#and i hope that loneliness and silence swallows him whole to make up for all of the fucking times he has essentially called me worthless

[flying-cat]

"why don't you ever do the dishes" (standing on my hurt feet after working all day and it's 6pm) well why the fuck didn't YOU do the dishes during the EIGHT FUCKING HOURS i was at work instead of sitting on your ass in your shit stained tighty whities you OLD FUCK

[coffeeshades]

—true blue ⭑ part i

summary: two strangers meet in a city of millions, only to discover they've been searching for each other all along.

pairing: pedro pascal x f!reader.

word count: 7.3k

warnings: age gap, angst, fluff, mentions of alcohol, loneliness, nostalgia. no use of y/n, if i missed something please let me know! (also this is a work of fiction, none of it reflects how i feel about the people mentioned in this. it's fiction, just relax and enjoy it, and if not, move along, friends.)

a/n: hello lovelies, i’m back with another story! hope you guys enjoy it and happy reading <3

London had a way of swallowing you whole, especially on days like this—when the sky was nothing but a massive stretch of gray, heavy and low, threatening rain but never delivering it. The city seemed to disappear into the clouds, a wash of neutral tones that made everything feel colder, quieter.

Six months in, and you still weren’t used to it. The grayness, the dampness that clung to your skin, or the way the city seemed to keep you at arm’s length, never quite welcoming you in.

You pulled your scarf tighter around your neck as you walked into the café, your breath fogging the glass for a moment before pushing the door open.

The warmth hit you immediately, the smell of roasted coffee beans filling your senses. The place was small, cozy, and comfortably worn—wooden floors scuffed by years of foot traffic, walls lined with photos of the city taken from angles only locals would recognize.

It was a great place, one you had found early on in your stay. Most of the baristas knew you by now, especially Tom, who greeted you with a nod as soon as you walked in.

You tugged at the sleeves of your sweater, slightly too big but soft and comforting, and ran a hand through your frazzled hair, still somewhat damp from the earlier drizzle. You hadn’t bothered with an umbrella; London rain was more a constant mist than a downpour, not enough to get soaked but just enough to make you feel cold in your bones. Your dark pants clung to your legs, and your worn black boots scuffed the floor as you made your way to the counter.

It was late afternoon, your favorite time to stop by. Usually, you had to battle before work-rush. But you were free today. Most people had already grabbed their coffee and gone back to their lives, leaving the café quieter, almost meditative. You liked that. It was one of the few moments in your day where you didn’t have to think about the silence that otherwise hung over life.

New York had been noisy, full of distractions, but here, the quiet was inescapable. It followed you home, lingered in the corners of your rented flat, and made you feel more alone than you ever had back in the States.

“Hey, Tom,” you said, offering him a small smile as you dropped your purse onto the counter.

He smiled back, his hands already reaching for a cup. “The usual?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

You leaned against the counter, absently scrolling through the phone. Emails. Work messages. Nothing personal, nothing to distract you from the dull rhythm of solitude you’d grown so accustomed to. A novel you’d just finished reading peeked out of your bag.

As you waited for the order, the bell above the door chimed softly, and you felt someone step up beside you. You didn’t look up, not at first. The presence was warm, close enough to feel but not close enough to intrude. You were just another person standing in line, waiting for coffee.

Then you heard the voice.

“A large iced black coffee, please,” the man beside you said, his voice deep, casual, the kind of voice that made you listen even when you weren’t paying attention.

Another barista nodded, moving quickly to prepare the drink, and you tried not to feel the man’s presence. But it was hard not to. He wasn’t looking at you, but could sense him—the quiet weight of someone standing just close enough that it made you aware of yourself.

“Blue.”

The word pulled you out of your thoughts, and you glanced sideways, confused. “Sorry?”

He was smiling now, his expression easy, as if we were in on some joke. He nodded toward your bag, where the book was still partially visible.

“The cover of your book. It’s blue.”

You blinked, your brain trying to catch up with the conversation. “Oh…yeah, it is.” You managed a half-smile, still unsure of where this was going.

“You must think I’m weird now,” he added, his tone teasing, but there was something behind his eyes—something almost vulnerable, like he was testing the waters.

“No, not really,” I said, shrugging. “I just wasn’t expecting...that.”

“It’s just…uh, lately, I’ve been reading a lot of books with blue covers,” he explained, running a hand through his hair. It was slicked back, but not perfectly—there was a curl that had escaped, hanging slightly over his forehead, giving him a disheveled charm. His brown leather jacket looked well-worn, like something he’d had for years, and his white sneakers were clean but scuffed, like they’d seen their fair share of travel.

“When I saw yours, it made me think of that. Sorry to bother you.”

“No, you’re not bothering me,” you said quickly, feeling an odd need to put him at ease. “Not at all.”

You took him in more fully now, and something clicked. There was a familiarity about him, something that tugged at the edges of recognition, but it hadn’t fully registered yet. Dark jeans, black t-shirt, the jacket slung casually over his frame, and those clear glasses that made him look both intelligent and approachable. His smooth skin seemed ready to tip into weathered, his dark hair almost shot full of gray. Solidly middle aged. 

There was something unguarded about him. Something real.

Before you could figure out where you knew him from, Tom interrupted, handing you the coffee with a nod. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” You reached for your card to pay, then paused, glancing back at the man beside you.

“Do you want it?”

He looked at you, clearly surprised. “Want what?”

“The book.”

You gestured toward the blue-covered novel still poking out of the bag. “I finished it earlier today. You can add it to your collection of blue books.”

He hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly. “Oh, no, I can’t take that from you.”

“Of course you can.”

You pulled the book out fully, holding it out to him. “I’m done with it. And you seem interested.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, like he was trying to figure out if you were serious. Then, slowly, he reached out, his large hands brushing against yours as he took the book. His fingers lingered on the cover for a moment, running over the title as he read it out loud.

“It Lasts Forever and Then It’s Over.”

You watched as he flipped the book over, his fingers tracing a small bullseye doodle inked on the back of his hand, just between his thumb and index finger. It was such a small detail, but it told you something about him. You suddenly wanted to know everything about him.

“It’s a good read,” you said, slipping the card into the reader. “It’s about mortality, grief, love… you know, the usual light fare.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Sounds like my kind of book. Gut-wrenching, then?”

“Yeah,” you admitted, “I think I have a thing for devastating literature.”

“That makes two of us.”

Tom handed him his iced coffee, and he nodded gratefully, still holding the book like it was something fragile. “Thanks again,” he said, glancing at the title one last time. “I’ll make sure it’s in good company.”

“I hope you enjoy it,” you said, gathering your things. You had to go home before the rain started pouring.

As you stepped toward the door, you felt the chill from outside starting to creep back in, and just before the door closed behind you, you heard him call out, his voice soft but sure.

“I know I will.”

The cold wind hit you as you stepped out into the gray street, but this time, it felt different. Less like a wall, more like a breeze pushing you forward. Something had changed, though you weren’t sure what yet.

The rain had picked up again, tapping against the windows of your flat like impatient fingers. The days were growing shorter now, the afternoons fading into evenings before you even had time to notice. Autumn had a way of settling into your bones—the way the cold crept in through the cracks, the muted light casting long shadows across the room, the golden hues of fallen leaves scattered on the pavement outside.

You had made the flat your own in small, quiet ways. A few plants scattered along the window ledge, books stacked unevenly on shelves that were too small to hold them all, some even on the floor, and a woolen throw draped over the worn arm of the couch. The place wasn’t large, but it was enough—just one bedroom, a kitchen that overlooked the small living room, and large windows that framed the world outside in a way that almost felt intimate. It smelled like home now—a mix of coffee and the faint scent of cinnamon from the candle burning on the table.

You were halfway through folding a pile of laundry when the phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. You wiped your hands on your pajama shorts before picking it up, smiling as Olivia’s name flashed across the screen. She called at least once a week, sometimes more if she had something “urgent” to discuss—which, in her world, could range from a new recipe she'd tried to the latest celebrity drama.

You answered on the second ring. "Hey, Liv."

“Finally!” Her voice came through the speaker, bright and full of life. “I’ve been texting you all day.”

You balanced the phone between your shoulder and ear, picking up a stray sock from the couch.

“Sorry, I was at work. Just got back a little while ago.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, clearly unconvinced. “You’re always at work. You know that’s not healthy, right?”

You could rattle off a hundred reasons why being a medical resident wasn’t healthy—none of it was. It had taken you months to find your footing at the hospital. You hadn’t really made any friends outside of work, just the occasional outing with Sabrina, a fourth-year who’d taken you under her wing like the hospital’s den mother.

You rolled your eyes, tossing the sock into the laundry basket. “I know, I know, but you know how it is.”

“Whatever,” she said, clearly moving on. “So, guess what?”

You smiled, already bracing myself for whatever tangent she was about to dive into. “What?”

“I found this article about why cats are secretly plotting against us, and I swear, it’s changed my whole perspective on Peanut.”

“Peanut? Your ten-year-old tabby who sleeps all day and barely looks at you?”

“Yes! That’s exactly why it makes sense. He’s too quiet. Too calm. He’s plotting, I know it.”

You laughed as you wandered into the kitchen to grab a Coke from the fridge. “Olivia, he’s a cat. I think you’re safe.”

“Don’t you dare dismiss me, okay? I have facts. I’ll send you the article.”

“Can’t wait,” you said dryly, leaning against the counter as you sipped your drink.

There was a brief pause on her end, and then her voice softened, shifting to something more serious. “But really, how have you been?”

You glanced out the window, watching the rain streak down the glass in slow, steady lines. “Same old. The hospital, laundry, eating dinner in front of the TV. You know the drill.”

“Nothing new?” she pressed.

“Not really.”

You hesitated, a brief smile tugging at your lips as you remembered the café. “Although… I think I met Pedro Pascal the other day.”

There was a beat of silence, followed by a shriek so loud you had to pull the phone away from your ear. “What?! Shut up, shut up! You what?”

“I mean…I wasn't sure it was him when it was happening, but now I'm kinda positive.”

“Girl, how positive?” Her voice was breathless, excited in the way only Olivia could manage.

You chuckled, walking over to the couch and sinking into the cushions, curling your legs under you.

“I don't know, pretty positive?”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “Did he give you his name?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Then how do you know it was him?” She sounded like she was about to combust with impatience.

“Because I talked to the man, Liv. He looked like him; I don't know. Maybe…maybe it wasn't him."

“You talked?!” she nearly screamed. “Oh my God, what did you talk about?”

“Not much,” you said, shrugging even though she couldn’t see you. “It was about my book—the one I was reading.”

“What was he like? Was he charming? Did he look at you with those eyes?”

You could practically see her waggling her eyebrows, and you laughed, shaking your head.

“Calm down. He was just… normal. Kind of charming. We didn’t talk for long, though.”

“Normal? Pedro Pascal is not normal. People would die to have a conversation with him, and you’re over here like, ‘Oh, we just talked about a book."

You smiled, running a hand through your hair, which had dried into a messy wave. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m not! This is huge!” she insisted. “Did he ask for your number?”

“No, are you crazy? ” You snorted. “It wasn’t like that.”

“You’re killing me here.” She groaned. “How do you not make the most of a moment like that? You had a once-in-a-lifetime chance to shoot your shot, and you’re telling me you just let it go?”

“It wasn’t like that, Liv,” you said, still laughing. “It was just a casual conversation.”

She let out another exasperated sigh. “You’re hopeless. Completely hopeless.”

“Okay, well, I have to go,” you said, picking up the empty laundry basket and setting it aside. “I still have to make dinner, and it’s getting late.”

“You’re brushing me off because you don’t want to admit you missed your chance with Pedro Pascal.”

“I’m brushing you off because I’m starving,” you corrected.

“Fine, fine. But promise me this isn’t the end of the story. If you run into him again, you have to—”

“Not gonna happen."

"Don't be so pessimistic. If you run into him again, you tell me."

"Not gonna happen, but fine."

“That’s all I ask,” she said, her tone suddenly cheerful again. “Okay, go make dinner. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye, Liv.”

“Bye!”

You hung up, dropping the phone onto the couch as you stared outside again. The rain had softened into a steady drizzle. The flat was quiet, the only sound being the occasional hiss of the radiator and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall.

You sighed, sinking deeper into the cushions. It was a small life you had built here, simple and quiet. But there was something comforting about it too. Even if you hadn’t figured everything out yet, there was a strange sense of peace in the routine of it all.

And yet, the thought of that brief encounter at the café lingered in the back of your mind, like a spark that hadn’t quite caught fire.

A week had passed since the encounter, but you couldn’t shake him from your mind. It was ridiculous, really. You hadn’t asked for his name, hadn’t lingered long enough to let the moment stretch into something more. But the man with the deep voice and warm laugh had somehow taken up residence in your thoughts.

It was as if the quiet, unremarkable routine you’d built for yourself here had been cracked open, just a little, by that brief, unexpected meeting.

Still, you tried not to think about it too much. But every time you walked past that café, your steps slowed, as if you expected to see him again, leaning against the counter with his easy smile.

By the time you actually went in again, a full week later, the cold October air was biting at your skin, and your mind was no more settled than it had been that day.

You ordered the usual—a flat white—and lingered by the counter as Tom prepared it, his familiar movements almost soothing in their predictability. You were lost in thought, half-aware of your surroundings, when Tom placed the cup on the counter.

But this time, there was something else.

A small package, wrapped in brown paper and tied neatly with a blue ribbon.

“What’s this?” you asked, staring at it like it was some kind of puzzle.

Tom smiled, his thick accent wrapping around his words. “Someone left it for you.”

You blinked, completely baffled. “What is this, a secret admirer thing? Because I gotta say, Tom, I wasn’t prepared for that kind of drama today.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not from me, love. But someone wanted you to have it.”

Intrigued, you grabbed the coffee and the package, thanking him before heading to your usual spot by the window. The window fogged slightly from the heat of the café, offering you a misty view of the street beyond.

You sat down and placed the package in front of you, staring at it for a few seconds as your mind raced. What the hell is this? Your fingers traced the edges of the paper, carefully undoing the small ribbon before pulling the wrapping away.

A book. Of course, it was a book.

You smiled faintly as you read the title aloud: Drive Your Plow over the Bones of the Dead.

The cover was blue—deep and rich, just like the one you’d given away the week before. The faintest blush crept up your cheeks as you realized who it must have been from.

Your heart did a weird little somersault in your chest as you ran your fingers along the cover. Before you even opened it, a folded piece of paper fell out and landed softly on the table. You unfolded it, smoothing the creases, and read the note inside:

Hi, stranger. I realized five minutes after you gave me your book that I didn’t ask for your name. How rude of me. I’m sorry. I walked out of there as soon as I realized and walked a few blocks, but you were gone.

I finished the book, by the way. It was beautiful. I loved how real and layered the main character was. I also laughed so much; I didn’t think a novel this heartbreaking would be such a joy.

Anyway, I feel like I’m rambling now. Since you gave me one, I thought I might return the favor. I think this is a long shot since I don't know if you are a regular, but I hope you are. I hope this finds you.

Enjoy.

Love, Pedro.

You stared at the note for what felt like a full minute, your mind slowly processing the words. Oh my god. Pedro. So you weren't delusional after all. It had been him. All this time, you’d been trying to convince yourself that it was some random guy with a coincidental likeness, but no—it was him.

The smile that spread across your face was involuntary, and you felt your cheeks flush with the sudden realization that you had somehow fallen into a casual book exchange with him. Your fingers traced the edge of the note, and you leaned back in the chair, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

For the next several days, the book accompanied you everywhere—on the train, to work, in bed at night. You found yourself highlighting passages and underlining sentences that spoke to something deep inside you. The book was dark and witty, a strange blend of humor and melancholy that left you thinking long after you’d closed it each night.

You hadn’t seen Pedro again, though you hoped—each time you entered the café—that maybe he’d be there. Maybe you’d exchange a few more words; maybe this strange little connection would become something more.

But days passed, and there was no sign of him.

A week later, you finished the book. As you placed it on the nightstand, you knew what you had to do.

It was only fair to continue the game, wasn’t it?

And there was one book that immediately came to mind—Alone With You in the Ether. The cover was, of course, blue.

You spent that morning getting ready, your usual routine of sluggishness replaced by something else—anticipation, maybe. You pulled on your blue navy scrubs and your running shoes, taking a little extra care with your hair, though you weren’t quite sure why.

At the café, you ordered the usual and approached the counter with the book neatly wrapped in brown paper. When Tom handed you the coffee, you slipped the book into his hands, along with a note:

Hi, Pedro.

That’s okay, no need to apologize. To be fair, I didn’t ask for your name either, so that makes the two of us very rude people. I’m so happy you liked the book. As for the one you gave me—wow. I think it’s going to stick with me for a while.

Now, this one is really special to me. I read it earlier this year, and even though it’s kind of a drag to get through in the first few chapters, once you get the hang of it, it’s totally worth it. And yeah, it made me cry a little because it explores what it means to be unwell and how to face the fractures in yourself and still love as if you’re not broken. Really happy stuff, I know.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Love,

You hesitated for a second before writing your name at the bottom of the note. You had to, right?

You couldn’t keep this up forever without knowing who the other person was.

As you handed the book to Tom, excitement bubbled inside you, and you felt a strange sense of giddiness that you hadn’t experienced in ages. You were exchanging books with this enigma of a man—this charismatic, famous man who somehow understood the same quiet parts of the world that you did.

As you left the café that day, the autumn air crisp and cool around you, you realized just how much had changed in these past few weeks. you’d been living in your head for so long, buried in stories and thoughts that weren’t your own, but now—now there was something tangible.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt alive.

It had been days since you’d left Pedro the book, and though a small part of you hoped to hear back, you hadn’t expected it. Surely he had better things to do than trade novels with a stranger. Yet, here you were again, standing at the counter of the café, that familiar flutter of anticipation creeping up on you.

���Just a matcha today,” you said to Tom, trying to rein in your caffeine habit. He raised an eyebrow, surprised at the switch, but didn’t say anything as he rang you up. “It’s surgery day,” you added, shrugging.

When he handed you the drink, there it was—a familiar brown-wrapped package slipped discreetly into your other hand. Your pulse quickened. You did your best to keep cool, to act as though this was just another day, but your fingers betrayed you, trembling slightly as they closed around the package.

“What now?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but the excitement was barely concealed in your voice.

Tom chuckled, shaking his head. “Another one. Same guy.”

You didn’t even sit down. You stood right there at the counter, carefully peeling away the paper. Another blue book. The Book of All Loves. A smile tugged at your lips, warm and uncontainable.

Inside, a folded note fell out—this one thicker, the creases worn, the ink smudged in places. Your hands shook slightly as you unfolded it and began to read.

Hi again, stranger—

Well, I guess I can’t really call you that anymore, now that I know your name, huh?

He had written your name at the top—three times.

The letters were neat but hurried, repeated as though he were testing how it felt to write them. The ink stuttered in places, lingering on the curves of each letter, like he had taken his time. It is such a gorgeous sight. To see your name in his handwriting awakened something in you. 

There. It’s stuck in my head now. What a great name, by the way. I could probably write it out a hundred more times and still not get tired of seeing it. Is that weird? That’s probably weird. I’m rambling again.

So, the book—wow. It hit me in ways I didn’t expect. You weren’t kidding when you said it was about being unwell, but it was more than that. The characters were dancing on this fragile edge between chaos and peace, and I felt that. And that church scene...

You paused, feeling the tenderness of his words wrapping around you, pulling you in closer.

The way they held hands—it was more than just a gesture. There’s something about it that felt so raw, so intimate. In a place where you’re not supposed to be that close, it made it all the more... heartbreaking. Have you ever felt like that? Like you’re carrying all this weight but still holding onto this tiny sliver of hope that someone will see you for who you are? Without needing you to explain every scar?

His words resonated deeply, tugging at something tender within you, as if he had unknowingly plucked a string that had long been silent.

Do you get what I mean? Or am I just talking in circles again?

The next part of the note was a jumble of thoughts, ideas pouring out in bursts. He wrote about the book's characters, how they reminded him of his own isolation, even when surrounded by people. He confessed that sometimes he felt as though he wore a mask—something to hide behind—but books like this allowed him to drop it, if only for a little while.

I think I’m really good at pretending sometimes, you know? We all are, right? But in books, I don’t have to pretend. It’s like I get to be myself for a little bit, without all the noise. Does that make sense? I’m probably being too heavy, sorry. The truth is, I feel comfortable writing to you. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the books, this exchange—like it’s okay to be vulnerable. Or maybe I’m just being dramatic.

There was a little smiley face drawn beside that sentence, and you found yourself laughing softly, the sound light in the quiet café.

Anyway, thanks again for sharing this with me. It’s a gem. I thought I’d give you something in return—something that fits. Have you read The Book of All Loves? It’s about love beyond romance. I think you’ll like it.

Until next time.

Love, Pedro.

You stood there for a long time after finishing the note, his words echoing in your mind, stirring feelings you hadn’t allowed yourself to acknowledge. The way he wrote—so raw, so real—made it feel as though you weren’t just two strangers exchanging books. It felt deeper, like an unspoken understanding had passed between you, hidden in the lines of each letter, in the ink that had smudged under the weight of his thoughts.

Your heart swelled with a mixture of emotions. Just hearing from him has made you so driven, so romantic, so excited. The brief connection you had made through these letters felt real, almost tangible, as though roots had begun to take hold beneath the surface of your everyday life.

You read the note again, slower this time, savoring every word, every thought he had poured onto the page. His question lingered.

Have you ever felt like that?

Of course you had. You had spent most of your life searching for that connection, that elusive feeling of being truly seen without needing to explain every wound, every hidden corner of yourself. And now, through these letters, it felt as though Pedro saw something in you that others hadn’t.

The thought was ridiculous, you knew that. But still, there was comfort in it, in the way he opened up to you with such ease. There was something undeniably romantic about it—this quiet exchange of words and books, of thoughts and feelings that had probably never been shared aloud.

You carefully folded the note, tucking it back into the book, and cradled your matcha in your hands. A small smile played at the corners of your lips, warmth blossoming in your chest. You weren’t sure what this was—this strange, beautiful exchange—but whatever it was, it made you feel seen. It made you feel connected.

You didn’t mind being lost in the unknown.

Weeks passed, and your days fell into an easy rhythm—a rhythm that beat around the exchange of books and letters with Pedro. Each novel was chosen with care, both of you quietly mindful of keeping them short, under 300 pages, so they could be devoured quickly.

But the real reason wasn’t the books themselves now—it was what came with them.

The letters.

They weren’t just pages full of thoughts about the stories. They were windows. Each one revealed more of who he was, and in return, you found yourself offering up pieces of yourself. You couldn’t help it—the way he wrote, the way he asked questions that no one else dared to, as if he genuinely wanted to know you. And so, you let him in.

After finishing The Book of All Loves, your response was a little more vulnerable than you’d expected. You’d thanked him for the recommendation, told him it had cracked something open inside of you. “It’s strange,” you’d written, “how a book about love that exists in such quiet, unassuming forms can make you feel like you’ve been missing it your whole life. I’ve never thought much about love outside of romance—what it means to love a moment, a gesture, the way the wind feels when it hits your skin in the early morning. All I've ever known of love is how to live without it. I just can’t seem to find it. This book made me think about all the things I’ve taken for granted. The small loves. The unnoticed ones.”

Pedro’s letter back had been equally intimate. “It feels good to read this from you,” he wrote. "To know that maybe we’ve both been looking for something neither of us can really name. I guess there are certain things we stumble upon that make us feel less alone in our strangeness.

When I read your letter, I thought about a lot of things I haven’t said out loud. I thought about how it’s always felt easier to live without love, or at least to live like I didn’t need it, as if needing it would somehow make me weaker. I think of all the times I’ve skimmed over beauty just because I didn’t want to stop and notice what was missing. Reading your words made me realize that maybe I’ve always been chasing something, too, not realizing that these quiet, unassuming moments—like the way the rain sounds against the window at night or the exact shade of blue that the sky becomes before sunrise—maybe they’re as close as I’ve been to something real.

The words spilled out slowly, and you read them twice, tracing each line with your fingertip, as if trying to hold onto every word for a little longer.

When you said the book cracked something open in you, I understood. We don’t let ourselves soften often, but it sounds like, maybe, there’s been a little space for that now. Like maybe you’ve felt things so quietly, you didn’t even know they were there. You’re right, though; love is everywhere. It’s the way a good song can feel like home. It’s knowing how you take your coffee. And it’s weird to realize how much of it we let slip by, out of fear or habit or because we think love should look a certain way.

I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, but I guess I want you to know that you’re not alone in this. You’ve got someone here who gets it, at least a little bit. Someone who, honestly, feels like he’s been missing something without ever quite knowing what that something was. Maybe it’s just easier to say things like this when it’s written down. Maybe it’s easier to feel a little more when there’s distance.

But then I think of you, and I don’t want to feel that distance anymore.

Take care, alright? I’ll be here, waiting for whatever thought strikes you next. And thank you, for opening up like that. For letting me know I’m not the only one.

All the best,

Pedro

These letters had become your heartbeat, something that brought life back into you. At work, during breaks, you’d find yourself pulling out the latest book, fingers brushing the edges of the envelope tucked inside, knowing his notes and highlights were waiting for you.

Your rounds at the hospital became lighter, as if you carried a secret with you—one small, fragile thing that had started in the most unexpected of ways. How could you focus on anything when he writes you letters like this? When he spills his heart for you, a stranger?

Six days after his last letter, you sat at your kitchen counter one quiet evening, surrounded by the soft glow of a single warm light above. Outside, the evening had taken on that deep, inky blue you could get lost in, a shade that felt like a private world of its own. In front of you, a cinnamon roll sat on a small porcelain plate—the sort of indulgence you love to treat yourself to every now and then. The glaze stuck to your fingers as you leaned over a blank page, pen poised, waiting to shape your thoughts for Pedro.

Taking a deep breath, you began:

Pedro,

I’m sending you Never Let Me Go—a book that, in all its stillness and grace, moved me to tears. It’s a familiar feeling; there are so many things that make me cry. It’s not always the big, cinematic moments either, but the quiet, fleeting ones, the kind that Jane Austen might say ‘touch upon the tenderness of our sensibilities.’ Like when the last pages of a book make everything about the world seem profound, or when I see the first bloom of spring among the winter trees. I saw the movie years ago and cried so hard I could barely speak afterward. And, perhaps, I think there’s something remarkably necessary about being moved to tears—it’s like life’s way of keeping our hearts soft, open to the little aches and wonders.

So I’m sharing it with you, hoping it’ll do the same.

You paused, smiling to yourself, imagining him finding that description and wondering if he’d tease you for it. As the words settled onto the page, you felt a kind of sweet comfort, and maybe even a thrill, in knowing this note would soon be in his hands, bridging your two worlds once again.

It was four days later when Pedro's response finally arrived, tucked inside a copy of Night Sky with Exit Wounds. The book’s deep, stormy cover filled your eyes. But your day had already been a whirlwind. You’d spent the night studying for a complex surgery, barely catching three hours of sleep before sunrise. By morning, you were dashing through your routine, gulping down a few rushed sips of coffee, grabbing your coat, and flying out the door.

When you stopped by the café to find Pedro’s book and letter, your heart skipped at the sight of it waiting for you. But with your schedule pulling you in ten different directions, you could only clutch the book close, flash a half-awake smile at the barista, and promise yourself that you’d savor it later, once the day slowed.

Finally, around eight that evening, you arrived home, exhausted yet satisfied—the surgery had been a success, and you’d somehow managed to juggle the day’s relentless demands. Dropping your bag, you kicked off your shoes and sank onto the couch, barely making it past the door before you reached for the book.

His letter was tucked between the pages, Pedro’s handwriting skimming the edge of each line as though his words had been poured onto the page in a hurry, with just enough restraint to make each word count. The sight of it made you pause, drawing a deep, steadying breath as you began to read, his voice almost palpable in the air:

I know this one comes faster than you've probably expected, but the desire to write to you is all-consuming. It takes up space in every corner of my mind, like someone has rearranged the furniture in my head, and I keep bumping into things I didn’t realize were there. You should know it’s not normal for me. I’m usually good at keeping things compartmentalized, managing my thoughts, especially when I know I shouldn’t be entertaining them at all. But here I am, practically pathetic, writing you like some infatuated idiot who can’t keep his head on straight. I suppose that’s what I am.

There’s so much I want to ask you, even if it seems silly. It’s weird, I know, but I want to know everything: your favorite color, the exact shade of it, and why it sticks with you. I want to know how you take your coffee, if you’d let me make it for you, and if you’d like it bitter or sweet. Do you sleep on the right or left side of the bed? I’m trying to imagine you in those small, quiet moments—those times that people rarely share with others, the ones that make you feel like you’re finally seeing someone’s real life. Perhaps I want that with you. Hell, I’d probably just take watching you stir sugar into your coffee and feel like it’s some grand revelation.

I know I’m rambling. Some poet's probably rolling in their grave at this poor excuse of an epistolary attempt. But I feel like I could say anything to you here, let it all pour out, and you wouldn’t turn away. I guess I’m testing that, aren’t I?

This book I'm giving you is sharp but soft. It’s like Vuong’s words walk this fine line between resilience and surrender, which maybe is why they get to me. There's a line I love: “In the body, where everything has a price, I was a beggar”—I keep coming back to it. It gets under my skin, thinking of how much of my life I’ve spent doing just that: begging for something that felt like love but never fully was.

I guess that’s what makes me wonder. Is that what love is? Some beautiful, endless begging, hoping to be seen fully and held even with all the mess? I think about my past relationships, all the ways I tried to be someone I thought they’d love or, at least, understand. I don’t know if you can relate, but I always ended up feeling like I was only showing the parts I thought they’d like, and I could never quite manage to bring myself whole into it. Not that they were all bad, but…they left me feeling a bit like I was holding my breath, waiting for something I didn’t even have a name for.

I don’t feel that way with you. And it scares the hell out of me.

Have you ever loved like that? Loved in a way that left you feeling half-complete but more alone than ever? Do you think we can really know each other, or is it all just pieces we collect and hope fit together someday? Sorry, that’s bleak—I told you, I’m pathetic.

Still, writing this, I feel more real than I’ve felt in years. You’re already changing something in me, and maybe I’m a fool, but I think that’s worth every messy, flawed attempt I make to get closer to you.

Love,

Pedro

The last lines hung in the air, sinking deep like an echo through a still room.

Holy shit.

His admission felt like the thrill of stepping onto the edge of something limitless, knowing that he, too, was caught in the same current, swept into this quiet, growing bond that defied every attempt to be named. There was nowhere else you wanted to be.

For years now, you've saved all of your romanticism for your inner life, but now it seems to spill over into reality, coloring the world around you with a new intensity. It seems to spill over into your response to him.

Pedro,

I’m sitting here, pen in hand, trying to put to words what has only lived in my thoughts and quiet places inside me. It feels strange, like I’m peeling something hidden, revealing not just what I am but what I’ve long been afraid to be. But I think you’ve sensed that, haven’t you? Somehow, in these letters, it feels possible. You’ve done this to me, you know. And if you’re pathetic, then, God help me, so am I.

When I read your letter, I felt this pulse of recognition—your words so familiar, as though I’d known them before they were written. That line from Vuong—I lingered over it, too, so many times, until it felt like my own skin.

Isn’t it strange, the things that stay with us, hidden until someone else touches them? I’ve always had this…this longing to be seen in the fullness of myself, even the parts that feel a little too much or not quite enough. And yet, I’ve been equally terrified of it, of offering myself in a way that leaves me standing, raw, in front of someone who might not want what they see.

But with you, the idea doesn’t scare me as much. Even saying that feels like a confession.

You asked if I’d ever loved like that—loved in a way that left me both half-alive and lonelier than ever. I have. Not often, but enough to know the ache of it, that hollow feeling of wanting so badly to be known, only to realize I’d kept parts of myself hidden, guarded, fearing they wouldn’t understand or that I’d be asked to change. I’ve spent so many years rationing my softness, saving my sentimentalism for my own private thoughts, as though loving deeply was something to be ashamed of. But here I am, writing to you, letting it spill.

What about love, then? What do I think of it? I think of love as a kind of surrender, a rare, strange act of bravery and recklessness all at once. I think it’s choosing to step closer to someone when you know you might break your heart in the process. And maybe, sometimes, it’s a little like begging—but only if the person you’re begging to see you is also showing you something of themselves, a part they’re just as afraid to share.

Which is to say: you make me want to be that reckless. You make me want to know things I would have otherwise only dreamed of. I want to know your favorite hour of the day, the one that makes you feel alive even when you’re alone. I want to know what you’ve never dared to say aloud. If I could watch you, just once, as you sit in the quiet of the morning.

Maybe that’s the kind of love I want—one where the questions never end, where the silence says as much as the words, and where I don’t have to hide anything away.

Love,

a/n: alright! so what do you guys think about this one? i wanna know your thoughts!!! like, reblog or comment if you enjoyed it, i will gladly appreciate it <3

a second part will be posted soon!

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

Fool - Sandor Clegane x Reader

Summary: You save a man once and despite all it was the best decision of your life.

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Reader

Warnings: Angst, a bit of violence, swearing, Sandor is a dick, not really smut a bit of touchy-touchy.

AN: Soooo... I did a thing... I hope you enjoy it :)

Words: 11 287

The dusk settles thick and silent over the hills, fading the world around you into muted grays and purples. The only sounds are the sigh of wind across the barren moorland and the steady crunch of your boots as you make your way home. The house you live in is a squat, stubborn thing, as weather-worn and tenacious as you have become in these years since your brother left it to you. Just enough land, just enough walls to hold out the loneliness. It’s more than you’d ever thought you’d have, and, somehow, just enough to keep you here.

The moor stretches in rough, empty shadows around you, vast and silent. That silence is part of why you stay; it settles around you like a second skin, a balm after years of watching your brother lose himself to things he’d seen in war. For all the ways you wish you could have saved him, solitude, at least, has kept you whole.

The moor stretches out before you, dark and endless beneath the heavy cloak of twilight. You’re just reaching the edge of your small plot of land when you hear it—the faintest, rough sound cutting through the silence. A groan, low and guttural, catches your ear, half-swallowed by the winter wind. You stop, heart pounding, every instinct screaming to turn back. You’ve heard enough tales of what lies beyond your quiet little corner of the world: soldiers who have no home but war, men who live by taking what isn’t theirs, the dying, the desperate, and the dangerous.

Yet something draws you forward.

You cross the stretch of frostbitten grass, weaving between the trees, and as the shadows deepen, you catch sight of a hulking figure slumped against a tree. He’s half-collapsed, head bent forward, shoulders hunched beneath a tattered, bloodstained cloak. His breath comes in ragged gasps, misting in the cold air.

For a moment, you think he’s dead. He’s so still, his body slouched in a way that seems to defy life. But then, with a low, pained growl, he shifts, bracing himself with one hand in the snow, lifting his head just enough for you to see his face.

And it takes everything in you not to gasp.

The man’s face is a study in harsh contrasts, a brutal landscape of scars and strength. The left side is hideously burned, a grotesque mass of raw, twisted skin that gleams faintly in the fading light. But it’s his other side that holds you captive. The skin there is unscarred, rough from battle and the elements, but it holds the remnants of a fierce, almost unwilling beauty. His cheekbone is high and sharp, his jawline as hard as iron, and his mouth—had he ever known kindness, you think it might have once held a smile.

But his eyes—dark and watchful, flickering with something bitter and broken—pin you in place. There’s a wildness there, something untamed and angry, like a wolf forced into a corner. His gaze is sharp, assessing, as if weighing your worth in that single, searing look.

This man is dangerous. You can feel it in the way he holds himself, even in weakness. There’s something in his bearing, in the raw strength of his frame, that speaks of violence, of a man who’s known blood and pain. And yet, as you take in the curve of his mouth, the line of his jaw, you realize that somewhere beneath the scars and bitterness, there’s a strange, reluctant handsomeness to him. It’s not a softness, not beauty in any traditional sense, but an intensity, a rawness that catches you off guard.

He grunts, a harsh, frustrated sound as he tries to push himself up. His hand slips in the snow, and he slumps back against the tree, his face contorted with pain. Instinctively, you step forward, your own caution dissolving under the faint pull of pity. He hears you, and his head snaps up, his gaze locking onto yours with a ferocity that makes your breath hitch.

“Don’t come closer,” he snarls, his voice a low, gravelly growl that carries an unmistakable warning. “Nothing worth taking here.”

The words are hostile, but there’s a roughness to his tone, a weariness that almost borders on defeat. He’s like a wounded animal, too proud to show his pain, but unable to hide it completely. You feel the weight of his gaze, the cold edge of his mistrust, but something in you softens. Despite his snarl, his threat, there’s a woundedness in him that you recognize, that calls to you.

For a moment, you think of walking away. You tell yourself it’s only logical, that he’s a stranger, a man who looks like he could tear you in two with a single hand if he wanted. But your heart, foolish and unyielding, won’t let you abandon him here.

You take a step forward, keeping your voice low and steady, as if coaxing a feral creature. “You’re hurt. Let me help.”

He looks at you like you’re mad, his mouth curling into a grimace that could almost be a smirk. His eyes hold yours, dark and searching, as if trying to understand why anyone would risk themselves for a man like him.

After a long, tense moment, he slumps, too exhausted to protest. “If you’re going to do something,” he mutters, his voice barely above a rasp, “do it quick. Don’t have time for… pity.”

You swallow, your gaze drawn again to that scarred, angry face, and to the strange beauty hidden within the hardness. He’s a man scarred by life, brutal and battered, but still something about him calls to you. Maybe it’s the strength that radiates from him even in his weakness, or the deep, restless pain in his eyes. Maybe it’s the way he seems like he could have been someone else, someone better, had the world been kinder.

You move closer, your hands gentle as you help him to his feet. He leans heavily on you, his weight a harsh reminder of the raw, unyielding strength in his frame. His body radiates heat, even through the blood-soaked cloak, and as you guide him towards your home, your heart pounds with a strange, nameless thrill.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you wonder if this is the worst mistake you’ve ever made. But as his rough voice murmurs a grudging, bitter “thank you,” you feel something flicker within you—a spark, a warmth that defies the winter cold, that promises something you don’t yet understand.

You don’t know if this man will bring you harm or if he’ll leave you with nothing but regret. But for now, you can’t bring yourself to let him go.

***

The walk back to the house is hard with the weight of his body slung over your shoulders, but somehow, you manage. Once inside, you lay him out on your small, sturdy bed, and your breath comes in gasps as you straighten, shaking out your sore limbs. He is still, barely breathing, but alive. The fire flickers nearby, casting his harsh features in half-shadow, softening the edges of that burnt, brutal face.

You busy yourself gathering water and cloth, setting out to clean the wound. Your brother had insisted you learn a few things about tending wounds, enough to patch up a gash and keep someone from bleeding out in the night. You settle beside the stranger and begin, peeling back the bloody cloth with steady hands, trying not to think about the heat of his skin or the size of his scarred hands. You just clean the wound, murmuring quiet apologies as you stitch the torn flesh, trying to ignore his low groans of pain, even in unconsciousness. When the wound is bound, you wipe your brow, exhausted but satisfied.

Your stomach rumbles, reminding you that it has been hours since you last ate. As you ladle out some stew into a bowl, you look back to the bed. His chest rises and falls with labored breaths, but he’s alive. And tonight, strange as it is, that feels like a small victory.

***

The next morning, you’re awakened by a low, pained grumble from across the room. Your eyes snap open, and you see the man stirring, his hand rising to his side. His face twists in confusion and pain as he tries to sit up, and before you can even think to approach, he’s on his feet, moving with surprising speed and strength, his eyes blazing with something that’s half terror, half rage.

“Easy now,” you murmur, holding up your hands. “You’re safe here.”

But he doesn’t see you. The wild look in his eyes is that of a cornered animal. In one swift, instinctual motion, he reaches for you, his hand closing around your wrist, shoving you back against the wall. His other arm raises, ready to strike, but you don’t flinch. Instead, you meet his gaze, calm, steady.

“Go on, if it’ll make you feel better,” you say softly. “But I doubt it will.”

He hesitates, the haze of panic clearing as he takes in his surroundings. You feel his grip slacken, the tension in his shoulders slowly ebbing away as his mind catches up to where he is. He lets you go, blinking in disoriented silence, his breath coming in ragged gasps. You watch his eyes flit across the room, lingering on the bed, the bowl of stew left unfinished by his side, and finally, back to you.

“Where am I?” he rasps, his voice raw and full of suspicion.

You rub your wrist absently, shrugging. “In a poor excuse for a house, on a plot of land no one would want, with a stew that probably won’t kill you, but I’m making no promises.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, though it could hardly be called a smile. There’s a look of recognition in his eyes, though he quickly masks it.

“You brought me here,” he says, still wary.

“Yes,” you reply, keeping your tone casual, unbothered. “I found you bleeding out on the moor. Looked like you’d had a bit of a rough day, so I figured I’d give you somewhere to pass out that wasn’t a muddy ditch.”

He studies you, his eyes still narrowed with distrust. “And what do you want for it?”

“Nothing,” you reply honestly. “Maybe I just have a soft spot for stray dogs.”

A flicker of surprise crosses his face, and then, almost reluctantly, he sinks back onto the bed, wincing as he shifts to keep pressure off his wound.

“My… My brother acted like that too,” you say, unprompted. You look away, clearing your throat. “He’d come back from battles all twisted up, thought I was something dangerous more often than not. Woke up with nightmares, sometimes shouting, sometimes striking out.”

The man watches you, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. “I’m not your brother,” he mutters.

“No, you’re not,” you say, shaking your head. “But you’ve got that look about you. Lost, mean…not sure what to do with someone trying to help.” You offer a small, self-deprecating smile, letting out a soft sigh. “It’s all right. Doesn’t hurt as much as you’d think. My stew’s likely to do worse damage to me than you will.”

He lets out a low grunt, but you sense something easing in his posture, a faint crack in the hard shell he wears like armor. He leans back, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Do you know who I am?” he asks, his tone testing, as if expecting fear or awe.

You shake your head lightly. “A lost soul needing help, far as I can tell. I’m not much interested in the rest, if there’s any more to it. You’re here, you’re alive…well, mostly.”

For a long moment, he holds your gaze, something unspoken passing between you. Then, he nods, almost as though he’s granted you some small, silent approval, and shifts his attention to the bowl of stew. You pass him a spoon, keeping your distance, letting him have the silence he seems to need. The room settles into an easy quiet, with only the soft clinking of his spoon against the bowl and the crackle of the fire.

You know he’ll be gone before long; men like him don’t linger. But for now, he’s here, and maybe that’s enough for the both of you.

One morning, while setting a cup of weak ale by his side, you accidentally call him ser, and his reaction is swift, a growl that seems to rumble up from somewhere deep.

***

The days pass in a quiet, uneasy rhythm, and you begin to learn the habits of the stranger who now shares your roof. Sandor is a hard man, as unyielding as winter itself, his words as few and cold as the frost clinging to the windows each morning. He doesn’t speak unless he must, which you’ve come to find is perfectly fine by him. When he does respond, it’s in a grunt or with a sidelong glare, his acknowledgment as brief and gruff as possible.

“Not a knight,” he snaps, his eyes hard as they settle on you. “And I’m no lord, neither.”

You raise your hands in mock surrender, but a smile pulls at the corner of your mouth, despite his scowl. “Fair enough,” you say lightly. “But what am I supposed to call you, then?”

He scowls at the question, his gaze darkening as though you’ve struck a nerve. It takes him a long moment, his jaw clenching as though he’s forcing himself to speak, before he finally mutters, “Sandor.”

“Sandor,” you repeat, tasting the name on your tongue, trying to decide if he’s telling the truth or just pushing you away with a lie. His eyes hold a hard, unyielding light, a barrier between himself and anyone who might try to cross it. You decide not to question him further. If he’s offered a name, it’s enough.

“Well then, Sandor,” you say softly, meeting his gaze as steadily as you can manage. “Now you know my name and I know yours, so I’d say we’re even.”

“Even,” he mutters under his breath, as if the idea itself is laughable.

Sandor is a man as thorny and unyielding as a bramble bush, prickling with gruff remarks and muttered complaints, yet for all his hostility, there’s a strange comfort in his presence. For years now, your house has been quiet, its rooms filled only with the soft creaks of settling wood and the lonely whistle of wind against the shutters. Now, though, his muttered grunts and low growls, his heavy footsteps against the worn floorboards, feel like a balm to the ache you can’t quite admit. That ache of loneliness, the deep, unspoken grief that has weighed down your heart for so long, eases just a little with his presence.

He heals quickly, each day growing stronger, his movements less labored and his strength returning in steady increments. By the week’s end, he’s able to stand and move without wincing, his rough, dangerous strength a reminder of the man he was before his injury. Relief fills you, tempered by a strange, reluctant dread. Part of you wonders if, once he’s fully mended, he’ll vanish as quickly as he came, slipping back into the wilderness, leaving you to the silence and the solitude you’d almost forgotten.

One morning, with the weather turning colder and the threat of snow looming, you walk down to the neighboring farm to barter for milk. The farmer, a kind, weathered man who’s known you since you were small, hands over the jug with a gentle smile, pressing a few thick blankets into your arms as well, “For the winter,” he says. “Keep yourself warm, girl.”

When you return home, though, the warmth of his kindness is quickly overshadowed. There, hunched over in the center of your small home, is Sandor, his broad back turned as he rummages through your belongings, rifling through cupboards and drawers with an urgency that sends a chill through you. His hands move roughly over your things, his muttered curses breaking the fragile peace that has grown between you.

You stop in the doorway, clutching the jug of milk tightly as you watch him. He tosses aside your few meager belongings, his face set in a hard, bitter line as he digs through your things, as if preparing to leave. A strange, painful mixture of betrayal and resignation rises in your chest, twisting into something sharp. Of course he was planning to leave. He’s not the sort to stay.

But seeing him like this—rummaging through your belongings, discarding your few possessions like they mean nothing—hurts in a way you hadn’t expected. You want to feel angry, to confront him, but instead, a heavy weight settles in your chest, the same hollow ache you’ve felt so many times before. Like father, like daughter, you think bitterly, remembering how your father had always trusted too easily, given too freely, only to be taken advantage of time and time again. He’d been a kind man, giving everything he had even when it left him with nothing, and you were foolishly, painfully similar.

Sandor turns at the sound of your footsteps, his face hardening, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword as if you’re an intruder. His eyes narrow as he takes in your figure standing in the doorway, milk jug still in hand. There’s a harsh, guarded look in his gaze, and it sends a shiver down your spine—an unspoken warning to stay back.

You force yourself to keep your gaze steady, even as something inside you twists painfully. “Planning to leave?” you ask softly, trying to keep the hurt from seeping into your voice.

His mouth twists, a sneer curling over his scarred face. He steps forward, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword, the edge of his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t be foolish,” he warns, his tone a cold blade against your skin. “Give me everything you’ve got.”

For a moment, you can only stare at him, the weight of his words sinking into you, bitter and sharp. You swallow hard, fighting back the hot sting of tears as you reach into your cloak, pulling out a small package you’d prepared the night before, just in case. It holds a bit of food, dried meat, and a few dressing supplies you’d set aside for his wounds.

You hold the bundle out, your hand trembling slightly as you offer it to him. “Here,” you murmur, the word barely above a whisper.

He stares at the bundle, his gaze hard and unyielding, and for a brief, flickering moment, something almost like hesitation crosses his face. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual mask of scorn and indifference.

“Your coin, too,” he snaps, his voice like steel. His sword hovers near your chest, a silent, unyielding threat. “All of it. Don’t think I’ll leave a thing behind.”

A hollow feeling settles in your stomach, a weight that presses down on your chest, heavy and unrelenting. You’ve never had much, but the thought of giving up the little you have, of facing winter with even less than before, fills you with a quiet, aching despair. Yet even now, you find yourself trying to reach for something, a thread of understanding, a flicker of humanity in his gaze.

“Please,” you murmur, your voice breaking just slightly. “I… I don’t have much coin. If you take what little I have, I’ll have nothing left for winter.”

He sneers, his mouth twisting with something like contempt, and the weight of his disdain cuts through you, sharp and cold. “Maybe this’ll teach you,” he spits, his voice low and harsh. “A lesson in trusting stray dogs.”

He snatches the package from your hands, his grip rough and unyielding, ignoring the quiet desperation in your eyes. The words hang heavy in the air, a bitter wound that tears open inside you, leaving only a raw, aching pain in its wake. You swallow hard, forcing back the tears that blur your vision, but one slips down your cheek, betraying the hurt you’re trying so desperately to hide.

For just a second, you think you see something shift in his gaze—a flicker of regret, a shadow of something softer. But it’s gone almost as quickly as it came, replaced by the hard, unyielding mask that has come to define him. He shoves past you, his heavy boots thudding against the floor as he strides toward the door without a backward glance, leaving only the echo of his footsteps in the quiet.

You stand there, rooted in place, your heart pounding painfully in your chest, tears rolling down your cheeks as you watch him go, as the last fragile thread of hope slips away, leaving you alone in the silence once more.

***

Winter’s chill settles deep into your bones. It’s an unforgiving season here, the kind that tests everything from your wits to your resolve. Your small house creaks and groans under the weight of ice and wind, and you wonder, at times, if it might be better to go into the village, to stay there until the thaw. But you’re stubborn, more stubborn than you should be, and you’ve come to find a strange comfort in the solitude.

You take up odd jobs at the inn when you can, enough to keep your stores filled. It isn’t much, but it keeps you busy, keeps you from feeling the sting of an empty house quite so sharply. But it’s no joy. The men there are rough, rowdy, especially after a few rounds. They leer and jeer, grabbing at your arm or the hem of your sleeve. You despise it, the feel of their hot breath, their drunken grins, but the coins in your pocket help you keep your head high. You grit your teeth and bear it because you have no choice.

You’ve been keeping company with a new stray—a scrawny brown dog that wandered onto your land and decided to stay, curling up at your feet by the fire each night, his tail thumping whenever he sees you. You named him Fool, a reminder of the soft, foolish heart you’ve inherited. A part of you still aches, still feels betrayed by the man who once sat in that same spot, the one who had sneered at your kindness and left you with nothing.

You’ve come to accept it as part of your nature, something passed down from your father. He had been a good man, too kind for his own good, always helping others even when it meant less for himself. Your brother had hated him for it, berating him every chance he got, calling him weak, calling him a fool. But you never saw it that way. You admired him, adored him. And, though your brother couldn’t understand it, you became just like him, carrying the same silly heart that gets broken again and again.

One evening, just as you’re finishing your meal with Fool at your feet, you hear voices outside—low and ragged, like someone fighting just to breathe. You tense, listening. It’s not the sound of drunken revelry, nor the calls of travelers. It’s something closer, something weaker. Fool growls, his ears pricked as he looks toward the door, his body stiff with tension.

Slowly, you rise and make your way to the door, drawing it open to peer out into the night.

At first, you can hardly believe it. There, slumped against the old tree on the edge of your land, is the familiar hulking figure, dressed in ragged, bloodstained clothes, his face twisted in a half-smirk even as he bleeds into the snow. Sandor. Or whatever his name truly is. His eyes catch yours, filled with that same strange, dark amusement that first unsettled you.

You stand there, frozen, the cold biting through your cloak. He watches you, the smirk faltering as his breath hitches. Blood drips from his side, staining the snow beneath him dark red, and his skin is deathly pale, as if the winter itself is pulling the life from his veins.

“Didn’t… think I’d come crawling back, did you?” he rasps, his voice rough, tinged with something you don’t recognize. “But here I am.”

He laughs, the sound hoarse, pained, a laugh that nearly turns into a cough. It’s as if the sight of you, standing there shocked and hurt, is some cruel joke. He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing heavily, then looks at you with a half-lidded gaze, his expression somewhere between frustration and amusement.

“You’re… not going to leave me to die, are you?” he mutters, a taunting edge to his tone. “I know you’re too soft for that.”

For a long moment, you don’t move. You want to turn around, to let him suffer in the cold as he’d left you to face winter alone, empty-handed and betrayed. But that part of you, that foolish heart you can’t quite stamp out, stirs again. You can’t just let him bleed out there, not while you’re able to help. It would go against everything your father taught you, everything you’ve tried to be.

You kneel beside him, close enough to see just how deep the wound is. Your breath forms clouds in the freezing night air, and you shiver as the cold seeps through your clothes. Gently, you reach to peel back his cloak, trying to assess the damage.

But before you can even touch the wound, his hand shoots out, iron-strong despite his weakness, clamping down around your wrist in a crushing grip. He looks up at you, half-delirious, but his gaze is sharp, angry, almost as if he expects you to exact some imagined revenge.

“No… revenge for you,” he slurs, his voice thick with exhaustion. He laughs again, harshly, even as his fingers dig into your skin with bruising strength. “You… thought you’d get to watch me… rot out here, did you? Not… going to give you that satisfaction.”

You wince, the pain of his grip flaring hot and sharp in your wrist. It feels like he’s about to snap the bone. You try to twist free, but his hold is unyielding, as if every last ounce of his strength is focused on this one, foolish grip. The pressure builds, and you can’t help the pained cry that escapes your lips.

His eyes widen slightly, as if the sound finally registers through his haze. His grip loosens, more from weakness than mercy, and his hand falls away as he sinks back against the tree, his breaths shallow, his skin sickly pale. You rub your wrist, feeling the tender flesh pulse with pain, but you swallow it down, forcing yourself to focus.

He’s slipping, you realize. The blood loss is taking its toll, his head lolling to the side as his eyes flutter shut.

And so, once again, you find yourself hauling him back to the house, his weight leaning heavily against you. It’s harder this time—your strength worn from winter’s hardship, from the nights of cold and hunger you’ve endured because of him. You half expect him to turn on you again, to mock you for your foolishness, but he’s silent, unconscious, his head slumping against your shoulder.

As you drag him inside, your heart is a heavy, tired thing, pounding against your ribs with equal parts anger and despair. You manage to get him onto the bed, his limp form settling like a dead weight. His face is ghostly pale, the scarred skin standing out in harsh contrast. For a moment, you just stand there, watching his shallow breaths, wondering what in the gods’ names possessed you to do this again.

This time, you think, as you go to fetch the bandages, this time, if he turns on you, you won’t hesitate. If he threatens your life again, if he makes even a single move to hurt you, you’ll do what you should have done before—you’ll leave him out in the snow. You’re not strong enough to keep making the same mistakes, to keep paying the price for a kind heart in this unforgiving world.

But as you bind his wounds, as you feel the rough heat of his skin beneath your hands, that soft heart of yours, the one your father instilled in you, refuses to harden. You’ve been foolish, yes. You’ve been hurt, and you’ll likely be hurt again. But as you watch Sandor’s labored breaths begin to steady, you know that some part of you would rather be foolish than cold.

And so, for better or worse, you tend to him, wondering, with a tired bitterness, if this kindness will be the last one you’ll ever give.

***

The first thing Sandor feels as he surfaces from unconsciousness is something warm and wet against his face. For a moment, he’s sure he’s lost more blood than he thought, until he cracks one eye open and sees the mangy face of a dog staring back at him, tongue lolling and nose sniffing eagerly. With a low groan, he shifts his head, feeling the ache flare up along his side. Before he can shove the mutt away, you swoop in, pulling the dog back with gentle hands.

“Sorry about that,” you murmur, pulling the dog’s scruffy head back and rubbing his ears to settle him down. “Fool doesn’t know what ‘personal space’ means.”

Sandor raises an eyebrow, a wry smirk tugging at his mouth despite himself. “Fool, huh?” he mutters, his voice rough, still thick from sleep. “Fitting, that. You’re both a pair of fools.”

He can hardly believe it. Here he is again, bleeding and half-dead in your bed, in your home. After everything he’s done—after holding a sword to your throat, stealing what little you had—and still, you dragged him back here, fussed over him like a wounded animal. The stupidity of it, the softness in you that hasn’t been beaten out by life, it boggles his mind.

As he’s about to mutter some biting remark, something stops him. He looks at you properly, for the first time since he woke, and he notices the changes. Your clothes hang a bit looser on you, as if you’ve shrunk inside them. Your cheeks are thinner, a bit hollowed out, and the brightness that once lit up your eyes is gone, replaced by a dullness that tells him of long, hard days, of nights colder and hungrier than they should’ve been.

The smirk fades from his face, replaced by a flicker of something unreadable. He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, you speak.

“I… took care of your wounds,” you say, almost formally, as if you’re a healer giving a report. “You’d lost a lot of blood. If you’re planning on walking out again, I thought you might like to know where things are. There’s stew on the hearth if you’re hungry. And, if you feel the need to repeat that goodbye of yours, just… don’t destroy anything this time.”

The words are matter-of-fact, but there’s a thread of sadness running through them, a tired acceptance that pricks at something deep within him. You straighten, brushing off your hands before turning to the door, as if it’s no big thing that he’s here again, as if his threats and cruelty were no more than a mild inconvenience. Your voice, soft and resigned, reaches him one last time.

“I’m off to work now. Do as you please, Sandor.”

And with that, you leave, closing the door quietly behind you.

For a long time, he lies there, staring at the door. The dog, Fool, looks at him curiously, tilting his head as if wondering why Sandor hasn’t moved yet. There’s a restlessness in Sandor’s chest, a knot that twists and pulls, refusing to settle. He’s had people look at him with fear, with hate, with indifference—but no one has ever looked at him the way you do. You looked at him like he’s something worth saving, worth trusting. It grates on him, that look of yours, that damn fool’s kindness that he doesn’t understand, doesn’t want to understand.

He forces himself to sit up, biting back a grunt of pain as the wound throbs in protest. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he surveys the small room. It’s as bare as he remembers—nothing of much value, nothing a sane person would want to steal. There’s a wooden bowl by the fire with the stew you’d mentioned, and though he’s hungry, he can’t bring himself to touch it. Not yet.

His eyes drift to the small pile of belongings he’d rummaged through during his last departure. They’re stacked neatly now, as if you’d placed each item back with quiet care. It stirs something in him—a shame he doesn’t want to feel, a guilt he’s spent his life learning to ignore. And yet, the evidence of your continued kindness, after all he’s done, sits like a stone in his gut.

Grimacing, he looks down at his hands. They’re scarred, rough, made for breaking things, not for accepting the kind of foolish generosity you keep offering. He knows he should leave. But something in the way you looked at him, that dullness in your eyes, that resignation—he can’t shake it.

***

When you return home that evening, you brace yourself to find the place empty again, as you had the last time Sandor left. Part of you expects him to be gone—like some bad dream that you keep waking up from only to find yourself alone, with nothing left to show for your troubles but a sore wrist and a dwindling store of food.

But as you step into the dim warmth of your small home, there he is, slouched on the floor by the hearth, with Fool sprawled across his lap. He looks different in the firelight, softer, though you’d never say that out loud. He glances up at you, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his scarred face, then back down at the dog, his fingers idly scratching behind Fool’s ears.

You’re caught off-guard by the sight. He should be long gone by now. But perhaps he isn’t feeling well enough to travel, not with his wound still fresh. Or maybe it’s just that he hasn’t taken enough to be satisfied—though, truthfully, there’s nothing left here for him to take.

You notice that he’s tried to redress the wound on his side. The bandage is clumsily tied, blood seeping through in faint, angry patches. You want to say something, to tell him he’s done a poor job of it, but who are you to speak? The man would only scoff, maybe laugh, and truthfully, you’re too tired for it. So you say nothing.

With a sigh, you take off your cloak and hang it near the door. Your fingers are cold, stiff from the bitter workday, and the thin chill that clings to your bones makes you shiver. You spent what little strength you had left chopping wood for the innkeeper’s kitchen and serving ale to men with wandering hands and slurred voices. All for a few coppers that barely cover enough to last the week.

Your stomach growls as you sit down, reminding you of the hunger you’ve been pushing down all day. You feel Sandor’s eyes on you, a weight you can’t ignore, but you keep your gaze lowered. Most of what you had went into the stew for him. You’d put in the last of the carrots, a precious few potatoes. He needed it more than you, after all. That’s what you keep telling yourself.

Gathering the scraps left, you prepare a small bowl for Fool, letting him lick at what’s left from the pot. He wolfs it down, not realizing it’s little more than gristle and broth. You lean back against the wall, every part of you aching with exhaustion, and wrap your arms around yourself, trying to ignore the rumbling in your stomach.

The silence between you and Sandor feels heavy, like something you could reach out and touch. You feel his gaze, keen and appraising, but you don’t meet his eyes. Instead, you reach for the small, worn book that rests by your bed, the only one you own. It’s a collection of stories, a gift from your brother, back in the days when the world seemed brighter and he was still full of hope. You run your fingers over its cracked leather cover, a comfort against the cold.

Reading has always been your escape. You loved books even as a child, their pages carrying you to places you could never hope to see. Your brother taught you to read himself, spelling out each word by candlelight until the letters began to make sense. But books are expensive, and now you can barely afford to eat, let alone buy a single new volume. The last coppers you’d saved were gone, taken by the man sitting just a few feet away from you.

As you open the book, Sandor’s low voice breaks the silence, rough and edged with scorn.

“Didn’t know you could read,” he mutters, a cruel smirk playing at his lips. “Didn’t peg you for the scholarly type.”

The words sting, a barb that lands squarely in your chest, and you feel something twist in you, something that snaps like a thread pulled too tight. You bite your lip, trying to push down the frustration, the hunger, the anger that’s been simmering for weeks.

“Yes, I can read,” you reply, the words tumbling out unbidden, your voice barely steady. “I’ve read this book since I was a little girl. It’s the only book I own.”

You look down at the pages, blinking quickly, fighting back the tears that blur the words. But the hurt breaks through, spilling over before you can hold it back.

“I can’t afford books, Sandor,” you say quietly, your voice trembling. “I can barely afford food. And since you stole what little I had before winter, I’ve got even less now.”

The words are bitter on your tongue, and as you say them, the weight of them settles in, raw and unforgiving. Your voice catches as you add, “I hope you enjoyed your stew, because that’s all there is.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Sandor’s face changes, just slightly—something you can’t quite place, something like shame, maybe, or anger. But you don’t give him the chance to respond. You’ve had enough of his cruelty, his smirks and jibes.

Without another word, you set the book aside, pulling on your cloak with hands that tremble from more than just the cold. Fool looks up at you, his eyes warm and concerned, and you give him a soft pat before whistling for him to follow. The dog bounds to your side, tail wagging, as you push open the door and step out into the night.

The night air is sharp and cold, seeping through your cloak as you walk farther from home, past the shadowed trees and thorny underbrush. The stars overhead feel distant, detached from the world below, indifferent to your weariness and grief. Fool trots by your side, his warmth pressing against your leg as if he senses the turmoil churning inside you.

You keep walking, unwilling to return to that small house, the one place that should feel safe. How could it, when inside is a man who, despite your kindness, has been nothing but cruel to you? A man who mocked the one thing you had, the only treasure that connected you to your past. You’re tired of feeling like the world’s fool. The ache of hunger gnaws at your stomach, and the weight of exhaustion pulls at your limbs. You wander until the cold begins to settle into your bones, until each step feels heavier than the last.

Finally, when you can’t take another step, you sink down beneath a twisted old tree, pulling Fool close and burying your face in his fur. His warmth is comforting, his quiet companionship a balm to the loneliness that has followed you all winter. You run your fingers through his fur, whispering soft words to him, trying to keep your thoughts from straying back to Sandor, to the anger and bitterness that make your chest ache.

“Just you and me, Fool,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the dog’s head. His tail thumps softly against your leg, his brown eyes warm with loyalty.

You lean your head back against the rough bark of the tree, staring up at the sky, the endless, uncaring blackness. Your eyes feel heavy, the exhaustion you’ve been pushing down finally seeping into every inch of you. You don’t even realize when your eyes slip shut, your body sinking into a restless sleep in the frigid air.

***

The sound of footsteps crunching through the snow pulls Sandor’s attention. He’s been walking for some time, an uneasy restlessness pulling him to his feet as he stoked the fire, watching the smoke curl up the chimney. You’d gone out without a word, and though he’d fought the urge to follow you, something gnawed at him, a sense of wrongness he couldn’t ignore.

He listens, and then he hears it—a faint, muffled bark. He follows the sound, his heavy boots leaving deep prints in the snow, his breath fogging in the icy air. When he finally spots you slumped under the tree, his stomach clenches at the sight.

“Seven hells,” he mutters under his breath.

The last thing he’d expected was to find you curled up like a wraith, Fool nestled beside you. Your cheeks are streaked with tear stains, and your face is pale, your body curled into a defensive huddle against the cold. You look fragile, too thin, too worn, like you could disappear into the frost.

He kneels down, slipping his arms under you, and curses under his breath at how light you are. Fool trots along beside him, whining softly, his brown eyes worried as he watches Sandor lift you. Sandor feels a pang of regret, remembering the words you’d spoken to him before you left—the way you’d put everything you had into that stew, that last precious meal you’d given up for him.

“You damn fool,” he mutters, anger seeping into his voice as he carries you back, fighting the guilt that twists in his chest. Fool barks softly as if in agreement, trotting loyally beside him as he makes his way back to the house.

***

When you wake, there’s a strange warmth wrapped around you, a thick blanket heavy on your shoulders. For a moment, you wonder if you’re still dreaming, but as you shift, you realize the warmth isn’t just from the blanket.

The fire crackles brightly in the hearth, far warmer than the usual thin flames that you can barely afford to keep going. There’s more wood than you remember, enough to keep the room warm all night. You sit up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and glance toward the hearth, wondering where the firewood could have come from. It isn’t yours; you’d never have been able to afford such a large stack.

You pull yourself out of bed, your legs stiff and cold, and shuffle to the window. Outside, in the faint morning light, you catch sight of Sandor in your small, snow-covered yard, his back to you as he brings down an axe, splitting another thick log with brutal efficiency. The wood splits with a crack, falling to the ground in two neat halves, and he sets another log in its place, bringing the axe down again with a practiced swing.

For a moment, you just watch him, too surprised to move. When you finally step outside, the cold morning air bites at your cheeks, and Sandor glances up from his work, his eyes flicking over you with a dark, assessing look.

“You’re awake,” he grunts, setting the axe down and stretching his shoulders. “Good. Got some food inside for you. And when I’m done here, I’ll give you back the coin I took.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off, his gaze hardening as he crosses his arms, looking at you with something between anger and exasperation.

“Falling asleep outside in the cold. Stupidest damn thing I’ve seen,” he growls, shaking his head. “Do you have a death wish, or are you just that foolish?”

The harshness of his tone stings, but you say nothing, lowering your gaze as he picks up the axe again, splitting another log with a clean, efficient swing. You lean against the porch, too tired to defend yourself, too numb to react to his anger. The weight of your exhaustion presses down on you, but you can’t deny the small warmth of relief at his words, at the sight of the stack of wood growing at his feet.

After a moment of silence, Sandor glances up at you, his expression softer, almost curious. “That book you keep reading,” he says, his voice gruff. “What’s in it?”

You blink, caught off-guard by the question. “It’s… it’s just stories. Tales of old knights and distant lands. My brother gave it to me when I was little.”

He grunts, swinging the axe again, sending another log splintering in two. “Don’t see why a grown woman would waste time with children’s tales.”

A faint smile tugs at your lips, a small spark of defiance as you shrug. “Books are rare. Expensive. I can’t afford more than this one, so I read it over and over. I suppose it just became… familiar.” You pause, a touch of longing in your voice. “If I had a choice, though… I’d like to read something new. Anything, really. A book with tales from the South, or a story about far-off places I’ll never see.”

Sandor pauses, his gaze thoughtful, as if weighing your words. “Stories aren’t going to fill your belly, or keep you warm,” he mutters, though his tone lacks its usual bite.

“No,” you agree, looking down at your hands. “But they give me something to look forward to. Something to hope for.” You glance up, meeting his eyes, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve lost so much, Sandor. My brother, my family, everything. The book… it’s all I have left of them.”

He’s silent, his gaze shifting back to the axe in his hands. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just keeps chopping, the steady rhythm filling the air. 

You watch him in silence, the soft crunch of snow beneath his boots, the steady rhythm of the axe. Fool wanders up to you, resting his head on your knee, and you scratch behind his ears, feeling a warmth settle in your chest that you haven’t felt in a long time. You know Sandor could leave any day, take the coin he promised to return and be gone by nightfall. But for now, as he stacks the wood, the house feels a little warmer, the world a little less empty.

As you sit there, watching him work, the weight of loneliness lifts, just a fraction, and you find yourself hoping, for the first time, that maybe—just maybe—he’ll stay a while longer.

***

At first, Sandor stays only as long as his wound takes to close, but as the days pass, he doesn’t seem in any hurry to leave. He falls into a rhythm in your home. Some mornings, you wake to find him already chopping wood or tending to small repairs that you’ve let sit for far too long. You aren’t sure what keeps him here, and you don’t ask, afraid that if you put words to it, he’ll take his leave for good.

One evening, as you stand at the hearth stirring stew, you feel him watching you from where he sits by the fire. His gaze is intense, making the hair on the back of your neck prickle. When you glance over your shoulder, you catch him staring, his eyes following the curve of your neck, his mouth set in a strange, unreadable line.

“Something on my face?” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

He scoffs, though you notice he doesn’t look away. “I just don’t get it,” he mutters, leaning back in the chair, his gaze still fixed on you.

“Don’t get what?”

“Why you don’t run screaming when you see me,” he says, his tone rough. “Face like this, most people can’t bear to look at it.”

You stop stirring, turning to face him fully. “I’m not most people,” you say, your voice soft but certain. Slowly, you walk over to him, standing in front of his chair until he has to tilt his head up to meet your gaze. “I don’t care about that,” you murmur, letting your gaze linger on his unscarred side, then back to the marks of fire on the other. “In fact,” you say, your voice dropping to a near whisper, “I think you’re rather handsome.”

His brows shoot up, a mixture of surprise and suspicion flickering across his face. “Handsome,” he repeats, as though testing the word for himself.

You lean down, bracing a hand on the arm of his chair, bringing yourself close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath. “Very handsome,” you whisper, and before he can react, you let your hand slide up his arm, squeezing gently before pulling back.

He shifts uncomfortably, a faint flush rising to his scarred cheek. “Think you’re the only fool in the world who’d ever say that,” he mutters, but you catch the slight twitch of his mouth, the way his gaze softens as he watches you return to the hearth. And when you glance back, he’s still looking, his eyes darker than before, like he’s seeing you for the first time. 

***

After that night, there’s a shift between you, an invisible thread that draws you closer with each passing day. Sandor doesn’t shy from you the way he used to; he lets you touch him, lets your hand linger on his shoulder or arm when you’re talking, even lets you fuss over his bandages, though he grumbles that you’re treating him like some “invalid.”

One night, you sit close by the fire, reading aloud from your single book. Sandor sits beside you, his arm slung along the back of your chair. Every so often, his fingers brush your shoulder, light but deliberate, sending a warm shiver through you. The warmth of the fire and the nearness of him make it easy to forget the hard edge of the world outside.

“Never known someone to be so taken with words on a page,” he murmurs, his voice low as he watches you read.

You smile, leaning against his arm, feeling the heat of his skin through his shirt. “They’re an escape,” you say, meeting his gaze. “They take me somewhere I’ll never get to go.”

He watches you a moment longer, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering. “Maybe you don’t need to go anywhere,” he murmurs, his voice softer, almost tentative. “Maybe what you’re looking for’s right here.”

Your breath catches, and you find yourself leaning into his touch, your heart pounding. “Maybe it is,” you whisper, the words barely audible, and for a long, endless moment, you both sit there, your eyes locked, the fire crackling softly in the silence between you.

***

The flirting becomes a familiar rhythm, woven into your days like a song that only you and Sandor know. He’s braver now, bolder, his rough edges softened by the warmth that grows between you. One afternoon, as you wash linens by the stream, he wanders over, watching as you scrub a shirt of his with practiced, careful hands.

“Got no business handling a man’s things like that,” he grumbles, though there’s a glint in his eye as he leans against a nearby tree, arms folded across his chest.

You grin, wringing out the shirt and hanging it to dry. “Well, if you’d quit splitting the seams, I wouldn’t have to.”

He snorts, shaking his head as he steps closer, his hand brushing yours as he reaches for the next shirt. His fingers linger a moment too long, rough and warm, and when he looks at you, there’s a spark of mischief in his dark eyes.

“What would you do without me, then?” he asks, his voice low, teasing.

You pretend to consider it, your own grin widening. “Probably sleep better, eat more.”

He laughs, a rare, genuine sound that fills the quiet air around you, and before you realize what you’re doing, you reach up, brushing a hand over his cheek, feeling the faint stubble along his jaw. He freezes, his breath catching, his gaze fixed on yours.

“You know,” you say softly, letting your hand linger, “for someone so big and gruff, you’re awfully soft right here.”

His lips quirk into a smirk, and he catches your hand, pressing it against his cheek. “Keep talking like that, and you’ll give me ideas.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” you murmur, leaning in, your breath mingling with his. For a heartbeat, you’re sure he’s going to kiss you, but he pulls back, his gaze flickering with a mix of hesitation and want.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he mutters, his voice rough with something deeper, and you can see the strain in his eyes, the fight between wanting and holding back.

“Good,” you reply, not letting go of his hand. “I like a bit of danger.”

***

One night, as the snow begins to melt in earnest and the first whispers of spring reach your small home, there’s a knock at the door. The sound is low, almost hesitant, as if unsure whether to break the silence. Fool barks, his ears pricked, and you pull yourself from your chair, wiping your hands on your apron as you approach.You smile softly when you see him outside.

“Are you going to let me in, or do I stand here all night?” he grumbles, shifting the weight of the sack on his shoulder.

You step aside, too happy to see him for your own good, and he walks into the warmth of your small home, setting the sack down by your bed. The firelight casts strange shadows over his face, softening the hard lines, and for a moment, he looks almost uncomfortable, as if he isn’t sure why he’s here, or what to expect from you.

Without a word, he reaches into the sack and pulls out the first of its contents. When you see what it is, you gasp softly.

It’s a book.

The leather binding is rough, worn by years of use, and the pages are yellowed, fraying at the edges. Sandor sets it in your hands, watching as you stare down at it, unable to believe what you’re seeing. Then he reaches back into the sack, drawing out another book, and then another, until a small pile of them rests in your lap.

You stare down at the books, hardly able to breathe. There are five, no, six—each one a little treasure, worn and tattered but precious beyond words. For a long moment, you can’t speak. You just look at each one, running your fingers over the covers, flipping through the pages, reading the faded titles and tracing the spines. You feel like a child, given the greatest gift you’ve ever dreamed of.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you laugh—a soft, breathless sound that quickly turns into a sob. You cover your mouth, the tears streaming down your cheeks, but you don’t care. In that moment, you forget all the anger and hurt, all the cruelty he’d shown you. You launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck in a fierce hug.

He tenses, his hands hovering uncertainly at his sides, but you cling to him, sobbing and laughing, feeling the solid warmth of him under your hands. Slowly, as if afraid to break something fragile, he lets his hands rest on your back, his touch awkward, hesitant.

“You’re… crying,” he mutters, a trace of discomfort in his voice. “What are you crying for? It’s just a few damn books.”

You pull back, wiping at your cheeks, laughing through the tears as you meet his confused gaze. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “You don’t know… you don’t know how much this means to me.”

He shifts, scratching the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. His eyes flicker to the side, avoiding your gaze. “You’re a fool,” he mutters, his voice rough. “Don’t even know why I bothered.”

But there’s something softer in his expression, something that hints at a vulnerability he rarely shows. He watches you, his brow furrowing as if he’s trying to make sense of the sight before him. And then, after a moment, he speaks again, his voice quieter, more uncertain.

“Aren’t you… afraid of me? For real?” he asks, his gaze searching. “Don’t I… disgust you? I know I am not nice too look at.”

You look at him, truly look at him, taking in the harsh lines of his scarred face, the hardness that has been etched into his expression by years of pain. And you realize that, despite everything, you aren’t afraid. You aren’t disgusted. To you, he’s just Sandor.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I’ll keep repeating that I don’t care how you look. It doesn’t matter to me. What matters is that you’re… that you’re kind.”

At that, he scoffs, his mouth twisting with bitterness. “Kind? I put a sword to your throat. I stole from you, left you to freeze and starve. I’m not a good man,” he growls, the words dripping with self-loathing. “And I won’t be good to you. You think I’m some hero from one of those tales of yours? I’m nothing like that.”

You smile, a soft, sad smile, and reach up to cup his face, your thumb tracing the rough line of his scar. Before he can react, you lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. He freezes, caught off-guard, but you linger just a moment, letting the warmth of the kiss speak for the words you can’t find.

When you pull back, you see the shock in his eyes, the raw vulnerability he’s tried so hard to hide. You smile again, softer this time, and settle down on the bed beside him, gathering the books in your lap and turning to show him each one.

“Here,” you murmur, your voice soft as you run your fingers over the first cover. “This one’s a collection of songs. My brother used to sing to me when I was little. He’d make up his own songs, silly little rhymes, and tell me I’d learn real ones one day. I suppose now I can.”

Sandor’s gaze softens as he watches you, a strange mixture of regret and wonder in his eyes.

You hold up another book, a thick, leather-bound tome with faded writing along the spine. “This one looks like a history book. Probably dry and boring, but I’ll read it anyway. Who knows? Maybe there’s something useful in it.”

As you go through each book, you feel his gaze on you, steady and intent, as if he’s trying to memorize every detail. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t interrupt, just watches as you trace each title, as you murmur your thoughts, your hopes for each story.

When you finish, you turn back to him, your heart full, your voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you, Sandor,” you say again, meeting his gaze with a sincerity that makes his expression soften, almost against his will. “I don’t care what you’ve done. You’ve given me something precious. Something I’ll never forget.”

For a long moment, he’s silent, his gaze searching yours, his rough hands resting on his knees. And then, almost reluctantly, he nods, as if he’s accepted something he can’t quite put into words.

“Don’t go making me out to be something I’m not,” he mutters, his voice gruff but lacking its usual bite. “I’m not a hero. Don’t need your thanks.”

You smile, resting your hand over his. “You may not be a hero, Sandor. But to me… you’ve been something close.”

He shakes his head, but you catch the faintest hint of a smile, a softness that lingers in his gaze as he looks at you, as if he’s finally beginning to understand the depth of your foolish, stubborn kindness.

As the fire crackles softly in the hearth, the warmth filling the room, you sit beside him, your heart full in a way it hasn’t been in a long time. The books rest in your lap, a symbol of something precious, something more than words on a page. 

“I have something more”, he says after a while. A bottle of dark wine glistens under his arm, rich and rare, the sort of indulgence neither of you have seen in ages. He sets it down next to the books, meeting your surprised gaze with a shy sort of confidence that almost makes you laugh.

“Wine and books?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “You’re spoiling me, Sandor.”

“Maybe I am,” he mutters, looking away as if unsure of himself. “You deserve more than… well, more than you’ve had.”

Something about his tone pulls at your heart, and you take out two clay cups, pouring the wine with quiet reverence. You both take a sip, the taste rich and warm, settling in your chest. It’s delicious, smoother than anything you’ve tasted, and by the time you’ve both emptied your first cup, you feel a warmth spreading through you, loosening your reservations, softening the edges of the quiet tension that’s lived between you.

Sandor leans back in his chair, watching you in the firelight. His gaze lingers on you, tracing the line of your neck, the soft curve of your mouth. When you catch him looking, he doesn’t look away, and the heat of his stare sends a shiver over your skin.

“There’s something different about you tonight,” he says, his voice low, thoughtful.

“Maybe it’s the wine,” you tease, but there’s more to it than that. There’s something in the way he looks at you, something that makes you bold. “Or maybe,” you murmur, reaching across the table to touch his hand, “maybe it’s you.”

He glances down, watching your fingers brush over his knuckles, his rough hands unmoving, allowing the touch. Then, slowly, his fingers close over yours, his thumb tracing a gentle line across your skin. The simplicity of it sends a warmth through you, soft but undeniable, and when he looks up, his dark eyes are filled with something raw, something yearning.

“Why me?” he asks, his voice a murmur, rough yet filled with vulnerability. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

You lean forward, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because I want to,” you say simply, and before he can respond, you press a soft kiss to his knuckles, your lips lingering on his scarred, calloused skin.

He lets out a breath, something that sounds like surprise, and you feel his hand tighten around yours, his fingers weaving between yours as he stands, drawing you to your feet. The firelight flickers over his face, casting shadows over the deep lines of his expression, but his gaze is warm, focused, and you feel your heart pound as he reaches out, brushing his hand over your cheek.

For a moment, you both stand there, caught in the quiet of the moment. And then, in a single, slow motion, he leans down, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that’s both tender and possessive, his hand cradling the back of your head, holding you close.

The kiss deepens, his mouth exploring yours with a hunger that’s been long denied, a need that thrums through your veins. You reach up, your fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer, feeling his body against yours, solid and warm. He slides his arms around your waist, his hands moving over your back, mapping out each curve, each hollow, as if memorizing the feel of you.

He pulls back just slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm on your skin. His hands linger at the small of your back, pressing you close, and you can feel the faint tremor in his fingers, the depth of his restraint.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, his voice rough and thick with desire, his gaze searching yours.

In answer, you kiss him again, your hands drifting down his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. He lets out a soft, low growl, pulling you closer still, his lips finding their way along your jaw, down the curve of your neck. Each kiss is deliberate, sending a warm thrill through you as he holds you, his touch bolder now, possessive.

He guides you to the bed, his hands on your waist, his touch reverent as he lays you down. You watch him in the firelight, his gaze tracing over you, lingering as he lifts the hem of your shirt, his hands sliding over your bare skin with a gentleness that feels almost worshipful. He looks up at you, a question in his eyes, and you nod, reaching out to touch his face, your fingers tracing the scarred lines of his cheek.

Slowly, he shrugs off his own shirt, and for a moment, you just look at each other, caught in the intimacy of the moment. His skin is warm beneath your touch, the muscles beneath his scars solid, strong, and when he leans down to kiss you again, it’s softer this time, filled with a quiet tenderness that makes your heart ache.

You trace your hands over his shoulders, his back, learning each line, each scar, feeling the strength in him, the resilience that has carried him through so much. And as he moves, as he pulls you closer, his hands gentle but insistent, you feel a warmth spread through you, filling every hollow, every lonely ache that has lived within you for so long.

His mouth moves over you, his lips trailing down your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, each kiss igniting a quiet fire that burns just beneath your skin. His hands find yours, fingers intertwining as he presses soft, lingering kisses along the hollow of your throat, his breath warm against your skin.

When he finally joins you, skin against skin, it feels like something deeper, something that goes beyond words. His hands cradle you, his movements careful, reverent, as if you’re something precious, something he’s afraid to break. You pull him closer, your bodies entwining, moving together in a slow, steady rhythm that feels as natural as breathing.

As you hold each other, your fingers tracing gentle patterns over his back, you feel a closeness, a connection that feels almost sacred, and you realize that somewhere along the way, he’s become more than a mere companion. He’s become part of you, filling the empty spaces in your heart with a warmth that feels stronger, more lasting, than anything you’ve ever known.

Hours pass in a blur of touches, of whispered words and shared breaths, until finally, you lie together in the quiet of the night, tangled in each other’s arms, his hand resting over yours. The fire crackles softly, casting a warm glow over the room, and as you drift off to sleep, his arm tightens around you, a quiet promise that, for now, he’s yours, and you are his.

[0kayblue]

Choices

Choices 

A drunken kiss, unspoken feelings, and a nasty argument leaves Leon in a cracked state. Painfully stuck in the crossroads of realization that nothing is going to get better until he starts talking and actively takes the steps to come to terms with his past and his disjointed emotions. 

Word count: Almost 5k (not throughly proof read)

Angst. Language. Gun mentioned. Drinking mentioned. Happy ending. Partners to friends to lovers? The timeline is a little funky so let me explain: the events of Raccoon City take place in 2004 and that places this story towards the start of 2011.

A/N: Long time no see, huh? Things got heavy and they got heavy fast. Between vacation, moving, and the holidays; I’ve kinda fallen off the face of the planet. But it is what it is and I’m back for a minute or two. 

As far as requests are concerned I’m working on them, but I get distracted with other ideas. My google doc is full of rough outlines and unfinished works in progress. I don’t have any idea when things will come out, they just will. I apologize, but damn, life is stressful. 

Anyway, I hope you all are having a lovely day, week, month, and year. Please enjoy!!

“Hey. . .” Leon starts, his voice low and like gravel with uncertainty. A sense of deprecating self-consciousness following in the silence, before he lets out a frustrated huff. “You didn’t pick up, not that I’m surprised. . .but still, it hurts.” He admits as his grip on his phone grows tighter before it loosens and a conflicted sigh leaves him. 

“I’m. . .sorry.” He struggles with the apology as he shuts his eyes and another exasperated sigh leaves him, “Truly, I am sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did and I shouldn’t have pointed the finger at you. It’s not your fault and it never has been. I need you to know that, I need you to know that I know how I’ve been acting lately is stupid and. . .” He stops as he opens his eyes and looks around the dim space of his empty living room, the loneliness of this moment threatening to swallow him whole. The numbing silence of the room mixed with the silence on the other end of the phone became too much to handle causing him to swallow the confession on the tip of his tongue. 

He licks the dryness from his lips as his other hand goes to massage his forehead in a stiff and irritated manner. He sucks his teeth as his hand falls while he lets out a disheartened sigh as the words fall from his lips, “I can’t do this without you here.” He admits with frustrated sorrow, “I need to see you. I need you to look at me. I need you to. . .I just need you.” 

The static of the other empty line cuts through silence like a rusted combat knife through brittle sheet metal. Leon’s lips part for another sigh to escape him, but it never does. The air stays lodged in his throat before he painfully swallows. 

“Look,” The word came out dry and somewhat short, before he clears his throat. “I’ve got some things I have to deal with, but if you could come over just for a moment—or at least call me back– it doesn’t have to be tonight; but sometime.” He can’t stop it from sounding like a desperate ramble; a plea for your silence to be broken.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back, but it probably won’t be until the early hours of the morning so if you could just at least call me back tonight. Let me know you’re okay. You don’t have to give me any other information and I won’t ask, I just want to make sure you’re okay.” He explains softly, biting his tongue to keep himself from making the accusations that scream at him. 

He opens his mouth to say more, to at least say ‘bye’; but he can’t, so he pulls the phone away from his ear and he ends the call. A frustrated grunt leaving him as he peers down at your contact photo, his gaze softening as he studies the smile on your face. The photo one that he cherishes with every heart string he has; a moment he was able to capture without you knowing. The rarity of being able to capture a genuine smile on your face. He recalls the day fondly and for a moment a smile curls at his lips until he eyes glance at the time in the top left corner of the thin device. He locks his phone as he stands from the loveseat you often perched yourself in whenever you were over, the seat cushion practically molded to only sit your frame comfortably. 

Putting the phone in his pocket he makes his way through the kitchen and to the door that leads to the garage; grabbing his car keys from the key hooks by the door and opening the garage door. 

The dark of night not holding its usual tranquility as the earthy smell of the heavy rain floods his nostrils. It’s eerily fitting given his current circumstances and it makes his skin crawl slightly as he gets into the driver seat and starts the car. Putting the car in reverse he backs out of the garage, his ears starting to ring slightly as the quietness of the night floods the car. A slight scoff leaves him as he goes to shut the garage door and he heads north towards his destination. 

—------------------------------------------------------------

Leon drives for hours in silence trying to put his head together. Trying to string together what exactly he wants to say while also remaining focused on the road ahead. All his thoughts scattered and disorganized; any sense of pulling it together immediately wiped out whenever his phone buzzed. A thin line of hope is always shattered when he glances at it and it’s just another notification about god knows what. It didn’t matter and he didn’t care because it was never your name on the screen. 

It felt as if you were playing this silent treatment thing as if your life depended on it and it was killing him. Suffocating him. Each ping brings him above the tidal wave for just a moment before being dragged back under by the force of the freezing crisp waves. He could almost taste the bitter salt water with each defeated sigh of disappointment. 

His glare on the road sharpens as he sees the abandoned gas station, slows, and makes the sharp right turn into the parking lot. The sound of stray gravel gritting against the tread of the tires as the car reaches its destination, Leon on the other hand still has another hour until he reaches his. 

A single unmarked cruiser awaiting him parked perfectly in between two faded and barely visible white lines. He parks his own car a couple spots away from the cruiser before he shuts it off and steps out of the car, grabbing his phone and keys sliding them into his back pocket as he takes calculated steps to the cruiser. The rain only becomes more intense as he tries not to be affected by the cold laced into every drop that hits him, soaking his clothes slightly. 

“Should’ve brought an umbrella.” He mutters to himself as he opens the driver’s side door of the cruiser and gets in. He shakes slightly in an effort to get any excess water off before running a hand through his damp hair, the water slicking it back for just a moment before his bangs fall back into place. 

He leans over the center console and gets into the glove compartment on the passenger’s side. A single car key and a beretta 92fs pistol sit exactly where they were supposed to be. He opts for the cool metal of the hand gun as he picks it up and inspects the weapon briefly, leaving the safety on before he sets it in the passenger seat. He then takes the car key and starts the car, whereas his car was quiet the cruiser engine debates on whether or not to come to life and he almost took it as a sign to give up despite not being a superstitious man; but he digresses as the old cruiser decides that Leon is worth the ride. 

Just as he goes to put the car in reverse his phone pings and he immediately takes his hand from the gear shift and fishes for it with a grunt from his back pocket. A moment of relief leaves him as this time the contact that greets him is yours. Quick to unlock the phone he is greeted with a text of only one word:

 ‘Maybe.’ 

“Maybe?” He grumbles, “What the hell does that even mean?” He asks no one but himself and yet is met with the low rumble of the cruiser’s transmission. Before really thinking he goes and types a reply, staring at the message with a puzzled expression. 

‘Maybe what exactly?’ 

Surprisingly he barely moved before he got a reply.

‘Just maybe.’

He takes in a deep breath before letting it out in a shaky manner. Stubborn, you were always so stubborn. Of course he was too, but he was the one actively trying not to be this time. He was the one trying to get you to open up and not the other way around. Trying to get you to communicate with him, trying to get you to be vulnerable with him, trying to repair the rift between the two of you.

‘Can I get more than maybe?’

‘Please.’ 

He knows it’s his fault. He understands that regardless of how you left he still hurt you and you still had every right to be upset with him. Neither of you made anything official, never committed to anything, and he was a fool to think that a drunk kiss meant that his feelings were reciprocated and defined you both as an unit. He should have known that your avoidance of him the next day meant that something was off, but he convinced himself that you understood everything. That you knew everything he’s wanted to say for months. So, when he was informed of you being around someone who clearly was no good for you; he snapped.

‘I’ll be by.’

It wasn’t much, but it was something. A crumb that would subside the ache he felt. He lets out a sigh of relief as a small and soft smile finds his face. It was confirmation to him that he hasn’t lost you completely. He hadn’t lost you. 

‘When?’ 

‘Tonight. Please.’

He stares at the screen waiting for a reply he doubts he will get; so he isn’t surprised as agonizing seconds turn into minutes. Glancing at the time he knows he needs to move, and he will. Just a minute more. 

A minute passes, then two, and still no reply. He runs a hand through his hair before it finds the steering wheel, gripping it with force. Trying to let out some of the agitation he felt in the least harmful way possible. He tosses the phone into the passenger seat before taking his leave. 

—------------------------------------------------------------

Leon pulls up to the agreed upon meeting spot, the headlights of the cruiser reflecting off of the multiple ‘WARNING’ and ‘DANGER’ signs. All signs informing the public to stay clear of the abandoned wreckage that was the nightmare that started his adult life. 

He clenched his teeth as he parks the cruiser and before killing the engine he scrutinizes the rusted, faded, and graffitied sign that read: 

‘Welcome to Raccoon City

Home of Umbrella’

He can’t help the cold unforgiving glare that hardens his features as he stares intensely at that damn sign. A sign that he once was looking forward to seeing, a sign that was supposed to harken in a new beginning for him. A chapter of his life that he never got to write the way he intended too. 

He forces himself to look away as he kills the engine. All that anger and contempt in every movement he makes; the emotions barely subtle as he grabs the pistol and makes his leave from the cruiser. Uncleaned debris crunching under the harsh step of his sturdy weight. The former storm subsided to a gentle drizzle. As if the weather was deciding to be gentle towards him, to be kind as he faced the location of so much of his trauma. Dulled screams and flashbacks of all the things he saw that night flashing throughout every corner of his brain. He grits his teeth as he slams the door of the cruiser shut, the heavy bang ceasing the noise. The memories. 

He keeps his focus trained ahead as he strides closer to the steel chain fencing with sturdy steps, the dim yellow light from aged street lights illuminating his path with a dull hum. Unclenching his jaw he puts the pistol into the tight waistband of his jeans as he starts to climb the rusted fence that murmurs whines underneath the weight of his body. 

Getting to the top he throws one leg over before deciding to make the jump to the other side. A grunt leaves him as the soles of his shoes make contact with the pitch black pavement, a sharp yet brief pain shooting up his legs. Standing up straight he pulls the pistol from his waistband, shuts the safety off, and proceeds forward. Acutely aware of his surroundings as his stomach starts to turn and bile threatens to creep up his throat. 

Luckily he doesn’t have to travel far as the person he is set to meet waits in the shadows, the click of her heels against the damp pavement making Leon fully aware of her presence as he points the gun at her out of fear. It isn’t until she steps closer that he lowers his weapon. 

“Leon.” Ada says as she looks at him intently. Giving him a once over before she speaks again, “Someone is jumpy, I see.” 

“Yeah, well, it’s the location.” Leon says as he stands up straight, his shoulders remaining tense. Ada nods in a sense of understanding. 

“You went through it to track me down and I’ll admit I’m impressed; but I have to ask: why?” Ada’s voice is smooth and low, clearly guarded. 

“There’s something I have to talk to you about. Something I need to address.” He admits. 

Ada studies him, the tension he carries nearly slapping her across the face; and she knows all the blame can’t just be put on the location. The rubble on the street is a physical representation of the crumbs of trust that was shared between the two of them. 

“So, then why go through the trouble?” She inquires, her brow raising slightly, “I’m certain whatever it is you are here to-.” 

“No, I need you to hear what I have to say.” He says cutting her off. Clearly uncomfortable, unfamiliar, and direct with her; this whole situation reeking of a rotten smell that they could practically taste. 

“Different.” She simply states, very different from their previous meeting six months prior in the rural misty mountainous region of Spain. A change that was lost on her is now clearly present. It’s rough, jagged; and not something she is used to when it comes to him. 

The two stare at each other in silence, trying to piece each other together. A clear lack of communication ringing out into the night, something that wasn’t uncommon between the two. 

“Do you-.” Leon starts but suddenly stops the question in its tracks. He knew the answer and it was pointless to even ask; so he opts for the next question, “Why didn’t you try and reach out?” 

The question takes Ada aback and it shows physically as her eyes widen just slightly before returning to that uncaring gaze. She ponders on how to approach this. On what to say. Coming up short she decides not to say anything regarding the subject; so she changes it. 

“Is this about them?” She asks and immediately Leon plants his feet. Knowing that her them meant you; and the feeling didn’t settle well in his bones. His teeth gritted together as his jaw locked. Yet, the fact of the matter remained: she was partly right. 

“It is, isn’t it.” Ada states as she crosses her arms, a sense of pride finding her as she figured him out so quickly. 

“And if it is?” Leon asks, hoping in vain to throw her off the scent by playing this with a harsh coyness. 

“You’re still hung up over a kiss?” Ada asks, the question slipping from her lips without thinking. A rarity from her, so much so that it takes her aback as the harshness of her words hits Leon with a pang of disappointment. 

“That’s not what I’m hung up on.” Leon answers, bitterness clinging to each word, “I’m hung up on the fact that after everything I—everything we—went through you didn’t even try to tell me you survived that fall. That you survived and you didn’t bother to at least leave me something to show you were still alive; and don’t even try and say you couldn’t find me. You could have. Easily.” His voice grew stronger with every word he spoke, his conflicting emotions present in each syllable. 

Ada is stunned by his candor, the hurt that she caused him present leaving her baffled and grasping for straws. He was being raw here, he was showing her his cards that he held so tightly to his chest. 

“That night was the ending to so much. That night—to me— was an unimaginable horror I was not prepared to face; and you…you were right there. You knew so much more than I did and you remained cryptic.” Leon states with a defeated and heavy breath, “It’s easy to direct my anger there; but I know that’s not where it belongs. That isn’t where my heart places it, even though it probably should be because you played it like a fiddle; but that’s not it. Not the way you used me. Manipulated me. What it is in all honesty is the fact that I couldn’t save you. That you slipped from my grip, but yet you still cling to me.” 

Silence falls between the two again, but this time it’s different. It’s not a burden even though it remains heavy.  

“So you tracked me down to tell me this?” 

���I tracked you down so you can let me go.”

The statement left Leon in one breath as he looked at her with a softness to his eyes. A vulnerability in his gaze that swallowed Ada whole. The lack of light behind his eyes shadowing her in a darkness she never expected to feel from him. Her own emotions are becoming hard to keep in check, as her insides start to simmer with an almost forgotten feeling. 

The silence clings to their clothes as the night time air becomes lodged in Leon’s throat. Nearly choking him as he examined Ada intently, trying to guess her next move. Trying to put himself in her shoes long enough to figure out what she might be thinking; but all of this was so foreign. So he retreated back into his own head and just decided it was best to let her move from here. He decided it was best to just stop; and that decision flooded his body with relief. His jaw relaxing, his shoulder falling slightly, his knees no longer locked; the utter relief he felt just voicing how he felt was something he least expected.

“Okay.” Ada said, breaking the silence. This newfound development changed something in her that she couldn’t pinpoint. Something half of her refused to pinpoint. This growth she sees from him changes her perception of him. 

“Okay.” Leon repeats with a small nod as the subtle rain drops that have been hitting him start to increase. They stand in a tense awkward silence as the wind starts to pick up and begin to howl a broken howl that wavered like a gasped sob. Leon turns to leave before the rain starts to heavily pour again, but the question that falls from Ada causes him to stop. 

“Are you doing this all for them?” She asks, crossing her arms. While Leon looks at her with confliction, still not pleased with her need to keep you in the conversation. 

“Not completely.” He answers; and that is the truth. He needed this for himself, he knew that; but it would be a lie if you didn’t inspire him to take the leap. That you didn’t assure him that he didn’t have to constantly be fighting this inner turmoil, that he could form some type of peace with it; and most importantly that he didn’t have to do it alone. He deserved to care for himself, something he never considered until he felt the gentle warmth of your care. 

“I’d prefer if you would leave them out of it.” Leon says, a protective pitch in his tone that packed a subtle bite. It didn’t catch her off guard, it was him she was dealing with; and she knew that regardless of the strengths she had briefly seen from you in Spain that Leon would still be protective of you. 

So, Ada just nods, turns, and takes her leave,“Goodbye, Leon.” Ada says as Leon watches her walk back towards what he assumed was her entry point was located. 

As her form disappears into the black of night Leon lets out a deep breath with a slight shake of his head; his limbs heavy from the strain of the stress he carried in them.

“Goodbye, Ada.” 

———————————————————--------------------------

It was nearly four in the morning when Leon pulled into his garage. Your vehicle was nowhere in his line of sight as he pulled up to his house. Not that he was surprised, your answer was just a maybe, and he didn’t want you to push yourself out of the realms of something you weren’t comfortable doing just yet. At least he let you know that you weren’t ignoring him completely and that was enough for the time being. 

He shuts off the car as an exhausted sigh leaves him while his hand runs down his face. His head starts to gently pound as he pinches the bridge of his nose. The emotional rollercoaster he has been on starts to churn his stomach, reminding him why he didn’t bother with this stuff for so long in the first place. It hurt. Everywhere. 

He closes the garage as he gets out of the car and makes his way inside. Placing his keys back on the hook, kicking off his shoes, and starting to remove his jacket he stops as he hears the muffled sound of a sitcom laugh track coming from the living room. His chest swells with hope as he quickly disregards his jacket and shoes and with large gentle strides he makes his way into the living room. His heart nearly stops when he sees you asleep on the couch. 

Stopping in his tracks he watches the soft rise and fall of your chest, you were completely and utterly lost in what he hoped was a peaceful slumber. Your arms tucked close to your chest. Your hair fanned out over the couch cushion and the arm of the couch. He fought back how he wanted to run his hand through your hair. How tempting it looked, how he knew nothing brought you more comfort than the feeling of gentle fingers working their way through your hair. He wanted to do that for you, he wanted to comfort you. He wants to give you whatever your heart desires. 

His breath hitches in his throat as he carefully sits on the edge of one of the couch cushions. His heart swells with so much love that it is overwhelming and for the first time within all of this his eyes start to glass over. Tears threatening to spill as a shaky hand slowly makes contact with the warmth of your scalp. His fingers intertwined with your hair as his thumb gingerly brushes the top of your head and a small breath of relief leaves him as he watches your body relax. He stifled a sob with a scoff as a smile found his face while he fixed his gaze on you. The person he holds the most dear. The person he would do whatever it took to just have by his side. 

A craving to show you the utmost love and affection, a craving to care for you so much deeper than what the two of you already had. He hoped with everything that you wanted more. That the ghost of your past hadn’t swallowed you up. That you would choose him. 

He finally sniffs, the sound of distress pulling you from sleep as your eyes open and find his piercing blue ones glassy with tears. You move to sit up as even in your groggy state your arms wrap around him to comfort him.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright.” You coo as your torso presses against him while one hand rubs his back and the other makes its way into his hair as you rest your chin in the crook of his neck. “It’s okay.” You soothe while Leon takes in a strangled breath his arms wrapping tightly around you as he pulls you into his lap. 

“You came.” He utters, his voice breaking slightly. 

“You called.” You answer softly. 

Leon’s grip on you tightens as he buries his head in the crook of your neck, fresh hot thick tears starting to roll down his face. You gently mumble sweet reassurances as you rub his back, allowing him to cry, allowing him to let go of all the shit he has been holding onto. The fight. The end. The struggle. He’s letting go of all of it as he keeps a firm hold on you, clinging to you as if his life depended on it. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed anything and I shouldn’t have gotten mad at you for- for being with them. I- I shouldn’t have yelled. I should have told you how I felt. I should have-.” He chokes out his apology, the saltiness of his tears finding the pallet of his tongue.

“Shh, Leon, it’s okay.” You coo rubbing his back, “Don’t force yourself to speak when you aren’t ready. Take your time.” He fists the soft fabric of your shirt as he wonders what he ever did to know the comfort of your patience. 

As Leon begins to calm down his grip on you loosens, his breathing returning to normal as his chest no longer hitches with quiet sobs. You feel him start to relax and in turn your body loses its own stiffness. You continue to hold him to you, trailing the tips of your nails gingerly up and down a patch of his back. You had no idea where Leon had been, but whatever he did has obviously left him worse for wear. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask in a quiet whisper, concern ever present in your soft voice; and Leon can’t help himself.

“I love you.” He responds as he places a strong hand in between your shoulder blades keeping you pressed against him as he screws his eyes shut trying to commit this moment to memory. The feeling of your body pressed flush against his, the addictive pleasant scent of your perfume, the soft gentle flesh of your neck pressed against the scratch of his stubble. 

“I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have yelled. I should have talked to you directly. I should have seen everything.” He says as he regretfully pries himself away from you to look at you fully, his hands moving to cup your cheeks and hold your face gently in the palms of his hands. He watches the gears in your head start to turn through sparkling big doe eyes and his heart starts to melt. The realization that he wasn’t the only one that needed improvements becoming ever present as he brushes the side of his thumb over your cheek. 

“I love you and I am unbelievably sorry. Please, please, don’t shut me out.” He pleads as he studies your face, noting the way your bottom lip quivered ever so slightly. 

You both sit there in silence as he admires the sad beauty that are your features in this moment. He allows you to just sit there and feel, and think, and breathe. With all the patience in the world he waits for you. 

“I love you too.” You finally say quietly, the words falling from your lips in a hesitancy before you speak up again; but with more strength and convection, “I love you too.” 

A soft wide smile finds Leon’s face as he brings your lips to his in a soft, but desperate and passionate kiss. The taste of your lips are so much sweeter without the bitter taste of alcohol on them. Your arms snaking their way around his neck as you kiss him back the way you wanted to the first time he kissed you. His hands move to your waist to pull you closer to him as his tongue ghosts over your bottom lip. 

You part your lips allowing him access to explore the warmth of your mouth while crooking your head to the side as his tongue makes its way into your mouth. His tongue runs briefly over your teeth before it coils with your own and he sucks slightly causing a deep moan to reverberate from your chest and up your throat. 

The sound causes a smirk to curl at the corner of his lips as he parts from you regardless of how badly he wants to continue. He couldn’t help it, he had to see you; and the sight was worth it. The blissful peace on your face as you opened your eyes to look at him was worth it. A smile plastered on his face as he noted the tiredness in your eyes, the slight bags underneath them, and his hand finds your cheek as he places a kiss on your forehead. 

“Let's save the rest for tomorrow, okay? Let’s get you to bed.” He says as he moves to pick you up bridal style. He stands from the couch as your grip around him tightens as he makes his way to his bedroom.

“Leon.” You scold him slightly, but with no real seriousness to it. 

“Tomorrow.” He assures with a little nod, a playful smirk on his face. 

“Tomorrow.” You repeat with a little roll to your eyes.

[onstrangerthighs]

Billy hadn’t been in this particular friend group for very long, but even he knew about Nancy and Steve’s Breakup. While he’d joined after it, from what he’d heard, it was the Breakup. At least for Steve.

It was mutual, both parties deciding they were better off as friends. Still, every time the rest of the group got together, the atmosphere itself seemed broken, too. Maybe it was because Steve had very clearly not moved on. Billy didn’t understand it, but then again, he’d never really been in love, or vice versa.

Being the new member, and an introvert slash selective extrovert, he always seemed to end up right next to a moping Steve. The scratchy silence was agonizing, especially during New Year’s Eve, for... reasons. Billy couldn’t complain, though. His painfully obvious and unrequited crush on Steve could not have come at a worse time. That’s the thing about romance, Billy groused silently, tearing his eyes away from Steve’s pretty face.

He was pretty sure everyone else knew. Everyone else except for him.

“Not a bad spread, eh, Pretty Boy?”

Steve startled out of his stupor, and nodded, grinning goofily at Billy. Perhaps he’d had too much to drink. For him to get honest-to-God shit-faced, would take an impressive amount of alcohol.

This just may be the only thing besides playing basketball in high school that they have in common. Oh, and the whole pining thing.

“You must think I’m pretty pathetic,” Steve burped, not even bothering to cover his mouth. Yep, he was on a bender.

Billy shrugged. “You miss Nancy,” he replied, and Steve shook his head fervently, burping again. “Am I wrong?”

“I hic miss Nancy, okay, yeah. But it’s... more than that. I’m happy that she’s happy, don’t get me wrong. I’m happy hic for her-”

Before he could stop himself, Billy interjected, “You don’t seem like you are.”

Steve blinked sluggishly, then snorted. “That obvious, huh?”

“A little.” Try a lot.

Bubbles shot out of Steve’s nose as he snorted into his empty wine glass. “Ouch.”

Well, you’ve done it. You’re about to get friend-dumped.

“Has anyone ever told you-”

“-how much of an ass I am? Ye-ah,” Billy sighed, starting to get up. As someone with a shit load of anxiety, he always noted where the exits and restrooms were, along with where he put his stuff, in case he needed to make an embarrassing escape.

Steve grabbed his wrist, and squeezed it greedily, like he was drowning and Billy’s the only thing closest to him to resemble a floatation device. Billy didn’t -couldn’t- pull away from him, or those big, brown voids on either side of Steve’s face. Weak even at his grown age.

“Steve... what... what are you doing?”

“Sit with me. Stay.” There was nothing but desperation and loneliness in his voice. “Please?”

“I don’t have to work until next week,” Billy joked weakly, allowing himself to be pulled back to the couch. So close to Steve and yet so far. This would be the closest he’d ever come to confessing that he’d always make time for Steve Harrington.

“I love... love,” Steve said, resting his head on Billy’s shoulder. Billy swallowed, hoping the older man couldn’t hear his rapidly beating heart.

“What?”

“Ya know... hic* love. I love... the feeling. The idea of it. Falling for someone. When Nancy and I were hic together-”

Billy couldn’t help but groan. He did and didn’t want to hear about his friends’ sex lives. Now might as well be the time to confess that he had a crush on Nancy, too. Well, not a crush, exactly, but... he felt something for her. He just wasn’t sure what to call it yet. Or maybe he didn’t want to accept that he c-worded not one, but two unobtainable people.

“I would... hic say “I love you” all hic the time, and Nancy would hic never say it back. I never understood why until now. I said it not hic hic just because hic I loved her, but... because I wanted her to stay with me. I was lonely. We both were. She’s so easy to fall in love with,” Steve said, a wistful look in his eyes.

“She is,” Billy agreed too quickly that he thanked fuck his companion was so out of it.

“I wasn’t willing to hic give, ya know? Nance gave and hic gave, and I just... hic couldn’t hic figure out how hic to give hic her what hic she hic deserved. I hic guess it’s hic hereditary. I really hic hic mean hic it, I’m hic -appy for her.”

For the first time, Billy believed him. He set down his beer and squeezed Steve’s slightly larger hand. Steve gasped, and returned the squeeze. Warmth filled Billy like someone lit a fire up his ass, and he bit clean through his bottom lip. Where was everyone else? Why couldn’t he notice anyone else right now... anyone else other than Steve?

“I’m just hic s-so hic hic lonely. Empty.” The sweaty hold he had on Billy’s hand tightened as he talked. Drunk Steve was everything Sober Steve couldn’t be. Vulnerable. Openly affectionate towards another man. With Billy of all people. So this was what it was like...

He rubbed his sore chest with his free hand, willing himself not to cry. Steve wouldn’t know it, but Billy and the audience would.

“Are hic you hic crying?” No mockery, no bullshit passed down from generation to generation about how “men don’t cry”.

“N-no,” Billy choked out.

Steve turned to him, expression sweeter than honey, and he began to wipe away Billy’s tears clumsily with his thumbs. Billy was so dumbstruck, he forgot to flinch. No one ever got this close to him, to his face. The touch-starved blond cried even harder, digging his nails into his palm. Steve almost poked Billy’s eyes in a race to wipe away the rest of Billy’s tears. He wouldn’t stop staring! Billy tried to hide his face, but he couldn’t let go of Steve’s hand. He couldn’t stop leaning into the other hand cupping his wet cheek. He was completely and utterly fucked.

“Hey,” Steve muttered, burping in Billy’s face.

Ew. Just. Ew. “Hey, Pretty Boy.” Now his eyes were watering for a different reason. Again, thank fuck Shit-Faced Harrington was with him. With any luck, this would be a distant memory tomorrow. For both of them. And... for Eddie. Fucking Eddie Munson was counting down the seconds to New Year’s, and he had the stupidest smug grin on his face. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Shut the fuck up,” Billy groaned, rubbing his temples.

Five!

Four!

“I hope everyone’s got someone to-”

“EDDIE!” everyone yelled except Argyle and Jonathan, who were somehow more baked than the noisy guitarist.

Three!

Two!

“Billy? Don’t hate me for this,” Steve hiccupped.

“Wha-”

One!

He leaned in and kissed Billy so hard, the younger man fell onto his back, sinking into the cushions.

Everyone else was wrapped up in watching the ball drop, but the two dorks on the couch were still going at it.

The smart thing for Billy to do? Push Steve off and flee. After all, he was drunk. He didn’t know what he was doing... or who he was kissing. For all he knew, he was kissing Nancy. Someone he loved.

Tears threated to fall once more, and Billy whimpered. Like a fool, like a dog, he stayed put, even after Steve vomited all over him and then fell asleep.

Happy New Year.

[burning-fcols]

"If you stay, I'll make us coffee." Vox being quick to interject because fuck if Alastor was thinking of leaving so quickly. "You can even watch me make it so you'll be sure I don't put anything in it. Just. Stay." - ✧ ˖ ˙ 「 @Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴᴀʙʟᴇᴍᴜꜱᴇꜱ 」 ˙ ˖ ✧

「 ☆ 」 He has to get out of here.

Preferably before his old-pal turned current-enemy turned accidental-lover ( temporary as he knows this mistake will be; HAS to be ) wakes up and has the bright idea of prolonging this annoying little… accident. Yet all Alastor can manage to do is slip out of Vox’s annoyingly-warm arms, before the television demon has stirred from what was no doubt a VERY restful slumber. He had certainly exhausted himself last night, as the aching of Alastor’s marked body can attest. How insulting, bitten by the other Overlord like a scrap of meat thrown to a starving mongrel.

What’s even worse is how pleasant the sting of those bites feel settled into his skin, an animalistic part of Alastor’s brain near-preening at being marked so thoroughly by his mate.

Standing at the side of the bed, back facing the other man��� refusing to look at whatever pathetic desperation Vox is likely aiming at him ( he always was so worriedly emotional ) —he pauses in putting on his shirt ( pants already donned: tail on display and showcasing its bright underside ) an arm halfway through the sleeve, before shuffling it over his shoulders. Upper lip twitches at the missing buttons, hands hovering at having no busywork to burden themselves with.

❝ … You owe me a new shirt. ❞

Dryly breaking his silence, he sharply tugs down the garment as if trying to futilely rid it of wrinkles. Hands keep gripping the edge of his shirt, he tensely stands there. Trapped in torturous indecision, he mulls over the best way to save his cracked pride. The only reason it has yet to shatter completely is that Vox clearly is the most outwardly pitiful of the two. Hastily bargaining for Alastor to stay, he could easily leave the television to wallow in his loneliness. To drown in regret and paranoia, wondering whether he made a monumental mistake… Or Alastor could stay, and ensure that Vox KNOWS this.

Make it irrefutably clear that what transpired was a lapse of judgement— no, an act of necessity. Surely someone in business with Valentino would be aware of such things. Would easily believe such a ruse. If he runs, Vox’s imagination devises a narrative and Alastor knows better than to let others attempt to decipher his actions. Not when it MATTERS. Entertaining as theories may be, they’ve been… unflattering, as of late. Best to nip this in the bud before Vox can become even more reckless in his chasing.

God forbid anyone ever finds out about this.

❝ I expect a proper coffee. None of that pre-ground, boiled nonsense. ❞ Glancing over his shoulder at Vox, ear gives a flick as he says in as unaffected a purr he can muster, ❝ I trust you remember what I taught you? Or have you gone so long swallowing swill that you've forgotten all about how to start a morning decently. ❞ If Vox even still owns the Siphon coffee maker Alastor had insisted the other buy once the deer learned of his subpar preparation methods. Let alone the whole beans Alastor used to meticulously grind for them. A less-convenient method than modern machines, but a soothing way to begin ones day. As well as ensure a rich, aromatic cup. Far more vibrant than newer methods could hope to achieve.

Truthfully, due to some of the curses of his cannibalistic form, he can't exactly taste anymore... Not unless it's richness of blood or the tenderness of flesh. But proper coffee is still a nostalgic feeling. A reminder of a life once lived, of his human past as well as the companionship he used to share with Vox. 「 ☆ 」

[sarahscribbles]

14 Hours to Cape Town

Summary: When the rest of the Avengers are sent on a mission to Cape Town, you're forced to stay behind to recover from a previous mission while Loki isn't trusted enough to go along. How will you cope being made to stay in the compound with the man you're in love with when he seemingly wants nothing to do with you?

Loki x f!reader

Genre: Smut, smut without plot

Word count: 4.7k

18+ - Minors do not interact

AN: Ok, y'all, when I say this has no plot it really has no plot. I just really wanted to write some filth. Enjoy!

The coffee cup sat nestled in your hand, the comforting warmth of the liquid seeping through the ceramic and into your skin as the conference room warmed up around you. The mission briefing sat open in front of you, but you had yet to read a single word it said. Nervous energy was streaming through you, making you unable to focus on even the simple task of reading a five page briefing, and the only way you could channel it without being obvious was tapping your finger furiously against your coffee.

It wasn’t as though Loki was doing anything particularly menacing at the other side of the table or going out of his way to make you feel uncomfortable, as far as you could tell from your stolen glances he was simply reading his own briefing, but you had never been alone with him before. Or, more accurately, you had never been alone with him since That Day.

You weren’t scared of Loki, and nor did you dislike him like so many of the others seemed to. It would be so much easier if you could make yourself dislike him, but, no matter what, your heart still fluttered each and every time you caught sight of him. You had been drawn to him ever since he had arrived in the compound, something about him hooking itself into your heart and refusing to let go. He was witty, incredibly so, and he shared your own penchant for dry sarcasm that often flew over the heads of the others. It hadn’t taken you long to fall for him and all too quickly he became the main subject of your dreams and daydreams.

But then he had turned you down.

What exactly you had been thinking, you weren’t sure. Maybe your newfound confidence from becoming an Avenger had gone to your head, or maybe your loneliness was making you reckless, but when he had noticed your subtle advances towards him he had flatly, and almost cruelly, shut down the idea of anything ever happening between you both.

The mortification had been so great you hadn’t been able to show yourself in the communal areas for a week, and still you made every effort not to be in a room where he was. Despite his rejection, your heart still ached for him, but you had resigned to loving him in secret and it hurt like hell.

As you both sat in silence waiting for the others to arrive, you knew the chances of him saying anything to you were low, he had likely forgotten the whole episode, but still you couldn’t relax. Like a teenager experiencing their first crush you were hyper-aware of his presence, ears tuned to every tiny movement he made at the other side of the table. You felt incredibly stupid as you both sat there not uttering a word to the other. Loki had barely glanced at you since you sat down, hadn’t said a word since the tight “hello” he gave you when you greeted him, but still you pined after him. You desperately wanted him to look at you, to smile at you, to give you any tiny morsel that could fuel your misguided fantasy that maybe, just maybe, he did feel the same way about you.

You stole another glance from the corner of your eye. Loki was still concentrated fully on the brief in front of him, seemingly oblivious to you even being sat at the table. Your hopeful little heart plummeted to your stomach. You really were nothing to him.

Swallowing the hurt, you chided yourself for even getting your hopes up when he had made his feelings, or lack of them, crystal clear. Pulling your gaze from him you forced your attention back to the brief, trying to at least get the gist of the mission before Steve arrived to take charge. The mission itself didn’t phase you - fighting a bunch of rogue Chitauri that had somehow been enhanced by HYDRA - but what did phase you was where HYDRA had stationed them.

South Africa.

You fought the groan that was growing in your throat, fought to keep your expression neutral and unbothered lest Loki make some remark. Cape Town was 14 hours from New York, maybe less than that on the Quinjet, but it was still going to mean hours stuck in torturous close proximity to Loki. A one-hour mission briefing you could get through, but a 14-hour flight? It was beginning to feel as though the universe was mocking you.

Before you had the chance to flick through the remainder of the briefing, Natasha pushed open the door to the conference room, coffee in hand and looking as though she had already been up for at least five hours. Relief surged through you at finally having someone to break the awful silence in the room.

Her eyes flicked between you and Loki, an amused smile tugging at her lips. “Wow, I’ve been to livelier wakes.” She quipped, taking her seat next to you. You gave her a look as if to say “don’t even” and she shrugged. “Oooh, South Africa this time. Look at us branching out.” She said, nodding at your open briefing. “Feels as though we only just left Europe.”

“Some of us barely did,” you replied. You’d spent three weeks in the medical wing of the compound after the last mission, one of them spent completely unconscious.

Natasha gave you an affectionate nudge with her shoulder. “You still kicked ass, even if you did end up getting yours handed to you.”

You rolled your eyes but gave an appreciative smile. “Thanks, Nat,” you said quietly.

You both continued to chat about the mission, exchanging tactics and tips. You hadn’t been an Avenger when the Chitauri had invaded New York, so any piece of advice Natasha had to give was warmly welcomed. Across the table, though, Loki still remained silent, and you hated yourself for even noticing. What exactly would he need to do in order for you to put your silly little fantasy of living happily ever after with him to rest?

You were thankful when the rest of the group began to slowly trickle in. Some, like you and Natasha, nursing their own coffee and slowly beginning to come alive; others looking as though they wanted to murder Steve in his sleep for having them awake at the crack ass of dawn. You took a refill from the large cafetiere Wanda had brought in as Steve began the briefing, only half listening as he went over the same protocols and safety measures that you heard before every mission. You almost drifted off listening to the monologue that you were sure you could recite by heart, but his last order had you jerking rudely back to reality, certain that you had picked him up wrong.

“Wait, what?” You asked Steve with a small, disbelieving laugh. “You’re joking, right?”

Steve gave you his trademark stern stare. “I spoke with your doctors. They agreed you’re not strong enough yet for a mission of this magnitude. I’m sorry, but you’re staying here.”

Words refused to form on your tongue. You were angry. Upset. Humiliated. “Come on, Steve, I’m fine!” You looked helplessly to Tony, eyes silently begging him to have your back like he always did. “Tony, tell him, please!”

Tony was quiet for a second, refusing to meet your eyes, and your shoulders sagged. “Look, kid, I’m sorry, but I agree with Rogers. You’re still recovering from Europe and this is a big mission.” He said softly but firmly, finally meeting your gaze.

Instantly, you felt heat rise to your cheeks. “So you think I’m a liability?”

“No.” Tony said, pointing his finger at you. “You might be a huge pain in the ass sometimes, but you’re one of the best on this team. We don’t know what enhancements HYDRA have performed on these bastards or what else is going to be there when we touch down. We need you back at full capacity when, inevitably, we have to go back. You are not a liability,” he said firmly again. “Besides, we need someone to stay behind to keep an eye on…him.” He threw a glance in Loki’s direction.

“I beg your pardon?” Loki interjected slowly before you could say anything.

Tony immediately swiveled his chair around to face him. “Really, Reindeer Games? Did you miss the part of the briefing where it said we’re fighting Chitauri? You think I’m going to let you within a ten-mile radius of your little army? Have you try to conquer Cape Town like you did New York? You’re staying put.”

You watched Loki narrow his eyes. “Has it ever crossed your brilliant mind that I’m exactly what you need to vanquish them? I can easily win their trust, promise them safety, stall them, and allow you to attack when they least expect it.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Gee, and what are the odds you actually do that, big fella? More like you run off and join your little friends and try to destroy us. Again,” he added pointedly.

“Enough!” Steve raised his voice over their arguing. “Everything has been decided upon. You,” he looked firmly in your direction, “are staying here. As are you,” he looked back towards Loki. “The rest of you, I’ll see you at the Quinjet in an hour.”

Still raging with anger, you stood from your seat. If Tony and Steve both agreed that you needed to sit this one out, you didn’t have a hope in hell of going to Cape Town with the rest. You’d never had to sit out on a mission before, but what made it worse was having to sit it out with Loki. Your only saving grace was that the compound was massive. Realistically, you weren’t actually going to be stuck with him, and there were plenty of places to escape to if all got too much.

“Hey, it’s alright. It’s only one mission.” Nat said beside you, gently rubbing your arm and bringing you from your thoughts. “And, if he really starts to be an ass, I have nunchucks and some brass knuckles in my room that you’re welcome to use.” She joked in an attempt to make you feel better.

In spite of your anger, you couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe being stuck with Loki wouldn’t be so bad.

oOo

You had tried not to look too dejected as everyone had boarded the jet later that morning. If things went well, the mission would take a few days at least Steve had said as he’d climbed aboard.

“Don’t let that maniac bother you,” he’d said, talking about Loki.

“I wish you would all stop calling him that. He’s not a maniac,” you’d replied, still quick to jump to Loki’s defence in spite of everything.

Steve had given you a look that so clearly said he disagreed, but he didn’t argue. “Just look after yourself, okay?”

“I don’t need to look after myself. I’m fine,” you’d said pointedly, letting him know you were still pissed at his decision.

“That’s the spirit.” He’d said, slapping you affectionately on the upper arm and running to join the others.

You’d watched the Quinjet disappear from view and then retreated to your room. Loki, unsurprisingly, hadn’t been at the carrier and you had no idea where he’d sequestered himself. Flopping down on your bed, you thought of the long, boring days ahead as you waited for the others to return. Days of tiptoeing around the compound in the hopes that Loki wasn’t lurking, or hiding away in your room to try and avoid him and the embarrassment of knowing he knew you were besotted with him

You didn’t know if you could stand it. Days of it just being you and him with no one else to turn to to distract you from your growing feelings; days of awkward encounters that would only fuel your silly little fantasy that he was simply biding his time before declaring his love for you in some huge dramatic gesture.

And suddenly, you had an idea.

Steve had told you to stay here, but hadn’t defined specifically where here was. You could easily go and stay with a friend in the city, leave the compound and Loki behind for a few days, maybe have a one night stand to try and get him out of your system. Something akin to relief flooded through you at the realisation. Why hadn’t you thought of simply taking a break from the compound before? Taking some time away to try and forget Loki and what the two of you could never be?

Swinging upright on your bed you grabbed your phone, fired a text off to your friend saying you would be landing on their doorstep for a few days whether they liked it or not, and grabbed a bag to start balling clothes into. In less than ten minutes you had everything you needed shoved into a bag and were ready to leave, save for your phone charger which you were sure was lying somewhere in the kitchen. Your manic energy came to a sudden stop. You had no idea where Loki was hiding, but leaving your room raised the chances of having a run in with him. Moving tight against your bedroom door you cocked an ear, listening intently for any sound that would indicate he was close by.

Silence.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, you pulled open the door and padded down the hallway to the kitchen and living area. In the absence of the others, the silence of the compound was deafening. You kept expecting to hear Sam’s booming laugh as you reached the living area, followed by Bucky’s quiet demand to explain what was so funny.

What you didn’t expect was seeing Loki reclining in one of the easy chairs, feet up, and a book lying open in his lap. You stopped short in the entryway.

“Oh, there you are,” you said before you could stop yourself, loathing how your heart still fluttered pathetically at seeing him.

He glanced up from his book, blue eyes briefly meeting yours before he returned his gaze to the pages in front of him. “I haven’t murdered anyone or put any plans for world domination into action, you can report back to the authorities,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Your lip twitched a fraction, a smile threatening to split your face. “I didn’t think you had.” You replied instead, heading straight for where you were sure you’d left your charger.

You felt his eyes on you as you searched around, heard the quiet thump of his book closing followed by the soft thud of his footsteps crossing the space from the living room to the kitchen. A quick glance to the side and you saw him standing against the kitchen arch, his gaze trained on you.

“So, are you going to hide all the knives in case I stab you in your sleep? Set up some cameras to make sure I behave myself? Put me on a lead, perhaps?” He goaded you. He was clearly still tetchy from Tony’s earlier comments and, in the absence of anyone else, had decided to take it out on you.

“If you were going to stab me I highly doubt you’d use a kitchen knife to do it. Too much mess.” You replied absently, still searching for the charger that wasn’t where you’d thought it would be. “Anyway, I’m not going to be sleeping here. I’m going to stay with a friend in the city for a few days, so you’re free to do whatever you want,” you explained, not quite sure why you were telling him this. Nervous energy? Or maybe you just wanted him to know you trusted him.

For a moment there was silence as you continued hunting through drawers, and you were sure he’d given up on his attempt to spar with you, but when you straightened up he was still standing there, eyes narrowed like he was appraising you.

“You’re scared of me,” he said simply, as if he were telling you the weather.

“No!” You immediately turned to face him, the search for your charger instantly forgotten. “I’m not scared of you, Loki,” you said forcefully. Let him think anything else, but you wouldn’t let him believe you saw him as someone to be feared.

“Oh really?” He all but sneered at you, taking one step into the kitchen. “So the running away as soon as you’re made to be alone with me is because you enjoy my company so much? Similar to how you can barely stand to be in the same room as me?”

You stared dumbly at him, unable to fully compute what he was saying. “Did you hit your head lately?” You couldn’t hide the anger that was seeping into your voice, anger at him for being angry at you for reacting to something he’d done. “I stay out of your way, I’m staying out of your way, because you’ve made it very clear that you don’t like being around me!”

His lip curled slightly and you knew he knew what you were referring to. “I’ve never said that I don’t like being around you,” he replied instantly, frustration lacing his words.

“You don’t have to say it, Loki! You’ve done a pretty good job of showing me and making me feel like a complete idiot!” You were shouting at him now, all the hurt and embarrassment that you had been squashing down inside you finally simmering to the surface.

“Because you’d never believe me if I told you the truth!” He yelled right back at you. “The stories you’ve been fed from the others, how could you possibly believe the god of lies bearing his soul after that? If I told you right now that I’ve fallen in love with you, would you even believe me?” The question was rhetorical, but the hurt in his voice was impossible to ignore.

You were struck dumb by his admission, every occurence over the past few months beginning to slot into place like a puzzle coming together. Inside your chest your heart gave a leap of joy, almost as if it were screaming “I told you so”, and you looked him right in the eye. “Yes,” you answered simply, your voice the barest trace of a whisper, “because I’ve imagined nothing else for the past few months.”

There was the briefest flash of confusion on his face, the smallest twitch of an eyebrow, as though he had been expecting you to say anything but that. Your heart was pounding like a drum in your chest, fast and hot in anticipation of something, anything. For a moment, there was nothing, only Loki’s eyes locked on you like a magnet, and then he was across the kitchen in four steps, gathering you into his arms and kissing you with such ferocity it knocked the breath from your lungs.

You returned his kiss with equal fierceness, lips parting easily to allow his tongue to slip inside. He walked you backwards until you were pinned against the kitchen counter by his hips, his hands drifting under your shirt and grazing the skin of your stomach, making you shiver in response. Every nerve ending in your body was suddenly alive with electricity as his hands slid up your torso to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing lightly over exposed skin. You felt him pull the cups of your bra down, take a nipple between each thumb and finger and squeeze, making you moan into his mouth.

He smirked into the kiss. “So sensitive.” He murmured against your cheek, beginning to trail hot open mouthed kisses down your neck.

You angled your head to give him better access, eyes fluttering closed at the heady mixture of his lips on your neck and his hands on your breasts. Your arms tightened around him, one hand slipping into his hair in a vain attempt to pull him closer. In response, he pushed his hips into you, letting you feel his erection straining against the fabric of his trousers.

“Look what you’ve done to me,” he practically growled into your ear.

You pulled back to look in his eyes, his pupils blown wide with desire for you. “So do something about it.” You replied impishly, leaning back in to kiss him and making sure to sink your teeth into his lip while one hand drifted down to palm him.

Immediately, you were elevated in his arms, your legs locking around his waist and, in a flash of green light, you were laid out naked on his bed, your clothes appearing to have also vanished in the process. Loki hovered over you, his hands around your forearms pinning you to the mattress as his eyes took you in.

“You are exquisite,” he breathed out, the sincerity of those three words causing heat to rise to your cheeks.

Before you had the chance to respond his lips were on your neck yet again, causing your back to arch as he skillfully nipped and sucked the expanse of sensitive skin. A moan emerged from your lips as the warm heat of his tongue soothed every small bite at your neck. You pushed against the weight of his hands, desperate to tangle your own in his hair, to run them across his naked chest and back, but he held you firm to the bed.

“Not yet.” He murmured smoothly in your ear, forcing another moan from you as he nibbled your earlobe.

At a torturously slow pace, he trailed hot, lazy kisses down your neck, across your clavicle, and between your breasts. You closed your eyes, letting the intoxicating sensation of his kisses on your body drag you under, but snapping quickly back when he gently sank his teeth into your nipple. The noise that fell from your lips was somewhere between a moan and a whine, and you heard Loki hum in approval.

“Oh, I do love that little noise.” He moved back up until his lips were mere centimetres from yours. “But what I love more is how you’re making it for me.” His lips crashed down on yours, silently conveying how deep his desire ran for you. His kiss was slow and deep, the earlier frenzy of emotions stilted to something more profound.

You were so caught up in kissing him back you didn’t notice that he had freed your arms until you felt his fingertips trail down your thigh. In a heartbeat your hands were on him, tangled in his hair, running down his back, gliding over the planes of his chest. You couldn’t get enough of him. You locked your legs back around him, one of his hands then coming to grip behind your knee and press you closer to him.

“I’ve dreamed about how your legs would feel wrapped around my waist,” he said, his voice raspy with lust.

Your cunt throbbed achingly as you imagined Loki having dirty dreams about you, imagined what he had dreamed about doing to you. After months of silent pining you were desperate for him.

“I’ve dreamed…” you began, stopping abruptly when the tip of his erection brushed against your cunt, unable to contain the whine that tumbled from your lips. Wantonly, you rolled your hips down, vainly trying to create some friction against your clit.

Loki’s eyes came alight with mischief and he pulled back from you. “Yes?” He asked with feigned innocence. He knew exactly what he was doing.

“I’ve dreamed about you touching me,” you said, heat rising to your cheeks at the admission.

His eyes twinkled and a wicked grin spread across his face. “Oh? Like this?” He traced one finger around your nipple.

“Not like that,” you answered.

“No? Maybe like this?” He trailed his fingers slowly up the inside of your thigh, stopping a mere centimetre from your aching cunt.

“Loki.” You mewled out, shamelessly rolling your hips in a silent plea for his touch.

“Or maybe like this?” His fingers began to stroke your clit, causing an obscenely lewd moan to fall from your lips.

You arched underneath him, the feeling of his fingers better than any of your filthy daydreams. “Exactly like that,” you encouraged him. “Fuck!”

“So wet for me already and I’ve barely even touched you.” He teased, his fingers still expertly working your clit. You felt your orgasm begin to build, the familiar tightening in the bottom of your stomach and speeding up of your heart telling you you were close.

“Loki, I…” you breathed out, locking eyes with him. You felt the pressure build, a few more strokes of your clit and he would send you over the edge.

And then his fingers went still.

“Not yet.” He leaned down and whispered in your ear, making you whine in frustration. He silenced you with a kiss, hungry and impassioned. “The dreams I’ve had about you, my darling.” He said, burrowing his head in the crook of your neck once again

Your cheeks flamed at his simple admission, your head almost going light thinking that this god, who had no doubt had lovers from every corner of the universe, had had dreams about you,

“You have consumed my mind night after night.” You gasped at the feeling of the tip of his cock lightly pressing against your cunt again. “I’ve lost count of how many mornings I’ve awakened hot and bothered and desperate to have you in this bed.” He spoke slowly, his hips rolling in time with his words and lazily tracing his tip up and down your cunt.

“So stop teasing me and fuck me, then.” You half cried in frustration, your hands on his back trying to pull him closer, desperate to feel him inside you.

He only grinned sinfully at you. “So impatient, my darling.” He said, slipping two fingers inside you and beginning to pump slowly in and out of you.

In and out.

In and out.

You let out a strangled groan.

You heard him chuckle and he pushed your legs wider, his fingers inside you picking up speed and making you throw your head back against the pillow, nails digging into his back as his fingers curled inside you, hitting the exact spot you needed him to. “Fuck, you feel so good.” You praised him, your eyes squeezed shut in pleasure.

Above you, he laughed darkly. “Oh, my dear, I promise I can make you feel even better.”

Before you could process what was happening, his fingers had left your cunt and you felt him slowly begin to press himself into you. He was bigger than you had anticipated, stretching you deliciously until he was fully inside of you.

“Better?” he asked, a wolfish smile on his face.

You could only nod mutely, struck dumb by how it felt to finally have him inside you. He gave you another lingering kiss and slowly began to move on top of you, picking up speed when he finally became comfortable and making you cry out his name. You knew he was ruining you, nothing and no one after would be able to compare to the bliss he was making you feel.

He moaned as he continued thrusting into you, a sinful sound that made your cunt squeeze around him. Your name was spilling from his mouth and you pulled him down to you, sealing your lips to his and kissing him like a woman possessed. His fingers found your clit again and you arched into him as your orgasm began to build. Skillfully, he stroked you until your orgasm ripped through you, the combination of his fingers and his cock still thrusting into you making you howl his name like a prayer. The pleasure kept going until tears formed in your eyes, until Loki gave a last shuddering thrust and collapsed on top of you.

You held him to your chest as you both caught your breath, unable to speak in the wake of your climax. “That was…amazing.” You said stupidly when you found your voice, your fingers still stroking his hair.

He pushed himself up from your chest, a devilish grin on his face as he kissed you long and slow. “My darling, it’s 14 hours to Cape Town. 14 long hours before anyone will be checking in on us. I haven’t finished with you yet.” He said huskily, and, still grinning wolfishly, he positioned himself back between your legs.

[writings-of-my-own]

His place in the world - Loki x Reader

Summary: Shape-shifting was not Y/N's favourite kind of magic. Not when Loki used that to turn into Thor and have her confess her well-kept feelings.

It was beyond frustrating at this point. To yearn for someone for so long and never get anything good out of it. Hopeless dreams and hollow promises kept you awake at night. But there wasn't much you could do. You tried your hardest. You really did. And it didn't matter that much to you at this point anyway. You were getting used to it. To the rejection, to how you would feel the metallic taste of your blood when you used to bite your tongue to keep it all in. To how you always stood in the second place and watched everyone around you get loved. And it was alright, you would tell yourself in your darkest nights. Your time will eventually come and it will sweep you off your feet.

So you waited. And in all of that chaos and heartbreak, you used to hold onto this string of hope for dear life.

But love never came for you so you learned to live with what you were given. You could always find love in other places, platonic love or self-love. And there was nothing wrong with that. You just wished, with your whole heart that for once you would be able to know how it feels to have someone think of you before they go to sleep. To have someone listen to the sappiest love songs thinking about how they would hold your hand. Such stupid little thoughts, such pathetic expectations. Over and over again, that stinging feeling of loneliness. Those thorns stuck in your throat every time you tried to swallow the tears away. So you promised yourself to keep away from this damned feeling. To Hell with love, it will never come for you.

Yet, you messed up again. It was a quiet evening, with almost everyone gone on missions leaving the compound lifeless and forsaken. With the circumstances at hand, you chose to kill your time in the kitchen while waiting for your tea to boil. You used to hate the common areas at the beginning, they brought along unwanted interactions that your anxiety could not handle very well. But you grew into yourself in there. And you allowed other people to see you for who you truly were. In the end, you developed a strange attachment to these places. Especially since Loki came around.

Now it was not an easy task to befriend the God of Mischief, adding your lack of social skills into the mix and Loki's hatred towards Midgardians. And yet, you two somehow clicked. You didn't even know how that came to be. From evenings shared reading next to one another in silence in the common rooms at the beginning, you went to find yourselves in each other’s room in time, talking about nothing and the wide world until the crisp early hours of the morning. It was a curious thing, how well you matched and how quickly you grew to care for one another. And then that blossomed into something more for you. It turned into the ill-fated feeling of love. You tried your very best to hide it, from Loki and the team and even from yourself. You were fortunate enough to have found such an enchanting friend in Loki that you could not sabotage this with your foolish affection.

'I thought I was the only person who couldn't catch any sleep tonight,' you heard Thor's reverberating voice call from behind you and you almost spilt all of the hot water on your hands when you flinched, startled.

'You scared the living shit out of me, Thor,' you instinctively brought your hand up to your chest, while laughing lightly at your lack of perspicacity.

'I shall ask for your pardon, my lady,' Thor said while making a small reverence.

'I shall grant it to you, my dear Sir,' you mimicked his gesture with an amused smile.

You thought he was joking with the official terminology but he kept a straight face so you kept yourself from laughing at him.

You knew Thor was brought up to be a king and that he found these formalities normal etiquette but not in such an extreme manner. So you decided to brush off the amusement.

Moving around you, Thor reached for two mugs and placed them on the counter between the two of you.

'If you do not mind, I would like to join you for your midnight tea.' Giving you his best smile, Thor pulled a chair next to you without waiting for a reply. You would have preferred some time alone to think your situation through but you could not shatter the God's state of eagerness so you obliged. And Thor was not bad company at all, with his ever-present jolly attitude and his loud laugh, he could cheer up even the most stubborn of people.

'What is it that is weighing on your brilliant mind?' the God of Thunder leaned his head between his opened palms and stared at you like a professional therapist who could see right through your facade.

'Nothing, just tired,' you shrugged and played with an old wrapping left on the kitchen table.

You hoped that you dodged the question successfully and even more so, that you were not that obvious to begin with. For as long as you have known yourself, you were terribly talented at hiding your feelings from the outside world and pretending that you have a heart of stone. If any heart that was beating on this Earth was furthest away from that, it was yours though.

‘I won’t pressure you into telling me but sometimes it is good to share the hardships of the world with a friend,’ Thor said, while moving around you to pick the keattle off the stove and fill your mug with the rich, hot tea. He smiled down at your figure and gently squeezed your shoulder as a sign of comfort. He was always considerate of others, a literal ray of sunshine and it made it all more ironic that he was actually the God of Thunder when he was nothing but the Sun personified.

‘It is stupid really and I should much less discuss it with you, it’s just awkward.’

As soon as you said it, Thor’s face immediately changed as if he has seen a ghost. His shoulders slumped and he lost composure of his features for a second too long, a deep frown plastering itself all over his face.

‘Did I say something wrong?’ You wondered why that has visibly upset him. It did not mean that you lacked trust in him.

‘Why would anything be awkward with the two of us? You don’t have feelings for me, right?’ he chuckled while flippind his hair with his head. You noticed the gesture as a sign of nervousness that Loki always does as well. You smiled slightly at that. Even though they were not brothers by blood, no matter how falsely annoyed Loki always pretended to get with Thor, you knew they would die for one another. And the fact that Loki had someone who loved him absolutely, without qualifications or limitations melted your heart.

‘You make it sound like it would be the worst thing in the world,’ you teased him and pushed his shoulder. ‘I am not that bad.’

‘I’d say you are far from bad, ’ he jumped to defend himself way too quickly and that only made it more awkward than it already was. Raising an eyebrow at him, Thor realized how that came off so he started rambling again.

‘I did not mean this one like that either. I just - it’s only that-‘

You cut him off mid sentence, putting your hand up to spare his misery of explaining this whole mess.

‘What I meant by it being weird was that I am in love with someone close to you and spilling my heart out would just be pathetic of me to do and uncomfortable for you to hear.’

‘May I just intrude enough to ask who that is?’ an all-knowing smirk now took the frown’s place and he changed moods faster than you could register.

‘It’s pathetic, truly. You would have a good laugh though.’

He would. How in the Nine Realms could you explain that you were narrow-minded enough to direct your affections towards the person that hated your kind more than anything else? You knew Loki didn’t hate you, even more than that, you knew he considered you a friend. But that didn’t make your cause less helpless. The God of Mischief himself would not stoop that low as to fall for an average Midgardian. You would perish from existence faster than he could blink anyway. Your life span compared to his was seconds.

‘I won’t laugh at you, he cannot be that bad.’

‘Oh, he is not bad at all. He is the most beautiful man I have ever laid eyes on. Not just phisically.’ You felt your cheeks grow a dark shade of red and you brought the back of your palms up to them in order to cool them down a bit. Thor saw that and laughed.

Genuinely, you didn’t know what has gotten into you to start letting so much information slip to Thor but it may just be the late hour. The nights have always given you a sense of comfort when it came to letting your walls down. It felt like the whole world was numbed and you had the chance to let your heart run free with no judgement. Shield after shield, they went down when someone else opened their heart to you. If you would not know better, you would have called that weakness. You used to, when you were younger. But you do know better now.

‘Then go for it, I don’t see what would the issue be,’ the God sounded too eager at the beggining of the sentence so he cut off the enthusiasm as he went on.

‘He is just too astounding for me to ever stand a chance,’ you tried to play off how much pain admitting these things out loud was causing you. The despair that love always brought to the softest of hearts.

‘Too astounding for you? I do not buy a word from this. I think the douche should consider himself lucky you even think of him like that.’

Something in Thor’s tone was questionable though. There was a strange sadness in there. Hidden behing calm eyes and a steady voice, but those were some unsteady hands he was playing with. ‘I believe you are way too lovely to ever have to worry about such trivial matters. The soul that you love holds the power of the Universe.’ He reached across the table to grab your clasped hands into his but he retracted quickly after he realized the gesture. You did not think much of it, you never questioned people’s kindness.

‘You are way too kind,’ you wanted to stop at that but something in his eyes made you want to go on. They held such comfort tonight, you have never found it with Thor before. You really felt like you were talking to your dearest friend.

‘I just don’t think I could ever be enough for someone like him. He has such an intricate heart and I have finally managed to form a bond with him. He does not deserve me ruining his first genuine friendship with my uncalled for feelings.’

‘Feelings of love and affection are never uncalled for. The heart is a terrible betrayer, isn’t it? But you cannot deny it what it wishes for.’ And there it was again, his smile. Thor changed his spirits so much throughout this talk that you decided not to even comment on it. ‘And I bet that with your taste, he is incredibly appealing.’

‘I really should not tell you this but he is. If seduction could take human form, he’d be it.’ The guts you had to just say that to Loki’s brother made you feel filthy. Damn right he is hot, we are talking about Loki Laufeyson, for Norn’s sake.

‘You really should not tell me things like that about my little brother, but I will have it this time just for the fun of it.’ A breathy laugh escaped your lips but it was not longer than a second until you choked on it. Did he just say his ‘little brother’? There was no way in which Thor would have been able to guess it, you did not know a person more oblivious than him to these things. Well, you did. His little brother. But you would not complain about that as it kept your friendship safe.

Thor got up and went to stand behind you in order to gently tap you on your back. Trying to regain composure, you stood up straight again and made it a mission to look as indifferent as ever.

‘I was most definetely not talking about Loki,’ your attempt to lie was so weak you did not even believe yourself.

‘Even a blind man could see the way your face fell when I mentioned him. It’s alright, I mean who could blame you? After all, he is as handsome as legends say.’ The only thing you could really do was nod your head in denial vehementely but that only made Thor laugh. He leaned in extremely close to your ear, placing his hands on the table on either side of you and that made you push yourself closer to the table to gain some space. What was he trying to do? You just told him you were in love with his brother.

‘I bet you think very unholy things about him as well, don-‘ ,you were on the verge of getting up and pushing Thor away, asking what has gotten into him when Thor walked into the kitchen.

Wait, what? Thor walked into the kitchen. You had to do a double-check towards the door and then it all came down upon you like the coldest of storms. You heard the real blonde burst into laughter as he, too, realized what Loki did.

‘You little piece of shit!’ You stood up from your chair so fast that it fell and the fake God of Thunder had to take a step back to avoid it. Turning around, you pushed him into his chest repeatedly with such force that the first time you did it, he stumbled. And then he had the audacity to laugh. To laugh. In your face.

The real Thor was looking at you two with such amusement, you wanted to slap him too.

‘This is such an old trick, but it gets people every time. I’ll leave you two to it.’ Sensing the uncomfortable situation that was about to arise and seeing the look of anger in your eyes, he dissapeared as fast as he came around.

‘How dare you? Turn back into yourself already, you lying prick!’ You pushed his shoulders with both of your hands and as the emerald glow errupted around him, you turned away from Loki cursing him under your breath. This was mortifying to say the least. You wanted to slap him for invading your privacy like that but you also wanted to flee for him and burry yourself 10 feet underground so you would never have to face him ever again.

‘You can say you just missed seeing me, love.’ Without having to even turn around, you could hear the smirk in his bloody annoying voice and you had a sudden urge to cuss him out. Withstanding this felt inhuman to you so you hurried towards the door, wishing to just vanish from view forever. Loki’s cold hand was on your wrist in no time and you forced your way out of his grip but to no avail.

‘Don’t leave now Y/N, I was merely teasing you.’ His voice was still holding a tingle of amusement but it gained an edge of softness that made your knees go weak. You turned to face him.

‘Teasing me? You embarassed me and had fun while doing it.’ An unexpected wave of courage ignited in you and you advanced on him while staring him down. ‘You just laughed into my face after doing that as well.’

‘I did not mean to upset you in any way, my dear.’ His hand moved from your wrist slowly to grasp your own. You retracted it too fast, as if it stinged and Loki’s face completely fell when seeing that.

‘Don’t look at me with pity, Loki. It’s fine that you don’t feel the same way. I much rather preffered you having a laugh at me.’

It was bad enough that he tricked you into confessing your feelings, the last thing you needed was him making it uncomfortable and feeling bad for you. This is what you were trying to avoid at all costs, losing his friendship and you were experiencing just that. Loki reached for your hand again and this time you let him take it. There was not enough courage left in your veins to grant you the luxury of being able to look into his eyes. So you focused your look on your hand in his. Might as well take that feeling in now because after tonight, you were sure as Hell he would not want anything to do with the likes of you. You allowed your heart a few more selfish, pathetic seconds to enjoy his touch.

‘You still don’t see it, do you? Even Thor caught on to me a while ago and we both know he is as oblivious as they come,’ he sqeezed your hand gently and used his thumb to rub small circles on the inside of your wrist. The small movement made your chest errupt with a suffocating feeling. ‘This is not pity in my eyes, my darling. Look again.’ He brought his free hand to your cheek and moved your head slightly so you would finally face him. You wanted to believe what you saw in his eyes. With every broken particle of your heart, you really did, because he was looking at you with so much love and tenderness, you only imagined this look in your most hopeful dreams. A shaky breath escaped your lips while you leaned your face more into the roughness of his palm and you closed your eyes. This was all you have ever wished for and yet, you could not believe it.

‘You don’t believe me.’ That made your eyes snap right open. Loki’s face was closer to yours than before. He was closer to you than you could ever recall, if that could be possible. His scent was driving you insane from this up-close. He could always read you better than anyone else and that had its perks but this time, you wished you could just hide your emotions at the bottom of the sea.

‘You did not tell me what is it that I should believe,’ that made Loki errupt in a string of laughter.

‘You silly girl, why would you doubt for even a second that I have become irrevocably infatuated with you? I have been in love with you for months now, Y/N. I think anyone who has eyes saw this besides my best efforts to not ruin what I have with you. You are all that matters to me.’ He brought his other hand up to cup your face and caress your cheeks with his thumb. His face held the softest look you have ever seen. A beautiful, timid smile was reaching his eyes that were pouring right into your own.

‘Why didn’t you come to me sooner? I have loved you silently for so long, Loki.’

‘How could I ever dream that the Universe would grant me your love? My darling, even tonight, there were moments in our conversation when I thought you were talking about my brother or perhaps some other man. Men who deserve your heart. Not me. How could it ever be me? How could you ever choose me?’ There it was again, that crippling self-doubt that Loki carried in his mind and in his soul. You hated it.

‘Oh, Loki. It’s always been you. I think I chose you on the day that I was born. And if I were to be ripped from this Earth and be reborn somewhere else, I would break the world apart with my bare hands to find you and to keep choosing you. Over and over again. Until the end of time itself. In this lifetime and in any other.’ He closed his eyes for a few seconds at that. A breaking breath made its way out of his lips as you slightly turned your head to kiss the inside of his hand.

‘May I kiss you right now?’ Loki whispered, his voice barely reaching your ears. He was nervous. Now that was a look you never thought you would see on the God of Mischief. And in the dim light of the kitchen, with the moonlight casting a halo around his black, lucious hair, you could have sworn a slight blush was adorning his beautifully structured cheeks and you thought he looked like an angel. You nodded your head and without even realizing, his lips were on your forehead. He placed a deep, long kiss there and you closed your eyes to take this feeling in. Then he went on to gently kiss both of your eyelids, and your cheeks and the tip of your nose. You softly giggled at that one. And then his lips were on yours and there was no turning back. If you would be able to freeze a moment in time and frame it so you could relive it for a hundred lifetimes, it would be this one.

What a funny thing, Loki thought. To live for centuries as an immortal God and yet to find that the only lips who could ever fit against yours are those of a human. You sweet, precious human, how could a heart as pure as your own ever be destined to love the heart of a beast? He could never voice these thoughts in your presence because every single time he did, you would try so vehemently to show him how worthy he was that he sometimes started to believe it. And he could not afford to believe things like that about himself. And yet, there was this warmth and passion in you that he sometimes would find in his own mind. Initially, he thought them to be tricks. Tricks in which his conscience would stop being cruel and in which he started to believe he deserved to be loved. Tricks in which you made him feel like he was enough. He would learn in time that you were right.

‘I am gonna get you back for this though, trickster,’ you said between kisses.

‘Oh, I can’t wait to see it.’

You two pulled back when there seemed to be no more air in the Realms and he rested his forehead on yours.

‘You know, I honestly thought you would have deconspired me when I freaking giggled at your joke about ‘Sense and Sensibility’ that one time. I was mortified,’ Loki said after some time. You laughed out loud at that. Both of you. And for many nights to come, the moon would find the two of you laughing.

[imaginingmanyfandoms]

Paul's Lullaby | part one

| next>

"Sam?" Paul was, he was in pain. He respect Sam and Emily's privacy, but he needed to talk to Sam now.

Paul wasn't angry, he was in pain. He felt like the world had opened up and swallowed him whole. He ruined his own life, and he didn't know where else to turn.

"Paul?" Sam asked, opening the door. Emily was behind him, face covered in concern.

"I imprinted tonight," Paul said, "but she hates me. She really, really hates me."

"I'm sure it's nothing you can't fix," Sam said, ushering Emily to come closer.

"Sam, I'm not exaggerating, she told me that she hates me. In fact, she should hate me." Paul looked at his feet, but only to try and hide the distress on his face. "If anyone treated her that way I used to, I'd rip them apart."

"Paul," Emily said, reaching out. Paul flinched back.

"I don't deserve your sympathy. I just, I don't know what to do."

"Be patient. Maybe you just have to prove you're a different man now," Emily offered a sad smile, but it was the exact thing Paul didn't want. He shouldn't pitied, he didn't deserve it. He could feel his heart bruise and falter. He broke his own heart and has no clue on how to fix it.

Emily had to go back to sleep, but Sam sat up with Paul for a while longer.

When Paul finally left, it was almost two in the morning. He took off running through the woods, shifting when he knew he was hidden by the tree line. He tried to outrun the heartbreak, but obviously it didn't work.

You were sitting at your desk, staring at your computer. You wanted to work on your writing, but you were so angry at the audacity that Paul had.

You had done everything you could to avoid him the last couple years - and you managed to make it to the first day of summer after graduation. You'd run into him on the beach.

He was just such a jerk, acting like his words had no effect on anyone. Like he could just laugh behind your back and it wouldn't hurt.

But he used to tell people nasty rumours about you. Until nobody really wanted you around them. And then he had to take it that much farther, when you were both fifteen, he took you on a date, acted like he'd changed and grown. And right before he kissed you he said, "I know you fall for it."

That date alone triggered years of trust issues. You'd felt alone ever since.

Back to the beach, he was blocking the trail you needed to head down to get to work on time. You'd hoped that putting your head down and just trying to slide passed would work, but he recognized you. He tried talking to you, but you ignored him.

After taking a couple steps down the path he said, "don't be like that."

This made you look up, astounded that he would even say something like that. Until you finally looked into his eyes, and you recognized how beautiful he was. He also looked stunned, like he'd run into a glass door. He reached out to you, but recoiled, dodging his touch like he was on fire. Somehow, you'd felt even lonelier than ever.

One look at his face and you felt like you were missing something. You tried to keep your cool but you just couldn't. Tears brimmed at your eyes, and his friend Jared Cameron coughed, before walking to the water just to give you two some space.

"Y/N," he said, his voice low and hesitant. Making you panic, thinking he was toying with you again.

"Stay away from me," you warned, taking a defensive step back.

That hit Paul harder in the heart than you would ever know. His soulmate, his imprint, recoiling away from him defensively. He found the person he was supposed to protect, to be needed by, and you couldn't stand the sight of him.

"Just wait a second," he begged, not moving towards you again. He didn't want to scare you.

"I hate you," you whispered, and then louder said it again. And louder again. Until you had screamed it, and the tears had taken over your cheeks. Every time you said it was an arrow to Paul's heart. He nodded, and let you turn around to run off without another word.

You didn't notice him run into the woods, followed by his friend.

You called work saying you had a personal emergency, and then went back home for the night.

Back in the present, you were tearing up at the memory of it. You were sick, you think. Addicted to red flag behaviour because there was no way you were thinking of Paul's hurt face, and feeling bad for causing it. He should feel bad for all the pain he caused.

You looked at the clock, it was almost three in the morning, but you were too caught up in all your feelings to send yourself to bed. You walked to the window, and noticed some kind of animal by the tree line. You lived in the middle of the woods, in an old cabin your grandma used to live in. You moved in when she got sick but never moved out. You liked it. It was cozy. It was private.

Finally relenting, you crawl into bed and did your best to sleep.

The next day, you were walking along the same path on the beach. You offered to cover the shift of the girl who had covered yours at such last minute.

Paul was in the same spot, but alone this time. You tried to walk passed him without acknowledging him, but something stopped you. You didn't want to see him sad again, it hurt you. And it made no sense why, you'd spent two years hating him.

You were only a few steps passed him, so you turned around, gripping the end of your sweater sleeves in each hand.

Paul had his head down, but looked up when he heard you sigh. You were standing in front of him, looking so terrified to speak to him. Paul could've started crying.

"I'm sorry about yelling at you like that yesterday," you said. "I should've just walked away so... sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he said, a flash of excitement crossed his eyes, and you mistook it for something sinister. You tried to remain calm, but you were feeling lightheaded. You just couldn't trust his motives. "I deserved it."

Now that, threw you for a bit of a loop.

Fool me once, you thought.

"I still think we should just keep our distance," you said. "You kind of broke my heart."

"I'm really sorry about that, I was trying to impress the seniors. I was a tool. An idiot."

"Finally we agree on something," you said. He looked at you, and you both let out a small smile. He pushed some sand with his foot. His bashfulness made you want to believe him. "I work just up the hill. You can walk me if you want."

"Can I walk you home when you're done?" he asked, quickly falling in perfect tandem with you.

"No," you said. "But you can walk with me right now."

"I'll take it," he said.

"Why do you want to talk to me anyway? I thought you hated me," you said.

"I could never hate you," he said. "I do hate how I treated you though. Not my finest hour."

"I think your finest hour remains to be seen."

Paul stayed quiet after that. And you were oddly comfortable in the silence. You're not even sure why you invited him to come along, but some sick part of you wanted him to. You wanted to reach out and touch him. His arms just looked so welcoming, and the way he stretched his hand open and shut made you think he wanted the same thing. But you couldn't let him in, not after one day.

"Have a good shift," he said, putting his hands in his pocket.

You smiled at him ,and thanked him for walking you. When you smiled, he smiled. And you caught onto that.

Paul had been standing in the same spot every day to walk you to work. Out of curiosity, on one of your days off, you snuck close to the spot to see if he was there. And he was, leaning against the same railing, in the same spot that he waited for you everyday.

You got comfortable in a cozy little spot in the trees. You wanted to see how long he waited for you. You dozed off before you could get your question answered.

You woke up hours later, when the sun was already setting. You hated walking through the trees in the dark. You started walking on your own, but you had a bad feeling in the pit of your stomach. So you swallowed your pride and called someone you knew would answer.

Paul was sitting at Sam and Emily's table, enjoying the dinner she made while waiting for his turn to go on patrol. It was Jared and Quil out there now. Paul could hear Seth snoring on the couch, making him laugh. Things that used to annoy him, didn't really seem to annoy him anymore. Not since you started letting him walk you to work. He even got Sam to let him change his patrol times to make sure he could be there every day.

His phone rang, and with a mouthful of food checked the number. He almost chocked on his food when he saw your number. He answered, hitting his chest to dislodge the food.

"Y/N, hi," he said, big grin on his face as he stood up and walked outside. Behind his back, Emily and Sam shared a knowing look, and he leaned in to kiss his wife.

Paul noticed Jared sitting nearby with Kim, and didn't think too much of it with you on the line.

"This may sound stupid," you said, "but can you walk me home? I don't like to go in the dark."

"You never let me walk you home," he said.

"If this is a bad time, it's okay," you said, disappointment clear in your voice.

"No, no... where are you? I'll be right there." He stepped back inside the house to grab his shoes, but the sound of you gasping stalled his movements.

"I'm by our meeting spot," you said. His grin returned when you called it that. "It's so dumb, I wanted to see if you went there when I didn't work and fell asleep."

"You were spying on me?" he asked. You were silent on the other end and he laughed. "I'll be right there."

"Who are you?" you asked.

"Huh?"

He heard you scream, as did Sam and Emily who's cheeky glances turned to concern quickly. "Y/N?" he asked, panicked. He was already running outside, Sam on his heals.

"Jared!" Sam shouted, "Why aren't you on patrol?"

"Seth said he'd do it!" Jared yelled back. Paul dropped his phone, and shifted, running top speeds to where you said you were.

Never in his whole life had he been this scared. He could hear Jared apologizing for the mixup in his thoughts, but Paul didn't really care what he had to say. If you were hurt, Paul would die. Paul would simply die.

He needed you to be there safe.

I knew something was wrong, Embry thought. Paul didn't even see him show up. Sorry I didn't act on it.

Shut the shit up and run, dammit!

When he got to the meeting point, you were gone, but your bag was abandoned nearby. Paul sniffed it, getting your current scent memorized. He took off when he found the trail. He also smelled a retched, filthy bloodsucker. It wasn't one of the Cullens. No, this was different. And it started at the water, that's how it got passed their lines. Not that they had enough people around.

Paul howled, the pain in it was evident for anyone around. It was him saying get here, or suffer the consequences.

I don't smell their blood, Jared thought.

You don't get to talk about them. This anger didn't derive from a bad temper, it was fear. It was just fear talking.

Paul kept running, catching a fork in the scent trails. One way was Quil, Leah and the bloodsucker. And the other was you, all alone. Alone but alive. If he couldn't hear Leah or Quil think, that was a good sign. Meant that they'd changed back, and Leah would never do that unless she killed them.

Go to her, we'll find Leah. Sam nodded at Paul.

You were crying as you ran, clumsy feet stumbling over tree roots and your own blurred vision totally betrayed you. Someone had come out of the water, eyes red like rubies. And they were so pretty that you just had to look at her. Until the showed her teeth, forcing you to flee in fear. She was faster than you, but you think she was playing with you.

And then if that wasn't scary enough, when she was jumping down from a tree to kill you, a wolf jumped from the shadows and grabbed the woman. And it was her turn to flee. Another wolf jumped out, and you were sure you were a goner.

But it just chased after the other two. Leaving you alone and confused.

You stumbled back to your feet, running as fast as you could towards your cabin. You would be safe in there. Maybe. It was the best you could do right now.

You cried harder when you thought you heard more rustling in the trees. You were at your door, struggling to get your keys out and unlock the door. When you did, you slammed it shut and locked it behind you. You dove over the sofa and kept your eyes on the door, as if that's all it took to keep you safe.

Your phone was lost somewhere in the woods, but you could still hear them. Out there. Maybe it wasn't real.

There was a feverish knocking on your door, and you couldn't peel yourself away from the couch.

"Y/N! Are you in there," Paul shouted. Oh my God, thank everything, it's Paul.

"Paul, I'm coming," you struggled, fighting through your tears to answer. It killed him, but he was so happy you were okay.

You opened the door, and cried even harder when you saw his face. You couldn't hate him now, now when he came running for you. He ignored his usual boundaries and pulled you in for a hug. He was so warm wrapped around you. Your arms were still tucked into your chest. And his totally encompassed you.

"Just breath, honey," he said, rubbing his hand up and down your back. You tried to take his advice, but you couldn't focus.

"You came for me."

"I always will, you can always call me. I will always come running," he said. And you believed him.

"Will you stay with me tonight?" you asked, pushing yourself away from him enough to look up at his face. His features were uncharacteristically soft as they looked down at you.

"Of course," he said. He kissed your forehead, and you felt the instinct of pushing him away - but you ignored it this time.

"On the couch," you said.

"Sure, honey." He brushed his hands up and down your biceps, helping you take a few deep breaths. "I'm not going anywhere, don't worry."

"I don't understand what happened," you said, pushing yourself away from him. "She came out of the water, and then she..."

"It's okay," he cooed, "you don't have to say anything."

"And this doesn't change anything," you said. "I trust you with some things but not other things."

"Some things?" he asked, more amused than anything.

"I trust you with my life, not my heart."

"We'll work on it," he said, pulling you in close for another hug.

"Yeah," you agreed. "We'll work on it."

[requested] [part 2?]

I kind of love this?

[dreamerstreamer]

Somewhere Only We Know

Pairing: god!Dream / DreamXD x gn!reader

Summary: [Reincarnation!AU & Dream SMP!AU] Being a god can be especially lonely—Dream knows that better than anyone. Yet somehow, you always manage to find your way back to him in every life you live. If only it didn’t hurt so much to love you.

Warnings: tw// mention of death

Word Count: 5.6k

A/N: requested by the lovely 🤡 anon, who asked for a piece based on keane’s somewhere only we know! i got rather carried away when writing this, and it’s certainly quite sad, but i hope you all enjoy it! <3

Dream blinks lazily up at the fluffy clouds drifting across the cerulean sky, his emerald eyes tracing over their soft edges. He hums to himself as one of them drifts in front of the sun, the warm light suddenly leaving his face. Frowning, he sits up a little straighter, raising his arm above his head. He snaps his fingers once, and in an instant, the clouds vanish. Warmth floods his cheeks as the sun’s brilliant rays crash over him once more. He smiles, but it’s melancholic, a forlorn look passing over his face.

Just how long has he been alone like this?

Sighing, he rises to his feet, kicking at the soft dirt beneath the soles of his boots. His viridian cloak is light atop his shoulders, his wings neatly folded underneath the soft fabric. Above his head, his halos glow with a dazzling golden hue, sending beams of amber light flashing across the nearby tree trunks. Rolling his neck, he snaps his fingers again, and his wings and halos vanish in a flash. Just like that, the weight on his back dissipates, and his lips twitch. There—that’s much lighter.

His gaze flickers over to the waterfall lying just a yard away, rushing ripples of water streaming down the short cliff face and into the pool lying at its base. He crouches down next to the small pond, brushing his hand over the soft soil beneath his feet. Sparks shoot up his arm and into his fingertips, the earth suddenly bursting to life underneath his touch.

All of a sudden, a blossom sprouts from the ground, soft and pink as it unfurls its petals and soaks up the warm sunshine. Dream grins as row after row of flowers shoot up from the ground, circling around the pond and lining the trees around the clearing until suddenly, the whole space is surrounded by breathtaking blossoms. He stands back with a satisfied hum, glancing around himself with an almost nostalgic gleam in his gaze.

It’s been ages since he last returned to this little alcove in his favourite forest. He could tell no one else had stepped foot here except for him, too. After all, there was only one other person who knew about this place—the only other person in the world he knew would be able to find it in the first place.

Had it been decades or centuries since he last visited? He’s not sure anymore, but really, he’s not sure if he cares, either. There’s a reason why he doesn’t come back here very often—one that he hesitates to even think about.

It’s far too painful of a memory to relive.

“Hello?”

Dream freezes, his eyes going wide at the sound of a new voice—a familiar voice. Slowly, he turns, his lips parting in awe as he sees a figure stepping into the clearing, a mix of caution and curiosity flitting across your cheeks.

He knows that face—knows you.

His heart aches at the thought.

“Hi,” he manages after a long moment, swallowing ever so slightly.

You flash him a sheepish smile, lowering your gaze to the ground almost bashfully as you brush a stray leaf off your shoulder. “I’m sorry if I’m intruding, or anything. I was just passing by when I saw the flowers, and thought they looked really pretty, and...”

You trail off, your voice growing smaller and smaller until it fades off into silence. Dream stares at you, unmoving as his heart races a mile a minute in his chest, battering against his rib cage as your timid gaze flickers to his.

“I, um,” you squeak out, feeling the intensity of his eyes on yours. “I can go if you wa—”

“No,” Dream suddenly blurts, the word flying out of his mouth before he can stop himself. He can already feel the heat flooding his chest at the way you startle in front of him, and he sucks in a breath.

“Wait,” he says, calmer this time. “Please, I—you’re not intruding at all. You can stay.” He takes a shaky step forward, offering you a crooked yet earnest smile. “I’d love it if you stayed.”

In an instant, your face lights up, and his breath hitches in his throat at the sight. “O-Oh, thank you! It’s nice to meet you. My name’s [Y/N].”

In that moment, he could have sworn his heart stopped and would never beat, again. “What’s yours?” you ask, your eyes shining like freshly cut gemstones.

His eyes scan your face for a moment, taking in the soft panes of your cheeks and the delicate curve of your lips as your smile leaves tiny cuts in his lungs.

“Dream,” he breathes at last. “Call me Dream.”

Suddenly, your eyes curve into tiny crescent moons as you grin at him, and he feels the loneliness flowing through his veins subside the tiniest bit.

Even after all this time, he still can’t bring himself to forget your smile.

Dream hums to himself as he tosses a pebble into the pond from his spot on the fallen tree log. The stream laps at the stone once before swallowing it whole, letting it sink to the murky bottom without so much as a splash. A rustle comes from behind him, and he immediately whirls, his lips curling up into an eager smile.

“[Y/N],” he chirps, bright and keen, “welcome back.”

Your glowing face greets him in return, and he nearly combusts on the spot. He still remembers the way you had promised him you would return to see him again a week ago, when you had first stumbled upon his clearing. His head still spins at the thought, and it almost makes him forget the longing ache that sinks into his bones when his gaze lingers on you for a fraction too long.

Almost.

You wave at him as you jump over a protruding tree root, crinkles forming at the corners of your eyes. “Good morning, Dream! What are you doing here so early? The market only just opened.”

He shuffles over on the log to give you room, raising an eyebrow at you. “I could ask the same of you.”

Crouching over, you settle down onto the space next to him, not at all noticing the way he stiffens when your thigh brushes against his. “I woke up early to watch the sunrise,” you say with a half-drowsy smile.

There is a beat of silence, then Dream tilts his head at you. “The sunrise?”

You bob your head, turning to look at him. “Yeah,” you murmur wistfully, raising your arm to wave your hand up at the sky above. “I love watching all the pretty colours fill the horizon. It only lasts a few minutes, but it’s so magnificent, and I always try to watch them if I can.”

His eyes flash as he takes in your gentle expression. Then, he opens his mouth, thoughtful and slow. “Sunrises, hm? What other things do you like?”

You pause for a moment. “Other things I like?” When he nods, you hum, averting your gaze from his until you find yourself staring over at the bubbling waterfall.

“I like... I like flowers,” you begin, “but you already knew that.” He chuckles at the hint of a smile that dusts your face before you continue. “I like exploring the market every Saturday, too. They always have something new to find.”

Suddenly, your eyes flicker to life, glittering with excitement. “Oh, I also like stargazing! It’s like watching the universe paint a picture with little crystals every night, and something about looking up at the sky makes me feel so small, and I... I...” You gesture vaguely, a frustrated noise escaping your throat. “I don’t know. I just like it.”

Dream cannot help the way his heart melts in his chest at the sound you make, a certain fondness seeping into his soul. You were always so endearing—always, always, always.

“What about you, Dream?” you say suddenly, looking at him curiously. “What things do you like?”

Dream blinks at you—once, twice. Suddenly, his mind is flooded with image after image, memory after memory.

He thinks of the millennia he has lived through, the cities he has watched rise and fall. He thinks of the countless distances he has wandered, travelling far and wide with a heavy loneliness hanging in his barren heart. He thinks of soft kisses pressed to calloused fingertips and fluttering eyelids.

Then, he looks at you, with your enraptured eyes and your glorious grin.

“You,” he says, sincerity gracing his every word. “I like spending time with you.”

He watches as you stammer in reply, your eyes going wide as you gape at him in a mixture of embarrassment and flattery. He laughs at you, and his heart swells in his chest.

He’s missed you—more than you would ever know.

“Say, Dream, have you ever seen the ocean?”

The sun glares harshly into your eyes from where you lie on the earth, staring up at the cobalt sky, but Dream hardly notices—his eyes are too focused on you. “I have,” he murmurs as his gaze traces over the bridge of your nose in wonder. He’s seen more of the world than he would like to admit. After all, he was the one who created it in the first place. But to you, he’s just a simple traveler with a penchant for waterfalls.

Before he can even register it, you’ve bolted upright, bending over him with an excited shout. “Really?! What’s it like?”

He jolts at the sudden movement, all too keenly aware of how close your face is to his before his shuffles into a sitting position, resting his chin on his hand. “Well,” he begins, “it’s really big. So big that you can’t see the shore on the other side no matter how hard you try. It’s blue as far as the eye can see, and the breeze kind of tastes salty if you open your mouth.”

He catches a flash of your awed expression as he waves his arm in front of him to illustrate the vast size of the ocean. “The water,” he continues, envisioning the waves as they crash onto the sand, “is nice and cold, and if you swim deep enough, you might find fish and coral. It’s relaxing to watch the tide come up into the beach. Sometimes, shells wash up onto the shore, too. You can keep those as little souvenirs.”

For a moment, you are silent as you simply stare at him, something swirling deep within your gaze. “Wow,” you say at last, sounding completely breathless. “That sounds beautiful.” You stretch your legs out in front of you, your fingers curling into the grass spread beneath your palms. “My best friend says there’s mermaids in the ocean.” You scrunch your nose. “I don’t know if I believe him, though.”

Something dark ripples through Dream, and the tiniest of frowns passes over his face. “Your best friend?” he parrots.

You nod. “Yeah—his name’s Karl. He’s really nice and likes to goof off a lot. He’s also a really good storyteller!” You look at him then, fondly and with such a kind look it almost knocks Dream right over. “I think you might like his stories.”

His lips quirk up into a coy smile, and he leans ever so slightly forward. “Would I, now?” he croons, a teasing lilt tinting his tone. “What kind of stories does he like to tell?”

You clasp your hands together, excitement brimming in your face. “Oh, wonderful ones! There’s the one about the sleepy fox, the one about the pig who could not be killed, and the one about how we all face reincarnation after death, but my favourite,” you murmur, “is about the creation of the world.”

Dream goes still at that, his smile faltering for a split second. “How does that one go?” he asks softly.

You scoot the tiniest bit closer to his side, your gaze lowering ever so slightly. “Once upon a time,” you start, your voice as smooth as velvet, “a god descended from the heavens and carved the world into the shape it is today.” You traced your finger along the soft dirt. “He made valleys and hills, oceans and rivers, decorating the land with flowers and trees. The world he made was beautiful, but it was lonely, so he filled it with people to keep him company. He was so full of joy to have friends, until one day, he fell in love.”

Your demeanour, which had been cheerful up until this point, suddenly shifted, darkening as you let out a sigh. “He fell in love so quickly and so deeply that he was blind to the nature of his own creations, as they had a mortal lifespan, unlike him. When his lover died, a part of his soul died with them. He vanished after that, never to be seen again.” You curl your knees to your chest, resting your head upon them. “Some people say he wanders the world, mourning for all of eternity. Others say he died of heartbreak. Even fewer believe that his lover lives on and he loves them still, although they’re not entirely sure. Either way, he has yet to appear, and humanity quietly awaits for his return.”

Dream is silent beside you, his lips pressed into a thin line as his chest rises and falls with the timing of his breaths. “Why is that story your favourite?” he finally asks.

You lift your head, surprise shooting across your face. “I’m not sure,” you say softly, pondering for a moment. “I just think he sounds so... sad. It’s a tragedy, what happened to him. He only wanted to not be alone anymore.” Your voice drops even lower. “He only ever wanted to love someone.”

An ache suddenly expands within his gut, digging into his sides of his skull with such ferocity he fears he may never escape it. That same, fleeting sense of solitude slinks around his lungs, squeezing and squeezing until your eyes lock into his, and they halt.

“Do you think that he lives on?” you whisper, your gaze searching his. “That he might have found someone else to keep him company, despite his sadness?”

You pause, something like hope sparking within your eyes. “Do you think... he ever loved again?”

Dream stares at you, and stares at you, and stares at you. Your lips are right there, are so dreadfully close to him as he looks at you, feeling the blood pound through his ears as the pain in his heart begins to lift. It rises higher and higher within him before sliding off his shoulders entirely, leaving nothing behind but tender affection and warmth—a warmth he had been yearning for for so, so long.

He smiles at you then, and for once, this one is real.

“Something tells me he did.”

Dream stretches his wings out behind him with a quiet groan, feeling the cool air ruffle his ivory white feathers. His cloak sits on the ground next to him while his golden halos spin rapidly atop his head from where they float, glowing faintly in the fading evening light. After a moment, he lets his wings fold back up against his back, lowering his arms with a sharp exhale. In the distance, he catches a glimpse of the setting sun just before it dips below the horizon, shrouding the world in darkness. With a bored look, he picks at his nail, curling his toes in his shoes.

He’s already waved you off and watched as you wove your way out of the clearing and between the forest’s tangled trees back to your village. Now, he has nothing left to do but wait for your return the next day, his throat aching for your arrival with every passing second.

How far I have fallen, he thinks distantly to himself, to be reduced to nothing more than a helpless admirer for a human.

A moment passes, and his heart sighs.

A lovely human, at that.

All of a sudden, he hears a stick snap behind him, and Dream immediately snaps his fingers, his wings and halos disappearing in a flash, almost as if they had never existed to begin with. Whipping around on his heel, he narrows his eyes at the clearing entrance, jaw clenched in preparation. His shoulders are raised at his side, tense with anticipation when just then...

...you stumble out of the forest, tears streaking down your face.

Dream’s shoulders fall in an instant.

“Dream,” you choke out, your voice cracking sharply.

You don’t even get the chance to open your mouth again before he’s standing in front of you, his hands gripping your shoulders as gently as he can manage. His eyes scan your face as his stomach churns with agony at the despair painted onto your features. “[Y/N],” he murmurs softly, “what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

You sniffle, lifting your head to look at him through watery eyes as you open your mouth. “Karl—he’s sick. Really sick,” you babble like a winding stream. “The doctor doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, and he’s been coughing so badly that you can just tell he’s in pain. At this rate, I—I’m scared he’s not going to get any better. He... I’ve known him since forever, and I—”

The words die in your mouth as you cut yourself off with a broken sob, and Dream almost feels as though he’s been stabbed in the gut. He never wants to see you in pain, to see you as sad as this, and the fact that you are sobbing at all makes him want to wail himself.

Softly, he wraps his arms around you, pressing you close to your chest as he rocks you gently back and forth with your head resting on his shoulder. Your tears soak his shirt, but he doesn’t mind one bit. “Shh, [Y/N],” he coos quietly. “It’s going to be okay.”

You pull back with a wary gaze, fear etched into your features. “How do you know that?” you whisper. “What if he doesn’t get better? What then?”

Dropping one arm from behind you, Dream slips a hand into his pocket, quickly rubbing his fingers together. Just like that, cool glass that wasn’t there a moment earlier presses against the warmth of his palm, and he pulls out a vial filled with a pale, rosy liquid.

“Here,” he says, pressing the vial into your hand. “This is an antidote I’ve been...” He pauses for a split second, then fibs. “...holding onto for a while. For emergencies.” Slowly, he clasps your fingers until they’re closed around the glass top, sending you a reassuring smile. “Give this to Karl, and I promise you he’ll recover.”

You blink at him, your eyes glimmering underneath the light of the swirling stars overhead. “You swear?” you ask meekly, hope dancing along the edge of your lashes.

Dream swallows thickly and nods. “On my life.”

You inhale a deep, shuddering breath, then raise your hand to wipe at your eyes before smiling at him, warm and full of affection. “Okay,” you murmur as you step back from him. “I trust you, Dream.”

The next morning, you come tumbling into Dream’s arms with a gleeful cry, tears flowing freely down your face as you knock him to the ground. This time, they’re there for an entirely different reason as you ramble about Karl’s cleared airways when the doctor came to check on him after you fed him the antidote.

Beneath you, Dream relishes in the warmth of your body against his, praying you cannot feel the way his heart hammers against his chest.

There were not enough words in the world that he could use to describe how deep his devotion to you ran.

He fears there may never be enough.

Months pass in a blur, and Dream watches with knowing eyes as summer turns to autumn. Soon enough, snow coats the clearing although the waterfall continues to flow. No matter how harsh the weather, you stumble your way back to the forest to him, and each day, Dream feels himself sink deeper and deeper into the very essence that is you.

To think that there was once a time he never wanted to return here at all.

“Dream,” you say abruptly one day, “you know, I think you might be my favourite person in the world.”

He cocks a brow at you, his lips twitching up into a small smirk. “In the world?” he repeats. “I think Karl would be offended.”

You roll your eyes at him, but you can’t stop the smile from stretching across your face. “Maybe, but it’s the truth!” You lift a hand and begin counting off on your fingers. “You’re—you’re so nice, and passionate, and bold, and bright, and...” You pause, then chuckle almost shyly. “I could go on and on, but that’s embarrassing.”

He chuckles at your words, only growing more and more enamoured with each word that falls from your lips. “It’s not embarrassing,” he says gently. “It’s cute.”

Your shoulders suddenly stiffen, and you slowly turn your head to glance up at him. “Cute? You think I’m cute?”

He doesn’t have to think twice about his response. “Very much so. I would dare say that you are even more beautiful than you are cute.”

You whine with a pout, heat crawling up the side of your neck as you dig your thumbs into your palms. “You can’t just say things like that.”

He stares at you for a second, then he flashes you a grin that is both parts wicked and affectionate. “Maybe, but it’s the truth.”

Your mouth drops open at the way he fires your own words back at you, and you gape at him a moment before you groan, reaching over to playfully bat at his arm. “Why, you!”

He laughs at you and loves the way he can tell your heart races in your chest. He loves the way you smile despite your small shouts of frustration. He loves the way you are just so endearing to him in every which way.

He laughs at you and he loves you, hopelessly and wholly.

Dream gazes up at the orange sky with a slight frown and furrowed brows, watching as the clouds coast by overhead on a distant, northern gale. The waterfall babbles restlessly at his side, and he taps his foot against the smooth stones lining the pond with abandonment. The flowers he had once grown rake this petals over the soles of his shoes as he lets out a long sigh, anxiety slowly beginning to paw at his backside.

Are you going to show up at all today? he wonders. There are some days you don’t appear at all, typically because you had to run some errands or something of the sort, but those days are few and far between. He won’t chastise you for not seeing him, of course, but he cannot simply ignore the pang of his heart when he misses you so.

His fingers drum against the cool material clutched in his hands, and a melancholic look flits over his features. It would be a shame if you didn’t appear though, especially given what he had in mind for the day.

Right then, he hears your lovely voice call out for him. “Dream!”

His frown is immediately replaced by a smile as he whirls around to see you, his hands carefully tucked behind his back. “[Y/N],” he greets, striding up to you. “It’s good to see you.”

You’ve only just made it in front of him when he opens his mouth again, excitement filling his words to the absolute brim. “I brought you a gift.”

You blink wildly at him, pointing to yourself in surprise. “For me?”

His grin only grows wider, his heart leaping into his throat. “Of course it’s for you, silly. Who else?”

You squint for a second, then smile. “Karl?”

Dream deadpans at you, and you laugh in return, not noticing the way his eyes melt fondly at your expression. “I’m kidding,” you chide, shuffling a step closer to him. “So, what is it?”

He’s practically bouncing on the balls of his feet when he finally brings his hands out from behind him, pushing them towards you. “Ta-da! Here.”

Your breath catches at the sight of his palms, and with trembling hands, you reach up to pull the curved item from his hand. “Is this... a shell?” you whisper, your eyes as wide as saucers.

He nods, his emerald eyes gleaming with pride. “A conch shell,” he says. “From the ocean.”

You sputter as you gently turn the shell over in your hands, your fingers tracing over the solid edges with nothing short of pure shock. “H-How did you even get this? The nearest ocean is at least a week’s travel on horse away!”

Dream thinks of the wings he typically had tucked on his back and how they carried him to the ocean and back in less than a few minutes, but to you, he only smiles and shrugs. “I have my ways.”

You don’t respond for a moment, then two. All of a sudden, you sniffle, and Dream is bending before you in a heartbeat, his hands reaching for yours before just stopping short. “[Y/N]?” he asks in a soothing tone. “Is something wrong?”

Your gaze is watery, but only slightly as you raise your chin to look at him, your lower lip set with determination. “Dream,” you say with a shaky breath, “I have to tell you something.” You gulp. “It’s serious.”

Immediately, Dream’s mind runs through a million and five possibilities of what you could possibly say to him, each one increasingly worse than the last. Your family is in need of funds, or you’re about to leave on a life-threatening journey. Or maybe Karl is just sick, again.

But before he can run himself into the ground with his own worries, Dream lets out a breath and tilts his head at you. “What is it?”

Your gaze falls down to your feet, and you stare at the earth for an excruciatingly long minute. Dream simply stands in front of you, patiently and earnestly waiting for your response when you suddenly open your mouth.

“I—I love you.”

Dream’s lungs feel as though they are about to collapse in his chest. “You do?”

You bite your lip, but raise your head, your shoulders trembling at your sides. “Yes,” you whisper, the syllable steeped with emotion. With one hand clasped around the conch shell, the other reaches up to rest over your chest, palm pressed flats against your left side. “My heart is yours, all of it.”

The world is a blur of colours and sounds around him, and he can feel his head spin faster and faster as a wave of memories come crashing down over him, drowning him whole. He wants to tear his hair out and scream to the heavens above until his throat is raw and he can scream no more.

You love him. You love him back, and as much as he wants to burn your words into the back of his eyelids, something else sinks its claws into his heart and tears a hole right into the flesh.

This is not the first time you have spoken these words to him. No, not at all.

He had done his best to forget them over all those years, had tried his best to outrun the anguish with every century he lived through. After all, when you live as long as he has, it is only natural for him to forget some things. Through wandering across every land he had lovingly sculpted by hand, he had hoped to erase his suffering by engulfing himself in other worldly affairs, isolating himself entirely from others.

But no amount of time could ever truly erase the memories he had of you—the first incarnation of you, from all those years ago.

He remembers how the two of you had shared your first kiss under the light of the full moon, giggling to one another as he wrapped you up in his soft feathers. He remembers the way you would hold his hand and tell him about all the things you could not wait to do with him in the very same clearing he stood in now. He remembers the way your body went limp in his own arms, coughing until your lungs could cough no more. He remembers the agony and the torment as he wasted away, too caught up in the imprint of your skin against his before you turned to dust before his very eyes.

He remembers it all, and he cannot not let himself be shattered like that, again.

“I have to go,” he whispers, jerking his arm back from yours.

You whip your head up, pain shooting across your face. “Y-You’re leaving? What?”

He takes another step back and swallows down the lump in his throat, but it tastes like acid burning his stomach. “I—I can’t stay here.”

Before he can move back again, your hand shoots out to grab at the hem of his shirt, desperation soaking into your face: “P-Please,” you plead, “you can just say you don’t love me back. My feelings for you won’t change.”

He wants to cry. No, he thinks, it’s not that. It could never be that. Not with you.

You clutch at the cloth, hoping your feelings somehow reach him through your anguished touch. “I love you, Dream,” you begin, “I really do. I love how attentive you are, how much you always seem to care. You’re always so patient with me, so kind, so generous, and it makes me melt inside. I love the way your eyes shine so brightly, and I love your little freckles. I want to count them all, and I don’t mind if that takes the rest of eternity.”

You’re almost entirely out of breath by now, and Dream’s jaw has gone slack. He can only stare at you with a look of pure conflicting despair as your eyes search his for answers he knows he cannot possibly give. “An eternity with you would be nothing,” you breathe, your voice cracking. Your grip on his shirt suddenly goes limp, and your arm falls back to your side. “Please. Stay.”

The knife in his gut only seems to twist deeper as he takes yet another step back, his cloak feeling like a boulder upon his back. “I can’t,” he chokes out. “I really can’t.”

Tears line your eyes like tiny jewels, and he wishes he could wipe them away. “Why?” you beg. “Why do you have to go?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it, shaking his head. He doesn’t even know where to begin.

In front of him, a look of absolute defeat sinks into your expression, and your voice grows smaller than ever. “At least—at least tell me if I’ll ever see you again.”

Dream’s feels the back of his eyes sting, and he clenched his hands beside him. “Not in this lifetime,” he wants to say. “And hopefully not in the next, either.”

“I’m sorry, [Y/N],” he says instead.

Just like that, he watches as the light fades from your eyes, vanishing from sight as the setting sun watches on with a sad gaze. Your lower lip trembles, and before you can stop yourself, you’re crumpling to the ground in a heap and watering the earth with your tears. You clutch the conch shell to your chest and let it dig into your chest from how tightly you press it against yourself, your vision completely blurred. In front of you, Dream holds back tears of his own, forcing himself to look away from your broken figure as he walks toward the forest away from you.

Your wails follow after him even after he unfurls his wings deep in the forest and soars up into the sky, flying high above the world below as he dries his tears with the harsh wind that bites at his face.

He will not return here for a long, long time.

He doesn’t think he would even be able to bring himself to if he tried.

Dream brushes a stray leaf off his shoulder as he steps over a root, his eyes focused on the bushes before him. A bird chirps as he strolls past a tree, nestling further into its nest as he ducks under the branch. He smiles at the sight, a deep fondness seeping into his heart as he lets his hand run over the tree’s hard bark.

He recognizes this forest—these trees. He knows this sky, has leapt over these rocks. He’s walked this path before.

It’s a shame he can’t remember how long it’s been since he last came here.

He hums a quiet melody to himself as he weaves a path between the trees, drawing nearer and nearer to the place he had been searching for with every passing second. He’s only a few steps away when a sound calls out to him—a sound that isn’t a part of the forest.

“Hello?”

Dream goes stock still, his heart coming to a screeching halt in his chest.

He knows that voice, too.

Sucking in a deep breath, he slowly steps forward, out into the entrance of the clearing. In front of the waterfall stands a silhouette he is absolutely positive he’s seen before—countless times before. Something tells him that he should leave, that he should run far, far away and disappear from view. But as he watches the silhouette take a tentative step toward him, his inhibitions fall away.

Warmth blossoms in the space between his lungs, all encompassing and full of grief as he opens his mouth.

“Hi.”

[whaleofatjme1920]

Ok so Ik this has already been done with ej, but I’m a toby simp, and I wanted to ask. Reader finding out toby is cheating on them? Maximum of 1k words, a scenario idk, smth. Ty!

-👾

It's Dangerous, To Love the Sun

[Ticci Toby X F!Reader]

[Warnings: angst in general, physical and emotional cheating, violence, language]

[AN: I listened to Brooksie - Not Into You slowed + reverbed while writing this, I hope you enjoyed! Also went a lil over,,, the word count because I kinda liked this,,,,,,,,,,,]

You love Toby. Ever since he came into your life, you’ve been happier with him at your side. He makes you smile, he makes your heart sing. You’ve never felt so complete.

The way he looks at you is akin to gazing at a masterpiece. His eyes are so full of love when he gazes at you from across the room, wondering when you’ll finally break away from your conversation with Jeff to be at his side again.

His touch is gentle, never harsh. Toby’s fingers trace up and down your forearms and back, ghosts, whisper-like kisses of physical affection in an attempt to show you what he verbally cannot express. He’s always so warm, so loving, so whole.

He completes you, is what you’re trying to get at.

The two of you like to sit on rooftops late at night because neither Masky nor Hoodie can stand the two of you giggling at odd hours of the day in their presence. Kate’s not around long enough to actually care. When it’s just the two of you sitting up here, quiet, against each other and breathing in the sweet night air, you feel more complete than you’ve ever felt before.

You hum out, watching the stars twinkle in the sky, a dreamy expression on your face as Toby momentarily stops playing with your hair.

“What’s o-o-on your mind, b-baby?” He asks, a brow raised. Toby shifts on the shingles, his arms wrapping around you like an octopus, bringing you closer and closer into his warmth.

You find yourself blanketed in him and relax. “You’re so good to me, y’know that?” You say.

Toby scoffs and rolls his eyes. “O-Other way around,” he corrects.

You tilt your head and shake it slightly, telling him he’s wrong. “You’ve always been so good to me,” you continue, brushing off his attempts to play down your saccharine words.

He knows you’re not fibbing, but at the same time, he refuses to admit to your claims. “I d-d-did what w-was expected o-of me, you know t-that,” he states plainly.

You take in another deep breath before resting your head on his shoulder, melting into him. You pick up his scent: oak and burning winter, before retorting against him again in a voice a hair above a whisper. “You’re wrong.”

Toby laughs, his lips pressing to the side of your head. “If y-y-you say so,” he murmurs, pressing more kisses to your head and eventually your face. He revels in the sound of your laughter as he does so, leaving no inch of you unkissed.

“I know so.”

The two of you fall back into a pleasant silence.

You’ve always viewed Toby like he has power over the sun, because, as far as being a proxy goes? He does. When you were first plucked from your life and called for something ‘greater’, it was Toby who had taken pity on you, trained you, taught you all you needed to know and the ins and outs of this life. He was the one who shielded you from Masky, Hoodie and even Kate at times.

It was by his hand that you survived, and it is still by his hand that you thrive.

It was such a blinding adoration for a man you believed held dominion over the sun that kept you veiled from the truth of what he had been doing behind closed doors, yet could be seen through the windows.

Naturally, you didn’t want to believe it. Who would? The person you love’s heart has fled the place it used to live with you and taken up residence with someone else. That’s not an easy thing to admit, not when you realize that love truly is not all it takes.

Toby doesn’t want to admit it either. It started out as some strange infatuation, a fleeting crush - someone he would forget.

But her eyes? Her darling eyes? One of them the most beautiful shade of peridot he’d ever seen and the other a literal clock? They say the eyes (in her case, eye) are the window to the soul, and she had absolutely snared his. She was beautiful in a way Toby couldn’t describe, beautiful in a way that had him seeing a sky full of stars in the middle of the day, and beautiful in the sense she was timeless.

Toby knows he should be ashamed, that she’s his little secret, that what he has with Natalie can’t be compared with you, but he knows he can’t let you find out lest you go too far you can’t come back.

That blinding sun made you shrug off the bruises that were too keenly placed to be a victim’s sorry attempt at freeing themself. You shrugged off the scent of roses and wine. You shrugged off how his eyes saw past you, no longer at you. You shrugged it all off, choosing to stay blinded than face the truth.

And you would’ve happily lived in that ignorance if Toby didn’t grow cocky and arrogant and so fucking careless.

You’ve never really felt your world crash and burn until today. You've never been burned by the sun until this moment.

You’re looking into the eyes of a man you think owns the sun and see nothing but fear, regret, and pleading. Pleading for what? That you won’t leave him? That you’ll stay with him? You feel tears well in your eyes as you see him laying in your bed with her. The woman who had been naught but a shadow until now.

“R-Reader,” Toby begins, quickly wrestling up in the sheets, watching as your soul leaves your body in the doorway. “B-Baby, it’s n-no-”

You’re at a loss for words, and frankly, you don’t think he even deserves the right to your thoughts at this moment. Instead, you hold your hand up, silencing him, and turn to leave the temp house. You were out doing work for your fucking boss and get rewarded like this? The man you loved in bed with another woman, looking at her like she owned the moon. You take in a sharp breath and then begin to beeline to the front door when Toby finally gets out of the bed, ignoring the cries of confusion pouring from Natalie’s mouth.

Your heart races when you realize Toby is gaining on you. Your vision blurs through your tears.

He’s calling out for you, his stutter even stronger than before, bones popping louder and louder as he gets hit with the weight of what he’s done to you. “Stop! S-Stop fucking m-m-moving!” He hisses, his calloused hand reaching out for your wrist, successfully grabbing you.

You snarl like a caged, wounded animal, flesh burning at the contact. “Don’t fucking touch me,” you sneer as you attempt to rip your wrist from his iron grasp. In your other hand, you already have the car keys ready. You just want to be anywhere but here.

“I-I’m so s-s-sorry,” Toby says, attempting to pull you into a hug.

You struggle against him harder, hissing to be let go. The keys in your free hand are getting threaded in your fingertips. Your tears feel warm and boil your cheeks as they roll down like waterfalls. The harder he grips you, the more you feel you’ve been burned to a point of no return. “God fucking damn it, let me go!” You shout, not even noticing how Natalie has come out of the room to get Toby off of you. She’s quickly gaining in the hallway, confused on if she should step in or not.

Toby tries harder and harder to pull you into his embrace, and that’s when you strike.

You take your car key filled fingers and punch as hard as you can, the teeth of the keys dragging across Toby’s cheek, successfully shocking him into letting you go. You don’t even consider how badly you’ve hurt him and take the opportunity of his shock to flee the temp house, quickly hopping into the car.

“Reader!” Toby shouts, hand on his right cheek, not even caring about the claw marks you’ve left. “B-Baby, let’s t-talk about t-this-”

You start honking the horn to drown his voice out. Your eyebrows are furrowed, a scowl on your face, glare holding nothing but bullets towards Toby and Natalie as she attempts to wrangle him back into the house.

You watch as her arms wrap around his waist - she’s surprisingly gentle for dealing with such a belligerent man - before peeling out of the driveway, hand still honking the horn and practically waking up the neighborhood while you’re at it.

Your mind overloads as you drive, thoughts of the sun getting eclipsed by the other celestial body that overtakes it in full, swallowing it whole. You mutter angrily to yourself, turning on the radio for just noise as you finally get onto the expressway. And you drive. You drive until your head feels clear again, and when it does, you’re finally able to focus on something other than what’s in front of you on the endless stretch of road.

Autumn is making its way in, that much is apparent. Every now and then, specks of orange and red zip past your high beams. It’s cooler, and you swear you’ve passed a few flowering pumpkin patches.

You look to your left, gazing out the window for a moment or so.

The moon is decidedly absent this night.

You sigh as the fires extinguish in your heart, loneliness, sadness and any other emotion draining alongside it leaving a pit in your chest.

The emptiness quickly takes its place, haunting you like the ghost it is.

[vampiredecay]

Hey dear, i have a weird request but could you do a Lost boys X reader or Marko x reader Where all the boys (Marko Dwayne David paul Micheal all of them or just marko Dwayne David paul) see the reader re put bandages on his scar but the scars would be like carls in the walking dead and they see the scar ( i wonder how they would react to it?)

thank you so much for the request, sorry it took me a hot second to post! its longer than my other stories on here so far, so i hope that makes up for it. i also hope that you like what i did with it!! its angsty in the beginning but it gets fluffier <3

Scar Tissue

rating: teen

word count: 2,908

tags/warnings: swearing, mentions of being in pain, mentions of scars, mentions of being in the hospital, harassment, fluff, the boys being sweet, the lost boys x male!reader, male pronouns used, poly!lost boys

--

You could have never predicted how your life had gone so sideways. Not in a million years- before the accident, you were pretty much an average joe. Decent family, decent friends, decent existence. Nothing was ever really exciting, but you were okay with that. Life didn’t need to be crazy or unpredictable to be fulfilling.

But, you supposed, the price of being a living being on this Earth was that life could never truly be predictable at all. It couldn’t be, with the events that followed you losing your eye, and pretty much all normalcy you grew to live with.

It was extremely painful at first, physically and emotionally. You had lost a vital part of your body, and you could never get it back. It was disorienting, and uncomfortable, like an itch you could never scratch. The skin around your eye was incredibly sensitive, the lightest movement or touch sending shockwaves of burning pain through your nerves. Tears were always on the brink of spilling over anytime you or a doctor had to replace medicine and bandages to keep the wound clean.

In the end, the pain wasn’t the worst part about it. No, you could deal with the pain. The people in your life, however, suddenly changing and disappearing was way, way worse.

Friends slowly stop coming to visit you at the hospital, calls go unanswered, gazes averted. Your parents supported you, of course. They still loved you, and you knew nothing could change that. But sometimes even they got this look in their eyes, something a little too close to pity.

It was an incredibly lonely first couple of months.

But the loneliness and the heartache slowly healed, along with your eye. The scarring lightened and stopped bleeding, and your skin no longer felt as if it was on fire every time you turned your head. You still had to keep it under wraps, to keep out infection, and to keep other people from seeing how bad it was. You knew that people seeing the bandages would cause looks and questions, but it was better than people actually seeing the wound, which would surely cause reactions that you didn’t have the patience to deal with.

As you were healing, you were also relearning how to do things in your daily life. Your sight and depth perception drastically changed, so things like walking and doing simple tasks had to be practiced all over again. You had to take things slow, which you hated, you couldn’t leave the house very often until you got used to walking without bumping into things.

The first place you wanted to go once you were able to was the boardwalk. It was one of your favorite places in the world, so loud and full of life and happiness. It was absolutely what you needed after all of the hardship you had to deal with lately.

So one night, when it got late and your parents turned in for the night, you went out and caught a bus to the nearest stop to the boardwalk. From there you walked until you saw the bright lights and heard loud screaming and chatter and laughter. You smiled as you took in the sight of the people and the games and the rides, it felt like you were breathing for the first time in months.

The first thing you did was buy a big thing of cotton candy and a soda, roaming the boardwalk and consuming sugary goodness. As you walked, you noticed that some people were giving you looks, but you ignored them, focused on just having a good time and living your best life.

Walking around for long periods of time still gave you a bit of trouble, you were starting to get a little dizzy, so after a bit you sat down on a bench to give your brain time to catch up with the rest of your body. This was nice too, you got to relax and just watch people for a bit. There were all sorts of people out tonight, families and tourists and couples, teenagers and surf nazis and locals, all in one spot, the heart of Santa Carla, enjoying the wonders it had to offer.

There was a group of guys that caught your eye, though. You didn’t mean to stare at them; in fact, you knew not to, you’ve seen them around the boardwalk in the past, and heard the rumors surrounding them. But, in your defense, it has been a while since you’ve been there, and you forgot how magnetic they can be.

They were milling near their motorbikes, smoking and talking and lightly harassing anyone that happened to walk by. Three blondes and two brunettes- had there always been five of them? You could have sworn there was only four- all dressed in black and leather, looking dangerous and infuriatingly hot. You would have noticed more, but by accident you make eye contact with one of the guys and you rip your attention away from them.

Shit, god damnit, you’ve been spotted now. There’s only one thing to do, and it’s to walk quickly away and hope you don’t run into them later.

You get up too quickly though, and you stumble straight into a man walking with who you assume to be his girlfriend.

“Hey! Watch it-” He starts to say, pissed off that someone ran into him, but then he takes a good look at you and lets out a laugh. “Oh, I guess you really can’t, huh?”

The girlfriend lets out a giggle, smirking behind a hand over her lips. You mumble out an apology and try to go around them, but the man blocks your path. “What was that? C’mon man I can’t hear you, you mute too or something?”

You look up at him and scoff, anger building inside you. Who the hell did this asshole think he was? Without thinking, you say “Yeah, real funny and original. Bet lines like that really score you in bed.”

There’s some laughter around you, making you realize that a crowd has been drawn. The man’s face turned bright red, his mouth curved downward into a frown and he got up in your space. “Oh, so you’re a tough guy now, huh?” He pushed you in the chest, making you stumble back. You get dizzy and almost fall, but you don’t hit the ground. Instead, your back hits someone's chest. You freeze, then slowly turn your head, to see a guy with spiky platinum blond hair staring at the man who pushed you. The four other guys with him were also there, glaring at the crowd of people just watching.

You turned to look back at the man who pushed you, all the color was drained from his face. His girlfriend was clutching his arm, trying to pull the man away but his feet were glued in place. The blond behind you smirked.

“There a problem here?”

The silence that swept over was deafening and unnatural, it was like all of the boardwalk was holding its breath waiting for an answer. The man swallowed, eyes gliding over the gang behind you, not focusing on one spot. “N-No, man. No problem.”

You let out a breath as you watch the man and his girlfriend back up, and the crowd starts to disperse. The man behind you gives a shark-like grin and chuckles deep. “Wonderful.” He says, and he wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you away. You can hear your heart thundering in your chest as you walk away with them, listening as they laugh and push each other.

“N-No m-man, n-no p-problem!” One of the blonds says in a mocking wavering tone, “What a fuckin pussy!” The gang starts laughing again, it feels like the ground underneath your feet is rumbling from the force of it. After a little more walking, they stop in front of a different bench and gesture for you to sit down.

“Take a load off, little man!” You snorted as you sat down, grinning despite the slight lightheadedness. Two of the blonds sat next to you, one with a wild mane of hair and a smile to match swinging an arm behind you. You look at all of them, nodding your head a little bit. “Thank you,” You said softly, “You didn’t have to do that.”

The spiky blond shrugged his shoulders and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Y/N” You said, and he nodded. “I’m David. This is Dwayne, Michael,” He gestured to the two brunettes, one with curly hair and sunglasses hanging off his shirt, the other with longer straight hair and not wearing a shirt at all. “And that’s Paul and Marko.” The two blonds next to you do little waves, the one that wasn’t right next to you has curly hair and a jacket so cluttered with patches it must be heavy.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Y/N!” Paul says, nudging his knee against yours, making you smile more. “It’s good to meet you guys, too.”

After the introductions were out of the way, David offered for you to hang out with them, but you declined, saying you needed to get home. At that David offered a ride instead. You hesitated, but accepted in the end. Riding behind him on his bike was terrifying and exhilarating, you clutched his middle tightly the whole way home, but the blond didn’t seem to mind.

“You should come to the boardwalk more often,” David said as you got off his bike, now at your house. He smiled at you like he was letting you in on a secret, “We’re there all night.”

From that point on, you couldn’t ignore the boy's siren call. The next couple days you would take the bus over, wander until you found them, and then do stupid shit with them all night. A lot of it consisted of them terrorizing people who even looked at them funny, but you didn’t find it scary anymore. You found it powerful. It was the best you’ve felt in a long time.

It wasn’t long, though, until the questions started. You supposed you should have seen it coming, but hanging out with them honestly made you forget.

“So Y/N,” Paul said one night, it was just you and him and Marko. You were leaning against the railing in front of the carousel, waiting for the others to get back from getting food. When you looked over at Paul, he asked “What’s up with the eye?”

Marko punched Paul's shoulder, giving him a look, and Paul threw his hands up dramatically. “What? I don’t mean anything by it, I’m just curious.”

You sighed a little bit, mulling over what to say. You weren’t mad that he asked, you just hated talking about it. “There’s nothing much to say.” You said after a couple seconds of silence. “I was in an accident. Got fucked up. End of story.” Paul and Marko both nodded, taking the hint not to ask anymore. The taller blond wrapped an arm around your shoulders and rested his chin on top of your head. A silent apology. You smiled a little and leaned into him, letting him know it was okay.

After that, David, Dwayne and Michael arrived back with food, and once everyone settled down at a nearby table to eat, David proposed that they go back to their place after eating. You were nervous to accept, but they were cool guys so far, so you didn’t see the harm in it.

Before you could voice your opinion, however, a sudden cold, wet substance suddenly splashed all over your face. You yelped and got up, trying to shake off whatever the fuck it was, when you heard laughter getting distant. Suddenly, the boys were all getting up and shouting, someone was holding onto your shoulders, and when you wiped at your eye you could see it was Dwayne. He looked absolutely livid.

“What the fuck just happened?” You asked, looking down at yourself, disgusted to find that your clothes were soaked now too. The brunette gripped your shoulders a little tighter, not enough to hurt but the pressure was there, “Some people have a death wish.”

You would have asked him to elaborate, but then something dawned on you. “Oh shit!” You exclaim, hand going up to your bandaged eye. “Fuck, I have to get home, I have to change this, fuck!” Dwayne's eyes widened a little, and he nodded, calling attention to the other boys, who were all talking angrily to each other. They all looked over, and when they heard that you needed to change your bandage, they all hurried over. “Our place is closer. Michael, take Y/N to get the supplies he needs. We’ll meet back up at the hotel.” David all but commanded, and everyone seemed to be in agreement. The rest of the boys took off on their bikes while Michael steered you in the direction of a small convenience store on the edge of the boardwalk.

“You okay?” Michael asked, worry written all over his face. You nodded at him, though in reality you were feeling gross, sticky and anxious as hell. You thought it was so nice of them to help you out, really, but you knew this meant that they would probably end up seeing your eye. Seeing your scars. The thought alone was enough to make you slightly nauseous. The brunette could tell that something more was going on with you, so he gently took your hand as you approached the shop. You looked at him, and he smiled at you, squeezing your hand gently. You gave a light smile back and looked away.

After buying the necessary wrap, tape and some bottles of water, you both get on Michaels bike and ride off to their place. You were just thinking about it now, David had said the word “hotel”. Did they stay at an actual hotel?

It didn’t take you long to figure out. When you arrived at the hotel, that was really more of a cave, you were in absolute awe of the place. It was massive and beautiful, you couldn’t believe these guys actually lived here. You had so many questions, but now that you were here, they would have to come after.

Michael led you over to a slightly dusty couch and you sat down, holding the items in your hands nervously. Everyone was sitting around you, you had a very attentive audience that you didn’t really want.

“Is there, uh, a private place I could do this?” You asked, and your heart sank when they shook their heads. “Most of the rooms collapsed when the earthquake hit. There’s not much left, and the parts that remain are too dangerous to go into.” Marko explained, and you sighed. You supposed there was no getting around it.

“Okay, well. Just, don’t say anything, okay?” You got out the bandage wrap from its packaging and took a deep breath. Slowly, you unwrapped the dirty bandage from around your face, revealing your eye to the boys.

All of their facial expressions changed, some more surprised than others. David looked the least shocked, eyes of steel trained on your face, just looking. Dwayne and Michael looked a little more concerned, Michael especially, but otherwise they tried to keep their expressions neutral. Paul and Marko looked intrigued, if anything. Like they wanted to ask questions but were reigning themselves in.

Overall, they kept quiet, and they didn’t shy away from your appearance, so you counted your blessings as you cleaned and dressed your eye as quickly as possible. When you were all finished, Marko and Paul launched themselves at you, sitting next to you with wide smiles on their faces.

“Dude! You’re so badass!” Paul shouted, and Marko was quick to agree. “You should get an eyepatch or something. Crank up the badass factor.”

You laughed at their antics, blushing a bit at their words. You could tell that they really thought you were actually cool. It warmed your chest and you smiled as they went on about eyepatch ideas.

Eventually, David dragged the two away, saying it's getting late and they should probably take you home now. You nodded in agreement, letting out a yawn. You didn’t realize just how tired you were.

Dwayne was the one who ended up taking you home, the ride was a lot gentler and smoother than it usually was, which you were grateful for. When you arrived at your house, and you got off his bike, Dwayne pulled on your arm before you could leave. You looked at him, confused, but then he got off his bike, and he stood in front of you, and he leaned down to place a gentle kiss on your cheek. You froze, heart pounding. Dwayne pulled away and let go, giving you a small smile. “Have a good night, Y/N.”

You swallowed hard as he got back on his bike. “Yeah- you too.” You stumbled out, making him chuckle. He then rode back off into the night, and you were left stunned on your front lawn.

You didn’t know what would happen now, you had absolutely no clue when it came to the gang of bikers. But you found yourself at peace with it.

Life could never be predictable anymore. And you were more than okay with that.

[crumbledcastle28]

Chapter 9: A Miracle

Warnings: crying still, but this one is really soft. The reader is still a bit depressed.

Author’s Note: Again, thank you to anyone who has supported this so far. It makes me so happy! And thank you to the user who helped me make a Masterlist! It is pinned at the top of my posts if you would like it!

(Gif from djarsdin)

That night was one of the worst of your life.

You were hungry, thirsty, sore, and so exhausted, but your mind refused to allow you the relief of sleep.

You couldn’t even remember if the team planned on spending the night at Kuiil’s, but that’s what ended up happening. It didn’t matter in the long run, but you still felt guilty.

You felt guilty about a lot of things. What’s one more thing to add to the pile?

When your mind did allow your body to sleep, your nightmares didn’t allow it for long.

You dreamt of Mando leaving you, of Cara killing you, your parents leaving you, and your days of being trained with the Empire.

You hadn’t had nightmares like that for a while, but with your past coming back to haunt you only a few hours ago, they made a nasty return.

You were cursed with such loneliness that night. It felt like everything in the galaxy was suffocating you, and your pain in your side didn’t help much.

When daybreak finally came, you couldn’t take it anymore. You needed fresh air and to get away from this house.

You stood up and stretched your muscles, which ached and groaned back at you. Your bones cracked and your head felt dizzy, but you were still alive.

You walked to the doorway and took a peak outside to find a burning campfire in the distance. It’s red flames were mixing in with the rising sun. It looked beautiful.

It seemed like Cara and Mando had camped overnight with the child and Kuiil. The Crest was hot and muggy on sand planets, so camping outside was the best bet. You would have done the same thing.

You were shocked they didn’t just leave for the mission to get it over with, but for whatever reason, they stayed.

Cara was cooking breakfast and Mando was staring at the fire. He seemed lost in thought. The sun rise reflected off his armor in golden streaks, and in any other circumstance, you would walk over to him and try not to be blinded by his glow.

But… you were in your circumstance.

The child looked happy. He was cooing at the large fire and looked excited to have his breakfast.

You were gonna miss that little guy.

You didn’t realize you were slowly walking out the doorway until you noticed Mando’s gaze turning to you. He looked to Cara, who nodded solemnly, and Mando called you over with a flick of his helmet.

You took a deep breath, and started making your way over. Every step surged more anxiety through you. You had been scared before, many times at that, but this was different.

You had something to lose this time.

You sat down at a good distance from Mando and Cara, but not so far that you couldn’t hear them if they spoke. The three of you sat in a triangle like shape around the fire, and you felt their eyes burning into you. You were sure you looked like a wreck, but there wasn’t much you could do about it.

You tried to meet Mando’s gaze a couple times, but your guilt weighed you down like an anchor. You just wanted to sink into the ground, never to be seen again.

Mando was the first to break the tension.

“So….,” he begins awkwardly, “Cara and I agreed that we need you on this mission. We cannot trust Karga, and we need someone to protect the child. You obviously have the skills to do that pretty well.”

A small drop of pride dripped into your eyes, and maybe even a bit of hope, but you didn’t want to go down that road again.

This is one mission they need me for, you think to yourself. Stop acting like he proposed to you.

“After we finish the mission, we will return Cara to wherever she wants to go,” Mando says, and you nod, letting him know you understand the plan.

All you were really doing was waiting for the inevitable.

“So…. you in?” he asks you, and you barely stopped yourself from screaming the word yes.

“Yes,” you say in a calm and confident voice. “I will do whatever it takes to protect the child.”

Mando nods, and Cara storms off towards the Razor Crest.

You couldn’t blame her. If you had to work with someone who helped the people who destroyed your whole life, you would spend the least amount of time around them as possible.

You and Mando sat in awkward silence for a minute or two, until the Child breaks the tension. You hear his soft babbling voice as he walks over to you, and he raises his hands as a request to be picked up.

You look at Mando, silently asking him for permission to grant the Child’s wish, and he nods.

You placed the child in your lap, and he immediately leaned right into where you got shot. You couldn’t help the contortion of your face as the pain shot through your body. The bacta shot worked wonders, but now it just felt sore.

“How’s your side?” Mando asks, and your heart rate picked up at his concern for you.

“It’s good. Thank you for helping me,” you say, giving Mando a light smile in gratitude.

“I’m sorry I did not stop Cara in time,” he says, and you just wanted to cry again.

No being has ever tried to protect you. Ever. Now, when your deepest, darkest, bloody secret is on display, Mando still wants you safe?

How does he continue to prove you wrong in any way he can?

You give Mando a soft smile, trying to stop your tears from falling. One slips out, and you wipe it away instantly.

“Please don’t cry,” he pleads. “I hate seeing you like that.”

He scoots closer to you and you look at the ground, trying to swallow the lump in your throat.

Mando takes a deep breath, like he wanted to say something, but he couldn’t.

“I am going to go get ready,” he says instead, standing up from his spot on the sand.

You nod, standing up in sync with him. Your eyes are still begging to let tears escape, but you don’t want to hurt Mando anymore than you already have.

But, of course, he notices.

“Hey,” he says, stepping closer to you. You see his hand twitch toward your waist, like he wanted to touch you, but stopped himself.

Does he want to…. comfort me?

“It’s gonna be ok,” he says in a soothing tone, and he said it in a way that you almost believed him.

You nodded back, hopping that what he really meant was that he wasn’t going to leave you. But that would be discussed later.

Now, all you needed to do was survive.

Tag list:

@leahkenobi @pinkninja200 @farfromjustordinary @bookloverfilmoholic @440mxs-wife

[shushiyuii]

Ok I really been wanting to see Giant dream and Tiny Tommy vore fluff. Just some fluff and noms. Ans Maybe another where it is Giant Dream and Tiny SBI Fluff and noms also. It is wired I am sorry. Saw you asking for requests.

I did the first one! (Also sorry for the lack of uploads today, been really busy.)

Warnings: Soft vore, mention of rough past, slight dehumanization?

Words: 1.4K+

The god and The Strange Boy

The temperature of the room was almost unimaginable, he had no idea how he had coped with it for so long within that prison, the now outside fresh air feeling foreign, cold. It was a strange sensation, but a welcome one.

He wondered how everybody was doing, how things had changed within his time within the prison. In his opinion it was an unfair sentence, it wasn’t his fault how things had changed within the SMP, it wasn’t him that should’ve been held responsible.

It should’ve been them.

He remembered how he’d get visited by him in the prison, he was almost scared. Asking for advice on what to do, he wanted so badly to hold him close to his chest and comfort him, but the prison’s containment prevented him from doing so.

At first, the exile. He hated him, wanted to kill him. But, in his exile he came to understand the boy and his beginnings, the boy had opened up to him, so he comforted him and even opened up himself.

Dream didn’t have a good past, he was known as a monster back in the day, he’d changed when he met Sapnap and George but reverted to his old ways somewhat when the whole L’manburg started happening.

But this boy. Tommy. He thought the boy acted on selfish decisions, was arrogant or worse but that wasn’t the actual Tommy. To some extent, yes but if you really knew him as Ranboo or Tubbo did. He was definitely someone else.

Whenever you see this side of Tommy, it’s mainly a defence mechanism. Because the boy had a rough past himself. One that neither found family knew of, Tubbo and Ranboo only knew parts of this past. But to say the boy had it rough, he really did.

He wasn’t sure why Tommy ran away from exile; he was there for the boy. He thought maybe he scared him. Or the loneliness? Whatever it was he didn’t know but in the meantime, he wanted L’manburg gone. So he teamed up with two others are known as Philza and Technoblade to destroy it.

In the remains of L’manburg, that’s where he saw the boy again. Looking betrayed but all of them. When in reality, all they wanted to do was protect him. Dream, as much as this ancient god didn’t want to admit but, he saw this kid as his own.

Afterwards, Techno and Phil returned to their home in the Antarctic, being the blood god and the angel of death. They had similar titles as Dream. But as for Dream, he was punished by other’s, held in prison to what many saw as home.

He hated the place but put up with it with the visits of Tommy, he had apologised for running and began to talk to Dream how he used to.

Tommy was in no way a god, he was mortal. Small compared to many others. He was a mortal adopted by the gods, taken in to be one of their own.

When in reality, he was left to survive as a plaything for these gods.

Dream saw him as no such thing, and as much as Techno and Phil hated to admit it they cared for the boy as well. Despite not being there as much for him as Dream. They had a reputation to maintain.

Now, with his newfound freedom, he was looking for his brother. It had been a while since his last visit, and he had no clue where the boy had gone.

He looked and looked, no one had a clue as to where Tommy’s current location was. It was just known he wasn’t at his dirt hole as much as he once was.

He questioned everyone he came across; he didn’t find anything suspicious until…

Until he ran into the God of bees and the God of portals. Ranboo and Tubbo.

When asked, they acted suspiciously different, as if they were trying to hide something from them.

And he was correct, when followed he found that these gods had founded a new place to call home, one off the knowledge of others. Much like the Antarctic. It was called Snowchester.

The three had founded a mortal son that they wished to hide. And with it, Tommy was there. He found him.

Tommy pulled on leaves about twice his size, trying to uproot what seemed to be potatoes in the cold winter snow. “Tommy?”, he asked whilst standing beside a nearby tree.

The boy jumped out of his mind for a moment before turning to Dream, “DREAMM! MY MANN! Wassup?!”. He said enthusiastically but Dream could see that he had frightened him.

He laughed and smiled, then approaching the boy. “I’m good, out of prison now. I’ve seen you’ve been doing good with yourself”. Dream then held out his hand to the floor, allowing Tommy to stand on as he sat down near the tree.

“Yeah, been working where I can and stuff, sorry bout not visiting”, “It’s fine Tommy”. “How’d you even find me anyways?”. “Followed Tubbo and stuff”.

“They’re gonna be pissed!”. Tommy laughed, “They won’t be, not when they realise, I mean no harm”. “That may be the case with Ranboo, not so much Tubbo, he’s not only the God of Bees y’know”.

Dream nodded in understanding. And then there was a moment of peace between the two, “It’s weird honestly?”, Tommy looked up at Dream. “How we both get along? Don’t you find it odd?”.

“Well Dream, I’m pretty sure it’s because of how great I am! I am Tommyinnit after all!”. Dream smirked from under his mask and put a fingertip to Tommy’s hair and ruffled it playfully.

Tommy’s expression turned from happy to silent grief as he looked away from Dream, “Hey Dream?”, “Yes, Tommy?”, “Am I ever going to be able to go home?”.

A thing about the god realm is that if humans were to cross the barrier, they’d never be able to return. They’d be at the mercy of the gods.

Dream looked down at Tommy and moved his finger to gently rub the boy’s back, making the answer clear. He’d been told it many a time, but he knew the boy couldn’t help but cling onto hope of going home. He couldn’t blame him.

The two sat in the comforting silence for a while longer, until the cold winds started to pick up, it didn’t affect himself, but it did affect Tommy. The boy was shivering now with no shelter for him nearby. He’d freeze soon enough.

Tommy looked up to Dream, seeming to know the plan already. Dream moved Tommy to his lap as he used his hands to unclip his mask, when the mask was removed it revealed a scarred face with his eyes black with glowing green pupils. A sight nobody usually saw.

He then picked up Tommy and brought the boy closer towards his face, where he breathed and covered the boy in warmth, Tommy clung to him. He opened his mouth to reveal a multitude of sharp fangs.

But that didn’t stop Tommy from stepping in himself, Dream using his tongue to make sure the boy didn’t trip or anything, once Tommy was safely in his mouth, he closed it. And moved his tongue to taste at Tommy.

He purred slightly as he felt the taste of Strawberries and a mix of other things, Tommy laughing every time he and the tongue crossed paths.

Once he deemed the boy ready for decent, he titled his head back and swallowed.

He traced the boy’s descent with his finger, and slowly felt Tommy drop into his stomach, safely tucked away. He rubbed there for a moment, feeling Tommy move and shift into a comfortable position.

He signed in relief when he felt the boy tiredly put his hands to rub at the stomach walls and fall asleep. He must’ve been tired from all the work he’d be doing.

He began the journey of finding a place for the night but was stopped when he heard the yell of his name. “DREAM!”.

He turned and saw the god of Explosives, Tubbo. Who seemed ready to explode and a slightly angry Ranboo, he seemed conflicted about something? He drew out his sword for a fight.

Later, they were all sitting by the fireplace, covered in injuries. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”, Tubbo spoke in a sassy way as he sipped on his tea. Dream had a hand covering his stomach as he looked to Tubbo, “Well, it doesn’t matter now. You all are now under my protection.”.

[libraryofnesta]

Tied to Ruin

ao3 link

Summary:

Cassian and Nesta were lovers, partners in crime. They did everything together. That is until tragedy strikes, causing Nesta to run away, far from everything she once knew.

Over five years later, Nesta is living life to as full as it can get. It’s not until an incident occurs that drags her into far more than she bargained for.

Notes:

thanks so much for reading. i'm a huge hoe for exes to lovers, so i have like 20 ideas in my head, and this is one of them. It's multichapter. i'm not sure how long this is gonna be, but definitely over ten chapter. this fic has two timelines. One will show them from when they're kids to teens, and one while they're adults. Both will occur at the same time, so things will start to unravel as you read.btw! velaris is gonna be like a super small town in new york. like no one knows about it.

TW: implied domestic violence, nothing graphic.

Chapter 1: lonely beds, different cities

Words, how little they mean

When you're a little too late

I stood right by the tracks

Your face in a locket

Good girls, hopeful they'll be and long they will wait

-

Sad Beautiful Tragic

Taylor Swift

2016, Small Town Velaris

“Please,” she whispers, voice hoarse. Nesta is practically begging at this point, but she has nothing else to relent to. “We can get out of here.” She swallows hard when he doesn’t reply. “We’re still young Cassian, we can still-”

“Nesta.” He says. It's one word, but it makes her pause. He rarely calls her Nesta. It’s always ‘Nes’ or ‘Sweetheart.’

“I can’t.”

Their lives have changed so drastically over the past few weeks. Nesta’s whole childhood is here. Everything she’s ever known. She’s not sure how much more of it she can handle now.

She’s well aware of the tears streaming down her face. Nesta doesn’t know what she can say to convince him, so she says the one thing that she’s been repeating over and over.

“You can…”

Cassian’s face seems to harden. The look he gives her makes her take a step back. He hasn’t looked at her like that in years. “Go ahead and leave Nesta.”, he says, voice rising. “Go live that picture perfect you always wanted. I won’t stop you.”

“Not everyone wants what you do.”

2021 New York, Manhattan

Something about leaving Valkyrians still makes her feel at odds. She’s not as resistant to the sight of blood anymore, and she’s not sure if she can ride a motorcycle as well as she used to. There are still parts that linger though. She still remembers how to throw a punch. A damn good one too. She still feels uneasy when someone walks in the same direction for too long though. It might be the worst part of it all.

Nesta doesn’t do much for fun.  She doesn’t dance as much as she likes. The amount of books she reads has decreased. Her days consist of work and eating, even though she skips more meals than she should. But she’s free. That’s what really matters, doesn’t it?

The muscles in Nesta’s body ache. She just finished a seven hour shift, and got a promotion that pays much better. Nesta wants to celebrate. She wants to talk to someone. It’s been so long since she’s talked to anyone. The fear of someone finding out about her past is lodged so deep in her head it caused her to isolate. The simple way of putting it is she has no friends.

Coworkers are the only source of non-work related conversation she engages in. It’s always small talk too. Just as Nesta is about to fall asleep, she rubs her eyes and forces herself to stay awake. Getting up from the lumpy couch, Nesta walks to her cabinet, grabbing a random mug and pouring wine into it. Once she gets a better look at the mug, she can’t help but scoff.

It’s ironic. Complaining about being lonely. It’s almost like she chose loneliness. She loves the quiet. When she was younger, all she wanted was alone time. She dreads it now. Nesta gets up after finishing her glass.  She’s a bit drowsy, and is way too tired to walk all the way to her room. Instead Nesta walks back over to her couch. She lies horizontally, staring into the abyss until she eventually falls asleep.

She dreams of seeing him that night. It’s a regular occurrence. It’s lessened over the years, but never fully disappeared. The image of him is blurry. It’s not as precise as it used to be. She hates still thinking of him. It doesn’t stop her from reminiscing a little though.

Her being upset makes sense of course. They’d known each other for over ten years, hating one another at first. Eventually, he began to grow on her. Their bickering had become playful, before they once again became estranged.

“Cassian?”

The figure turns around, and he knocks the wind out of her. His hair is out of it’s usual bun.  He gives her that familiar boyish smile, walking towards her and putting an arm on her.

“Missed me Sweetheart?”, he says, ruffling her hair a bit. Nesta scrunches her nose in response.

“You wish.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah yeah whatever.” He talks for a while. Nesta’s barely paying attention. It’s just nice to hear his voice again. He asks her what she’s reading, and she replies the same every time. It’s silent after a while. They’ve talked themselves out. It’s a nice silence though. Her favorite silence.

Cassian stares at her for a few seconds, giving her a soft smile and pushing a loose hair behind her ear.

“Come back,” he whispers.

Her breath stutters. “It’s been five years, Cass,” she mutters, breaking eye contact. Her eyes flicker between the ground and his face, gauging his reaction.

He doesn’t stop looking at her.

“I didn’t want to leave,” said Nesta. There’s a lump in her throat.

He scrubs a hand over his face. “Yet here we are.”

“You know why I left.”

Her eyes feel like they’re beginning to water. “I asked you to come with me. You’re the one who didn’t.”

Cassian looks to the side. He looks impassive, yet also emotionless. “You’re the one who ran away, Nesta.”

“I didn’t run away.”

He scoffs in response. “Keep telling yourself that.” Cassian starts walking away. It’s cloudy and has no solid ground or sky. At that moment she remembers where she really is. Nesta stands there, waiting until he fully fades away. It always feels too real.

The dreams always end like that.

Nesta can barely pry her eyes open when she wakes up. She has the next two weeks off. Her boss, Helion, had insisted she take a week or two off, since the bar was under a small renovation. She checks her phone and it reads 12:03. Jesus, she really had overslept.

In all honesty Nesta had no idea what to do with her free time. Maybe she’ll finally finish that book she started months ago. But in reality Nesta knows all she’ll do is go to a bar and let a stranger fuck her into oblivion until she kicks them out or leaves.

By the time Nesta leaves her house it’s around 3:00.  She goes to the coffee shop next door. She orders a coffee and sits in the corner of the room. Nesta somehow feels like the center of attention. It’s an empty shop, but it feels like all eyes on her. The room feels too cold.

The feeling follows her when she goes to the local bookstore. It’s crowded, but the area is quiet. Nesta browses through the shelves, sticking to the romance section. She holds a few books. It’s not until Nesta drops one, people begin to look at her. It makes a loud thump hitting the floor. Several pairs of eyes turn to her. The cover is of a shirtless man too.

Fuck , she thinks, This is embarrassing. Nesta purses her lips, hand curling into a fist as she puts the book back on it’s shelf.

It’s around 5:00 when she takes the train home. Nesta spent the rest of her day at the park, not wanting to stay at home. It doesn’t feel like home as much as she’d like it to though. Finally, Nesta makes it home.

She’s in an empty parking lot. The area she lives in is pretty small.  Nesta knows basically everyone in her apartment complex. It’s a tiny place. She never talks to anyone, but they do acknowledge each other. Barely anyone has a car either, herself included. So it is a bit weird to see an unrecognizable car. It’s odd, but Nesta thinks nothing of it. It’s probably just someone visiting.

Nesta goes into her apartment, before leaving once more to go to the bar that’s the second closest to her apartment. She’s usually working at this time, flirting with customers and taking them home when her shift ends.

The bar is crowded and loud. Lights are flashing, voices yelling, bodies moving. It’s out of her comfort zone. She’s been doing this for years and is still isn’t used to it. She sits on one of the stools where the drinks are served. A girl approaches her. Nesta never approaches anyone. She can’t see clearly in the light. The girl’s hair is brunette, though her roots are dark. Her brown skin illuminates in the flickering light.

“Hey”, she says “I’m Nora” Nora extends her hand to her. Nesta smirks in response, resting her elbow on the counter grasping her hand with the other.

“I’m Mila,” she says. No matter what she does, Nesta will never use her real name. Nora’s eyebrows raise. Nesta can see her lick tongue move as it pushes on her skin.

“Pretty name.”

They talk for around five minutes. It’s all small talk. They drink while they talk. Most of the things she responds with are lies anyways. Nora grasp’s her arm with her hand. “Wanna get out of here?” she asks. Her words are slurred, and Nesta has to restrain herself from flinching.

Something in her head tells her not to let anyone in her house though. Something is wrong, but she can’t put her mind on it. The idea of letting a stranger in her house sends goosebumps across her arms. Before, she’d never question it twice. Now that she thinks of it, doing this practically screams stranger danger. Especially with her past, this person could be anyone. Nesta slowly probes herself from the girl.

“I’ve gotta go”, she says. “Sorry, but there's something I need to do.” The girl doesn't seem to mind, either too drunk to care, or only looking for a one night stand. She nods, before introducing herself to someone else. Nesta feels her chest lighten, exiting the crowded bar to call an uber.

Whenever it’s quiet, she always reminisces.

2006, Small Town Velaris

Nesta wakes up and finds herself stranded. She has no idea where she is. She’s lying in a bed inside a mostly empty room. There’s only a few pieces of furniture, a stool and a drawer. It’s relatively small.  The last thing she remembers is being in a car with her sisters and parents. She hears voices outside of the room yelling.

“You expect me to leave-”

“Her father is-”

“She’s nine what would she-”

“So what if she’s young!”

“-s innocent so what if-”

She hears a loud smack. The silence after is deafening. The voices are quiet after, whispers. Afterwards, Nesta hears footsteps approaching. She scrunches her eyes shut, trying to pretend to be asleep. Nesta hears the door open and close. A hand lays on her forehead. As the person removes it, a calming voice talks. “Are you awake?” Nesta slowly looks at the person, opening only one eye, then another. She sees a woman with black hair and tan skin. Her cheeks are flushed and she has a small smile on her face.

The woman squats down so she’s the same height as the bed Nesta is laying on. “Hi,” the woman whispers, voice solemn and comforting. “My names Aurora,” she says. Nesta squishes her lips together. She’s confused and feels like crying. Nesta doesn’t cry though. She’s pretty sure her eyes water though, because Aurora strokes her hair and whispers, “It’s okay to cry.”

Nesta gasps and shakes her head. “Mommy says I’m not supposed to cry.” Aurora seems to be shocked silent. The silence makes Nesta become aware of everything that is happening. She slowly sits up. Once her feet are off the bed, Nesta quickly sprints to the door, opening it and running out. She has no idea where she’s going.

Suddenly, Nesta is hit with a hard impact, and falls down on her butt. She looks up and sees two boys. They’re both around the same height. They have the same dark hair too, except one is longer than the other. Nesta gets up and brushes off the dust on her leggings.

She notices it then. The leggings. She’s never worn pants before.

It’s also when she notices the juice smeared across one of the boy's shirts. It’s the long haired one’s. He drops the red cup to the ground and makes an angry noise. “That was my favorite shirt.”

Nesta feels sheepish as she whispers a quiet, “Sorry.”

The one with longer hair whispers to the other boy, obviously meaning for her to hear too. “She’s probably not even double digits.” The other boy is quiet, looking at the ground. He seems nervous and shy.

Nesta feels a sense of outrage course through her. She pouts, crossing her arms. “I’m almost ten. I’m nine and a half” The boy crosses his arms too.

“Well I’m ten and a half,” he says.

“Cassian,” Aurora scolds. “Play nice.” She puts a hand on Nesta’s shoulder and bends down. “I need to talk to…” She doesn’t continue.

Nesta turns towards her, and realizes she needs her name. “Nesta,” she says.

Aurora smiles, “That’s a wonderful name.”

Cassian still seems angry. “I think it’s stupid.” Aurora sighs and gets up. “Azriel”, she says to the other boy. He hadn’t talked the whole time, Nesta almost forgot he was there. “Make sure he stays out of trouble. And Cassian, please change your shirt.” The two (stupid) boys walk away. Once they’re from a far enough distance, Aurora looks back down at her. “I have to talk to you about something.”

2021 New York, Manhattan

Nesta walks into her apartment tired and half asleep. Once inside her apartment, she changes into more comfortable clothes, sweatpants and a grey t-shirt.

Nesta’s about to go to bed, until she hears the sound of glass shattering and liquid spilling. She freezes, thinking about the mug of wine she left out.  

No.

Nesta scrambles towards the kitchen and grabs a flashlight from a cabinet, flashing the light to the ground. The mug is shattered to pieces, and she can still see little droplets of wine. The words aren’t visible anymore, letters broken and unreadable.

There’s no way it could’ve fallen on its own. It was in the middle of her counter. Unless...

Suddenly it all makes sense. The unrecognizable car in the parking lot. The uneasy feeling in her stomach. The constant nagging in her head, telling her that something is wrong.

She thinks about calling the police but goes against it. Years in a fucking biker gang taught her better then to trust those scumbags.

She always kept a gun in her house. Just in case. She really hates how no matter what she does. she’ll always be connected to this.

The person inside her apartment most definitely knows where she is. Nesta grabs a broom, sweeping the glass shards into an empty bag. She can fix it later. Tying it up, Nesta leaves it on her counter.

There's a wall blocking the entrance to her bathroom. She walks towards it, opening and closing the door so it seems she went inside. Grabbing her gun from the small drawer, Nesta lays her back against the wall, barely peeking out the wall, but just enough so she can see them as they crawl out from behind her couch.

The figure moves stealthily, back turned towards her. If she weren’t directly staring at it, there would be no way of knowing it was there. The moves look familiar, but she can’t put her mind on it. The moonlight shines on them so she can see the most obvious features. It’s not until the floor creaks the figure turns towards her direction. Nesta turns back to face her bathroom door, hands drawn to tight fists. There’s no way they hadn’t seen her. She moved too slow. Nesta peeks her head out to look again.

It’s not until she sees a familiar pair of scarred hands in the moonlight, it all comes together.

“Azriel Night?”

In dreams

I meet you in warm conversation

We both wake

In lonely beds

In different cities

And time

Is taking its sweet time erasing you

And you've got your demons

And darlin' they all look like me

PSA!! go to ask’s to be added to tag list

[debbierhea]

and the world around us shatters / better call saul / wc: 2392  / kimmy jimmy omaha cinnabon reunion / special thanks to @kimberly-wexler for the beta <3

Summary: 

She’d been searching. For years.

She’d been searching. For years. Hired a PI and then another. Scoured every database she had credentialed access to and then a few she didn’t. Even adopted a cat to soothe the loneliness, lull the throbbing emptiness she felt in her chest. She’d had one as a girl once, a stray really, whom she loved. But this cat was as sulky and capricious as she had become and no matter how committed she was to ignoring it, the ulterior motive of pet adoption was glaring, if not to anyone else, to her.

After three months of No. Not like this. You can’t. Leave it alone. Don’t get involved, the ill-tempered tabby was Kim’s foot in the door. It was a Thursday when she sat across from his veterinarian, cat on the exam table, and said, “I need your help.”

“What kind of help are we talking?” He eyed her, stroked the tabby between her ears.

“I’m looking for someone.” Silence followed.

“You’re gonna have to give me a little more than that.”

“You know him. Jimmy McGill.”

His eyebrows rose. More silence.

“Well, can you help me or not?”

“You know it’s not always a matter of can I help.”

Kim tilted her chin, raised her eyes to meet his, unflinching. “Does that mean you won’t help me?”

“Hm?” The cat was purring into his hand, licking his thumb. “Oh, no. Just that my price may be something you’re unwilling to pay.”

She swallowed. “That’s not possible.”

“Okay then,” he nodded, stuck out his hand. She shook it.

Now, she was wandering through a sea of midwesterners in puffy coats and mittens, dusting snow off their shoulders, chattering about the weather. She hasn’t been back to this part of the country in years and it oddly feels like a homecoming, though she stopped considering Nebraska home the moment she left. It was simply a place she had lived, never one that offered family or comfort or love. There were sparse memories of joy with the odd classmate and a fond recollection of the first grade teacher who encouraged her to read, helped her get her very own library card. But now as then, there never existed a sense of ease or belonging for her. Even so, the familiarity of the Casey’s General Store on the corner, the Runzas on menus across state rest stops, the flurries of snow reddening her nose and chilling her bones, fostered a small flame of hope deep inside. She could still recognize, even find comfort in, a place she so detested. After the passage of so many years, this place was still the same and, underneath the new high rises and parking meters and sushi restaurants, she could see the bones of this city. Maybe the same could hold true for other things in her life.

Looking over the map in the lobby, she cupped her hands before her mouth and blew into them. The chill rested deep inside her, the hope she fostered in her heart doing little to warm her weary bones. All her work was to lead to this: trudging up the tiled stairs in damp snow boots surrounded by people who knew nothing about pain, not really. Not pain like hers.

She smelled it before she saw it, curving with the second floor walkway past storefront after storefront of clothes and books and knick knacks. She had just side-stepped the man trying to give free lotion samples when the warmth of cinnamon and sugar wafted over her. Her footsteps stuttered and her gait slowed. It was like watching a car whose engine was stalling out. She was light-headed, unable to string a thought together, parse out what she was feeling in her body besides a deep urge to run. Her therapist would tell her that she wanted to run because of her fear of being vulnerable and then being left behind. Again. Kim pushed hair that had fallen loose of her ponytail behind her ear, took three deep breaths, and followed her nose.

A small line stood in front of the cash register, three or four people, waiting for a treat to get them through their holiday shopping. She contemplated her next step from across the food court. Anticipation fluttered through her, givinggave rise to goosebumps beneath her layers of knit and down. Then further, deeper, beneath the adrenaline, lived something twisting and gnawing inside of her chest. She knew this thing like she knew the location of every security camera at the Hinky Dinky or the route she took home after school when her mom got too lost in the liquor aisle to remember to pick her up. This thing she knew was fear—fear of hope, of the inevitable ache of a further bruised heart. She crossed the food court despite it.

Trying to slip back into her midwestern skin, move through this world unassuming and deferential, she stood to the right of the registers, observing the ebb and flow of workers behind the glass. Dough was being kneaded by one, another opened an oven to check the progress of the bake. A third manned the register. A second till was sat unused, cash drawer open and empty. She stood there, just outside the current of customers, twitching her chapped fingers, tapping them against the inside of her own palm. He used to tease her for it. Five minutes passed, then ten. The line grew longer. Her flame of hope was waning.

Then, a voice—a bellow, more like—broke through the low hum of conversation in the food court.

“Coming! I’m coming, Miranda!” Kim froze.

A man in an apron and mustache came through the door marked “Employees Only” and made his way to the front of the store, a full cash drawer in his hands.

“Sorry! For some reason the safe just wouldn’t open.”

Kim was drifting through the crowd, pulled toward his voice. Her eyes began to burn.

“Here are some quarters for you. I figured you might be running low.” His eyes flicked up, scanning the crowd, estimating how many rolls they should throw into the oven. “I’ll open this one up and—,” his roaming gaze stopped. “And I, uh....”

She swallowed, her throat tight, eyes glassy. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. He stood, slack jawed, staring.

“Um, Miranda I—Just, uh, just take this,” he handed the cash drawer to the teenager standing next to him, eyes never leaving Kim’s. “I’ll be right back.”

His shoes squeaked as he made his way around the counter and out into the seating area of the restaurant. Kim hadn’t moved, stunned like a deer in headlights on a Nebraska back road. He seemed as though he was moving in slow motion, each step towards her an eternity, and yet it was still not long enough to prepare herself for him to be standing directly in front of her. She felt like she’d just fallen through the ice into a glacial lake. No, she hadn’t fallen. She’d jumped. On purpose. And broke through.

He stood there, inches from her; she could see the gray in his mustache. He paused, just for a moment, then said, “Follow me.”

And she did.

They weaved in and out of tables and shoppers and janitors picking up fast food wrappers off the floor. He glanced back at her once, as if he was scared she wouldn’t be there behind him, as if she hadn’t been following him, chasing him, for what felt like her whole life. He led them down a hallway, empty save for a woman waiting on a bench between two bathroom doors, one labeled with a dress, the other a tie. Kim gave her a close-mouthed smile.

Jimmy stopped abruptly, reaching for the door to the family restroom. He held it open, looked into her eyes. Kim gave the woman another glance, cheeks reddening, and walked through the door before she could think or feel or do anything that would make her stop herself. She moved towards the far, tiled wall and as she turned, heard the clicking of the door’s latch, then the lock.

He paused then, there, gripping the door handle, his head resting against its grain. His body was tense, coiled and bound and, she realized, foreign to her. Stooped shoulders, billowing polo, slight waist cinched by an apron. Even from behind, he looked bleary, posture like a drooping flower on the sill. What happened to him?

Kim was grateful for this pause he was granting her. Everything seemed to be moving at a pace she was incapable of matching, an emotional marathon she had not trained for; she never did have much emotional stamina outside of simply holding them all in, like a child holding their breath in the deep end of the pool.

Then, he turned.

He was just as unfamiliar from the front as he was from behind, cheeks a bit sallow and stippled with five o’clock shadow, wiry glasses. His nametag read “Gene.” But Jimmy McGill was still the same in his bones and in the time it takes to exhale that breath you’ve been holding under the gentle waves of your childhood pool, the split second it takes for that breath to form a spray of bubbles racing you to the surface, they were in each other’s arms.

Centered on the yellowing, speckled tile, they grasped at shoulders and elbows, knees knocked, tears fell. Finally, Kim slipped her arms around his ribs and clutched him to her chest, nails digging into cotton and, beneath, soft skin. His face caught between shoulder and neck, he inhaled the scent of her, goosebumps rising as her puffy, down sleeves brushed against his bare arms. His hands roamed her back, skidding and sliding across slick fabric. It felt as if his hands had been frozen and he had finally found the fire he’s sought to warm them. Sneaking his right hand up and up and under the thick wool of her scarf, he hesitated just a moment before placing his fingertips to the soft skin of her neck. She gasped, a sob drawn out on a breath. His left hand pushed into the small of her back. She pulled him in tighter.

They held each other there, flushed and desperate and weepy, for a time—how long, neither could say. As the hand rubbing her back would slow, she would squeeze his middle gently as if to say Not yet and he would answer with gentle pressure between her shoulder blades. When her grip on him would loosen, his fingers would drift into the hairs at the base of her neck, pulling her impossibly closer, and she would let him. This is how they stayed, questioning and answering each other as only they could with little more than a sigh passing through their lips.

Then, Kim began to pull gently away. He stiffened the moment he sensed her movement from him, but she did not try to leave his embrace, this wasn’t her intention, not truly. She only wanted to see his dear face, maybe say hello. Placing one hand on his chest, she leaned ever so slightly back as his arms moved to circle her waist. Tears clung to his lashes and dripped from the tip of his nose. He swallowed hard as her eyes roamed his face, different but somehow entirely the same. She felt like she was back in the HHM parking garage bumming a smoke from the new guy in the mailroom. Hundreds of days and miles from then, he was still hers.

Bringing both hands up, cupping his jaw, brushing his cheekbones with the pads of her thumbs, she smiled. “Jimmy.”

At this, his eyes closed, Kim holding him tenderly in her palms. He hasn’t heard that name in years. When was the last time he thought of himself as anyone other than Saul Goodman? Saul the criminal defense attorney. Saul on the run. Saul posing as a Cinnabon manager. More tears fell free.

Removing his hands from her waist, he held her delicate wrists, one in each hand, his thumbs mimicking her caress across his skin. She gave the slightest tilt of her head and he answered with a reed-thin voice, a sad smile, “It’s you.”

She knitted her perfectly arched brows, that tell-tale wrinkle emerging between them, her eyes soft and wet, red-rimmed. She bit her lip and began to shake her head, never removing her gaze from his. After a moment, she smiled again, smaller this time, lips closed, and slipped one hand smoothly into his, the other onto his shoulder, not willing to break contact.

“Sorry it took me so long.”

More tears welled in Jimmy’s eyes as he rolled them to the ceiling, heart aching.

“Kim…I…”

“I know.” A pause. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Baby, I know.”

From shoulder back to his neck, Kim guided Jimmy with her hand, resting his forehead against her own, meeting in the middle, holding him there.

“Oh god—” a sob broke from deep in his chest.

Kim stroked his neck, shoulder, face, back. Jimmy wept.

Tears darkened the collar of his polo shirt and the tremors running through his body prompted Kim to wrap herself around him once more, burying her nose in his neck, focusing on the sickly-sweet scent of yeasted dough rising, cinnamon, and icing sugar over the pain so fierce living in the main between her arms.

As all things do with time, his sobs became weaker and fewer, until his breathing returned to a shallow, exhausted inhale, sniffly exhale. Kim lifted him from her shoulder and he raised his eyes towards hers. Her lips twitched, and then she brought them to his cheek. One, then the other, over and over, like salve to a wound she covered his drying tear tracks with her lips. Gentle and soft, like the flap of a butterfly’s wings did she kiss him. And then, she centered herself, hand threading into his hair, she moved to his lips.

“Kim,” he whispered, a breath from her lips.

“Yes?”

“What if you’ve come all this way to find someone who…doesn’t exist. Not anymore.”

Again, Kim knit her brows and shook her head. She placed her right hand over his heart, lifted her shoulders gently in a shrug.

“It’s you.”