you two anytime.
“You didn’t at all. It was perfect timing. Unfortunately, I have to go get ready for an engagement. She’s all yours.” Fanny takes a few steps away before rushing back up to you, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek and taking a moment to whisper into your ear. “I’ll kill him for you. Percival. Or the Inspector. After all, I’ve done it before.”
And then she’s off, and you’re laughing so hard you think you might be sick.
“What was that about?” Henry’s heart seems to fill with your laughter, as if it was fuel to sustain him.
“I don’t think I could tell you if I tried. Want to walk home?”
For now, with laughter on your lips and Fanny’s kindness surrounding you, you feel lighter than you have in days.
“You’re in a good mood.” Henry remarks as you leave the grounds of Government House, heading towards your home.
“Yeah. She’s rather wonderful. We’ve decided we’re friends.”
Henry swells with pride at this. He didn’t know what to expect for you when you two arrived in the Colony, and the presence of Lady Belle and Lady Fanny in your life seems to have done you so much good and helped you settle into this new society.
The two of you finish your walk home, discussing your respective days. Somewhere at the back of your mind, your conversation with Fanny lingers. You know that she’s right, that you need to have a hard conversation with Henry but right now you’re feeling light enough that you decide to push it aside just a little while longer.
A little while longer turns out to only last a few hours, until you’re cleaning up from dinner. There’s nothing in particular that brings it up, but you’re once again filled with a sense of heaviness that seems to pull you down straight through the floor from your chest. Unsurprisingly, Henry notices rather quickly.
“Is everything alright, darling?”
“Hmm?” You deflect, hoping to buy yourself some more time to think, to plan what you’re going to say.
“Darling, what’s going on?” It seems that your answer has backfired. You should have known better. Henry knows you too well to let you evade like this. “You can talk to me. What is it?”
“I don’t – I –”. You freeze, not sure where to start. Somehow you’ve once again found yourself distraught in a kitchen with this man, who just wants to make things better. You’re not even sure if you’re in charge of your feet or if the memory has taken hold of you, wordlessly carrying you out of your kitchen and into Henry’s study. It’s not the same as in London, but the essentials are there: your shared collection of books, his desk, and a sofa in front of the fireplace.
To his unending credit, Henry simply follows. He’s too good, this husband of yours. But that’s always been the problem. Even without knowing what is going on in your head, Henry knows you, knows what you need. So first, he builds a fire – to warm and light the room, and to give you a moment to compose your thoughts.
Setting his cane to the side, he sits next to you on the sofa. He’s left the perfect amount of distance between you: small enough that you barely have to reach for one another but wide enough to give you space, if that’s what you desire.
You intend to start the conversation easily, to work up to your true concerns. But it seems that opening up to Fanny means that your secrets don’t want to be set aside any longer, so despite your best intentions, you start rather abruptly.
“I just feel like I’ve ruined things and I made you do this.”
“What do you mean? What did you make me do?
“This.” You gesture hopelessly between the two of you. “Us.”
“What do you mean you made me?” You want to reach out and smooth the line that appears between his brows. “Tell me this, why did you tell me?” In a way, you’re thankful that Henry knows you so well, that you can get right to the heart of it. It’s what makes him so good at his job, his ability to follow a conversation no matter how twisty-turny it gets, even if you start it in the middle. On easier days, it lets him keep up with you while you excitedly rush through your sentences, cutting yourself off and changing the subject every few seconds. On days like today, it lets you set the pace. But that’s what you’re worried about, that it’ll always just be you setting the pace with him being too polite and too respectful to say what he needs.
“What?”
“Why did you come to me?”
“You’re my closest friend. I needed you.” It’s the simplest part of it: the way it boils down to this.
“Did you think I’d offer to marry you?”
“No. You know I didn’t. I thought you mad for suggesting it.”
“Exactly. How could you have made me do something that you never even thought I might do?” Henry looks at you, sees your hands wringing in front of you, and tries another tactic. “Darling, where is this coming from?”
It’s not even the first time tonight that he’s called you darling. Normally, you love it, love being his darling. But tonight, it makes you cry. Henry sees it immediately – notices the very moment the word lands, and he doesn’t know why, he doesn’t know what’s going on. He just knows that he needs to help.
“I’m sorry.” The tears are falling harder now.
“Whatever for?” You don’t even register his question, you’re already barreling on.
“I’m sorry that I almost made you a widower again, and I’m sorry that I’ve taken her name as Mrs. Boxer.”
Henry thinks his heart breaks hearing this, immediately wondering how long this has been bothering you. He thought he did all of the right things, consulted the right doctors, cared for you as best he could throughout your entire pregnancy, especially through its difficult end. How could he have missed that you felt this way? Not to mention your concerns about Sophia. He knows you’ve never wanted to replace her, and can’t help but wonder if that’s a normal concern for you or if it’s all coming out of whatever insecurities have you so upset right now. His brain is swarming, small moments that he took as isolated events all coming together to solve the case. But it’s not a case, it’s you, his darling wife. And he needs you to know that.
“Marriage or otherwise, I would have been devastated to lose you, all the same. And you didn’t ‘take her name’. Yes, you’re Mrs. Boxer, and so was Sophia. But so was my mother, my grandmother, her grandmother. There have been many Mrs. Boxers.”
“Yes but she was yours.”
“She was. And now so are you.”
It’s meant to be comforting, to reassure you of your place in his life but all it does it unnerve you further. Henry watches you recoil at his words, already gearing up for whatever hidden truth you’re about to share. He wants to reach out for you, to grab your hands and pull you to him, but he sees the way you lean further and further back, as if the more distance you put between you on this couch, the more you can protect the both of you from what you’re saying.
“I’m sorry.” You abruptly push yourself off the couch, turning away from Henry to pace. The words feel like they’re ripping out of you, violent painful things that were lodged in your abdomen are hurting up through your throat and out into the room. You briefly wonder if the physical pain is evident, if your husband can see the way your body rearranges itself around their absence now that they’re out there. “I’m sorry that you tied your life to mine to protect and save the reputation of a child who never drew breath.” It tears out of you with a sob. With bravery you didn’t expect to possess, you turn back around to face your husband who has pushed himself to his feet across from you.
There it is. Suddenly, he understands. The final piece of the puzzle has been laid in place. He knows immediately what’s at the heart of your concerns, that you think he married you out of obligation, and that you’ve therefore ruined everything.
For the first time in your life, Henry Boxer raises his voice at you.
“For God’s sake – I tied my life to yours because I love you!”
“You – what?” You’re quiet now. His words shock you. He may well have thrown a bucket of cold water over you the way you stop firmly in your tracks, chest still heaving.
“Do you honestly think I married you without loving you?” Henry grows quiet, too. He’s not mad, he’s genuinely trying to understand.
“Well, yes!” You throw your hands in the air, “that’s exactly what I think. You’re a good man, the best man. I thought – all this time I thought that you were just trying to protect me and the child. That you figured that you were never going to remarry otherwise so you might as well do it to help me.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“What did you want me to say, Henry? What could I say? ‘Well thank you for the ring and the protection, oh and by the way I’ve been in love with you since we were children.’ How was I supposed to say that?”
“Since we were children?” He asks.
“Oh, you are infuriating.” You fume, but there’s no anger behind it. This is your husband, your Henry, far too sharp to let something like that pass him by. You wonder if it drives the criminals crazy, if they’ve begged for a less capable policeman at the helm. “Yes, Inspector, I’ve loved you longer than I can remember.”
“I love you.” Henry says, and it’s the loveliest thing you’ve ever heard. He looks so sincere, and you can see his fingers twitching at his side, wanting to reach out for you.
You’re so surprised that all you can manage to do is to ask, “When?”
“I don’t know. I wish I could say there was one moment, but it happened so naturally. I know I loved you on our wedding day. I know I’ve loved you every day since. How could I not? You’re so easy to love.”
“Henry. Don’t pretend this was easy.” You scoff. You don’t mean to be unkind, but you won’t let him pretend that what brought you together was smooth. You won’t rewrite your history.
“I didn’t say this was easy. I said loving you was easy. And it is. The easiest thing. I thought you knew. I thought you knew and weren’t ready or didn’t want to address it. I didn’t want to push.”
“Oh. Henry.” You take a step forward, gently placing your hand on the side of his handsome face.
“I would wait as long as you needed, darling. I will wait, if that’s what you want. I love you.”
You’re done waiting. Quick as a flash, you bring your other hand up so that you’re holding his face in both of your hands. You use that motion to propel the both of you towards each other until, for the second time in your lives, you’re kissing your husband.
Henry makes the tiniest noise of surprise as your lips crash into his, and it’s the only thing that betrays his surprise given how quickly he wraps his arms around you, pulling you even closer. You can feel every muscle of his strong arms wrapped around your waist.
Your first kiss never felt like it really belonged to you, it was for everyone else at the wedding. This kiss? This kiss is yours. From the arch of your back, following the pull of his hands to get you ever closer, to the way your hands snake around his neck so that you, too, can hold him as close as you can.
Eventually, finally, you pull away. You don’t go far, arms still wrapped tightly around one another, faces close enough to breathe each other’s air.
“I love you.” You say. You say it because it’s true, because you can, because now that you’ve said it, there’ll be no stopping you from repeating it over and over again.
“I love you too.” You move your hands to start playing with the ends of his hair. There’s a look of wonder in your eyes, that you get to do this, to be like this with Henry.
“Come here.” He moves back towards the couch, pulling you into his lap, gently arranging you to make sure you’re well above his injury. “I’m sorry that you ever thought I didn’t love you.”
“No, I’m sorry I didn’t say anything and I just let it build. Fanny was right.”
“Oh?”
“I rather unceremoniously confessed all of this to her earlier. She encouraged me to just talk to you. She was right, she saw what I couldn’t. What we couldn’t.”
“Well, thank goodness for Lady Fanny.”
“Thank goodness, indeed.” And because you can, you kiss him again.
If someone had told you, even a year and a half ago, that you would be in Australia, on Henry’s lap, as his wife, you’d have laughed them out of the room. But this life has never felt more like yours. There will be more conversations that need to be had about the feelings you’ve both been keeping inside, the things you’ve lived through together that you haven’t otherwise discussed. But for tonight, you’re content to curl up in front of the fire with your husband, holding onto one another as tightly as you can. Eventually, he reaches out to grab a book and if you thought you loved sitting next to him reading by the fire, it’s nothing to the discovery of reading together on his lap, arms wound around you.He’s the best man you know, and when you go to sleep tonight, you’ll drift off with his arm around your waist and a smile on your face knowing that he is yours, much like how you’ve always been his.
HEY that's MY emotional support morally ambiguous misunderstood full of trauma touch starved yearning for love drenched in blood responsible for numerous atrocities comfort character who is TRYING & u will TREAT them with RESPECT
what's wrong babe you've barely touched your potential even though all your elementary teachers really liked you and said you were gifted and that you were going to do great things
I’m absolutely obsessed with the reddit side of the Tolkien fandom, in particular, this discussion regarding how Sauron fits the ring on his finger, as well as penal compensation a la Lord Farqaud style
Precious Denzell Hunter, physician, Quaker, rebel, always there to help a Grey escape a continental army camp after he gets himself beat up and taken prisoner for fucking another man’s wife. 😂
Imagine finding out your thought-to-be-dead nephew DIDN’T DIE after all, he is alive but FAKED HIS DEATH because is a TRAITOR and changed sides in the middle of a war and his widow who’s been living under your roof for months actually KNEW ABOUT IT ALL ALONG. And now you have to break the news to your brother who is going to LOSE HIS MIND about it. And if anyone finds out about what your nephew did your whole family will be caught up in a major SCANDAL. And in the middle of that drama your ex of 20 YEARS shows up at your place and you guys have a moment and KISS and your adoptive son WALKS IN you guys kissing and finds out you are GAY and is immediately HOMOPHOBIC and pretty much tells you he is NOT YOUR SON. And then a WHOLE FAMILY of a mother and four kids knocks on your door in the middle of the night seeking shelter because their husband and father JUST DIED IN A FIRE
Things I think a bisexual man would do for no reason in particular:
Kissing another man
Offering to sleep with another man
Thinking about another man while having sex with his wife
Being jealous of his wife because she slept with his best friend. I MEAN being jealous of his friend…not his wife. Jealous of his friend for sure that definitely no other reason…why would he be jealous of his wife? It’s not like he wanted to sleep with his friend or anything I mean COME ON that would be weird. Even though he did OFFER once and his friend totally turned him down, which was completely fine. Good even. Exactly the outcome he wanted…even after they kissed and stuff it’s FINE. It’s not like they have a kid together or anything…
annaxmalina
2087
izzy806
pixelskylines
baratheonpilled
dededos
kaledo-art
romaincrisis
