BLOOD / BLUSH

bbc merlin season 4.

her sisters are asleep, farther away from her than ever before; prudence on her left, simmering with rage, agatha on her right, cold with death. that’s why dorcas slips out of her bed, the one in the middle, unable to tolerate the terrible LONELINESS of not having them curled into her sides. she looks back once, twice, every time she takes a step forward, until she’s finally out of the dorms, standing alone in the hallway.

unsurprisingly, she meets nick in one of the halls. they always seemed to share that dreadful inability to sleep properly. this is a scene played out time and time again, a dance they’ve danced before: they sit down on the nearest bench, and he wraps an arm around her. she leans into him, breathes in, tries to stop the trembling in her hands. the familiarity of him is almost frightening----he’s the closest she’s ever let anyone who isn’t her sisters come.

but nick always manages to prove himself worthy of the closeness, even if it’s at the very last moment. after the silence stretches for a while, he tells her she’s been quiet - dorcas is late to realize this isn’t like her, that usually she’s quite chatty even in the middle of the night, and OF COURSE he’d notice - and she just sighs in response.

a few moments pass again before she can bring herself to speak, takes a deep, shuddering breath. she raises her gaze from the floor to meet his eyes. “maybe I just don’t like that my sister died,” she tells him, defiantly, chin up and lips puckered, like she’s daring him to even try and think of her as VULNERABLE----but blue eyes shine with tears under the dim light, and nick knows her well. too well for her own liking, sometimes. another sigh escapes her, and she presses her forehead into the curve of his throat. he’s cold against her, just like always. it’s a strange sort of comfort.

“I know you’re on sabrina’s side,” he always is, ever since she’d joined the academy, and dorcas swallows around her bitterness at that and tries not to sound too venomous (because nicky is theirs, whether he likes it or not, and they’re his), “but killing agatha...”

the image penetrates her mind again, haunts her BRUTALLY, so much so that she can’t fathom how she’s the only plauged by it, how nick is so steady beside her, how prudence is sleeping so peacefully in her bed. agatha’s slit throat, blood almost black on the forest floor. sabrina’s triumphant features. prudence’s cold disinterest in their sister’s life. dorcas’ heart, beat-beat-beating in her chest (horror and grief and shock all sing in her ribcage, all weighing her down, pulling her to the earth, where agatha is). her sister’s isn’t, anymore. even after agatha rises, there’s a chill in dorcas’ blood, a weight in her bones that hadn’t been there before. she would do anything to get rid of it. she has to remind herself that her sister is alive now, asleep in her bed like always, before----before--------

but NO, it’s too late, of course she’s already crying, tears flowing down her cheeks like rivers. nick’s fingers thread through red curls in a well-practiced gesture, and suddenly dorcas shrinks in on herself, hates that somehow he’s always seeing her like this.

still, he soothes her, and eventually, she isn’t sure after how long, the weeping stops. “I couldn’t----couldn’t speak.” her voice is thick and raw. “I tried and I couldn’t.” she hates admitting that, remembering the ACHE in her throat, the way she’d closed up, muscles clenched so tight she had felt could almost burst. a hand comes up to wipe away her tears before nick does it himself----that feels much weaker, somehow. much softer. too soft for the likes of them. the likes of her. she hurriedly does it, wills herself to stop crying. don’t be a baby, prudence’s voice says in her head, but she can recognize it’s just her own mind berating her, and not her sister suddenly awake and on her way to chastise dorcas for whatever emotion it is she’s feeling this time.

WHO SAID YOU CAN’T WEAR A FLOWER CROWN AND STILL REMAIN A FEARSOME THING ?

valentine’s interactions. [ smooches ]  to kiss my muse on the lips.

lupercalia is almost upon us.

the thought is relentless, spoken into her mind with prudence’s voice ( she can’t even tell if it’s their telepathy or just her own mind scolding her. ) it nibbles at the edges of her consciousness like an itch----which she tries very hard not to scratch, and fails miserably. lupercalia is coming, nearing at a frightening pace, and here she is once again: poor, poor dorcas. the desperate sister. the leftover. she grinds her teeth.

prudence is the queen of the academy - she has been for years, even before they’d started their studies. she can have anyone she wants, and she does. last year she’d gotten nicky. this year, well. dorcas can’t remember his name, but he has this straight nose and these plump lips and these broad shoulders and OH, she despises him!

and agatha. dorcas doesn’t want to hold a grudge - she loves her sister dearly, and she would never deny her anything she asked for. so when agatha had said, decisively, that nick is HERS this year, dorcas had sewed her mouth shut in a tight-lipped smile and nodded her head. submissive. docile. whatever it takes for her sisters to love her.

perhaps she had wanted nick. perhaps he is the only boy at the academy she actually likes, one of the few whose names she bothers to remember. but now here she is, all alone in an abandoned hallway. forsaken. left behind. AGAIN.

until there’s a voice behind her, soft and melodic. she turns to face ambrose spellman.

it takes a moment for her to realize she’s pouting, brows furrowed and arms crossed, legs folded under her; all the makings of an angry toddler. she attempts to compose herself, but it’s too late. judging by the grin on his face, ambrose has already taken her in, in all her childish glory. and then he asks what’s wrong.

dorcas is speaking before she can stop herself, before she can think, a pout pulling on her lips again. “I don’t like that no one likes me,” is what comes out, and it sounds stupid, and whiny, so she decides to continue. can’t get any worse than this. “it’s lupercalia and I’m all alone,” her voice is tender and sad. “again.”

ambrose sits down beside her, and there’s a buzzing in dorcas’ ears, so she barely hears him when he says that TECHNICALLY it isn’t lupercalia yet, and that he’s right there so she’s not alone anymore, and that-------

dorcas turns so they’re face to face, thighs only barely brushing, her frown fully twisting her features now. she stares at him, unable to say anything more----she’s already shown far too much vulnerability for one day. she hopes he still thinks she’s pretty, at least. she doesn’t have much else left at this point. or, that’s what she thinks, but then ambrose spellman, ever so unpredictable to her, ever the mystery, cups her cheek gently and leans closer.

before she knows what’s happening, he’s kissing her, and dorcas decides that maybe being sad is okay, if this is what it gets you.

his hand comes to hold the back of her neck, his palm somehow rough and smooth at the same time, fingers digging into her skin but also barely there. she has never understood him and she doesn’t think she ever will, but right now, that doesn’t feel like it matters. she kisses him back, softly at first. and then not so much.

hand on his jaw, the other on his shoulder, dorcas lets herself be pulled into his lap as the kiss continues. he’s warm and soft against her, a hard body, a gentle soul. she likes it, kisses him harder, swallowing the sounds he makes in the back of his throat. dorcas smiles against his lips and bites, gently, as gently as she ever has. she feels LOVELY when he touches her, a small miracle. fingers grab at her thigh, weave into her hair, he’s everywhere, a shadow, a ghost, an embrace, holding her like she’s both dangerous and fragile. she likes it. she’s never been this breathless before.

it doesn’t even matter to her if ambrose is the most exprienced in this department, or the most talented, or if he’s been under house arrest for almost a century until very recently. she’ll be alright with anything if he just keeps doing whatever it is that he’s doing, that thing that makes her feel like something that’s worthy of worship. she sighs into his mouth and he drinks it down, caressing her. adoring her. she’s never been adored----she hadn’t imagined it would feel like THIS.

when they finally pull back for air, panting into each other’s mouths, she looks at him with wonder, like he’s a dark woods, a tornado of flowers, a wildfire. he feels like it, she thinks as she moves away, sliding back into her seat beside him. a wonder of nature. a storm of warmth. disasterous. beautiful.

 she likes him more than she’d expected to, and then something dawns on her.

“so,” she starts, and she’s grinning, wide, genuine, just a little mischievous. “you and me. lupercalia.” a moment passes in silence and her smile falters. she leans a little closer, touches her hand to his knee. it might not be visible but she’s trembling inside: insecure, frightened. terrified of being rejected again. “right?”

when he nods a giggle escapes her, and finally, she rises to her feet and leaves, with one last look over her shoulder. she’s pleased, content. warm. she hums to herself even as she hears screaming in her head, a thousand alarms going off all at once. prudence won’t like this!