#endless autumn perhaps?

[shouyuus]

─── Ⅵ FOR THE LOVE OF FLOWERS

violet; 4,403 words; fluff, mutual pining, idiots in love, bartender!vi, florist!reader, (probably) incorrect depiction of florist/bartender life, sun and moon dynamic, so much pining, dad!vander, bff!mel, mylo and claggor being... mylo and claggor, mindless, tooth-rotting fluff, lapslock, no "y/n"

summary: in which you work at the flowershop directly across the street from the last drop.

a/n: happy belated valentines day!!! i know i have like a bunch of other wips but i wanted to write something cutesy and it's still valentines weekend for me so... i hope you guys enjoy! :)

─── Ⅵ THE FIRST TIME SHE SEES YOU, it’s valentine’s day — after a long night of serving drinks and arguing with progressively drunker and drunker men (doubtlessly hoping to land a lay at the bar the night before valentine’s) and a botched hookup attempt (vi texted; hookup did not respond. the crowd boos), the sight of you across the streets had felt something like a dream.

she’d always known about the flower shop directly opposite the small, two lane street from the last drop —

for the love of flowers.

it’s a cute name, written in looping, ornate script, and she’s never paid it much attention till now, what with her schedule being so opposite yours, but that morning (february 14th, she’ll never forget) she sees you, pushing open the gorgeous french windows and setting up the sign, in a teddybear coat that looked like a wayward cloud had wandered down to earth and made itself into a jacket, just for you.

you were humming — she doesn’t know how she knew this, but she did. she could just tell, from the way you moved through the motions of your morning routine like a dance, trailing delicate fingers along the wooden frame of your door before disappearing into the shop and reappearing a moment later with a vast bouquet of ruby-red roses.

the smile on your face had been nothing short of incandescent.

it’s been a full year since then (so they say, time slips by quick when you’ve got a crush — or, whatever) and somehow, she still doesn’t know your name.

she knows other things though — she knows the shape and weight of all your smiles, the way your eyes glitter when you’re helping a customer pick out their flowers. she knows there’s a very fluffy white cat that sometimes likes to sunbathe on the shop’s windowsill, and that when it does come to visit, you always have a warm bowl of milk ready. she knows the cadence of your mornings, the rhyme and rhythm of your opening and closing routines. she knows the colors of all your favorite dresses, and how you like to match them to your seemingly endless collection of cute little flats.

she knows your laughter sounds like bell-chimes, the few times she’s heard it ringing out across the street. she knows the fragments of your voice she’s sometimes overhead, carried on the autumn wind, sometimes reminds her of birdsong.

and, she knows that she doesn’t stand a chance.

“you do,” vander chimes, wiping down the bartop one morning, even as vi helps him stack the stools, the window facing the street thrown open. vi groans, unable to help the way her eyes flicker towards it, towards the shape of your flower-shop across the street, where she knows that in about 10 minutes exactly, you’ll throw open your own white-paneled windows and start prepping for your day.

“how could you possibly know that?” vi asks, crinkling her nose at the whine that sneaks into her voice.

vander makes a sound not unlike an amused bear before slinging the large washcloth onto his shoulder and shooting her a fox-sly grin, his eyes beetle-dark and twinkling.

“just trust your old man on this, yeah? it’s valentine’s day tomorrow, so trot on over after we close… and buy ‘er some flowers. see how that goes, hm?”

vi chews on her lip — it sounds simple enough when vander says it like that but…

heat plumes up the back of her neck at the thought of you, in one of your myriad dresses, perhaps with leggings on underneath to protect against the mid-february chill, the flower patterned apron tied around your waist, a pair of red scissors tucked into the front pocket.

she’s shaking her head before she can stop herself.

“no — i — i can’t, she doesn’t even know i exist — how creepy would it be to just show up and —”

vander cuts her off with a massive hand on her shoulder, giving her a tiny shake that nonetheless makes vi’s head wobble.

“she does know you exist,” vander says, and from up this close, vi can almost see her own reflection in the dark of his eyes. “just… give it a go. and if it doesn’t work… i’ll cover all your drinks here for a week.”

vi puffs out an incredulous laugh.

“vander, i work here — i already drink for free.”

vander chuckles, “fine then, you’ll get the next two weekends off, how’s that?”

vi’s face brightens, ��really? and… if it does go well?” she taps her fingers nervously against the worn wooden bar.

vander’s grin widens by degrees, “then… you’ll get the two weekends off anyway — for your first and second dates, sound good?”

vi blinks, staring up at vander for a solid few seconds before laughing and holding out her hand.

“yeah, sure — thanks old man.”

vander huffs, taking her hand in his and giving it a soft pat, and for a moment, vi feels the inexplicable urge to throw her arms around him and bury her face in his chest like she used to when she was still small enough for him to lift onto his shoulders. instead, she only swallows and gives his hand a tight squeeze.

his whole face softens as he lifts a hand to cluck at her chin, chuckling as she scowls and makes a half-hearted attempt to duck away.

“that’s my girl.”

vi turns away with burning cheeks and a giddy smile spreading across her face. she makes her way to the back where the door opens out onto the alley where the delivery truck for the next night’s liquors is already idling. she waves at the benzo, and reaches into the back for a crate of fresh beer bottles, counting down the seconds till tomorrow morning.

she doesn’t see, across the street, the flicker of lights click on in your shop or hear the slight creak of hinges as you push open the windows, shivering slightly in the pre-dawn wind. she doesn’t see the way you crane your neck out to try and catch a glimpse of her, of the tiny pout that pushes at your lips when you don’t see her familiar silhouette in the bar’s old, wooden window.

she doesn’t see the way your shoulders slump, or the way you glance down at your fingers, clutching at the window sill as you try to tell yourself that maybe, maybe this time, you’ll go over and talk to her. she doesn’t see you mouthing the words to yourself, as if going over lines for a stage-play — hi! i hope this isn’t too weird but… i’ve seen you across the street almost every day and… i just thought… well… would i be able to buy you a drink?

you shake your head, groaning inwardly to yourself as you slip back into your shop and grab the large sign that usually goes out front, boasting of the currently in-season flowers and any discounts you might be having.

“god, who even offers to buy a bartender a drink? she’ll probably think i’m an idiot or something —”

“i’m sure it’s not the first time she’s heard that line before, darling,” mel says, barely glancing up from behind the register, taking stock of the previous day’s sales.

“yeah, and i’m willing to be that it’s sucked for her every single time.”

“you won’t know till you’ve tried it,” mel sing-songs, even as she sighs and rounds the register to help you pick out the most eye-catching flowers for the outdoor display.

you scowl down at a fresh batch of roses, just in time for valentine’s day. you reach for your scissors and start the methodical work of ridding them of all their thorns.

by the time you carry the floral display outside and duck back in for the sign, it’s to catch a glimpse of vi, laughing as she jokes around with a pair of boys (who you’ve surmised by now also work at the bar), her ducking beneath an attempted jab and jumping up to loop her arm around one of them in a headlock. the sound of their yelps and laughter rings bright and clear against the mid-morning sky, a second before the wind kicks up and sends the hem of your dress fluttering.

you squeak, pushing it down, your eyes slingshotting back across the street, but vi’s already gone, disappeared into the back alley, the memory of her voice still echoing in your chest like the opening bars of a love song you’ve always known, but can never remember the lyrics of.

you catch sight of vander as he reaches out to close the window of the last drop, and for a second, your eyes meet. he cocks his head, a knowing grin slung across his lips even as you blush and raise your hand in greeting. he pauses to dip his head at you, before turning to say something to someone you can’t quite see, and then he’s turning back, lifting a hand to his lips as if to say — your secret’s safe with me.

something thuds in your chest as he shoots you a furtive wink and pulls the window shut.

“darling? come help me with these snapdragons — i can never get them to sit as nicely as you do.”

you turn and hurry back into the shop, your mind spinning even as you busy yourself with the task of arranging the shop for opening.

the day passes by in a whirlwind of cut-stems and wrapping paper, of satin ribbon and hard twine. and by the time you’re closing up shop, the familiar, heart-warming glow of light is already pouring from the window of the last drop, and a few seconds later, you see the heart-rending shape of vi as she pushes through the front door, holding it open with a hip to let vander through, chattering about this or that.

you whip around before she can catch you staring and busy yourself with checking over the leftover flowers from the outside display, warmth creeping up the back of your neck. you’re sure you can feel the weight of her eyes on you, and you tell yourself that it’s nothing — just something friendly, or neighborly, or — something bumps against your ankle and you glance down to find poro the cat twining herself between your legs.

“hey there,” you greet, bending down to pick her up. poro lets out a pleased mewl, purring loudly as you run your fingers through her silken fur, “we missed you today — but you never liked the big crowds, huh?” you smile, making your way to the window and setting her down on the wide ledge. she spins herself around twice before settling, her fluffy tail wrapping around her paws as she watches you with large, sky-blue eyes.

across the street, vi watches, her heart in her throat, and nearly walks into the edge of the door with an armful of empty crates, catching herself three seconds before faceplanting into the pavement. behind her, mylo lets out a bark of laughter even as claggor groans, shaking his head and sidestepping them both back into the bar.

“y’know, this whole lesbian pining thing’s gone on for a bit too long,” mylo says, spinning a beer bottle opener around his index finger as he and vi make their way in behind claggor.

“shut the fuck up,” vi snipes, shouldering passed mylo towards the stairs leading to the basement, her stomach twisting at the thought of perhaps asking you out in less than 24 hours. she sighs, dropping the crates into a corner and turning to leave again, only to find mylo leaning against the narrow stairwell, staring at her with the a sanctimonious smirk.

her eyes narrow, “you’re one to talk,” she grumbles, making her way back to stare him straight in the eyes; she sees him falter, the flash of uncertainty in his eyes before he squares up again, puffing out his chest, “how long’ve you been thirsting after the lead singer of that indie band again? two years now? three?”

“th-that’s different!” mylo insists, stumbling after her as vi shoves passed him back up the stairs.

vi cocks an eyebrow, reaching up to grab a barstool, setting it on the floor with a loud clack.

“yeah? how so?”

mylo licks his lips, “it’s — she — she’s like a celebrity, y’know? so it’s — it’s normal that i haven’t —”

“what celebrity? her band plays here like every other week — you’ve had more facetime with gert over the past few years than i’ve had with —” vi gestures towards the door, “flowergirl, in like… ever!”

on the opposite end of the bar, claggor is helping vander wipe down tables, glancing up from his work with a deep sigh.

“so is she gonna do it, or what?”

vander grunts, “think she actually might, tomorrow morning.”

“yeah? how’d you convince her?”

vander shrugs, “offered her two weekends off.”

claggor snorts, “figures. well — if it finally gets the two of them together then…” he mimics wiping sweat off his brow and shaking off his fingers. vander laughs, nodding.

“one can only hope.” he casts another glance towards where vi and mylo are now locked in a full-out brawl, vi having pinned mylo’s face to the recently wiped bar top with his arm twisted behind his back.

across the street, you’re sighing into a handful of Iron Plant leaves, stripping out the ones with yellowing tips and keeping the most vibrant ones for the next day.

“you’ll age yourself if you keep sighing like that,” mel says, reaching over your shoulder to pluck a particularly green leaf from the bunch and swatting at your head as if it were a feather-duster.

you frown, wiping your hands on your apron before moving to the next batch of leaves.

“it’s just… been so long and i — i don’t even think she’s looked at me.”

mel groans, “oh trust me — she has.”

“you keep saying that, but i’ve never —”

“just because you’ve never seen it, darling, doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened.” she reaches out to tug the sheers from your hand with dexterous fingers. she snaps them once, the sharp snip making you wince.

“yes, yes — i know…” you lick your lips, glancing at the window. outside, the setting sun has burnished the entire street in gold. a second later, the door of the last drop swings open again and vi appears, her eyes casting towards your shop and for a fraction of a second — no longer than a hummingbird’s wingbeat — your eyes meet.

the contact is electric, scintillating and strange — it shocks through you, staticking through all your nerve endings till your fingers and toes are tingling with it — the buzzing energy, the potential of something.

anything —

more.

and then, mylo bumps into vi as he clambers by, and the moment is broken, the tenuous connection between you shattering like sugar-string. vi shoves mylo back hard, and by the time she looks back, you’ve melted back into the flower-decked interior of the shop.

it is a long night, though in general, the one before valentines day always is. too many bruised egos, sloshing over the sides of beer steins. too many puffed-up, washed-up, has-beens, wandering the darkened corners of the town in search of a warm body inside which they might partake in the delicate art of forgetting. and in vi’s experience, wounded prides have never mixed well with alcohol — no matter what the occasion.

so by the morning, she’s exhausted, the sunrise greeting her in all its fool’s gold glory.

vander gives her a pat on the back and slides an irish coffee down the bar towards her. she stares at the white frothy top before cracking him a grin and chugging down half in a single gulp, wincing slightly a the sharp bite of whiskey.

vander laughs, shrugging as vi stares at the remainder of the glass.

“thought you could use a little liquid courage.”

vi sniffs, sucks in a breath, and downs the rest of the drink, raising the empty glass to vander before sliding it back down the bar. vander reaches out to catch it in a single smooth motion, waving her off.

“right, now go on and get your girl.”

vi coughs, “she’s not my —”

claggor tuts, “just go already — we’ll finish up here —”

vi opens her mouth as if to respond, but at another hard look from vander, she deflates, grumbling to herself as she drags the back of her hand across her lips to make sure there’s no residual whipped cream, before pushing out the door, bracing herself against the mid-february wind.

the street is nearly empty this early in the morning, and the dawning sunlight has yet to settle into it’s usual richness, still a bit wane, papering the street in the palest shade of gold. on the opposite horizon, the night is is bleeding out the last dregs of its own inky darkness, a crescent moon hung like a ghostly petal, floating across the surface of a late winter sky.

vi shoves both her hands into her jacket pockets and hunches her shoulders against a kick of wind, half-jogging across the thin, two-lane street just as you push your windows open.

“oh! hi! uhm —” your voice is just as beautiful as she’s always known it would be.

vi squeezes her fists inside her pockets, scuffing her feet against the pavement as she watches the way your cheeks flush rose-petal-pink, and then you’re ducking back into the store, only to appear a second later, stepping through the front door in a velvet dress red as holly-berries (or perhaps just the shade of bleeding hearts), your usual apron tied around your waist, a thin scarf looped around your neck to protect against the chill.

“hey! sorry to just — randomly run across the street like this —” she waves a hand awkwardly at the last drop, closing up behind her.

you shake your head, pressing your palms to the front of your apron, “no! it’s okay — actually i —”

“i wanted to ask — oh, sorry no —” she speaks over you in her haste, backtracking immediately, even as you flap your hands, seemingly just as flustered as she is.

“no, no! it’s fine — what did you want to ask?” you open your hands, expectant.

and you’re looking at her, gods, you’re looking at her. and vi can’t think for the rabbit’s foot thump of her heart, beating inside her chest, making her vision swim as a rush of blood floods her ears, washing out all sound except for the silver-bell chime of your voice. she digs her nails into her palms, clearing her throat.

“uh… it’s just… i was — i was wondering — shit — well, okay — say… i wanted to get someone flowers —”

you blink, your eyes flickering between both of hers at her words. and then, you turn, if only to keep her from seeing the way your expression falls, ever so slightly.

“oh… yeah? okay, sure — i can help you with that — do you know what kind of flowers you’d like?” you lead her into the main body of your shop, holding the door open for her.

vi steps through, scratching at the back of her neck, glancing around, trying not to seem so overwhelmed by the utter explosion of fragrance and color.

“th-that’s the thing though — i — i mean, i don’t know anything about flowers so — i thought — i wanted to ask for your help —” she glances back at you; you clear your throat and look away, reaching out to brush a finger along the petal of a single red rose, lying in the middle of a perfectly cut square of wax paper.

“uh… yeah, i — i can do that — uhm — i’m assuming this is a… romantic kind of floral-endeavor?” you ask, bracingly, making a small attempt at your usual humor.

vi purses her lips, the freckles dusted across her nose made all the more prominent by the way she blushes.

“yeah — sort of.”

you take a deep breath, then start to make your way around the shop.

“okay, well — do you know their favorite color or… anything?”

vi follows a few steps behind, glancing around for any indication before she sighs.

“uhm… i know she likes colors in general — bright ones —”

you pause over a display of button mums the color of honey.

“oh! cool okay —” you make to move away again but vi jerks forward, reaching out in an abortive movement, her hand caught in midair as you turn. you stare, unable to entirely keep the skip from your heartbeat.

“i just — holy fuck —” she runs a hand over her face, looking strangely abashed as she drops her hand, squeezing her fingers into fists before letting them loose again. you wonder, for a moment, why she might be so nervous before she licks her lips and continues, “— so — say you were going to get flowers from someone… on valentine’s day —”

you go almost preternaturally still.

“uh… huh…”

vi chews on her bottom lip so hard you’re worried, for a second, that she might draw blood. still, she looks anywhere but at you.

“w-what kind of flowers w-would you uh — would you want them to get you?”

you stare at her for a beat, and then another. a tentative hope blossoms in your chest, a single creeping vine at first, threading through your veins. you lick your lips, clasping your hands behind your back, worrying at your own fingers.

“d-depends… would this person be uhm… asking me out? or…” you trail off.

vi nods, almost too eager, taking half a step forward.

“y-yeah! maybe — if you’re… open to being asked out —”

“i — i am!” you blurt out. heat plumes into your skin like the first wisteria bloom of spring, one at first, and then another, then another — tiny flowers popping open, fragrant and shockingly violet until your chest is full of them.

“great! so… uh… the flowers —?” vi lets out a soft chuckle.

your lashes flutter, and then, you spring into movement. anything to dance off the mid-summer fire collecting beneath your skin.

“oh! sorry — right — i guess i’d like… gardenias, for secret love,” you say, rounding the shop towards the large white blooms, your heartbeat a riotous mess, clattering against your ribs as you pluck out a few of the choicest flowers. behind you, vi watches, her heart caught in the back of her throat, her breath lost somewhere in the air between you.

“maybe… a few pink camelias, for longing —” you move through to the other side of the shop, collecting the flowers one by one, your fingers trembling as you tug each of them from their stands, “hydrangeas for understanding… or at least —” you suck in a breath, “i hope…”

“y-yeah — i — i hope so too — i mean — that’s good, that’s perfect —”

you swallow, turning around to show her the budding bouquet, but when you hold out the flowers, she barely spares them a glance, her eyes fixed on you.

“y-you’re — they’re uh… beautiful.”

“u-uhm — and then… a few fillers…” you say, oddly breathless, if only to fill in the electric quiet, the air thrumming with it, as lightning might brew beyond a monsoon sky.

you finish the bouquet with a piece of twine, smiling down at your own handiwork. the flush in your cheeks only grows as you turn to offer them to her, and she smiles, pursing her lips.

“is… is there a card or something i could —” she motions towards the flowers.

you nod passed the giddiness collecting in your throat.

“s-sure! and… who —” you gulp again, tugging a small red-heart shaped card from the cash register, “who might this be for?”

vi lets out a helpless laugh, “i… i was hoping that’d be kind of obvious…”

you hesitate for a second longer before scribbling your name at the top of the card. vi leans over to read it; the way she says your name makes your chest stitch, your lungs constrict.

“and…” you finally allow yourself to look up at her, your pen hovering over the from line on the card. her gaze, when you meet it, is the most gorgeous morning-glory blue.

“vi — violet,” she says.

you smile, “pretty name.” before bending down to write it on the card as well.

“thanks. yours… isn’t so bad either,” she says, reaching for her wallet.

you wave her away.

“on the house.”

vi cocks an eyebrow, “i don’t think that’s how buy someone valentine’s day flowers works.”

you crinkle your nose, “it is if the person you’re buying them for runs a flower shop.”

at this, vi laughs, the sound sweet and clear as a winter’s thaw. you find yourself giggling too, looking down at the bouquet with soft eyes.

“how about… you buy this for me… and you let me… buy you a drink tonight?” you ask, setting the flowers aside and pressing your palms to the register top. vi blinks.

“yeah?” vi’s smile lopes to the side, a sharp, dangerous twinkle caught behind her eyes, “and… what would you be getting me?”

you trail a light finger along the length of the register with a small shrug.

“actually… i was going to ask — say someone were to buy you a drink for valentine’s day…”

vi puffs out a breath, her gaze darkening by degrees.

“uh huh.”

“what kind of drink would you want them to get you?”

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[littledozerdraws]

fic to accompany the art by the amazing @drawsaurus

He had already killed for the Emperors; but this was no debut at some preening Senator’s bawdy-house. When it was already past dusk, Hanno was led out in chains from the Colosseum stables, through a dank alleyway buried in the backstreets of the slums; down, down, into the labyrinthine bowels of the city, endless stone tunnels rank and musty with disuse. The skeleton of a rat crunched under his heel like an autumn leaf. He half assumed that he trudged to his death, and found it did not much bother him. 

But when, at last, the floor underfoot sloped upwards and turned to stairs, Hanno found that he had emerged not into a slaughterhouse, but into the soft, warm candlelight and velvet drapery of the imperial palace. Viggo handed him off to an elegant but harried house slave, no word, but a sneer of knowing disdain. 

Hanno gave him nothing back. He knew that he would kill that man one day. He could be patient.

The slave had the high, soft voice and smooth hands of a eunuch. “I should have liked a day to school you in the proper etiquette,” he said, unhappy, as they moved quickly through more corridors, more twists and turns. Hanno felt like he had no sense at all of where he was in the City; he could have been miles outside it were it not for the two-headed crest of the Emperors that adorned the walls. “But there is little time. I shall tell you the basics. You must look neither Caesar in the eye, nor address them unbidden. Your little trick at Senator Thraex’s has the court all a-gossip, but you must keep your station henceforth. I know you understand Latin,” he said curtly, when Hanno made no response. “You will do as you are commanded, no more or less.”

Still Hanno said nothing. 

Perhaps the eunuch wanted to shock some kind of reaction out of him. “Emperor Geta will direct the proceedings,” he said, cold. “Emperor Caracalla likes to be fucked as a woman. You will be expected to perform.”

“...Macrinus sends me here to fight.”

The eunuch looked him over. “I see they did not bathe you at the stables,” he sniffed. “Your musk is not unpleasant, at least.”

“You have me mistaken.”

They stopped abruptly, before a fresco that Hanno could not make out in the low light. He could tell, at least, it was ostentatious. A door was cut through the wall that gave gently when pushed. The house slave gave him a shallow bow, almost a mockery, and indicated that he should enter. “Do not misunderstand,” he said, quieter even than before. His superiority dropped away from a moment; this felt like a freely given warning. “This may seem a private audience, but the Praetorian Guard have many ears and quick swords. Perform your duty well, and you will leave here a man entire. Do not make poor decisions, Poet.”

The Emperors had called him that.

Before the night was out, they would name him so again, and again, and again.

[betweenstorms]

Late night talks with Simon Riley

The balcony of your flat was surrounded by stillness, save for the faint rustle of leaves in the gentle autumn breeze, the distant hum of vehicles and the occasional hiss of your cigarette as you took a drag.

The city stretched out below you, its noise muffled by distance, streetlights glowing like indifferent stars. The cool air brushed against your skin like the lingering touch of a departing lover. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once and then fell quiet.

Simon Riley stood beside you, a looming silhouette etched against the night, the soft glow of a distant streetlamp tracing the edges of his massive frame. He leaned against the railing, arms crossed over his broad chest, his mask still in place even though you were alone.

He didn’t seem out of place, even in your silent little apartment, though his size and demeanour should have made him feel alien against the backdrop of your soft furnishings, pastel colours and faintly floral candle scent. Somehow, he belonged here in a way you didn’t entirely understand, just as he belonged anywhere he decided to stand.

And in that moment, you wondered if perhaps the truth was simpler—perhaps it wasn’t the space itself that had been shaped to make room for him, but you. You, drawn to his gravity, reshaping yourself to fit into his orbit without even knowing it. He belonged here, beside you, in the way that storms belong to the sea, in the way that shadows belong to the light. 

You tilted your head back, blowing a stream of smoke into the evening air, the grey tendrils dissolving into the sky that was kissed by ink. “Y’know,” you began, your voice quiet but steady, “I’ve always wanted to be someone’s muse.”

Simon didn’t move, yet you felt it—his attention turning toward you, like the faint pull of the moon on restless tides. He tilted his head slightly, a silent invitation, or perhaps a challenge.

You smiled at him coyly as you tapped the ash from your cigarette, scattering it into the night like fragile, burnt-out stars, lost to the endless abyss below. “I mean, like in art, poetry, music. I want to be the reason someone picks up a brush or a guitar, someone to feel something so deeply for me that they have to create.”

Simon exhaled sharply through his nose.

You hesitated, searching for the right words. It wasn’t vanity that spoke, but a quiet yearning to matter, to etch your existence into the soul of another as deeply as the stars carve their light into the sky.

“I want a love that hurts. The kind that rips you open. I want to feel it so deeply that it bleeds into everything I do. I want the kind of love that’d make me die for someone, kill for someone, and know they’d do the same for me.”

Simon grunted, the low, rough sound cutting through the fragile stillness like a stone dropped into water. It wasn’t anger, not exactly, more like the weight of disbelief, a scepticism carved from years of lived truths. His gaze shifted, leaving yours to trace the city below, where the streetlights bled golden, silver and ruby trails across the darkness. “You describe pain like it’s somethin’ noble,” he said after a beat, his voice low and clipped. “It’s not.”

You frowned, your brows pulling together as you turned to face him fully. “It’s not about the pain, Simon,” you argued, though your tone was softer than you’d intended. “It’s about what the pain means. It’s about knowing you feel something so deeply it’s worth hurting for.”

“Pain doesn’t mean love,” his voice was grounded in a pragmatism that felt carved from stone. “Pain just means pain. Doesn’t make it grand. Doesn’t make it art.”

You scowled, though there was no real heat behind it. “You’re no fun, y’know that?”

That earned a quiet snort from Simon, the closest thing to a laugh you’d ever heard from him. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing briefly as he inhaled.

“Better borin’ than daft,” he said, his tone almost teasing but still blunt.

“You just don’t get it.”

“Don’t want to,” he countered, his voice calm, unbothered, as if the subject held no weight at all for him. 

You didn’t answer straight away, letting the silence breathe between you. The smoke burned its way down your throat, sharp and biting, but there was a strange comfort in the pain, like holding a burning match too close to your skin just to prove you could, watching the flames die before they could hurt you. “You’ve never felt it, then,” you said at last, your voice quiet, softened by the weight of something unsaid. “That kind of love.”

There was no edge to your tone, no venom, just understanding, a threadbare truth spoken not to accuse but to surrender. It was a question in form but not in spirit, the answer was already etched into the spaces Simon left unfilled.

He didn’t answer, but his silence was a language all its own, louder and clearer than any words he might have spoken. You turned your head slightly, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, searching his face for something, anything that might betray the man behind the mask. The faint light from the street below brushed his face, catching the edge of his jawline and the downward curve of his lips, but the rest of him was consumed by the dark.

“I think you’re afraid of it,” you said, your voice barely audible, a whisper carried on the faint wind. “Afraid of what it might mean. What it might take from you.”

Simon stiffened, the motion a whisper of tension that rippled through his massive frame, so fleeting it could have been imagined. But you saw it—the tension in his shoulders, the barely perceptible tilt of his head as though your words had struck a chord too deep to ignore.

His gaze flicked back to the city, his jaw tightening.

“Maybe,” he muttered at last, the word low and reluctant, spoken like a confession he didn’t want to make, scraped from some buried place within him.

The silence that followed was vast, an ocean of unsaid things swelling and breaking over the edge of the balcony. And yet, in the spaces between your longing and his restraint, there was something unspoken, a fragile truth suspended like the smoke curling from his cigarette.

Perhaps he didn’t share your desires, your romantic ache for love and creation, but maybe he recognized it. Maybe he knew the weight of it, the way it pressed into your ribs and made the world feel both painfully beautiful and unbearably empty.

But he wouldn’t name it.

Simon Riley wouldn’t meet you in the light of your confession, wouldn’t extend a hand into the soft vulnerability you offered. The stars above blinked just as faintly as him, indifferent to the weight of your conversation, and somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of laughter drifted on the breeze.

But here, on this small balcony overlooking a world too big to contain you, the silence between you was everything.

betweenstorms (next) (masterlist)

[lucienweekofficial]

Lucien Week 2025: Announcing the Prompts!

🌲 It's time to put your Lucien Simp hats on, everyone: the official Lucien Week 2025 prompts are here! We're working diligently on delivering a fun-packed event for you, returning this November 2 — 8!

🌲 The full prompt guide is included under the cut! For more information about this year's prompts, make sure to check it out!

🌲 Remember, these prompts serve only as a guide and are purely optional: you can let your imagination run as wild and free as Lucien in the Prythian forests.

Art Credit: @laxibbeb

🌲🌲🌲

Lucien Week 2025: Prompt Guide

DAY 1 || Fireling

"Mind your own business, fireling."

There's no denying Lucien's got fire in his blood. With his blazing eyes and hair like molten metal, he is the very epitome of a flame come alive. Day 1 is all about exploring the depth of his raw power, whether it be in his appearance, combat, or... other activities 👀

DAY 2 || Scars

"Ignoring this"—he waved a hand at the metal eye and brutal scar on his face—"surely we're not so miserable to look at."

Lucien has suffered a lot throughout his long life, earning him scars both visible and hidden from the naked eye. On Day 2, bring out all the angst as we manifest a journey of healing and happiness for Lucien down the road.

DAY 3 || Brotherhood

"No," Lucien said, and Cassian marked the tightness of his shoulders beneath the dark grey jacket he wore, the taut silence emanating from every stone of the house." [...]

Without turning, Lucien said, "Eris is here."

Exiled from his home all those years ago, Lucien had been forced to forge bonds beyond his familial ties. But has he truly been forgotten by everyone in his family? Or perhaps, he has found new people to call a family of his own? We hope Day 3 will be full of found family theories, childhood memories, and Autumn Court headcanons as we take a look at Lucien as a brother and friend over the years.

DAY 4 | Warrior

"Did you think it was mere hatred that prompted my brothers to do their best to break and kill me?"

There's no denying Lucien Vanserra is a silver-tongued diplomat, with centuries as a courtier and emissary to prove it. But what about his other side? Throughout the books, Lucien has been described as a highly skilled warrior and hunter, and though he often opts for the diplomatic route, he's been forced into more and more battles as his story progresses. Day 4 is the perfect opportunity to see a not-yet-explored side of the cunning Fox-Lord, and we cannot wait to see your interpretations of him.

DAY 5 || Glamours

"This eye..." Lucien gestured to the metal contraption. "It can see things that others... can't. Spells, glamours..."

Day 5 truly contains multitudes. With an ability to see through potent magic, are there any secrets Lucien does not yet wish to reveal? Or perhaps, as a wanderer across Prythian's Courts, you'd like to explore him as a male of many faces? Finally, maybe you'd like to take the word ✨ glamours ✨ literally — and dedicate Day 5 to Lucien being the fashion icon that he is. We can't wait to see what you come up with!

DAY 6 || Destiny

"Helion is Lucien's father."

"Holy burning hell."

Day 6 is the time to theorize about where Lucien's story will take him. Is his destiny a place? With an undiscovered heritage in the Day Court, and homes scattered around Prythian and Human Lands alike, the possibilities are endless. Or... perhaps the place doesn't truly matter, and Lucien's destiny is a person he will find his true home with?

DAY 7 || NSFW

"He nodded, retreating into the room to let me inside. Bare from the waist up, he'd managed to haul on a pair of pants before opening the door, and hastily buttoned them as I strode past."

Alright, alright, you caught us. We are a little feral for Lucien Titserra, uh, we mean, Lucien Thighserra, or um— OH WHATEVER. We want to see that man nakey. You agree. With the above prompts being optional, any day can be a Free Day. But a dedicated [Redacted] Lucien Day... yeah, that deserves a spotlight of its own.

—

Lucien Week 2025 is returning November 2 — 8, but don't worry, you'll be seeing a lot more of us in the months leading up to the event! Thank you for being here with us!

[novaursa]

The Heir of Ice and Ash

- Summary: A little less than a year into your marriage with Cregan, you give birth to your first child.

- Pairing: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is only daughter od Rhaenyra, has silver hair and violet eyes, and is bonded with dragon called Thraxata. These events happen after The North Remembers. To read all the chapters in chronological order visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 5 115

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @21-princess

The sun sets below the horizon, painting the skies over Winterfell in hues of deep indigo and velvet, as if the Gods themselves pay tribute to the impending night. You stand by the window, your gaze fixed on the first stars twinkling above. They are a stark contrast against the endless darkness stretching out from the Godswood and the towering walls of the castle. Your hand rests heavily against the swell of your belly, the child within restless, as though sensing the night ahead will be anything but peaceful.

Autumn has fully settled upon the North, and even though the warmth of the hearth blazes behind you, a chill seeps into your bones that no fire can chase away. You shift uncomfortably, feeling a familiar ache in your lower back. It has been a constant companion these past weeks, dull and persistent. But tonight, it pulses more sharply—like the distant beat of a war drum.

Cregan finds you there, framed by the shadows and the low, flickering light of the fire. His presence is a balm, even before he speaks. The Lord of Winterfell—your husband—carries the strength and sternness of the North, but in his eyes, softened by the firelight, there is only concern and tenderness for you. His dark hair is wild, just as the snow-laden winds that howl outside, and a slight frown creases his brow as he crosses the room to you.

"Y/N," he says, his voice low and gravelly, "you should be resting. The Maester said the time grows close. You cannot push yourself like this."

You turn to him, offering a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. "Resting makes me feel like a caged dragon," you reply, your voice laced with both fondness and frustration. "Thraxata would gnaw through her own wings before sitting idly while the world shifts around her."

He chuckles, but there’s tension beneath it. Cregan’s large hand covers yours on your belly, and you feel the child stir once more—a reminder of the life you carry, a testament to the love that has grown between you in this stark, unyielding place.

"The child takes after you, then," he murmurs. "Stubborn and fierce."

You meet his gaze, feeling warmth bloom in your chest. "Or perhaps after you—strong and steadfast. A wolf with a dragon's fire."

Before either of you can speak further, a sharp pain lances through your body. You inhale sharply, clutching Cregan’s arm, your nails digging into the fur-lined sleeve. His expression shifts instantly, dark brows knitting together with worry. You feel the tightness spread like a wildfire across your belly, and when it releases, you’re left breathless and trembling.

"Y/N?" The concern in his voice is almost a command, though he’s careful not to let the fear creep into it. "Is it time?"

You shake your head, breathing deeply to steady yourself. "Not yet," you whisper, but even you can hear the uncertainty in your tone. It has been hours since these pains started, subtle and far between at first. But now, they come more frequently, gripping you like waves crashing against a rocky shore.

Cregan doesn’t waste time. He steps away, only long enough to summon Maester Kennet and the midwives. You watch him move with purpose, the Lord of Winterfell transformed into a man both ready to command and helpless in the face of the unknown. His love for you is written in every line of his face, in the tightness of his jaw, in the way his hands curl into fists as if he could fight off the pain on your behalf.

The midwives arrive quickly, bustling into the room with hushed voices and brisk efficiency. They guide you to the bed, their hands gentle yet firm as they help you settle against the piled furs and cushions. You clutch Cregan’s hand as the Maester approaches, his lined face kind but serious as he takes note of your condition.

"How long have the pains been this strong, my lady?" he asks, his voice even but edged with concern.

"A few hours," you admit through gritted teeth. "But it’s growing worse. They’re coming faster now."

The Maester nods gravely, exchanging a glance with the lead midwife. "Your body is preparing, my lady. It may yet be some time before the babe is ready to enter the world, but the process has begun in earnest."

His words offer little comfort. You know, intellectually, that this is how it must be—how it is for every woman who brings forth life—but knowing does nothing to dull the reality of it. Each time the pain comes, it tears through you with a force that leaves you gasping, gripping Cregan’s hand as if it were a lifeline.

"Stay with me, Cregan," you breathe out between labored breaths. You’ve never felt so vulnerable, so desperate for his presence. 

"Always," he promises, his voice a low rumble, grounding you amidst the storm brewing in your body. He presses his forehead against yours, his warmth a beacon in the encroaching darkness. "You are stronger than any dragon, Y/N. You’ll see this through, as you always do—with fire and fury."

The night drags on, and with it, the pain ebbs and flows like the tide, relentless and unyielding. You find yourself slipping between moments of clarity and haze, clinging to Cregan’s voice as he whispers reassurances in your ear, his hand never leaving yours. You hear the midwives speaking softly to one another, discussing the progression, debating when to intervene, when to let nature take its course.

Outside, the wind howls, a mournful sound that seems to echo the turmoil within you. Somewhere far off, perhaps even from the Godswood, you think you hear the distant call of a wolf—your child’s ancestors, awaiting the new life ready to join their pack.

But for now, the waiting continues. The pain intensifies, like the tightening coil of a spring wound to its limit, yet still, there is no sign that the final moment is near. You can feel it, lingering on the edge of every breath—a future that hangs just out of reach, not yet ready to reveal itself.

Exhausted, you close your eyes, letting Cregan’s steady presence be your anchor. The Maester and midwives murmur around you, but their words blur into the background as you focus on the rhythm of your breaths, each inhale and exhale a battle won.

The night is far from over. The child within you stirs as if in answer, reminding you that the fiercest trials are yet to come. And yet, you are a dragon of Velaryon blood, a child of the conquerors and the seas. Winter may have yet to come, but it cannot quell the fire that lives within you. And so, you wait—braced for the storm, knowing that when dawn breaks, it will bring with it either triumph or heartbreak.

But for now, there is only the darkness, the pain, and the unwavering strength of your husband's hand holding yours, as you both prepare to face what lies ahead together.

The night stretches on, thick and unyielding like the ice that blankets the North. The chamber is dim, save for the flicker of the hearth and the low glow of the candles, their light wavering with each gust of wind rattling the shutters. You feel as if time itself has slowed, each moment pulling at you like heavy chains, dragging you deeper into the intensity of the labor.

The pain is unrelenting now, no longer coming in waves but crashing over you like a tempest at sea, leaving no room to breathe, no space to gather your strength. Every muscle in your body is taut, straining as the child within you fights its way into the world. You cling to Cregan’s hand, his knuckles white under the force of your grip. His face is etched with concern, a rare crack in the stoic mask he wears so easily. But beneath it all, his love is there—steady, unwavering, a lighthouse in the storm.

“You’re doing well, Y/N,” the midwife assures you, though her voice seems distant, as if carried through a tunnel. “The babe is moving down. Keep breathing, just like we practiced.”

You grit your teeth, trying to focus on the instructions, but it’s hard to think beyond the pressure building within you, the primal urge to push overwhelming every other instinct. It’s as if a fire roars through your veins, the fury and strength of your dragon blood awakened, urging you to finish this battle.

“I can’t… I don’t know if I can,” you gasp, the words torn from you in a moment of weakness. For a fleeting second, doubt curls in your chest, tightening around your heart.

But Cregan is there, leaning close, his voice a low rumble in your ear, filled with the deep, unyielding strength of the North. “You can. You are Y/N Velaryon—daughter of Rhaenyra, rider of Thraxata, a dragon forged in fire. There’s nothing in this world that can break you, least of all this.”

His words cut through the fog of pain, grounding you, reminding you who you are. You’ve fought for your place in this world—carved it out with both grace and fury—and you’ll fight for this child too, just as fiercely.

The midwife nods, seeing the determination flash in your eyes. “It’s time, my lady. With the next contraction, you must push.”

And so you do.

The first push takes everything you have, and the scream that tears from your throat is one of both agony and defiance. The world narrows to this one moment, the struggle of bringing life into being, of pushing past the pain and fear to reach the light on the other side. You feel the child shift, the head crowning, and the sensation is like being split in two, raw and fierce.

“Good, that’s it!” The midwife’s voice rises with encouragement. “Again, my lady, when the next one comes!”

You barely have time to gather yourself before another contraction grips you, fierce and unrelenting. Sweat beads on your brow, mixing with tears that you’re only half-aware of. You lean into the pain, letting it fuel your resolve, focusing all your energy on bringing this child into the world.

Cregan’s hand is still in yours, his voice a steady chant in your ear. “Almost there, Y/N. You’re almost there. I’m with you. We’re in this together.”

His presence is a comfort, his strength lending you the courage to face the next wave. The room blurs around you—the midwives, the Maester, all of it fading as you focus on the one task that matters. The pain is all-encompassing, a fire burning through you, but there is something else there too—a deep, instinctual knowledge that you are nearing the end, that you are almost ready to meet the child who has been growing inside you for all these months.

“One more, my lady!” The midwife’s voice cuts through, sharp and encouraging. “One final push!”

You gather every ounce of strength left in your body, the remnants of your willpower igniting into one last surge. With a primal roar, you bear down, feeling the child finally slip free, the sensation one of both release and completion. And then, for a moment, there is silence—the world holding its breath in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

Then the air is split by the cry of a newborn—a sound so pure and strong that it brings tears to your eyes. Relief crashes over you, leaving you trembling and gasping for breath. The midwife moves quickly, cleaning the child and wrapping them in soft furs before placing them in your arms.

“It’s a boy, my lady,” she says with a smile, her eyes shining with the joy of the moment.

You look down at your son, tears blurring your vision as you take in the tiny face, scrunched and red, his little fists waving in the air. His hair is dark, like Cregan’s, but when he opens his eyes, you see a familiar shade of violet staring back at you—the mark of your bloodline, of your heritage. He is a perfect blend of both of you, a child of both fire and ice.

Cregan’s breath catches as he looks at the child, awe and tenderness softening his usually stern features. He brushes a hand gently over your hair, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead. “He’s beautiful,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve done it, Y/N. Our son…”

The joy is overwhelming, the bond between the three of you already stronger than anything you’ve ever known. You cradle your son close, feeling his warmth, hearing his tiny breaths as he calms in your arms. The pain, the exhaustion—it all fades in the face of this moment, the pure love that fills the room like a warm light cutting through the cold.

“What will we name him?” Cregan asks softly, his fingers tracing the baby’s cheek with a touch so gentle it belies the strength in his hands.

You look at your son, feeling the weight of his future, the legacy he carries within him. He is of House Velaryon and House Stark, a bridge between two worlds, a symbol of unity and strength. “Killian,” you finally say, the name rolling off your tongue like a promise, one you will both keep. “Killian Stark.”

Cregan nods, pride and love shining in his eyes. “Killian Stark,” he repeats, his voice filled with certainty, as if speaking the name cements the child’s place in the world.

The midwives move quietly around you, tidying the room and tending to you both, but in this moment, nothing else matters. It’s just you, Cregan, and Killian—the three of you bound together by blood, by love, by the trials of this night. The wind howls outside, but inside, all is warmth and peace. Your child is here, safe in your arms, and for now, that is enough.

You lean back against the pillows, exhaustion finally overtaking you, but you don’t mind. You close your eyes, content in the knowledge that when you wake, you will find Cregan by your side, your son nestled between you both, and the future ahead bright with possibilities.

The night sky is a deep indigo, dusted with a thousand stars, as if the very heavens themselves have come to bear witness to the celebration. Winterfell’s courtyard is alive with the sounds of laughter, the crackle of bonfires, and the deep, melodic hum of Northern songs sung by gruff voices. The air is crisp and cold, but it carries the warmth of joy and camaraderie—a warmth that flows through the gathered Lords and Ladies of the North, drawn together to honor the birth of your son, Killian Stark.

It’s been a month since his arrival, and though the days have been marked by exhaustion and recovery, tonight is a time to celebrate. To revel in the strength of family and the bonds forged in fire and snow. Cregan has spared no effort in ensuring the night is one to remember, filling the halls and courtyard with the rich scents of roasted meats, spiced wine, and hearty stews. Long tables are laid out under the open sky, heavy with food and drink, and adorned with simple yet elegant winter blooms and evergreen boughs.

You stand at Cregan’s side, your fingers intertwined with his, feeling the steady heat of his presence. The fur-lined cloak draped over your shoulders is soft, its weight a comforting reminder of Winterfell’s protective embrace. Killian rests peacefully in your arms, swaddled in thick, dark furs, his tiny face barely visible except for the delicate curve of his nose and the wisps of dark hair peeking out from beneath the blanket. His eyes, the deep violet of your lineage, are closed in contented sleep, unaware of the grand feast being held in his honor.

As you take in the scene before you, you feel a sense of pride swell in your chest. These are your people now—the fierce, loyal Northerners who have accepted you as one of their own. They raise their cups and call out toasts to your health and that of your son, their voices echoing against the ancient stone walls. There is a rugged beauty to this place, to these people, and it’s a beauty that you’ve come to love.

The drums begin to beat—a steady, rhythmic pulse that resonates in the bones, calling the attention of all present. At the center of the courtyard, the space is cleared, and all eyes turn to Cregan as he steps forward, raising his hand for silence. The Northern Lords and Ladies fall quiet, their eyes shining with respect and anticipation.

“My kin, my friends,” Cregan begins, his voice carrying easily across the gathering. There’s a natural authority in the way he speaks, his words as solid and enduring as the mountains that rise beyond Winterfell’s walls. “Tonight, we gather not just to celebrate the birth of my son, Killian, but to honor the woman who brought him into this world, my wife, Y/N. She came to us from beyond our borders, a daughter of fire and sea, yet she has proven herself as fierce and resilient as any Northerner born. She has brought warmth to our halls and strength to our bloodline.”

A murmur of agreement ripples through the crowd, and you feel a flush rise to your cheeks. The pride in Cregan’s voice, the way he speaks of you as both wife and equal, makes your heart swell with love for this man who has made the North your home.

“And to you, Killian Stark,” Cregan continues, turning his gaze to your son, “may you grow strong in the ways of the North, guided by the wisdom of both wolf and dragon. Tonight, we celebrate you and the bonds that unite us all, both as family and as the people of the North.”

A resounding cheer follows his words, the Northern lords lifting their cups high. “To House Stark! To Killian Stark!” they shout in unison, their voices roughened by years of weather and war. “To the Lady of Winterfell!”

The toasts are followed by the deep bellow of warhorns, their sound echoing through the courtyard, signaling the beginning of the night’s revelry. The drums pick up again, faster now, a beat that invites movement, dance, and the unbridled joy of the North’s people. As the first notes of the fiddle and lute join the drums, couples begin to spill onto the cleared space, their steps a blend of tradition and wild abandon.

Cregan returns to your side, offering you a crooked smile. “Would you do me the honor of a dance, my lady?” His tone is light, but there’s an intensity in his gaze that suggests he’s asking much more than that.

You laugh softly, shifting Killian in your arms. “I would, but our son seems to have other ideas.”

Cregan’s eyes soften as he looks at Killian, who remains blissfully unaware of the world around him. “Let me hold him,” he says, taking the child from your arms with a tenderness that never fails to surprise you in a man of such strength. He cradles Killian against his chest, his movements careful, protective. “Go, dance. Let the people see their Lady take part in the traditions of the North.”

With a nod of gratitude, you hand Killian over and let yourself be led into the circle of dancers. The music is lively, the steps quick and purposeful, the kind of dance that demands focus and energy. You let yourself get lost in it, the rhythm of the drums syncing with your heartbeat, your body moving with a grace and fluidity that comes as naturally as flying on dragonback. The Northern women dance alongside you, their steps fierce and determined, their laughter wild and free. The men join in with strong, purposeful movements, celebrating with a raw, untamed joy that feels like a release after the long weeks of winter’s dark grip.

As you twirl and leap, you catch glimpses of Cregan watching you from the edge of the circle, Killian nestled in his arms. He looks at you with a mixture of pride and desire, as if you are both a miracle and a force of nature. The flames of the bonfires dance in his eyes, and in that moment, you feel the strength of the bond you’ve forged here in the North—a bond between a dragon and a wolf, between fire and ice.

The dance ends with a flourish, breathless laughter echoing through the night. You return to Cregan’s side, cheeks flushed, heart racing, but there is no exhaustion, only exhilaration. He hands Killian back to you, his fingers brushing yours with a touch that lingers, a silent promise between husband and wife. 

“Was that Northern enough for you?” you ask playfully, cradling Killian close as the warmth of the firelight wraps around you both.

Cregan grins, his hand resting on your back. “You’ve more than proven yourself, my love. The North is yours as much as it is mine.”

The night continues in a blur of song, drink, and tales told by firelight. The lords and ladies exchange stories of old battles, of hunts and harsh winters survived, weaving a tapestry of history that you are now a part of. The bonds of kinship, of loyalty to House Stark, are celebrated in each toast, in every clap on the back, every shared laugh.

As the hours pass, the revelry slows, giving way to a quieter, more reflective mood. Cregan’s hand finds yours, squeezing gently. “Thank you, Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice low, meant only for your ears. “For giving me a son, for standing beside me in this land of ice and snow. For being the flame that warms these cold stones.”

You lean into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. “And thank you, Cregan, for giving me a home, a place where I can be both dragon and wolf. Our family is strong, our future bright.”

In the distance, wolves howl, their voices rising in harmony with the night wind, a song that speaks of strength, unity, and the enduring spirit of the North. And in the heart of Winterfell, under the watchful eyes of the old gods and the stars above, you stand together as a family—rooted in tradition, yet reaching toward the future, ready to face whatever the coming winters may bring.

The revelry is in full swing when a sudden, urgent shout pierces the cold night air. “A dragon! A dragon is coming!”

The music halts abruptly, the notes hanging in the silence that follows. All eyes turn to the sky, scanning the darkness for the shape of wings. Even in the depths of night, you know the North is no stranger to strange sights, but the cry of “dragon” sends a ripple of tension through the crowd. It’s rare to see dragons in these lands—this far north, in the heart of autumn.

Your heart leaps to your throat, and a part of you already knows. Before you even spot the golden scales gleaming faintly in the moonlight, you know who it is. The familiar silhouette of a dragon with graceful wings and a golden hue, Syrax—the Queen’s dragon. Your mother has come to Winterfell.

Gasps and murmurs spread through the gathering as people look up in awe, some with fear, others with wonder. Syrax is a radiant sight even in the shadows of night, her scales catching the glow of the bonfires below as she circles the castle. The distinctive thrum of her wings reverberates through the courtyard, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine, not of fear but of anticipation.

Cregan steps closer, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword. It’s not out of distrust, but out of habit—he is ever the vigilant protector. “It’s her,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him, and he turns to you with understanding in his eyes.

“The Queen,” he murmurs, lowering his hand. “Your mother.”

There’s no mistaking the regal presence in the sky, even before Syrax lands with a soft thud that shakes the ground. The wind stirred by her wings sends cloaks and hair whipping around, and you instinctively tighten your grip on Killian, who stirs but doesn’t wake. Your breath catches as you watch the dragon’s rider dismount, a figure cloaked in dark furs, her silver hair flowing in the night breeze. Even in the shadows, the unmistakable violet eyes of your mother, Queen Rhaenyra, gleam with fierce purpose.

The lords and ladies of the North, who only moments ago were laughing and celebrating, now stand silent, watching the scene unfold with a mix of reverence and curiosity. Many of them have never seen a dragon (as Thraxata prefers her solitude) much less the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms in person. There’s a hushed awe in the air as she strides forward, her gaze sweeping the courtyard until they find you—her daughter.

“Mother…” you breathe, hardly able to believe she’s truly here.

Rhaenyra’s stern expression softens the moment her eyes land on you holding Killian. The lines of worry and weariness that have grown on her face over the years seem to fade, replaced by something softer, something warm and achingly tender. She walks quickly, almost as if she’s afraid she might lose sight of you, and the crowd parts for her as if commanded by an unspoken will.

When she reaches you, she doesn’t hesitate. She pulls you into a tight embrace, wrapping you and Killian in her arms, her breath hitching as she holds you close. The scent of sea salt and smoke clings to her, a comforting reminder of your childhood. “Y/N, my sweet girl,” she murmurs, her voice trembling. “You’ve become a mother yourself.”

You smile through tears as you pull back slightly to look at her. “I have, Mother. Meet your grandson, Killian Stark.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes glisten as she turns her gaze down to the tiny bundle nestled in your arms. She reaches out with trembling hands, and you gently place Killian in her grasp. Her breath catches in her throat as she cradles him, tears spilling freely down her cheeks. “Oh, he’s perfect,” she whispers, her voice cracking with emotion. “He’s so beautiful, Y/N. He’s perfect.”

The Queen, the strong and resolute ruler of the realm, stands before you with tears streaming down her face as she gazes at her first grandchild. Her fingers brush over his soft cheeks, marveling at the dark hair and those distinctive violet eyes that echo her own. She cradles him close to her chest, her tears falling onto his swaddled form as she gently rocks him. “My little dragon,” she whispers lovingly. “My grandson.”

Killian stirs, letting out a soft whimper, and Rhaenyra’s face lights up with a radiant smile, despite the tears. She presses a kiss to his forehead, her tears mingling with her laughter. “He’s strong. I can feel it,” she says, her voice thick with pride. “He has the blood of both the dragon and the wolf. He’ll be a force to be reckoned with one day.”

You stand beside her, emotions overwhelming you as you watch the most powerful woman in the realm reduced to tears by the sight of her grandchild. “Mother, I didn’t know you were coming,” you say softly, brushing away your own tears. “I wasn’t expecting—”

Rhaenyra interrupts you with a shake of her head. “How could I not come?” she replies, her voice breaking. “The moment I heard that you’d given birth, I knew I had to be here. You’re my daughter, Y/N, and this—” she gestures to Killian, “—is my blood, my legacy. I would fly through fire and storm to be here for this.”

Cregan, who has been watching quietly, steps forward and bows his head respectfully. “Your Grace,” he greets, his tone low and respectful. “Winterfell is honored by your presence.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze softens as she looks at him, still holding Killian close. “Lord Stark,” she replies, inclining her head. “Winterfell is now part of my family as well, thanks to you and Y/N.” Her eyes flick back to Killian. ���I see that my daughter has chosen well. You’ve given her a place where she can be strong and loved.”

Cregan’s eyes meet hers, and in them, there is a mutual understanding—one born of respect for the woman standing before him and the bond she shares with you. “I love her fiercely, Your Grace, as she deserves to be loved. And our son—your grandson—will know the strength of both his mother’s house and his father’s.”

Rhaenyra nods, satisfied by his words, but it’s clear she’s still entranced by the little life she cradles in her arms. “He is the future,” she murmurs. “Our future.” Her voice takes on a more somber tone as she adds, “The world is uncertain, and the storms may come, but Killian will be a light in that darkness. He will carry the strength of both ice and fire, of wolf and dragon.”

The lords and ladies of the North, who had stood back respectfully, begin to approach now, offering congratulations to the Queen, but always with their eyes drawn to the babe in her arms. The tension from earlier has melted away, replaced by a sense of unity. It’s as if Rhaenyra’s presence has bridged the gap between South and North, connecting them through shared blood and purpose.

Rhaenyra eventually returns Killian to you, but not without a lingering kiss to his forehead. Her eyes remain wet, and her voice trembles as she speaks. “I wish your father could see this,” she whispers, her voice tinged with both sorrow and joy. “He would be so proud of you, of the family you’ve built.”

You nod, feeling a pang of loss for Laenor, who never lived to see his daughter become a mother herself. “He’s watching over us, I’m sure of it,” you reply, your voice soft but resolute.

The night’s celebration shifts into something more intimate now, with people sharing stories of family, of home, and of the legacy that you are all building together. Rhaenyra remains by your side, her hand resting on your arm as she watches Killian sleep peacefully, content in the love surrounding him.

As the bonfires crackle and the Northern songs continue softly in the background, you find yourself overwhelmed by the strength of family, of tradition, and of the unbreakable bonds that have been forged this night. Winterfell, with its ancient stones and cold winds, has never felt warmer, never felt more like home.

[batboysanonymous]

Bound by Flame

Eris Vanserra x Reader

Summary: Eris Vanserra was fire itself, untouchable, burning, dangerous. But when the weight of centuries finally lifted, when the last chain binding him shattered, he ran to you.

Years ago, you had been a maid in the Autumn Court palace, a shadow in the halls of polished wood and gold.

You had known who Eris Vanserra was before the bond snapped into place—everyone did. The heir to the Autumn throne. The male of fire and arrogance, untouchable and cruel.

Or so you had thought.

You still remembered the moment it happened. You had been kneeling in the grand dining hall, wiping a spill before Beron returned from a hunt. Your hands were raw from the cold, your body exhausted from a day of endless commands, when it struck.

A force. A pull. A golden thread in your soul, twisting, tightening, making it impossible to breathe.

You had looked up—and there he was.

Eris, standing frozen in the doorway. His amber eyes wide, his body stiff as if something had shattered inside him.

You.

Your mate.

The silence stretched, unbearable. Then, slowly, he turned on his heel and walked away.

You had not been able to move for minutes. Had barely been able to breathe.

For days, you saw nothing of him. You thought—perhaps he would reject it. Perhaps he already had. But then, one evening, he had found you in a quiet corridor, his scent wrapping around you like fire and cedarwood.

He didn’t speak at first, just looked at you, his chest rising and falling like he was at war with himself. And then, in a voice so quiet, so unlike him, he whispered, “Beron can never know.”

You had nodded. Because you knew.

A High Lord’s heir, shackled to a maid?

Beron would sooner burn you alive.

So it had started—the hiding. The stolen glances. The nights where Eris would slip into your chambers, where he would press his forehead to yours and breathe you in like he was starving for it.

And then the agony of watching him in court, of standing back as he played his role. Watching as he let others believe he was heartless, cruel—when you knew the truth.

The waiting. The wondering. The bruises he hid when Beron’s rage turned to him.

And the terror of knowing, deep down, that it couldn’t last forever.

And now, it was over.

-

The world smelled of smoke and iron.

You stood on the outskirts of the battlefield, the taste of blood sharp on your tongue, your hands trembling even as you tried to still them. The night was endless, the stars above struggling to pierce through the heavy veil of war, of death. But none of it mattered. None of it compared to the ache in your chest, to the desperate pull in your soul, the bond inside you thrashing, crying, howling.

For him.

Eris.

The male who had been forged in flame, sharpened in cruelty, yet had somehow, impossibly, become yours.

Your mate.

The battlefield was eerily silent now, the screams of war fading into something almost sacred. A breath held, a world waiting. And then—

Footsteps.

Fast. Desperate.

And then he was there.

Eris Vanserra, High Lord of Autumn, no longer a prince shackled by Beron’s rule, no longer forced to bow to a monster. His armor was dented, streaked with blood that wasn’t his own, his red hair wild, his amber eyes frenzied. But it was his hands that stole your breath away—shaking, reaching, grasping as they cupped your face like he was afraid you’d vanish.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts. His mouth opened, then closed, as if the words caught in his throat. And then, finally, a whisper, raw and broken—

"It is over."

A shuddering inhale.

"We are free."

Your lips parted, your vision blurring with something thick, something unbearable. And then, without thought, without fear, you surged forward, crashing into him.

His arms were already there, already encircling you, already anchoring you to him. He clutched you, pressed his forehead to yours as if he could stitch himself into your very skin. His body shook—gods, he was shaking.

And you realized then—he was crying.

Eris Vanserra, the male who had never been allowed softness, the male who had been forced to bite his tongue, to endure, to survive—was weeping in your arms.

You pressed your hands to his face, brushing your thumbs along the sharp angles of his cheekbones, feeling the dampness of his tears. Tears. For you. For him. For the life you could finally have.

The words cracked open something inside you.

A sob tore from your throat, and before you knew it, you collapsed into him.

Eris caught you, arms locking around you, pulling you so close you could barely breathe. His body shook—gods, he was shaking.

Your fingers tangled into his hair, his blood streaking across your skin as he buried his face in your neck, inhaling like he would never get enough.

“I thought I lost you,” you choked out.

His grip tightened, his lips pressing against your temple, your jaw, your throat. “You will never lose me. Never again.”

His hands were everywhere—fisting into the back of your tunic, pressing against your spine, memorizing you. And you let him. You let yourself sink into him, let yourself feel the warmth of him, the unshackled, unburied truth of your love.

When he pulled back, his eyes were wet, his breath uneven. “We can have it now,” he murmured. “A life. Without hiding. Without fear.”

Your throat burned, but you nodded. “Yes.”

Eris exhaled sharply. His hand brushed over your lips, your cheek, his gaze hungry and desperate in a way that had nothing to do with battle.

And then he kissed you.

It was not soft. Not sweet. It was fire, burning, unrelenting—a claim, a vow, a plea. His mouth moved against yours like he was trying to consume you, trying to undo the years of stolen moments, the agony of pretending, the lies, the pain.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, hands curling into his tunic, pressing yourself against him so tightly you swore you could feel the frantic beat of his heart.

The taste of him flooded your senses—smoke, embers, Eris.

When he finally pulled away, his breath came in uneven pants, his forehead pressed to yours.

His hands were still on your face, his thumbs stroking along your cheekbones, his eyes searching yours like they held every answer he’d ever needed.

“You are mine,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “And I am yours.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself in him, in this moment.

“You always were,” you whispered back.

A breath. A truth. A love unburied.

Eris swallowed hard, then pulled you to him again, his lips ghosting over yours, his body pressing close.

And this time, neither of you let go.

Taglist: @fanficscuziranout, @willowpains

Want to join my tag list? Drop a comment or check out this link to submit a specific series you would like tagged in! (Or if you just don't want to comment, that's okay too)

[riddlesrizzler]

Cardigan

summary: "And when I felt like I was an old cardigan, under someone's bed, you put me on and said I was your favorite." characters: mattheo riddle. draco malfoy. reader warnings: slight mentions of cheating? unsure word count: 1.4k

The autumn breeze wrapped itself around me like a whisper made of ghosts, slipping through the cracks in the ancient stone walls of Hogwarts. It carried with it the scent of woodsmoke and dying leaves, wrapping its fingers through my hair and tugging like it knew something I didn’t. Outside, the world had turned gold and crimson-an endless sea of fire-tipped trees swaying beneath a grey sky. But inside the castle, the cold was bone-deep. The kind of chill that lived in your chest. The kind that no cloak could fix.

And in that stillness, my heart learned how to echo. Because I had no one left to fill the silence.

The new term had begun, but it felt like a dream gone wrong. Everything was sharp edges and whispered secrets. The war loomed close now, pulsing just beneath the surface of everyday things-between classes, in the corners of the library, behind every look cast over a shoulder. And still, the thing that haunted me most wasn’t the shadow of what was coming.

It was them. Draco Malfoy. Mattheo Riddle.

They say the heart remembers things the mind tries to forget. I used to think that was poetry-something you’d find scribbled in the margins of a well-loved book. But then there was Draco.

Before the war, before Mattheo, before the castle felt like it was sighing under the weight of what was coming-there was just him and me. Quiet glances across Potions class, fingertips brushing under the library table, late-night confessions whispered behind green velvet curtains in the Astronomy Tower. He used to hold my hand like he was afraid I’d disappear.

Draco had once been the boy I trusted without thinking. A boy who had laughed with me in hidden courtyards, thrown stones into the Black Lake just to see the ripples. His hands had been warm back then. His smile softer. When we were younger, he would sneak me into the Room of Requirement during storms and light candles just so I wouldn’t be afraid. He used to look at me like I was magic.

But the years carved him hollow.

Now, when I saw him, he was all sharp suits and colder stares-like he had been dipped in frost and never thawed. The weight of his name had settled on his shoulders, pulling him down into something I didn’t recognize. Something that still somehow made my chest ache. Because I remembered what was underneath it all. I remembered the boy who traced idle stars into my skin and told me he hated tea but loved the way I drank it.

We were soft then. Not innocent, not really-but untouched by the weight of expectation. He was a boy made of fire and frost, constantly warring with himself, and I was the calm he didn’t know he needed. Or maybe he did. Maybe that’s why he held on so tightly.

There was a night-we don’t talk about it anymore-when he pulled me close beneath a canopy of stars and said, “If things were different… I’d never let you go.”

And I had smiled, touched his cheek, and whispered, “We can still have that, Draco.”

Still, the memory of him clung to me like an old cardigan, tucked beneath someone’s bed-forgotten, perhaps, but never truly lost. That kind of love doesn’t leave clean.

And then… there was Mattheo.

He slipped into my life like a secret. Quiet at first. Observing from the shadows, all stormy eyes and leather-bound mystery. I don’t know when it happened-when he became inevitable. When his presence stopped being something I noticed and became something I felt. Like gravity. Like the pull of something dangerous and beautiful, all at once.

It started that summer.

While the rest of the world seemed to be falling apart, he and I found something unspoken in each other-a fragile peace amidst the chaos. We exchanged letters at first, scrawled in messy ink late at night when sleep wouldn’t come. Then, we met in secret, away from the scrutiny of family names and dark expectations. Warm summer nights spent lying on the grass beneath star-scattered skies, fingers brushing as we talked about everything and nothing. His laughter was softer then. Real.

“You make it quieter,” he told me once, eyes on the moon. “In my head. You make it all quieter.”

And I believed him. Because when he looked at me, it was like I was the center of some universe he didn’t think he deserved.

It started with parchment-confessions written in midnight ink, edges frayed like our nerves. Then came the late-night apparitions. He’d appear at the edge of my garden with a crooked smile and secrets blooming behind his eyes.

He never asked for anything more than my time. But somehow, I gave him everything else, too.

“Come with me,” he’d whisper. “Just for a little while.”

And I always did.

We’d run through the summer fog, barefoot and breathless, chasing freedom down empty roads until the sky turned lavender. It felt like something out of a dream-one I never wanted to wake from.

Later, under a streetlamp that flickered like it might go out at any moment, he kissed me. His lips were soft and sure and a little too hungry. I kissed him back because it was easier than thinking. Easier than remembering. Because in that moment, it was easier to pretend he was the one I wanted.

But even then-even with Mattheo’s hands wrapped around my waist and his breath against my cheek-when I closed my eyes, I didn’t see him.

I saw Draco.

The night I kissed Mattheo beneath the flickering lamplight in the middle of town was the same night Draco was waiting for me.

I had snuck back home, cheeks flushed with laughter, lips tingling with the taste of someone else-and I felt it before I saw him. That stillness. That kind of silence that comes right before the storm.

Draco stood on my porch, the glow of the lantern casting a halo around him that made him look otherworldly. His hair was tousled, eyes darker than the night behind him. He didn’t move when I approached. Just watched. Unblinking. Like he was trying to memorize the version of me walking toward him-windblown, guilty, alive.

“Where were you?” he asked, voice low and too calm.

I froze halfway up the steps. “Out.”

“With him?” The words snapped out of him like a whip. His jaw was tight, his eyes colder than I’d ever seen them, but beneath the fury, there was something else-something fractured.

I didn’t answer.

He laughed, bitter and hollow. “Of course. He takes you to dance under street lamps and steal kisses while I’m here-waiting.” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “Do you even think about what we were?”

I stared at the floor. “He sees me.”

His breath hitched.

“He looks at me like I’m more than just a name. Like I matter.”

Draco’s silence was louder than any scream. He stepped forward, and I felt the air shift. Charged. Electric.

“I never said you were just a name,” he said, voice tight. “You were… You are-” He faltered, eyes flickering away like they were afraid to meet mine. “But I guess I waited too long.”

“You never waited at all,” I whispered.

His throat worked around a reply that never came. He looked at me like I was breaking him open just by standing there.

“Do you still think of me?” he asked finally, voice rough like splinters.

“Every damn day,” I said, and I hated how easily the truth fell out of me.

He reached for me then, and his fingers barely brushed mine, but the touch was enough to set my skin on fire. For a moment, we stood in a silence that felt like the end of the world.

And then Mattheo’s laughter rang through my mind, my lips still tingling with the taste of him.

I pulled back like I’d been burned.

“I have to go,” I whispered, but I didn’t move.

Draco’s voice cracked open behind me.

“You were always my favorite.”

I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t.

Now I walk the halls of Hogwarts with two ghosts at my back-one wrapped in velvet words and dangerous devotion, the other in memories I can’t let go of. Mattheo offers me heat, passion, and rebellion. But Draco…

Draco was the cardigan I left behind, still smelling like the past. Still holding every part of me I thought I’d buried.

And maybe I can’t choose. Because the truth is, I never wanted a war. I just wanted to be loved.

But now, I’m the battlefield. And my heart is the price.

tag list: @accio-rogers @juliet-017 @thaliashifts @shyamanuensis @draco-malfoys-lovergirl

[after-witch]

Horrorfest: Summer Storm [Yandere Summer Spirit x Reader]

Title: Summer Storm [Yandere Summer Spirit x Reader]

Synopsis: You had forgotten what he was. Now you remember.

For Horrorfest request: –“Let's talk, you and I. Let's talk about fear.” –Stephan King, “Night Shift.” And I think this one would be pretty good for your Summer spirit, in a moment of terrifying clarity! Like he's not flippant or playing around/indulging you right now he's serious.

Word count: 600ish

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader

“What would you do, if I left you?”

The question had been asked so stupidly, so carelessly. Not because you were unaware of the weight of it, but because you thought he would brush it off, and you could force yourself to brush it off, for at least another summer. 

You thought he would laugh and smear the white globs of sunscreen he sometimes produced from thin air onto your nose; you thought he would push you into the ocean, or find a crab along the beach and threaten you with it.

You thought those things because you had forgotten.

You had forgotten what he truly was, in the lazy haze of those endless summers. He had become lost in the refreshing breezes cutting through the heavy shimmering air, in the taste of melting popsicles on his lips as he kissed you, and kissed you. Lost in the laughter as he pulled you through another season, hot summer grass tickling your legs, saltwater sticking to your skin. 

But you remember now. You see him now, sitting next to you, even though he has his sand covered legs pulled up to his chest as he might have on any other summer evening spent on the beach.

“What… did you say?” You ask, even though you know the answer. It’s an answer that cut through the hot hazy fog of your brain and reminded you that the man in front of you was no man at all.

He tilts his head towards, eyes gazing forward, the color of them now the awful gray-green of a summer storm. You want him to repeat it–you don’t want him to repeat it. But he must, and he will; both of you agree upon this without saying a word. 

He doesn’t sneer as he speaks. Doesn’t gloat, doesn’t threaten. He doesn’t loom over you or speak in dark growls of a dime novel villain. He merely states a simple fact, spoken into the hot evening as easily as any pleasantry you’ve shared before. 

“I would destroy every crop in the country. I would see to it that there is no summer harvest. I would wither everything that dares to bloom in autumn. I would see them all starve come winter and I do not yet know if I would have enough pity for you by the next summer to let anything be picked even then.”

The words join the fireflies beginning to dot the horizon, flickering in your heart in the dying evening sunlight. Unlike the fireflies, the words will still be there by morning, a permanent scythe hanging above your head.

Hanging above the heads of the people you loved–and the people you didn’t. People you didn’t know. Children who had been born since he took you away, some of them perhaps relatives, nieces and nephews that you’ll never hold. 

Innocents, not-so-innocents. People who would starve and wither like the crops, if he willed it.

If you willed it, you think, abruptly–and not without the thought catching something dark inside your chest. That same dark part that had not quite forgotten what summer could do, if it wanted.

“But I won’t leave you,” is your answer, a forced lightness to it; a forced breeze of your own, as artificial as the electric fans he sometimes shows you. “I was–I was only asking. To see what you would say.”

His eyes remain storm-gray for a few moments longer, and then he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. Calming himself down, you think, letting the storm ebb away into some other world, some other season.

“I sometimes forget,” he admits, smiling in a way you don’t want to understand, “how often people ask things they’d rather not know.” 

A firefly lands on his knee; it glows, then it doesn’t. 

[mean-girl-astarion]

This post is how I just found out that this used to be Astarion's camp clothes description:

And now I'm just... thinking about Astarion and clothes. Because we all know about the underwear embroidery that did end up in the final release:

These prompt the initial thought of, where on the clothing were these lines embroidered? (Read on for in depth thoughts/ramblings)

For the shirt, was it on the front? The back? The collar? Inside the collar, perhaps? Was it something he meant for everyone to see on the shirt, or tucked away somewhere on the fabric just for him to know about?

I'm inclined to think it would be something just for him. As the post I linked at the top does a wonderful job of examining, he didn't choose to sew this line into his shirt for any pretense or exaggeration of his personality - it was for him. He wanted this quote to be with him, words he felt a connection to. So as far as that goes, I think he would have embroidered the line somewhere not obvious to anyone else, like under the back of or on the inside of the collar.

As for the underwear, this is an entirely different story, isn't it? Because while it's objectively a funny/silly thing to sew into one's underwear, in contrast to the previous embroidery, I think this one was done with others in mind. The quote is something you would expect from Astarion's humor, but I can't help but feel that going as far as to put this on his underwear is also tied into the performance of his personality. So I think this line would be placed somewhere tastefully visible, like just under the waistline of the fabric, whether it be across the front, side, or back.

Think about it, when would he have had time to sew his clothing? I imagine it must have been in those in-between moments, when he wasn't in the middle of doing something for Cazador and he also wasn't actively being tortured. An in-between moment lasting long enough for him to be able to sit and sew, repairing any tears in his clothing, and eventually taking it far enough to embroider quotes into the fabric. Maybe keeping his hands busy and taking care of his clothing when he could granted him the tiniest sense of control in his life as a slave.

My point being, I think all the emotions that surround the situation he was trapped in for 200 years play a role in what he chose to sew into his clothing. Because this wasn't a leisurely hobby he did when the mood struck him, it was something he did when he just happened to find himself with some precious, fleeting moments alone.

"Lamentable is the autumn picker content with plums" is said to be a line from a poem. It provokes real emotion, has deeper meaning. They're words that Astarion read somewhere and didn't want to forget; words that remind him of a part of himself that he didn't want to forget.

"If you're reading this, you managed to bed or behead me. Either way, you got lucky" has a very different tone in comparison, especially considering the fact that Astarion was not bedding anyone in his life by choice. In my opinion, the wording aligns with the mask he wears - the charismatic, flirtatious stranger whose primary objective is to seduce others, even if the overall humor of it does stem from his genuine personality.

But it also makes perfect sense for someone trying to cope with a miserable existence to try and find some humor where they can, doesn't it? I know I certainly cope with humor when I can. Sometimes even when I shouldn't, maybe, but everyone copes differently.

So picture Astarion, feeling used and pathetic after yet another night of the endless cycle of being forced to use his body for other's goals and pleasure, regardless of how much he hates it. He gets one of those in-between moments, so he sews.

Why use the time to embroider his underwear specifically? Looping back to what I suggested earlier, if using his rare in-between moments to care for his clothing gave him a minor sense of control of his life, then maybe sewing something into his underwear provides a sense of control, however small, within the cycle of bedding victims for Cazador. Because as suave and confident as he acts, we know he is actually feeling incredibly vulnerable every time he goes through the motions. No one he bedded actually "got lucky" in any way, because Astarion didn't actually have any bodily autonomy. He was going to bed with people whether he wanted to or not.

So what does sewing this line into his underwear do? It presents an illusion of choice - the false implication that bedding him was a "lucky" encounter; the implication that he often rejects people; the implication that Astarion has a say in whether or not he sleeps with someone. So putting this seemingly silly joke on his underwear, it's something that adds to his performance, but using his own humor in it might be something that helps him pretend that he does have a choice. And maybe, if the person he's with happens to notice the embroidery before he's taken off his underwear, they share a laugh about it, and maybe that final performative detail that he came up with gives him that feeling of being in control of his body. Even if he knows it isn't real, and that it'll be gone in a matter of moments.

Or, you know, maybe it isn't supposed to be that deep, and that's why they ended up not keeping in the shirt's embroidery and instead just kept the underwear one as a throwaway joke. But I personally have a hard time not wondering why Astarion would be sewing quotes into his clothing.

[bet-on-me-13]

Reincarnation AU but it's not Danny

So! In basically every single Reincarnation AU I've seen, it's always Danny who gets reincarnated as a DC character. Sometimes it's Jazz, other times it's his Friends, but it never really strays from them. And I think we've been ignoring some people...

The Ancients! Danny is always reincarnated as a "Vacation" from his Ghost King Duties, so why not give the same courtesy to the other Ancients?

Specifically, Fright Knight.

Fright Knight has been a loyal servant and Knight of his Master for Millenia. Ever since he first formed as the Autumn Spirit, the Embodiment of Fear, the Fright Knight, he had declared his Servitude to the Ghost King, whomever it may be at the time. And he stayed in that position, through the passing of the Crown, through the Violent Coups, through every single Ghost King who had taken to the mantle. He was their Loyal Knight. Never Wavering. Never leaving their side.

Until Pariah Dark, but that situation was different. No previous King had even tried to take the human world before.

Thankfully, Pariah had only taken the Throne for a mere 5000 years, so he had not had to put up with him for long, and much of that time was with him stuck in his Coffin. That was the first time Fright Knight had ever left his Masters Side.

Then, that insolent Halfa he had met before came into the picture and Fright Knight had a new master.

King Phantom was...different.

Perhaps it was his remaining Humanity poking through? Or was it was the influence of the Human Realm that he still regularly visited? Or maybe he was simply just a Good Person, and there was no deeper meaning behind it?

Either way, Fright Knight noticed that he cared for his subjects in a far deeper manner than any previous king had. He had personal connections with as many Ghosts as he could, and often called the Ghosts he ruled his, Friends. It warmed his Long Frozen Core to see a King valuing his Subjects as much as he did.

He did not realize that the kindness Phantom extended to his people, also extended to himself.

One day, Phantom had been discussing his Human Life with some of his friends. Not his First Life, but his most recent Vacation. Over the Eons since he had taken the Throne, Phantom had been encouraged to take a Vacation every once in a while. It was not healthy for a Ghost to work non-stop like he did, especially for a Halfa.

It was not an uncommon practice in the Realms, many would take a break from the Endlessness of Death to embrace Life once more through Reincarnation. Although, many were too weak to retain their memories upon their second Forming. Mostly, it was Ancients or Kings who would use this as a Vacation, rather than a New Beginning.

There came a break in the conversation, and King Phantom turned his attention to his Knight. "Frighty, when was the last time you Reincarnated? Pandora did so recently, and it got me thinking."

"I have not taken leave of my post for thr Eons since my Forming, My Lord" Replied the Knight with Pride.

"What? You haven't taken a Break since you formed!? Frighty! That's not Healthy!" Exclaimed his King.

This lead to a whole conversation about how unhealthy his lifestyle was, which was another quirk of his Master. He cared for his Sunjects beyond their happiness.

"Fright Knight, as your King and as your Friend, I implore you to take a Vacation. It doesn't have to be forever, just a simple Human Lifespan, but please take a break, for your own Good."

And how could he refuse a request like that? One based in the kindness that his Majesty always showed his Subjects.

It took a few more years to finally iron out the plan for his Vacation, but what are a few years in the face of Eternity?

Finally, it came time to take his leave to the Mortal Realm, and to Life itself.

"Farewell, my Leige." Bowed Fright Knight, "I thank you for this opportunity."

"There's no need to thank me. Now go, and have fun, My Dark Knight."

...

That day, in Gotham General Hospital, a baby was born.

"What will you name him?" Asked the Doctor.

"I think I'll call him..." Began the need Mother, "...Bruce. Bruce Wayne."

[goddessofwisdom18]

Autumn Court

The paths that wind through Prythian twist and turn like branches of a tree; you can take one or another, but ultimately, if the Cauldron wants it, they'll all lead you back to Autumn. It's the sort of place where you never quite know where you stand, whether you're in the middle of a lutin den or you're about to stumble upon the endless gables and eaves of the Forest House. Perhaps that smell of apples and cinnamon on the crisp breeze is pulling you into a trap - perhaps those clever smiles and charming promises hide long histories of power struggles... and your place within them as a pawn. There's only one way to find out - and you will find out, whether you want to or not.

Inspiration: The Pyrenees, the Loire Valley, and various gothic + rococo aesthetics

[gemissleeping]

Angel of Small Death | Part Two

Theodore Nott x Fem!Reader

Mattheo Riddle x Fem!Reader

Summary: It’s Seventh Year and you’re one of the ones who stayed. Reeling from the loss of your family in the midst of the war, you find a twisted sense of comfort in Mattheo. But your best friend Theo can’t help but feel you’re slipping away from him in more ways than one.

Read Part One here.

Length: 1.4k

Warnings: Haha... heyyyyyy (I feel really awkward rn, I feel I should beg forgiveness) so I might've been away for like... the whole year. But Merry Christmas?? I missed you guys and I missed writing sm. I heard you in the replies and I heard you in my inbox... so here it is!! I loved writing this as I'm easing back in. I love that so many of you loved it! Working on another part :) anyway drug use mentioned!! Toxic relationships!! Mature audiences! I love you all <3

“Where were you?” Mattheo asked as he threw his bag to the sun bleached grass beside you. It was the turn of Autumn, and the last thing you wanted was to be stuck inside doing arithmancy. The endless flood of numbers and charts made your head spin. 

“Here.” You answered simply, giving him a lazed smile from where you laid back in the grass. Matt sat down with a weighted sigh beside you, the skeletons of old leaves crunching beneath him. You looked to him for a moment, zoning in on the harsh set of his brow; the uncharacteristic tension he seemed to be carrying. 

“Well you shouldn’t be.” He wouldn’t look at you, perhaps just couldn’t. He was turned instead to the Black Lake, sprawling before you both like a mirror. The illusion only broken by the thin freckling of light rain upon its surface. It was all so easily disturbed. 

“It’s one class,” you sighed, feeling a creeping sense of guilt. “I don’t understand why you’ve got your knickers so twisted. As though you haven’t done worse.” You gave him an airy smile, which of course he didn’t return, still falsely captivated by the lake.

“I haven’t seen you since second. I just left Potions.” He looked at you then, the edge in his tone doing little to conceal the worry in his eyes. For the first time since you’d gotten to the lake, the dread you’d been so desperately trying to bury began to scratch at your chest again. The acute awareness that you had no concept of how long you had actually been down here setting in. Time was running past you like water, but you didn’t seem to be moving with it. 

“You’re high.”

Too late you remembered the remnants of the joint beside you, amongst the dead grass and weeds. The rough skin of Mattheo’s fingers now tainted with soil and ash. The betrayal in his voice made your stomach churn, now it was you who couldn’t look to him. 

“Only when we’re together, that was the deal.” He was upset with you, and somehow it felt unexpected. Your fingertips found the edge of your skirt, toying with it like a chastised child. He’d never been disappointed with you before, or perhaps you just hadn’t cared. You weren’t too sure which was the truth. 

“One class you might’ve gotten away with, but three?” His hands met his face mercilessly, the brunt of his frustration meeting there as he ran them across it. “Fuck, I mean what were you thinking?” Eyes on the ground, you continued attacking your skirt’s hem with a frown. The gentleness had returned, seeping into his tone. This was the part of him you needed. Whatever it was that was inside of you, this supposed grief, couldn’t be consumed. But at least he made it feel like something you could navigate; somewhere where you could find someone close to who you had been.

“Are you trying to torture me?” His words cut through the stillness of the water, the absence of a leaf adorned breeze.

“What?” The words tumbled out of you, feeble - flat. 

“Are you,” he repeated gently, your eyes locking as you turned to him, “trying to torture me?” His eyes held, earnest. The kind of vulnerability you’d only seen from him when you were alone at the end of the night and a bottle. “I just want to help. It’s the least I could-” Something within him cracked, made its way up his throat. Matt held his breath, looking away for a moment as though for privacy. You waited, not daring to do so much as move. His palms had returned to shield his eyes, but they would do nothing for his thoughts. After a sharp breath he rested an arm atop a bent knee. Head still hung low as the other moved to the ground, fingers sinking into the sharp needles of dry grass. “And you just- you keep throwing yourself into it. How am I supposed to keep you out of detention if you keep doing this shit?”

Of course. Of course he had been. You felt a fool for taking his admission to realise. Unlike you, the Carrows were not fools. It had not been your attempts at slipping away unseen or making yourself unnoticed that had saved you this past month. It had been him. What he had done in order to save your skin, you did not want to know. Your cheeks burned.

“I’m- I’m sorry. I didn’t realise that you… I’m sorry.” You had been foolish, and you had hurt him. Cost him God knows what. Your cheeks felt wet when you looked to him again, the cold air drying the salt of tears against the skin. There was nothing harsh about him, not the way people seemed to believe. He was so unlike the life that had been passed to him. Gentle, and kind, and somehow whole. Patched together with all of the pieces of himself still accounted for. It shouldn’t have been possible, yet he sat before you.

He reached out, his palms covering your cheeks, thumbs running beneath your eyes to wipe the salt away. He didn’t blame you, or anyone. He should have, but he didn’t. He tucked you into his side, wrapping his green tartan scarf snug around you as you both leant back against the large oak. 

“Do you at least have any left?” Mattheo whispered against your ear with a grin. Looking down to you, eyes alight with his usual mischief once more. You couldn’t help but grin back as you nodded, his lips moving to capture yours. He lingered against you, gentle and unassuming. There was nothing he wanted from you, no longer anything he wanted you to fix. You’d known it for a while now. Everything else; the drinks and powder and pills - their rush held no light to him. What had once been intertwined was starting to untangle. It would take time, but you would become whole again, and then you could be with him - without the rest of it.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

Theo’s eyes were on Mattheo as soon as he had entered the dorm. As though he had purposely left dinner early so that he might get Matt in private. Theo didn’t have to speak, it all lay there; he’d been looking at Matt that same way all evening. And in fairness, Mattheo supposed, they hadn’t done much to cover the smell. But that wasn’t what this was about, not exactly.

“I didn’t give it to her.” Matt spoke plainly, throwing his potions textbook down on his bedside table without a care “She gave it to me this time, actually.” He didn’t know why he had said it. He knew it would only anger Theo, more than he already was.

“Bullshit.” Theo glowered from where he leaned upon his desk, “It’s always you.” Matt would have been more hurt if it hadn’t have been true.

“That’s not fucking fair man.” Mattheo sighed, sitting on the edge of his bed to face his friend. He began lazily untying his laces, having heard these sentiments from Theo before. Quite frankly he was growing tired of it; the constant overstepping. “Things aren’t good right now-”

“You made them that way.” There was a weight to Theo’s words; an implication. One that held Matt implicit in beliefs that he had buried; that chained him to his Father. Theo didn’t notice the set of his jaw change, didn’t notice him stop untying his laces - only decided to cut deeper. “You got her hooked when you should have helped her.”

“I am helping her.” Matt stiffened, eyes alight as the words left him. He knew where the lines rested; what was his fault and what wasn’t. He spent half his life trying to figure them out. He had a plan, to fix this. 

“She looks like shit.” Theo spat, coming to stand before him. The air in the room seemed to drop in temperature, a chill slicing through Mattheo as he met Theo’s gaze, unwavering. 

“We’re getting through this together.” He tried not to doubt it as he said it. They would clean up, together. They just needed time, he was sure they were close. They had to be.

“No. You’re driving each other into the ground.” Theo stated plainly, his voice low. “And when she gets too far down, it will be your fault.” Theo stepped back, eyes burning into Mattheo. He took a few steps back, before turning away. “Clean your shit up,” Theo mused as a bag of powder landed before Mattheo’s feet, “it’s getting all over everything.”

Taglist: @theodorenottswifeyy @obsessedwithceleste @lenoraslament @mayamonroem @simp-for-fantasy @bruisedbbby

Thank you for your love and patience, getting back to inboxes now. You are all incredible <3

[captinamericashusband]

Sober Thoughts | Steve Rogers/Captain America x Stark!Male!Reader

REUPLOAD A/N: Hi. It is currently 12:41 AM – another restless night unfortunately sigh. After watching a YouTube video of someone reading the infamous Harry Potter fanfiction My Immortal (I love you Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way), I became filled with unbridled inspiration to write something of my own. Anyways, enjoy! Also this is the very first fanfiction I’ve ever written. Please please please (by Sabrina Carpenter) give constructive feedback that won’t be too harsh on my little soul. This’ll be a fluffy fanfic. I'll dabble in smut later on maybe if y'all enjoy this enough...teehee. Happy BRAT summer/autumn 💚

P.S. Any errors you see will be excused by the fact English is not my first language and NOT because I suck at writing and revising ;) This fic will also be posted on Ao3 after they accept my invitation. Pls let me in Ao3.

Sober Thoughts

Word count: 4.7k

Summary: Y/N gets very drunk in front of Steve

Warnings: Alcohol, profanity

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Being the son of Pepper Potts and the eccentric billionaire, playboy and philanthropist (in that exact order) Tony Stark came with its fair share of drawbacks. While financial security was a given for Y/N, a side that came with this coverage was endless PR events. Being the sole heir to the Stark company, Y/N was forcefully thrusted into the public eye at a very young age, constantly forced to appear at social gatherings for the general public to gain somewhat of a perception of him – hopefully for the better. Today was one of these socially exhausting days, and perhaps his least favourite event of all – the annual ‘Stark Gala: proceeds going to various charities!’ A boring name he is very well aware of, and yes the ‘proceeds going to various charities’ line was annoyingly part of the title – something he had so valiantly fought Tony on, albeit unsuccessfully. 

The gala starts in 2 hours. Currently, in stereotypical Stark fashion, Y/N lay sedentary on his bed, staring at the ceiling whilst pondering for ways to escape the tiring event. Amidst his angsty mood, a knock arose from his door followed by Tony entering his room. 

“Hey bud, no more moping around,” he said after flipping the light switch in Y/N's room, “gala’s not gonna dance itself.”

Y/N turned and laid on his belly, eyes stuffed into his pillow in an attempt to suppress the bright lights, “What if I just don’t come, dad? Just chalk my absence to a cold for the press, please. I have no will nor strength to do this.” 

“You know you can’t do that, Y/N/N. The public requests you grace them with your holy presence at the gala.”

“Dad, what if I just set fire to the venue?”

Tony scoffed at his son's comment. “Don’t bother with that sassy attitude, kid. It’ll be over in a flash. Just enjoy, grab some drinks – and hey you might even find yourself a nice date there.” He said, adjusting a frame on the wall. “My best advice is mingle until your mouth falls off – my dad used to say that to me.” 

As Tony continued slightly tidying Y/N's room, a muffled groan erupted from his pillow. Y/N knew he was very well right; there was no escaping. Resigning to his fate, he abruptly stood up from his bed and began rummaging through his closet. “Fine. I’m going because I want to go, not because you’re forcing me to.”

Tony chuckled and ruffled Y/N's hair. “That’s the spirit, champ. I promise you these things can be fun if you let them. Soak up the atmosphere. And enjoy the drinks.” He then murmured, “Just not too much, as well ‘cause…you know.” 

Tony’s sudden shift in tone was in reference to Y/N's relationship with alcohol. While Tony was notorious for being able to hold his liquor, the alcohol-tolerance gene had unfortunately not been passed down to his son. The last time Y/N drank, which had been at Clint’s birthday party, he had somehow woken up inside of a dumpster – not even exaggerating. Another time, he had taken a plane to Washington and found himself passed out on a bench outside the Pentagon – also not a hyperbole. Aware of this knowledge, Y/N planned on getting absolutely wasted in order to pass the time and to make the night somewhat memorable. 

Y/N ran a hand through his hair attempting to fix it whilst looking for proper attire. “Yes, yes I know, father figure. Do you promise it won’t be boring like last year?”

Tony feigned an offended look, putting his palm against his chest. “Boring? There was an open bar and a chocolate fountain – all appearing again this year, by the way. What more could a man ask for?”

“To not come.” Y/N said begrudgingly.

“Okay well sometimes certain things can’t be provided, sugar plum.” A grimace found itself on Y/N's face after hearing the nickname. Before he could respond, Tony was already halfway through the door. “Anyways, be ready by 8; we’re leaving at 8:30 sharp.”

------------------------------------

The night was, to say the least, already an absolute dread. Upon arriving at the upper-echelon-esque museum where the gala was being held, Y/N was already drained. After exiting the limousine that took both him and Tony to the museum, a torrent of camera flashes had blinded Y/N. Furthermore, before even entering the museum, a news reporter had shoved a microphone into his face and asked a very invasive question about his lovelife. Before Y/N could insult the reporter’s rude behaviour, Tony quickly grabbed his arm and ushered him into the museum. 

It was very well aware by the public of Y/N's choice of abstaining from dating, never really having any serious relationships. This was especially questionable for the public considering who his father was, with everyone believing Y/N would’ve followed in lieu of his behaviour during his 20’s. 

However, what the public didn’t know was that the reason for Y/N's singleness was because of one of his dad’s blonde colleagues (that wasn’t Thor). Y/N's crush for  Steve Rogers AKA Captain America had simmered for the last few months. It began during an incident in the Avenger’s Compound in which the inherent Stark idiocy had decided to bite Y/N severely in the ass.

------------------------------------

It had been late at night and Y/N had been tinkering on some project in one of Tony’s spare workshops in the compound when his phone suddenly rang. Picking it up, he saw Tony was calling him. He paused the music blaring in the workshop’s speakers before answering his dad. 

“Hey bud, I have a favour to ask.”

“What is it, father figure?” He set down a screwdriver he was holding down on the workshop table.

“First, you know I hate it when you call me that. Second, there are some files that were delivered to my office that need to be put into storage in the room beside the training area. Would you mind doing it for me?”

“And why can’t you get Happy or yourself to do it?”

“Well I am actually currently at dinner right now with your mother and we are having a blast right now, and Happy is enjoying a paid holiday in the Bahamas.” 

With an overexaggerated sigh, Y/N hung up on Tony and accepted without further question. 

Heading towards Tony’s office, he marvelled at the emptiness of the Avenger’s Compound. While he never interacted much with the Avengers, only in passing, he was aware that some of them were nightowlers. However, there really was no one. Usually, there would be at least a SHIELD agent somewhere, but tonight the building was completely desolate. 

Upon arriving at Tony’s office, Y/N immediately noticed the large boxes propped on his dad's desk. He had clearly underestimated the sizes of the office boxes, with one he (very dramatically) guesstimated being the size of his torso’s length with a width of a baby whale. Unfortunately for him, there were 5 boxes in total. Being the impatient ass he is, he had decided to carry all of the boxes in one go to spare himself having to return to Tony’s office for a second trip. He noticeably struggled and after leaving Tony’s office, he immediately regretted his decision, wishing he inherited more of his mother’s patience. From a bystander's perspective, it was a comical sight seeing Y/N Stark carrying a tower of boxes almost twice his height. 

After rounding a sharp corner – something that could’ve been easily avoided considering the size of the building’s hallways – Y/N  crashed right into another person. Y/N, along with the boxes, crashed loudly and painfully against the cement floor. 

"Shit," Y/N said out loud. The embarrassment from the predicament was too much for him, so he opted for keeping his eyes on the ground, seemingly becoming very interested in the flooring's designed patterns. He stayed in that position, wallowing in his shame until the other person he had forgotten about spoke up.

"Sorry about that, kid." A low and husky voice spoke above Y/N. Y/N moved his eyes from the floor to the other man in the hallway. He was met with piercing blue eyes and a head of light blonde hair. Great. Not only had he embarrassed himself in front of someone, but that certain someone had to be Captain America of all people. Flashing the best smile he could conjure, Y/N stood up from the floor in an attempt to save as much face as possible.

"No, no, it was all my fault Steve," Y/N chirped. Wow, he sounded like a complete wimp. Not only that, but he called Captain America by his actual legal government name. Y/N did not consider himself close enough to call Captain America Steve. The situation was further going off the rails as they both stood in an uncomfortable silence for what seemed like forever. Suddenly, Steve spoke again, breaking the suffocating air of awkwardness.     

"Need help with those." Steve said, smiling slightly at Y/N. Thinking back on it now, it was definitely the smile that got Y/N hooked into Steve. With a curt nod, both of the men started cleaning the mess of files. "Do these need to be in a specific order?" Steve questioned. Quite frankly, Y/N did not care for the files' order; he was much more preoccupied with the strange feeling down in his stomach. He slapped himself internally before answering Steve.

"I'm not sure actually. The person reading these can decipher that themself." Steve chuckled at his words. An actual, genuine laugh. Y/N found whatever he said to not be as funny Steve was making it out to be. But nevertheless, good job Y/N! You made Captain America laugh at something you said! After tidying the files, the two of them started walking, Y/N in the lead with Steve following in his stead. 

"Where to, Stark Jr.?"  

"The storage room by the training grounds."

The walk to the files' designated area was filled with silence – not uncomfortable like before, but instead a somewhat pleasant quiet. Deciding to be bold, Y/N asked Steve a question.

"What do you do all day?" Wow, Y/N didn't intend on that sounding as rude as it did. 

"What do you mean?" Steve responded.

"Like, what do you do when there isn't a mission where you have to save the world or anything." Great save, Y/N said to himself.

"Well, if there isn't a mission I usually train in the gym – nothing bad in doing some extra training. Other than that, I usually visit SHIELD's headquarters to do business that I'm sure you're not interested in hearing about." He turned and smiled at Y/N after saying the last part. The strange feeling was there again.

"That honestly sounds like a miserable existence."  Y/N said. Steve laughed and Y/N smiled, proud of himself for making Captain America laugh a second time this night. "Do you have any actual free time at all?"

"The only time we get to ourselves are weekends. I typically go for jogs in the morning then catch up on any work I didn't get to finish from the weekday. By the time I finish, it's already pretty late at night." As Steve continued to talk, Y/N couldn't help but sneak glances at him. Y/N had noticed a smile was etched on Steve's face and he wondered if it was because Steve enjoyed his company or if he was merely entertained by their topic of conversation. "If I have any time to spare, I like to draw. I've started taking painting classes recently."  

Y/N debated on whether or not to make a joke about Steve's work and him not "finishing" fast enough, but thought it was too weird even for him. "Wow, even on your day off your life sounds bland – aside from the drawing part I guess." Steve had laughed once more at what Y/N said, and Y/N silently applauded himself once again.   

Steve's smile persisted despite Y/N's slight insult to his daily life. "My turn to ask. What do you do all day? I never see you around that much." 

"That's 'cause I'm usually cooped up in a lab somewhere doing tech stuff I'm sure you're not interested in hearing about." Steve chuckled again. "If I'm not doing techy stuff, then I'm usually doing boring paperwork for Stark industries. And if I'm not doing that, I'm sleeping peacefully in my bed."

"Now I'm offended by you calling my life bland when yours’ is equally as boring, Y/N," Steve joked.

"It'd be more exciting if you were in it." Oh Y/N, what exactly are you saying now? Suddenly, the signature Stark flirtiness accumulated within Y/N as the next words left his lips. "You should join me on my bed sometime." Oh sweet Jesus. Even Y/N himself shriveled from pure disgust at what he just said. It wasn't even a remotely good pickup line. He fully expected Steve to bolt away as soon as possible and leave him behind with the behemoth-sized boxes.   

Before Steve could respond, the pair found themselves in front of the storage room. Steve opened the door for Y/N who could only mumble a quiet thanks in response as he was still shaken up from his earlier misspeaking. Finding a secluded table in the room, Y/N set down the boxes with Steve following in suit. The two then exited the room and found themselves in yet again another uncomfortable silence. Before Y/N could hurriedly escape, Steve spoke.  

"You should get out of your lab more. I'd like to see more of you around if that's possible." Upon hearing that, the feeling from earlier was present again in Y/N's stomach except it had been exponentially stronger this time. "I enjoyed talking with you, Y/N."  

It was as if Y/N had lost any inkling of social awareness as he said his next remark. "You'd practically have to pry me off a workbench with those big arms of yours, Steve."  

Steve only laughed in response, clearly somewhat amused by Y/N's bold eccentricity. "I'll see you around, Y/N." Steve started walking away before suddenly turning around with a smirk on his mouth. "Oh, and I'll take you up on that earlier offer." 

------------------------------------

Ironically enough, Y/N and Steve have yet to converse with each other again after their brief encounter. This was mainly due to Y/N avoiding Steve after having said his embarrassing comments – especially about Steve's arms, something Y/N can't help but gag at upon reflection. Looking back at their moment together, Y/N can only sigh and hope the super soldier forgot about his humiliating behaviour. 

Looking around the museum, Y/N stared in awe at the inside's appearance. The building itself had replicated the architecture and grandeur of Ancient Greece, with large columns on the building's interior and exterior. While the building itself was an architectural beauty, what really stood out were the floral decorations garnered around the room, both on the tables surrounding the middle of the museum designated as a dance floor and hanging in between the interior pillars. Y/N had to remind himself to find his mother later, who arrived hours earlier to help decorate, and commend her keen taste in floral arrangements. 

Y/N's moment taking in the interior decor was interrupted when he was approached by Tony and a stubby man wearing a suit. Tony introduced the man to Y/N who turned out to be one of Stark Industries' business partners. Nothing notable was said in their conversation aside from numbers and Y/N's vision for the future of Stark Industries. This was how the first half of the night went: Tony introduced Y/N to one of his business partners, boring conversations about logistics would ensue, Y/N was asked about his ideas on Stark Industries' future – rinse and repeat. After numerous runs of this seemingly perpetual cycle, Y/N's social battery had been absolutely drained and Operation Get-Drunk-And-Pass-Out was set in motion. Excusing himself from Tony's presence, Y/N ran a beeline towards the bar, his stride swift with determination to get his hands on anything alcoholic.

Taking a seat at the bar, Y/N began thinking about what he would drink. Suddenly forgetting every alcoholic beverage that ever existed, he waved down the bartender to get his first drink of the night. "I'd like whatever will get me the most piss-faced, please." The bartender simply gave him a cordial smile and nod before pouring a single clear liquid into a small shot glass. He then gave Y/N the glass who before drinking said, "bottoms up." The mystery liquid was absolutely repulsive and scorched Y/N's throat. His face puckered up in pain, eyes shut as tears formed at the brim of his ducts. "Jesus, dude, what is this!?"

"Everclear." The man answered with a very thick Russian accent. Y/N had no idea what that was nor was aware of its very high alcoholic percentage, almost being pure alcohol.  What he did know was the vile taste and painful burn signified it was able to get him 100% wasted. 

"I'll take 10 more of those, please."

------------------------------------

At shot four, Y/N's vision had started getting blurry, his lips and skin felt tingly, and he kept laughing at the most nonsensical things to laugh at. His drunkenness was made very apparent for everyone at the bar when he pointed towards someone's poorly trimmed goatee and laughed maniacally at it. While his actions had been in poor-taste and he was making a grand fool of himself, Y/N could care less as he revelled with his newly acquainted friend, Everclear. 

Before downing shot number five, a man had approached and sat beside Y/N and began ordering. To his surprise, Captain America in the flesh had situated himself beside him at the bar. Knowing Y/N's already embarrassing encounter with him sober, only God knows what was about to ensue between the two of them while he was intoxicated. 

“Enjoying the night, Mr. America?” Y/N slurred. 

“Clearly not as much as you, Y/N.” Steve responded. He was currently sporting a classic black and white tux with a dark blue tie. His attire, while as basic and stereotypical as they come for a formal event, suited him perfectly. Being the idiot Y/N was while drunk, the spike of confidence that surged within him caused him to comment on Steve's appearance.

Y/N leaned towards Steve, getting very close in his personal space, then saying, “apologies, Captain, but you sure do look ravishing if I do say so myself. I’m proud to be an American.” Y/N giggled at himself while Steve looked at him with an amused expression. 

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re flirting with me, Y/N.” Steve said, flashing his captivating smile. Y/N stared at him with dazed eyes before leaning back and downing his fifth shot of liquid courage.

"Maybe I am flirting with you, Steve. That's what I was doing last time we talked in case you didn't realize."

"Yes, you were quite subtle the last time we spoke." He said sarcastically. He took a sip of whatever he ordered from the bar before continuing. "Speaking of, I've been meaning to talk to you ever since that night, but I could never get a hold of you."

Y/N laughed, not knowing if Steve actually knew why he hasn't seen him since or if he really was oblivious. "Well, Steve, I was avoiding you because I made a fool of myself the last time we talked." A hiccup came out of Y/N's throat. "And then I said to myself, 'Steve probably thinks I'm weird so I'll avoid him to prevent any further embarrassment'." 

"Well, I really did enjoy our conversation last time, Y/N. I mean it."

Similar to their last encounter, a wave of deafening silence consumed the pair's conversation, the awkward tension causing Y/N to become slightly sober. Fortunately for him, the alcohol was still very much prevalent in his bloodstream, giving him enough confidence to break the awkward silence.

"Sometimes I wish I could just run away – leave this life behind and escape to some deserted island.” Y/N glanced towards Steve who was already looking at him. "It's too much at times – this life."

"It would be easier if you had someone with you for the journey."

Y/N looked at him, feigning an incredulous look. "Are you implying with your word choice, manner of speaking and overall cadence that you want to be that person for me?" Y/N laughed, scoffed was more like it. "I'd say you're the person flirting with me, Steve."

Steve chuckled softly, his eyes never leaving Y/N. "Maybe I am, Y/N."

Y/N could only stare at him as his heart skipped a beat. Perhaps it was the alcohol messing with his senses and disposition, but his usual wit was gone and he was speechless – a rare moment for Starks. Noticing his hesitation, Steve leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to a near whisper.

"Y/N, you don't have to go through this life alone. I've seen through your father how hard it can be for someone in your position. But you don't have to bear it all by yourself."

"Do you really mean that, Steve? Or are you just saying all this because I'm drunk and pathetic." Y/N's voice wavered, the confidence he had during their last encounter was noticeably absent.

Steve reached out, placing a hand on Y/N's shoulder. "I've noticed you, Y/N. Even though we haven't talked much, I can already tell you're a special person. You're more than just Tony Stark's kid. There's something unique about you. And I want to get to know you more."

The butterflies Y/N felt during their last encounter returned and did pirouettes in his stomach. "I don't know what to say, Steve."

"You don't have to say anything right now. Just know I'll be here and I won't be leaving anytime soon."

Y/N looked at Steve, a whirlwind of emotions torpedoing inside of him. For the first time in a long time, he didn't feel so alone. The confidence suddenly returned and a smile braced itself on Y/N's face. "Are you technically asking me out?"

Steve only laughed in response before standing up and saying, "I can take you home now if you want."

Y/N quickly stood up. "Oh yes please, Steve. Another minute in here and I think I'll have an aneurysm." As the two started walking, a sudden wave of a burdening reminder of his father's presence washed over Y/N. "Wait, I can't leave – dad said I-." 

Before Y/N could finish, Steve quickly interrupted him. "I think everyone here, including Tony, can see you're in no condition to be here any longer." 

Y/N could only nod, too exhausted to protest. As they exited the building Y/N's head grew heavy, and it gently fell onto Steve’s shoulder. Steve tensed for a moment, then relaxed as his arm slowly wrapped around Y/N’s waist, pulling him closer. “Take me home, Steve,” Y/N mumbled softly against his shoulder, his breath warm against Steve’s neck.

"That's what I'm doing right now, Y/N." Steve said softly.

------------------------------------

After exiting the building, Steve hailed one of the idle limousines across the museum. He had to carefully slide in Y/N's body before sliding in beside him.

The ride back to the Avenger's Compound was quiet and tranquil, a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of the earlier evening. Steve glanced at his watch - it said 3:33 AM - then turned his gaze towards Y/N's sleeping body leaning against the car window. A small dribble of saliva was escaping the corners of his mouth, and Steve quietly chuckled.

"I can feel you looking at me. Cut it out." 

"Unfortunately, I can't seem to stop my eyes from lingering on things I find beautiful." Y/N could only blush at Steve's unexpectedly sappy words, unaware the super soldier had it in him to be a corny romantic.

"You're no better than any other man, Steve Rogers," Y/N teased, though his voice was softer than before. Steve smiled, but was interrupted by a loud yawn erupting from his mouth. Abruptly, Y/N sat up straight from his slouched position, suddenly remembering something in his drunken haze. "You know, you still have yet to cash in on my offer, Steve."

"You mean your offer to be in bed with you?" Steve asked, his tone in between amusement and curiosity.

Y/N eagerly nodded. "I wouldn't mind if that happened tonight."

Steve's head turned at a concerning speed that definitely would've given a normal person severe whiplash. He gave Y/N a stern yet somber look, one that carried warmth with a reprimanding undertone behind it. "I'm not going to sleep with you, Y/N. I mean, you're drunk and that would be me taking advantage of you – I'd like to think you expect better from me."

Y/N blinked, looking both very offended and embarrassed. "That is absolutely not what I meant, Steve, you naughty man!" He crossed his arms and sunk into the limo's soft leather seats. "I meant that it would be nice if we just laid and went to sleep together...I just don't want to be alone tonight."

Steve's expression softened immediately, understanding the vulnerability behind Y/N's words. Their eyes met, a silent agreement shared between them, filling the rest of the ride with warmth from their comforting connection. 

As the car grew quiet again, Y/N, emboldened by the last remnants of alcohol in his system, threw one more cheeky remark towards Steve. "But you would have sex with me, right?" 

Steve laughed, his head shaking, but the tenderness in his smile spoke volumes. "Get some rest, Y/N. We'll talk in the morning."

------------------------------------

Y/N stirred awake in his bed, his eyes wincing as the harsh rays pierced through a gap between his bedroom curtains. His head pounded, and a wave of nausea met him immediately. Unable to fight it, Y/N ran to his bathroom, purging the contents of last night's festivities in his toilet. It was quite a horrid sight. 

After what seemed like hours, Y/N exited from his bathroom, wanting to get more sleep. Stumbling back to his bed, he noticed the large body-shaped mound from underneath his blankets. Frightened, he approached it cautiously, scared of the idea of having drunkenly slept with a stranger. 

Slowly uncovering the body, Y/N was met with the peaceful sight of a sleeping Captain America. Steve's chest rose and fell steadily, lips parted as he took even breaths. Then, the events of the previous night came rushing back to him like a semi-good dream and Y/N mentally facepalmed himself. However, while he internally scolded himself for his embarrassing behaviour, he also congratulated himself for having been somewhat successful in his endeavours of pursuing Steve. 

Laying back down gingerly beside Steve, Y/N grabbed his phone from the nightstand. The time was 11:11 AM and Y/N silently made a wish to himself. He noticed he had received 10 missed calls and nearly 50+ messages from his dad. Thinking it was regarding his early leave from the gala, Y/N decided to deal with his father later, still exhausted from the night before. Opening Twitter (he refused to call it 'X'), Y/N's eyebrows furrowed as he saw his name trending alongside 'Steve Rogers' and 'Captain America.' A knot formed in his stomach and he decided to Google his name. The urge to puke suddenly returned as he was met with a news article reading:

‘Hottest New Couple in NYC?! – Captain America & Y/N Stark Seen  Seen Getting Cozy During Annual Stark Gala’  

Below the headline was a picture snapped of Steve and Y/N at the bar, Steve leaning closely towards Y/N as both shared very flirtatious smiles towards each other. Y/N groaned loudly, causing Steve to stir awake. Today was going to be PR hell.

FIN

A/N: This actually took multiple days to write and while rereading it it's actually really corny? But, fanfic writing is actually kind of fun, I might do it more. Anyways, hope you enjoyed :) Also sorry for any mistakes I'm too lazy to revise

[ereawrites]

couldn't stop thinking about this post so I wrote it.. from elrond's pov bc why not!

wc: 1.1k | cw: none

fluff, mutual?pining, dumb puppy elrond

Elrond spots the necklace nestled amongst the wares of an artisan jeweller one early autumn day - a stall he barely even glances at in his haste - and for some inexplicable reason, he thinks of you.

Well. He knows the reason. It's because the gem is the exact colour that your eyes are when you turn your head away from him and the light catches the iris just right and you practically glow - and he tries not to think too hard about the fact that he can't recall that same hue in any of his other friends' eyes.

He's in a rush, but he stops anyway. The woman is kind, motherly-looking; she laughs when he has to juggle the armful of scrolls he carries to fish the coin purse from his pocket.

"Your love is a lucky one," she smiles as she hands him the box, a soft green velvet that reminds him of your favourite cloak. "To have such a generous admirer."

Elrond blinks, and swallows. "Ah - no, it's for a friend. A very dear one, but no more."

She pats his hand gently, eyes twinkling. He's running too late to dwell on it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It's four days before he's able to make the time to seek you out. The box sits on his desk in the meantime, and Elrond keeps finding himself opening it. Admiring the craftsmanship, he thinks. The colour really is quite beautiful.

Four days of torturous meetings and endless papers to read over. Gil-Galad seems to take pity on him then, tells him to leave in time for the evening meal, and perhaps run a brush through his hair. Elrond laughs at that, but does it anyway.

He has to run - why must he always be running? - to catch you in the gardens before the food is served. Once, he used to join you here every evening. Now he counts himself lucky to come once in a moon's turn.

As always, you're happy to see him, welcoming him with a warm caress of his cheek. He leans into it. As always.

Your palm lingers, thumb tracing the dark shadows that have formed under his eyes before falling away. "You look tired, mellon. Somehow I sense you may be overworking yourself again."

"Nonsense. I do only as much as is required of me.", he begins, desperate to wash away the concerned furrow of your brow. It works, if only because you instead raise it as if to scold him wordlessly. "Ai. I suppose it has been a busier week than usual."

You've always been able to see right through him, and he's never been able to lie to you anyway.

The autumn breeze catches your hair as you reply, twist of your mouth and crinkle of your eyes betraying your admonishing tone. "Just a week? I haven't seen you for two. I'd half-feared our king had shackled you to your desk and condemned you to an eternity of paperwork."

"I beg you, do not speak the idea around him. He may just follow through."

You laugh, and the trees dance in response, shaking off their golden leaves. Elrond gathers your hands in his, holding them close to his chest. "But, truly - I am sorry that I have neglected our friendship of late."

Your gaze softens and you make to comfort him, perhaps, or to say that you understand - you always understand, no one knows his mind better - but he silences you by drawing the velvet box from within his robes.

"A gift?", you ask as he presses it into your palms, not taking your eyes from his. He nods. "Well... I am very upset with you."

"And rightly so.", he says gravely. Your smile warms him against the chill of the evening breeze. "I had hoped this might redeem me."

Once he gives your wrist an encouraging squeeze, you open the box, and gasp like all the air has been knocked out of you. "Oh - it's beautiful."

"It made me think of you.", he responds instantly, before he's given any consideration to how that sounds. Fool. You don't seem to notice, though, too focused on tracing a finger over the gem and watching the way it sparkles in the dying sunset light.

"Thank you, Elrond. Mae carnen. In fact, I must wear it tonight so everyone can share in its' beauty.". You press the necklace into his waiting palm, and turn from him. "Will you fasten it for me, please?"

He fumbles a little with the clasp, a far cry from his usual steady hand. It must be the cold air. Or fatigue, he thinks. He lowers the chain over your head and his heart warms at the way your hand comes up to caress the stone against your chest. "I am glad you like it."

You hum contentedly. For that moment, there is only the rustle of the leaves, the gentle lapping of water in the fountain, the distant music and chatter - the clasp does up easily and Elrond lifts your hair carefully, meaning to settle the chain against your nape. He doesn't know why the tips of his fingers linger against your skin, or why he so gently moves away the stray tendril of hair that isn't interfering at all, or why his knuckles seem to brush against your back of their own accord as he lets your hair down. The movement lets him catch just the barest hint of the scent you wear, and the breath in his throat hitches almost imperceptibly.

What is he doing?

That quiet moment is gone as quickly as it came. You turn to face him. "I would like anything in this world if it came to me from you, mellon. But this really is beautiful. I am lucky to have you."

You're close enough that he can see the goosebumps rising across your collarbones. His head is spinning. He's exhausted, he must be, more so than he realised; he hates to worry you, though, so he smiles, and says softly, "Am I forgiven, mellon nin?".

Then, you come up onto your tiptoes, steadying yourself with splayed palms against his chest, and - you kiss him on the cheek, something you've done a thousand times, so - why does he feel dizzy?

"Quite.", you grin, and slip your arm into his in a well-practiced motion. "Now, let us go and find you some food. You look a little faint. I'll be having words with our king if this continues, I don't care that-"

Elrond hardly hears the rest of your tirade as you lead him out of the gardens. The realisation has hit him like a punch to the gut.

Oh. Oh.

He's in trouble.

[turtle-paced]

Revisiting Chapters: Bran II, ASoS

Happy new year! Have a story.

The story so far…

Having made their escape from Winterfell and deciding to head north beyond the Wall, it’s now a matter of travelling for Bran and company. Lots and lots of travelling.

The Northern Landscape

The land is the first thing we’re hit with this chapter. Trees with autumn colours have given way to evergreens, the Wolfswood to flint hills into grey mountains. The land is scattered with long lakes and devoid of roads - game trails only, as we find out later. And it’s cold. Bran, Hodor, Meera and Jojen are heading north, following the blue eye of the Ice Dragon constellation, going up and down and occasionally getting turned around for short amounts of time.

Bran is not loving it.

But Bran’s life had turned into endless chilly days on Hodor’s back, riding his basket up and down the slopes of mountains.

Meera is also not loving it, or maybe she is. She has mixed feelings about mountains, which she tries and fails to explain to Bran. Jojen has the more poetic take that opposites, whether it’s fire and ice, marsh and mountain, or love and hate, aren’t so different after all. The land is one, he says. Meera replies that the land's too wrinkly.

Weather and food both are becoming issues as the group travels. Game is scarce. The temperature is cold. They get caught in a sleet storm, which sounds incredibly miserable. Bran wants to go to the Kingsroad, but Jojen says it’s too dangerous. They’ll be spotted.

That said, Bran soon points out that they’ve already been spotted. Summer’s seen them. There are people in these hills. Sometimes Umbers - usually to the east and usually in summer. Wulls to the west, Harclays to the south, and around where they are now there are Knotts, Liddles, Norreys, and Flints. Bran’s maternal grandmother was a Flint - distant family.

The concerns about witnesses are proven valid when rain drives the group into a cave with a Liddle man. No names are exchanged. Lots of helpful information is. Bran asks how far to the Wall; he’s told it’s still a decent journey if you can’t fly over the hills. They’re warned off the Kingsroad:

“When there was a Stark in Winterfell, a maiden girl could walk the kingsroad in her name-day down and still go unmolested, and travelers could find fire, bread, and salt at many an inn and holdfast. But nights are colder now, and doors are closed.

More immediately, the ‘Bastard’s boys’ are on the road. They’re paying silver for wolfskins and maybe gold for walking dead (no, not the zombie kind). The way the Liddle puts this leaves little doubt that he knows exactly who Bran is. Ramsay’s people also know full well that Bran and Rickon escaped. The news that Bran and Rickon are alive cannot be hidden indefinitely. There are just too many people who know. A bit later, the party circles back around to what happened at Winterfell. They noticed a lot of dead Ironborn and no dead women. The immediate conclusion is that it wasn’t Theon who did the killing.

The Liddle also warns Bran off heading towards the Wall, where Sam’s ravens without messages have at least effectively communicated that some deadly serious shit happened north of the Wall. Which tells Bran and company that at the very least, they’re not likely to find meaningful help at the Wall. Perhaps not even safety.

But they can have sausage and oatcakes instead.

One day there would be Starks in Winterfell again, he told himself, and then he’d send for the Liddles and pay them back a hundredfold for every nut and berry.

This is just about the power of small kindnesses. What follows that is more empathic landscape - a bit more sun, a bit smoother a slope. Just a little bit more bearable all round. And with that, it’s easier to tell stories.

The People of the Crannogs

It’s overshadowed by certain other things this chapter, but it’s definitely worth getting into how much we learn about the residents of the crannogs in this chapter. First we see Meera hunting (and Bran’s developing first crush). She’s a lord’s daughter, but skilled at both hunting and spearfishing. Quite what this says about food security in the Neck, or various recreational pastimes, or gender roles, isn’t clear.

In one of the most hopeful moments of the series to date, Jojen promises the Liddle that he will not be left with ghosts - the wolves will come again. He’s dreamed it. “There are dreams and dreams,” he says. Without more of a sample size you wouldn’t like to say that the crannogpeople culturally have respect for true dreaming and perhas the associated mysticism - but Jojen is confident in referring to those dreams as authoritative. He’s not afraid of sounding ridiculous, he’s used to the idea that dreams can give foreknowledge. Given that Meera refers to “the magics of my people”, it seems that there's a level of respect for magic within their society.

Bran asks for stories after a while. Stories about knights! Jojen tells him there are no knights in the Neck. Meera corrects him that there are no knights above the water - lots of dead ones below, though.

“Andals and ironmen, Freys and other fools, all those proud warriors who set out to conquer Greywater. Not one of them could find it. They ride into the Neck, but not back out. And sooner or later they blunder into the bogs and sink beneath the weight of all that steel and drown there in their armour.”

Thus speaks Jojen. Which is another very informative passage about the people of the crannogs. They have a very different fighting tradition, even to the North. The armour the crannogpeople seem to prefer, it seems, are shirts sewn with bronze scales, plus a leathern shield; the weight is not the best when fighting in the marshy ground. Even their greatest castle is camoflauged or otherwise hidden, which again doesn’t seem to invite the whole siege and straight fight. Instead, the crannogpeople seem happy for their enemies to charge around carelessly and get themselves killed. We’ll see in future books that this isn’t the end of their strategies, but even from this admittedly partisan viewpoint, this seems like a brutally effective strategy.

We get some more details by implication as Howland Reed himself is introduced in the story of the Knight of the Laughing Tree:

“He grew up hunting and fishing and climbing trees, and learned all the magics of my people. […] He could breathe mud run on leaves, and change earth to water and water to earth with no more than a whispered word. He could talk to trees and make castles appear and disappear.”

Another point for hunting and fishing being appropriate for the upper strata of crannog society. And a good hint at Howland’s moving castle.

The Knight of the Laughing Tree

With spirits a bit higher, the party starts swapping stories. Meera nominates the tale of the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Oddly, Jojen says that Bran must have heard that tale a hundred times. But no, Bran hasn’t heard it even once.

Since it’s Meera telling the story as it was told to her by her father, it starts with Howland Reed (not named within the tale). Howland Reed, who wants to see a bit more of the world than just the crannogs, and who goes to find the Green Men on the Isle of Faces. After a productive winter visit, he heads off when spring arrives, and wanders right into the Tourney of Harrenhal. Meera doesn’t use family names, but the identities of the attendees are clear: King Aerys, Rhaegar, all the Kingsguard, Mace Tyrell, Robert Baratheon. Tywin’s had a spat with the king and didn’t show, but there are a lot of Westerlands lords there.

But women also attend (though Bran asks with suspicion if this is going to be a love story - there’s no other reason for women tot be present in a story except romance!). Elia Martell counts as a fair maid, and she’s brought a full dozen lady companions, with the men flocking around them.

But almost no sooner has Howland Reed shown his face than he’s set upon by vicious Walders. As Jojen says, “sometimes the knights are the monsters.” Squires or not, all of them are bigger than Howland Reed. Howland marks their faces as he’s being beaten - but even as that happens, a “she-wolf” arrives and sends all of the squires packing with a tourney sword. Lyanna Stark insists Howland come with her, first to meet the other Starks (explicitly noted in this is that Brandon’s the leader), and then to the feast.

Throughout the description of the action, Meera uses heraldry to identify the characters, rather than names. While this makes sense - did Howland know those names? What’s easier for the audience hearing this story spoken aloud? - It does mean a little piecing together is needed for the reader. Among the more important interactions are Lyanna crying at Rhaegar’s beautiful music (and then pouring wine on Benjen when he laughed at her), and Brandon asking Ashara Dayne to dance with Ned. Tragically, the woman the readers already know committed suicide is described here as having “laughing” eyes - a good bit of writing that implies the terrible things that happened to her over the course of Robert’s Rebellion.

Central to Meera’s story, though, is Howland spotting the Frey squires at the feast. Benjen offers to find Howland a horse and armour, but Howland is conflicted. He has his pride, and he knows jousting isn’t his forte. He doesn’t want to embarrass himself or his people more than he already has.

“You never heard this tale from your father?” asked Jojen.

At the jousting the next day, a mystery knight shows up, sure enough. Bran thinks the knight was the crannogman - they were short, in mismatched (obviously borrowed) armour, and the small crannogman fits the bill. The knight, named in the story for the device on their shield as the Knight of the Laughing Tree, challenged the masters of the squires. They won the jousts, demanding that the knights discipline their squires for the return of their horses and armour. Afterwards, at the feast, others swear to unmask the mystery knight (including Robert Baratheon), with King Aerys sending Rhaegar out to unmask the knight. But though Rhaegar returned with the shield, the knight vanished into thin air.

Bran thinks the story is…okay. Look, he’s got some opinions about what would be dramatically satisfying here. They needed to commit to making the knights the bad guys. There needs to be more violence, with the knights killed at the end. And for all that Bran complained about love stories, he wanted that romance subplot in - and resolved. (Though this does tell you a bit about how women are perceived as standard rewards in the in-universe fiction. The bloody eight year old has bought into it.) Meera tells Bran that Lyanna was indeed named the Queen of Love and Beauty: “but that’s a sadder story.”

“Are you certain you never heard this tale before, Bran?” asked Jojen. “Your lord father never told it to you?”

Because what Bran hasn’t realised is that this isn’t a far off tale of times long gone. This happened less than twenty years ago. This is his family’s recent past - part of events that shaped his family and the politics of the world he lives in profoundly. What Bran misses is right there for the readers.

Chapter Function

This chapter mostly exists for Meera’s story and the promise that the wolves will come again. The rest of it’s mostly walking.

There are very few ways we can get insight into these key events of the backstory with all these child protagonists who weren’t even born when these Big Deals happened. The mechanism of a story for children is actually a really good one, since it tells us about another culture, another time, and two different families.

In writing terms, it’s also an excellent way of showing the readers what’s important through the implications of what’s not told. Meera’s main narrative is about Howland’s experiences, so the ‘camera’ glances at Lyanna, at the interactions between the Stark siblings, at Rhaegar and Aerys, but doesn’t focus on them. They’re unmistakeably there, but they’re not gone into, which leaves room for speculation and mystery and the certain level of ambiguity that GRRM's stories thrive on.

Even more than this, there’s the in-universe meta-level of what’s not told. Ned’s been dead for a book and a half, and we’re still learning about him just for knowing that he couldn’t bear to tell his own children this story.

And why can’t Ned tell this story? Lyanna. Lyanna is the hero of this particular story, even more than Howland Reed. From the very beginning she’s an active presence. This is a story Lyanna drove, first by rescuing Howland from the Freys, then by taking him into the Stark tent, then by avenging Howland’s honour when Howland could not avenge his own. What we’re shown is a girl with both physical and moral courage. She’s daring, ready to fight squires, stand up for her father’s bannerman, and defy social convention to joust in the lists herself. Even in this little story for children, Lyanna’s a memorable character.

Through this, more than just telling us about Lyanna, GRRM shows us the effect all this had on Ned. The pointed, grief-stricken silence is palpable even as the implications fly over Bran’s head. It keeps Ned’s character and his silence in the reader’s view. Which is going to be important when at the end, GRRM has to talk about Ned’s character, his grief, and his silence - again relating to Lyanna.

Miscellany

This chapter is far more about what’s going on around Bran than his internal experiences, but even then:

He followed it with his eyes, wondering what it would be like to soar about the world so effortless. Better than climbing, even. He tried to reach the eagle, to leave his stupid crippled body and rise into the sky to join it, the way he joined with summer. The greenseers could do it. I should be able to do it too.

That said, it’s worth noting that Bran flips back to explicitly preferring knighthood at the end of Meera’s story. Acceptance is a process. Bran's going through it.

The internalised ableism continues strongly. And on that note, mind Bran’s interaction with Hodor. Hodor likes stories about knights, Bran says. Hodor doesn’t like love stories, Bran says. Are these Hodor’s preferences, or is Bran using Hodor as an excuse? On one level it’s childish behaviour from a child…but on another, it’s Bran using Hodor’s voice for his own ends.

Who doesn’t love Jojen’s shade about “Freys and other fools”?

It’s flagged that Howland Reed did meet the Green Men, “but that’s another story.”

We also learn in this chapter that not-yet-Ser Barristan entered a tourney as a mystery knight when he was ten.

Clothing Porn

The Liddle man wears a squirrelskin cloak with a pinecone-shaped clasp in gold and bronze.

Food Porn

Bran fantasises about the eel, fish, and hot crab pie that Osha might be eating at White Harbour. Later, there’s actual blood sausage and oatcakes. Oatcakes with pine nuts and oatcakes with blackberries.

Next Three Chapters

Tyrion V, ACoK - Eddard X, AGoT - Sam V, AFFC

[jukkaricity]

Veilguard Appreciation Week 2025 - Day 1

This is a bit of a mess because I realized in the morning that I read the rules a little bit diagonally and what I had been preparing ahead of time might not be exactly what was intended, so I started from scratch between buses and an airplane back home.

Today's prompts for the @veilguard-appreciation-week:

The Grand Necropolis | Curiosity | "Close your eyes. Take a breath."

“Curiosity killed the cat” 

A sentiment Johanna had heard for as long as her memory could recall.

From her mother’s mouth when she was but a wee child too short to even be seen above the table. She got caught ripping wings off moths and flies that foolishly failed to escape the kitchen in the heat of summer morning. 

It was there spoken in her father’s voice when he refused to let her examine a massive elk carcass they had found in the forest on the misty autumn day. She heard it in the Chantry Sister’s scolding when she tried to watch the deathbeds being cleaned on a crisp winter night. Always there, in an endless loop, an array of voices looking out to curb her drive. Deny her thirst for knowledge. 

“Curiosity killed the cat.” She heard again as a teenager when she ran far into the Necropolis depths after a funeral. She wished for the dead to listen to her command. For the wisps to gather near. But it seemed that not even they would understand. Not on this day. Not if all she had was pleas and cries.

She had heard it over and over from professors and Mourn Watchers during her studies.  Do not stray too far. Do not dig too deep. Thousands of years of knowledge — yet most of it locked out of her grasp. Those of weak minds and sheepish souls would try to deny her what was for once right at her fingertips. 

„Curiosity killed the cat” she had waited years for Volkarin to say it too. And while he never did, not in such crude words, even he failed to share her vision. A mind to match hers and yet he was more than happy to waste it on decorum, traditions and limitations. No matter. Such irrelevant details would not stop the ever turning pursuit of knowledge. And knowledge is power. To deny herself the satisfaction on his account? Unthinkable.

Perhaps curiosity did kill a cat after all, Johanna pondered when the last of the pieces finally fell into place before her. But is death truly a price too high to pay, should there be more after? A curiosity satiated, satisfaction that could bring her back. 

For if there was one thing that Johanna Hezenkoss knew beyond any doubt: she’d rather be dead than denied.