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England(Arthur Kirkland) X reader: green eyes ch13
Sighing, you roll over in your bed. You just can’t seem to sleep tonight, and the rain hammering against your window is keeping you awake. Another thunder crash and lightning flash echoes through the empty room as the storm ranges on outside. Once again, Liz is off somewhere, so having no one to talk to is a pain during a storm. You’re not afraid of them, but just as you dose off, a loud rumble sounds and you jolt awake again. This is such a pain.
You count 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6-
That six seconds. You’re not even close to the heart of the storm, meaning it’s only going to get worse. Groaning your try to lull yourself into sleep with the sounds of nature, but not long after your eyes begin to droop, there’s a new, more artificial sound.
Sitting up, you glance over to the door, where a soft ratting can be heard. Cautiously, you move out of bed and over to it, eyeing it up and down before prying it open an inch.
England(Arthur Kirkland) X reader: green eyes ch16
After the night you shared, you notice Arthur becoming more and more stressed. This scholarship is more important than you could have imagined, and now you constantly worry that he is pushing himself too hard.
Looking over at your calendar you sigh. It’s not long until Arthur leaves, if he leaves. Which you want him to, because it’s the best thing for him. Yeah, let’s go with that for now. But your stomach twists uncomfortably as you think about him going, and your mind is plagued with images of him, smiling, frowning, glaring. This can’t be healthy. Quickly, you shake off the negative thoughts before you can even think of what will happen to your relationship if, when he goes, and march out of your room towards the main block, not stopping until you’re outside the council room. Pausing, you listen for any sign of Arthur, and after a long strand of cursing, you conclude he is in fact in the office. No surprise.
“Artur, ‘ou need
“What are you doing?” both you and a young Alfred turn to the door, where Arthur is standing. Said Brit moves across the room, ruffling Alfred’s hair with the hand not carrying a shopping bag as he passes.
“_______ is playing with me!” Alfred moves onto his knees on the couch, so he can see over the back of the old English leather as he studies Arthur putting away the groceries.
“And what were you plying?” both you and the American stare at each other for a while until you conclude:
“Not sure, it started off with Alfred saying words. I just joined in.” Alfred slaps his hands over his mouth and giggles. Boy, this kid is cute. Ba
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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