#》 [warmth-in-the-cold] (Anna)

[hellish-cruelty]

The joy of hiding your face in a warm embrace

Movies - Before sunrise (1995), Vivre sa vie (1962), Cold War (2005), La Jalousie (2014), La Dolce Vita (1960), High noon (1952), Spellbound (1945), Double Identity (2009), It's a wonderful life (1946), Hiroshima mon amour (1959)

[wonustars]

Come Thru

" you make me wanna come thru quarter after two just to put it down on you"

✧ pairing: joshua hong x female!reader ✧ wordcount: 1.7k ✧ genre: toxic fwb situation, slight angst, smut (mdni 18+)

✧ reblogs, likes and comments are always appreciated ♡! tumblr is based on reblogs not likes, and they help writers like me to get better reach. thank you!

✧ summary: your fwb joshua, comes over despite your half-assed protests. you arrangment is over, but one last time won't hurt, right? ✧ tags: non-idol!au, fwb! joshua, toxic!joshua, afab!reader, few smau texts, joshua is an asshole and reader lets him. ✧ warning/smut tags: DUBCON, coercion, unprotected p in v sex, degradation, slapping, groping, fingering, creampie. ✧ note: i recommend you don't take the dubcon and coercion warning lightly, if this isn't your cup of tea do not read. minors plz do not even try, i am watching. joshua is written to be an asshole in this fic. i also want to preface that i don't view joshua in this way irl, this is purely fiction. don't be like reader irl, this is made up plz. thank u to @junkissed and @okiedokrie for beta-reading ♡. also i had to ai generate an expanded version of this pic for the header, fyi. -> i have been in a joshua brain rot for the past 3 months, so this is the cause for this fic :p. lmk if u like darker themed fics! see u soonest - anna !

A part of you is reluctant to open the door, whilst the other part is begging you to give him one more chance. One more chance to kiss him, to feel him against your skin, to hear him say your name. 

There hasn’t been a time where you’ve denied Joshua’s need, allowing him to use your body in the ways he sees fit. But it’s different now, and that difference is the fact that you and Joshua don’t see eye to eye on the current status of your “relationship”. 

But you let him in anyway, you allow him to feel you completely, even when you know it's wrong. You know it’s wrong to do these things when you’re desperately in love with him and you know he doesn’t reciprocate those feelings. The only communication between you two is texts asking the other to come over. To fulfill each other's desires through a quick and hard fuck. 

“Fuck, it's cold,” Joshua mutters, rubbing his arms to create some type of warmth as you open the door, “what took you so long?” 

“Then go home,” you roll your eyes, moving over to let him pass through the door despite the fact you told him to go home. 

“I don't wanna, I've missed you,” Joshua smiles at you, not with affection but just because he’s pleased at the fact that you allowed him to come over. 

“Why are you here, Shua?” you ask him, your arms crossing in front of your chest as you feign annoyance. 

“You know why,” he says, eyes piercing yours as his expression turns serious. 

“We can’t keep doing this,” you sigh, but your feet move towards you bedroom anyways while Joshua follows suit. 

Despite your verbal protest, you can’t help but fall into his trap. Blaming it on how handsome he is, how soft his voice gets when hes with you, and especially because he knows how to fuck you right. 

In your past relationships, sex never felt good, it was mostly just you going through the motions. Your partners finishing and leaving you to lie there sticky and displeased. But with Joshua, he doesn’t even begin till he’s made you cum. The gratification he gives you doesn’t start with his cock inside you. It begins with his mouth on your cunt, his fingers inside your wet hole. The chivalry he displays while he fucks you in your bed is unfortunately the only way you are able to witness it. 

Outside of your late nights with him, he doesn’t contact you, or even try to have a conversation with you. And yet you still fell for him. 

You feel his arms snake around your waist as the two of you head to your bedroom. There’s a feeling in your stomach that you can’t pinpoint. A feeling of guilt mixed with a bit of excitement. 

His lips move down your neck and you can’t help but lean back against his chest as he shuts the door. Strong arms pulling your waist in tighter as he leaves small bruises along your skin. 

Your body feels hot. All rational thoughts have left your head the moment he touched you. His hands start to move, groping at your chest, the flimsy material of your sleep wear allowing him to feel you despite the barrier. Your nipples hardening against his fingertips and he moves your head to the side, pulling you into a deep kiss. 

His dominant hand moves down from your chest, across your stomach and into your sleep shorts. 

“Why aren't you wearing underneath?” he mumbles against your lips. 

“It's too hot,” you respond before kissing him again. 

Finding your clit, he rubs circles against your sensitive bud. Rubbing and playing with you until your legs start to shake. The makeout ceases as your too overwhelmed by pleasure, your mouth open yet still against his lips as you moan out his name. 

“Fuck, you’re such a slut for me aren’t you, baby,” He curses, placing a finger inside your dripping cunt. 

He continues to play with you, his finger moving in and out of your tight pussy. Your walls are pulsing as he begins to add a second and then a third. The coil in your stomach starts to tighten as Joshua speeds up his ministrations. 

“I'm close,” you whimper, your eyebrows furrowing as you concentrate on reaching your orgasm. 

“Still so fucking tight,” Joshua whisper in your ear, feeling the way you clench around his fingers, "no matter how many times I put my cock into you."

It all comes to an abrupt stop and you whine at the loss of his touch. His pupils are dilated, eyelids lowered with lust. He doesn’t allow you to whine for him any further, carrying your body towards the bed before dropping you. Your body hits the mattress and it bounces underneath your weight. 

“Fuck me, please,” you beg him, your eyes watching the way he removes his clothes. 

You follow his actions, removing your soiled sleep shorts and thin tank top. Your tits bouncing as you throw your shirt onto the floor, not caring where it lands. The only thing on your mind is Joshua’s cock and the feeling of him being inside you. 

His eyes wash over your frame, his adam’s apple bobbing as he takes your figure in. He thinks your so sexy, with the way you stare at him so needily, your legs already spread for him. He doesn’t care that he’s promised that this would be the last time, he doesn’t care that you want to better your self. To stop this arraignment. He’s addicted to the feeling of your tight pussy, how it milks his cum and leaves him wanting another round. 

Hovering over top of you he aligns his dick with your entrance, rubbing the fat tip of his cock against your wet slit. The sounds coming from his actions are unholy, but to him the feeling is like heaven on earth. 

“You're soaking,” he groans, applying pressure to your clit with the tip of his length. 

Your eyes roll back, your walls pulsating around nothing, all you want is for him to be inside you. But you stop him for a moment, wondering why he hasn’t put on a condom. 

“Do you have a condom?” you place your hand against his chest, pushing him back slightly. 

“No, it's fine, we’ve done it without one before,” he shrugs. 

You sit up a little and roll your eyes at him. Sure you’ve done it without a condom before, but now that this arrangment has lost it’s exclusivity, you don’t trust Joshua’s words. You know that he’s probably seeing other people. 

“Joshua, fuck, are you trying to get me pregnant?” you sigh, and he does the same. 

“But it feels better without it,” he whispers in your ear before pushing you down onto the bed again. 

Before you can even register whats happening, you feel him fully sheath himself inside you. A moan escapes your lips in surprise and also pleasure. You don’t want him to fuck you like this, but the pleasure is too hard to ignore. The feeling of his naked cock inside you causes you to squeeze around him tighter. 

“I told you, it feels better without one,” he mutters, pushing your legs into your chest, folding you in half. His upper body against you, your legs essentially locked in place. 

“Joshua please,” your eyelids droop with pleasure. Your hands moving to grip his biceps as you allow him to fuck you raw. 

Joshua groans from above you, his hips snapping against your cunt, balls slapping against the skin of your ass. You can see the clear outline of his cock poking out from your lower stomach. 

“Your pussy's so good, fuck,” he continues to groan out of pleasure, his tip kissing your cervix with each thrust, "taking my cock so well, baby."

He moves slightly to let go of one of your legs as he sits up, flipping your body and arranges you till your ass is in the air, your back arched. As he re-enters you, a salacious moan leaves your lips, savouring the feeling of his balls hitting your clit. 

“No one is going to fuck you like I do, you hear me?” He says, his thrusts becoming more powerful to emphasize his words. 

“I said, do you hear me?” he reiterates himself, and you answer him obediently. 

"Mhm, fuck, feels so good," you whine.

Joshua’s hands come down to slap your ass harshly, leaving large red hand prints against your supple skin. The burn feels goods and your whimper with every slap he gives you. 

“Joshua please, don’t cum inside me,” you beg him, but he just chuckles at your pleas. 

You can feel your self getting closer to your orgasm, your walls tighenting against his cock with every move he makes. 

“Be a good girl for me and just take what I give you,” is all Joshua says, his hands moving over to your clit, rubbing it in circles to get you closer to completion. 

His other hands is pushing your face into the pillow with so much force that you genuinely don’t believe that you are able to move from where you lay. You can feel his member twitch inside you, his thrust beginning to get sloppy. The headboard is banging against the wall as he moves in and out of you.

Then you feel it, his hips still, his length fully inside you, tip right against your cervix before he releases his load. 

“Shua!”

You moan at the way his hot white cum fill your needy cunt, your eyes rolling back as your releases follows right after his. All you can hear is his laboured breathing as he removes himself from you.

Letting go of his hold on you, your body flops agains the mattress. You can hear shuffling behind you and you turn around to see Joshua already putting on his clothes. 

“I’ll text you the next time I want to come over,” Joshua says when he’s fully dressed, pulling you into a deep kiss before leaving. 

You sigh into your pillow, the relization of what just happened hitting you right away. The feeling of his cum dripping out of your now swollen cunt makes you feel sick, but you can’t get over how good he makes you feel. It doens’t matter how many times you tell him that “this is the last time”, Joshua always get what he wants.

✧ note: thank you for reading, i hoped you liked it! leave a comment or an ask if u wanna see more of this.

✧ taglist: @christinewithluv @todorokiskitten @peachescreamandcrumble @minwonfairy @oneandonlyluvv @ihrtmingyu @tigerhoshii @sleepzyy @luveveryonewoo @thepoopdokyeomtouched @chan-s-laptop @aksweet7 @leah-rose03 @woofie-nctzen-fanarts @gyuguys @crystal-rhyming @jenoxygen @hoshhhiiiii @babigriin @bouclesdefeu @mingyuecstacy @iluvseokmin @odevote118 @wonvsmile @suga-bitch @chickpea-jimin @lar3ine @bias-recs @hanniebub @iluvmingi @vapidlynn @aaniag @yogurttea @blurr3db3rry @lovejoshua @woozixo @drunk-on-dk @noiceoofed @angelfeverdream @leahhhher @hanniebwii @yuyunhoo @whowantshota @hannniiiiiehae @writingbarnes @chariseiswriting @imhwajaez @tomodachiii @valenhui @3lilredroses @bunnyjjongie @sunniques @lovejoshua (hi user lovejoshua u love joshua so here’s some joshua)

[sigridstumb]

Me and Tom Ripley

The Talented Mr. Ripley. The Imposters. The Grifters. Inventing Anna. Saltburn.

I love stories about con artists, sociopaths, and imposters.

I've rewatched the Netflix series Ripley about six times since it came out.

When I was about thirteen years old, I read every book in the local public library about cons and cold reading. I read about how to win people over in business, I learned how to cold read. There were all these books out there that TEACH you how to pretend to be a normal person that someone wants to be friends with! These books teach you how to get people to trust you, to believe you!

I found these to be amazing tools. I could not get people to believe me, I could not figure out why people disliked me. I could not figure out what I was doing so wrong that made bullies kick me in the halls or throw things at me from schoolbuses. I knew it was something wrong with me, I knew I was messing something up, I knew I was failing. So I studied.

I studied how to fake the things I actually felt and believed.

The thing was, I wasn't lying most of the time. Most of the time I was using the social techniques of con artists and cold readers to get people to believe that things I meant. If I said "yes I like this song" in a way that was natural and comfortable for me, the person I was talking to thought I was being sarcastic and mean and that I hated the song, that I thought poorly of them for liking it. I did not! I liked the song! But to get the other person to believe me I had to remember to do all these extra things, like turn my body to 3/4 face the other person, to smile, to make me voice sound like a smile. I would think about cuddling a puppy in order to get the right amount of warmth in my eyes. I would lean in and raise the pitch of my voice.

There are all these extra THINGS I had to learn and remember to do in order to get people to respond to what I intended to say.

So, yes, I love media about con artists and grifters. I love watching people be good at that switch, at putting on the mask. I love watching people in a panic that they will be caught, be revealed, because that's how most social interactions feel to me -- constant worry that my mask will slip and the person I am talking to will suddenly feel that I'm lying to them, that I'm faking everything. (I am faking everything but it's to make sure they believe the truth! Which they won't believe unless I fake everything! I am an imposter, but in support of the truth!!)

Part of what I love about the Netflix Ripley is that Tom is only good at lying to other people when he has successfully gotten himself to believe what he is about to say. He practices and rehearses his lies so that he can sell them to others. I used to practice my facial expression in the mirror, trying to get them to look like other people's faces and expressions. I would practice my tone of voice and how to make it sound warm and friendly. All the things Tom does -- except the murders! and the theft! -- all the SOCIAL things Tom does, I have done those things in an effort to hide my autism and be accepted by the people whose respect and friendship I wanted.

Con artists, cold readers, and comic books taught me how to pretend to be neurotypical.

[justaravingwritingdesk]

the contradictory dichotomy that is kim dokja's relationship with reality and fiction is totally skewed and it totally makes me see mirrors between the people from both sides of his fourth wall, including himself...

lee sookyung (his mom) <--> tls123 (1863rd han sooyoung) for his sake, both women sacrificed their lives and turned the lives of others into a story to be used for his survival. and yet kim dokja hates one but loves the other. his only means of contact with either woman was through a “wall”... they also gave up their stories, their lifeblood, for him at one point.

kim dokja's online persona <--> lee gilyoung both are fanatics to their interests (insects and twsa) and idols (funny, cuz it goes like this: lgy -> kdj -> yjh). they both clung to the first thing that'd help them survive and never quite learned to let go. both fiercely defensive of who and what they love...

kim dokja as a child <--> shin yoosung both carry survivor's guilt from their first murder and for taking advantage of people (kdj -> twsa characters; sys -> unnamed extras). both saw themselves as “bad” for a long time. both connect better to their comfort object (books and animals). both experience disconnected film theory and feel guilty enough from their other selves' actions to volunteer (atone by) suicide.

yoo sangah <--> yoo joonghyuk not my oddest comparison so far, but this still weirds me out. heewon's a close competitor but ysa won out. both are among the staunchest characters in their convictions. both realized they had to adapt to survive. both shed blood usually out of (self-justified) necessity. both are supported by powerhouses. both used one of the “three ways to survive” (reincarnation and regression). both have opposing yet similar deceptive personas (ysa is soft but can be sharp while yjh is cold but hides a warmth). both have chosen to trust kdj despite evidence otherwise. both terrify the rat a lot.

han sooyoung (“plagiarist”) <--> anna croft anuzzer odd comparison of mine... odder than the last. both are disliked by kdj from the start, but become his temporary and later permanent allies later on. both proclaim to know the future (credibility aside). both leaders of their own groups that ended up disbanding cuz of kdj. both at odds with kdj's protag.

kim dokja's antisociality <--> han donghoon both hide behind the screen. both have a severe distrust of people in general. both are good at reading between the lines. both probably terminally and chronically addicted to their phones.

kim dokja's relatives <--> the dokkaebis both milked kdj for all his worth and more. both tried extorting him (only one of them succeeded). both aired his dirty laundry to the public.

news reporters <--> constellations both are always hungry for stories. “thrill seekers” and “incarnation seekers”. both have hounded kdj against his will. some romanticize kdj, others stand quietly by his side, the rest want his head on a pike.

kim dokja towards yoo joonghyuk <--> fourth wall towards kim dokja sometimes pro, sometimes against. both like teasing their partners. both have snark and sass and unabashedly abuse it. both watched over their partner's long and lonely journey.

[tojisun]

WIP: still your passenger (re: deftones)

simon ghost riley x gn reader

!! angst; canon-compliant // i rlly loved this one but writers block hit me bad every time i try completing it :< might pick it up one day (hopefully!!)

there’s a new medic in the base – a pretty girl with a pretty smile, pretty eyes, pretty laugh. she’s beautiful, perfect with her auburn hair and her chestnut eyes; striking with her trimmed waist and sloping curves. 

you’ve only met her once when you needed an aspirin for your fever and never more after that, after all, there’s really not much of a reason for a base assistant like you to visit the station. so all that you’ve heard about her came from privates and base operators, greedy in the way they took in the sight she makes and how darling she looks. you can’t really blame them, not after seeing her; seeing how she is a beam of something soft and tender amidst their chaotic group.

it had been soap who started giving you the specifics.

her name’s erin, a lass hailing from yorkshire. the only family she’s got is a younger sister, anna, who is in university for astrophysics. 

“they’re a family of smart nuts,” johnny mused as he spun his shot of whiskey. “can you believe it? she’s pretty and wise.”

you oohed and aahed before telling him to remember to keep it in his pants because erin, beautiful and darling and gentle erin, is an important member of the squad. that she is necessary in the base; having been sought out for the very reasons that got johnny acting like a fool.

“of course i’ll keep it in!” johnny whined, bumping his head on the counter. “i don’t want to anger LT, y’know?”

cold dread washed over you upon hearing what he said, the quiet thrum of the alcohol being chased away by the slice of his words. you felt like bleeding, like you’ve been cut open and doused with ice, blistering chill creeping up from the softness of your lungs to your stuttering heart. 

“oh?” you remember asking, your voice startlingly void of emotions. “why would he be angry now?” your hands trembled and so you hid them from view, clenching them on your lap instead. 

johnny turned to you and quirked up a secretive smile. “why else?”

the weight of your grief pressed onto your chest, threatening to crack the columns of your ribs. you felt afloat, untethered, and you blinked back the sudden prickling you feel in the back of your eyes. 

you laughed with johnny, trying to smother the ache. trying not to drown in the harsh pools of your heartbreak.

because of course.

of course. 

you and simon are friends, but nothing more. nothing beyond the hushed voices and whispered ‘i’m glad you’re safe’ pressed onto each other’s cheeks because neither of you made things official anyway. no risks were taken, no promises to break. 

everything with him was just physical – chasing the cold nights away with the warmth of each other’s bodies pressed onto each other, fighting nightmares with each other's touches. 

sure simon cradled you in his tender embrace but that was all. just a temporary passion despite your everlasting yearning. 

“y’ready to go back to the base?” johnny asked and you said yes, another lie that dribbled from your trembling lips. because after that night, you knew that things were never going to be the same.

—————

ignoring simon was easy. it’s not like you needed to do much to avoid him, anyway, not with the way he was gravitating around erin. any other day it would have been laughable how simon followed her around like she’s got a bear of a man for her shadow but, well. seeing him be so taken by her makes you ache. 

the sparse moments he has that were sometimes spent with you were now overwritten by his visits to the facility where erin usually is. everyone who didn’t know that ghost was smitten over the new medic certainly knew now; he had long stopped making it a secret and instead, began to posture over those who tried pursuing erin. 

he was never a jealous man. that was until her, you guess.

and it’s not like you can fault erin for how simon acts, because could you blame him? could you blame anyone for that matter?

erin was, is, beautiful. she had a laugh that sounded like wind chimes and had a sparkle that perpetually made her eyes look brighter. she was soft even after seeing everyone’s troubles or their anger, always a beacon of tenderness amidst their bleeding wounds. but she was also fierce, a fighter with a bite that no one expected, but maybe you all should have because no one would ever survive being out in combat if one isn’t strong, anyway.

erin was, well, she was someone you knew simon needed in his life.

so, again, could you really blame him?

you have always known simon. you have always understood past his pretences – he wanted to settle. he wanted a life beyond the fight; wanted a family to come home to. 

he’s told you this so many times, hasn't he? murmured his wishes and desires at the top of your head as he cradled you in his arms, letting the exhaustion of the day bleed away from your pores as you shared a breath with him; he had waxed poetries for a distant future, one you have always thought you would have been a part of. 

one you thought you would have shared with him.

but you knew. despite your self-reassurances that you meant something to simon, you knew that when he envisioned his life, his future, it was one that did not include you.

it hurts, you thought to yourself as you pressed the back of your palms over your eyes. it hurts.

but how could it? how could you hurt over losing something that you never even had in the first place?

[florihye]

୨୧ PEACH EYES .ᐟ

⟢ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⠀ you were the one i need . . .

遊玩 ⎯⎯ @okwonyo's celestial ballet event ♡⠀ ◝⠀ words554, WARNINGS?! · kisses, idk % ty anna for proofreading!

the cold autumn air mingled with the gentle wind, nipping at sunghoon’s cloth-covered shoulders as he walked through the idyllic city, his path only being lit with whatever light the humble moon decided to shine upon him.

tonight, sunghoon was drained; he wanted nothing more but to go home and collapse into his baby’s loving arms, to stare into her umber pupils and never look away.

after what felt like an eternity, sunghoon arrived home. he wasted no time untying his shoelaces and opening the door, ready to be met with his girl at long last.

the sight awaiting him was chimerical: everything he could’ve hoped for, and more.

there she laid, resting atop the thin couch, periwinkle eyelids shut in delight bliss. your torso and thighs were loosely covered with the fabric of a large red hoodie that sunghoon recognized as his (you in sunghoon’s hoodies always made the lovesick boy lose his breath); somehow, even asleep, your beauty placed sunghoon into an illusive heaven of euphoria.

apart from you, sunghoon also noticed a small cake on the table, embellished with small frosting letters that read “welcome back, hoonie!” in a messy cursive style, confirming to sunghoon that you had made it yourself. he let out a low chuckle at the thought of you tactfully baking the cake just for him.

he dipped his milky white finger into the cake, smudging icing on his skin before licking the sugary creme right off, raising a pleased eyebrow at the saccharine taste.

it wasn’t long before sunghoon’s attention was back on you. he sat next to you on the sofa, calloused hands tangentially running all over your silky smooth cheekbones and through your sun-kissed locks; sunghoon smiled at the way you unconsciously leaned closer into his tender touch.

leisurely, you shifted your position, ending up with your head on his lap.

“hoon?” you mumbled sotto voce, drowsily gazing at sunghoon through your fluttering lashes. your eyes met sunghoon’s promising stare, alongside the slight smile that bloomed on his face like an early spring flower. “i missed you.”

“i missed you more.” sunghoon placed one of his hands around your waist and used the leverage to pull you up further into his arms, holding you tight while you hid your face within the nape of his neck. “‘m sorry i couldn’t be here any earlier.

you settled as close as you possibly could to the boy, smiling at the comfortable feel of his hands running over your thigh. “it’s ok, at least you’re here now.”

a small laugh graced your ears and you turned your head towards sunghoon, just to see his gleeful smile and shining eyes.

slowly and unconsciously, you brought your palm up to sunghoon’s cheek, pulling him close enough to lie your forehead atop his. the warmth of his skin made you delirious, almost. you couldn’t help but press your lips onto his, eyelids fluttering shut.

you basked in the feeling of your boyfriend’s lips; everything about him was blissful. leisurely and somewhat unsure, you pulled away from him for air, being greeted with his grinning face, making you giggle.

your head found its way back onto the boy’s chest as you sighed, content. with the moonlight and your boyfriend by your side, you were sure you could stay in this moment forever.

TAGLIST & NETWORK . . @sainns , @en-gelic , @thenastone , @xiaoderrrr , @belovedsthings , @cupidhoons , @antoncyng , @reverieki , @a-dream-bookmark ⎯⎯⎯⎯ back to THE LIBRARY!

[azzibuckets]

Paper Rings [Part 5/10 | Paige Bueckers]

paige bueckers x fem!reader

summary: the morning after

a/n: i love making people cry so some pretty angsty stuff up ahead 😁 forgive me for turning paige into a slight asshole

word count: 1.8k

masterlist w/ all parts

FLASHBACK: 1 YEAR AGO

The green LED light on Paige’s alarm clock blinked 3:07 AM. Paige had been up for the past two hours. Tossing and turning seemed like the right phrase, but she didn’t want to wake you, so all the turmoil stayed inside her head.

A burst of warmth ran through her body and flooded her senses whenever she looked at you. You were curled up against her side, lightly snoring. You looked so soft in the moonlight, and Paige wanted to take a photo of you like this and ingrain it inside her brain. But her mind’s been running non stop for the past 120 minutes, overcome with regret over what you two had just done.

Paige had always known of her tendencies. She wouldn’t call herself a player, because she never intentionally led girls on. She always made it clear to her one night stands what they were - a hookup, with no strings attached. But some girls never seemed to get it. Every so often there would be someone who got attached to Paige after just one night together and ended up leaving her apartment in tears, cursing her name. She hated when that happened, hated seeing them cry.

So she vowed to herself never to sleep with you. Not because she didn’t want you, because God knows how many sleepless nights she spent in this very bed, dreaming about the pink of your lips and the curve of your hips. But because she knew how complicated things would get. Your friendship was the one thing that had remained stable in Paige’s life the past few years. There mere thought of losing you made her heart pound and head throb.

So Paige had stayed strong. Never mind all those moments where her hands had lingered on your waist a little too long, or the fact that the wallpaper of her lock screen and home screen were both pictures with you, or the fact that you were the only person pinned on her messages app besides her family. She knew she couldn’t have you.

Paige brushed a strand of hair from your eyes, letting the pad of her thumb trail down your cheek. You stirred in your sleep, a smile drifting faintly across your lips, and shifted closer to her, burying your face in her abdomen. And in that moment, Paige realized two things.

#1. She was in love with you. Yeah, she’d always loved you as a friend. You were thoughtful and supportive, a best friend a person could ask for. But beyond that, you made her feel seen. To you, Paige wasn’t just a basketball player or a pretty face. You had broken through her barriers and made the effort to know her on every level, and that was what Paige in love with you.

#2. She didn’t deserve you. Paige thought back to all those times she’d canceled on movie nights because somehow she’d ended up again at the bar with her teammates, flirting with pretty girls while the prettiest girl sat alone in her room. Or when she’d briefly dated Anna, who had apparently been cold to you for their entire relationship, always making snide comments when Paige wasn’t around. But you had saw how happy Paige was (but not as happy as she was whenever she was with you), and had kept silent, not wanting to ruin Paige’s relationship. And even though Paige had broken up with Anna as soon as she’d found out about her behavior, she couldn’t quiet the voices in her head blaming her for letting someone treat you like that. You were the best person in the world, Paige thought. And you deserve someone who can give you all of that. Not me.

So after having come to those two conclusions, Paige knew what she had to do.

——————————-

You woke up in a daze. Checking your phone, you realized it was only 8 AM. Tired, you slumped back into the pilllow. The events of last night only came back to you when you moved the sheets of Paige’s bed and saw your bra.

You couldn’t help but smile as memories of fisted sheets, shaking legs, and hands intertwined in each other’s hairs came flooding back. You pressed your fingers to your lips, the lips that Paige had kissed over and over again just hours before. You and Paige had slept together, and everything had felt so right. And god, that was the best head you’d ever gotten.

Getting up, you heard clattering in the kitchen and footsteps outside. Assuming it was Paige, you didn’t bother to cover up when the door swung open, but your mouth fell open when you came face to face with Azzi.

“Oh my god!” Azzi shrieked. Both of you stared at each other for a second before you grabbed the comforter off Paige’s bed to cover your body. “Get out, get out, get out!” you yelled.

Azzi slammed the door. Heart beating fast, you rushed to find your clothes. “Did I just see what I thought I saw?” Azzi yelled from the other side of the door.

“Azzi Fudd, I will smack you,” you yelled back as you started to pull on your jeans.

“Did you and Paige sleep together?” She screamed. “Oh my god, she’ll kill me if she finds out I walked in on you like this.”

You fiddled with the buttons on your jeans. “That’s why we’re gonna keep this a secret. You’re not gonna tell anyone we slept together.”

“What?! But now Aaliyah and Nika owe me twenty dollars,” she complained.

You tugged on your shirt. “I’m gonna pretend that you didn’t just tell me that three of our closest friends made a bet on us sleeping together.” You opened the door and glared at a sheepish Azzi. “Now where the hell is Paige?”

“I dunno. I heard her leaving an hour ago. I thought I was home alone. You scared the shit out of me,” Azzi side eyed your sex and bed hair, and you ran your hand through it, trying to make it look less messy. “So, how was it?” Azzi leaned towards you with a sly smirk on her face. “Was it good?”

“Oh my god, Azzi.” You pushed her out of the way and grabbed your purse from the couch. “I’m leaving. You better keep your mouth shut.”

“No promises!” Azzi called after you, cackling as you left the apartment.

—————————

5 DAYS LATER

“Open the fucking door, Bueckers.” You rapped on the door of Paige’s apartment, impatiently tapping your foot as you waited.

After you heard noises from inside but she still refused to open the door, you knocked even harder. “I know you’re in there, asshole. Azzi told me you’ve been in here the entire day.”

Finally the door swung open, and I laid eyes on Paige for the first time since we’d slept together 5 days ago. Her hair was in a messy low bun, and she was wearing her grey UConn sweatpants and a sports bra. You ignored the blush that rose from your neck from seeing her bare abdomen, all sculpted and taut, and instead glared at her.

“What the fuck, Paige? You haven’t responded to any of my texts and calls in the last week. Are you seriously ghosting me?” You pushed past her into the apartment.

Paige stared at you, still not saying anything. The last five days had been hell. You knew that sleeping with your best friend would change things. It would be awkward, and unsure, but you and Paige have always been able to figure everything out. So you didn’t expect for her to drop all communication with you, leaving you alone in bed the morning after and then ignoring all your attempts to talk to her after.

Paige smirked at you, but it wasn’t tantalizing and seductive like the last time you saw her. It was sharp, calculated, like she knew something that you didn’t. “Damn, I was that good, wasn’t I?”

“Paige, I need you to be serious right now.” Your voice was rising in pitch, your frustration showing. “We need to talk about us.”

Paige folded her arms, and she had never looked so distant. “What is there to talk about?”

You pushed her, not hard, but enough for her to stumble back. “Okay, so you fucked your best friend, and now you don’t even wanna talk about it?”

Paige swallowed, and she looked away. “We lost in the Final Four that night.”

“Yeah, so?” Your face was flushed red with anger, and you felt hot all over. “What’s that gotta do with anything?”

She turned back to look at you. Her face was impassive now, and you wondered at who this girl in front of you was. It seemed like you didn’t even know her, this version of Paige. “It was a tough game,” she said curtly. “I needed to blow off some steam, and you were there.”

I needed to blow off some steam, and you were there.

You physically recoiled. Those words resounded in your mind, ricocheting from every corner, repeating itself until you went numb. You tasted something bitter in your mouth, a confirmation of what you had been worrying yourself sick about 24/7 for the past several days. “Are you fucking serious right now?”

Paige regarded you coolly. “I’m starting to get the feeling that you thought that night was a declaration of love or something. I mean yeah, you weren’t bad for your first time, but it was just sex.”

A jumble of something terrible and bitter began brewing in your stomach. It was a mixture of anger, and horror, and shock and pain, threatening to spill over. You didn’t know whether you wanted to sob or throw up. That night you had basically admitted to Paige that you had wanted her for so long but…had you been so foolish to believe that she actually liked you back?

“You’re really nothing but a slut, huh,” you scoffed. You felt like a dagger was stabbing you, brutally piercing you in the heart as those words were spit from your mouth, but you were so angry, so furious, you couldn’t stop. “You don’t care about anything but getting laid. You’re so fucking shallow.”

For a moment, you thought you saw hurt flash through Paige’s eyes. But she quickly recovered, and her face turned stony again. “I’m not the one who was like a little fan girl, so desperate that you jumped on me as soon as I gave you the chance.” Her lip curled.

We, whatever we were, were over, and we both knew it. We were throwing out insults, maiming each other in an attempt to mollify our own hurt. We were drowning, and you knew it, god you knew it, your lungs felt on fire and you felt like you were losing everything in my life all at once. And you were too weak to stop it. Too cowardly to apologize, to take all your words back, to tell her you loved her so much, that you would be willing to stay friends and only friends and ignore the fact that you were heads over heels for her, just so she would stay in your life and you could go back to what you were before you made the most stupid decision of your lives.

But none of that came out. Instead, you said words that you didn’t mean.

“Don’t talk to me ever again, Bueckers. I fucking hate you.”

“Gladly.”

[bruisedboys]

aaaand for candy cane, how about the cold prompt from the first list with loml steve 🫶🫶 congrats again on 6k mal! u deserve every but and more ily

anna my angel thank u sm!! i love you lots mwah xx

prompt: sender places their jacket over receiver's shoulders.

steve harrington x fem!reader

“You look cold.”

You pull your gaze from the horizon, where the sun’s just dipped below the long stretch of ocean ahead of you. Steve’s standing in front of you with his arms crossed over his chest and one hand cupping the opposite elbow. He’s frowning at you.

“Oh, hi, Steve,” you say, smiling up at him. He’s super tall. And super handsome. “I’m not cold.”

You kind of are. But you don’t want him to worry about you. He’d probably make the kids pack up just so he can take you somewhere warm, and they’re having the time of their lives playing volleyball on the beach right now. You’ve never heard Max laugh so much, and Dustin hasn’t complained about sand in his shoes once. You don’t want to ruin the fun just because you forgot to bring a sweater.

Steve hums in a disbelieving sort of way. You’ve got no escape as he sits down next to you on the log your perched on, stretches his legs out next to yours, and holds out his hands.

“Give me your hands?” He says, palms facing up.

Reluctantly, you put your hands on top of his. His skin is shockingly warm against your cold hands.

“Woah,” Steve says, eyebrows shooting up into his hair. He frowns at you as his thumbs push into the backs of your hands. “What are you, a snowman? You’re cold as ice, honey.”

Honey? You sit there dumbfounded for a moment. Meanwhile, Steve is sandwiching your hands between both of his in an attempt to warm you up, you suppose. It’s working, though you’re pretty sure it’s got nothing to do with his body heat, and everything to do with that fact that you have a schoolgirl crush on him and he’s really, really close right now.

“I’m fine,” you finally manage, a bit strained. It’s hard to think when he’s holding your hands in his, let alone talk.

Steve just frowns at you, disbelieving. “You should’ve said something sooner, babe,” he says. “Here, do you want my jacket?”

“No, Steve, that’s—“

But he’s already releasing you to shed his jacket, sliding it off his arms with ease to reveal a tight polo underneath. The material hugs his biceps, stretches across his lean chest. You’re so busy staring at his arms you forget to protest as he carefully places his jacket over your shoulders.

You’re instantly engulfed in a bubble of warmth. His jacket is a light material but it’s soft on the inside and much, much warmer than your thin t-shirt. Not to mention it smells so much like him it’s almost dizzying.

“There you go,” he’s saying, smoothing the material over your shoulders with his palms. His touching sends a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the cold. “Is that any better?”

“I— yeah. Yeah, Steve, thank you,” you stammer. Your heart pitter-patters in your chest. The jacket is nice but his kindness alone is enough to warm you through. “Thanks.”

Steve smiles at you. He doesn’t seem to notice your flustered state, or if he does, he doesn’t mention it.

“No problem,” Steve says, grinning boyishly. He rubs your shoulder one last time before drawing away. “Couldn’t let a pretty girl like you freeze to death.”

You spend the rest of your time at the beach hot as a flame.

[celebtf]

HANS AND THE MAGIC SNOW

In the kingdom of Arendelle, the winter chill had finally given way to the gentle warmth of spring. Anna and Kristoff's love blossomed alongside the blooming flowers, much to the envy of one man: Hans, the disgraced prince who once sought the throne through deception. Consumed by jealousy, Hans devised a plan to rid himself of Kristoff once and for all. He had heard whispers of an ice witch who hid in the forbidding mountains, known for her dark magic and powerful spells. Determined to win Anna's heart and take Kristoff's place, Hans set out on a journey to find her.

After days of treacherous travel, Hans stood before the ice witch's lair, an fortress of ice and snow. The witch, intrigued by Hans' ambition, agreed to help him—for a price. She handed him a vial filled with shimmering, enchanted snow. "Apply this snow to the face of the one you wish to become, and to your own," she instructed. "You will transform into them, and they will transform into you. But beware, for magic always comes with a cost."

With the vial clutched tightly in his hand, Hans returned to Arendelle under the cover of night. He waited for the perfect moment to put his plan into action. One evening, as Kristoff slept soundly beside Anna, Hans quietly entered their room. He sprinkled the magic snow onto Kristoff's face, watching as the transformation began. The snow glowed brightly as it touched Kristoff's skin, spreading like frost over his features. His skin tingled and then burned as the magic took hold, bones cracking and shifting under the pressure of the spell. His rugged jawline softened and narrowed, his cheekbones raised, and his nose became more refined. Kristoff's golden hair darkened to a chestnut brown, growing shorter and neater. His blue eyes flickered and shifted to a deep green. Kristoff's body felt like it was being stretched and compressed at the same time. His sturdy, muscular frame shrank, his broad shoulders narrowed, and his calloused hands softened. Even his voice altered, taking on Hans' smoother, more polished tone. His simple, practical clothes morphed into the fine, tailored attire of a Southern Isles prince.

Hans, trembling with anticipation, then applied the remaining snow to his own face. He felt a rush of cold spreading through his skin, as if his very essence was being reshaped. The sensation was overwhelming, like ice flowing through his veins. His own sharp features began to morph and broaden into Kristoff's. His chin and jawline squared off, his nose widened, and his cheekbones lowered. His red hair lightened to a sandy blonde, growing longer and wilder, matching Kristoff's unkempt look. Hans' body underwent a significant transformation. His lean build expanded into the muscular form of the ice harvester. He could feel his shoulders broadening, his arms thickening with muscle, and his hands becoming rough and strong. His height increased, giving him Kristoff's towering presence. His princely clothes transformed into Kristoff's simple, practical outfit, complete with fur-lined boots and gloves, fitting snugly over his new, muscular frame.In an instant,

Hans' appearance was now that of Kristoff, and Kristoff awoke to find himself in Hans' body. Dazed and horrified, Kristoff looked at his unfamiliar hands and felt his altered face, the mirror revealing Hans' face staring back at him. "+Anna, help!" he cried, but his voice—Hans' voice—only added to the confusion. Hans was quicker. He dragged Kristoff to the palace dungeons, claiming that the treacherous Hans had returned to exact his revenge.

Anna, heartbroken but trusting her beloved Kristoff, agreed to exile "Hans" to a remote island, far from Arendelle. As the real Kristoff was taken away, Hans—now in Kristoff's form—comforted Anna, whispering sweet lies and promises of a happy future together. With the real Kristoff gone and no one the wiser, Hans began his new life. He reveled in his newfound status, enjoying the love and admiration he had always craved. Anna, unaware of the truth, found solace in her new life with the man she believed to be Kristoff.

Far away, on a desolate island, the real Kristoff—trapped in Hans' body—struggled to survive, his heart heavy with despair and betrayal. No one would believe his story, and there seemed to be no escape from his lonely exile.And so, Hans, disguised as Kristoff, lived a life of comfort and affection, while the real Kristoff languished in isolation, the victim of a cruel and cunning plot. The tale served as a grim reminder that even in a land of magic and wonder.

If you like stories like this and many more, don't forget to follow my Patreon for Exclusive content and Stories.

[importantstudentbusinessspy-blog]

Chilling

Masterlist

Pairing: Henry X Reader

Synopsis: You were in love with the blacksmith's boy since you were both children. One day, he stumbles into into the apothecary, covered in blood and wounds, asking for you. As the last survivor of the hunting party, you start to suspect what has changed him.

Tags: fluff, eventual smut, werewolves, friends to lovers, mutual pining, angst, danger, some death, gore,

Chapter 2

The village buzzed with excitement as the sun dipped below the horizon. A makeshift stage stood in the village square adorned with torches and candels. The scent of roasting chestnuts and warm cider wafted through the crisp winter air.

You wore your beautiful festive dress, long, flowing sleeves ending in ruffles decorated with an intricate woven design of snowflakes, a tight bodice hugging your middle and starting at the top of your chest, emphasizing the necklace you made out of rocks from the lake. The bodice dipped into a flowing skirt that riches your ankles above your brown boots. Your hair was adorned with delicate braids and beads, which you worked on before braiding some of the girls' at the apothecary.

Rebecca urged you to go and enjoy the festivities for the night before coming back to help her.

You made your way to the village center to twinkling lights and cheerful laughter. The familiar faces of the villagers gathered for the winter solstice celebration.

You found yourself in the company of your friend, Anna. Your laughter mixes with the sound of singing and string instruments and flutes. You both twirled under the starlit sky.

Needing to take a breath, you stepped away from the dancing and laughter, finding solace near a soft glow of a slightly isolated bonfire. As you stood there, the cold winter air filled your lungs, and the quiet rustle of leaves added a calming break to the festivities.

Suddenly, a twig snapped, and a low growl emanated from a nearby bush. You turned, attempting to spot the source of the cryptic sound in the darkness of the trees. You couldn't make out anything in the shadows. An unsettling feeling lingered, as if something were right in front of you, just out of sight. Taking slow steps backward, you bumped into a hard figure. Startled, you turned to see Henry looking down at you with a quizzical expression.

"What were we looking for?" Henry asked, his brow furrowed in curiosity. He looked like he had just arrived from the smithy. Bis exposed arms under rolled up sleeves and was still covered in sweat and oil as he messaged his wrists. Your eyes trailed up to his tousled hair, light stubble covering his sharp jawline and finally his brown eyes, gazing down at you with amusement.

Still on edge from the mysterious sounds, you stammered, "I heard something. A growl."

Henry scanned the darkness behind, the shrugged, "Probably just a wandering animal."

As you tried to shake off the eerie sensation, your mind raced back to the cryptic dream from the previous night. In that dream, Henry had been both a source of comfort and fear, and the ominous warning of sinking teeth echoed in your mind.

Offering his hand, Henry said, "I saw you wander off. Didn't want you to be alone in the dark and cold."

Nervously, you took his hand, the warmth of his touch grounding you. Henry walked you towards the crowd, the festive lights flickering in the winter night. Just as you reached the edge of the celebration, he stopped and turned you to face him, concern etched on his face.

"Are you sure you're alright, y/n?" he asked, noting your slightly trembling hand.

You nodded, attempting to dismiss the uneasy feeling lingering from the mysterious sounds in the thicket. "I just remembered a dream I had-"

Realising what you had almost just admitted, you felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment.

Henry raised a single brow. "Was it a nightmare?"

You simply nodded.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

"No!" You answered instantly, feeling your face flush. "I mean, it's just a dream. It's nothing."

Henry looked off into the distance, clicking his tongue. "Once, I tripped over my own shoelaces and fell into a puddle. Another time, I mistook salt for sugar and ruined a batch of cookies. Jens never let me use the kitchen again."

You blinked at him, surprised by the sudden admissions. A sudden giggle escaped your lips, alongside the question, "Why are you telling me this?"

He shrugged, his hair falling onto his forehead. “Wanted to see you laugh."

The admission sent a thrill through you. Your eyes widened in amusement. "I remember that, I tried one of your cookies. Matthew gave it to me as a gift!" You chuckled, recalling the day Henry's best friend dropped off the "sweet" at the apothecary, only to have you throw it at him after you tried a bite. "That was your work?"

He closed his eyes in embarrassment. "Please tell me your nightmare wasnt about my baking." He mumbled.

You couldn't help but laugh at his self-deprecating humor.

Henry sighed, "Now, should we get back to the celebration? I've just closed the shop and I've been looking forward to the ale."

You joined the festivities in the mayor's lodge. The two-floor wooden structure stood as a testament to the mayor's status as the richest man in the village. You walked through the crowd, marveling at the intricate details of wall carpets from French artists, showcasing a life of luxury—finely crafted furniture, tapestries, and the warmth of a roaring fireplace.

The mayor emerged from the crowd, with a wide smile lighting up his face as he caught sight of Henry. Without hesitation, he thrust a drink into Henry 's hand, welcoming him.

"Henry, my man! How's the smithy doing these days? Still crafting the finest blades in town?" The mayor slurred, patting Henry on the back.

Henry, maintaining his calm demeanor, replied, "Business is good, sir.” Accepting the drink. "Working every day of the year," he sipped with a sigh.

The mayor bombarded Henry with questions, trying to impress him with the abundance of fresh food and the expert craftsmanship of the village carpenter who delivered his furniture. Feeling like a third wheel, you took a step side, but Henry's arm circled your waist, pulling your back with an exaggerated smile, wispering "Don't leave me with him."

You bit your lip, suppressing a smile, and let Henry lead you as the mayor continued the tour. The mayor, seemingly noticing your presence, turned to you with a friendly grin. "Y/n! How fares the apothecary?" he inquired.

Feeling shy under the mayor's attention, you nodded. "All is well, Mayor. Just the usual healing and remedies."

The mayor turned back to Henry. “Y/n here once saved me from an awful bee sting. Your potions work wonders!"

You wanted to correct his use of the term “potions” but you held back.

Henry, joining in the playful banter, nudged you with his elbow. "We're lucky to have her, Mayor. A true lifesaver, isnt she?"

You smiled humbly, brushing your hair behind your ear.

Henry chuckled, his gaze lingering on your flushed face. He let the mayor drunkenly stroll along and asked you. “Any more patients who need your help today?”

You confessed, "No. I was planning to go home afterward."

Henry's mischievous smirk turned into a determined grin. "No way. We're going to Matthew's cabin by the lakeside. You need a break, and a dip in the water will do you good."

You began to shake your head. “Henry, no.”

The Winter Shock was a foolish tradition that the village youth upheld. Each winter solstice, they took a dip in the cold lake before it froze. No one knew how or why the tradition had started, but the adrenaline rush of the cold water was admittedly fun enough to justify it for some of them to keep doing.

“Y/n yes,” Henry insisted, pulling you along until the two of you were outside, making your way past the torches and towards the cabin.

“Have we not outgrown this?” You whined, seeing the smiles on your friends' faces as they all came to join you at the fisherman's Cabin.

“Do I hear you complaining again, y/n?” Matthews' voice piped up before he appeared in front of the two of you, holding hands with one of your other friends, Eugenia. His blond hair was brushed out but somehow covered with flower crowns, you guessed he snatched some from the girls. “So predictable.” he whined about you.

You rolled your eyes at that. “You know what else is predictable? The fever you will inevitably get tomorrow morning.”

"Im not worried." Matthew planted a kiss on your cheek. “The best healer In our village will take good care of me.”

You smiled.

Matthew raised a brow. “I meant Rebecca.”

He ducked as you picked up a handful of snow and tossed it at him. “Save the snow for later!”

When you reached the fisherman's cabin, a group already sat on the dock, their feet dipped into the cold water.

Matthew sighed, gazing out at the quiet lake. "This season hasn't been bringing much. The stream nearby is usually full of salmon, but my father and brothers haven't ventured there yet because of bears roaming around."

You, trying to lighten the mood, quipped, "Bring Peter with you. He's the first-place champion in our archery tournament two years in a row."

Henry scoffed at the praise, but then he grinned and reminded you, "Yes, but he's only the second strongest in weightlifting in the village. After me, of course. Three years in a row."

You shook your head at his childlike pettiness. Discarding his shirt, Henry leaped from the dock into the lake, surprising the group of companions who all shouted and backed away from the splash. He resurfaced, shaking his hair, droplets decorating the lean muscles of his shoulders as he urged the group to join him. "Come in!"

Without hesitation, Matthew followed suit, as did some more of the boys and girls, leaving you and the rest on the dock. You turned to look for a place to sit, and before you could, strong arms embraced you from behind, and you were pulled into a freezing, wet embrace.

You gasped, “Henry!” panting against the shockingly cold water conflicting with Henry's body heat against your skin.

Soaked and slightly annoyed, you turned around in his arms to face him. Droplets hung down from his hair and eyelashes as he grinned down at you. The stubble he sported made him look both boyishly charming yet rugged. And the oil and sweat from the smithy were gone thanks to the water. In his strong embrace, you felt small and delicate, contrasting with Henry's towering presence. You felt hard muscle everywhere your skin met his. Playfully, he declared, "I've got you. What are you going to do now?"

His words, though meant as playful, made your heart quicken. The dream then took an unexpected turn, shifting into darkness, leaving you to ponder the lingering emotions from the youthful escapade by the lakeside.

"What are you gonna do, I have you at my mercy, little lamb?" Henry whispered in your ear, and while the words sent a rush through you, you couldn't help but recall last night's nightmare.

I want to sink my teeth into you.

You couldn't help but feel like prey.

Suddenly, a distraught Valerie and Peter burst onto the clearing out of the woods, clutching a lifeless body. Tears streamed down Valerie's face as he pleaded, "Please, help her!"

Everything froze. You freed yourself from Henry's arms and rushed to Valerie's side, your heart sinking as you saw the gruesome sight and, worse, recognized the girl in her and Peter's arms as your friends' little sister, Alice. The child's throat had been brutally torn out, leaving only a lifeless shell. Everyone in the cabin began exchanging whispers, worries, and screams.

"I'll go get Markus." You heard someone mutter, indicating Alice's brother.

“What happened to her?” You asked the couple who brought her, cradling the girl in your arms.

“We don't know.” Valerie weeped. “We were on my way here through the fields, and I saw her laying on the ground.”

“It must have been an animal attack.” Peter supplied. “Those are bite marks around her throat.”

Your dream appeared before you, and you swallowed nervously.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You all brought the girl's body back to the village, to her mourning family. A similar tragedy unfolded the following week, and then three more in rapid succession. Each time, grief descended upon the village like a relentless storm, leaving a trail of shattered families and unanswered questions.

In the dimly lit church, the village gathered for solace and guidance. You came late from the apothecary and stood against a cold stone wall, listening to the village preacher address the crowd. His voice tried to steady the shaken villagers, assuring them that a hunting party would be dispatched to eliminate the beast responsible for the gruesome deaths.

As the preacher read the names of the chosen men, your heart clenched when he'd called out the final one: "Henry."

The crowd's reaction was divided—some nodding in agreement, others expressing worry. You fell into the latter group, eyes tearing up, your thoughts silently pleading for him to return home safely. The council had ended, and people began to disperse. With a heavy heart, you left the church, unaware of Henry's searching gaze following you. Back at the apothecary, you delivered the news to Rebecca and at home to your family, the gravity of the situation sinking in. Rebecca's reaction was a worried shake of her head while continuing to make remedies.

"If anyone can kill that thing, it would be Henry.” Your brother spoke during dinner. “He's strong, and he's no fool. Not by a longshot."

You tried your best not to show your worry as your family discussed the situation. Sophie hugged you longer than usual before kissing your head and wishing you a good night.

That night, sleep eluded you, your mind haunted by visions of the impending danger that loomed over Henry and the hunting party.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The village awaited the return of the hunting party with bated breath. A week passed in ominous silence, and as each day slipped away without news, your heart sank deeper. You prayed for Henry 's safe return, even if it meant he returned to someone else.

One day, six members of the hunting party had returned from the hunting party, battered and wounded. There were eight of them who had left originally. Henry wasn't among them. You felt your heart physically tighten as a sob threatened to escape. You took a moment to bring yourself together before getting back to work at the apothecary. The men's recounting of their encounter with the wolf.

"We saw it. It was huge!"

"That thing was no wolf."

"It almost ripped me in half."

"It was a demon! Not an animal."

Most of them screamed. One of them, Asher, a young farmer, was so shellshocked that he didn't even speak. You had to read him and bring him water as he sat motionless on a cot.

Helping Rebecca patch them up, you returned home, exhausted. That night, and several after it, you cried yourself to sleep.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

One quiet morning, around a week after the return of the hunting party, the apothecary held only a handful of patients. The door creaked open, and in he stumbled.

You gasped, mouth dropping, as did nearly the towels you were holding on your way to the sick bed. Henry stood at the door. Alive. Thank god!

A broken and bloodied figure of the man you'd loved. Of the man you were worried had been dead slumped against the door.

His terrified gaze met yours, hazel eyes, wet with tears and red with pain.

"Y/n," your name escaped his raspy lips before he fell unconscious with a hard thump, the sight sending shockwaves through the somber atmosphere.

[slashy-hanako]

Dead by Daylight Killers Being Jealous

Reader insert, no use of Y/N, gender neutral.

This is my first time writing on this account, I hope you like it. 

Characters included: Anna (Huntress), Caleb Quinn (Deathslinger), Danny Johnson (Ghostface).

☠Warnings: Blood and gore, strong language, sexual themes.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ 

♥ Anna - The Huntress ♥ 

Such an athletic and skillful woman would prove to be a great challenge for anyone looking to reach your heart. Behind the mask, there is a face marked by war and famine but still beautiful with its modest charm. Anna is a territorial lover, you are hers and anyone who crosses the line she sets will meet her hatchets. She is violent with her impulses, you would have to stop her from acting upon simple interactions you might have with friends, such as friendly hugs or hand-shakes. Anna does not try to hide her feelings, it will take a good time to educate her about the boundaries of what is appropriate, and even if she loosens her grip on you a little she will still overreact if she sees someone actively flirting with you.

It was a cold evening, you found yourself shaking even near the campfire, your body trembled and your skin arched in response to the chilling wind biting through your defenses, even with a coat the fog seemed to swallow all the heat from the surroundings. You could not bear it any longer and indulged in the request of a survivor to keep you warm, lying by their side so they could wrap their arms around your frame. You knew they liked you, and it felt terribly wrong to allow them to be this close just because you needed it, still you ignored the thoughts and closed your eyes. You felt warm and were finally able to sleep. 

As the hours passed, your slumber was interrupted by the feeling of strong hands holding your waist, it was not like the other survivor who had kept you warm through the night, it was different. You felt the hot breath of the broad figure behind you, so close to your neck, the voice that hummed a lullaby was the familiar one of the Huntress. You were shocked, wondering how she got there, but you remained silent as she embraced you tightly and placed a leg over you, you were being squeezed and it was all the warmth you ever needed.

When she left, after you had proper rest, the camp was empty; she had scared all the other survivors, luckily violence was not allowed outside of trials, but she would sharpen her hatchets to focus on a certain someone who dared to take advantage of your vulnerability.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ 

♥ Caleb Quinn - The Deathslinger ♥

Caleb was a rough man, unpolished and disheveled all around, he never felt confident about his appearance, or his age, or his personality; he didn’t have much during his life, and his passions had been stolen from him, but not anymore. He is not one to express it loudly, it is difficult to read his deadpan expression, but when his left eye twitches and he clenches his teeth it is because something is bothering him. 

He might pin you against a wall and be direct with his questions about what is happening, Caleb is blunt like a mace and too anxious to allow the possibility of someone taking you from him, and when he gets a name things will be complicated.

It was not unusual for relationships to blossom amidst survivors, the time in the entity’s realm would go so slowly sometimes that having another human to hold was what kept one from snapping. You had seen a certain someone stealing glances at you, during the trials they would constantly follow you around and on occasion even pulled you with them inside a locker, claiming that it was to keep you safe. You had noticed those advances, but your heart belonged to someone else, and this someone had a dead aim. 

It was a trial like any other, if not for the fact that the Slinger was not paying too much attention to you and the other two survivors, instead he would chase only one person, the same one who kept flirting with you every time you were together. You knew exactly what was happening, but you would not dare saying it in front of Caleb, if you accused him of being jealous he would be mad. Instead, you focused on doing the gens while he kept your friend on the ground, watching them crawl around like a slug.

The bounty-hunter would follow the miserable soul, his boots oftenly making contact with their body as he kicked them around and smirked, delighted with the cruelty and suffering. “If I see your hands on them again, I will make sure you can no longer use them.” He would mumble, piercing the back of the survivor with the spear of his marvelous weapon; Death to Shorebay, what a masterful piece of art that gun was, perfect for torture as the Deathslinger kept the harpoon stuck in the survivor’s body to drag them around until they bled out. 

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ 

♥ Danny Johnson - The Ghostface ♥

As an inquisitive spectator, Danny has watched survivors from far away, he had his moments of voyeurism and shameless photography while invading their privacy, be it inside or outside trials, after all there are no rules against making pin ups with pictures. But you were especially intriguing to him, you knew someone had been following you, leaving mysterious notes for you to read, mostly with strange questions and nonsensical observations; ‘What is your favorite horror movie?’ had been the start, followed by a note written in blood ‘You like a man with a knife?’, it was disturbing and you expected it to be a prank from one of the survivors, maybe someone was just having a good time laughing at how distressed you became. 

But time worked its wonders and soon you dismissed these events as nothing but a hoax from your friends. You could sleep in peace, and it was during one of these moments of careless slumber that you were awakened by the feeling of gloved hands caressing your skin, groping, pinching, someone wanted to call your attention. When you opened your eyes, there was the sight of the Ghostface white mask, his hand covered your mouth so you would not scream, and he showed you his knife, running the tip of it delicately over your chest. Was he crazy? Killers were not allowed to do that outside of trials.

“Now keep your fucking mouth shut, darling.” He warned, caring little about the entity’s rules “I will not hurt you, at least not now.” His voice sent shivers down your spine, he was too close. “I saw you are getting close to that… What is their name…? Uh… I forgot.” He shook his head “I thought we had something, you know. I sent you so many letters and now you betray me, holding hands with that lame bag of flesh.” It made sense now, he was the one stalking you. 

Danny was delusional for sure, he had lived too much inside his own head, with his sick fantasies and distaste for society in general. A man like him lived only to spread violence, chaos, he was an avatar of decay.

“I will give you one last chance, next time we meet, you bring them to me, and I will pretend this never happened.” Then he cleared his throat “If you don’t…” He pressed his left hand on your neck, the mist enveloped him, threatening to take him for punishment for crossing the lines, then his grip loosened “You are mine. Remember that.” He muttered, standing up and tossing a picture at you, before disappearing in the shadows.

The picture was a nice one of you in an intimate moment with someone else, but their head was cut from the picture. 

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ 

[taemcains]

your love is sunlight — cainlane

lane helps cain wash the blood off his wings and gets a thank you in return. ao3

cw: blood mentions

🎧 julia shortreed - broken wings

Pale golden light streams into Lane's shared room, falling on the soft carpet in a mosaic mirroring the elegant swirls on the balcony door. The picture of coziness it creates, along with the spread of reference books spilled like a domino of cards around her, brings her back to high school and days spent cramming for exams with the spring sunshine in North Carolina watching over her like a guardian.

The tremors of a door slamming shut on the ground floor dispel the mirage. Lane blinks hard, bringing herself back to Rotkov's eternal winter and her task, which is considerably more crucial and much more demanding than memorizing chemistry equations.

The Book and her notebook are each balanced precariously on her knees. Reference books lay further down from her, tossed away in rising frustration. Her wrist aches and her back has been steadily cramping from her abysmal posture, but she remains hunched over, picking up her trail of thought and leaving behind unnecessary memories to continue scrawling in her notebook.

Shadows pool on the floor, chasing away the imitation of home and warmth. Lane's head whips up to face the balcony, hair lashing against her back.

White obscures gold. It flashes once, painting the room cold before swerving to the back of the estate.

Real warmth bubbles up in her chest. Cain is back from his night patrol.

Lane spent all of ten minutes in the morning trying to inconspicuously grill the squad about his whereabouts before her mind grew disgusted by her pathetic state. Cain is an immortal. Whatever stalks the forest and whoever hides in the town should be, are, terrified of him. Worrying about someone who can handle himself, when she has a plethora of problems is fatuous. She resolved to put it out of her mind and surrender to the Book instead.

An hour later, huddled under every blanket and comforter looted from her room, the upholstered chair doing little to battle the cold, she muses. Why do you become so irrational when you… have someone? Her hand is unsteady, fingers trembling from the cold, but she makes a valiant effort to jot something down.

Anna shoots her the most judgmental glance she's received in her life. ‘Why are you freezing to death near the balcony when the bed is right there?’

Lane tries to shrug but she doubts the slight movement would be visible under ten layers of wool. ‘The cold will keep my mind awake. I could get a new perspective on the Book.’

Anna almost looks offended at how little thought Lane put into lying to her. She scoffs. ‘Is that what they're calling it now?’ She scowls at a distant spot in the sky, willing the extent of her disdainful glare to reach that angel wherever he is, before turning on her heel and leaving, muttering about ‘beautiful women falling for idiot men’ and ‘why do you never learn, Anna?’

Her mind doesn't linger too long on Anna, but circles him, as always, a whirlpool of memories and longings. She tried to choke down her worry along with mouthfuls of tea earlier, but it spews up with a redoubled vengeance. No matter how many times her exasperated mind reassures her of the angel's strength and safety, her heart refuses to quiet, pacing anxiously with a thump-thump-thump echoing through her very bones.

Are you satisfied? Everyone wants to know whether I even have a heart anymore but you keep it, toss it, and catch it with the dizzying speed of your changing whims. I don't miss that. But I miss you.

Admitting that she missed him was apparently the last straw for her mind, who was jeering at this display of yearning. Lane leapt to her feet, yanked around by the strings of her rational mind that was hard at work to erase this maudlin moment from her day. She climbed into bed, pulled the required materials to herself like a shield and lost herself in the arcane, her mind alight and awake, ready to beat her heart into submission.

Now she allows herself to exhale a shameful ‘I missed you’ to the knowing shadows of her room and let relief unfurl through her bloodstream like a ribbon.

All the romance novels and movies she'd gorged herself on in her teenage years with the relished humiliation of crawling back to an unfaithful lover, had painted love in pink, soft and bloodless. But for Lane, love is a violent intrusion, spinning her mind and heart out of control. If she'd known she would feel so foolish, she would've accumulated more experience, to chart cumulative data and predict the best response in any situation. But Cain's not like anyone she's ever met. He's not like anyone at all.

Plotting Cain would be an impossible task as he shifts a little every time she sees him, a kaleidoscope that never shows the same pattern twice. But won't he let her try? To map his impossibilities across a lifetime like counting stars in the night sky, the only futile task she wants to squander away her time on with the languidness of summer days slipping away.

Contrary to his own impossibility, he seems to have her entirely mapped out, tracing the rivers of her veins with his fingertips and the ridges of her spine with his eyes. She didn't have to ask. Cain understood her, like he once promised, and her working style which he condensed aptly as ‘You wouldn't look up from the Book unless there's a second apocalypse.’ So his wings blinked at her, sending her a sign.

Was he counting on her being able to glimpse the maelstrom of riddles behind every guileless movement of his? Delivered with a susurration of his wings, an order, a request, or the gentle luring of a lover: Come find me.

His wishes are clear, but Lane hesitates, out of her own warring desires. Her heart is almost halfway out the door, straining to settle sleepily against his voice, but her feet remain planted to the floor, roots extending through wood, bypassing time and space, sprouting out of her father's office.

Wood polish. Expensive leather. An angular man leaning over her seven-year-old self. ‘Please do not bother me when I'm working, Lane. Go see to your mother.’ Which was perhaps the greatest condemnation of all, her own father who could not see her mother's umbilical cord strangling her lovingly around her neck, a tie she could never rid of even two decades later.

The memory fractures. Warmth beckons her from the fissure and she follows as if ensorcelled. The press of a thigh to her own. The specter of fingers through her hair. The fracture widens. The tickling of feathers against the small of her back. Her father's office and her younger self preserved in contrition are swallowed into the dark.

The last fragments of the memory are brushed away by an ambrette voice that lifts her and carries her back to the body of her present self, gently setting her down in reality. Tendrils of him and his essence are already curled around her, sweetpea flowers budding around her neck, watching over her when he can't.

Glimpses of him in her memories don't appease her. Lately, even his fleeting touches, light enough to absolve him of intention, do nothing to sate the hunger roiling in her. Come find me.

Guided, or rather, misguided, by the reckless abandon that entangles with desire, Lane crosses the room and doesn't let herself hesitate to wrench the door open. Her eyes hone in on the ornate door at the far end of the hallway, quiet and anodyne.

The estate is still, the history of those hallowed halls, almost a physical presence draped heavy over her shoulders, watching as Lane's hushed footsteps ghost over the floor. She knows her efforts are in vain; he must've heard the click of her door opening, but it felt sacrilegious to stomp over in an estate teeming with revenants.

She comes to a standstill outside his door, heart awake and thrashing. He could probably hear it through the wood, no barrier fortified to the aching of her heart to be a plaything in his hands again. But he waits, lets her settle on going to him or turning away.

She knocks lightly.

‘Come in.’ His voice, smooth and even, with the barest drops of an emotion she couldn't identify, sends a trickle of reassurance down her chest.

Ominous that the creaking of the door is, when Lane peers inside, gingerly stepping past the threshold like an inexperienced thief, Cain is whole and unhurt, lips curving up as salve to her twinging unease. Her heart finally rests.

As relief streams through her blood, her eyes cascade down his figure intently. Silvery fabric molds to his skin, translucent where pearls of water trickle from the damp ends of his hair. Black slacks cling enticingly to his thighs, every slight shift flaunting the statuesque lines of his body. His wings flare, serrated edges silhouetted by daylight, a personal sunset.

Her eyes widen. Cain, who was watching her riveted gaze with a touch of satisfaction pulling up the corner of his mouth, interjected smoothly. ‘It's not mine. A spawn was found close to city lines.’

‘Is that what you were busy with all morning?’ She asks, alarm fading into distraction. Blood lashed against white wings, macabre and ethereal. Offsetting, Lane thinks, no, enhancing temptation, disoriented by her own strange desires.

‘Yes.’ His voice dips, softness melting it. ‘Were you alone for long?’

‘No,’ she answers absentmindedly, eyes transfixed to the startlingly intimate sight of his bare feet. Unarmoured like this, without the chainmail of his condescending sneer and paradoxical words, he seems closer than ever. Like she would only need to reach out for her fingertips to graze soft skin and sculpted muscle, obscured to the rest by shadows and secrets.

Appeased, he turns to the side, pushing back his drenched sleeves around his elbow. Only then does the room start to come together in snatches. Clothes strewn across the carpeted floor, his jacket a bloodied heap by the balcony, transponder thrown on the bedside table. A basin with murky water seated on the dresser, a rag dangling haphazardly from it. Precise to him, messy to others. Not unlike the owner himself, she thinks.

Satisfied with her appraisal, she peeks over at him. Leaning over the basin, rag coiled loosely around his hand, he looks half sunken in a dream. Only the rustling of his wings betray his restlessness.

Her spine is yanked straight by a part of her, a phantom cerebrum spawned to gauge and dissect every shift in his body and every quirk of his mouth. Cain would never allow himself to be so absent. Her heart screeches with alarm, and her mind reluctantly allows the theatrics, admitting the oddness of his behavior.

‘Cain?’ she calls quietly.

Regret follows almost immediately. At the most inopportune moment, she realizes she has no idea how to proceed when he responds. Cain has always taken care of her in his own absurd way, the experience irksome even as the memory fills her empty soul with sunlight. But Lane could hardly care for herself, much less an immortal.

His lashes flutter, moth wings skimming his skin as he blinks out of his daze. ‘Sorry, I was lost in thought.’ His eyes clear, latches clicking shut inside him. ‘I should clean my wings.’ They flick, avouching his words. ‘Not exactly the amorous activity you were envisioning, I'm sure.’

Her eyes narrow but they cannot lance metal. He meets her scouring gaze with calculated repose. His shoulders sink, memories imploding within, then return to their usual assured set, dust settling in the span of a blink.

Only a second, but it's enough for Lane to pry at the chips in his marmoreal mask. She sighs softly as slivers of his bare face come into view. He's… tired. So, so tired. Abandoned by heaven, shunned by earth, untouchable on his altar of divinity. Angel, priest, soldier. Beautiful as a statue, but who dares to touch him? Who can he hold?

Sensing the weight of her thoughts, he straightens imperceptibly, shuttering off any weakness.

Even now, after hurting and helping and licking their wounds, they still hesitate, circling each other like sharks scenting blood, the instinct to hurt before getting hurt honed and layered like second skin, excruciating to rip off. But they can't keep holding onto an infected limb that devours the rest of the body. Years of violent instinct wars with a fragile, blossoming ache.

The words spill out of her lips, noxious blood evanescing, her first breath without her own violence pressing down on her sweet and fresh. ‘Let me help.’

His eyes snap back to hers and lock their gazes. Narrowed, assessing, wary, they're as entrancing as ever. He sighs, the same side emerging victorious in him. ‘I'll give you a chance to back out. I'm warning you now that your arms will ache for the next week.’

‘I won't come complaining to you,’ she says dryly, the secret curve of his mouth sending a flurry of warmth through her.

He follows her lead, effortlessly carrying the basin to an empty spot in the center of the room, sunlight casting the illusion of warmth on the rug. He sets it down and folds himself into a cross-legged posture, somehow elegant even while sitting on the floor.

Lane follows suit, kneeling behind him on the plush carpet. She ties her hair back into a loose knot and pulls back her sleeves, goosebumps arising on her exposed skin immediately. She shivers, body noting the frigidity of his room while she herself is enraptured by the angel.

This close to him, the diaphanous material of his shirt coyly divulges flashes of his body. The slope of his shoulder blade. A channel down his lower back. The sylphlike curve of his waist. Lane exhales slowly, expelling the need to touch him and trace his skin. The intoxicating heat radiating off him doesn't abate the desire to drape herself over his back and see what he'd do.

‘Having second thoughts? Maybe your delicate arms hurt already?’

She rolls her eyes, abruptly breaking through for air. The same person who tenderly drowns her in the thick, languid ocean of desire also hauls her out of it with his infuriating quips.

He slides the basin over to her in reparation.

Experimentally dipping her fingers into the basin, she sighs with relief at the lukewarm water. She dunks the rag in, drenches it, and pauses, water dripping rhythmically onto the floor, lapped up by the carpet. How sensitive are his wings? She remembers the library incident with a quivering in her stomach, the idea of her touch making him still heady more than any wine or pomegranate juice. How hard can she use the rag on them?

His voice is glazed with amusement. ‘This feels familiar. Now is the time to ask me if I'm gloating.’

That settles it. ‘Why should I when I know the answer?’ she replies as she presses the rag to the base of his wing agonizingly gently. He jerks, the beginnings of a low gasp escaping past his teeth before he quiets, wings flaring.

Lane bites her lip to rein in a smirk, throat going dry at the noise and where else she'd like to hear it, again and again.

‘Have it your way, then. Is this payback for that time in the library?’ he retorts, shoulders unnaturally tense.

‘What do you mean?’ she says lightly, carefully moving the rag from the base to the top. His wings rustle and flick, but settle quietly.

A light laugh floats through the air, melding seamlessly with this impossible afternoon.

Cain stays quiet as she works her way through the large expanse, occasionally trembling as she grazes certain spots. She makes mental notes of them, for future reference. Or for leverage.

Her nose wrinkles as she nears the tip of his wing. Spawn gore clumps to the feathers, a sickly sweet smell emanating from the blood.

Cain almost whirls around at her first cough. ‘I'll deal with the rest. You've done enough.’

She waves him off. Before she could think it over again, her hand cups his shoulder, turning him away. A tremor goes through her at her boldness, the heat of his muscle and bone against her fingers warming her entire arm.

‘You reek,’ she says airily, only to douse the incalescence of his gaze, burning her more than his skin as she touched him like she had the right to.

‘Who came to whose room?’

A gradual undoing, Lane watches as her own hands cast magic, turning back time, water swilling blood from his wings, leaching them pure and white.

She retraces her path, returning to the base of his wings where stubborn flecks of blood linger on the feathers. Faltering for just a second, she discards the rag. Her fingers, a gentler heir, glide over the plumage, outsing sanguine settlers.

Cain arches like a cat, allowing himself a muffled moan before rebounding, curving into her. A shuddering breath is the only movement she shows. His back barely brushes her front, the faint contact sparking a riot in her head, one side chanting lean in close, closer, the other pull away I can't breathe anymore.

As the sun drops lower into the sky, in tandem he sinks lower onto her, the silky strands of his hair chilling her chin, the weight of his body warm and comforting. His initial wariness washed away with the blood, he's as cozy and relaxed as a housecat dozing in a patch of sunlight.

Disappointment unfurls petals inside her chest as the last of the blood is wiped away, wings gleaming in the sunlight. Enveloped by him, his body, his scent; sweet and faintly musky, entirely him with the effect it had of wanting to fall headlong into his lies, time has no meaning. The world waiting with ravenous jaws holds no importance when he's quiet and boneless in her arms.

‘Cain?’ she whispers, unsure if he's awake.

‘Hmm?’

Her toes curl into the carpet. His usual liquid smooth voice has been rendered low and thick, drowsiness dipping his tone.

She hesitates. Is it worth jolting him from his place against her—as it should be, her heart croons— for her selfish desire of wanting to look at him?

Ironically, it's her indecision that awakens him, alertness seeping back in. He slips out of her hold, a gentle thief escaping into the night, and turns to face her. ‘What is it?’ he asks, traces of worry playing in his voice.

I wish I could look at you when I want to without searching for an excuse. I wish you would keep being near to me. I want you to keep seeing me.

‘Nothing,’ she bites out, frustrated with herself, eyes catching on an anomaly in the blinding purity of snow. ‘There's dried blood crusted in your hair.’

He sighs, mindlessly patting his hair, completely missing the spot.

‘Let me,’ she interrupts quietly, pieces falling into place, desire breathing her wishes to life.

He eyes her curiously. Whatever he finds makes his mouth twitch and obediently lower his head, submitting to the ministrations of her fingers. A thrill fires through her like an arrow. She quite likes the idea of him bowed and hazy-eyed in front of her.

Her fingers ease into silken strands, white and gold playing on her skin. They trail unwillingly, longing to linger and straighten the wisps hanging over his eyes for him. She flicks the rusty flakes off, careful to not tug at the strands.

Hyperaware of every steady inhale and exhale of his, her own breathing wavers, growing shallow. She attempts to veer her attention back to his hair, instead of the proximity of her chest to his face, when his arm curves around her waist, long fingers splaying out, burning her from rib to hip.

Before she could steady herself to this, him, his thumb traces the jut of her rib. All coherent thought dissipates. Heat whirls up her insides. His fingers trail teasingly over the curve of her waist before stilling on her hip, and she wishes with sudden, fervent clarity that he would play on her skin. Be so familiar to him that he would reach for her to ease his restlessness, her hipbone echoing his music, instead of an undeserving slab of wood.

‘Your knees must hurt. Sit.’ He sounds from below her, words almost breathed into her throat. His voice lowers, a surrender just between them. ‘I can bow down for you.’

She lowers her eyes to his. A misstep. Hazy from sleep, sharp in the corners, sunlight sands down his usual jagged gaze and wicked smirk, turning him into a visage of heaven. Angelic, she thinks for the first time since she awoke to him, both at the rift and at the estate.

Cain has always been inhumanely beautiful from the moment she saw him glowing like an impossible mirage amidst blood and snow, but his beauty is almost unbearable now that she's seen the planes of that same untouchable face contort in anger, slacken in tiredness, soften in fondness. Every feature has been slashed into her mind since their first meeting, but he's a mystery she'll never tire of. She studies each detail with the same fascination as the first time.

Gold clings to every lash with the devotion of the sea returning to sand. Dawn rises in his eyes, the only place where she looks forward to sunrise. Cheekbones like cliffs, sweetpea pink lips. Twin moles wink at her from below his eye and cheek, a taunt mirrored in his eyes: What will you do now?

He tilts his head up, her hand that lay forgotten in his hair sliding down like rain. Brow bone, cheekbone, till the base of her palm curves against his jaw.

She's holding his face in her hand. What will you do now?

Her eyes hesitatingly find his again. The same eyes that speared into her being, trying to unravel her before she could undo him, that held and kept all his secrets, now betray him and look at her with undisguised tenderness. His gaze is the only mirror she can stand to look at herself anymore, her callousness and apathy smoothed over by his affection.

She loops her free arm around his neck, feeling his shoulders tense in surprise. In no reality will she come out of this unscathed. But would it be worth being hurt by these same hands that hold so gently?

Her eyes flit to his lips. Oh, but it would be worth being condemned to hell by this mouth. His lips part, luring her in before the din of doors slamming and a chorus of intermingling voices shatters their retreat.

Lane is off the floor and three feet away from him before he could even blink. His tenderness ripples into a scowl. His eyes glint a lurid red as he rises to his feet.

‘I should go,’ she says hastily, impatient to curse every member of the squad and then pore over every second of this afternoon before it dissipates like a dream.

‘And where are you rushing off to?’ he asks, notes of ire lurking in his voice.

She raises an eyebrow. ‘My room. I don't think the General will be pleased about me spending quality time with you instead of working.’

His mouth curls in derision. ‘If Dmitry's concern is incompetence, you're the least of his problems.’

His tone gives her pause. The second she tilts her head, his cool nonchalance snaps back into place, clicking shut with the finality of a lock.

‘I'll get going,’ she echoes before her heart could rope her into some foolish scheme. ‘Will you go to sleep now?’

‘Yes.’ He pauses, eyes sliding to her, lingering on her exposed collarbone. His voice lowers, softens, a snake coiling around flesh and she feels his words like he whispered them onto her skin. ‘Will you miss this opening?’

Her heart jolts. He can't possibly be…?

‘To watch me sleep again.’ He tilts his head innocuously, the effect offset by his growing smirk. ‘What were you thinking?’

Entirely unhelpfully, her mind bestows her with a visual. She thinks of him asleep, cheek pillowed by his arm, lashes casting needle-thin shadows, his ever-furrowed brows relaxed and a physical burn flares to life under her ribs.

She knits her brow in irritation, saving face too late, hastening to leave. The Cain who curved into her like the moon, who she'd christened angelic had fallen asleep, dreaming in some crevice of his mind. The one who stands in front of her, challenge highlighted in every plane of his face, is familiar, familiar and dangerous, familiar in a sense that she could hardly guess his next thought.

Just as her hand wraps around the door handle, she senses his searing presence behind her. Her body reacts instinctively, gearing up. Cain sends all of her emergency responses into overdrive, fight, flight, and fight speeding and crashing at the junction of her mind. All thoughts come to a screeching halt, leaving only expectant silence, air thrumming with possibilities. A discordant note or a lilting melody?

His fingers curl around her wrist, a gossamer touch. He lowers his head while raising her wrist, night falling as the moon rises to meet as a sunset, as a kiss. His cool breath snakes across her skin, travelling the course set by her veins, the faint brushes of his lips blissful torture.

A marionette in his hands, he angles her wrist to his mouth, setting the stage. The first act: the bite of his teeth against her pulse.

Her shoulders seize and she bites her lip, the blooming pain-pleasure shoving a gasp back inside her mouth. He presses, so gently, an invisible divot to savor and linger over at night, an ephemeral mark of him on her skin.

Can he feel her hand trembling? Her knees will give out if he continues.

In answer, in tender defiance, he scrapes his teeth across her pulse point, shrapnel and velvet, mouth feverishly hot, teeth deliciously sharp. Her spine jerks, pulled by his strings, aching to lean against his body. A low noise escapes her before she could haul it inside.

He halts, knowing when to coax with hardly a look, pulling her along to freefall into desire, another line they can never uncross, and when to let her be. He presses a full kiss to soothe her skin, before the curtain falls with a delicate graze of his lips over the faded cut on her palm.

He pulls back and she blinks as the world rushes in, both the celebrated principal actress and the dazed, breathless audience. He lowers her wrist gently, fingers falling away like the night. ‘Thank you,’ he says quietly with no trace of the smugness she was expecting.

She could hardly remember what she replied or how she stole away into the hallway. Half her mind still trembling in that room with him, the other half lazily waking up from a pleasant dream, she muses as she stumbles to her room.

The weight of the emptiness in her soul is always lurking, always ready to drag her into nothingness. Being around others only seems to chip away the remnants of her soul clinging to her insides; their strained laughter, easy anger and human hope shattered mirror shards reflecting the humanity long gouged out of her. You are not like us. Each irregular mosaic amplified till the message was deafening. You are not like us!

But as she stood in the hallway, vision golden with dust motes swirling around in a lazy waltz in the ballroom of sunlight, her soul is… silent. Not clamoring in its depleted state, begging to find its stolen half and fill it up. Cain's mere presence lifts this particular veil of half death, making her heart pumping in lazy disinterest startle awake, having to work overtime to make up for her lungs slacking.

Though she was the one who wished to lighten his burden today, it seemed he was imbuing her with his own life force with every touch. A thirst for life, and just not survival, gasped for air within her, only to see him again, to touch him again and make him tremble.

The corner of her mouth twitches as she turns the handle.

She has to find a way to get him back for that kiss.

[kuroppiii]

   hide and seek ᵕ̈         kozume kenma x gn reader ˎˊ˗

⋮⋮ ˒ ₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎ 𖥻 ⿻ : where you and kenma   ⋮⋮  always manage to find a place ,   ⋮⋮  one just for the two of you

📋 content      ♡ # 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧 🐮      ♡ # 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦 🥛      ♡ # ~700 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 ( + about 300 in bonus )

🎶 on shuffle “ dream girl (home made) ” - anna of the north

🧸 directory  ‹ ✩  like what you read ? check out more of my blog !  •ᴗ•

💬 kuroppiii ─ “ i ' m gonna cry this is so soft wtf ”

waning sunlight bore through the row of square windows perched high up on the nekoma gymnasium's walls. the gym lights were already off, and in the dimness of the space, the windows gave glimpses to the pink and purple sky as the sun was starting to set outside. they casted shapes on the shiny and sneaker-streaked wooden floor, the patches of light continuously getting sliced and diced by the shadow of the spinning ceiling fans the third years were yet to turn off.

the only noises that met your ears were the distant whirr of those metal blades, the minuscule clicking of buttons and flicking of joycons, and the faint sound of breathing coming from kenma–who was snug up against you as you sat on the floor against one of the gym walls, showing you the gameplay of the new game he just bought.

volleyball practice had just ended. you could hear through the open entrance doors the rest of the boys on the team conversing loudly, as they put equipment away or were gathering their things to go home–it was a school night after all.

but between you and kenma, no words needed to be spoken. you both were completely content there, feeling the warmth of one another close by and watching the bright screen of kenma's portable gaming console flash colorful pictures of a hero overcoming their evil adversaries.

kenma was very grateful for this fact, for this little ritual he started to share with you when you started to stop in at the end of volleyball practice. originally, you did it with the intention to chat and ask him how practice went, then to walk home with him and kuroo and talk some more.

but sometimes practice was tiring, and some days kenma just couldn't find the energy to keep up the conversation. it's not that he didn't want to talk to you. he loved hearing your voice when you two conversed, actually.

all it was is that he needed to recharge. he needed to play with his games, even if just for ten to twenty minutes.

so you let him. because you care. and kenma loves appreciated that about you. from then on, you two started to end the days off (before being met with kuroo to make the trek home, that is) finding a little corner, a bush, a not-so-dusty spot under the bleachers... to just sit. and he'd play another level or two of one of his games, and you'd calmly watch.

your shoulders brushed every time kenma had to quickly maneuver some ability in the game–and even if it slipped far enough for a rush of coldness to attack your arm, it would always without fail return to its rightful place, bringing with it warmth as an apology. at times, you swear you feel like your breathing was in sync. every time you blinked, your eyelids almost seemed to move in slow motion.

together, time gradually slowed to a stop. you two were in a little bubble of your own creation, where nothing else mattered except the both of you. both of you being, and being together...

"kenma! kenma? y/n!" kuroo's voice suddenly rings through the door of the gym and bounces off the walls of the big room. kenma quietly groans and a giggle escapes you at his reaction–as if you two haven't been in this scenario for a dozen times before, and as if kenma's reaction has ever changed, at that.

"yaku! i told you to turn the fans off. don't forget tomorrow!" you then hear the captain yell out. overhead, the fans spin to a stop, and now everything is still for a moment.

"time to go kenma," you softly nudge at his side.

the blonde reaches over to shove his console in his bag with a sigh, "fine, let's go."

as you stand up, you body feels a shock of cold. it's already yearning for kenma's warmth again, the one that makes hiding from the world feel so nice. so your body seeks it out, following close behind him as you make your way across the gym to the exit.

       ⇩  ⇩  ⇩ 𝘽𝙊𝙉𝙐𝙎 ::

years later, the conventions you and kenma find yourselves at are awfully crowded. with questions at panel after panel and interactions with fan after fan at meet and greets, it's hard to believe the day still isn't over yet.

and it's not like kenma didn't like his fanbase. he loved them, and he loved what he did as a streamer.

it's just that sometimes he had to recharge. and thankfully, he knew just how, and who to go to for that.

his feet moved mindlessly, seeking you out. he found you behind some backstage black curtains nearby.

"hey kenma!" you smile at him, "how'd the meet and greet go?"

"it went great," his hand suddenly grasps at yours, "let's go somewhere real quick?"

you don't miss the way his words come out laced with the tiny breath of a sigh, or how he's hunched over just a little more than usual.

so you don't question it as he pulls you through the crowds, weaving to different convention hall entrances until finally when he peeks his head in the doorway, you find a room unoccupied.

there, against the wall and on the worn-out carpeted floor, you sit–nothing besides a bare stage, rows of empty chairs, and the two of you.

kenma relishes in this newfound hiding spot, letting his eyes close and his head lean against your shoulder for even just a moment. the bustling of the convention-goers outside gets tuned out.

there's no game console in his hands this time. so you resort to watching how instead of pressing at buttons and joycons, he plays with your warm hands under his fingertips.

and you let him, for as long as he wants, and he appreciates loves that about you, the person–his solace–who gets him so well. he loves you.

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Broken Chords: See how it shines

Hozier x fem!reader

Author's note: this is late cause I spaced on making a mood board.

Summary: 6 weeks after they last saw each other, Andrew can’t seem to get past his and Y/n’s last exchange in New York. In a last-ditch effort to save their relationship, Andrew makes a long distance call from Paris.

Warnings: just angst.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

The first moments after she walks out of the dressing room feels like hell. But then Andrew reminds himself that hell was when she’d left him the first time, so this must be something worse. This sharp ache in his chest, the rawness in his throat, the heat on his skin and the blur of his vision must be worse. When Y/n had left the first time – if one could really call it that since they’ve never officially lived together – it had come as a shock to him. He hadn’t expected it, and there was a period of disbelief before reality had set in.

But this time is different; this time, the image of her looking up at him with glassy eyes is scored into his mind, and he keeps seeing her walking out of the dressing room every time he shuts his eyes. Its all still fresh and often, when he thinks about it, a sense of panic rises up in his chest. She’s gone, its over; he recognizes the fact immediately. There’s no tricking himself into thinking that Y/n will come back because she’ll want the copy of Anna Karenina she left on his bookshelf. There are no parts of her in that sterile room, the warmth of her fingers have faded from his and the gentle way her perfume has stained the air is gone.

The room smells cold, in a way that almost burns his nose – or maybe it's the struggle to not sob that causes the uncomfortable sensation.

And even after the moment is gone, another memory occupied by a person he doesn’t quite recognize, Andrew can’t shake the question she’d asked him;

“What more did you need to see?”

What more does he need to see? What was he looking for that Y/n didn’t give him?

Nothing.

The answer hasn’t changed since he first thought it over. Every night, swallowed by pitch darkness, Andrew stares up at nothing, unable to keep his eyes shut for longer than a couple seconds while the moment plays on a repeat in his mind. It's like a scene from a movie he’s seen a million times but he can never remember the names of the actors. Awfully familiar, just not familiar enough.

What more does he need to see?

Laying in a hotel room in Paris, Andrew repeatedly asks himself the question. And he keeps coming up with the same answer; nothing. Everything Y/n is has always been more than he could ever imagine needing. She’s been at his side through the best of things, and offered him solace when he’s at his worst. So many of his secrets are now hers too.

God, his parents adore her. Jon says she’s the sister he never had. How many people get that lucky?

How many people don’t realize that they are that lucky because they’re too busy shielding themselves from a blow that just isn’t gonna come?

Sitting up and slumping against the cool, wooden headboard, he scrubs his hand over his face and then threads his fingers through his messy curls. It's three am, he’s jetlagged and its obvious sleep isn’t in his immediate future. And all he can think about is how far down a precipice he’s sent the best relationship he’s ever had.

He should tell her he's sorry.

In fact, not should; he must tell her. Right now. Before another hour passes without her knowing that he is so incredibly sorry and remorseful that its keeping him awake. That even if she doesn’t take him back – because she probably will not – he knows she deserves better and that he’s willing to work on being better because she’s worth that and an eternity’s more.

He doesn’t care that its three am in Paris or twelve am in Los Angeles. She needs to know; a little piece of his sanity ebbs away for every second that she doesn't.

He reaches for his phone on the bedside table. It doesn’t take too much effort to find it, and Andrew doesn’t even need to turn on the lamp because the hotel they’ve chosen is in the thick of the city, and his room overlooks the sleepless stretch that bounds towards the Eiffel tower. Yellow lights from the surrounding buildings, blurred by the sheer curtains that guard the double doors that lead to the small balcony, washes his room in a pale, golden hue.

She’d love this was, uncoincidentally, his first thought when he’d first noticed. He doesn’t know why, but when he thought it, Andrew had tried to take a picture of the room, it's not like he’ll ever get to show her. But his phone couldn’t seem to capture the lighting right, and he gave up.

Unlocking the screen, Andrew pulls up her number and allows himself another moment of contemplation. He isn’t even sure that she’ll answer – he doesn’t have any right to the comfort of her voice, much less her forgiveness. But he owes himself the possibility, right?

Maybe not.

But he's already hit call, so it doesn’t even matter anymore.

It rings three times. Three seconds. He holds his breath and his heart is racing. The familiar sound is weighed down by the chance of making it to her voicemail recording. Andrew quickly determines that if it gets there, he’s going to hang up before the message starts, because he doesn’t want to hear her cheery voice relaying that awfully generic message.

“Hey, its Y/n. Leave a message!”

No. He won’t leave a message because what he has to say can not be articulated in three minutes.

Four rings.

“Hello?” When he hears her breathy greeting coming through the line, Andrew involuntarily sucks in a sharp breath.

“Ehm…..” How is he even supposed to start this thing? Perhaps he would have been much better off getting on a plane and flying to L.A, because at least then his greeting wouldn’t be reduced to a measly; “hey, its me.”

On her end, he can hear music playing, it isn't loud and he guesses that she’s put some distance between herself and its source. “I know,” Y/n returns after a handful of tense seconds, “I saw your name on the…..”

“Right, right.” He lapses into silence as he gathers what he wants to say. He’s sorry, he wants to be better, if she’ll give him one more chance he knows he can change. Right, that's a perfectly logical order for things.

Except, the nerves seize him and the minute he opens his mouth, he fumbles. “I want to change. I need to change.”

He needs some fresh air too because suddenly, the room feels suffocating.

“What?” Andrew can hear her confusion as he swings his legs out of bed, planting his feet on the carpeted floor, padding over to the double French doors, easing one side open. A rush of temperate, autumn air nips at his face as Andrew is met with the city in all of its beauty. The dazzling tower off in the distance, the twinkle of hotels, restaurants and apartments spread out before him, turning the sky inky.

It isn’t like this in Wicklow; here, even the night is racked with the buzz of life. Y/n, his city girl, would fit right in.

He’ll never forget how in awe she was when she spent her first night in Wicklow; the amount of stars in the sky, the soft, barely-there, hum of wildlife at the back of his house, the slosh of waves in the distance, far enough to not elicit the sort of anxiety that the ocean does, close enough to lull you to sleep with the rhythmic ‘swish’ as it slops against the rocky shore. She said she hadn't thought that a place could be so quiet. Quiet enough to make you really have to pay attention to your thoughts.

So quiet that you hear your partner's breathing settle in time with yours.

So quiet that you can't help but notice when they're not there anymore, and the loneliness quickly becomes maddening, so you start leaving the television on at night.

“I said I need to change,” he finally repeats, “I…..you asked what more I needed to see.” When he notes a bout of loud laughter in the background, he quickly realizes that she’s probably out with some friends. Maybe colleagues. Maybe someone new that she’s seeing.

“Am I interrupting something?” He asks, hoping she’ll permit him to continue.

The sounds backing her voice become a bit more distant as she says dismissively, “nothing important. Andy,” she sighs heavily and his heart quickens when she calls him that. So many people call him that – family, close friends, even some of his neighbors – but it sounds different when she does it. His logical mind begs that it's simply her accent, but it must be more, he often thinks. It's the hitch in her breath when she starts that ‘ah’ sound. It's the way when she calls out to him, always gentle and soothing.

And tonight, it's the relief that comes with hearing it after he thought he'd lost the pleasure forever.

“What's going on here?”

“I've been thinking,” licking his lips, he leans against the railing. He fixes his tired gaze on a building a block over. It isn’t particularly tall, it isn’t really anything special at all. The only reason he can see it is because there’s a street lamp right in front of it, offering it the most angelic glow. “You asked what more I needed to see before I could commit to you. And its nothing.”

“I don’t understand,” she sighs.

“I don’t have to see, or know or learn anything else for me to realize that I need you in my life,” he swallows thickly, “I want to be better, give you…..commitment. And I’m so sorry didn’t realize it before, I should've – you gave me so much and I just…..I couldn’t even call you my girlfriend,” he pauses; he really needs to steel himself if he’s going to ask for another chance after ripping up her heart, “I know I don’t deserve it, I don’t even have the right to ask, but…..if you could ever bring yourself to give me another chance, things would be different.”

Y/n is quiet for a while, so long that Andrew has to check his phone to make sure they haven’t been disconnected – or she hasn’t hung up on him. Eventually, she sighs heavily and he straightens his back; he’s waiting for the crush that comes when she says it doesn’t matter. He’s already set himself up for the moment where she condemns him to hell.

But it doesn’t come.

“I don’t wanna talk about this over the phone,” Y/n says softly, and then there’s another bout of silence, “you’re in Paris, right?”

“Yeah,” he breathes.

“And then where?”

“Italy.”

Again, there’s nothing for a minute. “Right,” she hums. He swears he can see her, thinking on whatever’s going through her mind, tongue darting out briefly to lick her lips, brows furrowed and head bent slightly. He loves the way she looks when she does that, even if she’s just trying to remember where she left her phone Y/n adopts this very pensive expression, that makes it seem like she’s got the world on her mind. “What're you doing after that?”

“I’ll be home for a while,” he swears he’s told her all of this before, when they’d collided in Los Angeles, for dinner at her hotel and a romp before he was off again, but she must've forgotten. Or she’s using menail chatter to fill the time it takes to decide if she really should meet with him.

“I’ll be in Paris by the end of next week…..for this thing,” she says with such nonchalance that one would never guess that she’s actually referring to a career altering event. “But you’ll be….in Ireland, by then right?”

“Right,” he confirms.

Andrew’s heart leaps into his throat; he didn’t expect that. Not that he’s complaining – it isn’t in his make-up to be able to resist a chance to see her. If she’s offering, then he will oblige. “I’d love that,” his words are all too hasty, yet he can’t even bring himself to quell the eagerness. “Ehm, if you send me your flight details, I'll pick you up at the airport.”

“What if I…..visited? My thing will only a few days, and I'll have some free time after."

“Okay,” she offers meekly.

“Okay,” he mirrors, “we can-” but before he can suggest that they keep in contact during the week, the line clicks dead. Blowing a breath from the ‘o’ of his lips, Andrew shudders and slumps his weight against the wrought iron railing guarding the left side of the little, rectangular space. Holding the phone at his side, he keeps his gaze trained towards the glittering city.

His city girl, he breaks into a faint, wistful smile at the thought of her and its the first time in six damn weeks that the idea of Y/n hasn’t made his eyes prickle or his throat feel tight. The memory of her walking out of the door is slowly being replaced by the image of her with yellow flecks reflected in her eyes, dancing in them like embers on a campfire. Y/n is beside him, her bare shoulder brushing his sleeve and while she stands in awe of the city, seemingly shrunken below them, Andrew is looking at her. She’s wearing green again, a silk, sort of Grecian style dress and there’s something about her slightly agape lips, and the shadows that the combination of low lighting and her long lashes cast on her cheek bones, that makes him gasp quietly;

He swears he’s never seen anyone so beautiful.

Thinking back on it, he must’ve fallen for her that night – the night they met. He hasn’t stopped since then.

[fr-ogii]

falling for you

count vronsky

x fem!reader; poc friendly

masterlist

request: "romantic hc when he meets his now wife after Anna's death and how he fell for her 💎✨" @hilalcoven

-> the count never thought he could fall for anyone ever again after the death of his lover, anna. he didn't even know how he would be able to live. he couldn't raise annie, their kid. despite barely having any distinguishing features yet, the thought that she would turn into someone that resembled anna was too much to bear. he felt awful that his daughter had to lose both her parents in such quick succession, but he could not force himself to raise her.

-> he had sworn off love entirely, convinced it would bring nothing but misfortune to him and any future lover of his.

-> but he changed his tune when he met you.

it was a cold september night in st. petersburg. it had been a couple years since the fateful day anna lost her life. the count had returned to the city from serbia - his time fighting against the ottoman empire was up.

he had expected the pain of his loss to have reduced itself after the years both away from anna and away from the city he became acquainted with her in. unfortunately for alexei, the pain came back as soon as he saw the skyline of st petersburg emerging from the horizon.

to escape this, vronsky visited a tavern as soon as he arrived in the all-too familiar city.

the warmth of the bustling building rushed to meet him as soon as the count opened the well worn door. the stench of cheap alcohol enveloped him as soon as he stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind him. his eyes landed on the bar that was situated a bit further back into the establishment and was occupied by two men who were clearly foreigners to this area and were speaking quickly in a tongue alexei could not understand. as was the unspoken rule, alexei sat two stools over and waited for the worker behind the bar to come over.

count vronsky had become impossibly quiet in the time away from anna. he only spoke when addressed. he avoided confrontation. it was as if the death of the mother of his child had left him mute.

an uncountable amount of minutes passed before a noise brought alexei out of his stupor. he had long since received his meal - a roasted meat he already forgot the name of. the pale ale in his mug had been nursed far too many times and was nearly gone.

his head snapped up when he heard that noise again. it was the trotting of a horse and the spinning wheels of the carriage it was pulling. there was something so recognizable about it. before alexei could be sucked back into his reminiscing tendencies, he turned around as the wooden door opened.

and there you were.

he wouldn't exactly call it "love at first sight", but he was certainly intrigued. count vronsky looked around the bar and noticed a couple other men that let their eyes flicker towards you periodically. aleksey stood slowly, stretching out the aches and pains that had grown in his joints in the many minutes he had been sitting. he would not let another man reach you before he could. and so, he began to walk over to you.

[rippersz]

ᴀ ꜰᴏᴏʟ'ꜱ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

---

---

(Brienne of Tarth x Named Reader; Angsty; Hurt/Slight Comfort) (TW: Suic*de attempt; Suic*dal ideations/thoughts; Slight Romanticization of mental illness)

---

“An autumn whisper between the maples kept urging: Die with me.” ~ Anna Akhmatova

---

A Fool’s Death.

That’s what they call it.

A Fool’s Death. You’re a coward if you do it. You’re a lazy bastard if you live with thoughts of it. You’re a selfish prick of a soul either way.

There’s no winning and there’s no losing. There’s no talk of it. Not even a mention. Not even a whisper. And if there is, you are spoken of. Judged. Scrutinized until The Fool’s Death becomes your death. Until the village and its people and everyone in your family are forced to spit upon your narcissistic bones and claim you disowned even though there is nothing left to claim and nothing left to disown. Just a corpse that is cold and dull and useless.

Cold and dull and useless.

You think that’s how you’ll do it.

Winter has already carried her snow and chill and winds into the region, laying it all upon the land like a warm blanket around a small child’s body. Painting everything white and leaving it to glisten to sludge beneath the eventual heat of the spring sun. A perfect time for rebirth. A perfect time for death.

—

Your hands shake as you slowly pull open the door to your quarters, wincing while it creaks and groans, forcing you to stop every time a noise rings out into the empty hall. Your heart, pounding away in your ears, ruins your sense of hearing while you stand like a statue within your own doorway. Anxiety slips through your bones. Fear pulls at you. The last desire you have is to wake everyone in the castle and call attention to yourself. No, having eyes and ears on you while you lay in the snow and wait for the freeze to set in is less than ideal. A Fool’s Death, after all, is never A Fool’s Death if done with company.

So once you decide that the corridors are empty and you can slip out through the back entrance into the kitchens, you do exactly that. A singular torch is lit, burning away within its stone perch, nearly beckoning you closer with its dancing flame. You trail toward it and stop there, watching it for a moment, reveling in the last bit of warmth that your skin will ever feel. You know that some hours later, when the moon is long gone and the clouds block the sun and the stars keep themselves veiled, you will no longer be able to feel fire. You will no longer be able to feel ice. You will no longer be able to feel the breath in your lungs leave you in short pants. It will all bleed into the same numb feeling. And you will freeze until Mother Nature tells you to thaw. And once your body has been revealed to the changing air of the seasons, once the earth’s creatures start to take advantage of your indirect kindness, you also know that your frozen flesh will not be mourned. Because no one will cry for you. And no one will beg the gods, both old and new, to bring you back. And no one will waste another precious breath worrying about who you were.

You, who were just another soldier out of an army of hundreds. A faceless woman. A person easily replaced. Inconsequential in every sense of the word. Your family was dead, your acquaintances were no more than good mornings and good nights, your position would be filled as soon as you broke rank. And no one would notice your absence. The Lord Commander wouldn’t even blink. The royal family wouldn’t even spare a thought. Though then again, it wasn’t like you deserved their thoughts, their sympathies, their prayers anyway. You weren’t a war hero and you weren’t important and you didn’t do anything beyond follow orders and live your life. Well- that last bit would change, of course. As soon as you pull yourself away from the torch and get going.

The chill of night is a harsh contrast from the few minutes of firelight, but you find that your body, already shivering and slow beneath the thin white nightgown, doesn’t take true notice of the cold. You’re only propelled forward by a distant urge. A previously agreed upon understanding with no one but yourself: This was necessary. This is what it was going to come to anyway, whether you died a fool sooner or later. This was the way of the world and you were just another pawn amongst the masses. Going to war, front of the line, hoping to die in glory.

But there was no glory there. There was no glory in your measured footsteps and there was no glory in your sagging shoulders and tired expression. And there was no glory in your desire. How could there be? How could the good gods ever wish to touch you after your blasphemy? How could you hang your soul out to dry and still expect to find your place in Nirvana? They will call you a coward. They will call you a fool. They will call you a rotten whore and they will say that they wish you’d done it sooner. They will walk past your nonexistent grave without a wandering thought as to what your name was. You could’ve saved everyone the trouble, they will say. Could’ve saved them the breaths. Spared them of your quiet awkward presence. Making everyone uncomfortable. Leaving the men to tease and toss aside the idea of censoring themselves just because you were a woman. Not the only woman, but a woman nonetheless. Of course they held their tongues when The Lord Commander walked past, or sat at the table, or existed and breathed in their general vicinity, but that didn’t matter. Brienne of Tarth was not always around to control them nor comfort you - not that she did the latter anyway. You weren’t important enough for that.

And the universe seemed to agree. The path was laid out before you, lit by the silver moon, traced by the glow of the white ground. You’d decided on your resting place only a few days ago. During a morning patrol with some of the newer trainees, you came across a spot of smooth Earth. Two logs, parallel to each other, framed a large empty patch of snow. From where you stood, it looked like a beautiful painting that had yet to be finished. There was no subject- no goal- no lesson to be learned- no deeper meaning and no unintentional intentional wicked talent. But before that could be rectified, before it could be completed, it would have to be ruined. Once you’re long dead, you’ll find the time to apologize to Mother Nature, but as you trek over the last hill, you’re more focused on becoming one with the frozen ground.

The site of your death is far enough away from civilization, near the edge of a tall cliff, so any wandering strangers won’t bother to come too close. Well that’s what you tell yourself, living in hope as per usual; but in reality nothing is stopping another living creature from stumbling across your frozen corpse. The snow is thick, yes, but not thick enough to hide all of you. And the sun is only some hours away from rising. Oh well. It won’t matter anyway. You’ll be passed out by then, icicles hanging from your eyelashes and blue coating the lining of your lips. Your heart will be quiet, weak, in your frozen chest. Your hands will be limp. And the rest of you will be blanketed by the sweet tasty frost of death, creating a home for its festering teeth. Teeth that will bite and gnash and taste and tear - but their attacks will be in vain. You will be numb. So wonderfully, perfectly, fatefully, numb.

And your fingertips, for what it’s worth, are already tingling with the beginnings of it.

The beginnings of it.

‘It’ being your end, of course.

‘It’ being the thing you want. Desperately.

‘It’ being the Fool’s Death you were born to have.

Oh so poetic it was…

Oh so… lovely.

…

…

You blink suddenly, forcing the chilled tears out of your eyes. Damn wind… so cold… so refreshing… Your knees bend to crouch into the snow, slow and exhausted like the sluggish looking of your eyes. ‘Hello’ the snow grins- beams- smiles so cheerfully up at you, ‘come to see me again, have you? It’s only been a few days. But I have missed you so much. We all have missed you so much.’ And you glance up to take in the ‘we’; the looming trees and the deep blue sky and the twinkling stars and the sweet bright moon, and you nod to yourself. Yes. This is how it is. This is the perfect atmosphere.

This is the glory of a Fool’s Death.

This is the peace of a Fool’s Death.

This is salvation.

No loud men and no flickering fires and no furs and no royals and no company and no messy thoughts and no sleepless nights and no terrifying dreams and no days of forced starvation and no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no hope, no love, no happiness, no reason, no reason, no reason no reason no reason to live live live live live live live- live!

The thin white slip on your body shields you from nothing. Your palms sink into the soft fluff of the ground. Instantly, upon laying down, you’re soaked to the bone. Water finds itself languishing along your body, playing games and laughing while it gathers in your scalp and dances on your fingertips. And the snow, whispering near your ear and beckoning you to salvation, stretches its hands and says ‘Come, dear friend. Come rest here. I am soft. I will give you everything you want.’ So you rest. And you give in. And your body relaxes; your muscles unclench and the tension slides from your shoulders as a sigh bubbles past your lips.

Is it one of relief? One of stress? One of defeat? You’re not sure. You don’t know. Your heart is shuddering- pulsing- with excitement, but it’s a mystery as to why. Death is not supposed to feel good. Death is not supposed to feel powerful. Death is not supposed to feel like you’re finally grabbing life by the balls and saying HAH! THIS IS IT! THIS IS MY MOMENT! THIS IS MY DEATH! MY END! AND YOU CAN NEVER TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME.

… So why does it feel that way?

Why does it feel so good?

…

…The night is quiet. It does not have answers for you. The moon looks on with unblinking eyes. You feel yourself grow heavy.

But the deed is not over yet. There is still one thing left to do. Slowly, the snow falls away as your limbs stir. They move on autopilot, not drawn by the thoughts in your head but again pushed by that faint desire.

Heels digging, nails running blue, curling into the snow, pushing it away - only to drag it back five minutes later; hastily working to complete the masterpiece. Desperate to become one with the Earth and fall into oblivion. A deep, bone-cold, quieting oblivion that will leave you shivering before it leaves you dead. Even beneath the blanket of snow that caresses your skin, that lays over your bare legs, that nuzzles the sensitive parts of your body, you begin to shake. And you begin to think.

The thoughts, interestingly enough, don’t freeze like the rest of you does. Instead, they grow. Swirl like a winter’s storm. Obsessive and rough, they pull you under like they always did.

This is great, isn’t it?

No, you think in response to yourself. It hurts, actually.

Oh stop whining. It will be worth it.

Why? How?

For years, it has been worth it.

That doesn’t answer anything. How has it been worth it? Is that why I’ve been hurting so much? For the sake of worthiness? Or something else?

Well you never felt worthy of anything else.

But I feel worthy of this?

Death? Yes. Everyone is worthy of death. Even The Lord Commander.

…What does she have to do with this?

You know what.

Your hands grasp at the snow, mindless and desperate. Pulling and pulling and pulling - clawing at the crisp white so it can cover you until no part of you is left to the air. Shielding you from the hatred of the universe. From the angry eyes of the gods. From the venom of the men. From the disinterest of the women. From the world… and its lack of care for you. And its lack of positivity. And its rude- disgusting- vile- way of treating you. And its overwhelming desire to kill you before you could kill yourself.

Too late now. We’re at least one foot deep in the ground! This is it. Keep digging. Keep digging. Keep digging! No stopping here! No energy left. Nothing left, actually. Not a goddamn thing. Nothing. Nothing at all.

Nothing at all….

Nothing.

At all.

Your eyelids flutter shut.

—

It’s two hours later when Ser Brienne of Tarth starts to wrap up her last duty of the evening.

A quick patrol of the furthest border is something not necessarily reserved for The Lord Commander, but is more of a safety measure she enforces upon herself before retiring for bed. Exhaustion pulls at her before she sets out, yes, but sometimes the nightmares… the white walkers… they leave her paranoid. Expectant of an attack that will never come. Worried about an enemy that no longer exists. Thus, she does it alone - and with only the royals’ knowledge.

It’s always a quiet affair, drawn along quickly by her and her steed Valour. They work with sharp eyes and a torch through the dark, stopping every few paces to listen for threats. There aren’t any, of course, but that doesn’t stop her from clip-clopping along the terrain with tense shoulders and keen senses, looking through the din of the torch’s fire in her hand. She has to be careful not to set her furs alight, but it’s not a hard task. Keeping it level, shunting it toward the ground and out toward the trees, proves to be more difficult. There’s no use in a flame if it can’t illuminate a damn th-

HUFF.

Valour’s hooves press into the snow, leaving them to stop - suddenly, quickly, with a jerk - as hot breath puffs from her nostrils and curls into the air. She’s tense, Brienne realizes. Tense and alert, with white ears twisting to take in sound. They stand in silence. Blue eyes watch as the animal’s head turns - first to the left and then to the right. But aside from the night and the usual rustle of the world, there is nothing. Nothing to hear, nothing to notice, nothing to fight or defend. Nothing to… find?

With one last sweep of the flame, she catches something quick. It’s nearly unnoticeable. Buried beneath the snow, but not one with the ground. It’s foreign. Out of place. A mere lump with no distinct beginning and end. Brienne chances a glance down at the horse, interest and apprehension dancing through her veins once she sees Valour’s eyes have caught the same thing. The same… intruder. The same issue.

When she slides off of the horse, half expecting to see the thing rise from the ground, one hand shoots to her sword. It waits. Curls around the hilt. Stretches beneath her glove. Twitches with adrenaline.

But there’s nothing. Not even a tremble beneath the dirt.

“Stay,” she whispers to Valour, moving the hand from her blade to gesture, palm facing the ground, for the horse to stand in wait.

And as cautiously, as quietly, as she can, Brienne approaches the mystery. She rounds one of the logs, taking notice of the odd placement, and tries not to wince each time her boots make a small crunch in the silence. Footprints will no doubt be left behind, but that doesn’t seem to bother her much as she catches sight of another pair in the distance. They’re small, the knight notices. With no distinct shape if not for a slight curve. The snow is kicked up, forced from its smooth blanket. Hurried in their demeanor. But slow in the amount of distance between each print.

Human, she thinks.

Human indeed, the snow hums; bearing all to see as it glistens beneath the firelight of her torch and brings Brienne to her unsightly treasure.

Frosted skin. A soaked nightgown. Arms and legs bitten by the chill.

Dead, she thinks.

No. Alive. The snow breathes.

—

Someone is taking off your clothes. They’re cold, sticking to you, and little grunts follow as bits of your nightgown rip with the effort. Your body is shocked, shivering so hard that the stranger can’t keep you still and isn’t quite sure what to do. Eventually, a mind is made up and you’re stripped completely - then covered with woolen hose. At least two pairs- both of which are too big for you and hang by the feet and are quite loose around the waist, but the dresser doesn’t seem to care. Trousers are next. How many pairs? You don’t know. Then shirts. And furs. And even a pair of leather gloves that droop at the fingertips and gape at the wrists - but they’re warm and lined with wool and you can’t feel your body but that’s okay. You didn’t want to anyway. More grunting and growling and small whispered curses follow until you’re very much tucked into a bed far bigger than your own. It’s warm. Good. You’re numb and half-dead, but it’s good. Lovely, really. And the outside world doesn’t call your name as you close your eyes.

Waking up was not on your agenda.

It wasn’t even in the cards.

And you don’t really want to - but the universe never cared for your opinion. And it did what it wanted whenever it wanted anyway. So you have no choice.

Thus, your eyes flutter open and your lungs expand with breath and suddenly the world comes flooding back in one confusing twist of fate. Nausea wastes no time in tearing you down; instantly going to churn in the pit of your stomach and curl in the back of your throat and pound against the skin of your temples. A deep groan slips from between your chapped lips. The lining of your skull feels as though it’s been replaced with cotton.

The snow really took its chance, didn’t it? Brutal. Ruthless. At least the Earth doesn’t lie to you. At least the Earth doesn’t save you.

But someone did. Someone has.

They’re actually shuffling over; measured footsteps sounding like big loud stomps in your head. You close your eyes. Everything is too bright. Everything is too much.

“Morning.”

Hm. The voice sounds familiar. A bit wonky, like it’s far away, but familiar. You don’t have the energy to respond so you just let out a grunt and allow it to taper off into a weird rumbly hum.

“Hey,” there’s a sudden clicking noise near your ear, making you jolt and snort when your eyes flick open. There are fingers - long pale fingers snapping beside your head, falling silent when you glare up at the offender, only to find-

“Lah Commandah?!” Your tongue and throat are stiff and achy, keeping your speech limited and your voice strangled. You grimace at the sound and instantly try to growl the discomfort away, but she cuts you off.

“Don’t do that- you’ll just make it worse.” It comes out in a huff and silences you with ease.

She doesn’t look or seem very happy, which in turn makes you frown. It was a shot straight through the heart when the Lord Commander was in a bad mood - which surprisingly wasn’t always. In fact, she’d grown a little softer over the years. The tales talk of her unwilling attitude and stubborn pride, but sometimes she’s full of wit and humor. And on the best of days, she’ll give the most successful troops a small smile and a bow of her head. The only sign of ‘You did well’ that anyone would ever get from her. You’d never gotten a reaction like that before.

I wonder why she didn’t leave us out in the snow.

“Can you sit up?” Glacier blue eyes run over your face.

You’re not sure what you look like but you suppose it doesn’t matter. She’s seen worse.

“Dun-no, Lah Commandah,” you breathe, trying to do exactly that.

After the fifth try of shifting your arms and legs and quickly running out of strength, she seems to get the hint and suddenly large strong hands are sliding under your arms and tugging you up, then pushing you back. It’s done in one swift movement, leaving you dizzy while you rest your head against the wooden headboard of-… of a bed that certainly isn’t yours.

No, you’re definitely not in your own room. The layout is completely different. It’s more… it’s not pretty but it’s better looking than your own. Complete with greys and blacks and silvers and even a hint of red here and there. The fire that’s been crackling steadily in the background is clean and well-kept, where your room doesn’t even have space for one at all. And the curtains are drawn over the windows covering the right wall, leaving the place shrouded in a darkness that would have existed there anyway even if the curtains were open - it’s nighttime, pitch black outside, and suddenly you’re very much aware of the fact that you’ve kept your Lord Commander- The Brienne of Tarth- out of her own bed for more than a day.

By the time you blink yourself out of your dizzy distracted haze and try to find her form again, she’s already busy doing something else. Wringing out cloths over a bowl… and then returning to your side. Your lips, chapped and still tinged blue, open in an effort to say something- anything- but then a soft hot cloth is draped over your forehead, covering your temples, and suddenly you don’t have a damned thought left in your mind. The feeling is so nice. So blissful. You could stay like that forever.

If only the universe showed you mercy.

“It’s been two days since I found you,” the Lord Commander says, placing the bowl down gently on the side table beside the bed. Her eyes glance over your coverings, making sure the furs and gloves and shirts are all still in order. They are. She was very thorough before. She would not have made a mistake. There was no room for error.

But there’s room now for judgment. Judgment and disdain, and you’re terrified of those things and you really don’t want to have to hear her tell you that you’re a stupid wench and that the rest of the troops will forever make fun of you for your idiocy, so you swallow and wince and your hands twist together in your lap. The leather of the gloves is soft, well-worn, and the wool is only the tiniest bit matted - and you can’t help but admire the craftsmanship as you bring them up to your abdomen. They’re obviously not your gloves, just as everything else is not yours either, but you don’t know what to do first: apologize or thank her.

Honestly, you don’t really want to thank her - because she ruined your plan - but at the same time, she saved your life. Whether you wanted to end it or not doesn’t matter… because she would’ve helped you no matter what. And perhaps you’re selfish for being a little bit angry about it, maybe you’re being self-centered and dumb, but you can’t help the feeling of bitterness creep into your heart. You wanted to die… and she took that from you. She wanted you to live.

It was a duty. She doesn’t want anything. Anyone would have done it.

But that’s not true.

The men would have left you. Or hurt you. Or anything else.

But there she is, having gone through the trouble of saving you… and she’s looking down at you with a frown on her handsome face and a furrow to her light brows that seems like it never leaves and you wish so terribly that you could just tell her-

“I-m sorr-ey.” It’s a pathetic rasp of an apology, but it’s out of your mouth before you can catch it.

She blinks. You don’t know why her expression changes, why it softens into something less stern and concerned, but when it does you feel your breath catch in your throat. How anyone could see her as anything less than glorious is something you’ll never understand.

“Why were you out there.”

It’s a demand.

You look away, baring your eyes to the fire.

“…I sl-leep-wa-lk someti-”

“Bullshit.” She spits, one hand reaching down to curl into the bit of blanket that drapes over the side of the bed. Her expression has twisted back into one of anger. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”

But what other choice do you have?

How could you be honest?

Why did she, of all people, have to find you? And why like that? Why couldn’t she have walked into the bathhouse during the few times you’ve wept your eyes out in the steamy silence? Why couldn’t she have caught you staring at your horse, dread in your eyes as you fantasized about running away and never looking back? Why couldn’t she have stumbled upon your vulnerability when you were still willing to live?

Why did it take a Fool’s Death to finally grasp her attention?

You want to tell the truth… but you can’t.

You can’t.

So you lie again.

“Was out- on a s-strollll. Got- um- lost.” You try not to cringe at the sound of your own bad grammar. Turns out not having full feeling back in your mouth does indeed prohibit being able to speak properly.

The Lord Commander doesn’t seem to care much. In fact, she doesn’t seem to be focusing on that at all. Instead, her face has grown slack - and she’s looking at you hard. Leaning both of her hands on the side of the bed, broad shoulders going up near her neck, eyes peering through light lashes - like she’s using her stare alone to dig holes into your soul and she doesn’t need to say anything in order for you to understand that she simply doesn’t believe you. And why should she? Your lies are so obviously half-baked; only muddying up the truth; ruining what little of it can be said.

Still. She doesn’t let up. Her gaze starts to burn. Shame tugs at your cotton-lined skull. Guilt claws its way to the surface.

Pink lips, scarred on the top right, part slowly. There’s a soft inhale. You brace yourself, clutching your warm hands into fists.

“You were buried,” the Lord Commander says, barely even blinking as she looks at you. “Covered with snow.” She shakes her head and allows it to fall to her chest, letting out a scoff so quiet you had to strain to hear it. “One of the smartest soldiers I have… and you expect me to believe that you got lost on an evening stroll?” Her head comes up, eyes pinning you in place with such dull ferocity that you can’t look away. “You can’t be serious.”

It’s at that exact moment when you realize that you’re sweating. It is the amount of warm things covering your body? The clothing and the furs and the gloves? Or is it your Lord Commander’s attention? And the fact that it’s never been placed on you like that before? With such… such focus. Such- dare you even think it- care?

You swallow against the nervous lump in your throat.

‘One of the smartest soldiers I have…’

Well if you were as smart as she thinks you are, you’d be fucking honest, wouldn’t you? Yeah. You’d tell her the truth. You’d admit that you’re a coward.

But you can’t.

You can’t.

She spends all of that time training you, keeping an eye on you, making sure you’re fed and well-rested and looked after in her own roundabout Lord Commander type of way… and you repay her with…with what?

With suicide?

So disgraceful.

So horrible.

So shitty of you.

How terrible can a person be?

How-

“Are you crying?” Your Lord Commander gapes, certainly caught off guard by your sudden emotion.

“N-no?!” You stutter, just as shocked to find yourself reaching up and smearing salty tears along your cheeks.

Oh how embarrassing-!

You stupid girl!

This is why you wanted to do it in the first place!

Because all you do is just fucking embarrass yourself-!

“N-no? No- s-sorr-y La-Lor-d C-Com-”

“Enough with the Lord Commander,” she admonishes, cutting off your bumbling apology with a swift tsk. “In private, it’s Brienne.” Then she hesitates before letting out a sigh and taking a seat next to you on the side of her bed. “…I’m not your superior here.”

All you can do is blink.

I’m not your superior here.

So what are you?

That’s all you want to ask.

What are you to me then? What is this now?

But even if you did find the courage, you’re not sure what she’d say.

“Okay,” you sniff, trying your damnedest to stop the tears.

But they’re a direct result of your aching heart. And aching hearts have veins that scream in agony, wishing for nothing but silence. Utterly tranquility. The very absence of tension-filled life. And you can’t get rid of aching hearts and screaming veins without getting rid of yourself…. And your only chance to do that was destroyed. Trampled upon. Interrupted.

I just wanted to die. It rests on the very tip of your tongue but never spills out into the air.

Brienne is so clearly unsure of what to do; she’s sitting rigid in her spot and staring at a mark on the floor. You want to tell her it’s okay. You want to tell her that she doesn’t have to comfort you. You want to tell her to just let you go back into the woods again… let you find yourself back in the snow. And she can go on with her life and forget it ever happened.

But you can’t.

That’s not how it works.

That’ll never be how it works.

Foolish girl.

“…Why were you out there, Anya?” Brienne’s voice is softer than fresh lilies.

You know why.

You know why.

“…I c-can’t- I-”

Her head turns. Midnight blue eyes trace a line from your neck to your face, taking in the exhausted circles beneath your eyes and the blue-ish tinge to your skin and the utterly defeated look that blooms behind your expression. A war happens in you, taking place in the span of a moment, and you can do nothing but blink through lingering tears and stare at her.

“I can’t.” It’s a whisper. A confession all on its own.

I can’t… because you’ll think I’m a coward. And you’ll hate me. And I already hate myself enough for the both of us.

Brienne’s lips form a hard line, but she doesn’t say anything. She just peers back down at the floor and allows silence to creep into the room and lay between you both like a tired direwolf on its last legs.

The fire burns in the background. The sweat on your body cools. The dizziness in your head subsides.

It’s going to be okay, some part of you speaks. It’s going to be okay.

But you’ve told yourself that before, haven’t you?

And look where that got you.

It has to be at least 30 minutes later when Brienne finally speaks.

“There was a girl I knew once, in my early youth,” you watch her mouth move, enchanted and confused. Where was this going to lead? “She was older than me by two years. A pretty girl- like you.” Your heart trips over itself, but you don’t have time to dwell as she continues. “My father saw that, out of the very rare few, she was good to me - and so we were allowed to play often. For her it was ‘horsies’ and ‘hide and seek’, for me it was ‘swords’ and ‘knights’.” There’s a soft smile on her face, half hidden by the natural shadow of her body facing away from the hearth and half lit by the fire that lived there. Her lips twitch and she begins again. “We did everything together. She was a village girl but that didn’t matter… until it did. Time eventually caught up to us and we were forced to live our lives on our own. No more days of play and no more sharing stories.”

A soul-deep sadness settled into her eyes. She had yet to look at you. Maybe because it would make her too vulnerable… maybe because she didn’t want you to cry again. Either way, you felt yourself frown. Why was she telling you this? What happened?

And as if she could read your thoughts, she continues.

“By the time I was old enough to decide that I wanted to leave, she was already married. Kind husband, even though I only met him once. It was when I stopped in to say goodbye. I wanted to tell her that I’d write, whenever I found the time and place to do so.” Her hands, you notice, are fidgeting - running over and pulling each other quietly within her lap. The natural lines in her face grow darker as she falls back into her memories. “…I didn’t know she was struggling. I was so busy with my own life. My father’s wishes, my training, my fights with the men who challenged me… our communication grew slim. So I didn’t- I-… well.” Brienne swallows. “Her husband answered the door and when I asked after her, he burst into hysterics.”

Your heart stops.

She- no… She didn’t….

Brienne’s head goes up, her eyes turning to look at the ceiling - keeping her tears in her eyes, resistant in letting them fall. Resistant in being weak. You want to hold her and let her cry, but you know it’s not the time. She sniffs and her chest heaves with a sigh and it takes everything in you not to start sobbing. Tears build, they fall slowly, but your throat aches with held back sounds of distress.

“…She ended her life two days before I arrived.” A pause. Then- “A butter knife…,” she scoffs out a laugh and shakes her head, still pointing her face skyward - as if the gods have all the answers to her grief. “… I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t know what to do with her husband. So I gave him my condolences and I left. Cried in the woods for as long as I could and kept going. And since then, I haven’t stopped.”

Despite her efforts, tears still creep over her eyelids and race down her cheeks. They mirror the ones on your own face - warm and sad and annoying in the stiff little trails left behind.

And you sit like that for a while, silently crying. Her gaze stuck to the heavens, thinking about the friend she lost; and your gaze stuck on her, thinking about the possible metaphor behind her actions. Behind the full circle-ness of it all. She couldn’t save her friend but she saved you. What did that mean in the grand scheme of your lives? What did any of it mean? How would you continue to train everyday after seeing your Lord Commander cry? After witnessing her care?

She saved us. She saved us. She saved us.

“Thank you,” comes your hoarse whisper- the first in-tact thing you’ve said since waking up.

The sound of your voice tugs Brienne out of her stupor and draws her eyes to your sad face. You don’t have the energy to give her a sympathetic smile, so you settle on a soft look. If it says all you need it to say, she doesn’t show it - but she does look away quickly and reaches up to brush the tears away.

“What for?” It’s rough - hard - a sliver of the tough Commander she’s used to being.

No no no - don’t go back to that. Your heart is safe here. I won’t judge you for your tears.

“…Saving me.” It’s more courtesy than anything as you say that, but it’s fine. You’re not magically going to wish for life again after Brienne shares a sad story with you… though it already has your heart struggling against its achy confines.

Brienne shakes her head, the gold of her hair catching the fire’s light so beautifully that you have to take your eyes off of her in order to catch your breath. If we were her friend in her youth, we would have surely fallen in love with her.

“You shouldn’t have gotten to that point,” her voice is watery- muffled with the lingerings of sadness. “No one should.”

You nod. What else is there to say? What else is there to admit? Clearly she knows. Clearly she understands. And yet… you’re still curious…

“…Why do-n’t you hate me f-or it?” Your words come out in a squeaky whisper, but you don’t care. You just need to know. You just need to make sure that you’re not reading things wrong- that there’s a chance she may actually care- and that perhaps there is a reason to stay…

Brienne doesn’t respond immediately. It’s clear that she takes a few moments to bring herself back to the present. To clear her throat and wipe her eyes again and sniffle a few times and then turn back to you. She’s tried so hard in clearing herself up, but the eyes have never lied. And you see the sadness breeding there. Festering. Sadness is wicked. You don’t know if you’re the cause of it.

“You’re strong, Anya." A pause. "Training wouldn’t be the same without you.”

But you know she means to say Nothing would be the same without you.

---

Something I've been working on for a bit. It's not as good as I hoped it would be, but I'm tired and my back hurts so whatever. I hope you're all doing well.

And if you're not and you need some help, here's the National Suicide Hotline: 988 - And the link https://988lifeline.org/

It's gonna be okay, my friend. One second at a time. - Yours, Rip x

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