#twp fic

[feuillesmortes]

| BLOOMING | Chapter 7: A Matter of Trying

He should have sent for Henry. Instead, he had come to Henry’s office and that would be his biggest mistake that day. His room, his rules. 

[read it on ao3]

[feuillesmortes]

| BLOOMING | Chapter 4: Nine-to-Five

Just this one plan and God willing, and the stars, and fate, or whatever other supernatural force people looked up to for help, Henry would never need to suck up to anyone ever again.

[read it on ao3]

[feuillesmortes]

| BLOOMING | Chapter 3: Shades of White

She always loved him in the mornings, when his voice was all throaty and raspy and he had that soft look on his face — the gentleness of a newborn just come to light, the face of total completeness: everything was alright and everything was enough.

[read it on ao3]

[misshoneywheeler]

A (slightly late) Fake Birthday Ficlet for my most beloved fandom wife, @thefairfleming! Part of the HOA AU because that’s how we roll.

*

It takes her most of the party to realize. Of course, she’s rather busy being the birthday girl, cruising around the house to greet everyone, laughing, accepting good wishes from everyone in the neighborhood. Everyone except one.

Everything’s winding down – candles blown out, song sung, cake eaten, goodbyes begun – when Lizzie finds him on the back porch, his own beer balanced on the porch rail as he throws an armload of empty bottles over the rail and into the recycling bin. She leans against the other rail and smiles at him with that look on her face, the one that’s half challenge, half invitation.

“Not bad,” she says, “pulling this off without me suspecting.”

Henry laughs, snagging the neck of his beer between two fingers and turning to lean against the rail in a mirror of her position. “Try again, sweetheart, you absolutely suspected.”

She shrugs, then leans forward to take his beer. “I did suspect, but it was still nice. Especially nice because of certain absences.” She keeps her eyes on him as she tips the beer up to drink. It shouldn’t turn him on, but it does. That’s something he should be used to by now. He hopes he never gets used to it, though.

“You noticed, hm?”

“I did.” Henry doesn’t quite understand just what it is about Karen Adelseck that infuriates Lizzie so much, but he can’t help enjoying it.  She’s always so collected and capable; her feud with Karen bring out her fire, which Henry is more than happy to fuel.

“I thought about inviting Hank and Marjorie right in front of her,” Henry lies– he would never dream of being so rude, even to Lizzie’s sworn nemesis, “but I thought it would be more fun if she found out from everyone’s social media posts that there was a party and she wasn’t invited.” For a moment, Henry feels a pang of regret at being so gleefully petty, but then Lizzie bestows that grin on him, looking like the cat that ate the cream, and Henry has to accept that when it comes to his wife, he’s a weak, weak man.

“How positively cruel!” Lizzie says, feigning outrage, her hand pressed to her chest (which mostly has the effect of bringing Henry’s eyes to the cleavage displayed by the deep vee of her shirt). She pushes off the rail and walks slowly across the porch to him, the sway of her hips slow and deliberate. She only stops when she’s on her tiptoes between his spread feet, her belly against his suddenly alert cock, her tits dragging teasingly across his chest. Her lips move over his when she says, “I love it,” the remnants of his beer tart and crisp on his tongue as he opens his mouth to kiss her the way a woman like her should be kissed.

She keeps her hands on the rail at his hips as he kisses her, his own hands curved from her jaw to her nape with his thumbs in the hollows of her ears. The sounds of the party drift from the open window, their guests laughing, saying goodbye, finding coats and keys and bags, unaware that just outside, their hosts are rasping filthy promises in each other’s ears, tongues dragging over skin, hands snaking under clothes. Henry’s so hard he’s indecent by the time Lizzie pulls away, her hair gloriously mussed and her lipstick smudged into the skin around her mouth. She drops her eyes to the erection currently on full display in the front of his trousers.

Henry gives a rueful laugh. “Should have worn jeans instead of khakis.”

“You hold on to this,” she says, rubbing her hand over his fly in a way that guarantees he will. “I’ll play hostess and then be right back to thank you for such a lovely party. Don’t move a muscle.”

All Henry can do is obey.

[feuillesmortes]

It’s Valentine’s day! Grab a glass of your best wine, light some candles, and come read my last chapter. I must thank @harritudur​ and @queenbessofyork​ for being so lovely and supporting this fic ♥

The last chapter is here. And without further ado:

(You can also read it on Ao3)

It was not the soft glowing of the moonlight that guided her steps to him. There was no moon that night — heavy clouds barred the whole canopy of the sky, looming above them like a heavy, pregnant pause. Neither did she expect to find Henry smoking outside, though the sight of him sitting on those steps felt like a relief.

Feeling half-drunk when she left the club, Lizzie had taken the night bus with no destination in mind other than her home. It was not until his stop came to the screen that she felt an irrational urge to get off the bus, alarm bells ringing in her ears. All of that desperation had faded in the cool night air. Standing in front of him now, all she felt was the chillness of the space between them.

"Henry?"

A curtain of ascending smoke partially shrouded his face, but she could swear she saw bewilderment in his eyes. Henry looked at her as if he had just seen a ghost, a relic from the past come alive again. His stupor only lasted a moment. In a split second he was back at his normal, collected self. He averted his gaze, looking down at the pavement as if refusing to acknowledge her presence would somehow make her go away, make her disappear from his sight.

"Hey." Lizzie tried again, determined not to be ignored. Henry blinked and kept to his cigarette for a time, then sighed softly, so softly she almost didn’t hear him.

"Hey." He parroted back after some time, though he still refused to meet her eyes.

A moment passed where all that could be heard was the sound of the cars wheeling in the distance. Lizzie shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, her heeled ankle boots no longer wearable after a night out. The air felt heavy with the approaching storm; the lights coming from the lamp post cast ghastly shadows on the walls. Henry still kept the same position, wordless and pulling at his cigarette.

"I looked for you at the Propaganda." She pointed at his wristband, the proof that her search for him at the party had not been so pointless after all.

Henry tilted his head to the side as if mulling over what she had just said, but he never asked her how she knew where to find him.

"I left early." He said finally.

Lizzie swallowed, not without some degree of difficulty. "I see."

The minutes threatened to stretch between them again. A car came and went by; merry laughter was heard down the road. Lizzie licked her lips and wrapped her arms around her middle. In a small, childlike voice she worked up the nerve to ask him what had been nagging her all along.

"Where have you been all this time?"

He stopped his cigarette mid-air before it touched his lips. He frowned, ever so slightly. "Revising." He uttered his one-word reply like it was the only logical answer to her question. He finally raised his eyes to her and she shivered. "You?"

His stare weighted on her. A myriad of unspoken questions hanged in the air. What took you so long? Why haven't you called? Why haven't you come? His gaze on hers was challenging. Blue eyes so cold she felt chilled to the bone.

Lizzie scraped one foot on the ground and shrugged. The voice that replied was feeble. "The same thing."

He hummed, resuming his cigarette. Lizzie embraced the awkwardness and lowered herself to his side on the steps. He tensed, but didn’t protest against it. A short moment passed where neither of them spoke a word, both facing forwards into the night. She shifted towards him, the short space making their legs come together. Once again, he remained silent.

She gestured at the lit cigarette in his hand. "I thought you said you had quit."

"Had."

She fidgeted with the hem of her skirt, picked at the fresh holes that sprung on her tights. "Is that... wise?"

"No." He turned to face her. "But why does it matter?"

"It's... bad for your teeth."

Henry let out a short laugh. They both knew that smoking was more than just bad for his teeth. Were she braver, she would say: I don't want you to ruin your health. I don't want you to waste your life away like my father did. But it didn't matter. The words died in her throat before they were ever born.

Smoke went her way as Henry let out a mirthless chuckle. "And what's that to you?"

Lizzie waved off that cloud of smoke, trying to remain undisturbed by what she knew was him purposefully trying to throw her off. "I care about you, Henry."

He chuckled again, the cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes narrowed at her. "Do you, now?"

"I always have!" It was almost painful how he couldn't see it. "Henry, we're a team."

"A team! Is that how you call it?"

She laid a hand on his arm, but he wrenched it away. "Lizzie, don't." His voice was low and deep-toned, like a warning.

Lizzie tried again, as timid as a caged bird. "I've come to say I'm sorry."

Something in the way he looked at her... something... He turned away. She watched his whole body tense, watched his shoulders rise and fall as if under a great duress.

Lizzie sprawled her hands in defeat. "Henry, what do you want me to say?"

"You always do that, Lizzie!" He stood up and turned, mindlessly pacing the pavement. "You always do that. Every time I walk away, every time I— I try to forget about you, you go and pull me back." He paused and looked at her with such accusing eyes, it shamed her. "Why do you that?"

His eyes enquired of her, but she couldn't find the words to answer them. All she could do was lower her head and gaze at the joint hands on her lap.

"I see." He resumed his pacing only to halt again after some seconds. "You know what is your problem, Lizzie?" She looked up and their eyes met again. "You've been treated like a princess your whole life! And when people don't feed you attention..." He scoffed. "Well, you just can't take that, can you?"

Lizzie knew his words were purposefully sharp. She knew he was trying to hurt her as much as she had done to him. Lizzie knew all that and more, but as much as she'd rather have him raging before her than face his usual mutism, she winced at the harshness she found in his voice.

Henry sighed deeply, covering his eyes with one hand. "It's not... It's not what I mean. Not really. Not... truly." He let himself fall back on the steps again. "Go home, Lizzie." He rubbed his eyes weakly. "Go before I say something I'll regret."

"No!" Lizzie blurted out, feeling suddenly bold. "No. You've said your piece, now I'm going to say mine."

Henry sniggered, grumbling something that came out completely unintelligible with that cigarette in his mouth.

"What were you— what did you say?" Henry only kept smoking that disgraceful, damned cigarette. "Henry, are you listening to me?"

"Actually, Lizzie. No, I'm not."

"Don't be so—" childish, she meant to say. But the constant sight of that cigarette in his hand enraged her more than Henry himself. He was using that cigarette almost like a shield, like another thing to put distance between them. With one swift movement of defiance, she caught it from his fingers and flung it across the street.

Henry didn't protest, he only glared at her for a second. Then slowly, deliberately showing her his movements, he pulled out his cigarette pack and got another one. Lizzie narrowed her eyes at him as he lit it in front of her, taking a drag and blowing out his smoke close enough for her to be uncomfortable. She tried to grasp it from him again, but he lifted up his arm that time. She pulled on his sleeve but he only raised his arm higher, the cigarette now completely out of her reach.

"Gi—give me that!"

"No."

"Give me that, Henry!"

"Lizzie, cut it out!"

"Henry!"

"Lizzie!"

He switched hands and Lizzie struggled even more. As absurd as it felt, they were wrestling for a cigarette. Amidst that battle of arms and limbs, she straddled him and he went immediately still, frozen in action. She took the opportunity to yank the cigarette from his fingers and gloriously flung it away. Balancing herself on his lap, Lizzie couldn’t help her triumphant face as she beamed down at him, but Henry didn’t look so amused. Both breathing heavily by now, a reaction came to him as he clutched her hips and angled her towards him.

"That was my last one." He glared at her, his voice strained.

Lizzie shook her head, her nose hovering inches apart from his face. "I don't care."

Such an un-Lizzie thing to say.

She watched his jaw clench tight, saw the little muscle at its corner pulse. His grip on her hip tightened and he took a deep breath, but his eyes had a distant quality to it as if he was looking not at her, but past her. As if he was focused.

She had seen that same look once when they still lived in the same flat. One night she had tried to quickly sneak into the kitchen to get some biscuits. Walking in her wearing nothing but her pyjama shorts and a bra, Henry had instantly turned to the wall as she crossed her arms across her chest, both of them mumbling half a hundred apologies. That night Henry had the same stoic look, the look a man determined not give himself away.

Lizzie was about to prove she was not so ease to ignore. She shifted in his lap and he drew another breath. "I really..." she shifted again "... couldn't..." and again "... care less."

It took less than a second for him to crash his lips against hers. It wasn't a gentle kiss, no. His mouth hungrily devoured her, teething clashing and pulling. Lizzie didn't hesitate either; she twisted his shirt in her hands, pulled at his shoulders. Henry tasted acidic and ashy, like embers burning in the furnace of his heart — a wash of heat flowing down her throat to her chest. He sucked on her tongue, bringing her closer by cradling the nape of her head and weaving his fingers in her hair. She bit his lip and arched against him, rolling her hips.

He pulled apart, breathless and pupils enlarged. "What are you doing?!"

"What are you doing?" One of his hands still remained in her hair, the other one still firmly gripped her hip.

He blinked twice, sudden realisation coming to him. "We're both doing it."

"We're both." She breathed, nodding.

Then they were kissing again, his desperate hands traveling the length of her torso and fingertips sneaking under her top. God, she had missed it! His mouth on hers, his touch on her skin. She clung to his shoulders as he ran a series of kisses down her neck, reaching her collarbone to lick and suck. Lizzie felt lightheaded and drowsy — she writhed and sighed contently into the night air like a desert traveller who had just chanced upon a well.

Henry ceased his frantic exploration. "Lizzie." His ragged breath fanned her neck in the lightest of caresses.

"Don't stop." She meowed, gently rubbing her hips against the burgeoning hardness she felt between her legs.

He let out what could only be described like a reluctant grunt. He cupped her cheek so as to make her look down at him. "Don't—" He shut his eyes and opened them again. "Don't do this to me."

His voice was half-plea, half-moan. She took a long considering look at him. There was a small side of him that he rarely ever let people see. It was there whenever he thought no one was watching him, it was there whenever he dropped his sarcastic mask. A liability, a palpable thoughtfulness, a vulnerable corner.

"Never."

They heard a soft thunder, a few small raindrops following right after. They stared at each other, both searching for things to say — promises and prayers and sweet lies, all woven together like a beautiful tapestry. The much awaited rain started dropping from the skies. April rains bring May blooms. Spring season, rain season. The season of lovers.

Lizzie was the first to break the silence. "We should..."

"We should probably..."

"...Go inside."

"We should."

They hastily got up and flew to the door before their clothes could get any wetter. Rain was only romantic on the telly and well, theirs was real life. Casting a sideways glance at Lizzie, Henry fumbled with his keys. A rare thing, to see him so out of his cool collected self — a deliciously illicit discovery, if Lizzie were to be honest, to see how much she could affect him. But Lizzie wasn't much better herself: looking down at her manicured nails, she could see that her hands trembled with... anticipation, fear, excitement? They half-ran the stairs up to his flat as if raindrops were still falling on their backs.

Lizzie felt half-drunk again, a sudden bolt of energy had taken over that otherwise miserable-looking night. She barged through his door and kicked off her boots in the middle of his living room, finally ridding herself from the torture devices that had crushed her toes up to that point. She ran a hand through her hair to fix it — she would give out every penny she had for a chance to see herself in a mirror that moment, but alas! Her fingers would have to do the work. Henry slowly locked his door and leaned against it, hands in his pockets, openly staring at her.

Outside, the raindrops made the softest of noises. There was something heavy hanging in the air — a belief, a certainty, that nothing would ever be the same again. Henry lingered at the door for a moment only, then languorously made his way to her. She sucked in her breath as if her very life depended on the next words he was about to speak.

"So..." There was an amused glint in his eyes. His whole face had a soft expression to it, but his gaze was as lively and as piercing as ever. "Do you come here often?"

She burst in laughter, almost relieved. How very corny. "Perhaps not as often as I should."

"Oh?" He laced an arm around her waist, bringing her body close to his, and nuzzled her cheek. "And how could I remedy that situation?"

His whispering in her ear sent shivers down her spine, but she tried to play it cool. Oh, so cool. She flashed him her flirtiest smile. “Perhaps you should invite me more often.”

"Is that so?" Henry chuckled but pulled back, his smile slowly subduing. He drew a long sigh, a exhilaration cutting through the dead silence of the night. “Lizzie...” He ran a thumb along her cheek. “What are we doing here?”

She caught his hand, gently rubbed it with her thumb, brought it to her lips, kissed it. She wholeheartedly embraced the still lingering smell of tobacco on it. In her mind, Henry had always had attractive hands: hands that she observed stirring his coffee in the mornings, hands that worked on his endless excel spreadsheets. Hands that typed, gripped and flexed. “Perhaps..." She drew lazy circles on the back of that hand. "Perhaps we should find out.”

The skies had partially cleared by then. A faint moonlight came filtered through the windows. Her necklace, the one that he had given her, was now dangling over her top. It glinted under the artificial light coming from the lamp post. Henry took the pendant in his fingers, squinted his eyes at it. Was he even wearing his contacts that night?

“You’ve kept it.” His observation had a touch of question to it.

“Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?”

He smiled again, softly at first, but quickly turning into a smirk. “You’re right. I’ve got excellent taste—” Lizzie chortled. "—if I do say so myself."

"Unbelievable!"

Henry winked at her, or rather, attempted at winking. "Come on, just admit it."

“You cheeky—" She tugged at his shirt. "—lobster!”

“Lobster?” Henry arched an eyebrow. “If you’re telling me I have greedy, sneaky hands...” His fingers slipped under her top and drummed her ribcage. “Well, I do.”

“No, I meant—” He flushed her body against his, hands gripping her waist tight. He kissed the spot under her earlobe, the barest flick of tongue touched it. “I meant...” God, what did she mean? “Well, actually...”

“Mmm?" He nosed her ear. "You were saying?”

"Oh, just kiss me already, will you!"

She erased that perfectly devilish smile with her mouth on his, a clash of lips and tongues. With two hands firmly planted under her bum, Henry lifted her up and placed her on the small table gracing his living room. There were books and piles of paper that he swiftly cast aside. Forget revising. They were doing a different type of learning that night. Never breaking their kiss, Lizzie pulled him between her legs — she desperately wanted to bring him closer and closer. They had already wasted too much time putting unnecessary excuses between them.

"Hold still."

He pulled her hips close to the edge of the table and then, kissing her neck, his hands trailed under her skirt to roll down her tights. Then they slowly travelled back, sending goosebumps along her skin. He rucked up the skirt around her waist. Her breath hitched as a hand smoothed down one thigh and ascended the soft curve of her hip to rest on a silk tie.

“You’re beautiful, did you know that?”

Lizzie was caught by surprise. What was she supposed to say to that? Another hand slid on the underside of a thigh to stop at the spot between her legs.

"Too beautiful to be exact. Distractingly so."

Was that a... complain? Her confusion was short-lived as his fingers started to caress her through the dampened fabric with soft, barely-there touches.

"Is it okay if I...?" His breath fanned her cheek in short, quick intakes of air.

She shut her eyes tight, feeling her face exceedingly hot. "Mm-hmm."

He gingerly slipped his fingers inside her knickers and she barely suppressed a gasp. "And this?"

"Ye-yes."

His feather-like touches were succeeded by more forceful strokes, and she clung to his neck as she rocked her hips against his hand. She felt almost like a wretched, bawdy thing to offer herself so openly to his touch, but the soft voice in her ear only spoke of burning and longing. Beautiful.

There was something thrilling and entrancing in those long dead hours of the night, liminal space between midnight and dawn. Beautiful. Her fingers were curled into his hair and blimey! It was the softest thing. Some things were so easy for men, Lizzie couldn’t help thinking, it was maddeningly unfair.

God, she felt her face so hot it could burst. Just when she was close, so so close, Henry stopped his industrious fingers and took away his hand. She sighed, frustrated, and his chuckle reverberated on the hollow of her throat. Bastard. She pushed him back and started tugging at his clothes. They were about to see who laughed last and longest. She shot him a sultry look and traced a finger along his belt, then sneaked a hand under his shirt to travel along his stomach.

She fluttered her lashes at him."Take off your clothes."

His eyes went large for a second only, then he was knocking off his shoes, unfastening his belt, hastily removing his shirt, everything at once. Thoroughly satisfied at the effect of her words, Lizzie was working at the zip of his jeans when she looked up. Henry had proceeded with such haste his shirt got stuck around his head. His embarrassed smile was the only thing not covered by the shirt as he stood there, trapped.

Lizzie had to stifle a laugh but she had never seen such a dazzling sight of him, as awkward as the situation presented itself. His smile was wide grin, open and carefree. What a rare thing to see.

"You know, a hand up here would be most welcomed too."

Lizzie tried again to suppress a laugh, but ultimately failed.

"Not that I'm complaining about your hand down there. Let me be quite clear."

She helped him get rid of his shirt and Henry quickly flung it across the room (she reckoned his flat had probably never known such a state of untidiness). He went back to the nest between her legs, a place that fitted him so well, and everything came to a halt. It was as if falling stars buzzed at their sides, heralding something secret and ineffable. She cupped his face with both her hands — she half-expected his cheekbones to cut her palms, so sharp they were. But no, they were soft, almost as soft as the blue eyes that looked down at her. In those eyes she read the freshness of a world wildly, irrevocably in love. Eyes so blue she could drown.

He rested his forehead against hers. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

She suddenly felt very shy and small "...You're not?"

His answer came in the form of a long deep kiss that turned into a quick, restless frenzy again. She made a trail of hot kisses along his jaw as he unclasped each and every bottom of her skirt, Lizzie pulling down his jeans so he would stand in nothing but his boxers. Henry was cupping her bra from under her top when her hand knocked something off the table.

He pulled back. "Wait, wait, wait. My glasses."

"Oh my god, your glasses!" Embarrassed, Lizzie prayed they weren’t broken at least.

Henry was about to pick them when he stopped and growled. "You know what? Forget them. A bed! We should use a bed!"

She had never seen him like that, her Henry. Her Henry! She didn't have time to think of that, especially when they were rushing to his room, loudly opening up doors, tumbling down in bed. She took off her top as he slid down her stomach to plant feverish kisses along the soft marble of her skin. Her knickers came off easily as he hooked up a hand and slid them down her legs. His kisses travelled further south and south and—

Lizzie gasped. No, she had to pull him back. "No, no, no. Not this time."

From above her, Henry shot her a wry smile. "Not this time?"

Of course that implied there would be another time, which made Lizzie blush profusely. Yet Henry only chuckled and pecked her cheek.

"Relax, darling." She smiled at the endearment and he kissed the other cheek. "You're safe with me." He moved on to kiss her chin, her lips. "We won't do anything you don't want to do." His kisses were traveling down her neck by then. "Alright?"

She closed her eyes and curled her fingers into his hair again. "Alright."

Propped up on elbow and hand, Henry moved aside a bra strap to plant a kiss on her shoulder, then made his way down along her breastbone. He went back for her mouth, his weight on her pushing her further into the mattress. They were fairly grinding by then, his leg trapped between her own, when Henry stopped. Blinking for a moment, his eyes scanned down her body. “Lizzie”, he breathed heavily. She didn’t know if it was a question, a plea or an exclamation. She was too much and not enough.

She framed his face and he looked up at her again. The glint of a thousand stars stared back at her. As if sensing Henry was all but waiting for a sign, Lizzie nodded her head, caressing his sides with the lightest brush of her fingertips. He moved to kiss her mouth again and she sprawled against him like a lazy cat under the heat of the sun. Ever feeling his hardness against her, her hands tugged at the waistband of his boxers when he stopped her again.

“Wait!”

Henry hurried through his drawers and came back with a condom. Thank heaven one of them thought about protection! Lizzie sat up and grasped it from his hands, too impatient by then, and ripped off the packaging with her teeth. Henry simply watched her with a mixture of confusion, awe and adoration as she pulled down his boxers. Her touch like fire, Henry closed his eyes shut and muttered a string of curses under his breath. Lizzie only smirked, feeling incredibly wicked. She pulled him to bed and climbed atop him, and they both stood still for a time.

That was it, wasn’t it? The end of a hopeless night with the friction of bodies, the movement of flesh against flesh. Wasn’t it something people their age did? Wasn’t it what it meant to be young and unafraid?

Their chests rose and fell in cadence, then his hands swept up and around her hips, stopping at her waist. He stood up to kiss her neck, making her sigh and squirm against him. He unclasped and slid off her bra, the only layer of fabric still standing between the two. He murmured against her skin, each word punctuated by a lick of his tongue. “Belle, belle. Que tu es belle.” Their hips started moving, hands roving, squeezing and claiming every inch of skin they could find. All that was heard was heavy breathing, low grunts and whimpers. His chest hair scratched against her skin, his fingers gripped her waist tight enough to make indentations.

It would all come back to Lizzie in vividly coloured flashbacks: Henry kissing the necklace hanging in the valley between her breasts, his mouth claiming a nipple, his fingers sliding through her hair strands before they stopped and pulled. I fucking love your hair. Words confessed against her skin, reverend hands worshipping her like a prayer. He was hard and angular where she was soft and pliant. She felt on her tongue the salty sweat held on his upper lip, felt his back muscles moving under her hands. She arched against him as her mind became foggier and foggier. A need, a hungry need. Kiss me harder, harder, harder.

Toes that curled. Lips that lazily brushed against each other. Eyelids that closed shut as the night turned white. All her fears and doubts, all her joy and ecstasy — all swallowed by a kiss, a final kiss, a whimper against his mouth. She didn't remember falling back on the mattress, but she did remember weakly clutching the sheets as Henry went on. She remembered wrapping her arms around him as his pace grew frantic, remembered his face as he came undone, red and pained and beautiful. Lizzie could love him for it.

Henry rolled off her and fell back on his pillow. Breathless, his cheeks were still very red. Neither of them spoke as their overheated bodies cooled off with each new intake of air. Out his window, the blue-purple night spread into a new dawn. Another day prepared to rise. Slowly, as if waking from a dream, Lizzie became acutely aware of her nakedness. She tried to remember where each item of clothing had been discarded. She meant to get up and look for them when Henry laid a hand on her wrist.

"Stay." His fingers slid down to her hand and squeezed it. "Stay with me."

Lizzie adjusted back on the pillows and he pulled up the covers over them. "I'll make you tea in the morning."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "It is the morning."

Henry waved it off with a yawn. "Later, then." His voice groggy with sleep, he folded both arms under his head and closed his eyes serenely. The faintest blush still painted his cheeks with exertion.

"But do you know how I take my—"

"Three minutes brewing. A dash of milk, two sugars." She gaped at him and he still went on. "Unless it's mint or green tea, of course, then honey is the option to go."

"How... how do you know all that?"

The corners of his mouth quirked up and one eye popped open. "I am quite the observer." His gaze flew from her chest to her eyes and back to her lips. "I pay attention to every detail."

Why did the way he said that made her whole body tingle?

Henry put an arm around her waist and drew her to his chest. "You’ve left me right knackered." He closed his eyes again. "Let's go sleep."

Sleep, Lizzie told herself. Come morning, there would be tea for her and coffee for him. An unbearably heavy degree of intimacy, truth be told, heavier than laying naked together. Anxiety gnawed at her: that was a point of no return.

She shook his arm. "Henry?"

"Mmm?"

"Do you think we've made a mistake?"

His eyes instantly shot open again. "No."

The conviction in his voice reassured her, just a bit. "Where do we go from here?"

Henry sighed and shifted on the mattress. "I don't know." His eyes perused the ceiling, then a warm smile spread on his face. Slowly, softly, like he was harvesting a secret. "I think we'll have to see."

Lizzie mirrored that small, contagious smile. "We'll see."

Their eyes found each other again. Henry tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and cradled her neck to kiss her, the softest brush of lips. As gentle as the touch of a hundred rose petals. The simplest of gestures, costing not less than everything.

His mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars.*

She put her questions on hold.

*go to Ao3 to see notes.

[misshoneywheeler]

Title: Watch Me Burn, Watch Me Fall - Chapter 4 Fandom: The White Princess Pairing: Elizabeth, Queen of York/Henry VII Rating: M Words: 978 Notes: Part of the Britpop AU with @thefairfleming. This newest chapter was inspired by Rick Springfield and Prince. Because of course it was.

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“So there was something interesting in that article,” Lizzie starts before Henry’s even taken a sip of the beer he just cracked open, part of the fresh supplies Jasper brought earlier. Henry pauses with the beer poised in front of his open mouth. It should be an unremarkable comment from her, but over the last week, Henry’s started to understand her various tones.

“Article?”

“Jasper brought a magazine with him. There was an article about us writing together.” At that, Lizzie fixes him with an arch look. “Your mother’s handiwork, no doubt.”

Henry stops himself from scoffing that her own mother was just as likely a culprit by taking a swig of his beer. “And what was in this article that has you acting like…this?”

It’s a testament to how engaged Lizzie is by the article’s contents that she doesn’t immediately bristle and go on the defensive, demanding to know what he means. Henry’s almost disappointed that she doesn’t. At some point over the last few days, he’d stopped being irritated by how much sparring with her turns him on and started being intrigued.

*Read on AO3*

[feuillesmortes]

This is a ficlet in honour of @harritudur’s birthday. Happy birthday, dearest! Don’t mind me, this is just some Tudor family fluff. x

A long silence filled the room, disturbed only by the flickers of the fireplace and the murmurs of the petitioners gathered together along the hall. The king was holding justice that day; his subjects tiptoed in the throne room. Elizabeth had been standing for more than an hour in the side gallery when she felt Prince Harry tugging at the fabric of her skirts. 

“Mama, it’s taking too long.”

She squeezed his hand to shush him. “I know, love. Be patient. Just a moment now.”

That morning Elizabeth had visited the royal nursery at Eltham Palace. She had personally gone to check on baby Mary’s health, only to find her daughter safe and sound in her peaceful slumber bliss. The death of her dear Bessie the year before had left her terribly fearful for her children. It was not difficult now to find the queen journeying back and forth between the palaces. 

Just moments before she left Eltham, Harry came running after her. He said he wanted to see his father. He wanted to show the king the prayer book Lady Margaret had gifted him: a beautiful item richly adorned with gemstones and exquisite illuminated pages. Elizabeth knew the prince hadn’t taken all his lessons that day, yet she could not resist taking him with her. Not when he had asked her so sweetly.

At that moment Harry was restless beside her. “Mama,” he shook her hand. “Grandmother said I could be pope someday.”

“Did she?” Harry bounced his head, nodding. Pope, she let that notion sink in. Surely just imagining her son as God’s highest servant should fill her with pride. Yet, the thought of her boy pursuing a career in far-away Rome made Elizabeth uneasy. She knew the girls would grow up to marry foreign princes, hopefully they would become queens themselves. But must Harry leave her as well? Him, too?

She circled Harry’s shoulders and brought him closer. She started, almost carefully. “My sweet, do you… Do you want to become pope? You know you can do whatever you want.”

He shook his head. “No, mama—” Elizabeth sighed with relief. “—I want to be king! Like Papa!” He lifted up his chin and placed his hands on his hips, taking a prideful stance.

“Harry, no!” She laughed, immediately covering her mouth so as to not break protocol and the silence of the room. “Love, we’ve talked about this. Your brother Arthur, as the eldest, inherits the crown after your father.”

“But I too want to defeat an evil king and marry a beautiful princess!”

Is that how they say it happened? Elizabeth took a knee and smoothed his lovely ginger strands into place. “My darling, you are the second son…”

“But then who am I going to be?”

You’re going to be my darling boy, she thought bluntly. No, she needed a better answer than that. She held both his hands in her own. “You are the Duke of York, are you not? You will be your brother’s right hand. His most loved and trusted advisor. Isn’t that just grand?”

Her boy gave her a rather dissatisfied pout. “I suppose so, mama.”

A commotion in the throne room made Elizabeth stand up again. She heard the session being dismissed by two hits of a staff on the floor. “Come, love. It’s time.” As petitioners all but fled the room in flocks, Elizabeth left the gallery to approach the throne from the side, taking Harry with her by the hand. A couple of her ladies-in-waiting trailed behind them. Her husband was handing back the crown and other regalia when his eyes found her. 

“Bess, is that you?” He gave her a pleasant smile. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“Yes, your Grace. I have brought you a visitor.” She looked back to Harry half-hidden behind her skirts. Seeing his father holding the hand of justice had made him surprisingly timid.

“Oh.” Henry shifted in his throne, noticing the prince. The little hand wrapped around her leg was a sure giveaway. Henry hesitated, not knowing whether to take it as a child’s play or not. “Who is it you bring with you, I wonder? Who could that be?” 

“Me!” Their son giggled and jumped from behind her, landing with a pose.

“Prince Harry wishes to show you the splendid gift my Lady Margaret gave him. Isn’t it, Harry?” One of her ladies came forward with the prayer book and placed it in the prince’s hands.

“Then by all means, come show me.” Henry beckoned his son forward with a light tap on his knees. 

It was all that was needed for Harry to sprint in his direction. He threw himself in his father’s lap with such energy and enthusiasm that he caused the king to grunt. The few courtiers that still lingered in the room collectively gasped.

“Harry!” She admonished the prince with a hard look. “Be careful with your father, the king!” 

“There’s no need for concern. No harm was done.” Her husband was only amused as he struggled to find the right balance for Harry on his knees. The image of the king holding his son on his lap was rather alien to everyone present, including the king himself.

“Kings are supposed to be strong, mama!” Henry let out a hearty laughter at that. Onlookers shared relieved glances and polite smiles. The prince twisted around to look at his father, a bit vexed. “Are they not, papa?”

“Yes, little one, they are. Strong of body, but most importantly—” The king tapped his head with his index finger. “—Strong of mind.” 

Elizabeth watched her son’s face going into a slight frown. As much as Harry resembled his grandfather Edward, it was impossible not to see how his eyebrows furrowed together just like Henry’s when he was upset. Especially now, with their faces so close to each other. The prince frowned in mild confusion; the king squinted his eyes to look at the meticulous details of the prayer book.

The king started again. “Come on then. Show me your how your Latin is going.” He opened the book at the Angelus. “Read to me.”

Harry’s high-pitched voice soon followed. “Angelus Domini nuntiavit Mariae…” As it was customary, the prince beamed under attention. Whenever he stumbled on the pronunciation of a word, he went back and read it again with confidence anew. “… Ora pro nobis, sancta Dei Geni– Dei Genitrix…” Every few words his father corrected him, but it didn’t make the king any less proud of his son’s progress.

He squeezed the boy’s arm when he finished. “You did good, Harry.”

“I did! Master Martin says I do! And he says I have great talent for dancing! I’ll show you!” Even though Harry had performed to them countless times before, he still leapt from the throne and ran across the room to drag poor Lady Joan into a lively country dance. 

While the flamboyant steps of the prince entertained the courtiers, the king stood from the throne and joined Elizabeth’s side. He kept his eyes on the dancing and his voice low. “And Margaret? Is she in good health?”

She replied in that same hushed tone. “By God’s grace, yes.”

“And the baby…?”

“Sleeping soundly as an angel.” 

Henry sighed softly. “Dieu soit loué.” He discreetly took his middle and index finger to his lips, raising his eyes at the vaulted ceiling to the Lord above. He let down his hand and Elizabeth laced those two fingers with hers for a brief second.

He shot her a sideways glance before focusing on the dance again. “Will you sup in my rooms tonight?”

She fought against a growing smile. “Only if it will please your Grace.” 

“Oh, it would please me greatly.” He too struggled to keep a straight face, as the upturned corners of his mouth told her so well. 

“Then I will be happy to oblige.”

Looking at his profile, a flash of vivid memories came back to Elizabeth. That spot where his jaw and neck met — that spot boiling under her lips, limbs intertwined, her hand brushing slick strands of hair glued to his temples. Dear God! She needed to confess again.

Henry moved closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t bring your ladies.” He placed a hand at the small of her back and slid it to her hip before pulling it back, heat radiating through the fabric.

She felt her cheeks burning. She had lost her battle against smiling. “I will find an excuse to dismiss them.”

“I’m sure you will.” He fully turned to her, eyes entrancing, thin lips flashing a smile of his own.

Prince Harry ended the dance with a graceful twirl. A round of applause started by the king soon followed, making her little boy look exceedingly proud of himself as he bowed. The prince came running to where his parents stood and Elizabeth pulled him close and kissed his forehead. At that moment she herself felt like the proudest mother in the Christendom. 

[misshoneywheeler]

Title: If You Wish For Peace (Prepare For War) Fandom: The White Princess Pairing: Elizabeth of York/Henry VII Rating: T Words: 1,122 Notes: For the Historical OTP squad on the anniversary of Historical Bae’s Big Victory at Bosworth, HOORAY! - @thefairfleming, @vixleonard, @alienor-woods, @harritudur, @elea727, @flymetooasis, @tudoraddict, @euphoriaroses, @feuillesmortes, @queenbessofyork and @jedimasterlindsay (who it won’t let me tag, sadface, sadface).

Warnings for mild blood mentions, slight hurt/comfort

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At first all she sees is the blood. If she’s dispassionate, she can admit there’s not much, only a twisting scarlet ribbon of it just below his collarbone. It’s only that she’s not feeling especially dispassionate at the moment. The merest mention of Henry being wounded in training and she’d bolted from her bath and flown down the hall with wings on her heels in a damp dressing gown, never mind that they’d fought like wary cats only hours ago. Hardly behavior fit for a queen. It occurs to her that it’s rather appropriate for a devoted and loving wife, though. That’s something to pack away and examine later.

“Elizabeth.” Henry isn’t feeling especially dispassionate either, if the way his voice wraps around her name is any measure. His eyes take in her dishabille, from the untidy jumble of her hair atop her head to the feet that she’s only just now realized are still bare. She could be unclothed entirely for the way she feels the heat of his gaze on her.

“Henry,” she breathes. A chorus of murmured Your Majesties greet her and all at once she realizes the presence of his men in the room, surrounding him in a loose circle as he sits on a stool in the middle of the room, shirt unlaced and half off his shoulders. Her mouth rounds into an undignified oh of surprise. If she weren’t still flushed from the heat of her bath, her cheeks would surely be turning pink. She grapples for a way out, but Henry saves her.

“Leave us,” he tells his men.

*

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