#I hope she stays out of the sea and in her river

[blackpearlblast]

[ID: drawings of a golem animated by a palestinian flag painted on its forehead. it is seen: holding out its arms protectively in front of a crowd of children, the children also hold each other supportively; catching an air strike missile from the air and throwing it away or crushing it in its fist; turning its back so that a child can warm her hands by the earth oven built into its back, food in a pot is cooking on the fire and a boy holds a cup of steaming tea to his face and enjoys the aroma; clearing away rubble so a man can help up his wife who was buried underneath, she is clutching a baby to her chest; stooping down to look at a kitten a young boy is holding up to show it; and dissolving small flakes of clay from its finger into a glass of water, purifying it. end ID]

@fairuzfan asked people to create and share art for the strike. i wrote an artist statement and then set about trying to draw what i envisioned. artist statement below.

This golem is a protector that I wish I could gift to the children and adults in Gaza. The flag on its forehead is to show that love for the Palestinian people is an animating force for people fighting for a free Palestine all over the world, especially for those in Palestine who are trying to free themselves and their people. Love is the motivation for the call for a free Palestine, not hatred like people try to claim. It is very strong and fast and can catch air strikes out of midair and crush them to dust or throw them back in the direction they came from. It can lift all the rubble of a collapsed building very quickly so nobody can get trapped underneath. It has an earth oven in its back with an ever-burning flame that people can use to warm themselves and cook food and heat water to use to bathe themselves or make tea. Pieces of its clay can be crumbled up and mixed into water to make even the most brackish and unclean water pure and safe to drink.

The golem is always a bit of a tragic figure so I don't imagine it staying around forever once Palestine is free and it is no longer needed. I think it would use its great strength to help rebuild the destroyed houses, churches, schools, universities, hospitals, and mosques and then dive into the Jordan river and dissolve. It would clean the river of all pollution and make the water splash up over all the newly replanted fruit trees, causing them to grow big and strong. Its love for Palestine and its people can be tasted in the fruit they grow for generations.

I choose a specifically Jewish icon of protection because of how it feels to witness such horrors done in the supposed name of Judaism and the Jewish people. For many anti-zionist Jews, we feel like we are acting directly within the teachings of our stories and communities by opposing this genocide. It is difficult to understand how the very people and institutions who taught us these values now fight against them so fiercely. While obviously I would still oppose Israel were I not Jewish, the way I oppose Israel is directly informed by my Jewishness. I hope that someday, somehow, Judaism can bring as much joy and support to the Palestinian people as it has brought grief and destruction. That Jewish symbols used in the name of love and justice will bear more significance than the ones used in shows of hatred. Knowing the depth of the harm caused, I do not know if this is possible. But this artwork and everything I have dedicated myself to these past few months and continue to dedicate myself to in the future is born from this hope. I love you. Thank you for being on this planet with me. From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free! And it will be beautiful.

[aeralux]

"Spellbound" - Daemon Targaryen

Daemon Targaryen x Witch!Reader

Summary: A witch doesn't cower to anyone... except maybe a dragon. But that's not necessarily a bad thing. Harrenhal seems to be riddled with darkness and mysteries, after all.

Warnings: SMUT (18+); rough sex; oral (f!receiving); fingering; foul language; talks of magick and its use; technically infidelity on Daemon's part; loss of virginity; mention of blood

Words: 8.3k

Notes: No description of the reader, except for dark hair. Takes place in Harrenhal when Daemon is staying there. I tried to be as accurate to Westeros lore as I could, I literally spent hours on their wiki, so I hope it shows through :)

𐔌 . ⋮ aera .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

Harrenhal was a ghastly place. It had the biggest castle of all of Westeros. The castle had five dizzying towers, with equally monstrous curtain walls. The walls were incredibly thick, and its rooms were built on a scale that would be more comfortable for giants than humans—said to be haunted and eerie.

Perfect for sorceresses and sorcerers alike, the city had a coven of Witches who collectively went by the name "Wives of the Gods Eye." The name was an ode to Gods Eye, the largest lake of the Seven Kingdoms, located south of Harrenhal.

In the embrace of warm sunlight, the water of the Gods Eye shimmers in vibrant shades of blue and green, casting a magical glow. Yet, as winter blankets the land, its surface transforms into a steely grey, reminiscent of the coldest metal. Majestic black swans glide gracefully across the water. Just a short distance away, a winding lake road meanders near the storied Harrenhal, leading through a patchwork of rolling hills, sparkling streams, and golden sunlit fields. As one journeys further south, the landscape gives way to dense, shadowy forests, creating a clear contrast.

The lake, with its murky depths, bore a name of divine beings, yet here, amidst the towering pines and shivering mists, there existed no gods. Only monsters lurked in the shadows, and witches wove their secrets beneath the pale moonlight. As for you, you were a bastard of Pinkmaiden, an unwelcome child of a place that should have offered a home. At the young age of six, you were sent to Harrenhal, a castle steeped in blood and betrayal, to serve the lords and ladies of House Strong as one of the laundresses. The ancient stones watched over you with cold indifference, whispering the secrets of many who had come before.

Your raven-black hair flowed like a dark river down your back, framing your face and matching nicely with your unsettling eyes, which shimmered like a stormy sea. These features marked you as different, a reminder of your uncertain heritage. It was not long before the Lady of Harrenhal, with her porcelain skin and sharp gaze, grew wary of your presence. On the eve of your sixteenth birthday, she cast you out, her disdain cutting deeper than any blade.

Alone and bereft, you wandered the wilderness, uncertainty gnawing at your heart. But fortune smiled upon you when the coven of witches found you, their cloaks billowing like dark wings against the whispering wind. They took you in, offering a refuge far removed from the stone walls of Harrenhal. In their hidden glen, where wildflowers crowded beneath the trees, they made you feel cherished for the first time. 

Nowadays, for most, magic is a little-understood force in the world. It has been so long since magic was truly potent that most understanding now exists only in superstition and rituals of questionable validity. But with them, you understood, the doubts of others have no claim.

"You are special," they insisted, words dripping with ancient wisdom. "You possess something otherworldly." Their voices wrapped around you like a warm embrace. For the first time, you believed there was a purpose to your existence—a spark that set you apart from common folk, a thread woven from the fabric of something otherworldly.

Under their solemn guidance, you began to practice the mysterious arts. You learned to mix herbs and roots, crafting potions that glinted with promise and danger. Each incantation you whispered held power, resonating with the essence of the world around you. The witching nights became your solace, and as you delved deeper into their teachings, the women of the coven began to call you their newest daughter—their black swan. In that embrace, you found your wings, soaring above the harsh reality that had sought to bind you.

There, in the shadows of Harrenhal, you discovered your true calling and uncovered your hidden talent: Glamour magic. The few ladies of the coven from Asshai welcomed you into their fold. Asshai, a mysterious and ancient port city nestled in the far southeast of Essos, was unlike any place in Westeros, you gathered from their stories. There, the Ash River wound its way through the land, flowing into the vast expanse of the Jade Sea, where the waters sparkled under the sun like jewels.

As you sat among the flickering candles in their dimly lit chamber, they taught you ancient spells in their native tongue. Words danced on your lips like whispers in the wind, each incantation holding power and mystique. They guided you in prayer, teaching you how to bow your head before the Red God, channelling your intentions through sacred rituals. The air was thick with incense, and the flickering shadows brought to life the stories of ages past, filling your heart with a sense of wonder and purpose.

When the wise ladies of the coven, cloaked in shadows and steeped in ancient lore, deemed you ready to embrace your destiny, they presented you with a striking necklace carved from deep black obsidian. Its surface shimmered like a starless night sky, reflecting the flickering flames of the hearth where your journey began. Though the obsidian was traditionally used to forge weapons of war, the coven believed it resonated with your spirit, a perfect talisman for what lay ahead.  

As you clasped the necklace around your neck, it transformed into your glamor, an enchanting charm that bestowed upon you the power to weave illusions. With it, the magic could shift the perceptions of those around you, allowing you to appear as someone—or something—entirely different. While the shape of the necklace remained unchanged, the world could see whatever you wished it to see, bending reality to your will.  

The true strength of glamors lies in their connection to the wearer. Each illusion from the obsidian was ingrained with a piece of you, making them far more potent than mere tricks of light. As you wore the necklace, you felt it pulse gently against your skin, a current of magic entwining your fate with ancient spells. The coven’s trust in you burned bright like the embers of a dying fire.  

In the realm where shadows danced and whispers echoed, the obsidian necklace became more than just an accessory; it was an extension of your very being, a bridge between the world you knew and the numerous possibilities.

Through the fogs surrounding Harrenhal and its haunting towers, a figure emerged one day that would change the course of history. Daemon Targaryen, the rogue prince, found himself in the ancient fortress where magic lingered in the air, where witches snarled their secrets beneath the pale moonlight, and where even the strongest of men lost their minds to visions that tormented them.

The arrival of the Targaryen prince foreshadowed the beginning of the violent conflict known as the Dance of the Dragons, igniting the flames of war. The first target being Harrenhal. Daemon Targaryen, fierce and determined, led the charge to seize this shadowy castle for his wife, Rhaenyra. In his mind, it would become a stronghold for loyal supporters rising in the Riverlands.

Chaos erupted in the region, the air thick with tension and fear hanging heavily over the lords and common folk. Yet amidst this turmoil, you stood resolute, encouraged by the words of an elder from your coven, whose foresight promised their safety in these troubled times.

With unwavering determination, you journeyed to the godswood of Harrenhal, walking along the clear, winding stream that wandered gently through the emerald shrubberies. The ancient weirwood, with its deformed roots and an angry face carved into its bark, awaited you at the heart of the woods. Its pale leaves trembled softly in the breeze, whispering secrets of generations past.

Above you, birds flitted through the branches, their songs mingling with the rustling leaves, while bats emerged as shadows against the dusky sky, patrolling for their evening meal. A sly cat sneaked near the godswood's stone wall, its eyes glinting like lanterns in the twilight. In this serene moment, you felt a peculiar kinship with the creatures of the wood, convinced that you were not alone.

With reverence, you placed your offering between the twisted roots of the ancient tree, murmuring a quick prayer. You believed in many deities, each an important part of your life, hoping that at least one would consider your call. After all, in these dark times, hope was a precious thing.

Before your journey back, you felt a tug in your heart to pay a quick visit to Alys. The kind healer lady was one of the rare souls who did not cast disdainful glances at you during your time in the castle. Known by others as the “witch queen,” Alys saw past the uncanny aura that surrounded you. She had grown fond of you, despite the brooding darkness that seemed to dance in your eyes, and she understood that your best path was far from these stone walls. You stood out too much among the lords and ladies, a vision amidst the living.

Like a creeping shadow, you slipped through the secret passage, the cool air brushing against your skin as you navigated the hidden corridors. The echoes of your footsteps were muffled by the cold, damp stones, as you moved with practised ease to avoid the lurking guards. You knew better than to provoke their watchful eyes.

Upon entering Alys's chamber, you were greeted by a familiar sight—her collection of potions and drying herbs adorned the shelves, a simple yet charming chaos that spoke of her craft. The room held a soft scent of lavender and something earthy, an aroma that always brought you comfort. You wandered over to the table, intrigued by the array of glass bottles filled with vivid liquids.

But the serenity shattered in an instant, as a cold steel blade pressed against your throat, sending a chill cascading down your spine. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, mingling with the tension in the air. Your heart raced, pounding against your ribcage as panic surged. Who could it be, a figure lurking in the shadows, ready to end your life? The world around you faded into silence, but your senses heightened, honed by years of uncertainty. At that moment, you wondered if your last moments would be in the castle that had been both shelter and prison.

You couldn't see the face of your attacker, but you could feel the presence looming over you, the weight of their body pressing you forward. The blade dug into your skin, drawing a thin line of blood that trickled down your neck. You swallowed hard, fighting back the fear that threatened to overwhelm you.

"Who are you?" a low and menacing voice demanded. And what are you doing here?"

The voice was unfamiliar to you, but there was a certain authority in it that sent a chill down your spine. You knew that whoever this person was, they meant business.

You tried to turn your head, to catch a glimpse of your attacker, but the blade pressed harder against your throat, making you wince in pain. "Please," you managed to choke out, your voice barely above a whisper. "I mean no harm."

The figure behind you let out a harsh laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "No harm? You sneak into the healer's chambers like a thief in the night, and you claim to mean no harm?"

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, mingling with the blood on your skin. "I'm not a thief," you said, your voice trembling. "I'm a friend of Alys. I came to see her, to...to say hello."

The blade pressed harder against your throat, making you gasp in pain. "Hello?" the voice repeated, a note of suspicion in it. "Somehow I doubt you, little witch."

You knew then that your attacker was well aware of your true nature, of the magic that coursed through your veins. You thought of the obsidian necklace around your neck, the glamor that disguised you as a simple servant girl. But you knew that even that powerful magic would be no match for the Valyrian steel pressed against your throat.

Your heart pounded against your ribs as you struggled to steady your breathing. The cold steel pressed harder against your throat, sending a jolt of pain through your body. You tried to swallow, but your mouth was dry, and your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.

"I swear, it's true," you managed to choke out, your voice trembling with fear. "I didn't know anyone would be here. I thought...I thought Alys would be alone."

You could feel your attacker's warm breath on the back of your neck, their presence looming over you like a dark shadow. You wanted to turn and face them, to see the face of the one who held your life in their hands, but the blade kept you still.

"Please," you whispered, tears stinging your eyes. "Don't hurt me. I'm not here to cause any trouble. I just...I just wanted to see her"

Your hands shook at your sides, the obsidian necklace hidden beneath your simple servant's gown a cold weight against your skin. You knew that your glamor was useless now, that your true nature had been discovered. But you couldn't let them know about the coven, about the power that you possessed.

You closed your eyes, bracing yourself for the pain that was sure to come. You had survived so much in your short life and had endured so much hardship and betrayal. But in that moment, faced with the cold steel of a stranger's blade, you felt more vulnerable than ever.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I didn't mean any harm."

You waited for the blade to slice through your skin, for the blood to pour from the wound. But it never came. Instead, you felt the pressure of the blade lessen, the cold steel sliding away from your throat.

Slowly, you turned your head, your eyes widening as you saw the face of the one who had held your life in their hands. It was a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with hair the colour of spun silver and eyes as violet as an iris. He looked like he had stepped straight out of a legend, a true son of Valyria.

Daemon's violet eyes narrowed as he studied the young woman before him, his gaze sharp and piercing. He could see the fear in your eyes, the way your body trembled beneath his touch, but he also sensed something else—a flicker of something dark and dangerous lurking just beneath the surface. He knew a witch when he saw one, and you were no ordinary servant.

"A friend of Alys's, you say?" he growled, his voice low and menacing. "And yet you seem to know your way around this castle better than most. Tell me, little witch, what exactly are you doing here?"

He kept the blade pressed against your throat, not enough to draw blood, but enough to keep you still. He could feel the heat of your skin beneath the cold steel and could see the way your pulse fluttered. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear.

"I've dealt with your kind before," he whispered, his voice a low rumble. "I know the tricks you play, the illusions you weave. But trust me, little one, you'll find no mercy here."

Daemon's eyes flicked down to the necklace hidden beneath your gown, a flicker of recognition sparking in their depths. He had seen such trinkets before. But this one was different—there was a power to it that even he could sense, a dark and ancient magic that thrummed through the air like a heartbeat.

"What's this?" he demanded, his fingers brushing against the hidden amulet. "Some kind of charm, is it? A trinket to hide your true face from the world?"

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. "I can smell the magic on you, little witch. It clings to your skin like perfume. The same foul odour that clings to the healer."

Daemon's hand slid down from your throat to your collarbone, his fingers tracing the curve of your flesh beneath the thin fabric of your gown. He could feel the heat of your skin beneath his touch, could see the way your body trembled at his proximity.

You took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady the trembling of your hands as you met Daemon's piercing violet gaze. With a steady motion, you reached behind your neck and unclasped the necklace, letting the heavy amulet drop into your palm. There was no point in trying to hide your identity any longer. Your true face coming to light.

Daemon's lips curled into a wicked grin as you revealed the truth of your identity, his eyes glinting with a predatory hunger. He could see the fear in your eyes, but also the aggressiveness, the spark of something wild and untamed that called to him like a siren's song.

"I am a witch, yes," you admitted in a hushed whisper, your heart pounding so hard you feared he could hear it. "But I speak the truth, your grace. I did not know anyone would be here."

You couldn't help but notice his rugged handsomeness as you spoke, the strong lines of his jaw and the way his muscles rippled beneath the thin linen of his tunic. You quickly averted your gaze, not wanting him to see the effect he was having on you.

"I'm from the coven called the Wives of the Gods Eye," you continued, voice barely above a whisper. "We practice the old ways, the magic that was once forbidden. I simply came here seeking some herbs."

You met his eyes once more, defiance mingling with the apprehension. "I meant you no harm, my lord. I swear it on my life."

"A witch of the old ways, are you?" he purred, his hand sliding up from your collarbone to cup your chin, tilting your face towards his. "How very interesting. And here I thought Alys was the only one in this godforsaken castle who dabbled in the dark arts."

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. "You say you seek herbs, little witch, but what say you to a bargain? Your secrets for my protection."

Daemon's hand slid down to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a loose grip. He could feel your pulse fluttering beneath his touch, could see the way your body trembled at his proximity.

"I could use a witch of your talents in my service," he murmured, his voice low and seductive.

You stepped back, your hand brushing against the dagger beneath your skirts. "I am not some whore," you hissed, your voice low and dangerous. "I do not offer my services to any man, least of all one who would threaten me with a blade."

You met his gaze, your own eyes blazing with defiance. "You would be wise to let me leave at once, your grace. I have no quarrel with you, but I will not be cowed by threats or promises of power."

Turning on your heel, you strode to the shelves, your movements quick and precise. You grabbed a bottle of dried hemlock, the bitter scent filling your nostrils. You turned back to face him, the vial clutched in your hand like a weapon.

"I a daughter of the Gods Eye. I bow to no man, not even a prince of the realm."

You lifted your chin, your dark hair falling in waves around your face. "Now, I will ask you once more. Let me pass, or face the consequences of crossing a witch."

Your hand tightened on the hemlock, the glass cold against your skin. You could feel the rage thrumming through your veins.

"Choose wisely, your grace."

He had dealt with witches before and had watched as they danced and writhed beneath his touch. In pain and pleasure.

But this one was different. This one had a fire in her eyes that couldn't be tamed, a defiance that only fuelled his dark desires.

"A daughter of the Gods Eye, are you?" he growled, his hand tightening around the hilt of his dagger. "How very bold of you, little witch. To stand before a prince of the realm and threaten him with your petty magic."

He took a step forward, his eyes locked on the vial of hemlock clutched in your hand. "You think that trinket will save you? That your gods will protect you from the wrath of a dragon?"

Your breath hitched as Daemon closed the distance between you, his presence overwhelming your senses. The threats rolling off his tongue made your head spin, a dizzying combination of fear and thrill coursing through your veins. You had never met a man who could match the fire in your blood, his very existence seems to challenge you at every turn.

Daemon's lips curled into a cruel smile, his voice dropping to a low, seductive purr. "I have seen the faces of men and women as they begged for mercy, only to be denied. And I have drunk the blood of my enemies, their cries of agony echoing in my ears like a symphony."

"I could hurt you," he growled, his voice a low rumble. "I could crack you like this vial in my hand, leaving you a broken shell of the proud sorceress you once were."

"What do you want?" You gritted out through clenched teeth, hating the way your body reacted to his proximity. Your legs felt weak, your knees threatening to buckle as he loomed over you, his eyes burning into yours.

Daemon's lips curled into a wicked grin at the challenge in your voice, his eyes glinting with a predatory hunger that made your blood run cold. He could see the way your body trembled beneath his gaze, could feel the heat of your skin even from a distance.

Stop it, you scolded yourself. He's just a man. Don't let him get under your skin.

But even as you tried to regain your composure, you could feel the power emanating from him like a physical force. It was intoxicating and dangerous, and you knew that if you weren't careful, you could easily lose yourself in the reckless temptation.

"What do I want?" he purred, his voice low and seductive. "Why, I want what all men want, little witch. Power. Control. To bend others to my will."

He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. His fingers lingered on your cheek, his touch searing your skin like a brand.

"But with you, I want something more," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "I want to break you. To shatter that defiant spirit of yours and make you mine."

You could feel the heat of his skin against yours, could smell the musk of his scent, and for a moment, you were tempted to give in to the desire coursing through your veins.

But you were not some simpering maiden to be seduced by a pretty face and a silver tongue.

Daemon's hand slid down to your throat, his fingers wrapping around your neck in a loose grip.

"I could take you now," he growled, his lips brushing against your jawline. "I could pin you to the floor and claim you, make you scream my name until your voice is hoarse."

His other hand slid down your side, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip through the thin fabric of your gown. "But where's the fun in that? No, I'll take my time with you, little witch. I'll make you beg for my touch, for the sweet release only I can give you."

Daemon's eyes locked with yours, his gaze intense and unwavering. "So what will it be, my sweet? Will you submit to me willingly, or will I have to break you first?"

"You think you can break me?" You said, my voice steady and clear. "That you can tame my soul with your pretty words and your empty promises?"

You leaned in closer, your lips brushing against his ear. "I have faced far worse than you, Daemon Targaryen. I have stared into the abyss and emerged unscathed. Your threats mean nothing to me."

Your hand slid up his chest, your fingers curling around the chain of the dragon necklace that hung from his neck. You could feel the heat of the metal against your skin, looking at him with a scowl on your face.

"But if you truly want to test yourself against me, my lord," you teased, your voice low and enchanting. "If you think you have what it takes to claim me as your own... by all means, try."

Daemon's eyes flashed with a dangerous light at your challenge, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He could feel the heat of your body against his, could smell the scent of your skin, sweet and intoxicating.

"You play a dangerous game, little witch," he purred, his hand tightening around your throat. "To challenge a dragon is to invite its wrath."

His other hand slid down your back, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. He could feel the heat of your body, could sense the power that coursed through your veins.

"But I like a woman with spirit," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "It makes the eventual submission all the sweeter."

Daemon's hand slid up your side, his fingers tracing the curve of your breast through the thin fabric of your gown. He could feel your nipple harden beneath his touch, could see the way your body responded to his ministrations.

"I will have you, little witch," he growled, his voice low and seductive. "I will claim you as my own, body and soul. And when I am done with you, you will beg for more."

You roll your eyes at Daemon's sweet words, his attempts at seduction falling flat. He thinks he can have you with just a few pretty lies? How naive.

"You tempt me, my prince," you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "But I'm no easy conquest. Besides, Alys will be back soon. I bet she won't be happy to see an old man taking advantage of her friend." You smirk cruelly, enjoying the way his eyes narrow at your words.

You try to pull away from him, but his grip on your throat tightens, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"I could seriously hurt you, you know," you snarl, your eyes flashing with a dangerous light. "Don't underestimate me."

Daemon's eyes flashed with a dangerous light at your words, a low growl rumbling in his chest. In one swift motion, he slammed you against the wall, his body pinning you in place.

"Enough of your games, little witch," he snarled, his hand tightening around your throat. "You think you can toy with me, challenge me, and walk away unscathed?"

His free hand slid down your body, his fingers tearing at the fabric of your gown with a sharp, ripping sound. Buttons scattered across the floor as he bared your skin to his hungry gaze.

Shock and fury flash through you as Daemon rips open your dress, baring your breasts to his hungry gaze. You stare at him, completely still as a statue from utter disbelief, your breath coming in heavy gasps that make your breasts heave with each inhale.

"I will have you," he growled, his voice low and menacing. "I will claim you as my own, body and soul."

Daemon's hand slid down your body, his fingers tracing the curve of your breast, teasing your nipple into a hardened peak. He could feel the heat of your skin, the way your body trembled beneath his touch.

"I can feel your desire, little witch," he purred, his lips brushing against your ear. "Your body betrays you, even as you try to resist. I will make you mine, in every way possible."

"W-wait," you try to say, but your voice comes out breathy and weak as his fingers roll your nipple, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body. Your eyes roll back and a soft moan escapes your parted lips.

What is happening? How did this get so out of control? You think to yourself, your mind spinning from the onslaught of sensation. You can't believe this is happening, that you are letting a man you barely know take such liberties with your body.

Daemon's lips curled into a wicked grin as he saw the effect his touch was having on you, your body arching into his hand like a cat in heat. He could feel the heat of your skin, the way your body trembled beneath his ministrations.

His hand slid down to your thigh, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your ripped gown to caress the soft skin of your leg. He could feel the heat of your body.

"But first, I think I'll taste you," he growled, his hand sliding higher, higher until his fingers brushed against the slick, heated flesh of your core.

Even as you try to formulate a protest, your body betrays you, arching into his touch, craving more of the delicious pleasure he's igniting within you. No, I can't let this happen. I have to stop him.

But the words never leave your lips, lost in a moan as Daemon's hand slides lower, teasing you in places you have only touched in secret, in the dark of night. You are lost in a haze of sensation, your body responding to his touch despite your mind's protests.

"That's it, little witch," he purred, his fingers pinching and tugging at your nipple. "Give in to the pleasure. Let yourself feel the ecstasy only I can give you."

He could feel the wetness of your arousal, could smell the musky scent of your desire.

"You're already so wet for me," he growled, his fingers brushing against your slick folds. "Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind tries to deny it."

Daemon's fingers slid higher, teasing your entrance with a feather-light touch. Your walls clenched around his fingers, begging for more.

You couldn't think straight, your mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. It was wrong to crave a man you had just met, especially one who had threatened your life moments ago. But the way his fingers teased your most intimate places sent waves of pleasure through your body.

You had heard the other women of your coven speak of lovemaking, their descriptions painting it as a powerful form of magic. Perhaps you could harness this power, and use it to your advantage as Daemon desired to use you for his own pleasure.

Your hips rolled against his hand, seeking more friction. You bit your lip to stifle the moans that threatened to spill from your lips, determined to maintain some facade of control. But deep down, you knew you were in danger of losing yourself to the sensations he was eliciting.

Daemon's eyes glinted with triumph as he felt your hips roll against his hand, your body betraying your true desires. He could see the conflict in your eyes, the way you bit your lip to stifle your moans, and it only served to fuel his own dark lust.

"You can't hide from me, little witch," he growled, his fingers teasing your slick folds. "I can feel how much you want this, how much you crave my touch."

He pressed two fingers inside you, his thumb circling your clit with a maddening rhythm.

You let out a loud, uncontrollable moan as Daemon's fingers delved deep into your untouched walls, his touch igniting a fire within you. Your juices flowed freely, coating his hand as ecstasy consumed your entire being.

Your body writhed against the cold stone wall, your hips bucking shamelessly against his skilled fingers as he finger-fucked you with reckless abandon. Waves of pleasure crashed over you with each thrust, your breasts heaving as he groped and kneaded them roughly.

"Your body is mine now," Daemon snarled, plunging his fingers deeper into your slick heat. He curled them just right, stroking that sensitive spot within you that made your vision go white. "You'll scream my name until your throat is raw. You'll beg for my cock like a bitch in heat."

His other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place as he finger-fucked you with ruthless intensity. Your cries of pleasure echoed off the stone walls, mingling with the lewd squelching sounds of his fingers pounding into your drenched cunt.

"That's it, take it," Daemon growled, his lips latching onto a pert nipple. He sucked hard, grazing the bud with his teeth as his fingers ruthlessly stroked your g-spot. "Come for me, little witch. Let me feel you spasm on my fingers."

He could feel your walls fluttering around his digits, your body teetering on the brink of climax. With a final, brutal thrust, he sent you careening over the edge. Your scream of ecstasy filled the room as your pussy clenched down on his fingers, your release dripping down his fingers.

Daemon lapped at your neck, tasting the salt of your sweat. He continued pumping his fingers through your climax, prolonging your pleasure until you were boneless and mewling.

"Good girl," he purred, finally withdrawing his soaked fingers. He brought them to your lips, smearing your essence across them. "Clean them."

Your eyes fluttered open, glazed with post-orgasmic bliss. You hesitated only a moment before parting your lips, allowing him to push his fingers into your mouth. The musky taste of your arousal coated your tongue, and you couldn't help but moan around his digits.

He grins wickedly as you lap at his fingers provocatively, cleaning your essence from them. As his fingers are clean, he lowers himself to the floor, kneeling before you, as to worship you.

You gasp as Daemon sinks to his knees before you, his dark eyes fuming with raw desire. Your heart races, your pulse pounding in your ears as he settles between your trembling thighs. The heat of his breath on your most sensitive flesh sends electric shocks of pleasure straight to your core.

Dazed and off-balance, you instinctively reach out, fisting your hands in his hair for support. Your legs still feel like jelly from your earth-shattering climax moments before.

A bewildered expression crosses your face as he grins up at you, his tongue snaking out to drag along your dripping slit. You cry out, your head slamming back against the cold stone wall as ecstasy crashes over you in relentless waves.

"Mmmm, you taste divine," Daemon purrs, his hot breath fanning over your slick folds. He laps at your essence like a man starved, his tongue delving deep to drink from your most intimate well.

You can only moan brokenly, your head thrashing from side to side as he feasts upon your quivering flesh. His tongue is pure sin, licking and suckling at your clit with unholy skill.

"Good girl," he growls, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure through your core. "Ride my face. Grind that pretty cunt against my tongue."

Lost to the all-consuming pleasure, you do as he commands, rolling your hips shamelessly against his mouth. Your thighs clench around his head, trapping him in place as you fuck his face with feral ease.

His lips close around your clit, suckling the sensitive bud as he thrusts two fingers into your dripping channel. They curl just right, stroking that secret spot within you that makes you see stars.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Daemon groans, pumping his fingers in and out of your fluttering walls.

You can only whimper in response, your body tensing as another climax builds at the base of your spine. It coils tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment.

Daemon's tongue delved deep, lapping at your dripping essence with a hunger that bordered on feral. He groaned against your slick flesh, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure racing through your body.

He focused his attention on your clit, the tip of his tongue flicking the sensitive bud with rapid, teasing strokes. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he devoured you like a man starved.

Your fingers tightened in his hair. The public nature of your coupling only served to heighten the forbidden thrill, the rush of being taken in a place where anyone could stumble upon you.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. He could feel your body tensing, your walls fluttering around his probing tongue as he brought you to the brink of climax once more.

With one final, hard suck, he sent you spiralling over the edge. Your scream of ecstasy echoed off the stone walls as your pussy clenched around his tongue, your release gushing into his eager mouth.

Daemon lapped at your spasming cunt, prolonging your pleasure as he drank down every last drop of your sweet nectar. He continued his ministrations until your body went limp, your cries turning to whimpers as the waves of pleasure subsided.

Finally, he pulled back, his lips and chin glistening with your juices. He stood, a wicked grin on his face as he towered over your prone form.

"You taste divine, little witch," he purred, his hand sliding up your body to cup your breast. He pinched your nipple, rolling the hardened peak between his fingers. "I could feast on your cunt for hours and never grow tired."

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "But I'm not nearly done with you yet..."

Lifting you up with ease, Daemon tosses you onto the creaky bed, your body bouncing on the worn mattress. You cry out in surprise, your heart pounding as you take in his towering form looming over you. His eyes burn with a hunger that gives you chills.

"Daemon, please," you plead, your voice trembling. Your core aches, still throbbing from the intense climaxes he's wrought from your untouched body. You are no experienced harlot, but an untouched maiden, and you fear you are not ready for the sheer size of him.

Daemon's large hands grip your ankles, spreading your legs wide as he settles between your thighs.

Daemon's eyes raked over your trembling form, taking in the sight of you spread out before him like a feast. His cock throbbed with need, straining against the confines of his breeches as he drank in the sight of your swollen, glistening folds.

His hands moved with urgent purpose, his fingers making quick work of the laces of his breeches. He shoved the garment down his legs, kicking it aside with a careless motion. His cock sprang free, the thick shaft jutting out proudly from a nest of dark curls.

He rubbed his cock against your slick entrance, teasing you with the promise of his hard length. You could feel it throbbing against your sensitive flesh, hot and hard and ready to claim you utterly.

"Please," you whimpered, your body trembling with need. "I... I've never... I don't know if I can take you."

A cruel smile twisted Daemon's lips as he heard your plea.

"Please be gentle," you whisper, looking up at him with wide, vulnerable eyes.

Daemon's expression softens for a moment, a flicker of something akin to tenderness crossing his features. His hand reaches up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your trembling bottom lip.

"Shh, little witch," he murmurs, his voice surprisingly mild. "I'll make it good for you. I promise."

With that, he leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. His tongue delves into your mouth, claiming you, staking his claim over you.

As he kisses you deeply, you feel the head of his cock nudging against your entrance. Slowly, incredibly slowly, he begins to push forward, stretching you open around his thick girth.

A sharp gasp escapes you, breaking the kiss as he breaches your barrier. Pain and pleasure mingle together, your untouched walls struggling to accommodate his size.

"Fuck, you're tight," he groans, his hips grinding against yours. He gives you a moment to adjust, his hands roaming your body possessively. "Such a perfect little cunt, made just for me."

He starts to move, pulling out slowly before slamming back in. The rhythm is brutal, each thrust hitting that spot deep inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

You cried out, your back arching off the bed as pain and pleasure crashed over you in equal measure. He stretched you wide, his thick length filling you in a way you never thought possible. Your walls stretched and clenched around him, your slick arousal easing the way as he claimed you over and over again.

"Fuck!" Daemon snarls, his eyes rolling back at the tight, wet heat of your virgin walls. 

Daemon sets a brutal pace, pounding into you with animalistic hunger. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you in place as he ruts into your willing body.

"Take it," he growls, his voice strained with pleasure, his hips snapping against yours with ruthless force.

The bed creaked beneath you, the sound mingling with your moans and his grunts as he took you, his cock sawing in and out of your dripping cunt. Your legs wrapped around his waist, your nails raking down his back, leaving red marks and bloody imprints.

Daemon's brutal thrusts tore through you, each one sending shockwaves of pain and pleasure coursing through your body. You screamed, your voice hoarse and ragged as he pounded into your virgin cunt. Tears streamed down your face, your nails raking down his back as you clung to him desperately.

He had taken something sacred from you, your maidenhead, and you knew your souls were now tied. The ritual of first blood, unplanned as it was, had sealed your fates together. And with a dragon as your first, the power you could now wield...

You threw your head back, your moans echoing off the stone walls as he fucked you with complete disregard. Your hips bucked to meet his thrusts, the pain giving way to a pleasure you had never known before. You were lost to the sensation, your body consumed by the feel of him inside you.

Daemon's eyes darkened at the sight of your tears, a predatory grin spreading across his face. He could feel your walls clenching around him, gripping his cock like a vice as he claimed you over and over again.

He angled his hips, hitting that sweet spot deep inside you with each brutal thrust. His hands roamed your body, groping and squeezing, leaving bruises in their wake.

"That's it," he growled, his voice rough with pleasure. "Take my cock like the little slut you are. Fucking mine now, aren't you? Your cunt belongs to me."

You met his thrusts with your own, your hips rising to meet him as he drove into you over and over again. The bed groaned beneath you, the frame creaking threateningly as he took you with unrestrained lust.

You felt your peak nearing, your entire body on fire as Daemon pounded into you with unrestrained fury. You brought his neck to your teeth, biting down hard enough to draw a few drops of blood. The copper taste flooded your mouth, bitter and metallic as you licked the crimson liquid from your lips.

"Now you have bled for me too," you whispered ominously, your voice thick with lust and dark magic.

But before you could reach your peak, you quickly reached for your enchanted necklace, clutching it in your hand. The ancient magics within pulsed to life, amplifying the power of this ritual tenfold.

Power surged through you, your cunt squeezing tight around Daemon's cock as you came. Your eyes rolled back, your body convulsing as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you. Dark energy swirled around you, the air crackling with stifled energy.

"Mine," you whispered, your voice echoing with unexpected dominance. "You are mine now, Daemon Targaryen. Entwined by blood and pleasure."

Daemon's eyes flew open in surprise, his mouth falling open as he felt the surge of dark witchcraft. But it was too late - the ritual was complete.

Daemon froze, his cock buried deep inside your still-spasming cunt. He stared down at you, his eyes wide with shock and a hint of fear.

He groaned, his hips stuttering as your cunt clenched around him like a vice. The dark magic amplified every sensation, every touch, every thrust. It was overwhelming and intoxicating, and he never wanted it to end.

"Fuck," he gasped, his voice strained with anger and pleasure. "What did you do?"

But even as he asked, he knew. You had bound him to you, claimed him in a way that went beyond the physical.

He thrust into you one last time, his cock erupting deep inside you as he came.

He tried to pull out, to break the connection, but your walls clenched around him, refusing to let him go. Panic flashed across his face as he realized the implications of what you'd done.

"You... you she-devil," he snarled, his hands tightening on your hips. "Did you plan this? To trick me, to bind me to you?"

You just grinned, a vicious, seductive curve of your lips. You could feel his fear, his anger, but beneath it all was a flicker of arousal. The power you now held over him was intoxicating.

"Shh," you cooed, your fingers trailing down his chest. "Don't fight it. We are one now."

You roll your hips, your walls clenching around his softening cock. He groans, his hips bucking unconsciously into yours.

You gasped as the obsidian stone of your necklace pulsed warmly against your throat. The maleficent force surged through your veins, your eyes rolling back in ecstasy. "Yes!" You cried out, the power exhilarating in your veins.

Your eyes, nearly black now, held his gaze as you sneered cruelly.

Daemon collapsed on top of you, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. His softening cock slipped from your abused cunt, a trickle of his seed leaking out to pool on the tattered sheets beneath you.

For a moment, neither of you moved, your bodies still intertwined as you both tried to process what had just happened. The energy that had swirled around you during your climax still lingered in the air, making the hairs on Daemon's arms stand on end.

Slowly, he lifted his head, his dark eyes searching your face. He looked confused as he took in your triumphant grin and the blackness of your eyes.

"What... what did you do to me?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

You smiled at him, your eyes gleaming with malice. "I didn't do anything to you. I had no desire to harm you, as I stated before," you answered truthfully. "Did you know that the moment when one reaches orgasm is the most intense and the most powerful experience a human can have in life? For in that moment, the soul suddenly opens to the divine realm and the breath of God is infused. I needed another to reach divinity."

You rose from the bed, slipping your ripped dress back on and throwing a cloak over yourself. "I simply used you... as you have done to many women in your life, I'm sure. Do not fret, my prince," you smirked.

Daemon stared up at you, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and a hint of grudging admiration. He pushed himself up to sit, his naked body on full display as he tried to make sense of what had just happened.

"Used me?" he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "I've never been used like this before."

He stood, his cock already starting to harden again at the sight of you, despite his anger. He took a step towards you, his hand reaching out as if to grab you, but he stopped himself.

"What are you?" he demanded, his eyes raking over your form. "What kind of witch are you?"

He snatched up his discarded breeches, roughly pulling them on, his mind reeling from the events of the past hour.

"I should kill you for this," he growled, but there was no real heat behind his words. He knew he couldn't, not now. Not with the bond between you, however unexpected it may be.

"What do you want from me now?" He asked, rage clearly visible in his eyes.

You sauntered over to Daemon, your hips swaying seductively. The rip in your dress left little to the imagination, your full breasts on display for his hungry gaze. You could see the desire warring with the anger in his eyes as you approached.

"Nothing anymore, my prince," you purred, your voice like honey. "My powers have been amplified. I owe you a debt of gratitude for that."

You traced a finger along his jawline, feeling the prickle of his stubble. "Though I wouldn't mind having you take me again. I doubt I'll find another man as virile as you in all of Westeros."

You leaned in close, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, "You've awakened something in me, Daemon Targaryen. A hunger I never knew I could satisfy."

Your hand slid down his chest, your nails raking lightly over his skin. "I am yours. And I suspect you are mine as well."

You pulled back, your eyes locking with his. "What say you, my dragon?"

Daemon's breath hitched as you touched him, his body responding instantly to your proximity despite his anger. He grabbed your wrist, his grip tight enough to bruise as he glared down at you.

He pulled you closer, his other hand gripping your hip. "You want to be taken again?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "I'll fucking ruin you."

[wasitforrevenge]

oh sweetheart

pairing: boxer! ellie williams x f reader au

word count: 1.9k

rating: 18+

warnings: boxer!ellie, drinking, smoking, cursing, creepy guy but ellie comes to ur defense!! ellie has lots of tattoos, fighting, threats, idk if im missing anything (no character description or anything specific)

summary: you didn't expect to meet her on this night out.

authors notes: hi friends! this is my first time writing and posting on here hopefully you enjoy, please reblog, like or follow! lets be mutuals :) anyways feedback and constructive criticism is always welcome and appreciated! ellie williams has me on my hands and knees!!! i hope you enjoy! i like the idea of making this a series if it works out and ppl like it, so pls let m know!! thank you :)

PART 1 | part 2

series masterlist <3

from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸

READ: this account stands with palestine, and so— i require everyone who interacts to educate themselves, and support/donate. READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. silence is complicity, do not scroll past this.

DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS.

loud. everything is loud. the smell of sweat and blood stains the air around you. the sounds of people cheering and shouting towards the center of the large room. the lights are buzzing above you as you are walking into the entrance of the shitty run down gym your brother, jesse, and his girlfriend, dina, ended up dragging you to tonight.

you didn't mind coming along with him but this wasn't what you expected to be doing tonight. after a long shitty week of unpacking your new apartment, you kinda just wanted to end up a hole in the wall bar and drink your stress away but he had other plans. which including watching grown men beat the shit of each other for their cut at the end of the night.

it was intimidating, walking through the crowds of people you didn't know until you finally make it to where his friends were waiting for you guys. they were sitting at a table with a clear shot of the fight which was surprising since the whole place seemed to have more people in it then it could fit. you make your way awkwardly to the empty seats saying a gentle "hello guys" to your brothers friends who you didn't knowl. you sat next to dina as jesse made his way to the bar with your drink orders.

after you graduated highschool, you moved to new york and spend 4 years there working in a small cafe you lived above but now at the start of the summer, still not sure what you should be doing with your life. now you're 22 and you've moved to the city of jackson to be closer to your older brother and his girlfriend. you were excited to start fresh in a place where no one knew you yet, you were ready to leave your old life and those toxic things in the past. but you wondered if it was even possible.

you spend the next hour talking with dina and catching up on the things that have happened since you moved, "have you started looking for jobs yet?" she asked as you both sipped on the second drink of the night that jesse went and brought back a bit ago. you've only met a couple times in person since they started dating about 2 years ago but you loved her, she was making this night a lot better. "not much luck yet, i don't know what to do, luckily i have some time to figure something out." you responded. she went to say something but then the loud speakers around the room started blaring music and the countdown to the match that was about to start.

jesse tapped dinas shoulder to go watch with the rest of them. dinas eyes met yours and asked, "are you coming up?" you started getting nervous as the people started getting louder and crowding towards the center ring and told her that you'll stay here and watch. they both nodded and said they'd be back when it was over.

you took this opportunity to finally go get some fresh air since the crowd isn't all over anymore and it was a straight shot to the door you came in, you walked over to the side of the building, definitely feeling the drinks you had, you let your back rest against the concrete wall, finally cooling you down on this hot summer night. there's people standing outside talking but they payed no attention to you. you stayed against the wall as you pull out the cigarette pack from the pocket of your thin dark green jacket and the lighter out of your back pocket in your jean shorts. you cursed yourself for not buying more but its a bad habit and you know it. you pulled one out and put it in your lips as you brought the lighter up and took a drag, finally letting the anxiety go as you stared off into the sky.

"excuse me miss, you shouldn't be out here alone, a beautiful girl like you," a man with a rough voice said but you didn't move to look, suddenly wishing you never left your apartment to begin with, "hello i'm talking to you, its not nice to ignore people, ya know," he slurred his words as he spoke. you turned your head as you went to tell him to leave you alone but instead, he was standing in front of you before you knew it you dropped your smoke and now he's practically cornered you.

he was so close you could smell the alcohol on his breathe as he spoke again, "now are you gonna talk to-" you leaned away from him as he was interrupted by the sound of a door opening a few feet away, he looked towards it but then turned back to you just as quick, almost touching you as he went to speak again but he was beat to it.

"get off her." you didn't even realize the door had opened until you heard her.

the man looked back towards the door to the figure in the light, he squinted and when he got a good look, he suddenly backed off and put his hands up. "hey hey i wasn't doing nothin- it was nothing!" he shouted back to whoever was next to the still open door, light shining into the alley.

the door slams and the light fades as the figure walks closer towards you and your eyes meet the deep green eyes of the person who just saved you as she turned to the man who was just cornering you against the wall.

"it doesn't look like nothing, i mean, really? you're fucking joking right?" she questioned him as she looked him right in the eyes.

"i said it was nothing- she was flirting with me and-" he was cut off as she laughed loudly. "yeah you're full of shit, get the fuck out of here and don't let me see you again or you'll regret it." she said as she stepped closer towards him, almost at the same height, he looked scared of her. "okay, okay- fuck 'm leaving!" he slurred one last time as he turned around and headed the opposite way of the run down gym.

you stood there as the interaction happened, not sure what to do or say yet, you were silent as he walked off, and those green eyes met yours again and you saw her lips moving as she was speaking but you caught nothing she said. "hey, you okay there?" she asked you as she went to stand in front of you, looking you up and down, checking if you're psychically okay while she gave you a second to process before she asked you again.

"hey sweetheart, you okay?" she asked and grabbed your arm, not in a way that the man would have but like she was actually making sure you were okay, and this time you finally heard her.

"h- yes im okay, just- fuck- yes thank you." you said finally getting a good look at her now that she's up close and touching you. her eyes were greener than you thought, her short auburn hair with some pulled back into a bun, the big moth tattoo wrapped around her right forearm that was still holding onto yours, other tattoos littered her arms and some poking out under her t-shirt she was wearing. she was so close to you and it sent butterflies through your body. now is not the time, you thought to yourself.

"are you sure- 'm sorry that happened, fuck him." she said roughly, not towards you but him.

"its okay, thank- thank you for helping me" you said gently to the girl who was still looking into your eyes. you had been so focused on hers that you didn't even see the tiny scars, small healing cuts and the bruises that were fading until you looked over her face again.

"yeah of course, are you here alone?" she asked you curiously still holding on to you, you weren't even phased by it. you told her you were here with your brother and she nodded her head towards the door, "lets get you back to him before anything else happens sweetheart" she said as she guided you to the door, hand on your back, as you swallowed and went first.

suddenly all the sounds that you had not realized you had been blocking begin again, smells of the sweaty bodies surround you again and you felt too hot, either because of her or the summer heat trapped in here. once you made it inside, she moved her hand off the small of your back and told her to go find your brother and to get home safe. when she walked away, you realized you didn't even know her name.

you saw dina, sitting along with a few of jesses friends and made your way over to her. the match must've ended while you were outside. you walked through the gym to sit back down, moving carefully to avoid touching anyone. once you made it to the table, dina wondered where you had ran off too. "oh just went out to get some fresh air," you said back to her smiling, not wanting her to worry. she told you jesse went to get more drinks and after the encounter outside, you needed it.

jesse came back a few moments later, holding a round of shots for you three. "here you ladies go," he spoke with a happy look on his face. you smiled slightly back and took the glass as dina laughed at him. you took the shot, trying to forget what happened outside with the man but not what happened with her. you wondered if you would see her again. is she here to watch? could she work at the bar? is she here with friends too? your thoughts were interrupted by an announcement over the speaks that the final match was gonna start soon.

dina and jesse were telling you, "its the last one tonight and the last ones are always the best so lets go!" you would rather sit and order another drink, but what if something else happened cause you were alone? so reluctantly you got up with them and got closer to the middle ring, you heard the loud speakers announcing the boxers as they entered the ring. you weren't even paying attention, nothing could stop your mind racing with thoughts about the girl outside.

you shake yourself out of the trance when dina reaches over to you to touch your hands that were shaking but you didn't even realize, you look to her and give her smile that she returns, then she looks back to the ring and you turn your head to follow her eyes to the center. and your breathe caught.

thats her.

thats the girl who saved you outside.

the girl with her hands wrapped in tape and the mouthguard in.

the girl who wondered if she'd ever see you again either, not that you knew that, but she hoped it wasn't the last time.

you wondered what she thought as you both stared back at each other. you heard the coach start the countdown. you just watched her.

...5

...4

...3

...2

as the buzzer started, she smiled directly at you then turned to throw the first punch.

[thewriterwithnoplan]

THE TRAITOR'S SOULMATE (2/2)

Summary: Humans once had four legs, four arms, two heads, and two hearts. For humanity's hubris, Zeus struck them in two. You and Luke Castellan are determined to find your way back to each other, but before that can happen, there are things the two of you need to do.

[Part 2 to The Hero's Soulmate]

Soulmate AU: You meet the future version of your soulmate.

Pairing: Luke Castellan x Reader

Word Count: 7378

Warnings: Canon typical warnings, swearing, I use the spelling 'mom' because the series is American but I - and I cannot stress this enough - am not American, she a long one.

A/N: I've loved reading your comments, thank you so much for all the support in part one. I hope you enjoy, because we all deserve a little Luke Castellan every now and then!

Masterlist

Amphitrite had been gifted a premonition and the world was all the worse for it. The dream had come from Apollo or perhaps the Oneiroi or whatever great heart pumped blood and Gods and monsters out into the world.

It did not matter to the Goddess from whom the vision came, for in this dream Amphitrite had watched her husband fall in love and sire a child to a mortal paramour. A precious boy that Poseidon might even one day love, with a taste for the colour blue and a heroism that would grow to rival his namesake. And for the Queen of the Seas, that simply would not do.

It would not be the child’s nor his mortal mother’s fault – she was not Hera after all – and so she would have to punish her husband for the blame would be his. But how was one to punish a King among Gods before his crime even came to be? Why to beat him at his own game, of course.

So, Amphitrite set out to sire her own demigod with the mortal man her husband would hate most. A devout catholic.

Amphitrite stayed with her mortal lover and their half-blood daughter until the girl was all but five.  Far longer than the greater Gods were wont to spend with their offspring. But what a precious babe she had bourn and what a traitorous husband she had back home.

But fate and prophecies and soulmates were such funny things. Inciting chaos. Inviting paradox. Introducing dangers untold.

It took Amphitrite all those years – though seemingly short in her immortality – to realise her fatal error. She had been the one to leave Poseidon. She had been the one to sire a child. She had been the one to drive her husband to the surface and his mortal. And so, the blame was hers to shoulder.

Amphitrite decided that she would be a self-fulfilling prophecy no longer. It was time to venture back below the surface.

In a last fit of guilt, she bestowed her first and final act of mercy unto her mortal lover. She told him everything.

When finally, she had gone back to the sea to reconcile with her husband, the catholic man took his turn to bestow his first and final act of mercy unto his young demigod child.

Against all the teachings of his faith. He abandoned his young daughter at Half-Blood Hill. And let the devil-spawn keep her life.

The Spirit of the Hudson River never did learn to like you. You with your greedy hands, snatching debris from its murky waters. You and your strange sea creature friends who would not dare brave such pollution were it not for your presence. Your pile of war spoils tossed aside like children’s toys. Your strange little bubble of air on the sandy floor of the river, where you stowed your treasures and slept bracketed by water. Were it not for the pollution that slopped against the edge of the river as if it were trying to escape you, the Hudson River Spirit might have chased you and your sea friends and your collection of trinkets out of his waters. But as it were, you made a strangely amicable tenant for a demigod. So, as long as you paid your dues the spirit let you keep your little underwater oasis.

For your first years living there, you made your way in New York City by selling lost things dredged from your river home. Bikes and old weaponry and tarnished jewellery and buckets of coins from across the world. You were careful and you coveted your few precious belongings, but with the rivers bounty, you rarely went hungry.

By the time you were fourteen, you found you could venture further into the city without as many questions. You had met an odd assortment of people whilst selling the lost and unloved things of the river; all who knew someone, who knew someone, who needed another set of hands and so you offered yours. You babysat and cleaned, worked in delis and sandwich shops, helped old women with their groceries and young families mend their clothes. A retired teacher gifted you packets of schoolwork and with little else to fill your hours under the river you took to learning. Your numbers came easier than letters and reading always gave you a hard time but the activities she gave you each time you tended to her balcony garden gave you something to do when the sounds of the city kept you up at night.

All the while you followed Percy Jackson from the recesses of the Hudson. Shuffling your little bubble and its blessedly dry treasures up and then back down the river as he was bounced listlessly from school to school. Watching over him as the mythosphere tried desperately to barge into his little mortal life. Feral harpies that tried to snatch him into the air, great snakes that tried to sneak through air vents and all manner of underworld-born sea creatures that sought to pull him below. You had wrestled and dismembered and slayed them all. Adding their feathers and scales and great weapons to your dragons-hoard.

You were sixteen when you finally knocked on Sally Jackson’s door to introduce yourself. You had spent weeks working yourself up to it, planning your outfit and then fussing over each piece. All your clothes had been gifts and were often a size too big or printed with some generic tagline like Spread peace not hate!; or made entirely from yarn that the old woman whose meals you prepped at the start of each week had gifted you after she had taught you how to crochet; or like the dress you wore now, were sown together from thrifted fabric scraps and embellished with pretty shells and baroque pearls. You had planned the time you would arrive down to the minute so that her oppressive husband would be out, but the hour would not be so late as to make an unexpected visit threatening. You had planned to keep Percy safe while you were away from him by entrusting your friends Clarence the Crab and Emily the Squid to supervise him for the evening.

What you had not planned for was the possibility that Sally Jackson would be the most lovely woman you had ever met. You had been struck dumb by it the moment she opened her door and greeted you with a kind smile. Couldn’t your mother have chosen a mortal as gentle as she to be your parent? Alas, the Gods had never done a thing for you.

“Can I help you, lovely?”

You tried not to burst into tears as you asked, “Mrs. Jackson?”

“Are you alright?” She opened the door wider, leant out and scanned the corridor behind you. “Is there something you need?”

“No ma’am. I’m here about your son, Percy. His father sent me.” A good ambiguous statement that would pique her curiosity but let on nothing about the Gods. Allowing you to spin your tale – that you were Percy’s long-lost step-sister, come to reconnect. 

“Poseidon?” Alas, the Gods had truly never done a thing for you. “Is something wrong? Is Percy, okay?”

“He’s fine Mrs. Jackson, I’ve been keeping him safe.” 

She scanned the hall behind you once more, “You best come in.”

Over a cup of tea, you told Sally Jackson everything.

You liked your home under the river. For lack of a better term, it allowed you to remain liquid. You could follow Percy wherever trouble took him. You could stay up until the city grew quiet for that brief moment before dawn. You could train with the Hudson River Spirit, even if he only entertained you because he enjoyed winning.

You liked your bed made out of stacked wood pallets and a mountain of blankets. You liked your wooden chest of draws stuffed full of trinkets and weapons and the precious few items you owned. You liked this place that you had carved out with your own two hands.

But you also liked your home in the Jackson household. Where there was always music playing. Where it was always warm and dry. Where there would always be some blue-ified food in the oven or blue candy in the mason jars by the sink.

It became your job in the summers to babysit Percy, to keep him away from Gabe and from danger while entertaining his endless need for motion. You took him to art galleries (which he hated) and aquariums (which he loved), to craft fairs (which he tolerated because he liked the things you made) and swimming pools (which he only liked when he won your swimming races).

“What even is a soulmate?” Percy had asked you one day at the park.

“The person with the other half of your soul,” You scrunched your nose up, “Or well, that's what people say.”

“You’re saying I’ve been walking around with half a soul?”

“I didn’t say I believed them,” You rattled your water bottle in front of his face until he took it. “Stay hydrated.”

He frowned at you, “You don’t believe in soulmates?”

“Of course I do, but it's a little more complicated than that, kid.” You took the water bottle back and played with the cap for a moment while you thought. “Think of it like this. You can have two different puzzles that are cut the same way, right? So all the pieces from one will fit with all the pieces from the other. But that doesn’t mean they belong together, the picture doesn’t come out quite right because even though the pieces fit, they don’t necessarily belong to the same puzzle. Maybe that’s what it was like for your mom, like she couldn’t find the pieces that made up her picture and so she went with the ones that fit at the time.”

“You don’t think my mom and dad were soulmates?”

“I never met your father.”

“But he’s your dad too.”

“He’s my mom’s husband. Maybe my mom and dad are soulmates.” Percy didn’t seem to like that answer.  “Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe your mom and my mom each have pieces that fit into your dad's puzzle but neither match his picture, or both. Maybe his picture is a year with your mom and a lifetime with mine and having you. Maybe he needs to collect all those little pieces at the right time when they’re the right shape or he’ll end up with a completely different picture at the end.”

“I kind of understand.” But he gave you a look that said he probably didn’t. “What picture are you making?”

You hid your smile behind the lip of your water bottle, “My soulmates about yay-high, pretty as a magazine cover with dimples and all. I’m collecting my puzzle pieces with you and your mom and this city so that I’ll have half of his picture.”

“If you know who he is, why don’t you just go find him now?”

“Still looking for some pieces, I guess.” You kicked a rock with the toe of your boot. “Souls are fragile. If you go rushing in and trying to jam the pieces in when they’re not shaped right just yet you could damage them.”

“What happens if you do that?”

“It’s probably harder to find each other in the next life. You’ll chip pieces away and your souls won’t fit right.” You shoved your hands into the pockets of your cardigan and pulled out a sandwich, you gave Percy the bigger half.

“Who taught you all this?”

“My mom used to tell me and well, I've thought about it a lot.” You tugged Percy by the back of his shirt so he didn't go stomping through a puddle, he glared. “But anyway, some people think it’s just fate. That you find your soulmate no matter what and it’s a perfect fit either way.”

“It would be easier that way.”

“Sometimes that’s just not how the story goes, kid.”

Percy thought that was the most important thing anyone had ever taught him, but he figured some of the other stuff you taught him came in handy too. You taught him the tricks you learned to work around your dyslexia. You taught him to skip stones and to not throw rocks at seagulls. You taught him to flip off the Empire State Building but only when his mom wasn’t around. You taught him to knit and do a cartwheel and make a good cup of tea to take his mother in the morning. You taught him to chew with his mouth shut and to sword fight with wrapping paper rolls. You taught him to braid hair and throw a punch and say all the swears in Ancient Greek.

And then one day, a Satyr came for Percy Jackson, and there was nothing left for you to teach. 

You wrote Sally a brief letter of warning, picked your way through seven years’ worth of belongings and collapsed your life into a backpack. You said goodbye to Clarence and Emily with a brief promise to visit, pushed a final wave of pollution from the waters and thanked the Hudson River Spirit for his hospitality. He gifted you sixteen perfect round pearls and insisted that he never wanted to see you again. You spent the bus ride to Long Island threading them into a necklace made of fishing wire, tying off each pearl with your teeth. 

It was a tentative tradition between demigod soulmates to exchange gifts upon their first meeting. So few and far between were the possessions of a half-blood that even the smallest bauble would likely mean the world. The practice had died out some over the centuries as the Gods received fewer offerings from mortals and turned to their children for sacrifices. Gift-giving to your soulmate as a demigod became all but synonymous with spitting at the feet of the divine and loudly proclaiming you would make offerings to your soulmate instead. A pearl necklace would be an excellent final addition to the collection of small gifts you had assembled over the years. Let the Gods weep at your feet and beg for scraps if they needed them so much, you would ignore them just as they had ignored you. 

You arrived at Camp far sooner than you might have liked, a few hours past mid-day when hopefully the rest of your ilk would be occupied with meaneal chores and activities. You considered waiting at the crest of the hill for someone to notice you only to find a pine tree planted firmly at its peak where you might have stood. Instead, you make the alarmingly easy trek down to the Big House.

“Chiron!” He had always been your favourite of the two men, currently sat on the porch drinking juice and playing cards. 

“Yes, my girl?” He barely spared you a glance as he shuffled his cards between his weathered hands. He stilled for a moment and then tossed his head back in the way a horse might toss its mane. “My dear!” 

You raised a hand, halfway between a salute and a wave, “Nice to know I haven’t been totally forgotten.”

“Au contraire.” Mr. D stuck his nose up at you. “Which one are you again?” 

“The little one that went missing some seven years ago,” Chiron stood as you climbed the stairs onto the porch. “How are you, my dear? Where have you been?”

“Shouldn’t you be at Yancy Academy?”

Mr. D’s eyes turned sharp in the way that had once made your friends whisper that some days, he was more maniac than man , “And how do you know about that little girl?”

“Percy Jackson is at Yancy,” You smiled at him, all teeth, “How did you think he survived long enough for your baby satyr to find him?” 

“You have been protecting young demi-gods?” Chiron asked wearily. 

“Percy Jackson is a full-time job, I’m afraid,” You tugged at the strap of your backpack, praying you could keep control of the conversation. You had a lot of time under the river to think and this was one of many things you had spent countless hours mulling over. Weighing and considering what story you would tell them – to tell the truth of both your parentage and put Percy in harm's way or to lie and balance your life on its sharp edge. “I found him in Manhattan, he was like a magnet for mythological activity. By the time I’d had enough of rebelling and wanted to come back to camp, I was protecting him from attacks every other week. He wouldn’t have lasted a month. I came back as soon as I could.” 

No matter how many times you played it out in your head, the lies won every time. 

“Kids.” Mr. D threw back the last of his juice.

“Perhaps you should settle back into the Hermes Cabin, dear.” Chiron smiled down at you, the corners of his eyes pinched, “You’ve given myself and Mr. D much to talk about. We’ll settle the issue of your paperwork tomorrow.”

“Of course.” You rustled through your bag, digging up a palm sized statuette that you set onto the table. “Before I forget, I brought you a gift Mr. D.”

“A toy,” He snatched it up. “Oh joy.”

“It’s you, as the mortals’ see you. It’s from the gift shop at the Met.”

“How kind of you, my dear.” Chiron softened, and you watched as even Mr. D’s temper seemed to ease, his hands gentle around the gift as he admired it. 

An unseeing piece of plastic for the God who served as no more than a silent observer over the affairs of the camp. Let him choke on his ego, you thought as you left the pair to their discussion. 

Cabin 11 was blessedly empty when you entered, but your old bunk was not. A pile of clothes was thrown haphazardly across the bedspread. You snatched a sleeping bag and a lumpy pillow from the storage closet and threw them down with your bag. If you could not have the bunk that had been yours at twelve, you would claim the corner that had been yours at five. As you shook out the sleeping bag and pulled out your belongings, you tried not to think of your bed of blankets under the river or Sally Jackson’s couch. 

Instead you turned your mind to the Big House and the conversation that was no doubt happening within. 

You had constructed a perfect image, if you did say so yourself. Grown in ways Mr. D could not have predicted but Chiron would insist he had foreseen. Still a rebellious young woman in the mortal sense, with your scuffed leather boots and ripped jeans. But the parts that had screamed ‘insubordination’ to the Gods were neatly tucked away. Your twin knives strapped to your forearms under the billowing sleeves of your crocheted top, your vicious tongue caged behind a sweet grin, your once sharp stare softened at the edges.

Once you had fashioned yourself so that the Gods could not paint you as a hero, now you fashioned yourself so that they might forget you were an enemy. 

Let Chiron think you were a misunderstood wayward girl scout come home from her self-imposed quest. Let Mr. D think you were a stupid girl who had seen the world beyond the Gods’ protection and finally accepted that you needed them. Let them all think wrong. You had left to protect your brother and returned for one reason only. 

“You’re here.” 

You turned, and there he was, “Luke Castellan.” 

He opened his mouth and then closed it, limbs jerking slightly as if he wasn’t sure whether to move toward you or stay put. He was almost certain you could hear the way his pulse was racing, his heartbeat clanging wildly in his chest as he searched desperately for a suave reply, but everything else seemed lack lustre when you said his name like that.

Your face twisted into something like anger and for a moment he thought he’d messed it all up before your lips curled and you practically spat, “I do like your scar.”

And then he was laughing at you, wild and bewildered and not the least bit contained. Before long you were laughing too, neither of you quite sure what was funny, just so wholly relieved as your chests were flooded with wonder and warmth.

It felt like fireworks and popping candy. Just as he had promised all those years ago. You resisted the urge to throw up on his Converse. 

You might have been crying and he might been too but you weren’t exactly sure because one moment you were both laughing at nothing and the next he was on the floor with you. He held you like he had never held a single thing in his life, like he was lost at sea and you were the only solid thing for miles. He tucked your head under his chin and sucked in great forced breaths that you could feel beneath your cheek. Because he was warm and there and real. And that meant the last seven years, the better part of your life, hadn’t been for nothing. 

 You and Luke make your way to dinner side by side. You had spent the afternoon rambling about your lives, about your meetings with your future selves, about your home under the river, about his responsibilities as a camp counsellor and yours as your brother’s keeper. He told you about Annabeth and Thalia and the rest of his siblings, you told him about your parents and Sally Jackson and your sea friends. You gave him his necklace which he lets you fix in place at the base of his throat – you do not spend a moment too long running your hand up the back of his neck and through his curls. 

He had been almost bashful when he gifted you a watch that matched his, inlaid with twin fragments of mother of pearl taken from the same shell – kind of like your soul had been, he had said. You swear you’ve never owned anything as precious. You let him strap it to your wrist as he tells you about spending a summer diving for it in the lake. And then softly, tentatively, he tells you about his quest.

Luke could have cried from the way you were looking at him alone, so very gently, like you could cradle him with your gaze alone. At a loss for words, you simply whispered, “I am so proud of you.”

His grip is iron-clad and you tell your next story with your face pressed into the side of his neck, pretending you can’t feel him shaking softly. 

When you make your way to dinner you’re both glowing with the soft exhaustion of emotion. You all but lean against one another as you collect your goblets and fill your plates.

The other campers steer clear of you, content to leave Luke to chauffeuring the new kid around. You count yourself lucky, it was only a matter of time until one of the older campers recognised you.

You were almost to the end of the Hermes table – that perfect spot at the end where you might just have a chance of holding a private conversation after dinner – when Chiron interrupted you. 

“Mr. Castellan, I see you’ve acquainted yourself with our newly returned camper.”

“That’s my job, sir.” You tried not to stare at the crooked smile he flashed the centaur. 

“Perhaps you ought to show her how to make an offering,” Chiron says pointedly, “She’s been away for a long time, and it’s your responsibility to treat her as you would any other incoming Camper.”

Luke turned to you, his boyish grin still charming but the mirth leaking out of his eyes, “Of course. Do you remember how it’s done?” 

“I do. Just not a lot of food to be spared in the mortal world.” 

You squinted, the corners of your mouth pulled up in what Chiron would likely mistake for sheepishness. But Luke could see it in your eyes. How your anger had made you pointy in all the places someone your age ought to be soft. He wondered how all the jagged edges of you would feel against all the jagged edges of him. He thought maybe if the two of you were careful, you could make something smooth as sea glass and twice as pretty, together.

You dump a clump of mashed potatoes into the fire with an unconcerned flick of your fork. Luke lops part of his own meal on top of yours, you glare enviously at the reasonable portion he had left on his plate. You hoped the food would burn at the bottom of the braiser. 

“Sorry, sir.” You mocked Luke. He stuck his tongue at you once Chiron had turned his back. 

You hurried to snag the seat at the end of his table, sliding into place across from each other. You flounder for a moment, wondering whether to draw your legs as far under your seat as they will go or bask in the gentle brush of his knee against his leg. You settle for the latter and try not to evaporate under his gaze, as he stares at you even as you start eating.

Luke realised he’d spent too long staring when you all but groaned, “Don’t tell me I have to sacrifice my dinner to you too.” 

He flashed you a grin, then tried to say as nonchalantly as possible,“Is that why you left? So you could enjoy a proper meal every once and a while?”

You stared at him for a long while, “You, future you, told me to leave, to find my brother.”

“Why would I do that? If you had stayed at Camp–”

“That’s almost exactly what I said to you.” You pushed your food around as you stared at a point just beyond his head, he thought for a moment that he could see the neurons firing behind your eyes, like a hundred tiny zaps of lightning, “But I’ve had plenty of time to think about it. And I think you were right to send me away.”

“I don’t think I’ll be hearing that very often.” He dodged the pea you fling at him with a grin. 

“I think maybe if I don’t leave, I won’t become this me or do the things I’ve done and maybe that’s important for us or our future or some past you rewrote by telling me to leave.”

“Seems overly complicated.” 

“I think it’s supposed to be complicated,” You couldn’t help but admire the quiet skill with which he wielded his cutlery, “If it were easy, we would find each other in every universe.”

He paused, knife aloft, “You don’t want to find each other in every universe?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want.” You speared a leaf of spinach onto your fork to hide your scowl behind as you said, “The Gods have made it this way to keep us separated.”

“We’re together now.” 

“Which means they lost.”

Luke watched you for a drawn out heartbeat, then leaned over to transfer the perfect squares of meat he’d been cutting onto your plate. 

You took a long moment to chew before you said, “So, your plan to send me after Percy worked.”

“I thought it was your plan.”

“I forgot to ask you whose plan it was.”

“I say it’s your plan.” He took a long pull from his goblet that left his lips tinted red. 

“It doesn’t matter what you think.” You passed him a napkin before he could ask, “It’s what you will think.”

“Sure, Precious.” He smothers a laugh into the napkin at the way you scrunch your nose at him, “You know, because you're so protective of your food. Like Gollum with the ring.”

“That’s the stupidest explanation for a pet name I’ve ever heard.” But you’re damn near head down on the table as you laughed. “I definitely got the smarter half of our soul.”

“Then it was definitely your plan.”

You’ve still got a hand pressed to your face to conceal your smile when you say, “What about when I meet you? Any words of wisdom?”

“Try not to fall for me. I can tell you’re pretty charmed but it’s really not appropriate. I’m seventeen, and you’re what? Twenty-four?” 

You launched your bread roll at him. You’re twice as incensed when he catches it whilst looking directly at you, “Asshole.”

“Smartass. See, two can play that game.”

Luke can’t help but think you’re just as pretty sneering as you are smiling, like no expression no matter how ugly could detract from your beauty. Maybe you’re like him, he scarcely dared to hope. Maybe you’re something better, another part of him whispered. The way you talk about the Gods and turn your nose up at them, and play their game only when it suits you. 

You weren’t vengeful in the way he was. You weren’t the spitting vicious thing the Camp had liked to pretend you were when you weren’t around to prove otherwise. You were worse and better and everything he needed. You were a storm on the horizon, a snake coiled tight. You were better than just angry. You were disillusioned. Not a product of juvenile resentment but true wrath born of awareness. Not the wild foaming-at-the-mouth kind that he had imagined when he had first heard your name. But the dark carefully contained kind he had seen in the face you would grow into.

This, Luke thought, you were the start of everything.

It’s some weeks later when you stick your hands through the grating of the bunk above Luke as leverage to lean over him and croon, “Up and at ‘em, Pretty Boy.”

He pushed his face out of his pillow, curls sticking up at odd angles as he looked at you half-asleep, “What?”

“Remember? Training?”

“No,” He scrubbed sleep from his eyes, “What did you call me?”

“Sickly.” 

“I don’t think that was it.” He propped his head up on a fist as he smiled at you sleepily. 

It was so disgustingly cute that you had to turn your back when you said, “Just meet me there.” 

Luke’s freshly showered and holding an apple core when he deigns to join you in the forest. He tossed the apple at you and you caught it without thinking. You fake gag at him as you throw it further into the forest. 

You wiped your hands against his shoulder as you say, “I’m not sure if an apple core counts but that was dangerously close to an Ancient Greek proposal, Castellan.”

“I got hungry.” He shrugged. You squared off across the clearing, stretching as you warmed yourselves up for the ensuing sparring match. 

“You’re going to have to do better than that.”

“Is this you rejecting me?” He landed an open hand on his chest and staggered backward. “You wound me, Precious!”

“Was that you proposing? Because I’m,” You wiped your hand again for good measure, scrunching your nose up, “Disgusted.”

“You would be honoured if I had just proposed to you.” 

“You should be nicer to me.”

“And go easy on you just because you’re my soulmate? Unlikely.”

“Because, asshole, I’m the one who got you out of chores this morning, or have you forgotten already. You seemed rather grateful for your little sleep-in.”

He unsheathed his sword and twirled it round in his hand, “You’re a bad influence.” 

“Like you weren’t ready to worship the ground I walk on when I told Chiron you needed to get my training up to speed.” 

“Do you want me to tell you, you’re brilliant?” He pointed his sword toward you with that grin that made you want to hold him down just so you could admire it longer. “You’re brilliant.”

“You’re stalling.” You pull your knives out, one from your boot, the other from your belt. You miss your old clothes with their pretty sleeves and their personality, your camp shirt seems a poor trade in comparison. 

“Stalling? Me?” Luke scoffed. “Never!”

“Don’t you have a counsellor meeting at half-past?”

“I do, so please don’t feel bad when you lose. I only have half an hour to wrap this up. You understand.”

“Who’s fault is that Mr. Just-five-more-minutes?”

He gasped in mock offence and lunged forward, his sword swinging at you in a great arch. You leapt back, out of his range, then ducked low and rushed toward him. Luke was quick, in a viciously smooth move he swept his sword at you again. You brought your knives together, bracing as the impact ricocheted up your arms. Admittedly, you were at a great disadvantage given that you were reluctant to throw a knife at Luke’s head – even though he’d demonstrated an impressive ability to swipe your wayward throws out of the air – and that he had an additional several feet of reach on you.

Luke feigned to the right, you lashed out at his left side and narrowly avoided his sword as it came down at you. He whistled slowly as both of you backed up to circle each other for a moment. 

“You’ve got moves, I’ll give you that.” 

And so the dance went on. Luke struck, you parried or slipped out of his blade's path with a flourish. You struck, Luke swung his sword and slipped around your blows. Finally, you found the chink in his precious armour. He fell back to his right foot when he deflected a blow. You jerked forward. You jabbed the knife clutched in your left hand toward him as you moved in with the right. Just as you hooked a foot around the back of his leg, Luke’s sword made contact with your left shoulder slicing through sleeve and skin. Luke fell backward with a sharp hiss, his sword flying to the side.

In the end you had laid him out flat in twenty minutes. Luke Castellan had spent the last seven years fighting to win. You had spent them fighting to survive. You supposed it didn’t hurt that the greatest swordsman to enter Camp Half-Blood in nearly three centuries was reluctant to let anything sharp or pointed anywhere near you. You secretly thought he might have been going easy on you for being his soulmate after all. You collapsed on the forest floor beside him, your chest heaving to draw in oxygen. 

“I’m sorry about your shirt,” Luke huffed. 

“Orange isn’t really my colour.”

He turned to you with a wink, “Oh but it is.” 

You wave your hand through the air.

“I’ve gotten very good at putting broken things back together over the years.” He tried not to look at the line of stitching that ran from the ankle of your jeans to the rips at your knee. You tried not to look at his cheek. Instead you reached out and trailed your hands across his necklace where the pearls sat snuggly at the base of his throat. 

“You’re wonderful.” He brushed his knuckles down your shoulder and they came away red. “Even covered in blood you’re the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen.” 

You groaned, “Sweetness, you can’t just say–”

“You call me Sweetness when you visit me.” He whispered it like it was his greatest secret. You traced up his throat to his cheek and pressed your thumb into his dimpled cheek. “You’re still being wonderful. I can’t think when you’re–”

“Wonderful?”

“Okay, Smartass.” He sighed up at the sky, then pulled the both of you to your feet, “Enough lounging, we need to get that cut checked.” 

You let him dust the dirt from you and resheath your knives, one in your boot, the other in your belt. Silently revelling in the gentle way he tugs you this way and that. You were well on your way to the infirmary, shoulders bumping and fingers just barely brushing, before he spoke again.

“Where does it come from? The nickname.”

“Sweetness?” 

He looked away from you and squinted off into the distance, as if you were suddenly too bright to look at, “Yeah.”

“My mom used to tell me this story about meeting her soulmate. She probably meant Poseidon, but at the time I thought it was about my dad,” The back of Luke’s hand bumped into yours again, his fingers catching yours, his gaze resolutely ahead but you were definitely holding hands. “She said it felt like swallowing lightning and gorging yourself on popping candy. Like sweetness.”

“You like popping candy?”

“It’s my favourite.” You gave him a queer look as if to say, it’s not yours, you utter heathen?

Luke laughed at you all the way to the Apollo Cabin as he listed all the reasons it was the sub-par candy option. Nonetheless, when you emerge from the infirmary, he unloads a fistful of little packets he’d pinched from the candy bowl when the Apollo kids’ hadn’t been looking.

“Who has sub-par candy options now, Sweetness?” You teased, your mouth crackling merrily.

“Keep calling me that and you can have all the terrible candy you want.”

“Try some,” You shoved a packet toward him, because if he kept saying silly things like that and looking at you the way he was you were liable to do or say something equally as stupid. “You’ve got half my soul, maybe it’s our favourite.”

“I don’t think they had popping candy when we had one soul,” He flicks the packet held between your fingers. “And aren’t you the one who says we’re puzzle pieces not halves?”

“You have been listening to me!”

“Hard not to.”

“Asshole.” You flashed your teeth at him.

“Smartass.” He said, but the bite wasn’t there. He was watching you again, in that way he did sometimes before he said something stupid that made you want to throw yourself in the lake or run back to Manhattan or do something equally as stupid, like kiss him. “You–”

You twisted your hand in the front of his shirt and jerked him toward you, the little sachet crinkling in your fist. For a heartbeat, you were both silent, an inch away and staring as if you could will the other to be the one to press forward. But then he closed his eyes and Luke Castellan was kissing you. Like lightning and popping candy. With all the elegance of two lovestruck teenage fools and all the heat of two people who knew they had all the time in the world but still couldn’t bear to waste a second of it. His hand held you by the chin and then splayed lightly across your cheek and tucked hair softly behind your ear. You were only just reaching for the mess of curls at the back of his head when someone wolf whistles.

“My favourite.” Luke grinned, licked his lips and then turned. Hands stuffed in his pockets and a big stupid grin stretched across his face, as he shouted at you, “Stay out of trouble.”

You flip off the Aphrodite kid who’d whistled at you, and hurried back to the Apollo Cabin. You and Luke Castellan were going to need a lot more popping candy. 

You’re in the lake, encased in an air bubble, sprawled out side by side with your backs against the sand, when Luke tells you what he’s done. That mere weeks before your arrival he had done the unthinkable. He had robbed the King of the Gods blind and betrayed half the Pantheon in doing so. You weren't sure whether to laugh or cry.

You had simply laid there, silently, for what had felt like aeons to Luke but maybe that had only been because he had to keep reminding himself not to hold his breath. He wasn’t drowning. You weren’t going to turn him in. He hadn’t just blown his whole plan and his life with his soulmate in one fell swoop. He just had to keep breathing and wait for you to say something. He thinks that maybe your mother had passed on some divine knack for diplomacy as Queen of the Sea with the way you seem to turn the issue of his betrayal over and over in your head. 

After a while, you reach your arm toward the bubble and the sky. For a brief, terrifying moment, Luke thinks you’re going to pull the lake down on him. When you don’t Luke spends another infinite second wondering whether he would just let you do it. 

He tosses the thought aside and focuses on the coin weaving between your knuckles. Like magic, it appears and disappears around the bends of your fingers but it wasn't real magic, just you fidgeting. He pressed his lips together and tried not to think about you at the bottom of the Hudson River, flipping your coin and turning over the issue of your soulmate and your brother and the camp you’d left behind. What is it you had said? You’d had plenty of time to think about those things. 

Maybe that's what you need now – time. He’s about to offer it to you, offer to swim his way back to shore so you can think, even if he'd probably drown on the way. He’d give you all the time in the world if he had it. 

But then you finally speak, the golden drachma rolling between your fingers, “If you hurt my brother, soulmate or not, I will kill you.”

“I am your soulmate.” He insisted as the implication made his skin itch.

“You are.” Your smile was so gentle it almost felt sad. “So you understand that my love for him comes before my hatred of the Gods. If you have put him in danger wit–”

“We get married.” He blurted. “We have a future. I woke you, when you visited me. That must mean I win.”

“It means, if that’s the path we’re even on, if those people are even the versions of us that we become… maybe you don’t hurt Percy.”

“I won’t.” He swore and you weren’t sure how to ignore the half of your soul that lies so sweetly. “I wouldn’t.”

“Maybe.” You swallowed like you’d been chewing glass your whole life, and someone had finally offered you something substantial to sink your teeth into. “Maybe if we leave now, there’s a world in which I don’t have to pick between my blood and my soul.”

Luke was quiet for a long moment, “We could recruit him. You said it yourself, he’ll be more powerful than any of us.”

“He’s twelve.”

“He’s the son of Poseidon.”

“He’s twelve.”

“You were twelve when you left to protect him.”

“And look how that turned out,” Your grin was brittle, but he swore you were still the loveliest creature he’d ever laid eyes on. “I’m sat here planning to betray everything I was raised to follow.”

“You’re going to follow me?”

Your eyes traced the shape of his jaw, his nose, his scar. You looked pained, “I fear I would follow you into much worse, Luke Castellan.”

“I’m trying to lead you to something better.” He reached for your hand, took the drachma from your fingers, and pressed a slow, soft kiss to your palm. He smiled and there were dimples in his cheeks and tears in his eyes as he whispered, “We can try for better.”

“Leave Percy.” You pressed your fingers to his cheek, “Let him come to camp, let him join us when he’s ready.”

“You’re sure he’ll join us?”

“He will, I know it. We just need to let him see the Gods’ apathy for himself.” And you sighed. Luke wondered how many lifetimes your souls had seen, how many times you had searched for each other, how many times you had been torn apart. You sound ancient when you say, “You and I have seen more than enough.”

He turned his head and whispered in the scarce distance between you, “What do you propose?” 

“We leave. As soon as anyone catches on, we take anyone who agrees with us and flee.” You brought his hand to your mouth and pressed your lips to his knuckles firmly, “We can plot your revenge and plan my new world on the way.”

Luke feels ancient when he promises, “Okay, on the way then.”

But he swears, as you lean forward and kiss him, that no matter how many times you do it this lifetime or in all the lifetimes until this story – of you and Luke Castellan – became ancient, it would still never stop feeling like the first time.

Like lightning and popping candy.

Tag List:

@emelia07 @star611 @7s3ven @kissingyourgrl @myxticmoon @shermanno @moonsficrec @soleilgrec

[heliads]

whilst requests are open I have an idea to put forth after years of us discussing this man. Harry Hook x reader based on 'the way I loved you' by taylor swift. Childhood friends to lovers, to strangers to lovers again mayhaps? idk babes. Love you though, I hope your requests don't get out of hand again so you can stay stress-free!

eva i love you for sending this in, please let me talk about harry hook. he's insane and i cannot get enough of him

masterlist

You are lying on your bed in a dorm room in Auradon Prep, and if you close your eyes, you can almost convince yourself that you’re somewhere else entirely. Your roommate hung a lantern in the window, and with the glass pane cracked halfway, the light sways back and forth on the ceiling, painting shifting golden silhouettes on the perfectly painted ceiling. If you let the present world fade into the corners of your consciousness, you can pretend there are flaws in the endless pristine magnificence. You could even pretend that you aren’t on the continent at all.

No daughter of a princess should ever be anywhere but in Auradon. That’s the way it should have been, but you ran the second you got the chance and ended up amongst criminals and sons of thieves instead of with other prettily polished girls. Is it a terrible thing to admit that you miss it more than anything?

You shouldn’t, that’s the worst part. You left them willingly. As time passes, though, you’re starting to think that what you thought was one great fight with the so-called lowlifes of this world might have been the greatest time of your life. It’s like fording a raging river; while you’re in the thick of the waves, you think you might drown, but when you’re safe on the dry shore again, all you can think of is the coolness of the water, how the flood had sparkled like a thousand sapphires.

You shut your eyes and then you’re back again, just a kid, happier than you’ve ever been and twice as free. It had been easy to leave, actually, easier than it should have been. In your family, there were enough siblings and cousins and relatives that just one girl could go unnoticed. It’s not that Ariel intentionally tried to blur all of her daughters together in her memory, but it couldn’t be helped. She was one of seven daughters, and you were one of many as well. It wasn’t her fault, no, but it was your excuse anyway.

It turns out that nobody bats their eyes at a mermaid’s daughter when she’s running headlong towards the surf. You dove into the waves and came up to shore miles away. Your mother was terrified of losing any one of her children to the endless sea just as her father lost her to land, so none of you were allowed to stray that close to the beach. Of course you would see how far you could go the second you were unsupervised. Of course you would push the limits just to learn where you would break.

You ended up scaring the daylights out of a boy in a small sailing craft not far from the limits of the Isle of the Lost. You hadn’t meant to go that far, but you were giddy with the feeling of doing something wrong and he was trying to escape as well. He’d offered for you to hitch a ride with him so long as the wind was good. You thought that suited you well enough, so you took the hand he gave you and listened when he introduced himself as Harry Hook.

He said his name the same way you did, emphasis on the first name and not the last. It’s the exact opposite way any child of a prince or princess does, and you think that might have been why you liked him from the start. The sun shone overhead, and you talked to him about running away and taking to the sea and all the things you wanted to do if you just had time.

Neither of you wanted to leave, not really, but of course all good things have to come to an end at some point. You watched the sun sink lower and lower in the sky with all the dread of a doomed man going to the gallows. You must have looked seriously unhappy, because you remember Harry laughing and saying that you could meet him tomorrow, if you wanted. You wanted that more than anything, as it turned out, so you eagerly agreed.

Harry took you as far as he could towards Auradon again, and watched as you dove into the water. You can still remember how he’d watched you go, the way his eyes had tracked the water as if he could look at you forever, even after you disappeared from view. He stayed there for a long time before finally forcing his ship to turn around again. You’d know; you stayed there on the ocean floor watching him back until he was gone.

The next day, you slipped away to meet him again, and the next day, and the next. When you were caught trying to go out to the sea sometime in the second month, you fought until you could find a suitable excuse. Your mother was perfectly fine to let you go to some private school by the coast, it would mean one less child to keep track of. The papers were signed and agreements made before you could so much as blink.

You, of course, never went to that school. Instead, you showed up on Harry’s ship just like usual and told him that you wouldn’t be going back. Harry had been talking about a friend of his, Uma, and how she was forming a crew of her own larger pirate ship. You wanted in, and he couldn’t be more delighted to take you home.

You think you replayed the memory of him introducing you to Uma about a thousand times over in your head, and you’ll do it again tonight. The slats of the dock had been slippery under your feet, but you knew that so long as he was by your side, you would never once fall. Uma had looked at you questioningly, blue-green hair cascading down her shoulders, but Harry had hardly been able to tear his eyes away from you.

“This is Y/N,” he’d said, “she’s my friend.” He’d imbued the word with all the hope and grief and joy you could ever possibly attach to such an idea. Harry smiled as he said it, took your hand, let his eyes open comically wide so you’d know he was just joking when he mentioned that he’d jump overboard if Uma didn’t take you on.

Luckily for him, Uma had no problems with you. She saw something in you, the same sort of restless troublemaking spirit the rest of them had in spades. Before you knew it, you were quite literally learning the ropes of how to help out on Uma’s ship.

From there on out, everything was perfect. You watched the sun rise and set from the deck of a ship you could call home. When the weather was good, you spent all night and day out in the grasp of the world, and when the storms raged on, you hid belowdecks with the best friends you’d ever had. They wanted you, not your mother in a younger form, but you. Just you. It was wonderful.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that you would end up falling in love with Harry. You were hurtling towards that fate as fast as you could, running and sprinting towards the inevitability of it all. No one compared. No one had half as much influence over you as him. And, when he finally managed to tell you how he felt, you thought you might be able to take over the entire world with the sheer force thrumming through your veins.

Perhaps you should have taken that as a warning. The universe doesn’t care much for happy endings, you’ve learned, even for its fairytale heroes. Princesses grow old and fade into obscurity. Princes forget how to save the day. Villains live out their days with fantastic dreams that will never be achieved. You learn how to deal with adequacy, and pretend that it is enough for you.

You loved Harry because he was wild, your untamed, brilliant boy, but then you hated him for it, too. Just once, you wanted to walk into a room and know what he was going to say before he said it. Every word from his mouth was a dagger in your chest. Some days, he was a hopeless romantic, others, he was mad and uncontrollable. He never hurt you, but at least the pain of a blow would be something you could depend on and understand.

Your mother tried to find you about a year or two after you took to the sea, and you used that as your excuse to break up with him. Harry found out you would be returning to Auradon at the exact same time as the rest of the crew. You think he might hate you for it still. You think he would have reason to hate you for a lot, actually, most importantly that you were never quite enough to match him.

So you slipped away from the ship with the worst kind of goodbye, one that you did not mean, and you never looked back. You greeted your mother and agreed when she said that it was time you took up your studies at Auradon Prep. You joined the endless number of would-be princesses and princes and pretended that it was all you had ever needed in life. If you woke up sometimes with the sound of waves crashing in your ears, or felt the steady rock of a ship beneath your feet as you dreamt, you ignored it. Such illusions only belong to the past, and they will never be yours again.

You still have a jacket of his in the corner of your room; you brought it all the way over here, anywhere you go. You never had the heart to give it back. You don’t know that you could if you tried. It still smells like saltwater and laughter and sun-bleached him, and you have absolutely no idea what you will do when that familiar scent fades.

Still, you weren’t able to completely erase his influence on you. Children of villains arrived at Auradon Prep, and instead of running away from them, you befriended them as quickly as you could. Mal thinks like you do, her and the rest. You laugh like them– not quite as polite as you should be, but loud and beautiful and real. You hang out with them all the time and, when they talk about how much they wish they were back on the Isle of the Lost, you lie to yourself that you do not agree.

You never told them the full scope of your exploits, but they know part of it, enough that one day Mal knocks at your door and tells you that she needs your help on a pirate ship. She needs to get something from the Isle of the Lost, a mysterious ingredient for a spell, but they have to keep it a secret so they can’t use the bridge. The next best option, then, is to sail. It’s not a far destination, so it would work.

A thousand memories of sun and surf flash through your head, and you find yourself agreeing before Mal can so much as finish trying to convince you to go along with her plan.

Mal blinks in surprise. “Really? You’re sure? I thought you would have mixed feelings about that time in your life.”

You breathe out slowly, trying to calm yourself. “Certain things scare me more than others.” Certain people, that is.

Mal winces as she leads you out of your dorm and back into the hallway. “Actually, we might have a problem with that.”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

Mal casts you a nervous glance. “Before I continue, remember that you already agreed. I’m not letting you leave now.”

You laugh. “I’m starting to get worried. No, Mal, I’m not backing out. Just tell me already.”

Mal holds up her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Never doubted you for a second. It’s just, well, we don’t have a ship at our disposal, obviously, so we’re borrowing one from Uma.”

You shrug. “I have no problem with that. Uma’s great.”

“Yeah,” Mal says, drawing out her syllables in an attempt to buy herself time, “but she insisted on having a skeleton crew present. You know, to make sure we wouldn’t run aground or something like that. That includes her first mate.”

Your head snaps up. “Harry’s going to be there?”

You can feel Mal’s gaze on you, but you refuse to look at her. Instead, you’re scanning the hallway, every door you pass, sure that he’s going to be waiting for you, leaning casually against a wall or peering out of a window or somewhere you could find if you just looked hard enough.

“He is,” Mal confirms, “is that going to be an issue?”

Yes. “No, I’ll be fine.”

You can’t really tell if Mal believes you or not, but then you’re rounding the corner and the rest of the VKs are in front of you, and the conversation must be dropped as Mal explains her plan. You’re going to join the four of them and Uma’s guys in piloting the ship over to the Isle of the Lost, where you’ll search for a talisman hidden somewhere on the island. Once the talisman is secured, you’ll head back. Easy as that.

Mal leads your group to a boathouse on the southern part of the shore. You take up a position in a corner of the room, hidden by the shadows. You suppose that’s why the pirates don’t see you immediately when they come in a matter of minutes later. You suppose you chose that place on purpose so you could get a good look at Harry without him seeing you.

He looks just the same. You don’t know why you thought he would change, that he would have to look different to explain how different you feel, but he’s the same. It makes a soft smile rise to your lips at the same time as the weight of all your memories pierces you through the heart.

Uma’s talking to Mal, doubt lacing her every word. “I hope you have a good idea of how to run a ship, because I don’t think any of your friends have the slightest clue what to do on the sea. That’s my territory, in case you forgot.”

“I know,” Mal says, temper just as strong as always, “that’s why I brought a friend.”

Harry arches a brow. “What friend?”

“That would be me,” you say, and step out of the shadows to face him.

For a moment, you swear that time stands still. Harry’s breath catches in his chest as he looks at you for the first time in months. He has never been one to show off weakness, always laughing off injury or claiming not to feel pain, but in this instant, you can see the shock lancing through his eyes, wracking his frame until he has no choice but to stand there and stare.

Uma breaks the silence, wrapping an arm around your shoulders with a grin. “Y/N, good to see you! I take it back, Mal. Y/N could captain a fleet of ships with her eyes closed.”

It’s easy, after that, to pull yourself together. Uma’s friendship is something familiar, a rock you can stand on. “I appreciate your confidence,” you reply, “good to see you too, by the way.”

“Of course,” Uma says dismissively, then adds somewhat unnecessarily, “Hey, Harry, look who it is!”

Harry swallows hard when Uma addresses him, tries to pretend he’s just like normal. “Yeah, I saw. Hey, Y/N.”

“Hey yourself,” you say quietly.

Evie looks at you nervously, then quickly speaks up. “So, should we get to the ship? We only have so much time before people start looking for us.”

Uma rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you guys are too popular, I get it. Ship’s docked outside.”

Harry takes this as his excuse to bolt out, and you watch him go with wide eyes. Evie heads over to you as soon as everyone’s attention is off you again. “Hey, is everything alright?”

“Perfectly fine,” you whisper back through gritted teeth. Of course it is a lie. You couldn’t be more affected by this.

You avoid Harry the entire duration of the trip over to the Isle of the Lost. It’s difficult, especially when you push off from the shore and the wind is on your face again and everything is just like you remember. You tug a few lines into place, tie them down with the knots he taught you, and race to the bow as soon as you’re free.

You forgot just how wonderful it is to sail. You laugh delightedly as the ship picks up speed, skipping over the waves as the wind snaps the sails almost to bursting. This close to the surface of the water, you can’t hear anything, but you sense something anyway, and that’s how you know to lean back up and look to your side to see Harry standing there, smiling as he takes in the sight of you.

Your laugh dries up in a moment and you feel frozen there, trapped in this moment with him. Someone calls your name a second later and you’re able to spirit away to safety, but you can still feel his gaze burning like a brand into your back every moment until the ship docks at the Isle.

Mal announces that you’ll be splitting up in pairs so you can properly canvas the island for the talisman. Before you can look at her or Evie, Uma suggests that you and Harry work together, and the rest are already partitioned into pairs before you can fight it.

Fine, then. You’re certain he’s put her up to this, but you won’t give him a scene if he wants it. Instead, you march resolutely towards your assigned location, and pretend that you’re just really invested in finding the talisman so you can’t hear him when he tries to talk to you.

Eventually, Harry has enough and puts his hand on your arm, trying to get your attention. You spin back around by reflex, dagger in hand and held to his throat before Harry can get so much of a word out. The Isle has always brought out a different part of you, more of a villain than any princess’ daughter.

Instead of looking afraid, Harry just laughs. Usually, this is the time at which you’d join in, but you narrow your eyes and hold strong.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he says when he’s finally able to get his laughter under control, “I don’t think your friends would like it very much if you killed someone on your little vacation to the island.”

You glare at him. “We’re not friends anymore, sweetheart, or have you forgotten that already?”

“When your knife is to my throat? Couldn’t forget that if I tried. Out of curiosity, why are we enemies again? I seem to remember you liking me very well just a couple of months ago.” Harry says, reaching up to tap your forearm where you still hold your blade.

You pull your dagger away but stand there still, thrumming with the urge to run. “We’re too different. You’re a villain, and I’m a perfect angel, obviously.”

Harry grins. “What, just because you’re the daughter of a princess? You’ve never let that come in between us before. You’re not Ariel, you’re Y/N, and I have always loved that about you.” Something like doubt flickers across his face. “Is that why you left? You thought you had to become more like her?”

You glance away from him, suddenly unable to look him in the eyes. “I left because I had to. We weren’t working out.”

“Why not?” Harry asks, and suddenly he’s the one in control now, he’s the one stepping forward until your back hits the wall and you have nowhere to run, “What was so wrong with us, Y/N?”

Your hands are shaking. Harry takes the knife from you, carefully sliding it back in the holster on your side. His hands linger there a second longer, and when he finally takes them away, you can’t tell if you’re glad of it or deeply unhappy that you can no longer feel him.

“We could never work,” you insist.

“Why not?” He replies, “Show me we could never work. Prove me wrong.”

Harry Hook has always been somewhat of an enigma to you, just as unpredictable as the sea that both of you love, but somehow you know it’s coming when Harry leans forward and kisses you. For a moment, you consider pushing him away, and then you realize that you do not hate this, not him, not in the slightest, not at all.

Surrender is not the worst thing in the world. Sometimes it’s like the release of a sail to the wind, the acceptance that even though you let a person go, they will always come back to you. You surrender the last of your inhibitions and you kiss him back. It is everything you missed, the fighting and the laughing, the good times and the bad all in one. It is all that you love about him and more, what you didn’t realize you held most dear until you were gone.

Harry breathes quietly against your lips and you breathe back, one small circle of in and out and together. He grins, says, was that really so bad? And you laugh and tell him to shut up, so he does, but only by kissing you again. The island can wait, the talisman and the life waiting back for you at school. You have your boy back, and you could not care about anything else.

requested by @thatfangirl42, i hope you enjoy!

disney tag list: @rogueanschel, @lovesanimals0000, @/thatfangirl42, @amortensie

[bones4thecats]

A/N: This guy is one of my favorite Gods in Record of Ragnarok to write for, I also like Apollo and Thor, maybe Odin as well. Anyways, I added my own little twist to this prompt to make it fit a bit better with the reader. Now, I hope you enjoy this @yey56, and thank you for the request!!

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🔱 Poseidon never expected this to happen.

🔱 He had thrived his whole life, living perfectly fine without any human's life interfering, until you showed up.

🔱 Hades had called upon his three younger brothers, Adamas, Poseidon, and Zeus about a soul of a young mortal female soul who had somehow, without his knowledge, escaped the river STYX.

🔱 His eldest brother's guards dragged you in per his command, and Zeus immediately looked at you with hearts in his eyes.

🔱 " Damn idiot. " Poseidon thought, watching his youngest brother stare at you, his intentions obviously horrible inside.

" Poseidon! "

🔱 The Tyrant of the Sea may have looked in the opposite direction, but everyone knew he was listening to the ramblings of Adamas.

🔱 His main focus was on the deceased maiden seated at the table's opposite end, glancing around the large room, waiting for one of the male gods to ask her about her escape.

🔱 Hades' gaze shifted from his youngest brother, Zeus, to you, looming before tapping his eye piece and asking you the question you were awaiting.

" How did you escape from the river STYX? "

🔱 You pondered for a moment, your memory was quite limited, the main things flying through your head was your childhood and eventual death, then, the exact things he asked you popped up.

🔱 You shifted as the guards stiffened, probably believing you were gonna try attacking the brothers, which you knew would be fruitless, as one was staring at you with heart-eyes, one glared, another stared with curiosity in his one visible eye, and the last basically looked into your soul.

🔱 Poseidon was the least patient at the moment, and he was close to yelling at you to answer them, but he stopped himself when your mouth opened to answer Hades' question.

" My memory isn't the best as of now, but, by what I can ponder up, I had died and, for some random reason, reached up for breath, as if I was drowning, and pulled myself out of the river,"

🔱 " I guess my body wasn't ready to die yet, huh? " You joked

🔱 The brothers just stared, and at that point, you glanced at Zeus, and he just smiled the creepiest smile you had ever seen in history, way beyond any image someone could use to scare you.

🔱 Adamas just looked at Hades and asked what they were to do with you, in which he answered with a fairly bland and further pondering question.

" We will have to find someone to watch over her for the time being. I would allow her to stay here, but, I am not sure what may happen if another soul sees her as they vanish down here. Adamas, could you take her in? " " Nope. I got quite a bit of stuff happening at the moment, brother. I would if I could, sorry. " " Zeus? " " Glad- " " I will. "

🔱 All heads snapped to the sound of Poseidon's voice ringing through the dining room.

🔱 Had he just said he's take in a human? For real?

" Um, Poseidon, Zeus was just saying- "

🔱 " I will take the human to my castle underneath the ocean's waves, we all know what Zeus would do to the mortal when she arrives at his residence. " He said, glaring in the direction, but not fully looking at the younger, yet elderly appearing, brother.

🔱 Hades smiled faintly before nodding to his guards while Poseidon motioned for his to grab you before nodding to his brother and saying his farewells as he, you, and his guards walked out of the castle of Helheim.

🔱 Once arriving at his castle, your eyes widened and sparkled with admiration for the beautiful building.

🔱 Poseidon stared back at you, seeing the vert obvious awestruck face you had on.

🔱 He motioned for his guards to return to their placements in the castle as he gave you a miniature tour around the building so you'd know your way to certain rooms, like yours, the throne room, dining room, and more.

🔱 " And this, " He said, " Is your new room. I had the maids get it cleaned and ready to befit you from what Hades had mentioned in his letter about you. "

🔱 You smiled at him, thanked him, and before retreating into your room to get ready for dinner that night, you asked him a question just about as interesting as Hades had been.

" Why did you decided to take me in? You could've left me for dead with your brother. "

🔱 Poseidon stood there and held his trident, the blades pointing to the ground, for once in his life, he really had no answer. He had no clue why he did this.

🔱 But maybe, just maybe, over that night, and many years to come, he'd figure it out

🔱 Newsflash, he does.

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Hi! Can I request a reader x xaden fic where she gets badly hurt and he freaks out. The ending is up to you. Thank you

Not responsible for this. That’s your warning. You asked.

Breathe me in

“What’s up with you today?”, you nudged your boyfriend’s shoulder as you finally managed to find him in the back room of the training hall. Xaden simply shrugged, reaching for another dagger to throw. But you quickly stepped in front of him. “We don’t do that”, you crossed your arms over your chest, “Talk to me”, you breathed.

You could tell from the way his jaw clenched that he was calculating his answer. “I don’t like the formation they are sending out today”, he said drily. “For the petrol?”, you questioned and Xaden only nodded. “We never flown over there. Ever. And suddenly we have a new location to go to?”, he shook his head in frustration. “You think it’s a setup?”, you brushed your fingers over his back hoping to give him at least some comfort. “Who knows… I doubt it, they are sending the best. Killing them off…”, Xaden trailed off. “Well, I care because you are on the list so, I ain’t looking to lose you”, you leaned forward, kissing his chest before nuzzling into him. “So are you and I guess that’s why I am so… On edge. I don’t want to bring you into an ambush”, he admitted, leaning in to kiss the top of your head. “We would give them hell”, you muttered, making Xaden let out a low chuckle, “We would but let’s hope that we don’t have to”.

Now he wished he hadn’t brought you. Wished it would have been him and the boys. Because he had lost you and Imogen when the fire had started. You all had barely flown over the valley when the sea of arrows came. Followed by flames. “Fuck”, Xaden cursed, flying over the peek. “Yn, come on love, where are you?”, he muttered scanning the fields. “Nothing”, Bodhi shouted, flying from the left side. “Nothing here as well”, Garrick shook his head. The panic in Xaden only intensified. “We will find them”, Bodhi said firmly, “They probably just took shelter in the caves”. And Xaden truly couldn’t put into words just how much he hoped that was true.

“Xaden”, Sgaeyl's voice pierced his consciousness, “boy”, and that’s when he felt her sadness seeping into him. His eyes landed on the two huge figures down by the river. He didn’t even have to motion for the two males to follow suit. But even through the sea of emotions, he didn’t let himself lose hope. Not until Imogen’s screams filled the air. Not until the sight of your dragon slumped to the side came into view. “No”, he breathed, “No, no…”, “Stay in the saddle”, Sgaeyl warned him but Xaden was already swinging his leg over her body, “Xaden”, she hissed tilting to the side so she could at least break his fall.

“Yn”, he shouted, “Yn”, his legs hit the ground and he was running. Running towards kneeling Imogen. He was going to fix this. He was going to make it better and then… then he would kill everyone who was in on this. “Yn”, he repeated over and over till his eyes landed on your limp body on Imogen’s lap. Imogen who was sobbing so hard her body shook, “I couldn’t, I can’t”, she choked out, brushing some of your blood-soaked hair away from your face.

Xaden fell to his knees, reaching for you. “Hey, baby, hey, hey”, he gathered you in his embrace. The sound of your dragon growling in pain echoed through the field. You blinked slowly and he quickly gathered your face in his hands, “Look at me, I will get you back, we will fix this”, but you simply shook your head, “Want to… die… here”, you choked out. “No, no, you’re not dying”, Xaden shook his head, “We’ll go home, okay? We will…”, “Xaden”, you breathed out.

A pained cry ripped through him as he pressed you closer to him. His hands soaked in your blood from the open wound on your back. He lifted his eyes to look at the friends. Garrick had gathered Imogen in his arms, his own eyes red from tears. Bodhi was kneeling by your dragon, trying to soothe the pain. “We need to go”, Xaden urged, trying to lift you but the pained growl that left you had him stilling instantly.

“To the river…”, you breathed out, lips rimed with blood, face growing paler. Xaden didn’t even have to think twice as he turned towards the shore where the water was running. “Pretty”, you muttered, eyes growing heavy. “Let me help, let me become I can’t…”, Xaden choked out. Nuzzling closer to you. “I… love”, your voice died with a pained cough. “Don’t do this”, Xaden shook his head, “You can’t leave me, that’s an order”, he tried to suppress the sob but that only left him shaking. “Best thing… that happened to me… was you”, you lifted your hand as much as you could and Xaden instantly leaned to meet your touch nuzzling into your warmth.

“I love you”, Xaden muttered, trying to smile at you, trying to give you that one goodbye. “Love”, you breathed out right as Xaden leaned in to carefully kiss you. Brushing his lips over yours one last time right as your body fully limped. A pained sob echoed as Xaden shouted. Pulling you as close as he possibly could. Rocking back and forth as he held you. Feeling the cold setting in. The never undoable coldness taking you from him forever.

[padfootagain]

Only an Almost (XIII)

Chapter 13: Decisions

Hi! Here comes a new chapter! We are reaching the heights of the angst… next chapter. So, buckle up, we’re up for a wild ride…

I hope you’ll like this chapter! Please, tell me what you think!

*************************************

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader, friends with benefits AU

Warning: No explicit smut or nsfw content, but there are sexual themes and heavy make-out sessions (it’s a friends with benefits AU, I can’t really escape it), so 18+ only!

Summary: Andrew has been in love with you for years, and yet he has never confessed his feelings. But a night out celebrating the engagement of his best friend changes everything. However, you don't seem ready to be with him just yet. You make him an offer that he can't refuse... but will certainly regret.

Word Count : 1982

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s Masterlist – Main Masterlist

“Andy, honey… can you take a pic from up there? Down the river. Try to centre it on the bridge…”

Andrew followed his mother’s instructions, climbed on the bench by the docks that ran along the Liffey, aimed the camera the best he could, took a couple of pictures.

“Is that alright?” he asked his mother to check the pictures, handing her the camera.

“Perfect! Thank you, honey.”

They resumed their walk down the river, Raine’s camera secured around her neck. He offered his mother his arm, and she took it with a tender smile.

“This is such a lovely afternoon, isn’t it?” she said after a moment of comfortable silence.

The sky was grey but there was no rain in sight. Dublin was busy with life, as it always was. The murmur of cars passing in adjacent streets and boulevards mingled with the cries of a few seagulls who had flew up along the river from the sea. It was early in the afternoon still, right after lunch-hours, and the docks were empty of people, except for the occasional joggers and their loud earphones, the parents and their children, the lovely couples. It wasn’t too warm, nor too windy. There was a sweet scent coming from a nearby bakery.

“Yeah, it is lovely,” Andrew nodded.

“Thanks for coming with me today and helping me with the pictures.”

“I’m expecting some kind of reward for such hard work,” he joked, making his mother laugh wholeheartedly.

“That may be arranged… if you come for lunch on Sunday.”

“Sure, I’ll be there.”

“Jon is coming too, with his partner.”

“Lovely.”

“You can ask Y/N to come, if you want to.”

“Mom…”

Andrew shook his head, growing annoyed already.

“Y/N and I aren’t together. I’ve told you…”

“I know, I know. You have that… casual thing going on. No progress on that then?”

Andrew grew quiet, pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek as he thought of an answer.

“I don’t know,” he answered earnestly. “I’m fucking lost.”

Raine waited patiently for her son to speak again.

“I… It’s like… I don’t know what she wants. Sometimes it’s just so… nice. Like we’re moving forward, like we’re getting closer to being an actual couple. And the next second she’s cold and just…”

“One step forward, two steps back…”

“Yeah, something like that. Back to square one. I don’t know what to do. I just… I can’t believe she feels nothing at all. There was this one time I talked to a woman in a pub… she was fucking jealous. I stayed over night and it was so… intimate. Really. It wasn’t just casual. And we have so much fun together, like… we really have a lot of moments when we are truly happy. But then, the other day, she just ran off like laying in bed with me for five minutes might kill her.”

He heaved a deep sigh.

“I don’t know. I’m lost. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I should do, and I don’t know what I want either.”

“Don’t you? Know what you want?”

“I mean… I do know. But she doesn’t want that.”

“Have you told her how you feel?”

“No… I don’t think she would react well.”

It was Raine’s turn to heave a sigh.

“If the two of you don’t want the same thing… you can’t stay with her. You’ll get hurt, Andrew. Do you understand?”

“Of course… don’t you think I’ve thought of that?” he fought back, being harsher than he meant.

He felt guilty as soon as the words passed his lips, and so he tightly closed them.

“You need to talk to her,” his mother insisted, ignoring her son’s irritation. “It’s the only way out. Communication is key.”

“I know.”

“But?”

“But if I do, and she rejects me…”

He let his words suspended in mid-air, to hover between them. But Raine soon let out a low chuckle.

“Andy… You can’t have happiness without sorrow; love without pain; satisfaction without risks… it’s never one or the other. It’s always both. If she rejects you, you’ll have to learn how to live with it, the way we all do.”

“I don’t know how to live without her. And I don’t think I want to find out.”

Slowly, she nodded.

“You must really love her,” was her only answer.

His throat tightened, he could feel that he was welling up too.

“Yeah… yeah…”

“I have to admit… I don’t understand her,” Raine went on.

She stopped their walk so they could sit on the bench there, facing the river. It wasn’t the nicest part of the docks, but it was quiet, and someone near was blowing soap bubbles with their daughter. They flew up catching the light of the hidden sun, iridescent and fragile as they rod on the wind. They both looked at the bubbles while they spoke.

“What do you mean?” asked Andrew.

“I mean… I’ve always thought that she felt the same as you did. That one day your lives would finally align, and you’d end up together. Married even.”

“Were you already choosing baby names for us?” Andrew laughed.

“I have a whole list,” she joked, and they both laughed for a moment, despite all the pain held in this conversation. “I don’t know… I thought she loved you.”

“I don’t know… sometimes I have hope. Sometimes she pushes me away so much, I wonder if she doesn’t hate me a little.”

“Hate you?”

“Or is ashamed of me, perhaps.”

“Why would she be ashamed of you? You’re a good man. You truly are a good and kind person. There will never be a day when I am not infinitely proud of who you’ve become.”

“God, mom, stop… that’s enough…” Andrew protested, blushing all the way to the top of his ears and shifting uncomfortably on their bench.

Raine merely smiled fondly at him.

“I don’t know,” Andrew went on. “I don’t understand what she wants.”

“This can’t go on forever.”

Slowly, he nodded. Daphne’s words echoed in his mind.

“You’re right. I need to talk to her.”

“I’m your mother. I’m always right!”

They laughed again, brighter and merrier than before. They remained there for a long while, chatting, the conversation drifting towards the rest of their family, this new recipe for a blueberry pie she wanted to try, this song he was working on.

When he offered to go for tea before going home, Andrew was fully aware of how lucky he was to have her by his side.

The hike was nice, although the weather was unsteady. But then again, it always was in Ireland.

Andrew wanted to wait until you would reach the lake to talk. First Daphne, then his mother… he couldn’t push back that moment any longer.

You had talked about your work while you walked, then about the wedding. It was coming closer, only a couple of months left. Soon, it would be time to try on the dresses and suits, settle on the flavour for the cake.

You were growing a little annoyed though. It was visible that he was only half-listening to you, barely participating in the conversation. Still, you didn’t say a thing, merely pouting and frowning a little. You were adorable, as always…

“Ha, there it is! Let’s take a break!” he offered as you finally reached the shore of the lake.

You plopped down in the grass as an answer, further away from the trail so as not to be disturbed if more people were coming this way. Andrew soon joined you.

“Alright, what snacks for today?” he asked, making you roll your eyes.

“You know you can bring your own snacks…”

“They’re better if I steal them from you!”

You chuckled, handing him some biscuits and some grapes.

“As sweet as you,” he teased, biting in one of the fruits and shooting you a wink that brough fire to your skin.

“Smooth,” you said with irony dripping from your voice.

He laughed, biting on his biscuit instead. His favourites. He wondered if you knew how much he loved them. You often carried these when you hiked together.

There was a long silence, and Andrew was visibly nervous. He had a lot of courage to gather, and a lump in his throat that needed to be swallowed back, so he could finally talk to you.

“Andy? Spit it out.”

He looked up at you.

“Hmm?”

“Whatever it is that got you so worked up… spit it out. You’re killing me.”

He clenched his jaw, set his gaze on the lake. Peaceful. Tiny ripples brought by the wind. Rocks and grass and wildflowers staining its shores. There were some birds over there, on a tiny rock, right on the edge of the water. He wondered what kind of birds they were, all shades of grey and white and black…

“I just… I think we should talk.”

“We have talked,” you fought back, defensive already.

“Y/N…”

“Look, Andy… things are simple. We don’t need to talk about this more. We agreed that this would be casual, just sex, no attach. If you don’t want to do that anymore, we can stop.”

“I don’t want us to stop…”

“What do you want then?”

You.

But if he said it, he knew you would run. He could see it in your eyes now. Somehow, he just knew you would fly away like these birds on the shore of the lake, that you would disappear in the sky, never to be seen again.

“I just want you to answer one question.”

“Go on.”

“What do you want from me?”

You were so taken aback by his question, you were left silent, with lips parted and brows furrowed.

“What… what do you mean?” you stuttered back.

“What do you want from me? This… this is temporary. At one point, we’ll either become more than friends, or go back to being in a friendly zone. Which one will it be?”

You huffed, clearly uncomfortable, shifting your weight.

“I don’t know. How could I know that?”

“I know.”

“And what do you want?”

“I asked first.”

“I asked second.”

“No. No, Y/N. You’re not allowed to turn that around.”

“Why not? Why are you asking this anyway? You’re always… wanting to plan, wanting to make this evolve… why can’t things just remain how they are?”

Because I’m in love with you.

But Andrew couldn’t say that. He settled for what seemed like the next best thing.

“Because I care about you. And because nothing ever stays the same. Things always change.”

He was surprised by your sudden anger. How you got to your feet in a jolt. How you started packing back your snacks.

“Y/N…”

“I don’t fucking know, okay?! What do you want me to tell you, Andy? It was never meant to be more than an arrangement. What else could I say?”

“It means more than that to me.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He didn’t know what to make of your silence. Because if no words were coming out of your mouth, tears were gathering at the corners of your eyes.

And his heart was beating a thousand miles a minute, but he didn’t back down. He stared, and waited, for an answer that never came.

Instead, you kept on packing. And then you were off to the trail without a word. He followed you, eventually, walking behind you in silence. It started to rain, about halfway down the trail to get back to the carpark. You reached his car in silence, drenched and miserable.

You didn’t speak for a few days, until an olive branch was offered to him, in the shape of an invitation to the cinema.

He ended up in your bed that night, but when it was over and done, he didn’t stay.

[soylaprincessa]

Happy Anniversary Pt. 2 (Javi x reader)

A/N: Sooooo it only took me literally 6 years to write this, but it has been requested a lot so here it is. I hope you like it <3

This is Pt. 1

Warnings: angst, mentions of violence

Javier sat slumped on a weathered barstool, his hands wrapped around a tumbler of whiskey. The amber liquid glistened under the dim, flickering neon lights of the bar, casting warped reflections onto the sticky countertop. Muffled voices and blurred faces surrounded him as he drowned his sorrow, his guilt. He stared at the liquid, unblinking, as though searching for answers at the bottom of the glass.

The bar was a quiet one, tucked into a corner of Bogotá most people ignored unless they were trying to disappear. Faint music played from a jukebox in the corner, a melancholic tune that paired well with the taste of regret. Around him, the patrons were only figures—shadows moving, laughing, drinking. None of it registered.

He took another sip, the whiskey burning its way down, though the pain was muted compared to the ache in his chest. Her face wouldn't leave his mind. The shock in her eyes, the hurt that seemed to radiate from her like a living thing.

How had it come to this?

Javier had always prided himself on being in control. At work, in the field, even in their relationship—he was the one who stayed calm, composed, rational. But tonight, he'd crossed a line he never thought he'd approach. The image of her recoiling, tears streaking her face as she told him to leave, was burned into his memory.

He rubbed his temple, his jaw tightening as the memory replayed for the hundredth time. The whiskey wasn't helping. It wasn't numbing anything.

"¿Otra ronda?" the bartender asked, his voice cutting through Javier's haze.

Javier shook his head slightly, the motion slow, deliberate. He didn't need more whiskey; he needed clarity, but he wasn't sure where to find it.

He looked down at his hands, scarred and calloused, the hands that had inadvertently hurt the one person he'd sworn to protect.

"I didn't mean to hurt her," he muttered under his breath, his voice so low it was swallowed by the bar's ambient noise. He wasn't sure who he was trying to convince.

But the intention didn't matter. Not now. Not when the damage had been done.

The door to the bar creaked open, letting in a gust of cool night air. Javier glanced over, his heart jumping for a second, foolishly hoping to see her there. But it wasn't her. It wouldn't be.

He turned back to his drink, his shoulders sinking further.

The fight hadn't been about the anniversary, not really. It was about everything else. The late nights, the missed moments, the way his work had consumed him. He'd thought she understood, that she'd known who he was and what he'd signed up for. But understanding wasn't the same as accepting. And love wasn't enough to fill the gaps he'd left.

Javier clenched his fists, the tension radiating through his arms. He wanted to fix it. To go back. But he didn't even know where to start.

For now, all he could do was sit in the quiet hum of the bar, the weight of his actions pressing down on him like a vice.

Tomorrow, he'd face her. Somehow. If she let him.

Tonight, though, he'd sit here, drowning in a sea of what-ifs and should-haves, with nothing but a glass of whiskey and the sound of his own guilt for company. 

---

You sit on the sofa, knees drawn to your chest, the glow of the candles still flickering on the dining table in the corner of your eye. They've burned low now, their once romantic light reduced to sad, wavering shadows that stretch across the walls. You tell yourself to blow them out, but you can't move. Not yet.

Your cheek throbs where his hand had struck you, accidentally or not, and your fingers press against the tender skin as if to soothe it, though the ache runs far deeper. The tears come in waves—hot, stinging rivers that blur your vision and leave salty trails down your face. You'd told yourself you wouldn't cry tonight. This was supposed to be a happy night, one filled with laughter, with love.

But that seems like a cruel joke now.

The room is too quiet, save for your soft, uneven breaths. Every little sound—the tick of the clock, the hum of the refrigerator—feels magnified. Mocking.

You glance at the table again. The plates are still set, untouched, the food cold and congealing in its carefully arranged presentation. It feels ridiculous now, the effort you'd poured into this evening. The dress you'd picked out with such care clings to your body like a costume, a reminder of the version of yourself you thought you'd get to be tonight.

And then there's him.

Javier. His name echoes in your mind, bitter and sweet all at once. You don't want to think about him, but it's impossible not to. The look on his face before he left—confusion, regret, anger—all of it swirling together in his dark eyes.

You want to hate him for what happened. For his lateness, his indifference, his temper. For the way his hand flew up and changed everything in an instant. But even now, even with your cheek burning and your heart splintering, you know you don't hate him.

You hate this.

You wipe at your face, but the tears won't stop. They keep spilling over, a relentless tide of grief and frustration and love. God, you love him. That's the worst part, isn't it? That even after tonight, you can't just turn it off.

The what-ifs circle your mind like vultures. What if you hadn't said anything? What if you'd let him leave? What if he hadn't been so late? What if this isn't something you can come back from?

Your head pounds with the weight of it all. You press your palms against your temples, as if you could will the thoughts away, but they cling to you like a second skin.

The clock ticks on. You don't know how long you've been sitting there, but the candles are almost out now, their flames guttering and weak. The dress feels suffocating, and you tug at the fabric, peeling it off like it's a part of the night you can shed. You pull a blanket over your shoulders, seeking some kind of comfort, though none comes.

You stare at the door, half-expecting it to open, for him to walk back in. For him to apologise again, to try and explain. But the silence stretches, and you realise he's not coming back. Not tonight.

The thought makes your chest tighten, and another sob escapes before you can stop it.

You curl tighter into yourself, trying to hold your breaking heart together. You don't know what tomorrow will bring, but tonight, you're alone—with your tears, your pain, and the fading glow of candles that should've lit up a celebration, not a battlefield.

---

You wake up to the morning light slipping through the curtains, too bright, too harsh. Your body feels heavy, like it's weighed down by all the emotions you didn't manage to cry out the night before. The faint ache in your cheek is the first thing you notice when you sit up. The second is the silence—it's deafening.

The flat is still as you shuffle to the kitchen, your feet dragging across the floor. The table from last night is exactly how you left it, the plates untouched, the candles burned down to puddles of wax. You avoid looking at it for too long. Instead, you boil water for coffee, the routine giving your hands something to do even as your mind races.

You don't know what you'll do if he comes back.

You don't know what you'll do if he doesn't.

The knock at the door is soft but insistent, breaking through your thoughts. You freeze, the mug in your hand trembling slightly.

It's him. You don't have to check to know it's him.

For a moment, you consider not answering, letting him stand there until he gives up and leaves. But something pulls you toward the door, the bloody door that changed everything. You press your hand against the frame, hesitating, before finally opening it.

There he is.

Javier looks worse than he did last night—if that's even possible. His hair is disheveled, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes bloodshot as if he hadn't slept a second. He's holding his leather jacket in one hand, and for a moment, you think he might crumble under the weight of his own guilt.

"Y/N," he says, his voice low, hoarse, like it hurts him to speak. He takes a hesitant step forward, but stops short when you flinch ever so slightly. His jaw tightens, and his eyes drop to the floor.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I—God, I don't even know where to start."

You don't say anything, just cross your arms over your chest and stare at him. He looks up, meeting your gaze, and for a moment, you think you see his composure crack. His lips part as if to speak again, but he hesitates, the words caught somewhere between his throat and his heart.

"Please," he finally says, and there's something raw in his tone, something you've never heard before. "Please let me explain. I—I need to talk to you. I need you to hear me."

His voice shakes, and when his eyes meet yours again, they're glassy, on the verge of spilling over. Javier Peña, the man who's always so strong, so controlled, looks utterly wrecked.

You swallow hard, trying to keep your resolve. But it's not easy, not when he's looking at you like that, like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and it's all his fault.

"I don't know if I want to hear it," you say quietly, your voice barely more than a whisper.

"I know," he replies, his voice cracking on the words. He runs a hand through his hair, a shaky, desperate gesture. "I know, and I don't deserve it. I just—I have to try. Please."

He takes another cautious step forward, close enough now that you can see the faint tremble in his hands. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I swear to God, I didn't. I was angry—no, not at you. At myself. At everything. And I took it out in the worst way possible. I... I'll never forgive myself for what happened."

You feel your chest tighten, his words pulling at the threads of your resolve. You don't want to let him in—not again, not after everything—but the sheer vulnerability in his voice makes it hard to look away.

"I love you," he says, his voice breaking completely now, the tears he's been holding back finally spilling over. "I love you so much, Y/N. Please. Please let me make this right."

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you don't know what to say. The room feels too small, too heavy, with him standing there, his heart in pieces at your feet.

You have every right to slam the door in his face. To tell him to leave and never come back.

But you don't.

Instead, you step aside, just slightly, enough to let him in.

Javier steps inside hesitantly, like he's afraid he doesn't belong here anymore. The door clicks shut behind him, and he stands there for a moment, wringing his hands as if he's still trying to gather the courage to speak.

You don't make it easier for him. You cross your arms again, keeping the space between you as you watch him. You want to appear strong, determined— when inside, you're actually a weak and trembling mess. The tension in the room feels almost suffocating, and for a moment, you think he might turn around and leave.

But then, he takes a deep breath and looks at you.

"I don't even know where to start," he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've been sitting with it all night, trying to figure out how to say this... and I don't think there's a way to make it sound right. But I need you to know that last night was the worst thing I've ever done in my life."

You don't move. You don't respond. His words hang in the air, heavy and raw.

Javier's hands drop to his sides, his fingers flexing as though he's searching for something to hold on to. "I've been drowning, Y/N. In work, in everything. This... this job, it does something to you. It takes pieces of you—pieces you didn't even know you'd miss—and it hardens them, turns them into something else. And I thought I could keep it separate. I thought I could leave it at the door when I came home to you."

He looks down, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of his words is dragging him down. "But I didn't. I couldn't. And instead of keeping the world out, I let it bleed into us. Into you. And that's not fair. It's not right. You didn't sign up for that."

You feel your chest tighten again, your emotions warring between anger, sadness, and a flicker of something you don't want to name yet.

"I've been so focused on everything else," Javier continues, his voice trembling, "that I forgot what matters most. I forgot us. And last night—" He pauses, his voice cracking as he drags a hand down his face. "Last night, I saw what I've become. Tough. Hard. Blunt. And I hate it. I hate what this job is doing to me, to us."

His eyes meet yours again, pleading, desperate. "But I don't want to be that man anymore. Not for you. Not for us. I know it won't happen overnight, and I know I can't undo what happened, but I swear to you, I'll do whatever it takes to change. I'll do whatever it takes to make this right."

The raw emotion in his voice cracks something inside you, but you stay silent, your mind spinning.

"I love you," he says again, softer this time. "I love you so much. And I can't stand the thought of losing you. But if you need me to go, I'll go. If that's what you need to heal, I'll do it. Just—just tell me what to do, Y/N. Please."

His tears return, slipping silently down his face. You've seen him angry, you've seen him determined, but this? This vulnerability, this unravelling—it shakes you to your core.

You lower your arms, your breath catching as you take a hesitant step closer to him. He doesn't move, just watches you, waiting, his heart in his eyes.

"I don't know if I can just... forget what happened," you say softly, your voice trembling. "But I... I don't want to lose you either, Javi."

His breath shudders, relief mingling with the anguish on his face.

"I'll prove it to you," he says quickly. "I'll do better. I'll make you proud of me again."

The words hang between you, fragile and full of hope. You don't know if things will ever be the same, but for now, you take another step closer, letting him see the glimmer of hope in your own eyes.

Your silence stretches between you, heavy and uncertain, as you weigh his words. There's a part of you that's still angry, still hurt, still caught on the memory of last night— the shouted accusations, the bruised ache on your cheek, the way it all unravelled so fast. But then there's the other part, the one that sees him now, standing before you, broken and bare, willing to do whatever it takes to fix this.

You exhale shakily, lowering your gaze to the floor. "It's not something I can move past overnight. I need time... to process, to heal. I need you to understand that."

"I do," he says quickly, his voice steady despite the emotion brimming in it. "I'll give you all the time you need. I'll wait as long as it takes."

You look up at him, meeting his eyes, and for the first time, you see something that feels like hope—tentative, cautious, but there. "Forgiving you... doesn't mean I'm okay with what happened," you continue. "It means I'm willing to try. For us. But it has to be different, Javi. It has to be better. I can't... I won't go through this again."

He nods, swallowing hard. "I hear you," he says, his voice trembling with sincerity. "And I promise you, it will be. I'll be better—I'll show you that I can be better."

You raise an eyebrow, folding your arms across your chest. "And how do you plan to do that?"

His lips press into a thin line, as if he's been waiting for this moment. "I'll start small," he says. "I'll take days off, make sure I come home at a decent hour. I'll cook for you, plan things for us—actual dates, not just sitting in front of the TV and calling it time together."

He steps closer, careful not to overstep, his eyes locked on yours. "And I'll talk to someone about work. A counsellor, maybe. I can't keep bringing it home with me, not like this. You don't deserve that."

The sincerity in his voice tugs at your heart, but you keep your expression guarded. "You'll talk to someone?" you ask, sceptical.

He nods, his gaze unwavering. "I will. I've been avoiding it for too long, thinking I could handle it all on my own. But I can't—not without it hurting us. And I won't let that happen again."

His hand twitches at his side, like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn't. Instead, he continues, "I'll prove it to you every day, in every way I can. Not just with words, but with actions. Whatever it takes, Y/N. I don't want to lose you."

You study him for a long moment, your chest tight with the weight of everything you've been feeling. The anger, the pain, the love—it's all still there, tangled and messy, but the love is what makes you finally nod, your voice soft but resolute. "Okay. But this is on my terms, Javi. My pace. If I feel like you're not following through..."

"I'll follow through," he interrupts, his tone filled with conviction. "I'll prove it, I swear."

For the first time in what feels like forever, you see a small flicker of the man you fell in love with. Not the hardened version that's been consumed by work, but the one who cares, who listens, who tries.

It's not a perfect ending. It's not a clean slate. But it's a beginning—fragile and uncertain, but a beginning nonetheless.

And for now, that's enough.

[heich0e]

begin - nicholas wolfwood/f!reader (trigun) prequel to the poly!au, bounty hunters!au, wild west-ish, tw BLOOD/INJURIES, reader is patching up a bullet wound so warning for all the expected nastiness that entails, tw mentions of attemped assault (not reader and not in detail), mentions of sex work, gratuitous mentions of nico's stubble

BOUND - poly!au masterlist

You live in a nothing town, in the dead middle of nowhere, called The Bend.

It’s called that because a long time ago—long before your days, or your daddy’s days, or even your granddaddy’s days—there used to be a wide, rushing freshwater river snaking through the valley, and right where the town centre now sits is where it used to turn east to the far-away sea. 

But the river’s dried up now, and it took the green grass with it.

The sea is farther than you could ever hope to travel. 

And the B on the sign that marks the border into your dusty little nothing-nowhere town has rusted off and decayed away with the years, which means the only warning that any misguided traveller has to tell them where they’re heading is an ominous old sign, half-rotted, that reads:

Welcome to The  end.

It’s fitting, you think. An omen to give anyone who wanders within spitting distance of the border a final caution that they have one last chance to turn around. A choice to get out while they still can.

It’s a choice you never had.

You were born and raised in The Bend. Your blood runs thick with the dust that coats the decrepit old town. It’s all you’ve ever known, and all you ever will know; your beginning, your middle, and your miserable, inexorable end.

Because that’s the thing about The Bend: few people ever show up here and those who do aren’t stupid enough to stay. And the unfortunate few that are born from the dusty earth and dried up riverbeds, like you? Well, those ones never leave.

There’s some comfort to be taken from that, you suppose; a kind of stability that comes from monotony. From certain inevitability. Every day the same, unchanging. A familiarity to the nothingness of your little town, your little house, your little life.

But then, on a night just like any other, something changes.

One night, you meet him.

Nicholas isn’t quite sure how he ended up here, but he isn’t all that surprised either. 

There’s something kind of undeniably fitting about bleeding out in the middle of fucking nowhere, supported on either side by two of the finest prostitutes The Bend has to offer—and flanked by a handful more as the group guides him through the dark, dusty night.

The Bend isn’t the first hellhole town Nicholas has ever stumbled into. His line of work has brought him to more than his fair share of seedy dumps just like this one. Towns like this are the perfect place for someone to hide from the law after all, because not many people would bother to come looking for you in places that might as well not exist. Most bounty hunters don’t even know about this particular town, and they don’t care to learn, especially since half the maps on the market don’t even bother marking its sorry half-existence down.

But Nicholas isn’t like most bounty hunters.

That’s what brought him to The Bend.

There’s a vicious flash of lightning that suddenly forks through the sky overhead, lighting up the dim, depressing town and the dusty valley beyond it as brightly as the midday sun for just a blink. It’s followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder that makes the packed earth under his unsteady feet tremble, and Nicholas knows that means the lightning’s closer than he cares for it to be.

“’s it gonna rain?” he slurs, tearing his eyes away from the sky and looking over to the woman supporting him on his right (or is that his left?)

He wracks his hazy, addled brain as he tries to remember her name. Starts with a V, he’s pretty sure. Victoria? Viola?

She snorts, her ruby rouged lips lifting at one painted corner. “Honey, it’s been almost five months since we’ve seen a drop of rain around here, and even then it was nothin’ to write home about. You just focus on puttin’ one boot in front of the other, and don’t go gettin’ your hopes up.” 

All at once, Nicholas is reminded of the burning pain in his arm; the searing, radiating agony of a bullet nestled deep into flesh. 

Oh. Right.

He got shot.

It’s not the first time he’s suffered a similar wound, nor will it likely be the last if he makes it through the night—God, or whatever all-knowing bastard’s out there, willing. That doesn’t make it any less of a miserable bitch to deal with, though.

How the hell did he get shot, again?

He ponders this question for a moment, reflecting on it through alcohol sodden introspection, and the answer comes back to him in bits and pieces as he keeps aimlessly shuffling along through the night.

The sound of heels clicking overhead at the town saloon—that’s the first thing he remembers. The clacking metronome of Big Annie’s working girls crossing the wooden floorboards of the brothel that operates above the only place in this awful little town to get a half-decent drink.

A drink. 

Yes, it was something bitter and dark—completely nauseating to presently even think about. It burned on the way down, and now it sloshes unpleasantly in his stomach as he walks. The girls had made him down the better part of a bottle after he’d been shot—to help with the pain, they’d said, and he’d been anything but reluctant to heed their advice—and he’d already had fair a few glasses earlier in the evening as he’d occupied his table in the corner of the bar on top of that. Panic had palpably sizzled between the women while they watched the tattered cloth Nicholas held to his arm ink steadily darker with scarlet in the lamplight of the old bar following the shooting—the tension building amongst them like the perspiration beading at his temple. They were bickering about something then.

No, not something.

Someone.

“We gotta take him to see Mama!” 

It was Charity who said that, he recalls—the pretty little thing with full lips and a mane of thick, curly hair that Nicholas had complimented the first time he ever saw her traipsing through the saloon. She can’t be a whole lot older than 20, and her voice is still high and childlike; even more so that particular evening as she stomped her foot petulantly, looking over at him with worry-filled eyes as she made her plea to the other girls watching him bleed out in the musty wooden booth.

“Mama won't want anything to do with this one.”

That was Violetta who’d replied to Charity’s fractious appeal. She’s one of the older girls who works for Big Annie at the brothel. She’s got a sort of seasoned air to her, with a husky rasp in her voice—like the sand that blows through the empty streets in town has roughened it. She’s still undeniably pretty, but she comes across a little tougher than the rest of them. Doing the job she does in a town like this one, Nicholas doesn’t blame her for it.

Violetta’s the one currently supporting his right side, leading him through the night towards the woman who’s supposed to be his saving grace.

Towards Mama.

But who the hell is that?

He’s sure he’s heard the name in passing while he’s been kicking around the town saloon between his work, nursing half-noxious drinks and flirting harmlessly here and there with Big Annie’s working girls—who seem to have taken a liking to lingering around his table between visits from johns. 

Nicholas wasn’t even supposed to be staying in The Bend long, only for a day or two to follow up on a bounty lead he’d caught wind of three towns over—but the lead went cold, and a few days turned into almost a week. Nevertheless, while his stay may have been extended, he just he never thought to ask any more questions about this mysterious matriarch all the working girls seemed to know so well and speak so highly of. But now, as those very same girls are dragging his half-conscious ass to the other side of town in search of this Mama, he wishes that maybe he’d dug a little deeper.

“Mama’s gonna get you all fixed up, handsome,” little Charity appears on Violetta’s other side, her eyes wide enough as she stares at him that they reflect the next flash of lightning as it rips through the dark of night. She looks worried, in spite of her words—even in his present state of drunkenness and blood loss fuelled delirium, he can tell that much. 

They all do. Even the toughest, Violetta—though she seems reluctant to let on as she stands stoically at his side and shoulders his flagging, stumbling weight. 

Charity nods, but it’s a gesture that seems more to reassure herself than anyone else. “Mama always takes care of us; she’ll have you good as new by morning.” 

Ah, so this woman must be a doctor of sorts—or as close to it as a shithole little town like this can offer.

It’s Nicholas’ turn to nod, a bobble of his cotton-filled head the only recognition he can muster to her words, as he just keeps staggering on under their guidance. He’s lucky that The Bend even has some kind of doctor to look after him, even if it’s just some old lady who looks after the saloon girls.

The unlikely group soon arrives at the doorstep of a little house at the edge of town—as slummy and dilapidated as all the rest of them—and Queenie, the girl who’d moments before been supporting Nicholas’s injured left side, raps sharply on the door.

“She’s not gonna answer,” Violetta mutters dourly under her breath, still at Nicholas’ right side.

“She will,” Charity counters with her arms crossed over her chest, punctuating the assertion with an indignant little huff for good measure. “Mama always answers when we come knockin’.”

But Nicholas worries for a moment—a long moment as the door stays firmly shut—that Violetta might just have a point. It’s the middle of the night after all, and this ‘Mama’ could very well be sleeping like any other reasonable person would be at this hour. 

Queenie knocks on the wooden door for a second time, this time with an open palm. This series of raps is a little louder. A little more insistent.

“Mama? It’s us! Open up!” she calls, casting a worried glance over her shoulder at Nicholas—who’s got his entire weight slumped over onto poor Violetta, now.

Nicholas is bleeding out on the front porch, and part of him still almost feels bad for waking up some poor, unsuspecting old—

The door flies open.

“What the hell do you want?”

Oh.

Nicholas knows that his eyes travel up your frame in a way that can only be considered wholly impolite. But he’s not really in his right mind, after all—or at least that’s what he tells himself as he justifies his immodest stare. He starts at the uneven cuffs of your paper-thin trousers, before climbing up, up, up your body to the tight white undershirt your wear—appreciating the way it clings to the curve of your waist and sits snug around your chest, and he particularly admires the pretty little edge of lace that frills around the neckline at your breasts. Finally, his gaze makes it to your face, and you look irritated to say the absolute least on the matter.

He’s not all that sure what he was expecting to find on the other side of the chipped paint of this shabby front door, but he can say with a steady hand to his foolhardy heart that it certainly wasn’t you.

For a moment, Nicholas is convinced they’ve got the wrong house—as improbable as that might be in a town as small as this one. At the very least, he waits for someone else to come to the door—a mother, or grandmother even—because surely you can’t be the one that these women have been calling—

“Mama! You gotta help us,” Queenie exclaims. She’s luckily perceptive enough to stick out her foot once she sees you fully process just what’s waiting for you outside, keeping the door jammed open with her heeled boot as you rush to slam it shut.

“I haven’t gotta do anything,” you counter sharply from around the edge of the door, your face pinching in a blatantly vexed expression at the way the woman is keeping it ajar.

Your eyes flicker over to Nicholas through the gap between the door and its frame, surveying him with a look of disdain that might just have been enough to offend him if he were a little more himself.

“Mama, he got shot!” Charity suddenly bursts into what can only be described as a spectacular display of tears—blubbering noisily between each word as she elbows her way through the group towards your door. She reaches across the threshold and desperately clutches at the front of your shirt with both hands as she pleads to you. “P-please let us in, y-you’re the only one who can h-he-help him.”

“Bertie, what in God’s merciful name is wrong with you?” you sigh aggrievedly, roughly batting her hands away from their grip on your clothes. In the next breath, you wrench open the front door to your home, stepping back to allow your unexpected visitors the space to cross through the doorway. “And cut the waterworks or you’re gonna wake up half The Bend and get us all shot.”

As the girls help Nicholas inside and across the gnarled, warped floorboards of your little house, you slip wordlessly away into another room out of sight. When you return moments later, you’ve pulled on a creased button-down over that pretty little undershirt of yours. 

Nicholas can’t help but notice that you’re dressed practically like a man, especially in comparison to the painted faces and petticoats of the other women in the room. But it strangely suits you, for reasons he can’t quite place.

“He got shot fightin’ some bozo tryin’ to rough up Ada on her way home,” Violetta explains when you look to her with an expression that demands context. She’s the most level-headed of the five woman gathered in your tiny home, so no one can blame you for turning to her first. 

Nicholas feels dizzy, the modest lamp-lit room around him reeling like a child’s toy spinning top gaining speed. 

Did he do that?

He remembers hearing something out back in the alley that runs behind the saloon and the inn when he went out to take a piss late into to the evening, well after it had dropped dark. He was already sufficiently drunk by that point, but there was no mistaking the sound of a woman putting up a fight the moment that he heard it. He followed the racket and found the pair quickly—on instinct more than anything—grabbing the drunken man by the scruff of the neck and hauling him off the poor girl he was trying to force himself on. In the ensuing scuffle, the man pulled a gun that Nicholas wasn’t expecting. With his senses drink-dulled, he didn’t react quickly enough to miss the shot entirely and caught it in his arm—but he’s lucky the guy had such terrible aim to begin with, or the night could have turned out a whole lot worse.

But who’s this Ada? He thought the girl he’d helped’s name was Priscilla—having met her a few times in the saloon. She was always quieter than the rest of them, a little more reserved. She didn’t say much to anyone from what Nicholas had witnessed in his time spent in The Bend. But Ada’s not the first name he’s heard since showing up at your door that’s unfamiliar to him.

“You've got a lot of nerve dragging some no-good, half-cocked brute to my door like this in the middle of the damn night, Sarah Jane,” you hiss through your teeth, your eyes flickering from Violetta over to Nicholas once more.

Violetta snorts, but offers no argument.

“Please, Mama,” Priscilla (or is it Ada? Nicholas can’t keep track anymore) says quietly, though her tone is unmistakably earnest. It’s the first time she’s said anything since the girls came stumbling through your door with the injured man propped between them. First time he remembers her saying anything at all—at least other than when he heard her screaming and chased off the scum that was hassling her.

Your attention suddenly turns to where Priscilla stands just off near the corner of the little room, with Theodosia (another one of Big Annie’s working girls) at her side with a comforting arm looped around her waist. It’s not hard to see the way the woman trembles as she holds her shawl around her shoulders. She’s got a bad scrape across her cheek, and her lip is split—evidence of the ordeal she’d gone through earlier in the evening. Her skin still looks clammy and sallow from the shock. 

Your expression softens as you contemplate her.

“C’mere, Adaline,” you beckon to her, reaching out a hand. “Step into the light and let me take a look at you.”

She approaches you without any reservation, and you carefully inspect her wounds after taking her face gently in your hands. A long, resigned sigh slips from your lips once a moment has passed, having turned her face this way and that to fully scrutinize her condition. You look around at the women gathered in your home, and the man slumping between them, then your head hangs in defeat. Your hand lifts to pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Bertie, go grab my bag from my room. Georgie, fetch some clean water from the basin in the kitchen.”

Charity and Theodosia move briskly once you’ve issued the order—like they don’t want to give you the opportunity to change your mind.

Nicholas finds it a little funny how easily these women yield to you, though most seem to be your seniors—you’re just a scrappy young thing, only a few years into your adulthood if he had to guess. As he watches you, he sees that you carry yourself with a  certain quality that’s beyond your years—every action and word steeped with a sort of weary assuredness that you haven’t even lived long enough to properly earn. 

He watches you move with the grace of a woman, and listens to you speak with the authority of a man—and It could be the blood loss talking, but Nicholas thinks you might just be the most interesting thing he’s stumbled upon in this god-forsaken little town.

“You’re a doctor?”

You freeze, your head snapping in his direction when you finally hear him speak.

Your lip curls and you bare your teeth to him, and Nicholas is suddenly reminded of those city cats that wander the back alleys in Julai, hissing with their hackles raised when you happen across their path.

“Do I look like a doctor to you?” you sneer at him derisively.

For some unplaceable reason, Nicholas almost wants to laugh—the sensation bubbling up in his stomach in the wake of your harsh words.

(Though, that might just be the liquor.)

“Her daddy was a doctor,” Queenie whispers to him quietly as she and Violetta help Nicholas up onto the wooden table at the centre of the room at your instruction, leaning him back until he’s laid flat across it with a grunt. “Only one The Bend’s seen in the last 80 years."

“Prudence, you better shut your damn mouth if you want me to do anything about this mess,” you snap without looking up, busy rifling through the ancient leather medicine bag that Charity just dragged in from the other room.

You tend to Priscilla first, fixing her up with a compress on her cheek and a salve for the cut on her lip. She’s not the most desperate case in the room, but no one tries to turn your attention to the man on the table until you’re good and ready to do so of your own accord—a unanimous, though entirely unspoken, pact of silence lest your precarious agreement to help be withdrawn. Once you’re satisfied that the woman’s been sufficiently looked after, leaving her once more in the dutiful care of Theodosia, you finally turn to Nicholas.

The lamplight is fairly dim, even though you’ve moved it closer to the table to help illuminate your work—and there’s very little oil in the grimy reservoir of the glass lamp to keep it burning.

You approach him slowly.

“You a lefty?” you ask him, plunking yourself down in the wooden chair nearest to his injured left arm.

“Luckily not,” he slurs, his head lolling over to look at you as you sit beside him at the table.

“Luckily?” You huff, and Nicholas thinks that maybe it’s as close to a laugh as someone as mirthless as you ever gets. “You must not’ve heard: luck left The Bend years ago, and it’s not coming back.”

Nicholas really does find himself laughing then in the face of your plain, bur distinctly dour expression—and he immediately winces as a sharp pain shoots through him from the strain of trying to hold it back.

Your eyes survey the sopping, blood-soaked handkerchief he’s holding to his injury, then you lean over towards the medicine bag and begin digging through it again. He watches as you pull out an inhumanely large needle and some thread.

“Clear out, ladies,” you remark flatly to the group of onlookers without glancing up from the contents of the bag before you. “None of you are gonna wanna see this.”

The girls delay momentarily even after you bark out the order, as though worried that once they leave the room your willingness to help may exit with them.

You lift your face in their direction, some gauze and a corked flask of an indistinguishable transparent liquid in hand. Your lips pull down noticeably at the corners when you see the way the women are hesitating. “Go on, then. I’m making this exception for you once, and never again. Get Ada back home safe, and then the rest of you oughta do the same.”

Still, no one seems keen to heed your words.

You and Violetta share a pointed look, and it’s clear your patience—hardly-there to begin with—has worn dangerously thin.

“Alright, whores—clear out!” the older woman says, turning on her heel and corralling Queenie, Charity, Priscilla, and Theodosia towards the door with her arms outstretched. “Unless one of y’all are keen to be the next one who needs stitchin'!”

It takes a moment to get everyone moving—Charity in particular putting up more of a fight than the rest of them—but eventually Violetta succeeds in ushering them out. She casts one final glance back from the doorway, and Nicholas catches the exchange of almost imperceptible nods of thanks between you.

It’s unbearably quiet once they’re gone.

You move swiftly but silently, and set to work without a single word exchanged between you and the man stretched across your table. Without hesitating, you drag a thin blade in two strokes up the front of Nicholas’s bloodstained shirt—one cut along the torso and then another up the sleeve—and then pull off whatever’s in your way. You don’t so much as bat an eye as the tanned skin of his chest and abdomen is suddenly bared; there’s no distinguishable emotion or thought on your face that Nicholas can make out, but he’s also fairly distracted as he bites back the groans of pain that threaten to slip out each time you jostle his injured arm too roughly. 

Next, you begin cleaning the surface of the wound—as best you can given that it’s still unstitched—in preparation to fish out and remove the bullet still stuck inside. That little flask from earlier has some sort of antiseptic in it, which Nicholas discerns by the acrid smell and unbearable burning that rips through him as you let it trickle over the open gouge in his skin. He cries out as it happens, and the sound even takes him by surprise—guttural and completely instinctive.

“Don’t be a baby,” you sniff, dabbing away at the blood and antiseptic around his wound with some clean gauze.

“Sorry,” Nicholas mumbles through his panting breaths, pressing his opposite hand over his mouth in an attempt to keep himself quiet.

Your eyes flicker up to his briefly in the wake of his apology, and your gazes meet. You’re the first to look away after the momentary hold.

Next, you tip the flask into your hands, coating your palms in the stinging, astringent antiseptic. The lamplight catches in the little droplets as you shake them from your fingertips.

“My daddy told me once that doctors have to tell lies to keep their patients calm,” you say quietly, your lips pursing forward as you wrap one cool hand underneath his bicep. “Said that it’s just part of the job.”

You suck in a little breath, meeting his gaze briefly once more.

He can’t help but think your eyes look pretty when the light reflects in them like this. 

“But I’m no doctor—and this is gonna hurt like fresh hell.”

Outside your rickety little house on the edge of this forgotten, nowhere town, another peal of thunder roars.

You don’t often patch up bullet holes.

In fact, you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve tried.

But you’re not a professional, and you’ve never claimed to be; you’re just a doctor’s daughter who used to follow her father on his rounds through town, helping out whenever and wherever it was needed. Unavoidably, you learned some things along the way—like treatments, and time-honoured remedies, and how to sew a stitch so it won’t pucker when it scars—but you’re about as far as anyone could be from trained. You’ve got no education beyond your reading, writing, and basic arithmetic—what little education the school house in town could offer you until you just stopped going altogether—and your experience is limited only to the care you offer to Big Annie’s girls: whether it’s cleaning up the messes left by their particularly nasty customers or treating them as best you can when they fall ill. 

You don’t bother telling any of this to the man bleeding all over your table, though. You doubt it would do him much good.

Daddy used to deal with gunshot wounds all the time. They’re about a dime a dozen in a town like The Bend, after all, where tempers are high and spirits are low—not to mention where the men outnumber the women by about ten-to-one. 

And if there’s one thing you know about men, it’s that they all love slinging guns but less than half of them ought to be allowed to—because it always leads to injuries like this. It’s rarely ever women who walk around town getting themselves shot.

But in spite of all that, and your lack of experience, you watched your father go through the motions frequently enough that the movements come to you now like second nature: disinfect, remove, keep pressure, suture, bandage. You know the order of things, and you find your mind clear and your hands steady as you set to work—starting by cleaning him up as best you can to prepare to extract the bullet. 

You can see the very butt of it in peeking out from inside his ugly wound; a pesky little thing, slick with blood that catches in the light when his arm twitches towards the lamp. It’s not nestled too deep in there, thankfully, and he’ll probably be fine if he lets it heal properly—but it’ll still hurt like a bitch to pull out. 

But that’s his problem, not yours.

Unfortunately, you don’t have a pair of tweezers you trust to pluck the bullet out—at least not a pair that isn’t rusty—so your god-given tools will have to be what you use for the undertaking. You disinfect your hands as best you can before you begin.

“Would you stop squirming?” you mutter under your breath as the man on your table flinches the first time your fingers graze his open wound.

“Sorry,” he mumbles back, and your eyes flicker up to his face again briefly. 

This man keeps apologizing to you. 

It’s unsettling.

His dark eyes are heavy lidded, but you can still sense them tracing along the lines of your face as you work. There’s visible sweat beading at his temple as he lies flat on his back atop the wooden table in the centre of your home, and his bare chest rises and falls with heavy, laboured breaths that shake every so often on the exhale—the lamplight at your side catches in the perspiration glistening there too, near the little smattering of hair that sits at the highest point of his sternum.

This guy—this stranger who’s bleeding all over the table you eat your meals on—really pisses you off.

He’s got an awful lot of nerve to show up here in the middle of the night, looking for your help after he went and got himself shot. A small part of you knows that’s not entirely fair to think, because he got shot helping Adaline and it was the girls who’d brought him to you in the first place, but you still can’t help but be resentful. 

You feel yourself frown.

Your fingertips dip inside the wet heat of his wound for the first time, and he lets out a gasping, wretched groan from deep in the centre of his chest—so loud it almost makes you flinch.

“Don’t pass out,” you warn him flatly, pinning his injured arm more firmly to the table and prodding further in as you try to get a grip on the evasive little bullet with the very tips of your fingers. “You’re dead weight if you’re unconscious, and I’ll drag you outta this house in parts if I have to.”

“Noted,” the dark-haired man says through clenched teeth, his eyes squeezing shut as he attempts to stomach the pain.

You don’t have anything to offer him to dull the sensation—though you’re not sure you’d waste something so precious on him even if you did. After a while, and a bit more poking and prodding, he seems to acclimatize to the agony anyway. 

Or at the very least he gets better at masking it.

“I’m Nicholas, by the way,” he grits out after a while of you unsuccessfully trying to remove the bullet—frequently having to pause and wipe away the blood that’s continued to seep from the wound, slicking you down to your wrist. It stains the cuff of your shirtsleeve now, and you regret ever pulling it on to begin with, because you know it will be a nightmare to pound out in the wash.

“Didn’t ask.”

“I know,”—miraculously, he manages to laugh a bit, even as you’ve got two fingers digging around inside his arm—“just thought I’d tell ya anyway.”

You don’t bother replying, your eyes honed in solely on the task at bloody hand.

“‘M grateful for your help, y’know. Even if it’s just an exception,” the man—Nicholas—slurs next, his head tipping to the side on your kitchen table. You can tell that he’s talking, if nothing else, to distract himself. A lonely bead of sweat drips down his throat as he looks at you. “It’s awfully nice of ya to take pity on a no-good brute like me, Mama.”

You feel a crick of irritation tighten in your jaw then, as he parrots your earlier words back to you. Your fingers, still poking around to retrieve the bullet in his shoulder, twitch—and you aren’t sure the gesture is entirely involuntary. The man on the table before you yelps, flinching away from the pain, and you lean closer with your eyes still fixed on the wound piercing his skin.

“Don’t call me that,” you hiss through the dull scrape of your teeth grinding tightly together.

Nicholas lifts his right hand to his mouth, curled into a fist, and his pearly teeth bite down hard into the flesh at the base of his thumb as he pants through the pain. You finally, mercifully, manage to get a grip on that damned bullet, plucking it out and tossing it into the waiting dish atop the table with a delicate, terribly anticlimactic clink. You swiftly press a pad of clean gauze to the wound to staunch the bleeding while you reach for the stitching needle you left set off to the side.

“Hold this,” you order him, and the man lets his hand slip from the bite of his jaw to do as he’s told while you rifle through the bag at your feet. You can see the marks his teeth left in his skin as he takes the gauze from your hand into his own and begins to apply pressure.

You stand and wash your hands off as best you can in the basin of water Georgie brought in for you earlier, poised at the end of the table. The liquid tints pink as you first dip them in, and then slowly it turns an even darker, uglier colour as you properly scrub his blood from your skin. You shake as much of the water off your hands as you can, and then use the front of your shirt to sop up the rest—faintly rust-tinged handprints left in the cotton.

You take your seat once more, and Nicholas watches you through mostly-closed eyes as you set about sterilizing the needle.

“How come I can’t call you that?” 

You light a candle using the lamp at your side. Then you swish the needle around in antiseptic before running it through the flickering flame until it sparks—careful not to let it lick too close to your fingertips. Your eyes slide over to Nicholas as you pluck it from the fire.

With his face tilted towards you, another little drop of sweat has tracked down his cheek towards his prominent nose, and it glistens against his flushing skin in the warm light of your oil lamp. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, too—from what you don’t doubt is the combination of pain and whatever booze he’s been guzzling to numb it—and lips part on a shuddering exhalation as you survey his face.

“Call me what?” you mutter, averting your eyes and turning again to search through your medicine bag for a clean roll of bandage.

“Ma—” A sudden, harsh glare cuts him off before he even has the chance to say it. He smiles a little, the expression half-delirious, and you can’t help but think that if he weren’t so weakened from the pain that wracks him, he might have even managed another laugh.

You kiss your teeth quietly. “Only the girls call me that.”

The man bleeding out in the middle of your table clearly knows your tone of voice means not to push it, because he doesn’t. Instead, he turns his head until he’s staring up at your dingy ceiling once more, though you can tell from the faraway look in his eyes he’s not seeing much at all. 

“The girls,” Nicholas remarks quietly, speaking more to himself than anything. “You don’t call ‘em by their names.”

That’s right: he’d only know the girls by their working names. You’re surprised he even caught that.

“The hell I don’t,” you mutter, turning back to face him in your seat once more with your last roll of bandage clutched tightly in your hand. You set it down atop the table as you set your supplies up just how you like them. “I call them by the names their mothers gave them.”

Nicholas hums thoughtfully. “Sarah Jane, that’s Violetta?”

You grunt out an affirmative, threading the freshly cleaned needle with nimble, dextrous accuracy. 

“And Charity, her real name’s Bertie?”

“Bertha May,” you correct him, snipping away the excess thread with a little pair of mostly-dull scissors—careful not to take more than you’ll need, but still giving yourself sufficient supply to work with.

“Priscilla’s name’s Adaline,” Nicholas continues, his eyes still tracing the cracks in your ceiling. “And what about Theodosia and Queenie?” 

“Georgina and Prudence,” you supply flatly as you secure a tight knot in the end of the stitching thread.

Nicholas sighs before slurring, “’s a lot to keep track of.”

You snort. “Wait until you find out Big Annie’s real name.”

He looks over at you with wider eyes than you’ve seen on him since he came staggering through your door. He catches the expression on your face and his own softens, clearly sensing that you’d said it only in jest. 

Annie’s just short for Annabelle, after all. Madam’s rarely need to take up new personas—why would they need to be someone they’re not if they aren’t the ones doing the dirty work?

Nicholas watches as you tug on the stitching thread one last time to test its strength—eying the glinting needle warily. You set the threaded implement carefully off to the side once you’re confident it’s ready.

“So you learned all this stuff from your daddy, huh?” he asks you next.

You swallow over the unpleasant lump you suddenly feel in the back of your throat and reach up, nudging his hand away from where he’s holding the gauze to his wound. He’s become a real chatterbox now, and part of you wonders why you’re even tolerating it.

You clean the area with antiseptic again—and Nicholas is just as dramatic as he was the first time as a low moan of pain tears through him. For a moment you worry he really might be on the brink of passing out, the whites of his eyes taking over as they begin to roll back, so you know you need to keep him focused.

“He used to take me with him on his rounds,” you mumble a reply to his earlier question. 

Nicholas’s eyes open a bit wider when he hears your voice, a little more focused now than they had been.

“My daddy, I mean,” your tone is dismissive and flippant, but it seems to be an effective distraction. “I just picked things up here and there while I watched him work.”

“You’re a natural.”

You snort mirthlessly in the wake of his reply. “Don’t know about all that.”

“You just pulled a bullet outta my arm with your bare hands, that’s gotta count for something.” Nicholas hisses as you press the antiseptic-soaked gauze to his wound one last time, then he sucks in a sharp breath. “And the girls trust you a lot, so you must be good at it.”

“Somebody’s gotta take care of them.” 

Lord knows no one else around here does.

You set the scarlet saturated gauze aside in the dish with the discarded bullet, then pick up your needle.

You make neat, even sutures through his skin, and you take your time to do it right. You’ve always been good at this kind of thing, even when you were young. You were born with a keen eye for detailed work like this, and your daddy used to get you to finish up the smaller wounds he was called to treat that needed finer stitching—said your little hands were just better at it than his own big, life-roughened ones. He always used to tell you that you got your steady hands from him, but your nimble fingers from your mother.

Not that you’d know anything about that.

Nicholas has stopped flinching now, a little more relaxed than he’d previously been, and you can’t help but look up at him every so often as you work—wondering if that steady, even rise and fall of his chest means that he’s finally knocked out. Especially since he’s suddenly gone so quiet. 

But each time you check, you find his eyes are still open—though only just barely—and are peering up towards the ceiling. Sometimes you catch him glancing at you too.

Once the wound has been fully closed in a tidy little line of stitches, you wrap the roll of bandages around it with some gauze tucked underneath, just in case.

“You’re all done,” you say quietly, slumping back in your chair once you’re finally finished.

All at once, you feel exhausted—the adrenaline you didn’t even know had been rushing through you disappearing in a blink. It reminds you of how the wind dies in the valley in the wake of a bad storm, like it took the breeze with it. You’re all too conscious of the fact that it’s the middle of the night now, and that you ought to long be asleep.

“Thank you,” Nicholas says as he pushes himself up onto the elbow of his uninjured arm, though he still winces at the movement. You don’t make any attempt to help him.

His shirt is in pieces, and he discards it since it’s of so little use to him now, shaking his right arm to free it from the only sleeve that remains in tact on the garment. You watch as he pushes himself fully upright, throwing his long legs over the side of the table to stand. When he does, he dips slightly—like the sudden movement makes him woozy, and his knees are weak—and his right hand shoots out to balance himself on the edge of the tabletop on instinct. You suppose it’s not unexpected given the amount of blood he lost.

You watch his toned, tanned back as he stretches himself out as much as his injury will allow; observing how his skin pulls taught over the defined musculature that surrounds his spine. He’s littered with scars—a map of wounds that weren’t stitched as neatly as the new one on his upper arm—and part of you can’t help but wonder how he got them all. Can’t help but wonder what stories those marks tell, written in a language you don’t know how to read.

You look away, feeling an inexplicable heat flood rapidly to your cheeks.

You stand and quickly slip off your own overshirt—just some old button-up left behind from your father, though you have no memories of him ever wearing it. You clutch it in your fist and stick it out for him to take.

He eyes it in surprise for a moment before accepting it.

“Those blood stains are yours, anyway. You might as well have it,” you say, eyeing the red mark at the cuff on the right-hand sleeve as the garment passes from your hold into his, “in any case it’s in better shape than the one you came here with.” 

It saves having to clean it, too. So it’s all the same to you.

“I’ll pay you,” he slurs, still unsteady on his feet as he begins rifling awkwardly through his pockets with his only useable hand. He almost tips right over in his haste, but you quickly slip beside him and steady his frame.

“Yeah, you will,” you agree, holding tight to his right arm to keep him standing. “Worry about it tomorrow.”

Nicholas’ bare skin radiates warmth with only your thin, lace-trimmed undershirt left separating you as you stand pressed into his side. He peers down at you curiously, blinking slowly like he’s being called to sleep. From this close, with him standing properly upright for the first time, you realize just how big this man is—tall, with a broad chest and defined muscles, and stubble dusted along his sharp jawline that you hadn’t noticed before. You take a sudden step away to put much needed distance between the two of you, these realizations making something stir in the pit of your stomach that makes you feel squeamish. 

“Do you know your way back to the inn?” you ask him, your arms crossing over your front.

Nicholas bobs his head in a completely unconvincing nod. It’s not like the town is big enough to get lost in in the first place—and he very well might know his way if it were daylight, or he weren’t half delirious—but sending him out into The Bend in his current state would be as much of a death sentence as it would have been to turn him away when he first showed up at your door. 

You sigh in resignation.

“Just sleep on the floor here for tonight. I’ll check your stitches again tomorrow morning before you leave.”

The man looks taken aback, but he nods quickly—as though he doesn’t want to give you time to rescind the unexpected offer.

You fish around in the depths of your father’s old medicine bag, eventually pulling out a bottle of murky liquid as Nicholas gets settled with an old cushion and a threadbare quilt near the unlit hearth of the fireplace. You use the edge of your nail to uncork it, take a quick whiff to make sure it’s the right one, and then tread towards the man on the other side of the room.

He peers up at you from his makeshift bed on the floor, resting with his knees apart and his long legs sprawled out in front of him. You pass the little glass bottle to him, your fingers brushing as it passes from your grip into his. “Drink this, it helps to fight off infection.”

He eyes it warily. The outside of the bottle is suspiciously grimy, and the putrid colour of the liquid inside is no less reassuring. “What is it?”

“Hog Fennel.”

He grimaces, peeking into the opening of the bottle with one eye closed. “Sounds foul.”

You snort. “It is."

Nicholas doesn’t draw it out any longer, tipping the vial back an draining it all in one shot. He winces once he swallows it down, his pink tongue peeking out a little as he pants through the taste—which you’re sure is bitter and disgusting.

“How was it?” you ask him wryly.

“I’ve had worse, honestly,” he says, shooting you a little grin you can’t believe he’s able to manage not only in the wake of such a disgusting concoction but considering what he’s been through that night.

You blink, your brow furrowing, and then eventually nod dismissively before turning and shuffling off towards the other side of the room where the door to your bedroom is found.

“Thank you.” 

Nicholas speaks again as you’re just shy of crossing the threshold into your room, you consider pausing in your shock but then think better of it.

“You already said that,” you reply, your tone annoyed, and shut the door behind you.

You open it again a second later to poke your head back out towards him.

“I’ve got a gun in here, by the way, and I won’t miss. Just in case you were thinking of trying anything funny.”

Across the room, Nicholas is already laying down on his pitiful excuse of a resting place, looking strangely content.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says with a smile, though his eyes stay closed.

Part of you is annoyed at how comfortable he seems. How easily he talks to you. How normal his presence feels in your home.

Another part of you—one that’s deeper, locked away and hidden out of sight in a place where you think you’ve lost they key—isn’t.

You slip back into your room and close the door behind you with a soft click. 

And in the silent stillness of your little bedroom with your shoulder blades pressed back into your bedroom door, you realize that the thunder outside has stopped but you can hear the softest, faintest pitter patter of raindrops through cracked glass of your window.

Rain came back to The Bend.

Maybe luck would follow.

[loving-the-cambridges]

The Winter Rose Blooms

Summary: a renowned matchmaker, is tasked with finding a bride for Cody, the heir to the throne of the royal family on a snowy, idyllic planet far away in the galaxy. But while the reader is determined to fulfill her duty, she doesn’t expect to fall for Rex, the spare prince with a heart of gold and a penchant for mischief. As snow falls and the warmth of the season unfolds, love blooms where it’s least expected—proving that sometimes, the best matches aren’t planned at all.

A/N: This story was inspired by a Christmas movie I’d seen, and I thought it would be a lovely addition to the Clone Wars holiday stories out there. I wanted to blend the charm of royal romance with the rich camaraderie and emotional depth of the Clone Wars characters, creating something heartfelt and festive. I hope this brings a little joy and warmth to your holiday reading!

-----

Alderia hung in the vast tapestry of the galaxy like a jewel lost to time. Its beauty was so tangible it might have been carved by the hand of a benevolent god—so much so that travelers whispered of it as though it were myth. Planets in the Outer Rim were rarely spoken of with reverence, but Alderia was an exception.  

From orbit, its surface shimmered with life. Indigo oceans spread like veins, their depths glowing faintly under the light of its twin moons, Ceera and Lumar. Snow-draped mountains clawed skyward to the west, their jagged peaks sharp as blades forged by time. These were the **Jolaris Mountains**, home to valleys choked in mist and legends older than the Republic itself. Waterfalls crashed over cliffsides like liquid silver, feeding rivers that snaked their way down into the open arms of Alderia's vast countryside.

The countryside—The Naldorian Reach—unfurled endlessly, rippling with gold, green, and copper in the light of a low sun. Fields of fireflowers swayed like waves of flame, their petals casting a soft glow under the night. Here, farmers tended to crops that fed not just their planet but many others who came seeking Alderia’s bounty. Herds of **tarka**, long-horned creatures with coats of soft silver fur, grazed freely. Villages sprouted amidst the land like freckles, their cottages carved from smooth gray stone, smoke curling peacefully from their chimneys.  

To the south lay the **Ivaryn Seas**, sprawling sapphire waters where waves crashed against cliffs shaped by a millennia of tides. Ships from the far corners of the galaxy anchored here, their sails or thrusters spilling stories of distant systems. Markets brimmed with alien goods—rugs woven on Naboo, glittering crystals mined deep on Christophsis, and spices from the windswept plains of Tatooine. Valford Prime, the capital, sprawled in the planet’s heart—a city of bridges and canals, where modern steel and glass spires rose alongside mosaicked relics of a bygone age.

The people of Alderia were as colorful as their planet, a mosaic of cultures that had long made their home here. They came in pursuit of peace, a place unspoiled by galactic war or greed, and they stayed because Alderia embraced them as its own. Their tongues spoke many languages, their songs carried many traditions. And together, they loved their planet like a child loves its mother—fiercely, selflessly.

It was a place alive in a way the rest of the galaxy seemed to have forgotten.

---

On the highest balcony of Valford Prime’s royal palace, Jaster stood, his silhouette backlit by the rising sun. The crisp morning air rolled in from the Jolaris peaks, carrying the scent of pine, frost, and the delicate winter roses blooming in the gardens below. Jaster let his gaze drift across the world beneath him—the tapestry of mountains, plains, and seas spread out like a promise that no longer belonged to him.  

For all its splendor, Alderia felt quieter these days.  

The king’s fingers curled around the carved stone railing, his knuckles white for a fleeting moment before he forced himself to relax. He had been many things in his lifetime: a leader, a diplomat, a soldier in his youth—but never, not once, had he imagined becoming a father to five boys who were not his own.  

Jaster closed his eyes, and with the softness of morning came the memory.  

**Jango.**  

His son. His only child.  

It had been nearly two decades, but loss was a wound that time refused to stitch closed. *A shuttle accident*, they had told him, voices brittle with grief. Somewhere deep in the Jolaris range, a storm had come—sudden and ferocious—and Alderia’s skies had swallowed Jango whole. 

Jaster could still remember the sound of it. The palace had been filled with the silence of disbelief when they broke the news. He had stood in this very spot, the soft white petals of the winter roses fluttering like snow at his feet, and watched as the light drained from the world. *There were no survivors.*  

The boy who had once tugged at Jaster’s sleeves to ask about the galaxy’s endless stars, the boy who had loved the Naldorian fields in summer and the Ivaryn tides in winter—was gone.

Jaster hadn’t had the privilege of breaking down. No, he had been king, and kings were not allowed to fall apart. Not even when the palace halls echoed emptily, devoid of Jango’s laughter.  

Instead, he had been given **Cody, Rex, Fives, Echo, and Jesse**—Jango’s sons, the living pieces of a man taken far too soon. Jaster had buried his grief beneath the weight of a grandfather’s love, raising them not as heirs to a throne but as boys who deserved to be happy. They had become his solace, his redemption.  

Cody, the eldest, wore his crown of responsibility like a second skin. Rex, the second-born, with his disarming grin and glinting eyes, walked the line between playfulness and quiet longing. The twins, Fives and Echo, filled the palace with energy—always underfoot, always in trouble. And Jesse, the youngest, carried his father’s fire in his veins, a boy whose resolve burned brighter than any star.  

Jaster had given them everything. And yet—what kind of legacy had he built for them?

---

A soft knock broke the quiet. Jaster turned, regal in his bearing despite the wear that life had etched onto his face. The sun cast a faint golden glow across the silver in his hair, his blue eyes reflecting a wisdom hard-earned.  

“Your Majesty?”  

The aide bowed low, his tone quiet, respectful. “The matchmaker has arrived. She awaits you in the library.”  

Ah, yes. The matchmaker. A measure born of desperation.  

Jaster sighed softly, one hand smoothing down the front of his coat—a finely woven garment in royal indigo trimmed with silver thread. To an outsider, he looked every bit the monarch: commanding, poised, untouchable. But in the shadow of his sharp jawline lingered exhaustion that no cloak of dignity could quite disguise.  

He turned back once more to the balcony, to the world that stretched far beyond the palace walls. Alderia, his Alderia, had flourished under his rule. But peace, he knew, was fragile. The galaxy was changing. And for the good of the throne, for the future of his people, Cody needed a bride—a match worthy of Alderia’s weight.  

And so, he had called for the matchmaker.  

Jaster straightened, his spine as unbending as the mountains that guarded his kingdom. “I will meet her shortly.”  

The aide bowed again, retreating quietly, leaving Jaster alone once more.  

For a long moment, the king lingered, his gaze drifting back to the horizon where the snow-capped Jolaris Mountains kissed the sky.  

“Forgive me, Jango,” he murmured, his voice soft as the wind that swept over the balcony. “I do this for them.”  

The winter roses rustled faintly below, their pale petals gleaming against the frost-dusted ground.  

With a final breath, Jaster turned and strode back into the palace, his footsteps slow but deliberate. The weight of a king's duty was an old companion. And today, it would guide him once more.

****

The moment (Y/n) stepped onto the landing platform, the weight of Alderia hit her—not physically, but something deeper, a resonance in her bones, as though the planet itself whispered secrets into the chill air. The sky was a pale lavender, soft with the blush of morning, its twin suns still climbing beyond the horizon. Frost edged the paving stones in delicate patterns, shimmering under the orange glow of guiding lights. A cool wind swept across the platform, tugging strands of her dark hair loose from the elegant twist she’d fashioned earlier.

“Focus,” she told herself, clutching the leather strap of her bag tightly against her shoulder.

(Y/n) (Y/L/N) was no stranger to royal summons. Over the years, her work had brought her across countless systems, from the gilded halls of Serenno to the sunlit courts of Naboo. And while reputations varied from planet to planet, hers was solid. The matchmaker of the galaxy, they called her, though there was little romance in it. Matching was business—an art woven with precision, calculation, and a touch of intuition.

Yet Alderia felt... different. Its air carried an ancient weight, its silence deeper than she expected, as though the planet had stopped to watch her.

***

a man with sharp shoulders and a pinched expression. His uniform was immaculate—a deep indigo tunic lined with silver trim—and though his demeanor was courteous, he appraised (Y/n) with quick, analytical eyes.

“Miss (Y/L/N),” he said with a clipped nod. “The King awaits you.”

(Y/n) inclined her head politely, forcing herself to ignore the slight hitch in her chest. She had been briefed on King Jaster: widowed early, robbed of his only son, a ruler both beloved and distant. A man who had borne more loss than most could survive.

Still, standing here—before a palace of towering spires and ancient glass—it was impossible not to feel small.

As she was led into the main corridor, her breath caught.

***

The palace of Valford Prime was magnificent, but not in the way of grand and showy courts she had seen before. It was old, as though carved from the very mountains that loomed over it, a place built to last centuries. Smooth stone walls rose high above her, their surfaces interrupted by arches lined with mosaics—each a depiction of Alderia’s history. Fireflowers wove through the tiles like bursts of flame, their bright scarlet contrasting the muted greys and creams.

Beneath her feet, polished marble stretched out in soft hues of onyx and ivory, cool even through the soles of her boots. Chandeliers hung overhead, forged from glass and silver, casting warm pools of golden light onto the floor. The air smelled faintly of pinewood smoke and winter roses—subtle, familiar scents that spoke of comfort and care.

(Y/n)’s gaze moved to the stained-glass windows that framed the corridor. Each pane glowed softly with the light of morning, their surfaces painted with intricate scenes—warriors standing beside tamed tarkas, scholars presenting star maps, families gathered under twin moons.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, unable to stop herself.

The attendant glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, a flicker of approval hidden behind his professionalism. “Alderia has always valued its legacy.”

(Y/n) nodded, though something unspoken lingered in his words. A place so steeped in beauty, so carefully tended—what would happen to it if its legacy was left unfulfilled?

***

She was led through a series of adjoining halls, their silence punctuated only by the occasional hum of droids or the shuffle of guards shifting to attention. Her boots clicked softly against the marble, a sound that seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness.

At last, the attendant paused before a grand wooden door. It was old, carved with swirling patterns of vines and blooming roses, the kind of artistry no one bothered with anymore.

“The king is within,” the attendant said, stepping aside.

(Y/n) swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Adjusting the collar of her deep emerald coat, she gave herself a moment to breathe, centering the cool calm she wore as armor. It was just another meeting—another royal court. Another job.

She stepped through the door.

***

Warmth greeted her first.

The library was a cathedral of wood and firelight, a room made of shadows and amber glow. Shelves of carved mahogany stretched from floor to ceiling, crammed with tomes whose spines had been worn smooth by centuries of hands. A fire crackled low in a stone hearth to her left, the flames dancing as though pleased to have company. Its glow painted the dark green walls with flickers of gold, spilling light across a pair of leather armchairs positioned before it.

The room smelled of old parchment, leather, and pine smoke, with an undertone of something distinctly Alderian—a faint sweetness, perhaps from the roses (Y/n) had noticed earlier.

Then she saw him.

****

King Jaster stood near the fire, one hand resting on the back of an armchair as though he were only half-present in the room.

The man was every inch the ruler she’d been told to expect. Tall and imposing, with broad shoulders and a straight back that spoke of years spent wearing authority like armor. His hair, streaked with silver, framed a face marked by both strength and sorrow—deep lines etched at the corners of his mouth and eyes. Yet there was something warm in those eyes, a glint of sharp intelligence softened by what might have once been humor.

For a man who had lost so much, Jaster still carried himself with a quiet kind of grace.

When he turned to face her fully, (Y/n) felt the weight of his gaze—not cruel, nor suspicious, but thoughtful, as though he were assessing not just who she was but what she carried with her.

“You are (Y/n) (Y/L/N),” he said, his voice deep, deliberate, yet not unkind. “The matchmaker.”

“I am,” she replied, offering a slight bow of her head. “Your Majesty.”

He studied her for a long moment, his gaze sharp as a vibroblade.

“I’ve heard of your reputation,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, laced with something she couldn’t yet name. “Your work has taken you to many worlds. Alderia is far from most of them.”

“I go where I’m needed.” (Y/n) straightened, meeting his gaze. “And I understand your need is urgent.”

Jaster’s lips twitched slightly, though it was not quite a smile.

“That remains to be seen.” He gestured toward the chair across from his own. “Please, sit.”

****

(Y/n) moved carefully, lowering herself into the chair, her posture poised. The leather creaked faintly beneath her, though the warmth of the fire softened the chill that had clung to her skin since she’d arrived.

Jaster sank into his own seat with a kind of weary elegance, his large hands resting on the arms of the chair. He studied her again—longer this time—his sharp blue eyes seeming to measure something deeper than the surface.

“And what do you know of Alderia, Miss (Y/L/N)?”

(Y/n) met his gaze, calm despite the tension crackling softly in the air. “I know it is a planet unlike most in the Outer Rim. It thrives because its people believe in its beauty, its harmony. I know that legacy matters here.”

“Legacy.” Jaster repeated the word slowly, as though tasting its edges. His gaze turned toward the fire, the flames reflected in his eyes. “You understand, then, what is at stake.”

“I wouldn’t be here otherwise,” she said gently.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and alive with unspoken things. Then, finally, Jaster leaned forward, his expression unreadable.

“Do you believe love can be found, Miss (Y/L/N)? Or is it simply a convenience we dress up in finer clothes?”

The question caught her off guard, though she didn’t show it.

She hesitated for the briefest moment before answering. “I believe love is where it’s most unexpected. It is rarely found—it’s discovered.”

For a heartbeat, the fire crackled louder than the space between them. Then something shifted in Jaster’s expression—a faint softening, perhaps, though it was gone almost as quickly as it came.

“Unexpected,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Finally, Jaster leaned back, his gaze settling on her once again.

“Very well, Miss (Y/L/N),” he said quietly, his voice low but steady. “We shall see what it is you discover here.”

(Y/n) let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The king’s words were not a dismissal, but they were far from a welcome.

This job—this planet—would be unlike any other.

And as she looked at the man before her, cloaked in firelight and the burden of his world, (Y/n) couldn’t help but feel it: the subtle, creeping certainty that Alderia had already begun to change her.

****

(Y/n) had always believed that a palace, no matter how grand, was not the heart of a world—its people were. Alderia, with its quiet beauty and timeless grace, had struck her deeply the moment she arrived, but the palace, however warm its firelight, still carried a weight she could not shake. She needed fresh air, needed to step out beyond the stone walls that hummed with centuries of whispers.

After unpacking her modest belongings in the chamber provided to her—a room lined with thick tapestries and velvet curtains that carried the faint scent of pine—(Y/n) changed into a more practical ensemble. She had traded her formal coat and boots for simpler attire: a dark cloak lined with fur at the collar, gloves to stave off the bite of winter, and soft leather boots that muffled her footsteps as she walked.

Slipping out of the palace had been easier than expected. The guards at the entryway, though vigilant, simply nodded respectfully as she passed. She had seen that nod before—a subtle acknowledgment of her position and, more importantly, a quiet curiosity. The matchmaker. A stranger.

The old town of Valford Prime welcomed her with open arms, though its embrace was brisk. The streets were alive in a way the palace could never be, bustling with the music of life—merchants calling out their wares, children laughing as they darted through narrow alleyways, the rhythmic clatter of hooves on cobblestones. Above it all, twin moons Lumar and Ceera hung low, their pale glow softening the morning light.

***

The old town of Valford Prime was alive, its streets humming with a rhythm all their own—organic, vibrant, and timeless. The crisp winter air had settled into the crevices of cobbled lanes and market stalls, carrying the mingling scents of roasting nuts, fresh-baked bread, and something faintly floral. Overhead, narrow bridges connected weathered buildings, draped in vines hardened by frost, their windows aglow with amber light from within.

(Y/n) lingered at the edge of the square, letting the sounds and sights of this place wash over her. Markets like this were the pulse of any world, but here in Alderia, it felt different. Deliberate. Every moment was savored, every small interaction carried meaning, as though time itself bent to the will of the people.

She absently brushed her fingers over the pendant in her pocket—the winter rose carving gifted to her by the old vendor. Her heart had been warmed by the woman’s quiet reverence for the royal family, but it had also left her unsettled. The king’s grief hung over this planet like morning mist—something beautiful and tragic all at once. She wondered if his grandsons carried that same weight, if they felt the threads of history pulling tight against their every step.

***

The sound of laughter broke through her thoughts—a rich, rolling kind of laughter that came from the belly and pulled others along with it. (Y/n) turned toward its source, weaving through the throngs of market-goers until she spotted a heavy-set man behind a fruit stall. His skin was weathered bronze, his cheeks red from the cold, and his thick hands moved deftly as he peeled a citrus fruit the size of her fist.

“Oi, girl, you look lost!” he called to her with a voice as big as he was. “Or maybe you’re just trying to figure out how one fruit can look so strange.” He grinned and held up the half-peeled fruit, the vibrant orange skin spiraling down in one clean piece.

(Y/n) smiled, the man’s boisterous energy infectious. “I wouldn’t say lost,” she replied as she approached, tilting her head to examine the fruit. “Curious, perhaps.”

“Curious is good,” he said with a wag of his finger, “it means you’re alive. And on a cold day like this, I’ll take life over numb fingers any day.” He sliced off a chunk of the fruit and offered it to her on the flat edge of his knife. “Here. You can’t walk these streets without tasting them.”

(Y/n) hesitated only briefly before accepting the slice, her gloved fingers brushing the cool blade as she took it. The fruit’s juice burst across her tongue—bright, tart, and tangy, like sunlight distilled into flavor.

“That’s…” she paused, blinking in surprise. “Incredible.”

The man barked a laugh that startled a pigeon off a nearby ledge. “Alderian sunfruit, miss! They don’t grow anywhere else, no matter how hard those Coruscanti botanists try. You’ve got to let the soil sing to them.”

(Y/n) couldn’t help but smile. “And does the soil sing to everything here?”

“Everything and everyone,” the man replied, his tone softening. His jovial exterior gave way to something gentler as he wiped his hands on a cloth and leaned against his stall. “That’s why we love this place. Alderia’s got a heart, girl. It’s old, and it’s strong, and we listen to it when it speaks.”

(Y/n) watched him carefully, noting the way his hands stilled and his gaze drifted toward the palace spires visible in the distance. The king. She didn’t need to ask to know that was what he thought of.

“The royal family?” she prompted softly, her words barely more than a breath. “Do they listen too?”

The man straightened, his large frame suddenly still, as though he were measuring her. “The king has given more of himself to this place than most men could,” he said finally. “He’s loved it, fought for it, bled for it—and lost for it, too.” He nodded toward the palace, his eyes soft but resolute. “Jaster’s a good man. The kind you don’t see much of anymore. And the boys? Well, we see their father in them.”

“Jango,” (Y/n) murmured, almost to herself.

The man’s face softened further, and he nodded slowly. “Aye. He was a good lad—brash, brave, and full of fire. The twins take after him the most, you know. Always stirring trouble, but their hearts are in the right place.”

(Y/n) tucked that bit of information away carefully, feeling as though each word, each sentiment, brought her closer to understanding this family she had been tasked with helping. She thanked the man with a sincere smile and turned to leave, but he stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Be careful with them,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost reverent. “The royal family—they carry Alderia’s soul on their backs. They’re stronger than most, but even mountains crack under too much weight.”

***

approaching a small wooden stall draped in thick blankets of deep purple and teal. The vendor behind it was an older woman, her cheeks pink from the cold, her hands calloused and strong. A wooden carving of the Jolaris Mountains sat at the corner of the table, its edges smooth from being held. (Y/n)’s gloved fingers brushed it gently, tracing the peaks.

“It’s beautiful,” she said quietly, smiling as she met the woman’s curious gaze. “You carved this?”

The woman tilted her head, clearly surprised to see someone like (Y/n) standing here—someone whose finely tailored cloak marked her as not local. Still, her expression softened into something kind.

“My grandson did,” she said, her voice husky with age but filled with pride. “He’s good with his hands, that boy. Learnt from his father.”

(Y/n) picked up the carving, its weight solid and grounding in her palm. “The Jolaris. They look so much more alive here than they do from the palace.”

The woman chuckled, a dry sound that seemed to carry centuries of wisdom. “The mountains were here before kings. They’ll be here long after. Carve them enough, you might just capture their spirit.”

(Y/n) smiled faintly, placing the carving back down. “How long have you lived here, in Valford Prime?”

The woman’s eyes gleamed. “Born here, just like my mother and her mother before her. Never left Alderia, though my eldest has. Went offworld to Coruscant. Too noisy there for me, but she loves it.”

(Y/n) leaned forward slightly, as though the question might slip from her lips if she wasn’t careful. “And the king? What do you think of him?”

It was a bold question. Too bold, maybe. But (Y/n) had always believed the truth of a royal family lay with its people.

The woman didn’t answer right away. Instead, she turned her attention to the carving, running a finger along its edge. When she finally spoke, her voice carried a reverence tempered by understanding.

“King Jaster has seen more loss than most men would survive,” she said simply, looking up to meet (Y/n)’s gaze with eyes sharp as glass. “But he still stands. That’s no small thing.”

(Y/n) held her breath for a moment. He still stands.

“And his grandsons?” she asked, her tone gentler now, though she could feel the woman’s watchful gaze.

The woman’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “The boys are the heart of Alderia, even if they don’t know it yet. Cody carries the world on his back like his father. Rex? Well, he’s a storm—wild but good for the earth when he settles. The twins are trouble, but trouble’s not always bad, is it?” She chuckled to herself, her hands busily folding a thick blanket. “And Jesse—ah, the youngest has his father’s fire. That boy will burn bright when his time comes.”

Something in (Y/n)’s chest tightened as the woman spoke. There was no need to ask about their late father. Jango’s absence hung between the words unspoken, like a ghost that refused to rest.

****

(Y/n)’s steps were slower as she left the market square, her mind full. The fruit vendor’s words lingered in her thoughts, their simplicity carrying the kind of wisdom she had only ever found in people who lived close to the earth.

As she turned into a narrow alleyway, the scent of roasting chestnuts caught her attention. A small, sputtering fire crackled under an iron grate where an elderly man turned a pan slowly, humming a tune so low it blended with the pop of the coals. His clothes were rough, patched at the knees, and his cap was pulled low to shield his face from the cold. Yet his motions were unhurried, deliberate—as though each chestnut deserved his full care.

(Y/n) paused, her hands tucked into the warmth of her cloak. “That song,” she said quietly, tilting her head, “it’s beautiful. Where is it from?”

The man didn’t look up right away, his gnarled fingers moving with practiced ease. “Alderian lullaby,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly. “My grandmother sang it to me when I was small.” Finally, he lifted his head, his sharp eyes—clouded slightly with age—fixing on hers. “You’re not from here.”

“No,” (Y/n) admitted softly, stepping closer as the fire cast flickering shadows on the alley walls. “I’m not.”

“And yet you ask questions like you wish you were,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly as though peering into her. “Why?”

“I like to understand,” she replied. “People, places. The stories they carry.”

The man’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Stories are heavy things, girl. You best know what you’re asking to hold.”

(Y/n) felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air as she crouched beside the fire. “And what of the king’s story? Or his family’s?”

The man turned the pan once more, the flames licking at the edges. “You’ve met him, haven’t you?”

She nodded.

“Then you’ve seen it already.” He handed her a chestnut wrapped in a strip of cloth to protect her fingers. “Grief leaves marks on a man, but love does too. Jaster carries both. And those boys of his—” He paused, staring at the fire for a long moment, his voice dropping into something reverent. “They carry their father’s shadow like a torch. Bright and heavy.”

(Y/n) accepted the chestnut, its warmth spreading into her palm.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

The old man gave her a slow, meaningful nod before turning back to his fire, the lullaby drifting up again like smoke curling into the sky.

***

“Here, miss,” the woman said suddenly, pulling (Y/n) from her thoughts. She held up a small, carved pendant—a tiny replica of the winter rose, smooth and delicate. “For you.”

(Y/n) blinked, startled. “Oh, I couldn’t—”

“Nonsense.” The woman pressed it into (Y/n)’s palm, her weathered fingers surprisingly gentle. “It’s a gift. A blessing, of sorts.”

(Y/n) closed her hand around it, the small carving warm from the woman’s touch. “Thank you,” she whispered, the words soft but heartfelt.

The woman nodded, a knowing glint in her eyes. “The winter rose blooms when it’s least expected. You’d do well to remember that.”

(Y/n) stared at her for a long moment, something unspoken shifting in her chest.

***

As (Y/n) walked back toward the palace, her fingers brushed over the pendant in her pocket and the flower in the other. The stories she had gathered today weighed on her, pressing against her ribs like something alive.

The royal family carried the soul of this world, she realized. The people saw them not as rulers, but as guardians—as the stewards of something ancient and sacred. And yet, for all their strength, there was fragility in that reverence, a quiet fear that too much weight might cause even the strongest to crumble.

The thought unnerved her, and yet it made her purpose here clearer than ever. She would need to tread carefully—because the stories of Alderia were alive, and they were watching.

****

The morning sun streamed through the high-arched windows of the palace, gilding the stone floors in warm light as (Y/n) walked briskly down the east corridor. Her boots tapped lightly against the polished marble, the sound punctuating the low murmur of palace activity—guards shifting in their stations, the occasional scuff of servant footsteps, the faint clang of dishes being prepared in kitchens beyond the hall. She could smell freshly baked bread mixed with the sharp, clean scent of frost from the gardens beyond, a reminder of the world waiting quietly outside.

Despite the serene grandeur of her surroundings, her mind was far less settled. Her walk through the old town the day before still lingered in her thoughts—every word the locals had shared, every unspoken weight they had carried. The royal family—they carry Alderia’s soul. She had begun to see why, and she couldn’t help but feel a strange kinship with the people who spoke of their rulers with such reverence.

And today, she would meet the eldest of them—the weight bearer himself.

***

(Y/n) stood outside a set of ornate double doors, the dark wood carved with intricate patterns of twisting vines and winter roses. The library she had been ushered to yesterday seemed intimate in comparison. This room felt formal, imposing. A meeting chamber for royalty. She shifted her weight, brushing imaginary wrinkles from her sleeves, before straightening and raising her chin. Whatever she felt—curiosity, unease, determination—would stay locked firmly beneath the polished surface she wore so well.

A soft knock. The doors creaked open.

A steward gestured her forward, his tone courteous but impersonal. “The Crown Prince will meet you now.”

The Crown Prince. Just the title felt like a stone laid upon her chest, as though the man beyond this door was more responsibility than person. (Y/n) stepped inside.

***

The room was enormous, its high ceilings supported by stone pillars that swept upward like trees in an ancient forest. A long table stretched across the center, its surface immaculate save for a neatly arranged pile of star charts and datapads at one end. Pale curtains hung on either side of the tall windows, filtering sunlight until it cast faint gold patterns across the polished floor.

At the far end, near one of the windows, stood Cody.

(Y/n) recognized him instantly—not from photographs, but because he looked exactly as she imagined he would. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried himself with a kind of effortless authority that couldn’t be taught. He wore a high-collared tunic of deep navy and silver, the colors of Alderia, and his hair was neatly cut, though a faint line of stubble softened the sharp angles of his jaw.

He was not handsome in the way of effortless charm, as (Y/n) suspected Rex might be, but there was a gravity about him—something anchored and unyielding, as though he belonged to the very stone of the palace itself.

As she approached, Cody turned, his movements precise, controlled. His gaze landed on her, clear and cool as glass.

“Miss (Y/L/N),” he said. His voice was calm, even polite, but it carried an edge—like a door that wasn’t entirely open. “You’ve come early.”

(Y/n) offered a small, measured smile, hands clasped in front of her. “A good matchmaker learns to value time, Your Highness.”

The faintest flicker of something—perhaps amusement—crossed Cody’s face before it was gone. He nodded to the steward, who gave a bow and silently exited the room, leaving them alone.

“Please.” Cody gestured to a small sitting area by the window where two chairs and a low table waited. “Sit.”

****

(Y/n) took her seat with practiced poise, watching Cody as he moved to sit across from her. He lowered himself into the chair with a sense of measured purpose. It struck her then that everything about him—the way he stood, the way he moved, even the way he sat—was deliberate, as though he had rehearsed every step of his life.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Cody looked at her, not coldly, but with the unblinking focus of someone who was used to examining others. It wasn’t a cruel stare, but it wasn’t kind either. It was… neutral.

“Do you enjoy your room?” he asked finally, the words careful, almost perfunctory.

“Yes, thank you,” (Y/n) replied. “It’s beautiful. I walked the old town yesterday as well. Your planet—your people—are extraordinary.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Cody’s tone was light, but the faintest edge of skepticism brushed against it, as though he were testing her.

(Y/n) smiled faintly, folding her hands in her lap. “I wasn’t looking for anything. I was listening.”

That seemed to catch him off guard, though he hid it well. He tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing just enough for her to notice. “Listening?”

“Yes.” She kept her voice calm, steady, though she chose each word deliberately. “I find that people tell you the most important things when you listen—not just to what they say, but how they say it.”

“Is that how you work?” Cody asked, his gaze steady. “You listen and decide who fits where?”

There it is. The resistance she had expected, the skepticism carefully veiled behind civility. She leaned forward slightly, holding his gaze. “I don’t decide anything, Your Highness. I find connections. The decision is yours.”

His mouth quirked faintly, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “You make it sound simple.”

“It’s not,” (Y/n) said honestly, letting a hint of warmth into her tone. “But neither is ruling a planet, I imagine.”

For the briefest moment, (Y/n) thought she saw a flicker of something real—a weariness that lived beneath his armor—but it disappeared almost instantly. Cody shifted slightly in his chair, straightening, his posture becoming even more rigid.

“I’ll be candid, Miss (Y/L/N),” he said, his voice cool. “I didn’t ask for you to come here.”

(Y/n) blinked, the words settling like stones in her chest. “I understand. But you must know why I’m here.”

Cody’s jaw tightened faintly, and his gaze drifted to the window. Outside, the light caught on the snowy peaks of the Jolaris Mountains, and for a moment, he seemed far away. “I know why he brought you here,” he murmured. The way he said it—he—was laced with quiet frustration, though there was no disrespect in it.

“The king,” (Y/n) said softly.

“Yes.” Cody’s gaze snapped back to her, sharp and unwavering. “I know my duty. I’ve known it since I was a child. But I have no interest in parading myself for your lists and your calculations.”

(Y/n) felt her throat tighten, though she refused to let it show. Instead, she smiled—gently, without condescension. “I don’t think you are a man who would ever parade himself, Your Highness.”

That caught him again, though he masked it quickly. For a heartbeat, the two of them simply looked at one another, the quiet stretching like a rope pulled taut. Cody was not unkind, nor was he arrogant—but there was a wall around him, thick and unyielding, built from years of expectation.

***

Finally, he stood, smoothing his hand over the edge of his coat. “I’ll cooperate with my grandfather’s wishes,” he said, his tone measured once more. “But don’t expect me to make it easy.”

(Y/n) rose as well, meeting him at eye level, her expression calm but unwavering. “I never expect anything, Your Highness. I observe. And I listen.”

Cody looked at her for a long moment, as though trying to decide whether her words carried sincerity or cleverness. Then he nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Good day, Miss (Y/L/N).”

With that, he turned, his footsteps firm and deliberate as he strode toward the door. (Y/n) let out a slow breath as the latch clicked shut behind him.

The meeting had not been unkind, but it had left her unsettled. Cody was not a man who would ever allow himself to be easily understood, and yet, beneath his quiet resistance, (Y/n) could feel it: the weight of duty pressing against him like stone.

She looked out the window to the Jolaris peaks, watching the sunlight spill across their icy crowns, and wondered how long even a man like Cody could carry such a burden alone.

****

The meeting with Cody lingered in (Y/n)’s mind like a splinter she couldn’t remove. The prince had been courteous, polite even, but distant in a way that left her feeling like a mere afterthought in his day. There had been no warmth to his words, no openness to his gaze—just walls, high and unyielding, built brick by brick from a lifetime of expectation.  

Still, she couldn’t be angry. How could she? Cody wasn’t dismissive out of cruelty but necessity. Duty had shaped him into a man who wore his responsibility like armor, polished to perfection but heavy to bear. *The weight of a crown isn’t always gold,* she thought, as she let her feet carry her down the wide palace hallways.

The corridor she wandered into now seemed different—quieter, with an air of reverence. The faintest echo of her footsteps traveled down the stone walls, and she slowed her pace, the silence urging her to tread softly. This part of the palace, it seemed, belonged to memories. 

***

Paintings lined the walls, gilded frames glowing faintly in the golden light spilling through tall, arched windows. Each canvas was a piece of history frozen in time—kings and queens of Alderia, some stoic, others kind, their eyes following her as she passed. The faces seemed alive, as though they were watching her closely, curious about this stranger who dared walk their halls.

(Y/n) stopped in front of one particular painting. It was a portrait of a young man with blue-gray eyes and a confident, roguish smile. His dark hair was swept back in a way that suggested he hadn’t cared too much for formality. He wore a prince’s coat—rich navy blue, lined with silver—but the way he slouched just slightly told her that the man beneath the clothes had been carefree.  

“Jango,” she whispered under her breath, as though the name might summon the man himself. It had to be him; the resemblance to the current princes was unmistakable.  

Her gaze softened as she took in every detail of the painting, from the hint of mischief in Jango’s smirk to the worn edge of a leather glove on his left hand. *A man who was never meant to be still,* she thought, *and yet here he is.* She wondered how much of him remained in his sons—how much of that fire had been inherited.

She sighed softly, feeling that familiar knot of responsibility tug at her chest. This family, this planet—it was all so much larger than what she could see. And yet here she was, standing in the middle of it.

“Admiring the handsome ones, are we?”

***

The voice broke through the quiet like a spark, warm and teasing, startling (Y/n) just enough that she turned sharply, her breath catching in her throat.  

There, leaning lazily against the stone archway she’d just passed, was **Rex**.  

For a moment, (Y/n) could only blink, as though the man before her had been conjured straight from the painting. He looked startlingly like Jango, though his face was less polished—his jaw was scruffed with golden stubble, and his blond hair was unruly, strands falling stubbornly over his forehead. His posture was relaxed, almost lazy, as though the weight of the world that sat so heavily on Cody’s shoulders didn’t exist here. 

And then there were his eyes—blue-gray like a stormy sea, alive with something (Y/n) couldn’t name.  

“Forgive me,” he said, pushing off the wall and stepping into the light filtering through the window. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your staring contest.”  

(Y/n) found her voice, though it came out more measured than she intended. “I wasn’t staring. I was… observing.”

The corner of Rex’s mouth quirked upward in a half-smile, one brow arching in obvious amusement. “Observation looks a lot like admiration from where I’m standing.”

(Y/n)’s lips pressed together, though she couldn’t help the hint of color that warmed her cheeks. “And you are…?”

He grinned wider at that, as though enjoying her reaction. “I’m Rex,” he said simply, inclining his head in a mock bow. “Second-born spare to the throne of Alderia, expert at sneaking out of meetings I don’t want to attend, and—apparently—the cause of your current blush.”

(Y/n) straightened, smoothing her hands over her cloak as though brushing away the fluster she felt bubbling beneath her calm exterior. “I wasn’t blushing.”

“You’re blushing now,” Rex said, his tone teasing but gentle, his gaze lingering on her face as though he were memorizing it.  

(Y/n) exhaled slowly, regaining her composure. “And I wasn’t staring at you either. I was looking at the painting.”

“Of my father.” Rex’s voice softened just slightly at the mention of Jango, his teasing tone taking on something quieter. (Y/n) glanced up, noticing the way his gaze flicked briefly to the portrait behind her, his smile dimming ever so slightly.  

“Yes,” she said softly. “He seems… remarkable.” 

Rex’s gaze lingered on the painting a moment longer before he looked back at her, his smile returning, though this time it carried something softer—something real. “He was.”

There was a pause—long enough for (Y/n) to feel the air shift between them, subtle but certain. She hadn’t expected this—a meeting so unguarded, so unexpectedly *personal.* For all Rex’s casual charm, there was something in his eyes that she recognized: a quiet depth, a place where lightness gave way to something unspoken.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” Rex said finally, breaking the moment but not the connection. “You’re not palace staff, and you don’t look like one of Cody’s political friends.” He tilted his head, curiosity shining through. “Who are you?”

(Y/n) hesitated, feeling that this moment—this first impression—was delicate. It was rare to meet someone who didn’t immediately view her as *the matchmaker*. Rare to meet someone who simply saw her.

“My name is (Y/n) (Y/L/N),” she said carefully, holding his gaze. “And you’re right—I’m not political. I’ve been brought here to… assist.”  

“With what?”

“Your brother.”  

Something flickered across Rex’s face—surprise first, then understanding. His grin returned, slow and unmistakable. “Ah, so you’re the *matchmaker.*”  

The word sat between them, heavy and familiar, but Rex said it without mockery. If anything, there was a hint of intrigue in his tone, as though she’d just become far more interesting.  

(Y/n) nodded, though her expression stayed composed. “I am.”

Rex crossed his arms loosely, one brow arching again. “And how’s that going for you so far?”

(Y/n) allowed herself a small smile, though her thoughts returned to her meeting with Cody—the walls, the formality. “It’s… early.”

Rex chuckled, the sound warm and genuine, as though she’d said something funny without intending to. “That bad, huh?”

“I didn’t say that.”  

“You didn’t have to.” He grinned again, his eyes glinting mischievously. “Cody’s about as easy to talk to as a stone wall, but you’ll get used to him. He’s a good man under all that steel.”

(Y/n) felt a faint tug at the corner of her mouth. “You say that like you’re nothing like him.”

“I’m not,” Rex said with a shrug. “At least, not on the surface.”  

The way he said it made her pause. It was casual, dismissive almost, but (Y/n) could feel the truth woven into it. For all his lightness, for all his charm, there were pieces of Rex that ran far deeper than he let on.

***

Silence settled between them again—not awkward, not tense, but *there*. (Y/n) felt it in her chest, a kind of awareness she couldn’t explain. She studied Rex’s face as though searching for something unspoken, and for a moment, she thought he might be looking for the same in her.  

“Well,” Rex said finally, breaking the quiet with a grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I’ll let you get back to observing things that aren’t me.”  

(Y/n) rolled her eyes softly, though her smile lingered. “Thank you for your generosity.”

“Anytime.” Rex took a step back, but his gaze lingered on her, his expression thoughtful in a way she hadn’t expected. Then, with a slight nod, he turned and disappeared around the corner, his footsteps soft but steady.

***

(Y/n) let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her gaze drifted back to Jango’s painting, but the man in the portrait felt less like the focus now.  

Instead, it was Rex’s face—his grin, his eyes, the way he looked at her like he’d seen something worth remembering—that stayed with her.

And for reasons she couldn’t explain, she felt something shift within herself, subtle but certain—like the first flake of snow before a storm.  

***

### **The Ballroom of Invitations**

The sun dipped low in the Alderian sky, pouring golden light through the palace’s tall, arched windows. (Y/n) sat at a wide desk positioned in one of the palace’s grand halls, a makeshift workspace surrounded by towering shelves of tomes and thick velvet drapes. The room itself had been transformed under her hands: holoscreens hovered in mid-air, glowing softly as they displayed dossiers, planetary maps, and cultural breakdowns. A meticulous array of datapads sat in perfect order on the desk, alongside a steaming cup of tea now long forgotten.

(Y/n)’s brow furrowed slightly as she glanced over her list, her stylus tapping rhythmically against the desk. The names, their titles, their descriptions—it was all beginning to blur together, but she couldn’t afford to overlook even the smallest detail.  

The day had been relentless. Invitations had to be sent across Alderia and beyond: noble daughters from the sprawling estates in the Naldorian Reach, princesses from neighboring systems, and heirs from dignified lineages in far-off star clusters. She’d read through their profiles, cross-referenced family reputations, and considered how they might fit into Alderia’s unspoken rhythm. She had no intention of bringing anyone here who couldn’t understand this place—this *weight.*  

And yet, as she set down the stylus and pressed her fingers to her temples, exhaustion began to settle into her shoulders. The names were only words on a page, and despite her experience—despite her confidence in her ability—she felt a strange unease. *How do you find someone to fit a man like Cody,* she wondered, *when the walls around him are stronger than steel?*  

The room’s silence was punctuated only by the occasional hiss of a hovering holo shutting itself down as she dismissed the final dossier for the day. Satisfied, she leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes, the last light of day painting the room in fiery hues of orange and gold. She had done her part. Tomorrow, the nobles and dignitaries would begin arriving, and the task of introductions would begin.  

The sound of slow, deliberate footsteps cut through the quiet.

(Y/n) turned instinctively, her hand lowering from her face as a familiar voice echoed across the marble floor.  

“Well, would you look at this,” Rex drawled, his tone light, teasing, but edged with something more curious. “I thought this was the ballroom. Turns out it’s just the nerve center of a galactic operation.” 

(Y/n) sighed softly, though she couldn’t help the faint tug of a smile at the corner of her lips as Rex stepped further into the room. He wasn’t wearing the finely tailored uniform she’d seen on him yesterday. Instead, he wore something softer—a loose navy tunic rolled at the sleeves and dark trousers, an outfit that made him look far less like a prince and far more like a man at ease with himself. His golden hair was still a mess, as though he’d run his fingers through it carelessly, and his ever-present half-smile suggested that he was always on the brink of mischief.  

“Shouldn’t you be doing something more important?” (Y/n) asked, leaning back slightly as Rex perched himself on the edge of a nearby table, completely unbothered by the papers and datapads spread across its surface.

“I could ask you the same question,” he countered, tilting his head. His gaze lingered briefly on the organized chaos of her work before settling back on her face, sharp and curious. “But judging by all of *this,*” he gestured vaguely to the glowing holoscreens, “it seems you’ve already taken over half the palace.”  

(Y/n) rolled her eyes, though her smile lingered. “It’s called preparation. You should try it sometime.”

“Preparation,” Rex repeated, as though testing the word, before shaking his head with a grin. “I prefer improvisation. It’s more fun.”

“I’m sure your tutors loved that.”

“Oh, they adored me,” he replied, his tone deadpan but his grin widening when (Y/n) huffed a soft laugh. “I was their favorite.” 

“Of course you were,” (Y/n) murmured, shaking her head as she began to straighten a few of the datapads before her. She felt Rex watching her, though not in a way that unsettled her. It wasn’t the kind of assessing gaze she had encountered so many times before—calculating, cold, expecting something of her. No, Rex’s gaze was warm, curious, as though he was looking for something *real* in her.  

“You’ve been working all day, haven’t you?” he asked after a moment, his voice softer this time. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone push this hard since Cody spent a month reorganizing the kingdom’s census data.”

(Y/n) paused, her fingers brushing over the edge of a datapad as she glanced up at him. “It’s important work.”

“I’m sure it is,” Rex replied, tilting his head slightly as he studied her. “But it’s also going to be here tomorrow, and the day after that. You, on the other hand, look like you could use a break.”

(Y/n) arched a brow, though her voice remained measured. “And I suppose you’re here to offer one?”

“Exactly.” Rex pushed himself off the table with the easy grace of someone who had never felt out of place in his own skin. “Consider me your palace guide.”

“My *what?*”

“Palace guide,” he repeated, as though the term were perfectly obvious. “You know, someone to show you all the things you’re missing while you’re busy playing matchmaker.” He grinned as he stepped closer, his hands stuffed casually into his pockets. “You’ve seen the ballroom. You’ve seen the library. But have you seen the royal snowball arsenal?”  

(Y/n) blinked. “The what?”

“You heard me,” he said, his grin widening as though he enjoyed her confusion. “It’s top-secret, of course. State-of-the-art construction, unparalleled in firepower. Only the bravest souls dare wield its might.”

(Y/n) stared at him, torn between disbelief and amusement. “You’re joking.”

“I’m *serious*,” Rex replied, his voice low and dramatic, though his eyes sparkled with laughter. “It’s a critical part of the palace defenses during winter. You never know when an ambush might occur.”

Against her better judgment, (Y/n) felt a laugh bubble in her chest—a soft, genuine sound that startled her as much as it seemed to please Rex. “I highly doubt that’s on the palace schematics.”

“That’s because I built it myself,” he said proudly, before extending a hand toward her. “Come on. I’m not letting you spend another minute in here surrounded by datapads and dead nobles.”  

(Y/n) hesitated, her gaze flicking between him and her work. For a moment, she considered refusing. There were still messages to send, details to finalize, and she didn’t have the luxury of—  

“Don’t think too hard about it,” Rex said softly, drawing her attention back to him. “It’s just a walk. A little break from the world you’re trying to fix.”

His words settled in her chest, and suddenly, the decision didn’t seem quite so difficult. Slowly, she pushed herself up from her chair and smoothed her cloak, trying not to let him see the small smile pulling at her lips.  

“All right,” she said finally, meeting his gaze. “But if this so-called arsenal doesn’t exist—”

“You’ll never trust me again,” Rex finished with a grin, his voice warm and teasing as he gestured for her to follow. “I’m willing to take that risk.”

(Y/n) shook her head softly, though there was no hiding the faint amusement tugging at her mouth as she followed him toward the hallway.  

She didn’t know what it was about him—this prince who didn’t act like a prince—that unsettled her in ways she couldn’t explain. There was something light about him, as though he carried the weight of the world differently than anyone she had ever met. He made her forget, for just a moment, the impossible task waiting for her tomorrow.

(Y/n) walked alongside Rex through the winding palace halls, her footsteps quick as she tried to match his longer strides. There was something carefree about him, a quiet confidence that made her feel both at ease and on edge all at once. The grandness of the palace around them seemed less imposing with him beside her, the cold stone softened by his lighthearted presence.

“You didn’t tell me where we’re going,” (Y/n) said after a moment, her voice holding a note of suspicion.

Rex turned to glance at her, his mouth quirking upward into a playful smile. “I thought I did. The royal snowball arsenal.”

(Y/n) sighed, though it wasn’t an exasperated sound so much as it was one of reluctant amusement. “You do realize I don’t believe a word of this, right?”

“Trust me, it’s real,” Rex said, his tone mock-serious as they passed yet another corridor. “But before we get there, we have to pass through… enemy territory.”

“Enemy territory?”

Rex’s eyes gleamed with a spark of mischief as they turned a corner into a long, airy hallway. Sunlight streamed in through wide windows, catching the frost-rimmed edges of the glass. Tapestries swayed slightly as cold drafts snuck in through unseen cracks. Something in the air felt... alive.  

(Y/n) slowed slightly, her gaze shifting warily from side to side. “What do you mean by—”

The words hadn’t fully left her mouth before a snowball, perfectly round and startlingly fast, flew from nowhere and hit Rex square in the shoulder.  

“Ambush!” Rex shouted dramatically, staggering back with a hand pressed to his chest as though mortally wounded. “(Y/n)! They’ve got me!”

(Y/n) blinked, wide-eyed, before another snowball arced toward her. She barely managed to duck in time, her heart skipping a beat as it smacked into the wall with a dull thud.  

“Oh, no,” Rex groaned, still clutching his chest in exaggerated agony. “It’s worse than I thought. The twins are here.”

“The what—”

“Boys!” Rex suddenly shouted, his voice echoing through the hall. “This is treason! You’re attacking a guest of the palace!”

Laughter, wild and unrepentant, rang out from somewhere above. (Y/n) tilted her head back, searching for its source, and spotted two identical faces peering down from a narrow ledge built into the wall near the ceiling. Both grins were identical—a mix of childlike glee and calculated mischief that only the truly confident could pull off.

“*Treason*?” one of them called back, his voice rich with laughter. “Oh, come now, Rex. That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Only *you* would call it dramatic, Fives,” Rex muttered, brushing snow from his shoulder with a sigh.  

The other twin elbowed his brother lightly, smirking down at (Y/n). “You’re missing the important detail. Who’s this, Rex? She looks… suspiciously dignified for your company.”

(Y/n), who had been frozen in surprise, blinked at the pair of them. They were younger than Rex, perhaps early twenties, with sharp features softened by their shared mischief. Where Rex had golden-blond hair, theirs was a darker shade, more brown with hints of copper that caught the light. And though they were identical in face and voice, there was something subtly different about the way they carried themselves—Fives, the louder of the two, had a sharper edge to his grin, while the other, Echo, watched her with an assessing curiosity that didn’t quite match his brother’s antics.

“I’m (Y/n),” she said finally, brushing a stray snowflake off her coat. “The… matchmaker.”

The twins froze for half a second before Fives barked out a laugh. “The *what*?”

“You heard her,” Rex cut in dryly, crossing his arms as he looked up at them. “She’s here to find Cody the perfect bride.”

Fives groaned dramatically, flopping forward over the ledge so that his arms dangled down. “Poor Cody. He’ll have to practice smiling again.”

Echo shoved Fives’ shoulder, though he smirked faintly. “Ignore him. You’ll find he has a unique talent for talking nonsense.” 

“Unique *and* unmatched,” Fives added smugly, pushing himself upright. “Now, (Y/n)—did Rex tell you about the snowball arsenal? Because you’re standing in it.”

(Y/n) turned sharply to Rex, raising an eyebrow. “This is the arsenal?”

Rex shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Technically, it’s their arsenal. I just like to call it mine.”

Before (Y/n) could respond, Fives lobbed another snowball down, this time aiming for Rex’s head. Rex sidestepped smoothly, the snowball smacking harmlessly into the floor with a wet splat.  

“*Missed.*” Rex smirked, shaking his head as though deeply disappointed.  

“Coward,” Fives retorted. “You’ll have to come up here and fight us properly!”

Echo leaned over the edge, his sharp gaze landing on (Y/n) again. “Unless you’d like to join our side, Miss Matchmaker. Rex tends to lose these battles.”  

(Y/n) looked from one twin to the other, still processing the absurdity of the situation. Here she was, standing in a centuries-old palace, being ambushed by two grown men who looked as though they’d never left their boyhood antics behind. Yet instead of annoyance, she felt the laughter bubbling inside her again—unexpected, uncontrollable.

“This…” she said slowly, unable to stop the smile pulling at her lips, “might be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

Fives grinned triumphantly. “And the most fun, I bet.”

Rex sighed, though (Y/n) saw the way his own mouth twitched with the effort to suppress a smile. “Congratulations,” he called up to them, his voice dry. “You’ve scared away the matchmaker. Now she’ll run back to the library and tell Cody he’s doomed.”

“Oh, we *like* her,” Fives said, nudging Echo. “She’ll fit in perfectly.”

Echo nodded once, his expression calm but his eyes glinting with mischief. “Be careful, Miss (Y/n). Rex has a habit of pulling people into trouble.”

(Y/n) glanced at Rex, who was now watching her with his arms still crossed, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Is that so?”

“Don’t listen to them,” Rex said smoothly. “They’re just jealous because I’m taller.”

Fives’ outraged “*What?!*” was followed immediately by Echo’s bark of laughter, but (Y/n) didn’t hear it. Her gaze was still on Rex, who was watching her in that same way he had in the hallway the day before—curious, almost searching. It made her stomach flip, though she wasn’t sure why.

“Come on,” Rex said after a beat, offering her his arm as though nothing had happened. “Let’s get out of the line of fire before they bring in reinforcements.”

(Y/n) hesitated for only a second before slipping her hand through his arm. The action felt natural, though it startled her how *easy* it was to be around him.  

“They’re not what I expected,” she murmured as they walked away, the twins’ laughter echoing behind them.

Rex chuckled softly. “They never are.”

(Y/n) glanced up at him, her smile softening. “And what about you, Rex? Are you what people expect?”

Rex looked down at her, his grin faltering for just a moment before returning—softer this time, but not insincere. “Depends on who’s asking.”

(Y/n) said nothing to that, though her hand lingered on his arm a little longer than it needed to.

And neither of them noticed the twins watching from above, their eyes sharp and knowing as they disappeared back into their hiding place.

****

The days fell into an intricate rhythm, one that (Y/n) hadn’t anticipated but found herself adapting to with startling ease. The weight of her work—the lists, the arrangements, the schedules—had grown heavier as the reality of what lay ahead came into sharper focus. In four weeks, the palace would host the grand Christmas ball. The event wasn’t just a glittering celebration; it was a turning point, a moment where the crown prince of Alderia would dance with his possible future bride.

(Y/n) had reviewed the guest list over and over again—princesses, noblewomen, heirs from far-reaching systems. Their faces were etched into her memory, their histories neatly filed away in her mind. Soon, she would meet them in person, would usher them into carefully curated sessions designed to test compatibility, poise, and connection. It was the kind of meticulous work she was accustomed to, the kind that required focus, control, and precision.

But her carefully structured days were being sabotaged. And it was entirely Rex’s fault.

***

(Y/n) leaned over her desk, a furrow creasing her brow as she moved small holocards into neat rows. Each card bore the name of a potential candidate, along with her respective lineage, planetary origin, and other relevant details. The sunlight streaming through the wide window nearby highlighted her deliberate movements—the press of her fingertip against the hovering cards, the slow nod as she considered placements.

“Focused, aren’t we?”

(Y/n) jumped, the voice pulling her sharply out of her thoughts. She turned to find Rex leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed, his grin unabashed. He was dressed in another simple tunic, this one the color of deep wine, his sleeves pushed up as if to deliberately resist the palace’s insistence on formality. His blond hair was as unruly as ever, as though he’d ridden through a windstorm and hadn’t bothered to fix it.  

“Rex,” (Y/n) sighed, straightening slowly as she tried to school her expression into one of neutrality. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to watch you mumble to yourself about someone named Lady Arla and decide that you need rescuing.” He pushed off the doorway, his boots making a soft sound against the marble floor as he approached.

“I don’t need rescuing.” (Y/n) turned back to her holocards, pretending to be entirely unfazed. “I’m working. You should try it sometime.”

He gave a mock gasp of offense, pressing a hand to his chest as though wounded. “I *do* work. I’m a vital member of this palace.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes, though a smile threatened to tug at her lips. “Vital for causing chaos, perhaps.”

“Ah, you *do* see my value,” Rex said, grinning as he stepped closer to her desk and leaned forward, peering at the hovering cards with mock interest. “Who’s this? Lady Talia of Serenno?” He prodded at one of the holos, tilting his head. “She looks very… composed.”

“Rex,” (Y/n) warned, though her voice lacked any real bite. She reached to swipe his hand away, but he was faster, sliding the card to the side like a mischievous child.  

“Do you know what you need?” Rex asked, straightening up and turning to face her. His blue-gray eyes gleamed with a spark that made her wary. “A break.”

“I don’t have time for a break,” (Y/n) replied firmly, her hand hovering mid-air as she tried to re-organize the cards. “The Christmas ball is in four weeks, and everything must be perfect.”

“Perfect can wait an afternoon,” he shot back easily, moving to stand between her and her work. “And besides, you’ll work better if you clear your head. I’m taking you to the royal sledding races.”

(Y/n) blinked at him, confused. “The what?”

“Sledding races,” Rex repeated, grinning like a man who had already won. “It’s tradition. Every year around Christmas, we—meaning me, the twins, Jesse, and occasionally Cody—risk life and limb to see who can hurtle themselves down a hill of packed snow the fastest.”

“That doesn’t sound like a royal tradition,” (Y/n) said dryly, folding her arms.

“It’s *our* tradition,” Rex countered, his grin softening slightly. “It started when we were boys, back when Grandfather let us run wild in the snow. Now, it’s a matter of pride.”

“I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”

“You’re coming,” Rex said simply. “As my sledding partner.”

(Y/n) gave him a look. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Rex leaned closer, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret. “If you say yes, I promise to leave your work alone for the rest of the day.”

(Y/n) hesitated, narrowing her eyes at him suspiciously. “The rest of the *day*?”

Rex held up his hands, mock-serious. “Scout’s honor.”

(Y/n) sighed, her resolve softening under the sheer weight of his persistence. “Fine. But if I fall off whatever contraption you’re calling a sled, I’ll blame you.”

“Deal,” Rex said cheerfully, already turning toward the door. “Come on, matchmaker. We’ve got a hill to conquer.”

***

The cold hit her first. Crisp and sharp, it nipped at (Y/n)’s cheeks and nose as Rex led her outside onto the sprawling palace grounds. Snow blanketed everything—thick, pristine, and sparkling under the pale light of the Alderian sun. The gardens, so carefully tended, had transformed into a winter wonderland, their fountains frozen into sculptures of ice.

In the distance, (Y/n) spotted a wide hill sloping down toward the forest edge. Its surface had been packed down and smoothed by use, with a handful of sleds—sleek wooden contraptions reinforced with metal runners—lined up at its crest.

Rex led her up the hill, his boots crunching rhythmically through the snow. “All right,” he said once they reached the top, turning to gesture grandly at the sleds. “Behold the crown jewel of Alderian winter sports.”

(Y/n) glanced down the slope and felt her stomach drop. “That looks… steep.”

“Steep makes it fun.” Rex grinned, grabbing one of the sleds and dragging it closer. “Trust me, you’ll love it.”

“Trust you?” (Y/n) asked skeptically, though there was no real resistance in her voice. “That’s asking a lot.”

Rex’s expression softened, though his grin didn’t fade entirely. “You’ll see.”

Before (Y/n) could respond, a shout echoed up from the base of the hill. She turned to see **Fives and Echo** standing in the snow, already halfway down the slope, waving up at them with wild enthusiasm.  

“You’re late, Rex!” Fives called, his voice carrying easily across the open air. “We’ve already claimed victory!”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Rex called back, grinning as he crouched to position the sled. He looked up at (Y/n), extending a hand toward her. “Come on. I’ll steer.”

(Y/n) hesitated, the wind tugging gently at her cloak as she stared at him. There was something in his eyes—something warm, inviting, and completely unguarded—that made it impossible to say no. With a small sigh, she knelt beside him and carefully settled onto the sled, clutching the edge with both hands.

Rex leaned closer, his voice low in her ear. “Hold on tight.”

She barely had time to process the words before the sled lurched forward, the runners gliding smoothly against the packed snow. The wind roared past her ears as they gained speed, the world blurring into a rush of white and blue. (Y/n)’s heart leapt into her throat, and for a split second, she forgot how to breathe.

Then—she laughed.

It bubbled out of her, wild and breathless, a sound that surprised even her as it mingled with Rex’s whoop of triumph. Snow sprayed up around them as the sled tore down the hill, the cold biting at her skin, but it didn’t matter. In that moment, she felt *alive*—as though all the weight she carried had been lifted and scattered to the wind.

At the bottom of the hill, Fives and Echo were waiting, already in the midst of building an impromptu snow barricade. (Y/n) stumbled off the sled, breathless, her cheeks flushed from laughter and cold. Rex stood beside her, grinning, his blond hair dusted with snow.

“You’re smiling,” he said, his voice softer now, the teasing edge gone.

(Y/n) blinked up at him, surprised. “I suppose I am.”

High above them, standing at one of the palace windows, **Cody** watched the scene unfold. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, but his expression was no longer guarded. A faint smile played at the edges of his mouth, his gaze lingering on Rex and (Y/n) as they laughed in the snow. He said nothing, but there was an understanding in his eyes—a quiet recognition of something beginning to bloom.  

He turned away from the window and walked back into the shadows of the palace, his thoughts unspoken, his smile lingering.

Outside, (Y/n) brushed snow from her coat, still breathless as Rex grinned down at her.  

“Ready for another run?” he asked.

(Y/n) shook her head, though her smile remained. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Rex replied, his gaze softening, “here you are.”

Neither of them noticed the way the sun, low on the horizon, painted the snow gold—its light casting long shadows as the day slowly slipped toward evening.

***

The palace was quieter now, its wide corridors muffled by the weight of the morning’s efforts. (Y/n) sat at the far end of the grand dining hall, a quiet corner where no one had yet noticed her absence. The rest of the room still hummed with quiet conversation, the noblewomen and visiting princesses seated in neat rows of polished chairs, sipping delicately at their drinks and speaking in hushed tones that bordered on polite gossip.

Twenty introductions. Twenty carefully planned moments meant to foster connection, ease, and grace.

(Y/n) let out a slow, exhausted breath, her fingertips tracing absent patterns on the linen tablecloth before her. It didn’t go as planned.

It wasn’t a complete disaster, but there were cracks—cracks she hadn’t anticipated. Cody had been polite, almost flawlessly so, but polite wasn’t enough. Politeness lacked warmth. It lacked connection. He had stood stiffly in place like a soldier on parade, greeting each woman with the faintest smile, his words measured and impersonal. He hadn’t engaged, not really, and though none of the women had dared say so aloud, (Y/n) could feel it in their subtle glances and hesitant smiles.

It had been like watching dancers out of step with the music—each one lovely and perfect on their own, but unable to move as one.

And the blame, (Y/n) decided, sat squarely on her shoulders.

You’re supposed to be the best, her mind whispered accusingly. This is what you do. You don’t fail.

She sighed again, rolling her shoulders as though trying to shake off the weight pressing against them. Her tea had gone cold hours ago, and her appetite was nowhere to be found. She stared blankly out the wide windows to her left, where sunlight spilled in golden shafts across the far mountains.

“Are you hiding, or do you just like brooding in corners?”

(Y/n)’s head snapped up, startled by the sudden voice cutting through her thoughts. Rex stood at the edge of the table, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, that ever-present spark of mischief in his eyes. He tilted his head as he regarded her, his lips quirking into the faintest of smiles.

“I’m not hiding,” (Y/n) said defensively, sitting up straighter and smoothing her hands over her skirt. “And I certainly don’t brood.”

“Ah.” Rex nodded thoughtfully as though he didn’t believe a word of it. “That explains the tragic sighing and staring dramatically into the middle distance. Very dignified.”

“Rex…” (Y/n) began, but he cut her off by sliding into the chair across from her without waiting for an invitation.

“Let me guess,” he said, leaning back with an almost lazy confidence. “The meetings didn’t go well.”

(Y/n) narrowed her eyes at him, though there was no real heat behind it. “You weren’t even there.”

“I didn’t have to be.” Rex shrugged, his gaze lingering on her face, softer now, more observant. “You’re sitting here with the same look Cody wears after reading a hundred tax reports. That’s a bad sign.”

(Y/n) let out a quiet, reluctant laugh—short and breathless—but it was enough to ease some of the tightness in her chest. “It wasn’t a disaster,” she admitted, folding her arms on the table, “but it didn’t go the way I’d hoped.”

Rex’s smile dimmed slightly as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the table. “Let me guess,” he said, his voice gentler now, though the teasing lilt hadn’t fully left. “Cody was… Cody.”

(Y/n) pressed her lips into a thin line and nodded. “Polite but distant. He treated the entire process like a military inspection.”

“Sounds about right.” Rex sighed, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Don’t take it personally. Cody’s not great at being himself in rooms full of strangers.”

(Y/n) looked at him curiously. “And what is he like when he is himself?”

Rex paused, his expression thoughtful as though he hadn’t quite expected the question. “Quiet,” he said after a moment. “Steady. He’s the man you want beside you in a storm because he’ll never waver. But he keeps his heart close to the chest. Too close, sometimes.”

(Y/n) tilted her head, her fingers toying with the edge of the tablecloth. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she murmured softly, almost to herself. “That he won’t let anyone in.”

Rex studied her for a long moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as though seeing her more clearly than she’d like. “You care,” he said finally, the words quiet but certain.

(Y/n) blinked, caught off guard. “Of course I care. It’s my job.”

“No,” Rex said softly, shaking his head. “It’s more than that.”

(Y/n) opened her mouth to protest, but Rex was already standing, his chair scraping softly against the floor. “Come on.”

She frowned up at him. “Come on where?”

“You need cheering up,” Rex replied matter-of-factly, as though that explained everything. “And I’ve got just the thing.”

“Rex, I have work—”

“Your work will still be here when you get back.” He held out a hand to her, his grin returning, though there was something warm and steady about it now. “Trust me.”

(Y/n) stared at his outstretched hand for a long moment, torn between the pull of her responsibilities and the spark of curiosity he always managed to ignite in her. Finally, with a quiet sigh, she placed her hand in his and let him pull her to her feet.

“You’re relentless,” she muttered as he led her out of the dining hall.

“You’ll thank me later,” Rex replied confidently.

***

Rex led her outside the palace and down a narrow, snow-dusted stone path that wound between tall hedges and towering fir trees. The air was sharp and clear, carrying the faint, distant sound of bells—somewhere, far off, the palace staff were likely preparing for the holidays.

(Y/n) let herself be guided, her curiosity mounting with every step. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” Rex said, glancing back at her with that mischievous glint in his eye that she was beginning to recognize all too well.

Finally, they emerged into an open space—a secluded garden tucked into a hollow beside the palace walls. (Y/n) stopped in her tracks, her breath catching softly in her chest.

The garden was alive with light. The snow-covered hedges had been strung with soft golden lanterns that glowed like captured stars, and beneath them, scattered throughout the frost-touched earth, grew winter roses. Their petals were pale white tinged with the faintest blush of pink, each bloom seeming almost unreal against the snow.

(Y/n) stepped forward slowly, the sound of her boots muffled by the thick powder. She knelt beside one of the flowers, brushing her fingers delicately against its petals. It was soft—unexpectedly so—and still warm with life despite the frost surrounding it.

“You don’t often see these,” Rex said quietly, standing just behind her. “They only bloom when the nights are cold and the moons hang low. They say the winter rose can survive where nothing else can.”

(Y/n) glanced back at him, her voice soft. “It’s beautiful.”

Rex watched her closely, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “I thought you’d like it.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full—filled with something unspoken, something that hummed softly beneath the surface like the slow bloom of a winter rose.

“You brought me here to see this?” (Y/n) finally asked, turning fully to face him.

Rex shrugged, though his grin was gentler now, his gaze steady. “You’ve spent all day carrying the weight of the palace on your shoulders. I figured you deserved something beautiful.”

(Y/n) stared at him, her heart skipping in a way that made her uneasy. She had known men who could speak in charm alone, but Rex… he said things as though he meant them, as though his words carried weight he didn’t expect her to see.

“Thank you,” she said softly, the words feeling small but sincere.

Rex held her gaze for another long moment before grinning again, the familiar glint returning to his eyes. “Come on. There’s a fire pit at the far end of the garden. I’ll even let you warm your hands while I find some spiced cider.”

(Y/n) shook her head with a quiet laugh, following him as he turned. But as they walked deeper into the glow of the lanterns, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between them—softly, quietly, like snow falling in the night.

And for once, she didn’t mind it at all.

***

From a window high in one of the palace towers, Cody stood in silence, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. The firelight from within the room barely reached him, leaving him half in shadow, but he didn’t need light to see what unfolded below.

The garden glowed softly, a golden pocket of warmth against the snow-covered grounds, and in its center, he spotted them. Rex and (Y/n).

Cody’s gaze lingered on them—on the way Rex turned back slightly to check that (Y/n) was following, on the faint laugh that drifted up, too soft to fully reach him but audible enough to let him imagine its sound. Rex had that look about him again—the kind of light in his eyes Cody hadn’t seen in years, not since they were children racing sleds down the hills without a care in the world.

(Y/n) walked beside him, her posture softer than Cody had ever seen it. Her usual composure, her air of determination and restraint, had given way to something quieter—something more… real.

Cody’s lips curved into the faintest smile, though it was tinged with something deeper, something thoughtful. His brother had always had a way of finding light in unexpected places, of dragging it with him like a spark through darkness.

And (Y/n)? Well, she had been so consumed by her careful plans—her lists and responsibilities—that Cody doubted she’d allowed herself to breathe in years.

As he watched them disappear deeper into the garden, the lantern light dappling across their figures like scattered starlight, Cody shook his head faintly to himself.

“Rex…” he murmured under his breath, though there was no reprimand in the word. Only quiet acknowledgment.

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly as he turned from the window, the shadows swallowing him again as he walked back toward the heart of the palace.

Perhaps, he thought, the best things in life weren’t meant to be planned.

For all the planning, for all the meticulous work (Y/n) had done, perhaps the one thing she hadn’t planned for was the thing that mattered most.

Unexpected love.

Cody’s smile lingered as he turned away from the window, leaving the scene below to play out as it would.

***

In the solitude of the west tower, beyond the hustle of the palace’s daily movements, **King Jaster** stood by a wide, arched window, the heavy velvet drapes drawn back to allow the fading light of dusk to stream in. The winter air carried a hush outside, as though the world itself had paused to listen.

He said nothing at first, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked down at the glowing garden below. The lanterns illuminated the space with a soft, golden warmth, their light dancing across the snow and reflecting off the pale petals of the winter roses. In the center of the glow, two figures moved slowly—Rex, with his easy, unhurried strides, and (Y/n), following with a quiet grace.  

There was laughter down there. Jaster couldn’t hear it, but he could see it—Rex turning to speak, (Y/n) tilting her head back just slightly, her lips forming a smile that softened her entire demeanor. The boy had that gleam again, the light he’d carried as a child when his feet ran faster than he could keep up with, when his laughter filled the palace halls and made it feel alive.  

“Hmm,” came the low murmur of a familiar voice from behind him. “Young Rex… cheerful, he is. Bright, the boy shines.”  

Jaster didn’t turn as Yoda stepped up beside him, his short stature meaning his head just barely reached the bottom of the windowsill. The old advisor, gnarled and wise, had been at Jaster’s side for as long as he could remember. Through wars and peace, through grief and recovery, Yoda had been an anchor—his quiet words carrying more weight than all the councils in the galaxy combined.  

“He’s happy,” Jaster said softly, his deep voice quieter than usual, as though afraid to disturb the moment below. “I haven’t seen him like this in years.”

“Long has it been,” Yoda replied, his tone calm but edged with knowing. “The burdens they carry, heavier than they should be. All of them. Cody, Rex… the twins… Jesse.”  

Jaster inclined his head faintly, his gaze not wavering from the scene below. “Too heavy.”  

Yoda’s ears flicked slightly as he looked up at the king, his ancient green face unreadable but his eyes sharp and knowing. “Hm. Yet, warmth finds them. The unexpected blooms when left untended.” He tilted his head toward the window, gesturing faintly with one clawed hand. “Like the winter rose.”

Jaster turned slightly at that, his weathered brow furrowing. “What are you saying?”

“Observe them, did you not?” Yoda murmured, his tone faintly teasing as his wise eyes twinkled in the dim light. “A flame burns there, quiet but certain. Like moonlight on snow.”

Jaster looked back at the garden, his sharp blue gaze lingering on his grandson and the woman who walked beside him. He watched the way Rex looked at her—an unguarded glance, fleeting but honest. The way (Y/n)’s shoulders had relaxed, as though for the first time, the weight of her purpose had been temporarily lifted.  

“You think…” Jaster began, trailing off before the words could leave him fully.  

“Think? Hmm.” Yoda chuckled softly, a sound like wind rustling through dry leaves. “Know, I do not. But hope? Ah, yes.” He gave a small nod, his voice dropping to a thoughtful murmur. “Hope can grow where nothing else will.”

Jaster said nothing for a long moment, his weathered face thoughtful as the firelight from the lanterns below danced faintly in his eyes. He had known love—had held it in his hands, in his family, and had watched it be torn away too soon. For years now, the palace had carried shadows, held together by duty and resolve. And yet…  

As Rex and (Y/n) disappeared further into the garden, their figures framed by golden light and snow-dusted roses, Jaster felt something shift—a tiny crack in the stone walls built around them all.

“Perhaps,” Jaster said finally, his voice low, as though admitting it to himself more than to Yoda, “the galaxy hasn’t taken everything from us yet.”  

“Hm.” Yoda tilted his head knowingly. “Faith, my friend. When least expected, life always finds a way.”

Jaster looked down at the old Jedi, his lips quirking faintly—just the smallest hint of a smile. “You always say that.”

“And right, I always am.” Yoda’s shoulders lifted in what might have been a shrug, his expression as wry as ever.  

Jaster let out a low, thoughtful hum, his gaze drifting back to the window. The lanterns in the garden glowed against the darkening sky, a pocket of warmth and light in the cold. And below, unseen by the rest of the world, something fragile and precious had begun to grow.

For the first time in years, Jaster allowed himself to hope.  

And beside him, Yoda smiled faintly, the ancient weight of his wisdom carried lightly, as though he, too, had been waiting for this moment.  

“Watch closely, we will,” Yoda murmured softly, his voice a quiet promise. “For blooms like this… rare they are.”

***

(Y/n) stood at the head of the grand hall, its wide expanse already buzzing with quiet anticipation. Sunlight poured through the tall, latticed windows, illuminating the polished marble floors in soft golden beams. She’d spent the better part of her morning organizing yet another round of introductions for Cody and the invited ladies, but today, she was determined to shift the dynamic.

(Y/n) glanced down at her clipboard—a tightly organized grid of names, pairings, and locations. She had carefully plotted this: dividing the suitors among Cody’s cousins and brothers. Her logic was sound—if Cody didn’t feel the full weight of the proceedings on his shoulders, if he weren’t the sole focus of every woman’s attention, perhaps he would loosen up, even if just a little.

And she had managed to secure volunteers—or perhaps unwitting participants—from the extended royal family: Wolffe, Kix, Waxer, Boil, Hunter, and, of course, Rex and the twins.

(Y/n) glanced at the gathered men now, standing in a loose, uneven cluster. Most of them looked like they were bracing for battle.

“Let me get this straight,” Wolffe said, arms crossed tightly over his chest as his piercing gaze scanned the clipboard (Y/n) held. The eldest of the cousins, his air of authority was impossible to miss, though there was something sardonic about him, as if he found life amusing in the most infuriating ways. “You want us to… what? Escort the suitors around and make polite conversation?”

“Yes,” (Y/n) said, keeping her tone professional and unwavering, though Wolffe’s skeptical stare made her throat tighten slightly. “The idea is to lighten the atmosphere, give Cody some breathing room, and allow the ladies to interact with all of you as well.”

“Babysitting duty,” Hunter muttered with an arched brow. His dark hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, and his sharp, observant eyes missed nothing. There was a kind of quiet patience about him, though (Y/n) had a feeling he was assessing the entire situation like a battlefield.

“It’s not babysitting,” (Y/n) replied, though she could already hear the skepticism in their silence. “Think of it as… social diplomacy.”

Kix, the palace medic and the most even-tempered of the group, raised a hand slightly, as though waiting his turn. “And what exactly are we supposed to do with them?” he asked, his voice calm but edged with resignation.

(Y/n) tilted her head slightly, as though to reassure him. “Talk to them. Ask about their home systems. Be�� friendly.”

“Friendly,” Waxer repeated, exchanging a grin with Boil beside him. The two cousins—more laid-back than their older counterparts—were already nudging each other like schoolboys in the back of the classroom. “How friendly are we talking here?”

“Polite friendly,” (Y/n) clarified quickly, narrowing her eyes at the pair. “Not ‘charming mischief’ friendly.”

“Aw, where’s the fun in that?” Boil muttered, though the grin on his face suggested he had no intention of causing trouble. Probably.

Rex, standing a little to the side, looked far too pleased with the entire situation. “I think it’s a brilliant plan,” he said with a grin, his hands tucked lazily into his pockets. “Let’s see if Cody actually cracks a smile this time.”

“It’s not for entertainment, Rex,” (Y/n) shot back, though the faint smirk he offered in return made it impossible to stay frustrated with him.

“Of course not,” Rex said smoothly. “But I’m still looking forward to seeing what happens.”

***

(Y/n) exhaled, turning to face Cody, who stood nearby with his usual air of composed reluctance. He had been quiet the entire time, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor, as though trying to mentally escape the moment.

“Your Highness,” (Y/n) said gently, addressing him directly. “I believe this will help. You don’t have to shoulder everything alone.”

Cody looked at her for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then, with a faint nod that could almost pass as agreement, he muttered, “We’ll see.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

***

The first half of the morning went surprisingly well. (Y/n) allowed herself a sliver of pride as she observed the scene unfolding in the grand hall. Small clusters of suitors and royal men dotted the room, conversations flowing, and the atmosphere felt… lighter.

Wolffe, to her surprise, stood with an elegant brunette in deep violet, listening attentively as she explained her family’s long-held traditions. Kix had drawn a small circle of women around him, undoubtedly sharing medical stories that (Y/n) hoped weren’t too graphic. Hunter, quiet as ever, was paired with a sharp-witted lady from Alderaan, whose animated conversation seemed to amuse him in spite of himself.

Even Cody, while still stiff, looked far less burdened with Rex standing beside him—no doubt helping to steer the conversation with easy charm.

(Y/n) was just beginning to relax when she noticed Fives and Echo, far too still and far too quiet, near one of the grand hall’s archways. It sent a warning tingle up her spine.

“What are they…” she murmured under her breath, narrowing her eyes as she tried to make sense of their suspiciously innocent expressions.

Fives’ shoulder twitched slightly, as though suppressing a laugh. Echo’s gaze flicked toward the ceiling for a fraction of a second before returning to the small group of women they were entertaining.

The ceiling.

(Y/n) froze, her gaze snapping upward.

She saw it just in time. A large net, strung with bundles of artificial snow—feathers and fine powder—dangled from the chandelier above the center of the room.

“No,” she whispered, her heart sinking.

It was too late. Fives grinned suddenly—bright and unrepentant—as he yanked something from his pocket. Echo turned just in time to give (Y/n) an apologetic shrug.

The net released.

Snow—soft, powdery, and absurdly voluminous—exploded from the ceiling, cascading down like a sudden blizzard. Gasps and shrieks of laughter erupted across the hall as women and royals alike were buried under the unexpected deluge.

(Y/n)’s jaw dropped as Rex burst into a peal of laughter, nearly doubling over as he watched the chaos unfold. Wolffe let out a low, irritated groan as snow settled in his dark hair and dusted the shoulders of his coat.

“Fives!” (Y/n) shouted, her voice rising above the noise as she marched toward the twins, who were already trying to escape toward the hallway. “Echo! What did I say about behaving?”

“Technically,” Fives called back as he darted past Rex, who was still laughing, “we’re enhancing the atmosphere!”

“Yeah!” Echo chimed in, grabbing a handful of snow and tossing it at Waxer, who had joined in the chaos. “It’s festive!”

Rex, tears of laughter in his eyes, straightened enough to throw a look at (Y/n), who now stood with her hands on her hips, her cheeks flushed. “I told you—friendly mischief.”

“You’re all impossible!” (Y/n) snapped, though she couldn’t stop the reluctant smile tugging at her lips.

****

From where he stood near the edge of the hall, Cody brushed snow off his coat, his expression unreadable. A faint dusting of powder clung to his hair, but he didn’t seem to notice it.

Instead, his gaze drifted toward (Y/n), who stood in the center of the chaos. Her hands were still on her hips, her expression half-scolding, half-amused as she watched Rex and the twins with exasperated affection.

Cody’s lips twitched—the barest flicker of a smile. It was brief and small, but it softened the lines of his face, made his shoulders relax.

For all the weight on her shoulders, for all her determination to keep everything perfect, (Y/n) made the palace feel alive again.

Perhaps, he thought as he turned quietly toward the hall’s exit, that wasn’t such a bad thing.

****

In the corner of the hall, Rex caught (Y/n)’s eye, a mischievous grin still lingering as he dusted snow off his sleeves. “You’ve got to admit,” he called over the noise, “it is festive.”

(Y/n) groaned, but even as she shook her head, she couldn’t stop the laughter that escaped her lips.

***

The day broke gently over Alderia, sunlight glinting off the frost-touched landscape like a painter’s brush had scattered silver across the world. The palace, still waking in quiet elegance, seemed to stretch its limbs as a fresh wave of crisp air flowed in from the mountains.

(Y/n) had taken her breakfast in the dining room again, seated at the far end of the enormous table. A modest spread had been laid before her, and though the tea was fragrant and the pastries warm, she found herself picking at the edges of her meal, her mind lingering stubbornly on the day’s agenda.

The introductions from the previous day replayed themselves in an endless loop—Cody’s polite stiffness, the carefully orchestrated smiles of the suitors, the pauses that stretched too long, heavy with unsaid words. You planned for everything, (Y/n) thought bitterly. And yet here we are.

She was about to lift her cup for a sip when a chair scraped loudly against the floor. (Y/n) flinched, startled, and looked up to see Rex sliding into the seat across from her with the kind of careless ease that only he could pull off. He looked far too energetic for someone who had no reason to be awake so early.

“Good morning,” he said, with a grin that was altogether too bright for the hour.

(Y/n) sighed, placing her cup back down. “Rex. Do you ever not appear out of nowhere?”

“I like to think of it as being punctual,” Rex replied, reaching for a fresh roll from the basket at the center of the table. He tore it in half with practiced ease, popping a piece into his mouth before glancing at her pointedly. “Though you look like you’ve been sitting here arguing with your thoughts for the better part of an hour.”

“I’m not arguing,” (Y/n) replied, though the tightness in her tone betrayed her frustration.

“Oh?” Rex tilted his head, chewing thoughtfully. “Planning, then. You do a lot of that.”

“It’s my job.” She picked at the edges of her napkin, willing herself to focus on anything other than his direct gaze. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of—”

“Of what?” he interrupted gently, though there was no teasing in his voice this time. “Forgetting that life isn’t made of plans?”

(Y/n) opened her mouth to argue but found no words. The observation hit too close to home, as Rex’s usually did. He watched her for a moment longer before leaning back in his chair, draping an arm casually across the backrest.

“All right, enough of this,” he said decisively. “You’re coming with me.”

(Y/n) frowned, blinking. “What?”

“Out. A ride.”

She stared at him as though he’d grown a second head. “A ride? On horses?”

Rex grinned, already victorious. “What else? Fresh air, open land, the whole countryside to ourselves.”

“Rex, I don’t have time for—”

He raised a hand, cutting her off, though his tone remained maddeningly calm. “(Y/n), if I let you sit here another hour, you’re going to wear a hole in that table with how hard you’re frowning. Trust me—there’s more to this planet than ballroom introductions and checklists. Let me show you.”

There it was again—that impossible pull he always managed to have on her. She stared at him for a long moment, debating, trying to hold on to her resolve. But something in the way he looked at her—earnest and insistent but never forceful—made the words fall flat on her tongue.

With a heavy sigh, she relented. “Fine. One hour.”

“One hour,” he agreed, though the grin he gave her said he already considered it a full victory. “Stables in twenty minutes. Don’t keep me waiting.”

***

The air outside was crisp, the kind of winter morning where every breath felt clean and sharp against the lungs. Snow still dusted the palace grounds, glistening under the rising sun, though it had begun to melt in places where the trees offered a break from the frost.

(Y/n) stood by the royal stables, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she watched the horses being saddled. She hadn’t ridden in years—not since she was a child on Coruscant, where the rare few riding paths were carefully controlled and more for show than anything else.

Rex, on the other hand, looked completely at ease. He stood beside a tall, dapple-gray stallion, stroking its neck with practiced hands. His sleeves were pushed up again, the cold seemingly not bothering him in the slightest, and a faint smile played on his lips as he whispered to the horse in low, soothing tones.

“You look far too comfortable,” (Y/n) said, her voice cutting through the quiet.

Rex looked up, flashing her an easy smile. “This is my element.”

“And here I thought mischief was your element.”

“Ah, that’s just a hobby.” Rex winked before turning to gesture toward the horse being brought to her—a sleek chestnut mare with a kind, intelligent face. “This is Aurora. She’s gentle but spirited. You’ll get along just fine.”

(Y/n) eyed the horse warily. “I’m not so sure.”

Rex stepped closer, his tone softening. “She won’t let you fall. And neither will I.”

There was something in the way he said it—earnest, quiet—that made (Y/n)’s throat tighten slightly. She allowed herself a breath before nodding and letting one of the stable hands help her into the saddle.

***

The wind whistled softly as (Y/n) pulled her borrowed cloak closer, the thick fabric shielding her from the lingering winter chill. The horses moved in steady rhythm beneath them, their hooves crunching softly through the light blanket of snow that covered the rolling meadows beyond the palace. Rex rode just a pace ahead of her, completely at ease, his posture loose and natural as though he belonged to this land.

(Y/n), though less confident, managed to keep Aurora, the gentle chestnut mare, moving smoothly alongside him. She focused on the sound of the horses, on the wide openness of the space stretching out before her—fields and valleys edged with frost, dotted by the dark outlines of evergreens.

It had been years since she’d felt anything like this—open air, the rush of motion, the world wide enough that it felt like it could swallow every weight she carried.

“I told you this would be better than staring at your tea,” Rex called over his shoulder, the wind carrying his voice to her like a song on the breeze.

(Y/n) smiled faintly, though she couldn’t bring herself to admit he was right—yet. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m still deciding.”

Rex laughed softly, the sound warm in the cold air. “You’ll come around.” He slowed his horse slightly so that they rode side by side. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the world quiet except for the rhythm of hooves and the faint creak of leather saddles.

(Y/n) exhaled slowly, her breath visible in the cold air. “You seem… happy out here,” she observed quietly.

Rex looked ahead, his smile softening. “I am.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze drifting toward the snow-dusted hills in the distance. “Because out here, I don’t have to be anything but myself,” he said finally. “There’s no one expecting me to play a role or fill a gap. I’m just… Rex.”

(Y/n) watched him, her fingers curling tighter around the reins. “And in the palace?”

“In the palace,” he said with a faint sigh, “I’m the spare. The second. The one who fills the space around the crown.” He turned to her then, his storm-colored eyes holding hers. “I don’t mind it, not really. Cody was born for it. But sometimes… it feels like there’s nothing else for me to be.”

The quiet that followed felt heavier, as though the world itself had stopped to listen. (Y/n) hesitated before speaking, her voice soft.

“I understand that,” she murmured.

Rex raised a brow. “You do?”

(Y/n) looked forward, letting her gaze drift to the open expanse of white and gold. “I’ve spent so much time helping others find love—building connections, crafting perfect matches—that I stopped looking for myself. It’s as though I’m… watching from the outside. Always watching.”

There was no pity in Rex’s gaze, only understanding. “And have you ever… wanted it?”

(Y/n) let out a faint, self-deprecating laugh, though it caught in her throat. “I wouldn’t know what to want. Love, as I’ve seen it, always seems so… chaotic. And yet, it’s the one thing everyone wants. It’s the thing they can’t live without.”

“And you?” Rex asked quietly.

(Y/n) turned to him, her expression soft but guarded. “I guess I’ve never felt I deserved it.”

Rex blinked, as though the confession had knocked something loose inside him. “That’s not true.”

“How would you know?” (Y/n) countered, her voice trembling slightly despite herself.

“Because I’ve seen you,” Rex said, his voice firm but gentle. “You’re always the one holding everything together—steady and sure, even when it’s not your burden to carry. You deserve more than just watching.”

The words hung between them, raw and unguarded, until Rex gave her a crooked, disarming smile. “Besides,” he added, lightening his tone, “chaos isn’t always bad. Sometimes it’s exactly what you need.”

(Y/n) stared at him for a moment, her heart thudding quietly in her chest. She didn’t know what to say, so instead, she looked back out at the open meadow.

And for the first time in a long time, she felt the faintest spark of hope—quiet and fragile but impossible to ignore.

As they rode on, Rex glanced at her again, the edges of his smile softer now, less teasing. He didn’t say anything more, but something unspoken passed between them—an understanding, a connection.

Neither of them knew where it would lead.

But for now, it was enough.

***

(Y/n) paced the length of the ballroom with her clipboard in hand, her heels clicking softly against the polished marble floor. The room, dressed in restrained elegance, was set for the next phase of introductions—an opportunity for each of the noblewomen and princesses to spend an uninterrupted hour with Cody. It was (Y/n)’s hope that the structured intimacy would allow for a deeper connection, perhaps even help Cody find some common ground with at least one of them.

The tables had been arranged with meticulous care, adorned with soft floral arrangements and tea sets laid out on embroidered linens. A fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth diffusing the chill in the room. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, bathing the grand space in gold, as if the day itself wanted to encourage success.

(Y/n)’s preparations were flawless—as always.

And yet, deep in her chest, a nagging sense of unease lingered.

The suitors, elegantly dressed and seated in the antechamber, were perfect on paper. Beautiful, poised, intelligent, and well-spoken. But perfection, (Y/n) knew all too well, could often feel hollow. And she was beginning to fear that hollow was exactly what Cody would find in each of them.

“Everything looks… unnecessarily perfect,” Rex’s voice broke through her thoughts, lighthearted and teasing as ever.

(Y/n) startled slightly, turning to find him lounging against one of the window frames, arms crossed and the familiar crooked smile tugging at his lips. He looked too at ease for someone standing amidst her painstakingly crafted setting—like he belonged in chaos more than polished order.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him in mock reproach.

“Why not? I’m helping.” He pushed off the frame, strolling toward her with the easy gait that she had come to know far too well.

“Helping?” (Y/n) scoffed, though her tone held no real irritation. “You’ve spent the last week interrupting my work.”

“Interrupting,” Rex corrected, as though it were a badge of honor, “is a form of assistance. It keeps you from overthinking everything.”

“I don’t overthink,” (Y/n) shot back defensively, clutching her clipboard just a little tighter.

Rex grinned, clearly delighted to see her bristling. “You’re overthinking right now.”

(Y/n) sighed, biting back a reluctant smile. “If you’re here to derail my plans, you’re too late. Everything is set. Each of the women will have an hour alone with Cody today. That’s their time to make an impression.”

Rex gave an exaggerated wince as he surveyed the ballroom. “Alone with Cody? You’re asking for trouble.”

(Y/n) frowned, brow furrowing as she glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve seen him,” Rex replied casually, leaning against the back of one of the chairs and watching her with an amused expression. “The man treats these introductions like he’s attending a military tribunal. Straight back, stiff smile, saying as little as humanly possible.”

(Y/n) sighed, pressing her fingers against her temple. “I know. But this is important, Rex. He needs to—”

“Relax?” Rex interrupted, his grin widening when she shot him a glare. “(Y/n), you’ve set up the perfect stage, but you can’t force chemistry. That’s the problem. You’re trying to plan love.”

“That’s my job!” she snapped, though her voice cracked slightly at the end, as if she were exasperated with herself more than him. “And it’s not as simple as you make it sound.”

Rex straightened slightly, his gaze softening. “It’s never simple. But you can’t make someone feel something they don’t.”

The truth of his words settled in (Y/n)’s chest like a heavy stone, and she looked away, unable to hold his gaze. She knew he was right. As much as she hoped to create the perfect conditions, connection wasn’t something that could be controlled. It either happened or it didn’t.

***

From her vantage point in the shadows of the ballroom, Lady Mara watched with the stillness of a predator. Her keen gaze never wavered as it settled on (Y/n) and Rex, the young woman’s flustered reaction to Rex’s teasing and the unmistakable warmth in his gaze as he lingered near her.

It was subtle, but Mara saw it—she always saw it. The way Rex leaned just slightly too close, the softness of his smile when (Y/n) wasn’t looking, the flicker of hesitation in (Y/n)’s eyes, as though she wasn’t entirely sure what was happening between them.

But Mara knew.

Her fingers curled slowly around the edge of her shawl, the fabric brushing softly against her gloves as her lips pressed into a thin line. She had spent too many years waiting—watching—as Jaster’s grandsons grew into men, as they carried the titles and power that should have been hers.

She had been patient—oh, so patient—ever since the day Jango, her brother’s favored son, had taken everything from her. The throne, the future she had so carefully planned, had all been ripped away like a cruel twist of fate. When Jango died, she had thought it her time at last—her chance to step into the light and claim what was rightfully hers. But Jaster had refused to bend. He had raised Jango’s sons like the kings they were never meant to be, tightening his grip on the crown, solidifying his dynasty.

Now here she stood, in a palace that should have been hers, watching Jaster’s precious grandsons ruin everything. Rex, of all people—reckless, charming, unpredictable Rex—had begun to slip through her carefully laid cracks.

Her dark eyes swept back to (Y/n), the matchmaker. She was supposed to be here to solve the problem of Cody’s disinterest, yet somehow, she had become the problem herself. Mara saw the quiet connection between her and Rex beginning to form—fragile, unspoken, but growing like ivy on an ancient wall. It wasn’t merely an inconvenience; it was dangerous.

Mara’s nails dug into the soft fabric of her glove as she turned away from the ballroom. She moved silently, her skirts whispering along the floor as she stepped out into the quieter hallway beyond.

*** 

Mara strode purposefully down the shadowed corridor, her mind whirling with thoughts. The palace was alive with movement—the footsteps of servants, the murmur of distant voices—but Mara walked through it all like a ghost, unseen and unnoticed.

She couldn’t allow this. Not again.

Jaster’s sons had already stolen too much from her. She wouldn’t stand idle while they found love and strength to secure their power. A royal marriage, the forging of alliances—that would cement their place for generations to come, locking her and her line into the cold shadows of obscurity.

No.

Her gaze hardened as she turned a corner, entering a smaller study tucked away from the bustle of the main palace. She paused near the window, staring out at the snow-draped gardens below, where faint lantern light still flickered from the winter rose beds.

Rex, she thought bitterly, his name curling on her tongue like ash. He was too much like his father—too carefree, too charming. But unlike Jango, he was reckless. Mara could use that. His unpredictability could be turned against him, twisted to tarnish the reputation he carried.

And (Y/n)…

Mara’s lips curled faintly. The matchmaker was earnest and focused, but it made her predictable. A woman so busy trying to fit the world into neat little boxes couldn’t see a storm forming until it was too late.

***

A knock at the door broke through her thoughts.

“Enter,” she said smoothly, turning just as the heavy door creaked open and one of her most trusted attendants, a man named Luthar, slipped inside. He was a wiry man, his presence shadowed and unassuming, but his loyalty to Lady Mara was unquestionable.

“You summoned me, my lady?” Luthar’s voice was low and deferential.

“Yes,” Mara replied, her tone calm, measured. She gestured for him to step closer, her dark eyes gleaming in the firelight. “I need you to watch someone for me.”

Luthar inclined his head. “Who?”

“The matchmaker,” Mara said smoothly, folding her hands in front of her. “(Y/n) (Y/L/N). I want to know her movements. Who she speaks with. Who she trusts.”

Luthar gave a slight bow. “And the prince?”

“Rex,” Mara said softly, almost to herself, as though tasting the name on her tongue. “Keep an eye on him as well. He’s grown… distracted. That distraction could prove useful.”

Luthar hesitated, his gaze flickering with unspoken curiosity. “And if something should arise?”

Mara’s expression hardened, the faintest hint of a smile curling at the edges of her mouth. “Then you’ll inform me immediately. I’ll handle it.”

Luthar bowed again before slipping from the room as silently as he had entered.

****

Once she was alone again, Mara turned back to the window, her gaze sweeping the snow-covered grounds below. The garden was quiet now, but she could still see it in her mind: (Y/n) and Rex, walking beneath the lanterns, their laughter drifting up through the cold night air.

It was fragile.

Too fragile to last, she thought. And she would ensure it didn’t.

Jaster had stolen her crown. His grandsons had stolen her legacy.

But love?

Love was a fire she could extinguish before it ever had the chance to burn.

With that thought, she turned sharply, the rustle of her skirts echoing through the empty room. Lady Mara, patient and cunning, would not be ignored any longer.

***

As the morning passed, oblivious to the dark intentions brewing in the shadows, Rex found (Y/n) once again—this time in the library, surrounded by books and notes.

“Still working?” he teased, leaning against a nearby bookshelf with a grin that was far too casual.

(Y/n) looked up, startled, and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “I’m always working. It’s what you hired me for, remember?”

Rex grinned, pushing off the bookshelf to sit on the edge of the table, far too close for propriety’s comfort. “You should take a break. I hear there’s a lovely view from the gardens around this time.”

(Y/n) glanced at him, her cheeks warming faintly, though she tried to ignore the way her pulse jumped at his nearness. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you keep me around,” Rex replied, his voice softening as his teasing smile melted into something quieter.

She opened her mouth to argue, but the words wouldn’t come.

In that moment, as their eyes met and lingered, she felt it—the shift. The fragile thread of something unspoken, growing stronger with every breath they shared.

And just beyond the warmth of the library walls, Lady Mara watched, unseen and waiting, the storm she intended to unleash already beginning to gather.

****

### **The Dance Lessons**  

The ballroom gleamed in soft afternoon light, its wide marble floor polished to a mirror-like sheen. The vast space echoed with anticipation—servants hurrying to finish preparations, chairs tucked neatly against the far wall, fresh garlands of winter roses hanging from the tall archways. 

(Y/n) stood at the center of it all, a clipboard in her hand and tension in her shoulders as she surveyed the day’s task. *Dance lessons.* It was the logical next step—graceful movement, light conversation, an easy way to break the icy formality between Cody and the suitors. She had coordinated every detail: music selections, the layout, the schedule, and, of course, the “volunteers” she had roped in to serve as dance partners.  

**Cody, Rex, Wolffe, Hunter, Kix, Waxer, Boil, Fives, and Echo** stood at varying levels of discomfort near the edge of the ballroom, all dressed in their finest tunics—boots polished, collars starched—and wearing expressions that ranged from resigned to outright rebellious.  

“This is ridiculous,” Wolffe muttered, crossing his arms as his sharp gaze swept the room. “I’m not a dance instructor.”  

“You’re *helping,*” (Y/n) replied crisply, flipping through her notes to keep herself from snapping back. “You’ll all partner with the ladies who haven’t yet had a chance to properly engage with Prince Cody. Think of it as your civic duty.”

“Civic duty?” Hunter murmured, arching a brow at her. “I didn’t realize dancing had become a matter of state.”

“It has now,” (Y/n) shot back, leveling a look at him before continuing. “The goal is for the women to feel at ease. Relaxed. Do you think they’ll be comfortable dancing with a prince who refuses to smile?” 

From his place against the far wall, **Cody** lifted his gaze from where he’d been inspecting the floor. “I can hear you.”

“You were supposed to,” (Y/n) replied sweetly, though her gaze lingered on him just long enough to soften the sting.  

The twins, predictably, were already at it—Fives elbowed Echo, a mischievous grin lighting up his face. “I’m going to win the crowd over,” Fives announced grandly, smoothing the front of his coat with mock seriousness. “They’ll forget Cody’s even here.”

“Try not to trip,” Echo replied dryly, though his smirk betrayed him.  

(Y/n) pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly before scanning the room for the one man she hadn’t yet heard complain. Rex. 

---

**Rex stood near the grand piano**, watching (Y/n) with an unreadable expression as she corralled the cousins and brothers like a commander on a battlefield. He’d grown used to seeing her like this—sharp, focused, and entirely in control—but something about today felt different. Her movements were more rushed, her tone a little too clipped, as if she were holding something back.  

Rex watched her for another beat before stepping forward, his boots tapping softly against the marble. “You’re going to wear a hole in that clipboard,” he said, his voice low and teasing as he stopped beside her.

(Y/n) glanced up sharply, startled. “I’m fine.”

“You always say that,” Rex replied, tilting his head as he studied her, “and yet you look like you’re ready to strangle someone with your notes.”  

(Y/n) bit back a retort, her pulse quickening slightly under the weight of his gaze. “They’re impossible to manage,” she muttered instead, gesturing toward the assembled group. “None of them take this seriously.”

“They’re taking it as seriously as you let them,” Rex said softly, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “You could use a break, you know. You’ve been on edge since—well, *since always*.”

(Y/n) opened her mouth to protest but stopped herself. There was no point arguing with Rex when he saw straight through her defenses. She let out a soft breath instead, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand. “Are you here to help or just to distract me?”

Rex’s lips curled into that familiar lopsided grin that made (Y/n)’s stomach flip in ways she wasn’t prepared to admit. “Both.”

***

The music began—a soft, lilting waltz played on the grand piano by a palace musician—and the suitors moved hesitantly into the ballroom. (Y/n)’s voice cut through the murmurs like a whip of calm authority.  

“All right, ladies, gentlemen—pair up, please,” she called, her voice carrying easily over the music. “One lady to each of you. Prince Cody will begin at the center, and the rest of you will rotate every ten minutes. This is about comfort and conversation. Please, try to enjoy yourselves.”

*Enjoy themselves.* (Y/n) wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a more reluctant group of dancers.

The ballroom was a wash of gold and white, sunlight filtering through tall stained-glass windows, dappling the polished marble floor with warmth. The soft strains of a waltz echoed through the vast space, mingling with the laughter and polite murmurs of conversation as the dance lessons finally began. It was as (Y/n) had planned—graceful, orderly, structured.

Yet despite the perfect setting, the atmosphere still felt off.

Cody, positioned at the center with yet another partner, moved stiffly, his every step mechanical, as though he were a clockwork figure. (Y/n) watched him carefully from her spot near the edge of the room, her brow furrowed as she made notes on her clipboard. Every step, every rotation, felt like another missed opportunity. Cody’s partner smiled, but (Y/n) could see through it—polite, practiced, but hollow.

The ballroom was filling with cracks, tiny fissures in the façade she’d worked so hard to create.

***

Across the floor, Rex moved among the dancers with a kind of natural ease that both frustrated and fascinated her. He laughed easily, spinning one of the young princesses with a flair that earned him a round of applause from the other ladies. The charm came effortlessly to him, a boyish mischief lighting up his face that made him impossible to ignore.

But (Y/n) had learned something about Rex these last few weeks. That carefree exterior of his? It was a mask—clever, disarming, but not quite real. And when he let it slip, even just a little, (Y/n) felt as though she’d glimpsed something precious and fragile.

Something she wasn’t sure she was ready to see.

“Careful, Matchmaker.”

Rex’s voice broke through her thoughts like a ripple across still water. (Y/n) blinked, startled, to find him suddenly at her side, hands tucked casually into his pockets, his blue-gray eyes fixed on her with a look that sent her pulse fluttering.

“You’re brooding again,” Rex said, a teasing smile curving his lips. “You’re supposed to be watching the dancing, not staring holes into the floor.”

“I’m working,” (Y/n) replied stiffly, though her voice faltered slightly under the weight of his gaze.

“Are you?” Rex asked, tilting his head. “Because from here, it looks like you’re worrying yourself into an early grave.”

(Y/n) frowned, unwilling to meet his eyes. “Cody isn’t connecting with anyone. This is supposed to help, but it’s… falling apart.”

“Falling apart?” Rex murmured, his tone softer now. “Not everything needs to be perfect, (Y/n).”

“It’s my job to make it perfect,” she said quietly, her fingers tightening around the clipboard. “If I don’t, who will?”

There was a pause, and when she finally looked up, Rex was watching her—not with teasing amusement this time, but with something softer, something deeper.

“I think you’re too hard on yourself,” he said, his voice low, as though the words weren’t meant for anyone but her. “You try to hold the world together on your own, and it’s going to crush you if you’re not careful.”

(Y/n) opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came. He always did this—saw through the carefully constructed wall she’d built around herself and reached straight into the fragile heart of it.

“Come on,” Rex said suddenly, breaking the moment before it could deepen further. He extended a hand to her, his grin returning, though the softness in his eyes remained. “Dance with me.”

(Y/n) blinked. “What?”

“Dance with me,” he repeated, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “You can’t teach everyone else if you’re not willing to join in yourself.”

“I’m not here to dance,” (Y/n) stammered, flustered, her cheeks warming. “I’m overseeing—”

“You’re overthinking,” Rex said, smirking faintly. “One dance, (Y/n). You can go back to your clipboard after.”

***

Her hesitation broke when she felt the brothers and cousins watching—Wolffe’s sharp gaze, Kix’s faint smirk, and the twins’ not-so-subtle nudges. From across the room, Fives grinned like a child with a secret, whispering something to Echo that made them both chuckle under their breath.

Even Cody had noticed, pausing just slightly mid-step with his partner to glance over, his brow lifting in quiet curiosity.

(Y/n)’s breath caught as the room seemed to shift its focus. It was subtle, but she felt it—their eyes on her, on Rex, and on whatever it was that lingered between them like a spark waiting to catch fire.

She looked up at Rex, whose hand was still extended toward her, patient but insistent. There was no teasing in his face anymore, only quiet encouragement.

Just one dance, she told herself, though her heart hammered wildly in her chest. Slowly, she slipped her hand into his.

Rex’s smile softened, as though her acceptance meant far more to him than he would ever admit. “Trust me,” he murmured.

***

They moved onto the floor, and for the first time that day, the music seemed to come alive. The melody swelled gently, wrapping around them as Rex placed his hand lightly against (Y/n)’s waist and guided her into the steps of the waltz.

At first, (Y/n)’s movements were stiff, self-conscious. She could feel the others watching—Cody, Wolffe, the cousins—but she forced herself to focus on Rex.

“Relax,” Rex murmured, his voice just above a whisper, as though speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. “It’s just us.”

(Y/n) looked up into his face, startled by the sincerity in his words. “It’s not just us. They’re all staring.”

“Let them stare,” Rex replied softly, his thumb brushing lightly against her hand. “I’m only looking at you.”

Her heart skipped a beat, her breath catching as his words settled over her like a warmth she hadn’t expected. She looked up at him, truly looked, and saw something in his eyes that she hadn’t allowed herself to see before. The teasing grin was gone, replaced by something raw and unguarded.

Rex was… different. He wasn’t the carefree prince who pulled her into snowball fights or dragged her away from her work. He was this—steady, grounded, and impossibly real.

And it terrified her.

***

From across the room, the brothers and cousins noticed the shift.

“Finally,” Fives muttered to Echo, elbowing him in the ribs. “I thought I’d have to push him into her.”

Echo smirked, though his gaze lingered on Rex and (Y/n) with quiet understanding. “Don’t jinx it.”

Hunter’s sharp eyes narrowed slightly, though a faint smile tugged at his lips. “About time he noticed.”

Even Wolffe, usually the most reserved of them all, let out a faint, resigned sigh. “He’s in trouble.”

***

(Y/n) felt it, too.

As they moved in perfect rhythm, her body following the subtle press of Rex’s hand at her waist, (Y/n) realized how easily he grounded her. How he made everything—the chaos, the expectations, the weight—feel just a little lighter.

She glanced up at him, searching his face. What is happening to me?

Rex looked down at her as though he could hear her unspoken question. His gaze held hers, steady and sure, his expression open in a way that made her chest tighten.

And for the first time, (Y/n) let herself feel it—the spark, the pull that she could no longer deny.

As the music slowed and the last note faded into the air, Rex didn’t let go of her hand right away. His fingers lingered against hers, his voice low and rough when he finally spoke.

“See?” he murmured. “One dance didn’t kill you.”

(Y/n) stared up at him, her heart thudding wildly. “No,” she whispered. “It didn’t.”

But it might have undone her entirely.

***

Lady Mara, hidden once again near the ballroom’s entrance, watched with narrowed eyes. Her sharp gaze swept over Rex and (Y/n) as they lingered just a second too long in the center of the room.

This cannot be allowed.

A plan was already forming in her mind. If love were to take root here, she would see it wither before it ever had the chance to bloom.

As the dance ended, and the room returned to its usual hum of conversation, Lady Mara turned sharply on her heel, slipping away into the shadows with purpose.

Let them play their games for now, she thought. It won’t last.

***

Thank you so much for reading the first part! 🌟 I had an absolute blast writing this story—it was such a joy to weave together the magic of the holidays

I’d love to hear your thoughts! Whether it’s your favorite moment, the scenes that made you smile, or even the twists that caught you by surprise—your reactions mean the world to me. 💕 Feel free to leave a comment, share your feelings, or even just drop by to say hi! And whether you'd be interested in a second part.

Part 2

[arminsumi]

hiii! It’s me again! (i’m becoming your fan fr)

so, I wanted to came up with the idea that during the raid on Liberio (s4) armin meets the violetevergarden!reader who is marleyan weapon who got badly injured, and and first sees armin as a treat when he wants to treat her wounds ^^ i would like to see that also with Eren but i think it will be too much work for you…

i will thank you in advance, hope you have nice holiday! take care of yourself ( ˘ ³˘)♥︎

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱ Marley's Guardian

Armin x fem!Marleyan!reader

Overview; Armin feels compelled to help you after you emerge from a fight with Mikasa and Levi badly wounded.

Contents; canon!au, fluffy angst, fraternizing

Warnings; major S4 spoilers!! injuries, war/battle setting

Note; i rewatched a bit of this show and cried, i forgot how beautiful it is. thank you for your lovely request my angel 🥰 you take care too!

p.s. i'd loveee to write this for Eren too but maybe another time hehe

"Keep your eyes and ears alert for her." Levi's voice echoed in Armin's head.

"Mikasa and I will be responsible for slaying Marley's Guardian. The rest of you stay far away from her. I don't need anyone dying on me tonight."

As much as everyone was bitter to admit it, you were the strongest enemy on the other side of the sea.

In the Scouts you were referred to as Marley's Guardian; known to be the soldier that protected them from taking a finishing blow during the Battle of Shiganshina.

Now the invasion of Liberio was at hand.

You were perched on the rooftops, alert and ready for battle when a bolt of lightning descended from the sky and struck the center stage where Willy Tybur was currently giving his impassioned speech.

You watched as his blood was squeezed out of him by Eren Jaeger. The roar didn't send chills down your spine, nor did its appearance frighten you. For you there was nothing to fear, except...

"Your mission is to keep Levi away from Zeke." your captain had instructed beforehand. "Avoid confrontation with two Ackermans."

Armin sat in a vacated apartment, watching out the window as you leaped from rooftop to rooftop and became smoothly airborne in the night sky.

Mikasa and Levi swarmed you, their hearts panging as loudly as yours.

Although you were Armin's enemy, he looked at you with amazement and awe in his big eyes. He was taken by you.

"So that's her..." he thought, watching your battle intently.

You moved swiftly and calculatedly, like a cat.

Armin's eyes struggled to follow you, they were darting around the night sky. Sometimes he lost you, and only found you again when he saw a flicker of ODM gear.

"Blood...?" he muttered under his breath when he saw you again.

You changed course desperately. It seemed like you were trying to escape the overwhelming fight.

You headed straight into the window of the vacated apartment building where Armin was hiding.

"Where is she going — !! "

He pulled out of sight just in time before you hurtled through the window with a violent smash.

The glass was pierced, shards flew everywhere. The sound of breakage and your body thudding on the wooden floor startled the atmosphere.

Armin flinched and reactively shielded himself with his arms as some glass shards struck his body. His cheek begun to bleed, a thin river of crimson ran down it.

He kept one shaky hand on his sword, ready to draw it. Knuckles white.

But his grip loosened when he saw you struggling to push yourself up with two hands.

It felt like a major moment when you and him looked at each other for the first time. For a second, Armin admired your beauty, albeit with a bit of bewilderment in his chest.

Your chest was violently heaving up and down. He could see you were pained by the impact of hurtling through a window, but injured by the fight with relentless Ackermans who now flew back hurriedly to Eren in the main battle.

You looked at him and he looked at you. Panting. Him less than you.

He lowered his gaze to your abdomen. "You're bleeding." he commented.

You didn't respond.

Armin cautiously approached where you limply laid.

"I just want to help you, I promise." the blond assured.

But as he approached you, you made a swipe at him and shuffled away like a cat. He very nearly got scratched.

"I'm not going to hurt you." he said earnestly.

His uniform was stained with blood, his blond hair bespattered with it too.

Armin drew closer. "You can trust me." he said.

He wondered why your eyes were still fearfully staring at him. Then he realized you were eyeing out his blades and gear.

"Will this help?" he dismantled his ODM gear and let it fall to the ground with a metallic thud. "I'm unarmed now."

The apprehensiveness in your face dulled out, but you still had a look of bewilderment as he came closer.

You felt puzzled.

He was a soldier, an enemy; a threat. So why did he show tenderness and humanity to you?

Slowly – for what felt like an infinity of a time – you let him draw closer to you.

He was cautious. Curious. Confused.

Cautious that you might try with your last bit of strength to kill him, but curious about if you would let your enemy treat your wounds. And confused, because he had no idea why he was betraying Levi's order's to stay away from Marley's Guardian.

"It's alright." he said comfortingly.

You remained still, your piercing eyes calculating his movements as he took off his military rucksack to retrieve medical supplies. It made him nervous to be your object of focus, even if you didn't seem hostile anymore.

When he showed gentleness in how he wrapped the bandages around you, you felt... well, you felt something, but you couldn't quite understand what it was or what it meant.

"Your name... what is it?" you asked him. You felt you just had to know his name, at the very least.

He looked up at you, his breath hitching. "Ah – ah, Armin." he said.

"Oh. The God of Destruction?" you remarked.

Armin felt awkward and awful. "I am the Colossal, yes." he admitted almost guiltily.

"That's very strange. You're the God of Destruction, but you're helping me. Why?" you asked blankly.

You seemed doll-like to him, he was absolutely intrigued.

"I... I don't know. I couldn't just leave you here to bleed out."

"But that's what you're supposed to do."

"I know, but I couldn't." he said, temporarily biting an end of the bandage.

Your blood got all over his hands and uniform but he didn't care.

"I don't understand." you furrowed your brows and began to tear up. It was all so confusing that it made you want to cry for some reason.

"Why are you treating me kindly?" you choked.

Armin forced himself to focus on wrapping your bandages or else he would have cried, too.

He breathed heavily as he listened to the battle outside continue.

"Why!"

He didn't answer you.

When he finished tending to your wounds and was sure that you could make it on your own, he disappeared after giving you a long, blue-eyed stare.

[dragonologist-phd]

Six-Song Soundtrack

tagged by @herearedragons!! tysm, this was so much fun- i love playlist games, the hardest part is narrowing it down to just one song for each!

Rules: If you're tagged, make a new post with links to music and/or lyrics describing the following:

An event that defines your character's past

How your character sees themselves

How others view them

Their closest relationship (platonic or romantic)

A major fight scene

End credits song

And since it's a playlist game, i gotta do it for my lovely beautiful bard!

Piper Soundtrack:

Blush - Dessa

Metaphor - The Crane Wives

Feeling Good - Nina Simone

All I've Ever Known - Hadestown Soundtrack // You're Not Going Alone - The rough & Tumble

Shatter Me - Lindsey Stirling, Lizzy Hale

Free - Florence + The Machine

(rambling about song choices below)

Blush - Dessa

I'll be Your favorite me Mostly carefree Laughs easily But what you can't see In my routine Is how hard it gets to keep the heartbeat clean ... I think I'm done up on the tight rope I want a love that feels like more than just survival

As a young woman, Piper possessed beauty, grace, and a gift for music. This combination drew the attention of Eliyen Ivaris, an elegant noblewoman who hired on the tiefling bard as a court performer, and soon became her lover.

Eliyen treasured Piper's music and beauty, but it soon became clear she wasn't interested in much beyond. Piper knew this yet stayed, nervous about leaving the security of her position. Finally, the day came when she could not stand to be stifled any longer, and she disappeared with a small fortune in stolen treasures. This relationship- and the consequences of her thievery- stayed with her for some time.

Metaphor - The Crane Wives

I've gotten good at making up metaphors I've gotten good at stretching the truth out of shape And all these words are sweet and meaningless You can't trust a single thing I say

We know her as Piper, but before the Crusades she was Lark. Lyra. Cantrelle. Aria. She was an endless supply of names and stories, and she knew how to get by on nothing more than her golden voice and silver tongue. It was easy- she just had to become what people wanted, until the winds changed and it was time for her to disappear into another mask.

Feeling Good - Nina Simone

Fish in the sea, you know how I feel River running free, you know how I feel Blossom on the tree, you know how I feel It's a new dawn It's a new day It's a new life for me And I'm feeling good

And speaking of masks- a song for the valiant Knight-Commander! The beautiful, free-spirited Azata, full of confidence and joy, bringing hope to the people and new life to the blighted lands!

The picture she paints isn't false... but very few people know just how much she's making this all up as she goes

All I've Ever Known - Hadestown Soundtrack

You take me in your arms And suddenly there's sunlight all around me Everything bright and warm And shining like it never did before And for a moment I forget Just how dark and cold it gets All I've ever known is how to hold my own All I've ever known is how to hold my own But now I wanna hold you

You're Not Going Alone - The rough & Tumble

You can stand there stricken at your old front door, Or shake the dust you swore you’d hold You may not belong here, anymore, But you’re not going alone

ok i did do two for this one! had to, sorry

First one is for Arue- her sunshine in the storm, the gentle, brave woman who fills Piper's life with love. She's still amazed they get to be together, and she wouldn't trade their love for the world

And one for Woljif! Piper's best friend; they understand each other on a level nobody else does, and they accidentally help each other become better just by being there

For someone who's been alone so much of her life, Piper can't help but feel blessed to have those two in her life

Shatter Me - Lindsey Stirling, Lizzy Hale

If I break the glass then I'll have to fly There's no one to catch me if I take a dive

This song specifically makes me think of Piper in the Abyss, storming the Fleshmarkets and freeing everyone she can, solidifying the change in her alignment from Chaotic Neutral to Chaotic Good. It's suitably dramatic and the violin here makes for some great bard battle music!

Free - Florence + The Machine

Is this how it is? Is this how it's always been? To exist in the face of suffering and death And somehow still keep singing? ... 'Cause I hear the music, I feel the beat And for a moment, when I'm dancing I am free

And this one just seems like a nice closing song! Very suited for Piper, especially as she embraces herself and her life, with all the good and bad that comes with it

if you actually read through all that, god bless. thanks for sticking around!

tagging:

@bugdotpng @dujour13 @camelliagwerm @mordred9971 @orime-stories

@first-talon @miseryscrowned @bladesmitten @big-cheesy-productions @arendaes

@bezelusbubulez @starlightcleric @vigilskept @thesolemnhour @ampleappleamble

@rollofleaf @adozentothedawn @undyingembers @thefathersbride @milesmentis

@serenbach86 @jean-dieu @daisymeade @kaleido-scope-lady

tag list here!

[wishing-on-a-staranise]

Chapter 1: Three inches minimum.

(s.h. x gn!reader)

from the river to the sea (educate yourself and help however you can)

Warnings: y/n might or might not be used; no pronouns used (gn!reader); flashbacks within a flashback; suggestivenes (no smut); trauma; might be canon divergent in future (cuz screw the canon) ; very questionable food choices on readers part (don't ask me I have no idea why I put it in)

word count: 9.5k

A/n: alright gang! we start all over again and imma do this right this time. i really am liking doing this rewrite/revamp of the old stuff now that i know where to take this story. so ive added new stuff that i really wanted to and got rid of some stuff as well.

i dont write smut but this is an 18+ blog mdni

promises series masterlist

...

Life in Hawkins was not a normal one. But then again, what did you know about the norm anyway?

You ran away from the Hawkins lab in 1980. Even after all these years, its memories still haunted you. You still got nightmares, they had never really stopped.

It was hard to forget, you in your dirty hospital gown, the cloth had still smelled of smoke. You had been lethargic, exhausted, but you had a goal in mind. Find Eight. 

You didn't know where she was, but she was your best bet. In the lab, she was the closest thing you had had to a friend. she was your sister. She told you about what her life was like before she had been taken to the lab, she had remembered a lot from then, you on the other hand, didn't. she used tell you all she remembered from outside.

it had been so long since you had last seen her. two years. 1978.

“Come with me”, she had almost begged, holding your hands in her, “we’ll do all that we wanted to. We’ll be free”

You don't know why you couldn't do it then. 

“Please. We’ll have names, we’ll find your real parents, we'll find mine, we’ll be together, we'll be free, that's what you wanted too, didnt you?” she swallowed, desperate, chest heaving. the alarms had been ringing through the halls. The clang of the heavy metal doors and boots stomping rang in the air— they were coming, Papa was coming. you were running out of time. you could run far far away. But you were stuck, your throat dry.

“I.. we can’t”, was all that came out. Your words betrayed you because Eight was right, it was all you wanted. It was all both of you wanted. More than anything. But in the heat of the moment, everything was scary, you were so damn scared. 

Eight stared at you, she stepped back, your shaky hands slipping out of her own. The noise got louder, the stomps closer. The betrayal and confusion on her features quickly morphed into a stoic expression.

“Maybe he’s right.” she swallowed, shaking her head, “You are too weak”, she turned and started walking away. you wanted to call after her but nothing came out. she stopped– the guards were so close– she turned her head a little yet still not showing you her face.

“Goodbye, seven.”

You had to find her because despite what she had said, she was your only hope. two years later, it was a shot in the dark at best, but what other choice did you have?

you tried looking for her, but the void was nothing but emptiness, yet crowded as a maze. she wouldn't let you see her. She was hiding, or rather, just not letting you in. you just hoped she was okay.

You weren't sure how, but you managed to stay out of suspicion for a week before an old woman found you trying to ‘steal’ clothes– a jacket more specifically. 

That's when you met Jim hopper.

“Ok, kid. How about you start by telling me your name?” a low gruff in the man’s voice. You stayed silent as you looked down to your hands in your lap, there was dirt beneath your nails. Water was hard to come across when you're on the run, especially in this cold.

“How about, where you're from, ‘cause I know you're not from around here” Hopper spoke up again. You pulled the sleeves of your full sleeved t-shirt further down, palms sweaty.

“Listen, kid”, he sighs, “ you’ve gotta give me something” you infact continued to give him nothing. you tuck your cold fingers under your thighs, trying your best to hold back the shivers. The ill-fitted t-shirt and joggers you'd found the day after you'd run away didn't do much in matters of protecting you from the cold. That was why you had tried to get that thick jacket. the very same you were caught ‘stealing’ that had brought you here.

“Mrs. Lauter wanted me to arrest you, y’know?” he tried to prompt you. you didn't look up from the tattered shoes you wore– they didn't fit you, they weren't yours.

“Hey!”, he raised his voice a little, your gaze snapped to his– eyes panicking. “look at me when I am talking to you!” he said sternly.

His gaze softened up along with his voice. “don't have to worry though. I got it under cover. Dumpster diving isn't much of an offense. But you gotta tell me where you came from so i can take you back home”

“No”, you finally speak up with a finality that he hadn't expected.

“Oh, so you do speak”, he leaned back in his chair, looking at you, analysing every detail about you. you avoided eye contact, your frame shivering, the dirt on your skin, your hair, “What's with the whole buzz cut, huh? Last time i checked, that wasn't what the kids were doing these days”

you wrapped your arms around your body, eyes still trained down. “C'mon kid you gotta give me something”, he huffed.

the only movement he got from you was you blinking down at your shoes. “Fine”, Frustrated, he got up, his chair pushed behind him, “then i guess you wouldn't mind being locked up in juvie then”

You looked up at him, eyes wide, brows knotted, not understanding what he said meant.

“That's little people jail”, realisation flashed across your face and he waited for you to say something but when you didn't say anything, he picked up his hat from the table with a deep sigh and moved to walk out.

Just when he was about to push the door to head outside his office, “I need to find my sister”, came a quivering voice behind him, your eyes finally looking at him. 

There it is, he thought to himself. 

“So”, he started, walking back to his chair, “this sister of yours. What's her name?”

“I– I don't know”, you stuttered, gaze moving back to your hands. You mentally berated yourself for letting it slip. you weren't even sure why you trusted him enough with that information, maybe that was just your 14 year old brain being stupid. you wondered what her name was now.

“You don't know? Your own sister's name?” he waited for an answer, leaning against the table, “what did I say about looking at me when I talk to you?”

You looked at him apprehensively, arms wrapping tighter around yourself, trying your best to not shiver. 

He sighed again, voice low, “Listen kid, it's late. So I'd appreciate it if you gave some answers.”

No response.

You weren't sure why, but Jim was willing to help you. you lived under his roof for two weeks, during which he considered what to do with you. 

Whenever he inquired about your past, he would be greeted with nothing but silence. He tried asking about the sister you mentioned– nothing.

He decided calling child protective services was the best choice but you knew that as soon as Hopper would make it that call, your Papa would be at his door– ready to take you back to the lab. 

Just when he was about to do it, you had grabbed Hopper's hand before he could dial the number and made him forget all about it. 

you needed time. you had to find your sister. and for some reason this man wanted to help you, for some reason you felt safe. you felt guilty, using him as just a means to your end. you promised yourself to not use your powers on him ever again.

Hopper didn't adopt you. He was aware that he was a drunk smoker and his place wasn't exactly the most child friendly place, filled with unprescribed medication that he popped like candy.

Hopper did find you the cheapest place in Hawkins, paid your rent until you could get a job, and even enrolled you into school. 

Speaking of which– School was fun….. for the first five days– those five days you'd managed to stay invisible, making sure to not draw attention to yourself. But on the sixth day, you realised that you were behind, classes were hard, neither the students nor the teachers were kind. 

So you'd get in fights, and the principal would tell you to call your parents and you would call over Hopper– him being the closest thing to it. Hopper would make you promise that you won't repeat your actions, but you would break that promise too.

Then the year 1983 came and Hopper came across the upside down. He instinctively hid the true story of the missing Byer's kid from you– adamant to keep you away from danger. not knowing that you had always been part of it.

You had taken up a job at a gift shop near melvalds. And were now finally making somewhat of an income to survive but now no longer in as much contact as before with Hopper. You were blissfully unaware of your troublesome past lurking only two steps behind you.

The following year, you somehow got roped into the madness of the upside down. When you found out about Eleven and her powers, and you couldn't lie anymore. You recounted your past with Hopper and the young girl who you shared a similar past with. 

Hopper had forced you to stay with the kids at the Byer's house with a boy from your school year. Steve Harrington. You knew Steve, he was given titles like "the hair" or "king". Far more better than the titles you were given. 

That night you both stood up against Billy, a rage-filled moron. When Steve was down, and he was closing in on the kids, you decided to step in between– shielding them. You had extended your hand, palm splayed across his chest. While pushing him away, you had tried to use your powers, control his mind, maybe just make him faint– you’d done it before. You had done much worse in the past.

Much to your horror, though– your powers didn't work, they were gone. 

as soon as the realisation had hit, there had been a pause. Billy had looked at where your palm touched him and then back to your face. He had smirked. 

The situation spiralled out of control. You then helped the kids with their plan sporting a broken left arm and dragging along a very concussed Steve.  

At the snowball, hopper told you that he was planning on adopting both you and Eleven. Ecstatic, you dropped Eleven off to Mike so they could have their much earned time. Nancy, to whom you'd talked to once, was sharing a dance with Dustin. And Jonathan clicked everyone's pictures. You had decided it was better you wait outside with Hopper. 

On your way out, you noticed a familiar car– looking in closely, you realised that it was Steve– his face no longer covered in scars and bruises. The sudden urge to go over, talk and maybe even thank him for helping you back there with the Billy situation. You looked over to Hopper, as if silently asking for permission to go over to him. After he had given a slight nod, you walked over to the car and knocked on the window. He cranked down the glass.

"Hey”, he smiled.

…

Eleven was out again with Mike. Hopper had left for the station and now you were all alone. No one to talk to. You found it ironic how you'd lived in loneliness almost all your life yet you still weren't used to it. 

You didn't even want to bother calling anyone because literally everyone had gotten either a job or internship over the summer– Steve at scoops ahoy, Nancy and Jonathan at the Hawkins Post and- well you didn't have any other friends who were your age. 

So here you were, in the quiet of Hopper's cabin– save for the chittering of the squirrel Eleven had named Mr. Fibbly. You were alone with nothing to do so might as well do some sort of chores. After racking your brain for what chore to settle on, you decided– Laundry, it is. 

Your mind went on autopilot as you gathered the laundry from your adopted father's and sister's room. As you padded to the room with the washing machine, you felt a disturbance. Come to think of it, you had also felt something the night prior as well.

A headache, it was a much milder version of the headache you felt when you used to use your powers but you had lost your powers almost a year ago. So, you brushed it off as your mind playing tricks on you– which you found hilariously ironic, considering that it used to be you who used to play tricks on the mind.

As you unloaded the laundry basket, you felt something again. This time, it wasn't a headache but it felt as though there was a presence. Your actions stopped as the past year's memories came flooding back. The fear that those things could be back weighed heavily on you. Your heartbeat picked up its speed. You had almost been mauled by those demo-dogs, you were traumatised to say the least.

The whisper of wood creaking reached your ears and your throat went dry. Perhaps what's scarier than being alone is realising that you never were. but you're in the cabin, it's safe here. It's supposed to be safe here.

then you heard it again– another creak. You wanted to run and hide yet you also wanted to look at the intruder but your legs wouldn't budge, as if stuck to the floor. 

When you finally managed to move your feet and turn around, you were suddenly engulfed in arms and a scent that you've grown all too familiar with.

"STEVE!", you let out a yelp as you turned around to face him, "YOU ASSHOLE! YOU SCARED THE SHIT OUT OF ME!", you smacked his shoulder as he laughed but then atleast he had the decency to give you a sheepish smile and breathe out a quiet "sorry". 

Before you knew it, his lips caught yours, heart still beating loudly against your ribs and lips moving with a rhythm that you'd now gotten used to. 

Kissing wasn't really your strongest suit as you'd never really done it before Steve stumbled into your life but you'd gotten a lot of practice in the last seven days.

A smile crept onto your face as he kissed you deeper, his hand held the back of your head. Your hands dropped the shirt that you were holding back in the laundry basket and instead held his jaw as your thumbs rubbed against his cheeks– the skin warm under your fingertips. 

"Missed you so much", he mumbled between kisses. Heat crept up your neck as you giggled through the kisses, "you were here yesterday."

"Yeah, so?", he pulled away– not too far though, your noses still touching, "i just wanna be with my favourite person." He planted another small kiss on your lips as if to punctuate his sentence. Another giggle erupted from your throat as he pulled you impossibly closer. 

"I thought Dustin was your favourite person"

"Let's not bring Henderson into this, he's barely a person. besides, I'm not interested in kissing him"

Your hands went up to Steve's hair, fingers mindlessly playing with the brown strands that fell on his forehead. "How exactly did you get in?", you asked with an arched eyebrow. 

"Same as always– your bedroom window", he said as if it was the most obvious thing.

“You didn't fall again did you?”

“What? No– no, I'm too agile for that”, he paused when you looked at him with raised eyebrows, "who am I kidding? I almost fell. again" he said as his head hung in embarrassment.

"you could've just used the main door– you know no one's home except me", you laughed.

"Where's El?"

"With Mike", you said with a slight scowl, "God, she's with him all the time and they're always swapping spit!"

"Bit like us, isn't it?", He wiggled his brows and you rolled your eyes, "just let her be– she's a kid. Y'know hormones 'n stuff"

"Yeah, I know– it's just– she's barely home and I'm just worried about her, y'know?"

"Yeah, and it's completely okay to be worried", Steve started drawing circles on your shoulder with his fingers perhaps to provide some semblance of comfort, "but you know that she can't always be here right?"

"But I am always here."

"you don't have to be", he frowned and slightly shook his head– looking right in your eyes. This wasn't the first time Steve had mentioned this. He would try to convince you to visit him at the mall, to which you'd mention Hopper's rules and that it was too many people. He would then ask you to come over at his house, since it was always empty, you would again say no– never elaborating.

"But it's like the only place I feel safe, since everything that happened…. Last year", that was only partially a lie. The truth was it was the only place where you had felt safe ever.

"Hey", he held your face in his hands, "those things are gone, okay? Your dad made sure of it." You nodded, choosing not to tell him about the apprehension you've felt in the last couple days– knowing full well that telling him of your anxieties would inadvertently lead to you having to tell him about your now non-existent powers and your past in the lab. The past that you've left behind and have decided to pass off as nothing but a bad dream. 

You make a note to maybe tell Hopper or Eleven about all of that though.

A lazy smile adorned Steve's lips as his thumb swiped back and forth on your cheeks. "You look so cute when you're worried", he said with a smirk, as he held your chin with his thumb and forefinger. The smile on your lips grew wide, the corners of your mouth morphing into a suppressed smile. You wanted to say something, your lips even parted to tell him how much you think he's cute and handsome and pretty and how much you were glad that he was there with you but nothing came out. And he didn't need you to. He lifted your chin up to his and you were kissing again– this time more slower and softer than the last. 

In that moment, when your bodies were pressed together, you felt like you were in one of those movies that you and Eleven would watch with Hopper on movie nights and then your father would leave around the 30 minute mark, saying that it was too 'awkward'. cheesy rom-coms, that's what he had called them.

Everytime felt better than the last with Steve. As your lips moved in tandem, his arms wrapped tighter than ever around your waist, slightly lifting you off the floor for a second. You gasped into the kiss and your hands slid down from his hair to his chest, laying flat above his heart. 

"Steve-" you whispered in between kisses, "Steve I-", he just kept kissing you, "Steve- Harrington!-", you whisper-shouted. The boy let out a hum against your lips, the sound so warm that it was sure to melt you up into warm and happy goo. You almost wanted to give in to him, be engulfed in his scent and warmth while he kissed all your anxieties away. Yet you reluctantly nudged his chest away from yours. Your faces were merely inches away– his warm breath breezed against your cheeks and when your eyes met his, you saw his pupils dilated and lips swollen. His chest heaved a little as he steadied his breath– he was still staring at your lips.

"Steve, I have to do the laundry", you breathed out. 

"C'mon you do that like every day", he huffed as he pressed his forehead against yours.

"Yeah, well there's new laundry every day", you begrudgingly moved out of his arms.

"That's preposterous."

"I don't even know what that means", you said with a laugh.

"Neither do I, honestly–", he said with a chuckle, "Dustin used that word and I was like 'I have to use it', so I can fool you into thinking that you actually have a smart boyfriend."

"C'mon you are smart."

"Only to you." He sighed.

“You have to stop talking about yourself like that…. I mean it, Steve." you frowned with a sigh. “You are smart"

"Yeah, that's exactly why I'm scooping ice cream for a job"

"Smartness isn't all about school or marks or jobs or any of that bullshit." You ranted as Steve looked at you with enamoured eyes, "you are smart. You are strong. Last year when everything went to shit, you were the one who made sure of the kids even with a concussion. You looked after them and me. You took Billy Hargrove's beating to make sure the rest of us were okay-"

"That's not what smartness is–"

"-shut up! I don't wanna listen to you putting yourself down." You huffed in frustration, "you protected Dustin, Max and everyone else, you saved me! You make such a huge impact– if it wasn't for you, someone could've died, Steve. But you were there, you made sure that that didn't happen. You aren't weak. And you are a hero. D'you understand?"

Steve nodded, almost dumbfounded as it was probably the most you'd said in one sentence, ever. a faint smile painted itself on his face, his cheeks rosy.

You nodded, “good”, pecked the tip of his nose. you turned around, facing the washing machine– getting back to laundry. 

You picked up Hopper’s shirts, checking the pockets in case there were any bills or coins hidden in them– your only form of income. Steve once again tightened his arms around your torso, resting his chin on your shoulder– nuzzling into your neck. His warm breath fanned against your collarbone. “Don’t mind me”, his chest rumbled as he spoke through a smile. You let out a playful sigh and continued your work. 

Both of you stayed that way for a while. You checked the pockets of shirts and trousers, separating colours from white just like Hopper had taught you. All the while, Steve landed lazy kisses on your cheek, neck and collarbone. You'd wish you could stay that way forever– so warm, so comfortable, so nice. Maybe it was the fact that it was your first relationship ever and had only now felt safe enough to think of someone in a romantic way but you wanted it to last forever. 

Feelings were weird and hard to talk about, and you weren't the best at conveying them. The past week you've wanted nothing more than to tell Hopper and Eleven about yourself and Steve. But your communication skills (or lack thereof) prevented you. 

Steve loved watching you just doing normal everyday things, it reminded him of his mother– back when she was around more. So whenever he was not at work or being used as a valet driver by Dustin, he was sneaking over to your cabin. Before you both started dating, he would call you– making sure that Hopper wasn't home and then come barging in with a new cassette tape or to make you try some new ice cream flavour. It took him a couple months to realise that he was essentially looking for excuses to be around you– to feel that lovely and fuzzy feeling that he felt whenever he was with you. 

So, eight days prior, he finally built up the courage. 

Staring at the wood grain of the cabin door, your favourite ice cream and some flowers in hand, Steve was starting to consider backtracking a little. He really didn't want to mess things up between you two. And as he knocked on your cabin's door, he was contemplating the entire thing but before he could turn around and disappear, the door opened. And there you were, in a plaid shirt that probably belonged to Hopper at some point, hair sticking up in places. 

"Steve?"

"H-hey", His cheeks turned pink when your eyes met his and then your gaze trailed down to the flowers and ice cream held out in front of him. The corners of your mouth curving into a smile. That smile– the one he'd couldn't get enough of. "You didn't call today, hopper could've been here”, you said, looking back up at him. he wondered if you could tell how nervous he was.

"Yeah, sorry, I uh- I bought this", he held up the ice cream cup and then the bouquet, "and- and these f- for you", he stuttered as he handed you both. God, whatever happened to the harrington charm?

You let out a giggle as you hugged the flowers close to your chest, "yeah, well duh", you joked, not truly understanding the meaning behind his gesture. It was pretty common for Steve to bring you ice cream anyway, the flowers didn't make sense but then again you weren't the greatest at grasping social cues.

You turned on your heel, socked feet moving toward the kitchen so you could grab a spoon for the ice cream. Steve was still stuck, standing at the doorway, face bright red.

You started rummaging through the drawers in the kitchen to try and find two spoons. When you found them, you held the pair up in the air, one for him to take, “Here,” looking back up at him, you saw that he was already looking at you as if about to say something.

say it.

“You okay?” you asked, brows pulled together.

okay, maybe don't say it.

“Steve? Why do you look so–”

fuck it.

"I like you", Steve blurted out– like he was ripping a bandaid. You stopped in your tracks and stared at him, the easy smile on your face fell. He fucked up, didn't he? He has ruined everything, and now he has lost another friend–

You burst into laughter, “yeah, I know Steve. I like you too." you playfully hit his upper arm before holding up the spoon again, "Here.”

the utensil still stayed in your hand, the deep furrow in his brow hadn't disappeared, only, it grew deeper.

"What?" you asked with an uneasy laugh.

“That not what I… meant”, he paused, "I- I like you."

You blinked, processing it, all that came out was, “oh.”

He calls out your name. He let out a deep breath, you however looked like you had forgotten how to breathe. Steve squeezed his eyes shut, mentally berating himself for being so nervous– it was a first for him.

you looked at him like a deer caught in headlights, he could almost see the cogs and gears turning in your head. after a few seconds you spoke up, “We’re… we’re best friends...” your voice barely a whisper.

Steve swallowed, trying his best not to show any disappointment on his features, nodding slowly before before turning to rush out of the door and get the hell out of there.

“Steve?” he heard behind him and despite his mind telling him to leave, his heart echoed. he swallowed, turning around hesitantly. and there you were, hair still messy, clothes wrinkled as always, hands fidgeting by your sides, you looked as if you were preparing yourself to say something.

You walked towards him and as you stood infront of him, you gulped. but you didn't say anything.

next thing he knew your lips were on his and the moment after it they were gone. it ended as quickly as he felt it.

You looked at him with doe eyes, Steve knew he probably had the stupidest grin on his face. a shy toothy smile grew on your face too. he extended his hand to you, you took it and he realised that you were trembling. He squeezed your hand. His gaze trailed down to your lips, you bit your lips before speaking up in barely above a whisper. "I think... that I like you too."

Steve let out another exacerbated breath as he smiled wider. His face was all red, and his stupid dopey smile that probably looked as though he'd won a lottery.

He murmured your name through bated breath. "Yeah, Steve?"

"Can I- uh- do that again?", His fingers intertwined with yours almost as if to make sure that this was actually happening.

You nodded quickly.

Your eyes fluttered close as he landed a chaste kiss on your lips. Steve made sure that the kiss was light and soft, almost as if dipping his toe to test the waters. And before you knew it, it was already over. He pulled back eyes wandering over your features, looking to make sure that you were okay with this. You looked back up at him with your lips slightly parted– in an unreadable expression.

"You okay?", He asked quietly. You nodded, "yeah, you okay?"

"never better."

...

That was the start of something big, Steve knew that. Although it had only been a week since the incident, he knew he didn't just like you– there was way more. There was care, there was understanding, there was trust and more.

Memories swirled in both your heads while your hands worked on their own accord, still doing the laundry. You picked up Hopper's dirty uniform pants, following the routine of checking the pockets. Then you reached for the shirt of the pair in the basket yet it was nowhere to be seen.

"Hey, Stevie", you piped up and he let out a small hum behind you. "Could you go and get Hopper's shirt from his room?"

"Sure can." He mumbled before pecking your cheek and then he went to Hopper's room to retrieve the shirt. He was back within mere seconds, "here ya go, your highness", he said, handing you the shirt that reeked of way too much sweat, cigarettes and beer.

You continued with the work, taking out the cigarettes from the pocket with a sigh. Hopper had promised that he'd quit smoking so much– guess he broke that promise. 

Steve picked up the pack and took one in his mouth, searching for a lighter. You took the cigarette out from between his lips and the pack in his hand and threw it in the trash. "C'mon don't be like Hopper" you said with a frown, "he literally can't stay away from those."

“One smoke wont hurt. Besides I haven't smoked in more than a year now”, Steve said returning to his previous position of holding you, "don't wanna be a bad role model for the kids, I guess."

"Wow, now you really sound like a dad", you let out a chuckle.

"I'm not their dad", he groaned.

"So, mom, huh?"

"I wont kiss you if you keep calling me that", he mumbled behind your ear– a giggle erupting at the ticklish feeling and what was now an inside joke between you two. "Let's just stick with ‘role model’" you nodded.

"I'd say that they look up to you…. Especially Dustin"

".....Y' think so?"

You hummed in response. It didn't take a genius to notice the bond between Dustin and Steve. Sure, it was a bit out of normal to befriend someone five years younger than oneself but then again none of the circumstances they'd been through were normal. And ever since the previous year's events, Steve Harrington and Dustin Henderson had developed a sort of brotherly bond.

"cool", he muttered nonchalantly.

Comfortable silence once again fell between the two of you. Steve drew circles on the exposed skin beneath the hem of your shirt, his fingers leaving sparks along the surface. In all honesty, you wanted to drop all your laundry and just let him hold you, kiss you.

You and Steve had only been together for more than a week at this point– only going as far as kissing. You were still incredibly new to all relationship stuff, so Steve (despite being quite a horndog) had given you plenty of space. The last thing he wanted to do was make you feel uncomfortable or unsafe– and you were grateful for that. However, it was hard to ignore the attraction you both felt for each other. In ways both emotional and physical. Hopper hadn't ever truly given you the birds and bees talk, so you were a little clueless in the process of it all. Yet you knew that you felt something when it came to Steve Harrington. Something that you've never felt before. 

You put in the last shirt in the machine, with the detergent and started it. You turned around in Steve's arms as you wrapped yours around his neck. 

His hair was short of a mess, but it was still a pretty mess and stray strands bounced against his forehead. You both were so close that you could count all the moles and freckles on his face. Your gaze ran over all his features, taking it all in, engraving it to memory. Because you didn’t want to forget about the slight pinkish hue of his cheeks, the small bump on his nose that might’ve been the result of being hit a few times too many, or his lips. His soft, pink, warm, yet slightly chapped lips. The very same that had been on yours just a bit ago. Your proximity even allowed you to see the scars that the previous years had brought to him, they were small and barely noticeable now but they were there and you wanted to trace them and kiss them all. 

“Y’know I would’ve called you creepy for staring so intently, if you weren’t so cute”, Steve smirked.

You tried to hide your face in his chest to hide your embarrassed features. He kissed the top of your head, mumbling a little, “you’re so cute”

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“I was thinking….”, your voice tapered off as you tried to look for the right words.

“Yeah, what were you thinking?”

“Y’know… Thinking about... us?”

His breath hitched as the worst case scenarios started racing through his mind. Did you want to break up? Did you not feel the same? Were you going to leave? Were you-

"And…. I think that–", you gestured vaguely with your hands, trying your best to convey what you were trying to say without really saying it but Steve's mind was running a million miles a second. You could almost see the gears turning in his brain, and perhaps he was starting to understand what you were saying but still wanted you to say it out loud, "I'm y'know– Ready?"

"Ready for?"

"Y'know! Ready for…", you fidgeted with his hair, your eyes not meeting his, "Sex?" 

"Oh." Steve let out a breath of relief as his concerns drifted away.

"If u want to, obviously", you quickly added.

"Oh, I want to but are you sure? We don't have to rush, and we won't do anything unless you're sure of it, you know right?"

"Yeah, I– I know "

"So? Are you sure?"

"I think so, yeah", you mumbled in the most unconvincing way, you really weren’t sure if you were being honest. Steve frowned, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

"How 'bout you sit on this idea a bit more, ok? And if and when you're sure then and only then will we do it, ok?"

You nodded, shoulders relaxing. "Can I still get a kiss, though?"

"Of course your highness", he murmured with a smile as he leaned his head to kiss you. Your hands went to his hair again and his went to hold your cheeks. He held you so softly as if you'd break if you were to slip out of his hands. His palms helped in tilting your head sideways so he could kiss you deeper. But before you could continue, there was a knock at the door. You both immediately moved away as a reflex. 

"I thought you were going to be alone", Steve ran his fingers through his hair to fix his brown locks.

"It's probably El", you reason while fixing your own hair, "Please hide in my room?"

"But–"

"Steve, if she finds out about us she'll tell Hopper, and I wanna tell him myself please?"

"Ok ok, Jesus."

"Thanks", you mutter before landing a quick kiss on his cheek and then jogging to the front door of the cabin. There you are met with the faces of your little sister and her boyfriend. 

“Hey guys! You are–”

“We’re late, we know”, Mike huffed out, annoyed.

“Yeah, so late”, you hadn't even noticed that they were late.

“Are you mad at me?”, Eleven looked at you with such puppy-dog eyes that your heart immediately melted– you could never truly be angry at El. Mike however-

“No, El. I’m not mad, don’t worry”, Eleven grins at you and then hugs you tightly– squeezing you mercilessly. Suddenly, the young girl stills. When she pulled away, you noticed that her eyebrows were knitted together– her eyes were roaming around the cabin as if looking for something. 

"What's wrong?"

"There's something– I felt something" she spoke with a cautious tone as she walked to the middle of the room– next to the coffee table– looking for any signs of the upside down, demogorgons or demo-dogs. You weren't the only one traumatized, Eleven perhaps more so than you– not that it was a competition. The girl had single-handedly fought interdimensional monsters multiple times already and she wasn't even fourteen yet. The hair on her hand arose in goosebumps, "there's something in here."

Your mind went back to the previous night and the uneasiness you'd felt. You'd chalked it up to your imagination and anxiety– there's no way they were back– but what if they were? Eleven sure as hell was feeling something and you felt it the night before too– it couldn't be a coincidence. Perhaps Steve Harrington was wrong. Perhaps those things are still out there, waiting for the correct moment to attack– ready to tear you apart, the moment you look away.

Eleven walked towards your rooms, Mike following behind her. The short-haired girl's steps stopped right in front of your room. The same room you'd felt that thing last night. The same room in which Steve was hiding. Steve.

Steve.

Uh oh.

"El– it's probably nothing–", you tried to stop her from discovering your scandalous affair but before you could complete your sentence, the superpowered girl used her powers to open the door wide open. Your gaze darted across the room– no Steve Harrington in sight. "See? told you", a sigh of relief left your lips, he had probably gone out the window, "its nothing."

But Eleven's posture was still stiff, she took careful and cautious steps towards your closet, eyeing the thing as if it was your poor hand-me-downs who she fought against the previous years.

"Eleven–"

Mike shushed you. Eleven moved closer to the closet, she braced her legs and held out her arm, ready to use her powers.

"El–"

Eleven yanked her hand and the doors to the closet flew open and from between your clothes emerged none other than Steve Harrington– in all his messy hair glory. "Woah, woah woah woah!--" His back slammed against the wall and he let out a pained grunt. 

"Steve?!" Both Eleven and Mike questioned.

"hey", he whimpered.

"Oh god, are you okay?" You walked over to him, helping him stand up, checking for any bruises or signs of injury.

"What is Steve doing here?" Eleven inquired.

"He's here because.. Because I- I called him" he nodded along to you "I was kinda bored" you added

"And why was he hiding?" Mike interrogated with a cocked brow. 

"Well—"

"I wasn't hiding—"

"El, you know how Hopper feels about people visiting the cabin", you fidgeted with the edge of your shirt, "he'd get mad."

Eleven knew. She knew how much convincing it took for Hopper to allow Mike to visit her at the cabin– it took him weeks. So she knew how you felt. "Okay", She nodded. She held Mike's arm and started pulling him to her room.

"Okay– uh— El, D'you need anything to eat or something?"

"Eggos!", she said over her shoulder.

"Soda f'me!", mike shouted back.

"Okay."

El closed the door behind her, let go of Mike's arm as she went to wipe the droplet of blood that was on her upper lip. 

"So are (y/n) and Steve like, fucking?" Mike asked with a disgusted look.

"F–fucking?" She repeated, confused.

"Um— you know like…", Mike scratched the back of his neck, "are they dating? Like us?"

"I don't know."

"Cuz I'm pretty sure they are."

"Fucking?"

"uh..... Sure", he was going to regret teaching El that word, most definitely.

...

"I think Wheeler might be onto us."

Steve was sitting on the countertop as you loaded the toaster with eggos. 

"Of course he is– of all people—"

"I swear that kid hates me."

"I mean— you are his sister's ex so it's a little bit weird"

"Yeah, I guess"

You walked over to the fridge, taking out the whipped cream, chocolate and candies.

"Oh, am I about to witness the triple decker eggo extravaganza?"

"No. The eggo extravaganza is made specifically by Hop for when El is mad at him. This is the eggo spectacular sandwich", you state while setting down the ingredients, "my recipe!" You added with a proud grin.

"Wow, so I guess eggo is to El, what ice cream is to you?", He suggested with a small smile.

"I suppose."

"I wanna know the secret recipe"

"You can't! It's a secret!"

You both let out a laugh. the radio from Eleven's room started blasting "good old-fashioned loverboy" by Queen. Steve then hopped down form the counter, running his hands through his hair. He stood right beside you on the counter, knocking his hips with your— you returned the action. Giggling at your antics. The brunette boy started singing along to the lyrics. He brought your hand up to his shoulder and held the other one with his. His right hand rested on your back as you danced goofily. He started kissing you.

You pull away when the eggos pop up from the toaster. You quickly assemble two eggo spectacular sandwiches and carry the two plates to Eleven's room. "Oh shit— Steve? Grab the soda for Mike please?"

Steve took out a can of coke from the refrigerator, kicking the door close behind him as he followed behind you.

"And here's your eggo sandwiches!", You announced with enthusiasm.

"Here's your coke, man", Steve muttered without an atom of enthusiasm while tossing the can in Mike's general direction— the black haired boy barely managed to catch it. The boy looked at you and then Steve with narrow eyes as he opened the tab, he maintained eye contact while he took the first couple sips of the fizzy drink. Both you and Steve tried your best to avert your gaze.

"Uh– okay I'll be in the TV room if you guys need me", you uttered awkwardly before pushing yourself and Steve out of the room's confinement.

"God, I swear if Wheeler figures out about us, he will tell Will, Lucas, Max, and Dustin. And that kid won't ever shut up about it", Steve said— rubbing his face in frustration. "And if Hopper finds out about this? I am screwed!"

"Please Hop wouldn't do that", you stated, "and I'm thinking of telling him and El today, anyway."

"Wait, seriously?"

You nodded.

"You think I should be there?"

"No no no, I wanna do it with just them around"

"Oh, okay", he fixed his hair— gaze falling on the wall clock, "Oh, shit I gotta go" he pecked your cheek, "or I'll be late…. Again "

"It wasn't my fault last time and it isn't my fault this time either ", you commented behind him as he picked his jacket up, slinging it over his shoulder. He muttered a quick "bye" before he was out the door— off to the mall, to his job.

You let out a deep sigh— reminiscent of your old deadbeat job you had at the gift shop near Melvald's when you lived in the camp next to the Munson's. Although Jim had gotten you a place to live you still needed money, so you'd gotten yourself a job— wrapping gifts and bouquets for people. It would always flutter your heart when people would tell you and ramble a bit about their lives, then you'd spend hours filling in the gaps— wondering how the day turned out for them. You reckoned it was one of the reasons why you were so infatuated by the idea of love. Up until recently it had been such a familiar yet alienating feeling.

But now here you were! Sure, you were unemployed now, but you had a father, a sister and an amazing and beautiful boyfriend and you weren't alone. But the more you thought about it the more you realised that you were— alone, that is.

You still locked yourself in the cabin, telling yourself that it could be still dangerous— and you weren't willing to take a risk.

It wasn't always like this, there was a time when you would actually go out with Steve— sometimes to his house, sometimes to Dustins, or the arcade or anywhere. But ever since you graduated with Steve, you'd made rules for yourself. You won't leave the house anymore, it was too dangerous anyway. You quit your job because it was shitty and you didn't want people seeing you. And although you'd made those decisions, you still wished for a job, missing all the stories you'd make up about the people who visited you. 

You spent the next couple hours going through a cardboard box that was filled up with all things Steve and you. Whether it be the graduation hat you wore, or the beer cans from when you got drunk for the first time, or polaroids of you both, flowers he'd bought you, and everything else that tied you two together.

A couple hours passed by, Jim made his presence known with a knock at the front door. You went up to open the door. And as you looked up at Hopper you noticed the bags and dark circles under his eyes— he looked tired and smelled of beer and cigarettes. "Hey, kid", he muttered through his bushy moustache. You let out a sigh and went in to get him some water. 

"El back yet?"

"Yeah", you said giving him the glass, "in her room with Mike", you pointed towards the door with your thumb.

"Wheeler's here?"

"When's he not?" You rolled your eyes. The man handed you the glass back and took off his shoes and went into his room. He emerged out within a few minutes.

"Movie night?", He offered

"But El is with Mike."

"What about just us two, huh? Haven't done that in a while"

You agreed and before you knew it you were Cozied up in a blanket while hopper was on the lazyboy. You both watched a random movie while sharing chips, candy and soda. After about thirty minutes into the movie, you noticed Hopper was distracted, the muffled music from Eleven's room was in fact breaking your immersion too. He shoved a handful of chips in his mouth while downing some beer from the can. You turned your gaze back to the TV screen. 

"Hey!" Your eyes averted from the screen to him who was now looking at Eleven's now shut door with seething anger. He got up quickly, shouting, "HEY! Three inch minimum! Leave the door open three inches!" He went for the locked door handle, "El? Open this door", he said with gritted teeth, "Open. This. Door—"

The door opened but El and Mike weren't kissing, they were just reading magazines. "What's wrong?", You tried to hold in your laughter at noticing that Mike was holding his upside down. Hopper clearly noticed too.

"Thank God, you don't have a partner," he said pointing at you, "I can't imagine another stupid, undeserving boy hogging up my child." You bit your tongue at his anger. There went your chance to talk about Steve.

It was 12:30 a.m. and you really didn't feel like sleeping. You'd been feeling the headache, again.  You went to the kitchen, heading straight to the fridge— taking out the peanut butter jar and pineapple can. Right when you put a spoonful of the mixture in your mouth the light of the kitchen switched on.

"Why in the hell are you up so late?", Hopper interrogated.

You let out a loud yelp, cringing at the sound— the volume sure to wake up neighbours, if you had any. Through the three inch opening of Eleven's room's door, you could see that the light also turned on. 

"What are you doing?", The man asked, tucking his gun in his waist belt— surely he had thought of your midnight snack sounds for an interdimensional monster's sounds.

“Nofhing”, you said through a mouthful.

Hopper had known you since you were fourteen, he knew it might've had something to do with a nightmare. “Did you have another one?”

You stopped mid chew, avoiding his eyes– a tell.

“Same thing?”

Before you could say anything, the door to Eleven's room creaked and the short haired girl slowly stepped out, said hair sticking up as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

"Everything okay?", She asked.

"Yeah, El shorry.", You apologised.

"Oh, it's okay," she said with a soft smile.

"It's not okay, what are you doing up so late?"

"I was Exshpanding my taste horizons", you stated, looking at Hopper like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"With peanut butter and pineapple at 12 in the morning?" He asked with narrow eyes.

"Please don't question my methods, Hop. I was hungry and wanted to try something new"

“How's that working out for you?”

“I... haven't decided yet.”

"I want to expand my taste ho- horizons too", Eleven imparted, struggling with the pronunciation of the new word.

"See? El gets me."

"Sure, whatever." Jim waved his hand off, "expand whatever, but you both better be asleep within thirty minutes", he ordered before going back to his room.

"Let's go to my room."

You and Eleven were lying on your bed now, covered in blankets. Much to your dismay Eleven wasn't a big fan of the food combo so you took her remaining portion too. Eleven looked around the room, eyes bouncing from one thing to another. It had dawned on you now that eleven had never been in your room for this long.

She got up from her place and picked up a brown teddy bear with a blue ribbon around its neck that was kept on top of your room's table.

"Oh, you found Mr. Arnold Bearenbearer"

"Arnold, w- what?"

"You can just call him Mr. Arnold", you laughed at the stupid name Hopper had given to the soft toy, "Hop gave it to me the first time I was here. I didn't have a place to live, so he took me in for a few"

"I remember being so scared that the bad men were going to get me or worse", you smile soon faded at the thought of the people from the lab and the amount of fear you had felt. "I'm sure Hop noticed and he gave me Mr. Arnold— I think he belonged to Sarah"

"Sarah? Hopper's daughter?"

You nodded with a hum. 

"I don't know what it is about Mr. Arnold. It's like he has powers— just holding him makes you feel so safe"

"Mr. Arnold has powers? Like us?"

"Just like us— he uses his powers to help others who get a little scared or lonely, with a hug!"

Eleven gave the soft toy a tight squeezing hug and she visibly relaxed.

"He smells like you and Steve", she whispered into the fur of the bear.

"Yeah, well, don't tell this to anyone but Steve gets scared sometimes too."

"He does?", She asked with wide eyes as if what you'd told her was the most unbelievable thing.

You hummed "Everybody gets scared every once in a while, it's completely okay too." An image of Steve hugging Mr. Arnold tightly like a scared little boy flashed in your head. How he'd once visited you in the middle of the night with red eyes and disheveled hair-- saying he couldn't sleep because of the nightmares. You'd told Steve about Mr. Arnold and just an hour later he was asleep-- free from all the bad dreams.

Eleven came underneath the blanket with Mr. Arnold snug in her arms. She lied down on her side while you lied on your back. after a moment of settling in, she called out your name softly.

"Yeah?", You turned your head slightly towards her.

"Are…. Are you and Steve fucking?", She asked with the most earnest look.

"... what– what did you say?"

"Fucking?"

"D'you know what that word means?"

"Kissing and dating?"

"Who told you that?" trying your best to not laugh, El was a sensitive girl, you didn't want her to think that you were making fun of her– you could never.

"Mike told me."

"Of course he did", you mumbled to yourself before turning on your side— towards her. "Why don't you ask Mike what that means again tomorrow, huh?"

"Okay", she paused as if making a mental note to do so, "So are you and Steve….."

"Yeah, yeah we are."

"You're like me and Mike?"

"Yep."

"why did you not tell me or Hopper?"

"Steve and I have been together for like a week and I was planning on telling both you and Hopper today— but I don't think now's the right time y'know?"

"You will not tell Hop?"

"I will, I just need some time, okay? you know now, I'll tell hopper soon too, I promise", you really were tired of sneaking around, you wanted Hopper to know. tomorrow- you promise yourself. "Promise you won't tell Hopper till then?" its not like you didn't trust her but she isn't the best at hiding something.

"But friends don't lie."

"I'm not lying El, its keeping a secret. I'll tell him but I want to be the one who tells him. you know how I don't tell Hopper if you sneak off with mike without telling him or something like that–"

"So I don't tell Hopper?"

"Yeah", you looked at her with anticipation.

she looked at you, mulling over it before nodding and saying a whispered, "Okay."

silence settles over the two of you. you were almost asleep when eleven's voice saying your name brought you back to consciousness. "Does Steve kiss you?"

you cleared your throat, heat rushed to your cheeks, "uh, yeah, that's what boyfriends do."

"D'you like it?"

"Sure do."

"I like it too, when mike does it."

You hummed, you weren't really sure how to respond. Both you and Eleven fell silent for a bit. your eyes started drooping again.

you heard the girl say your name again, you hummed, "Yeah, El?"

"I think Steve's nice."

"You think so?", You smiled. she nodded in response, a smile of her own.

"... Do you think Mike is nice?"

"I don't really know him that well, but he seems nice, he really does care for you." you really didn't know how to feel about the boy. he seemed to really care about your sister, but you didn't know why, you didn't trust him. not in a he's-gonna-betray-my-sister kind of way but rather, i-don't-know-if he's-right-for her. but maybe you just needed to give both of them a break, they weren't even fourteen, for god's sake.

Your name was called again, you hummed.

“You're awake because you had a nightmare again, aren't you?” the sleepy smile on your face slipped, you looked at her. she looked at you expectantly.

friends don't lie, “...yeah", your voice came as all but a whisper, before the girl could say anything you quickly added, gaze back at the ceiling, "but i don't feel like talking about it right now.”

"Okay", she said, suppressing a yawn.

"Let's get you to bed okay?"

"Here", she wrapped an arm around your torso and mumbled into the pillow, "I wanna sleep here."

"Okay, 'night kiddo", You put your palm behind her head, playing with her hair, scratching her scalp lightly.

She let out a sleepy hum before breathing out a "'night" herself. You continued carding your fingers through her slightly tangled hair as her soft snores floated in the air— before drifting off to sleep yourself.

Hopper wanted to be resting but he also wanted his two kids to be fast asleep at a reasonable time. he was trying his hardest to be the best father he could be— emphasis on trying. So, thirty minutes after he'd found you in the kitchen, shoving pineapple covered in peanut butter in your mouth, he went to check both your rooms to make sure you both were back in bed.

When he saw Eleven's room empty, he felt the beginnings of anger rising in his head. He then looked through the three inch gap of your room's door and saw both you and Eleven cuddled up and sound asleep. Any amount of anger or worry simmered down as he noticed your calm and serene faces— both your gentle snores muffled by the quilt. 

He felt a smile creeping onto his features. He then turned back towards his room— footsteps as quiet as possible and went back to slumber himself.

...

A/n: i hope the time jumps weren't too confusing. if they were let me know! i'll try to explain them <3

[yetanothersparrowofthedawn]

Love Songs and Shit (Extended Masterpost)

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x YN

Genre: Angst, Hurt, Fluff, Smut (honestly it varies depending on the chapter)

Wordcount: if only I knew...

Plot: YN is a popular American singer-songwriter who, on a rainy evening in 2018, crossed path with the members of Greta Van Fleet. It didn't take long for the usually detached and fiercely independent girl to experience an unfamiliar itch. As she put pen to paper, it seemed a certain long-haired guitarist had her thinking about writing love songs and shit.

Concept: Each Album is a period of YN's journey, each track is a song she wrote after a specific chapter, so basically her discography is a chronological story of her life (with Jake, mostly). I'm currently not posting chapters in chronological order, but everything is organized in chronological order on this Masterpost.

Disclaimer: All the album covers are paintings by Norwegian painter Henrik Aarrestad Uldalen I edited. So, credit to that guy.

Also some chapters may involve triggering themes, I'll add the specific trigger warnings at the beginning of each chapter. Stay safe, besties.

(PREQUEL)Debut Album: "Remain Nameless" => NOT YET STARTED

Old Money

Seven

Blue Velvet

Lost at Sea

Bel Air

South London Forever

This is what makes us girls

Dollhouse

All-American Bitch

Hope There’s Someone

Grace

idontwannabeyouanymore

Remain Nameless

Brutal

Rabbit Heart

National Anthem

2nd Album: "Sweet Nothings" => NOT YET STARTED

The Night We Met

Ride

Lover to Lover

Body Electric

Moves

Hiding

Hope is a Dangerous thing for me to have

Love Song

Sweet nothings

3rd Album: "Let the Light In" => NOT YET STARTED

Wildest dreams

All the girls you've loved before

Cornelia street

How Big, How blue, How beautiful

Dress

Love

Always Remember Us This Way

Let the Light In

Lover

4th Album: "How to Disappear" => NOT YET STARTED

The Next Best American Record

King

Brooklyn Baby

How to Disappear

Mariners Apartment Complex

Norman Fucking Rockwell

Watercolor Eyes

Sky Full of Song

One step forward, three steps back

Out of the woods

5th Album: "The Greatest" => NOT YET STARTED

Happiness is a Butterfly

Swan song

Too Good at Goodbyes

Favorite Crime

You're Losing Me

Without You

The Greatest

6th album: "Long & Lost" => IN PROGRESS

Hits Different (coming soon..)

Now that we don’t talk

Beautiful People with Beautiful Problems

Long & Lost (coming next)

Is it over Now? (coming soon..)

All This and Heaven Too

7th Album: "St Jude" => DONE

California

Secrets from a Girl

Style

The Way I loved You

St Jude

All You Had to do Was Stay

Honeymoon

Happier than ever

8th Album: "The End of Love" => ON HIATUS

The Bomb

Prayer Factory

River

All too well

Caught

Stargirl Interlude

Getaway car

Angels like you

Various Storms and Saints

Leave my Body

Cassandra

The End of Love

9th Album: "Dream Girl Evil" => NOT YET STARTED

Carmen

A&W

Hometown Glory

Dream Girl Evil

Swimming

Restraint

Sober

Sober II

Heaven Is Here

June

God knows I tried

Never Let Me Go

(SEQUEL) 10th Album: "Margaret" => NOT YET STARTED

Morning Elvis

Girls against God

Mama who bore me

Patricia

Did you know that there's a tunnel under ocean boulevard?

Kitsungi

Back in Town

I Drink Wine

Back to December

Margaret

[ijustwantogethigh]

good evening, a request please, from apollo x reader poseidon (the reader is percy's half-sister, she arrived at the camp at the same time as him) the reader danced with the nayades in the river while apollo

He fell in love when he saw her dance (like Poseidon with Host), or when I can write you, there is no pressure or anything, I apologize if it is not understood, I use a translator

HEY ANON! thank you for requesting, I tried, but it was a long time ago since I read a Percy Jackson's book,so it took time bc I re-read the book to be more accurate it's a little OOC, I hope you don't mind,and i put more things to not make it too short so I love u for using the translator thank you!

Poseidon!Daughter reader x Apollo

dam jokes..A lot, Percy's nickname for reader is blobfish, she is 16 and Apollo..Yeah more than 15000 /it's Apollo not Lester my friend/ Apollo nicknames y/n as ASTERI that's star in Greek♥

Sunrise 𝓐pogeum.

It's been two weeks since the Manhattan war ended, and everything was fine, campier doing his chores, some others packing for the next summer ready to go home, he was standing next to Rachel Elizabeth Dare, the new Oracle, now he was complaining her to rest in the spare room in the big house, Rachel was pretty.

but not pretty as y/n, the gorgeous Demigod alive, if she wasn't a Poseidon child, will mistake her as a Aphrodite Daughter, her hair shine with the sun, her brownish-tanned skin, Kissed by the sun, her melodious voice!, he was so down for her, but she still was a demigod, and gods and demigods did not mix together but it is not like Apollo cares right?…right?.

Rachel was resting now, he come back outside, walking through it was the camp, when he saw her, again, the first time both meet, was during the war, she was undoubtedly angry, her hands bloody, and even a big cut in the side of her cheek probably will left a scar, she didn't take care of it, she fought side-to-side with him.

but she didn't even notice, now she was dancing dancing with a group of nayades in the lake, he felt so odd, she moved like swan, she was obviously wet, a beautiful girl,he felt like enchanting her to make her his wife, make her an immortal demigod, he was in love from a demigoddess, the Nayades feeling his predatory gaze against the girl, covers her, and the god leaves, not seeing his girl anymore, he gets bored.

Monday!

But he didn't let it die until this day, he left a poem for her, stick in the back of a mirror, with little seashells on the edge of it, and it was blue.

''In golden rays where shadows play, A sunlit heart beats bold and Bright, He casts his warmth upon the shore, While waves embrace their ancient lore. A daughter of the ocean's grace, With laughter bright, she weaves her space, Her spirit dances in a sea-like swirl, Unknowing of the sun that longs to twirl. He paints the sky with hues of fire, While she swims deep, lost in desire, The tides of dreams pull her away, From the warmth of love that seeks to stay. With every dawn, he rises high, A silent wish, a longing sigh, While she, beneath the azure dome, Knows not the heart that calls her home. In realms of water, air, and light, Two worlds apart, yet spark ignites, For in their depths, a tale unfolds, Of sun and sea, a love untold''

-The mirror is for you, so you can look how pretty you are, and to remind you that with no sun, it's not fun to go to the beach princess. att: 𝓐.

She smirked looking herself in the mirror expecting something, he saw through the distance, well hided, she looked both sides, expecting the stoll brothers to tell her is a weird prank.

but the smirk morphed into a frown, she didn't like those jokes, they were mocking about her appearance? How down!. Until Percy, comes out saying

''why is the door open, close it, I hate those dam fly's!''

''are you just worried about the fly's?''

'' They are mocking about me and you care about dam fly's?''

she says, holding the mirror in her hands, closing the door, keeping the mirror and the beautiful poem.

Does she just miss pretended everything? She was definitely Percy's half sister.

Tuesday?

Through the night, he left a little box with chocolates and cookies with seashell figure, and left a Puka shell necklace with a little sun charm, he was being obvious at this point and he left.

the beginning morning he was talking with helios, helios was kind of angry of seeing the god trying to get a demigoddess,

''hey no, I'm just trying to get her attention, I'll ask her when she is 18''

and the sun god just look bad at him, and he saw her, looking a bit sleepy, face swollen, she tripped with the box, Apollo was dying from anxiety, she picked the blue box up revealing the contend from it.

very pretty and must be delicious cookies and chocolates, WITH SEASHELL FIGURES! She ran inside, waking up Percy, to look at the present his secret admirer sent her

'look! IT'S A DAM DOLPHIN!''

''Blobfish…shut Up.. It's dam 9 o'clock..haha..A dolphin''

-he says sleepy, taking one from the box, eating it sleepy due the hour, he was just not a morning person.

'like..He or she is calling me skinny? Okay that's a big ouch''

The god only pushed his hands into his mouth to not scream from frustration, his princess just didn't understand.

Wednesday…

He was just stressed, this weekend his princess probably is leaving to go back home with her mom this time, he left a bracelet beads kit, and there's was a bracelet made up ''Asteri'' was in the blue, white and yellow beads, she smiled, feeling like a little kid, her mom used to bought her those for Christmas, until she ate one…whatever, And there's was another note.

'aye Asteri, I'm saying the truth, I'll never be mean to some one I love, do not miss pretend everything I do to love you'' att: 𝓐

she felt like faithing,, then it was a guy!, one who was too shy to ask her out, she smiled, and backed up to her cabin to show Percy the new thingy his 'secret boyfriend'' how Percy baptized him, get her.

'so, a Bracelet kit? How old are you, 6?'' ''tf you mean 6? Annie gifted you a sea creature coloring book..'' ''IT'S DIFFERENT, IT'S FOR COLORING!'' ''AND THIS IS FOR FRIENDSHIP BRACELETS! You ain't getting one'' ''Ain't letting you color in ma' book''

Thursday.

He got tired of letting his gifts in the morning, not a morning person either, and this time, she saw her, a little sad. Maybe he influenced her? ''why are you sad y/n?''

ooh OH! Her secret boyfriend didn't appear this morning..So she feels sad, even though she told me she didn't want a boyfrien-'' but she shut him until he finished.

'shut up, if he is a camper he could feel bad and,,uh no, it's not that'' she says, giving her new friendship bracelet to Annabeth.

''Secret boyfriend, what in the world is that?''

she says, whispering thank you, every person that was percy's friend got a friendship bracelet, even nico had one, and Grover, but no Percy.

'like a guy that is not his boyfriend but wants to be, all week has sended her gifts and today no'' he says, coloring in his book while talking, mocking his sisters disgrace.

'maybe yeah, he told me he would never hurt someone he loves, and why disappear in the middle of something!''

''You have the heart of a chicken'' he looked at her, with a serious expression.

And she gasped in horror.

Annabeth, with the Poseidon's kids, walked to the cabin,y/n just wanted Annabeth to see the disaster of cabin Percy had.

until in the stairs of the cabin, a glass box rested covered in some leaves, with …blue Cinnamon rolls?, she screamed like she saw someone eating caviar /it's actually an anecdote/ Annabeth was giggling and fangirling with Y/n.

'HE CAME OMG HE LOVES ME!'' ''YEAH.. Um? HE DOES!'' ''WHY THEY LOOK MUCH MORE EDIBLE WHEN ARE BLUE?!''

Percy screamed to gain the attention. And a new note was attached to the glassbox.

'sorry for making you wait for Asteri, I woke up late, I hope you and your brother like them. Did you think I wouldn't find out if you shared them? Take care Asteri'' att. 𝓐

She screamed, entering again, to share those very delicious Cinnamon rolls with her friends, Apollo, through the dusk of the sun that got from the windows, saw her putting the note, with the other things he had gifted her, it was mere luck she had liked them, it's not like he was giving her random stuff, those are things she liked when she was younger.

Friday

Today she was alone, this time he didn't appear. She gave him time, but he never showed up with a last gift.

She cutted one of the flowers,Percy and Annie give her like a goodbye, putting it in her hair, and, with all her things packed, she was on the lake, looking it, very very sad, it was more like nostalgia.

she was going home, but most of her friends weren't gonna be there, even if Percy told he they can always do Iris call's with Annie, she didn't want to interrupt those calls with his girlfriend.

Leo was staying in the camp,and pipes too. She felt so good, but at the same time sad, the winter was going to last too much, and the summer went like river water. Maybe she was just 16 to think like that, but she was just a girl.

It was dusk, the time when the sun is going down and the sky looks orange, she sigh, when getting up, until a bright like blinded her, in the water was a very, handsome man, golden hair, tanned skin and..Wet clothes, walked towards the water, she wasn't dumb-

'Apollo..?' why are you here?'' Elizabeth was the first to leave before the Manhattan war to his college, she was confused. 'II came for you *my 𝓐steri'' he pronounced, with a big bright smile, giving her a bouquet of sunflowers. She was confused, but more shocked, she grabbed the bouquet, looking at the most pretty sunflowers. ''y-you? You are,,'' she stuttered the words, her throat felt dry, and she got stiff from the panic. ''yes my Asteri, I am the one who has gifted you everything, now I have the brave to show up to you'' ''what I'm supposed to do I-'' ''you do not have to do something, just..Let me be with you, protect you'' ''i know this kind of thing, I can't be with you,, I'm so sorry'' 'don't be, I'm the fool who fell first, but please, let me be at your side..Please, to the time you'd have go, there's no sun, so I'm here to guide you, tomorrow in the morning we leave from here''

He was talking about guiding me to my home? What kind of deal was this? I nodded, and we both just talked in front of the lake, sitting making eachother company.

BONUS

''WOAH you meet him in person?! HE BRIGHTS IN THE DARK?!'' a little golden-brunette haired boy screamed.

''yes, but he is strong too, he used to gift me sunflowers''

''why daddy didn't get mad?''

''well, it's you daddy who gifted me the sunflowers my love''

The kid didn't catch it at first, but he kept eating his blue cinnamon rolls, while both were watching the TV, the sun was coming through its windows, the dusk had already begun.