Work Text:
Spring on the mountainside, the girl thinks, is all very well in books. In books, the giddy young heroine runs joyfully through the budding flowers in the sunlight. They never mention how spring in the mountains is still pretty bloody cold, especially with the dew collecting on your dress until you're about to catch your death. And mountainsides aren't good for running unless you want to break an ankle.
(The girl herself isn't much like the heroine in a book, either. Her features are too strong; her elbows are too pointy; her mind is far too practical.)
Two lovers tumbling over and over each other in an embrace isn't as romantic as it sounds in books, either. (The girl resolutely pushes away the embarrassing fact that she's even read books like that.) The two of them hit the ground with a painful oof! when her young man tackles her. He yelps in pain as one of her aforementioned pointy elbows jabs into his side when they roll over, then he ends up on top and he's squashing the breath out of her.
Then he smiles down at her and cups her face, then slowly slides his hand down to her collar to begin unbuttoning her dress. The no-nonsense part of Esmerelda Weatherwax wants to slap away his hand for the sheer audacity, but another part of her shuts that impulse up firmly (and puts a soppy smile on her face, though she'll never admit it). And Mustrum's hands are slowly, teasingly working their way down the row of buttons, and he bends down to kiss her. And just for this moment, Esme is just another girl in love, with her lover on a spring afternoon.