#grey face strangers ;; anons

[losersiren]

𝒜 𝒥𝑒𝒶𝓁𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝒴𝒶𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝑒!𝐿𝑜𝓇𝒹

”𝒶𝓈𝓀 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓁𝒹, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼'𝓁𝓁 𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒾𝓉 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒷𝑒𝓎𝑜𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝓈 𝒶𝒸𝒸𝑒𝓈𝓈𝑜𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈.” A continuation of my oc Ambrose, The lord N: Don't I have a gift for you, Anon! God, I had to rewrite this so many times, BUT I'M DONE!! Eat up! This is a long one! I had to watch so many gun videos (like two), which was unexpected... CW: Fem reader (she/her), acts and talks of violence (not towards the reader), implied murder, threats, guns, fluff (with the reader lol), mocking, power balance (?) Jealousy (or pettiness) Wc: 3.5k 

A shotgun sound echoes throughout the forest, followed by yet another dead Grey partridge and light crunches of leaves beneath stomping leather boots. 

“That bastard of a man! A prick! Son of a bitch! Son of an adventuress at that!” Ambrose stops in his tracks, reloading his sporting rifle with more gunpowder. Anger consumes his entire being. ”Did you hear what that bloody cocksucker Patrick said to her?” He hissed through his clenched teeth, grabbing the tiny 0.5 mm sphere lead bullet and layering it on top of some fabric. Shoving it inside the rifle barrel, “If what he said changed from the last few hundred times you’ve re-told the incident, then I have no utter clue.”  The younger male rolls his eyes, picking up the tenth bird Ambrose has slaughtered this afternoon. He ignores his younger cousin’s sarcastic quip and continues. “ ‘If you wish for a lovely evening, do not be a stranger; send me a letter, and I'll be by your side.’ I should’ve darkened his daylights when those vile words left his devil mouth.” He fixes his gun upright, pushing the first trigger, waiting for another prey to be a victim of his wrath. 

“Is she spoken for? Have you outwardly said you intend to court her?” His cousin questions, and Ambrose, in retaliation to his younger relative’s question….blushes like a young girl. Clenching his jaw, he answers, “No,” “Are you mad?!?” “I’ve attempted…but my nervousness has sabotaged me alas.” Astonished, his cousin continues, “Then you have no right to be jealous of her, you fool.” 

Bushes start rustling. Ambrose aims and squints instantly, with a pointer finger on the second trigger. A small grey rabbit appears, and immediately, it's killed straight through its skull; a soft smile appears on Ambrose’s face. “For her, I'll be whatever is needed.” 

“You are not sane.”

“Don’t be rude, Finch. This is love in its purest form. One day, you’ll understand.” The older male shrugs his shoulders.

“Now,” Ambrose reloads his gun, repeating his past actions, but this time, he looks straight into the other male’s eyes. “What do you know about Patrick Barton?” “I do not-” Ambrose cuts him off. “ Do not lie to me, young Finch…” His voice becomes lower, mocking, his aura more sinister. “You frequent more gentleman clubs than I; lord knows I hate the people and atmosphere of said clubs– Your mother grumbles enough to mine about the subject.” In goes the gunpowder: “You surround yourself with such…’ vast’ personalities from the elites to the ladies of the night.” The grey-eyed man reaches into his waistcoat for a lead bullet. “Yet you tell me– you don’t know about a mere Lord.” He scoffs.

Finch watches his older cousin's actions. Of course, he only asked to spend time with him for information regarding the apple of his eye’s new ‘suitor.’ The young man knows his current situation, the number of Grey partridge carcasses he holds because of Ambrose, and how far deep he’s in the forest, alone with his turbulent cousin. This was a warning, a show of sorts, that he could join these insignificant birds. He tries to swallow the heavy lump stuck in his throat. Ambrose was always the odd man; his smile never reached his eyes, his charm as real as a disloyal man’s ‘ I love you.’ His older cousin wasn’t above putting his hands on his own blood to get what he wanted– Ambrose’s father’s scar is evidence enough. 

“He partakes in Hell’s, frequents them more than gentleman’s clubs, a gambler of sorts. Loves it! He brags about the thrills of it and his winnings. Folks whisper that he’s a dishonourable shark. But it's not just hell establishments he attends; If there's someplace to gamble away his earnings, he's there,” Finch sputters his confession. 

“And Mills? Does he attend those as well?” “Yes,” The younger lad answers his senior instantly.

Ambrose just hums in return.

Just finishing his task, he aims for his cousin; he wears an inexpressive face, his grey eyes darkened and vacant, with no light, no soul.

“Wait, wait! I told you what you wanted!” Finch pleas. He could run, but in retrospect, how far can he go? Ambrose has a fucking rifle. He’s a good shot, no, an excellent shot. Hell! It’s borderline impossible how he always hits his targets, especially with how hard it is to aim for those things. Finch is panicking; his cousin has already pushed the first trigger. The nervous lad just accepts it; what else could he do? He closes his eyes, expecting his death to come quickly, then he hears a gunshot…

And he's fine…? Another Grey partridge falls from the sky right before him, its dead eye looking at the twenty-year-old.

Ambrose’s gun aims towards the sky. He lowers it. Then he casually approaches the stunned male, who lets out a staggered sigh, relieved he escaped death by a hair. Ambrose looks down at Finch, grabbing his shoulder and leaning in close. “Don’t ever fucking lie to me ever again, especially when the topic concerns my love.” Finch nods rapidly, shaking like a leaf. “Of course, sir, sorry.” Then, the older male releases his shoulders. “Good. Gift those birds to a peasant; perhaps they’ll make dinner with it, oh, and the rabbit, too. Say I have decided to help my community or something along those lines.” He looks at the sky. “I have a woman blessed by aphrodite to court.” His smile is bright, contrasting how he was a mere few seconds ago. He pats his younger cousin’s back and leaves the forest– The lifeless Grey partridge stares back at Finch, and he stares back.

Social calls…How dreadful. Worse is conversing with Lord Barton. He’s a bore, vulgar, and has an underlying inconsiderate, bitter personality. Having your mother as a chaperone does not make the situation any more bearable. 

 “Have you ever pondered about the future?” he inquires.

What kind of wet rag question is that? 

You put on a gentle smile. “Of course I have. Since I was a chit, I would read the local papers with my father-” He cuts you off “Children.” You look at him in confusion. “Pardon?”

The gentleman looks at you like you’re the biggest dunce in the country. “Children, how many children do you wish for? It would be sensible for us to have eight or ten,” “Hah…well…” you lift the tea cup to your mouth.

The man has no decorum…

After that fiasco, you decided to take a stroll downtown, and perhaps you’ll get a book from the local store, some new fabrics from a linen draper, or even some oils. Your pin money given to you by your parents could only cover one item... what a conundrum….

“Do tell me why the viscount’s only daughter is doing without a chaperone?” He leans against the brick wall, arms crossed, his smile beaming.

“Lord Howard, have you dropped your hunting hobby in exchange for stalking?” He chuckles. “Witty as always, but dare I disappoint? I was just strolling about my day and coincidentally saw you– Perhaps fate has decided for us to meet?” He pushes himself off the wall and offers his arm. Was it coincidence or fate…? No, it was none; it was all Ambrose, him asking your fellow lady peers about your whereabouts. Then, wandering near whatever local shops would possibly pique your interest. Memories play in his head, such as when you both were young and would rendezvous at the local forest. You would acquire many hobbies when you were younger– your mother said you would have a higher chance of obtaining a suitor with diverse skills. He would remember them and watch you in amazement when you talked about them. 

You made him feel human. You made him feel alive. His father was never a loving one; he gained the son he wanted, and his heir then wanted nothing more to do with him. The only attention Ambrose earned from The Earl was if he needed reprimanding. Every laugh that was too loud, every fork that he unitized improperly, every action, small or big, was scrutinized. His mother was a vacant husk of a woman at home and a social butterfly in the public eye; she watered herself down to being a wife and a mother. She was neither. He detested both of them and hated that damned empty feeling of his soul and heart that matched his vacated house; he felt nothing. His world was as grey as his eyes.

Till he met the colourful Viscount’s daughter– If he got kicked by a horse and lost his memory, he would still somehow remember the day you two met—the memory ingrained in his bones, body, and soul. On the way to your estate, the stately carriage was soundless and suffocating, as if the air was thick. Ambrose remembers how he bore his eyes into his obsidian-polished boots, wishing for the minutes to pass faster.  

You were a naive hoyden the first time you introduced yourself; you forgot to say his title and yours. Using his common name and giving him an oh-so-sweet genuine smile, he hadn’t ever seen such an authentic smile for him and only him—not for his parents nor his riches. Just him. Your parents scolded you while apologizing profusely for your ‘disrespect.’ Before his parents could utter something backhanded yet elegant, Ambrose smiled. He didn’t know he could do that. For the first time, the young boy speaks up; he feels this protectiveness over you. But, at the moment, Ambrose couldn't care less about his father's punishment that would soon come; the only thing that mattered was you, and soon he’d found out that it would always be you.

An airy laugh escapes you. “Do you wish for us to be caught in a scandal every time we meet?” He raises a faux, worried face and voice. “Me?!? As a future Earl, I am fulfilling my gentlemanly duties by escorting a fine young lady and keeping her from potential dangers. What’s so scandalous about that?” You take his arm. “You’re far from sane, My Lord.”

“For you, My lady? I hope so,” He says proudly with his chest out.

A comfortable silence lulls you as you look at how the sun hits the trees, people, and him. The sun's rays lighten his dark brown hair, blessing it with an orange hue and grey eyes, becoming Iridescent, more akin to a pearl.

“The latest on dit says Lord Barton has called for your company?” He inquires 

Your face grimaces at just the sound of his name. As much as you loathe the man, he is a viable suitor with good money and an excellent reputation, but a suitable suitor does not equate to a good man. “He’s…an interesting individual…” His jaw clenches. You’re not being open as he wants; you’re holding back…he hates that you might be hiding something. Not you per se but that damned rake Patrick. “He’s a rake,” he spits out, and you gaze at him. He’s uncharacteristically serious.

You smile. “He is,” Ambrose turns his head to you, returning your smile.

“Quite the feat to dissect the woman you are trying to woo as well.” The gentleman’s eyebrows furrow. “He did not,” you huff. “Oh, he did!” Ambrose stops in his tracks and mummers your name softly. “If you would only permit it, Allow me to court you,” You raise an eyebrow at the sudden question, “Pardon?” He continues, “That bastard doesn’t deserve you.” “And you do?” he chuckles. “No, but I’ll do everything you ask me to, then maybe one day I'll deserve you; you wish for dresses? I'll buy you the tailor and store. Money is far from an issue. Heavens, ask for the world, and I'll give you it with the stars and beyond as accessories.” He turns his whole body to you, his hands finding yours, his leather gloves causing a barrier between your soft ones.

He hates that 

“Ambrose…” 

“Please…only if you’ll allow me.”  The love-sick man entreated “But what about the other more suitable ladies? I’ve heard-” “I do not care for them,” He interrupts you. “Every second I was apart, I only longed for you. The only reason I kept my studies up was to be the perfect suitor equal to you.” He caresses your knuckles. The butterflies in your stomach flutter more after each word spills out of his mouth. Your relationship with Ambrose was vague at most. You couldn’t put your finger on it; every time you were in his presence, you had this comfort no one else could recreate. You were hesitant to put a label onto it, and maybe you feel this way because he was the only man you truly felt you could be yourself with. 

“If you wish to court me, you must’ve thought to ask my father for permission rather than myself.” 

“I could’ve,” He pauses, “But I'd rather ask you first; I need your permission. I am not marrying your father, am I? I need to hear you wish for me as much as I yearn for you,”  

You amuse the thought. Ambrose is a prick at times, his teasing relentless, but despite that, he’s charming, sincere, soothing, and protective. He’s a good man, indeed. 

“I’ll bite, My lord.” “Please do.” He smirked, masking his nervousness.

You slap his hand lightly, reprimanding him, “Let me continue, you brute…I’ll allow you to court me.” “Truly?” he exclaims, Astonished. “Truly,” You nod meekly. In a haste, he kisses your bare hands, each knuckle, each finger. “I’ve been blessed indeed,” his voice is as blissful as a child receiving a sugary dessert. You yank your hands away from him, flushed from his actions. “You dog, we are in the public,” you scold him. “I shall make it up to you in our next outing; I vow,” You swear you could see a wagging tale behind him. You sigh. 

The day went on, and by sundown, Ambrose had hired a post-chaise for the both of you despite your protests of you living just around the corner. He claimed he had ‘Earl-like duties to attend to’ and you were just on the route back either way. As a gentleman should, he dropped you off promptly; as he left in the carriage, away from your estate, you softly ran your fingers over your knuckles. A smile adorns your face. “What an oaf,” you whisper to yourself. A fond grin decorates Ambrose’s face, a few giggles even, but as euphoric this day was, he did have business to attend to. A certain lord has decided to make his lacklustre presence known, and Ambrose couldn’t celebrate until he exterminated said pest.

Gentleman’s clubs were boisterous, loud, and untrustworthy. The men here are just as vile as the feed that is fed to pigs. The soon-to-be-Earl disliked them and only engaged in them because he needed to build his reputation. He may be judgemental, but he isn’t an idiot. Others may regard him as a friend, but for him, he could care less for it. The males around him start to recognize Ambrose, yelling pleasantries, which he would return and shut down politely or…as politely as he could in his eyes. A booming voice reverberates against the wall of the finely furnished building, only belonging to the one and only Patrick Barton. Unconsciously, a scowl appears on the young man’s face. Ambrose knew more than he led on about Patrick; he heard whispers of Barton’s hobby in the mills, rigging the boxing matches that were bid on by elites and peasants alike. Word says he would pay one of the desperate participants to lose on purpose– word is bound to escape one day or another. It is not a sustainable income source. Yet another reason Lord Barton is not fit for you.

Ambrose walks towards the table where the bastard sits, narrowing his eyes.

Lord Barton and his goons recognize the lord approaching them. Barton speaks first: “Lord Howard! Is it a blue moon? What on earth might’ve convinced you to come out of that dreadful estate?” He laughs, arranging some snuff onto the mahogany to snort. “Perhaps it’s because you plan on courting his woman.” a nameless male inquires. “No, could it be? I don’t blame you, Ambrose; she is a fine woman, isn’t she? She is just in need of training,” another male said, joining in. “So does every woman in this country.” Another chuckle escapes the vulgar lord. 

Ambrose’s leather gloves wrinkle. His fist clenched to prevent him from beating the man in front of him into a pummel. He has a plan, the grey-eyed man repeats in his head. Then he forces a smile on his face. “On the contrary, I've decided to pick up a new gambling hobby; why not ask the man of the hour himself for advice? Or even a game or two.” Ambrose signals a servant and orders drinks for the table. The man in question gets up, slapping Ambrose on his back. “Atta boy, never let a woman come between men; let bygones be bygones, what a joyance plan! Come, come.” The night continues, and Patrick is as drunk as the rest of the men in the club; Ambrose, the gentleman he is, offers him to join his carriage in his words. 'Let’s start this newfound friendship off with a bang.' Cold water hits the once-drunken lord, and he awakens, gasping for air on the cold textured ground. ‘Where am I?’ he thinks, discombobulated, looking around and grasping his situation. The dark forest surrounds him, almost engulfing him; the trees blow along with the wind, and the creatures of the night rustle in the background. A voice comes from the shadows, luring him away from his racing thoughts, “Gunpowder is such a messy substance, but did you know a man invented a gun powered by air? What a time to be alive! How revolutionary!” Patrick looks at the man, most of his body consumed by the darkness of nightfall, the moon only making his grey eyes visible. 

“Ambrose, what the utter fuck-” “Don’t interrupt.” He says sternly. “As I was saying, a gun powered by air,” He continues. “A watchmaker of all things invented it; how preposterous! He eliminated gunpowder entirely and named this new gun  Windbüchse or, I know you only know English, so pardon me, I'll translate, wind gun.”  

“It’s far better than my hunting rifle; the tedious thing is quite a hassle to reload. But this wind gun can load much faster, 20 rounds a minute! Compared to the other, it is much quieter. It's a shame its range is far smaller.” The man standing pouts. “But all is well. The Austrian army decided to order thousands of supplies, and it’s fortunate I even got my hands on one.” Patrick squints, trying to distinguish Ambrose, and it finally sets in. In a forest he doesn’t know of, with a man who has a gun in his hand in the dead of night. Not just any man but a Lord known for his physical fitness and hunting expertise since he was a just a lad. 

Fuck

“If this is about your lady, Ambrose, you can have her! There’s no need to do this!” Patrick tries to reason with the love-sick lord, yet it's no use. The other man scoffs, “I’ve always detested men like you, greedy, hypocritical. Ready to jump boat when things get too tough for your liking– where is your backbone? Where is your spine? Your pride?” Ambrose circles the pain-filled man on the ground. “You never deserved to even be in her presence; you aren’t even entitled to breathe the same air as her,” He then spontaneously kicks Patrick's ribs, causing him to curl up on a ball, yelping. Ambrose looks down at the pathetic man. “But, I am a fair man, unlike you, so I'll give you a chance to run while I read you the note I have written in your writing announcing your hasty departure after news of your rigging in the mills comes to light, your writing was not hard to duplicate as well; who knew mother’s penmanship lessons would come in handy,” He chuckles.

 “Now run, monkey, while you still can.” He sets the trigger and then turns the spindle of his gun clockwise till a clicking sound can be heard, indicating he doesn’t need to turn it anymore. Ambrose opens the barrel, puts in an 8.5 mm bullet, and then shuts it. 

“I’m sure we can talk this out reasonably, money! I have money! Have it all; buy your woman something nice-” Patrick feels his thigh get warmer at first rather than the pulsing pain of a bullet shooting through his thigh that would soon follow shortly after. He screams.“To think you have the naivety to think I couldn’t fund my lover for generations on end,”

Ambrose rolls his eyes. “Scream louder; perhaps you’ll awaken a bear to save you,” yet again, he starts reloading his wind gun, faster at that, “I am not one to repeat himself nor give mercy. Run, rabbit.”

With adrenaline coursing through his body, Patrick runs…or well, attempts to. 

 Ambrose reaches into his waistcoat for the forged letter, clearing his voice to read it while his other hand holds his gun. Though his attention should be on the task at hand, he is utterly distracted by possible outing plans you would adore. Shall he go canoeing with you? Or a picnic? A carriage ride underneath the newly blooming cherry blossoms? Why not all three?  

Oh. how he longs to see you again.

Notes: I'm gonna be so honest, romance is the hardest thing to write for me. It's probably noticeable, forgive me (⇀‸↼‶) I had to do some research for this one, but it was a fun process learning more about Regency lingo and gun history. For my next full fic. I was thinking of a yandere! Cannibalistic 50's housewife, but idk….hehe…if you have any ideas send them to my inbox!! I'd like to say again THANK YOU FOR THE SUPPORT!!! Reading all your kind words makes my little shy heart soar (o^ ^o) see you soon, my little guppies!! 

[cherryheairt]

Hidden Truths pt.2

Cregan x wife!reader

named reader no description, from house Glover

masterlist

part 1

thank y'all so much for the kind words and eagerness to see this part. Please forgive me for not replying to all asks being sent to inbox, you'll understand with the chap lol. The pressure was so real I had planned to write other things between pt 1 and 2 but I dropped everything to do this between work and sleep lol

changed the og ending because so many people thought it would be more fitting and I agreed lol

anon pointed out my mistake on glover and bolton im so sorry for that confusion yall it is meant to be glover originally. i made too many mistakes im a mess rn

Ernest makes it to Cregan's solar first, Ron not far on his heels. Panting, the younger speaks up first when Cregan Stark shoots them a bewildered look whilst hunched over his oak desk.

"Was Lady Stark due for some business today, My Lord?" He asked, catching his breath as Cregan sat up in his seat, attention fully on the guards.

"Not any that I'm aware of. Where is my wife?" He asked, glancing outside of his small window to the blistering storm outside. There was no way she would be anywhere except her chambers—not after he caught her soothing Brandon to sleep. The sight had melted his heart immediately, glad to see his wife finally finding it in her to go see him, to give him a chance.

Though, he could not blame her, of course. He could still remember the day he brought the Stark babe home, and how he dreaded the meet throughout his months of journeying home to Winterfell.

Aelys had been on the forefront of his mind, even through the slimy politicking of King's Landing. The wait was only made ever longer by the fact that the party Cregan traveled North with had to wait until Brandon was old enough to travel, too. Moons went by painstakingly slow, and Cregan moved to load the carriage for the boy as soon as the Maester gave his word that Bran would not be suseptible to the outdoors during long durations on the road.

Cregan dismounted his grey mare, patting her on the neck in thanks before the stable boy guided her back to her designated place. With a tense sigh, he rolled his shoulders and opened the carriage door that held Brandon and his new wet nurse. Sara, his older sister, would join the family in a few short weeks while she continued her stay at the Blackwood's. He wished she was here to console his wife in the coming days. Gods know that he cannot, not when the news of his betrayal had to come from his own mouth. As he promised himself it should be. The sinner should say his own penance, no one else. A Stark is a slave to his oaths.

Thanking Greya kindly, Cregan picked up Bran in his arms. His onyx black curls shifted against the crook of his arm as he shifted the babe to be held better. The four moon-old babe fussed as he was removed from the woman's comforting hold. As if was, Cregan was more of a stranger to the young babe than his wet nurse was. Unfortunately, the Lord had not spent the amount of time with him as he knew he should have. The thoughts and guilt racked up in his mind and burned at the back of his throat every day, leaving Cregan to promise himself that in Winterfell he would spend more time with him.

Another promise for the list.

Cregan stepped through the courtyard's archway, holding his breath as he watched his beautiful wife standing by the Keep's doors, shivering but still insisting that she come out to meet her husband. Her smile was as lovely and bright as he remembered, a much more contented and relieved smile than she had sent him off to battle with. That day, she could hardly stifle her tears back as she hugged him 'goodbye'. He felt quite the same. Cregan would never leave for Southern business again, not in his lifetime. Once had been enough to last generations, though he was sure the Stark family would not go too long before being summoned again.

Her face shifted from joy to confusion in a matter of seconds. As Cregan continued straight towards her, Bran bundled up in so many wools and pelts that it entirely engulfed the babe. She lifted her skirts to step down to meet him. Originally, Cregan had wished to scoop her up in his arms and place a sweet kiss on her cold lips, but the bundle between them prevented such things. He could not greet her so sweetly and then present the bastard to her. Ripping the bandage off a fresh wound, Cregan would not be deceitful for longer than he had been during his moons of silence in the South.

"Husband," She smiled, reaching out to touch his chilled face, pink in the cheeks and ears from exposure. "You should come inside. A feast has been prepared for you—and your men, of course." She was antsy on her feet, eager to get inside to proper reunite with her husband, no bystanders gawking.

Speaking of bystanders—Cregan's entire party had separated and dispersed around the courtyard. They met their own wives, parents, or children as they laughed and conversed. Though, the loud and joyous clamor soon died down when whispers had been spread around by those who already knew of Cregan's boy. Wives that knew Aelys well stared in pity, clutching their shawls to their chests and shaking their heads quietly at their Lord.

He fought the urge to hang his head.

She had not yet seen the babe, only the cloth surrounding him.

"Cregan?" She whispered, tilting her head with concerned eyes. "What is wrong?" His sweet, sweet wife. Her first priority had been him over anything since the days of their honeymoon—the days she had confessed to be extremely anxious about during their courtship. She was a Northern woman herself, hardened and shaped like an ice sculpture but retaining her warm heart and spirit. Cregan had intimidated her greatly, according to her giggling confession, and she had feared he may be a cruel and selfish man since he could easily do as he wished to his Lady wife. He proved her wrong, apparently, getting to know his wife throughout their private honeymoon. They had a bond like no other, always at each other's side and filling in for the weaknesses of the other during their duties as leaders.

Cregan's brow furrowed deep, blinking away as he felt his nose start to sting.

Only then, when his glossy eyes met hers silently, did she glance down to the cloths. Slowly reaching up a shaky, gloved hand adjusted the pelts so she could peer past them. Gasping at the pale babe, Aelys' eyes sharply met his. A million thoughts raced through her head, clearly showing in her facial expressions. Not assuming the worst, as she probably should have done, Aelys asked, "has one of your men died? Is this babe an orphan?" Always so trusting of her Lord husband, something Cregan had admired and was eternally grateful for throughout their marriage.

"Aelys..." He cleared his throat when his voice came out much too quiet and hoarse. "This is my son." He declared to her, and to the onlooking crowd who did not bother hiding scandalized gasps.

Her eyes blinked in rapid succession, shaking her head lightly and smiling. "Don't jest, Cregan. We have no son."

His silence met her words. When he did not cave and admit to messing with his wife, Aelys shook her head more firmly. "No." She said, whispering. Her eyes clamped shut as she breathed in and out deeply, only opening to glance down at the babe, scrutinizing its appearing and comparing every freckle to Cregan's. "Don't do this to me, please. You would never do this to me." Her words were nearly lost to the air.

"It was one time, I swear it on my honor and Stark name." Cregan told her.

"On your name?" She harshly bit, stepping away from Cregan as if he had burned her. "Your honor? You swore on your honor the day we said our vows under the Weirwood tree. Under OUR Gods. Did that mean nothing to you? Did I—" She gasped out, covering her mouth with the back of her hand and clutching her stomach. A choking sob rippled through her, and Greya stepped forward to gingerly take Brandon from Cregan's grasp. His arms fell to his side, clenching as he stopped himself from holding his wife in comfort. She could find no solace in the man who hurt her so.

"I thought you wished to wait. You told me you wanted it, too. Was it just not me you wanted a family with?" She asked, cranking her neck up to look at her shameful husband.

"Aelys, I did—I do!" He started, stepping forward to wipe a hot tear from her cheek.

Flinching away from his touch, she looked up at him with the same mistrust and solemn acceptance that he found in a dying prey's eyes. Suddenly, Aelys looked to become aware of the crowd. Glancing around self-consciously, she straightened herself upright like the people expected of a Lady Stark. "The feast is growing cold. Enjoy it while it's warm." She loudly adressed the weary party and their families, who awkwardly moved to shuffle inside the dining hall. With a final glance past Cregan's shoulder to the wet nurse, Aelys was gone.

Seeing the shared glances of horror between the two, Cregan cleared his throat. "Where is my wife, boys?"

Ernest swallowed harshly, not daring to look him in the eye. "She—she said that she 'ad business in Winter Town. That you approved of it, I swear!"

Ron nodded so quickly that his head of curls messed about and framed his face further. The snow still on their heads and shoulders had now melted in the warmth of the Great Keep, reminding Cregan of the harsh weather the guards had to bear all day. They were trained and honed for such conditions, Aelys was not.

"Yes, Lord Stark! We couldn't disobey our Lady's words." He insisted.

"You think I'd make my wife go settle business in Winter Town during a blizzard?" He growled out, standing from his seat and storming between them to his doorway, where he turned on them and saw them both flinch in shock. "Which way did she go?"

"Uhm..." they shared another glance. "She said Winter Town, Lord Stark. What other way would she have gone?"

Cursing, Cregan grabbed Ice and lifted the great sword to his shoulder. He left without another word to anybody, knowing every second counted when it came to finding her. "Bloody fools." He scoffed to himself, mind turning and thinking of places she might head to.

Clearly, not Winter Town. She had no business there, not that he knew of, and although they had not been speaking these past moons he still oversaw all of her duties as Lady. Though, her reports of dealings and responsibilities was done through the Maester rather than her own mouth. A middleman, the poor elder had become. Cregan endured the silence without complaint, knowing his own actions brought it upon him.

His actions brought her further away from him than he perhaps estimated. He knew the babe would tear a rift in their relationship, and knew it would take a long time before they could even begin to mend it—but he never wanted it to go this far.

Back to her childhood home, to the Glovers in the Motte? Or, perhaps she found a secret lover that would meet her in the storm like a destined and tragic fairytale. He would not blame her for seeking love in another, though his never faded.

His quickened pace was only interrupted by Sara. "What is the rush for, brother?" The elder woman asked, dark brows furrowed with concern. Other the past four moons she had gained her strength back, looking the picture of health now that she was back home and recovering. Cregan could barely meet her gaze, looking between her and the doors ahead.

"My wife is gone." He told her honestly, shifting impaitiently in place. "I don't know where to, but I'm going to search for her."

Sara's dark eyes saddened, face scrunching up in grief. "This is my fault. I should have—"

Cregan stopped her immediately, taking her firmly by the shoulders and dipping his neck down to level himself. "No. It is mine alone. I made the choice to do this, I shall face the consequences of my actions."

"Cregan..." she sniffed, but did not allow tears to fall so easily.

"I'll be back." He promised. "With my wife."

Was she running away?

Cregan swung open the Great Keep's door, blinking staggardly at the wind gust that slammed into him. Not bothing to close it behind him, Cregan stormed to the stables and tacked his horse up. In a matter of minutes he was off and out of Winterfell's expansive walls.

His only option was to head towards Glover territory. It was a two days ride normally, but the storm would make it double or perhaps longer. She would not be far ahead, not even two hours ahead of Cregan and unknowing of how close he might be on her trail.

There were not even hoofprints left in her wake. The snow immediately covered all tracks and left only pristine fields of white powdery frost.

He would not know where she was until he spotted her amongst the white. Cobalt, her black stallion, was sure to stand out within close enough distance.

Until he did see her, he could only wait.

And it was exactly that; a waiting game. Cregan took only three days to reach the Deepwood Motte, faster than he anticipated. He was weary and exhausted, but still pumping with adrenaline and awake off sheer will. Here, in the safe walls of Harriston Glover's keep, his mare could finally have more than a few measly hours of rest, as well as food and water.

His fingers and toes burned with the edges of frostbite. Even in his thick protective gear, he was not entirely safe. The few, small fires that he built for himself in the cold nights gave him only a semblance of warmth. Each step felt like five as his vision blurred and weaned in and out. He steadied himself on a pole, waiting for his father-in-law to come downstairs to greet him. And, if luck be on his side, his Lady wife.

He owed more than an apology.

Harriston was a stern man, though not unreasonable. He loved his children and ensured they had only the best; education, caretakers, spouses. His eldest two children married long before Aelys was even of age to be wed, both men marrying Northern girls that they'd grown up with. When it came to his youngest and only girl, the man knew Lord Stark would be a most auspicious match. The Houses had long been friends and allies, and keeping the tradition of partnership thriving through marriage was no strange thing. He'd been even happier when Aelys wrote to him weekly, describing how enchanted she had been with her new husband and thanking him profusely for giving her a blessed match.

Now, the greyed man stood in front of Cregan with a deepset frown and a fierce look in his eyes. "Lord Stark. I thought you'd be busy in Winterfell."

Cregan cleared his throat, focusing on him intently. It made sense that the man was cross with him, especially after he assumed that Aelys had sent him a few lengthy letters telling of Cregan's infidelity. "I came to see my wife, and to bring her back home."

Harriston huffed a sarcastic laugh. "You send her back home, only to come yourself first?" He gestured around with his arms up.

Cregan tensed, "first? Is Aelys not already here?"

Lord Glover matched in his seriousness. "Aelys wrote to me three days ago, informing me that you had sent her here to be away from danger."

"I did not send her anywhere."

"You mean you do not know where my daughter is?" He asked, voice low and firm as he stepped closer. Though Harriston was a fine swordsman and a battle-worn fighter, Cregan did not fear the Lord's wrath, for he could easily best him in combat.

He did, however, have the brains to fear a furious father's vengeance.

His heart nearly beat out of his chest. "And she stated that she was on her way here?"

"I think I know what she said, boy." Lord Glover hissed. "Where is Aelys?"

"She must still be out there," Cregan murmured breathlessly, turning on his heel and running out of the fort's doors and back out to the stables. Cobalt was in none of them, confirmed to him that Lord Glover was not simply lying and hiding his wife away from him.

Cregan decided to take another horse—one well rested and ready to travel in the packed snow, unlike his own weary mare. Guiding it to the doors where Lord Glover had exited and looked at Cregan with a fear unlike the learned man usually expressed, he asked: Where are the kennels?"

When Aelys left to brave the storm alone, she had not anticipated the sheer unforgivable nature of it. Living in the North her whole life, she'd long grown used to cold weather and hunting for herself. Hunts often lasted days or weeks, being times of comraderie and companionship when out in the wilderness with your people. She had not been hunting in years, much less alone.

The snow had slowed her travel significantly and clouded her navigational judgment. North became South, and East became West after so long of walking. With the skies so darkened, it was even harder to tell the time of day. With every stop she made and every fire that burnt out too quickly for her to be fully warm, Aelys had grown desperate.

She found shelter in a half-conscious act to preserve her on life. Now, curled up with only her fur-lined dress and the pelt she had brought from Winterfell, she could not help but begin to accept that she would die in this cave.

Aelys thought of her life in a few curt thoughts.

She had only lived twenty and two years. She grew up with loving parents and two elder brothers who doted on her greatly. She married Lord Stark of Winterfell, someone who took her heart quicker than she'd ever thought possible. She would die here, alone and cold because of him.

She thought of all the things she had wanted from life. Not much, for a Lord's daughter. Aelys had always wanted love and gave love in return. Trusted perhaps too much and did not gain from it. She wished for children, eventually, and could never have them now. She wished to see the warm deserts of Dorne and the lush gardens of Old Town in her retirement.

Aelys Bolton would not see anything but the North, nothing but the cold snow and frost-tippes trees around. They had grown familiar and warm.

Warm.

She was so warm, now.

Aelys closed her eyes and fell asleep, dreaming of better days.

"You do not wish to return home to a babe in the nursery?" Aelys asked, voice low and humming as Cregan lay beneath her on their shared bed. Most men did, misliking the process of pregnacy but loving the outcome, for it could only serve to benefit them.

"We will have plenty of time for babes when I come back to you." He replied, brushing his lips over her the crown of her head. "What kind of husband would I be if I left you to deal with the struggles of pregnancy and birth all alone?"

"I won't be alone. Sara is staying, too. I will have a sister to keep me company and complain all my grievances about my missing husband to her." She said amusedly.

Cregan paused in his rhythmic stoking of her spine. "Sara has asked to come, my heart."

She paused, too, lifting her head from his chest and squinting at him. "Sara can come down to King's Landing with you, but I cannot?"

He sighed, shaking his head. "She will be staying at the Blackwood's residence at Raventree Hall, not King's Landing. I would never endanger either of you by bringing you to the capitol. She has been offered guest housing by her friend, Alysanne Blackwood, during my time down there."

She huffed, conceding to his words and dropping her head back down, listening again to his ever-steady heartbeat. "Must be nice to see the Riverlands." She said lightly. "I hear they have fields of flowers growing year-round."

"And the permanent smell of fish and mildew." Cregan added with a snort. "You're not missing anything, I swear it to you. Sara and I will be gone for a short period of time. I intend to leave as soon as things are settled and put to rest."

Aelys hummed her quiet acknowledgment. There was no argument to be had, not when Cregan was set to leave in the morning. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell." She said cheekily, though there was plenty truth to the statement. Alone, she would serve as political head to Winterfell and the temporary 'Warden' while Cregan was missing in action. She had her advisors, consisting of Cregan's trusted councilmen, but the hole that she knew would sink itself into her heart already wore her into her.

Cregan laughed at her words, nodding. "Aye, my love, you will do perfectly. I'm sorry to leave you alone for so long, but I have no doubt you'll do great." He said proudly, kissing her nose. She scrunched it up at the ticklish feeling, allowing a girlish giggle to leave her throat.

"Don't be gone too long, husband. Your wife needs you here." She said, tilting her head up to meet his lips.

"I would never dream of it."

The moons passed by with no reprieve for Aelys. As Winterfell's sole head, her days were busy from dawn til dusk. Letters were exchanged sporadically with her husband while he helped Aegon iii ascend to his place on the iron throne.

Until, one day, his letters ceased. It had already been a full year without Cregan Stark, and Aelys was beginning to grow used to the lack of her husband and sister by her side. Routine had grown to be instinct for her, breezing through her duties like she'd done them all her life. The only thing missing was her lover.

Concerned, Aelys checked in with the resident Maester to ensure Cregan's wellbeing.

When he paused, lips pursed and hands clutching at his cane with a stress unlike the calm elder, he rasped out his own fears. "I, too, have received no word from Lord Stark. Though, no news has come of us death in the capitol, so he must simply be occupied."

Occupied at the end of the war? When Aegon had already been named King and all the men put to trial were either declared guilty or innocent? The brunt of the work was over and done with—told by Cregan himself.

So why was he silent for an entire moon?

It was another fortnite before the Stark wrote back to her. The letter was curt and brief.

My dearest Aelys,

Forgive my abrupt silence these past weeks. Please know that you have been on my mind throughout this entire time.

Sara has grown sick in Raventree Hall, and has not been able to travel with the host of men I have sent back home to the North. We will stay behind for another few moons while she is in recovery. I will return to you soon.

With love,

Cregan Stark.

It was shorter than his other letters by many paragraphs, pages even. Cregan left out no details when describing his miserable times in the capitol. Aelys found herself much enjoying his theatrical melodramatic retelling and was rendered bemused by this letter. Still, she continued to lead with no pause for breaks.

Three more moons later, and Cregan wrote that he was mere days away from Winterfell. Without Sara Snow, unfortunately, as she was still not entirely recovered, but his party could be postponed no longer.

Aelys rushed around Winterfell's Keep in a flurry of excitement. She ordered every room to be cleaned spotless, for rations to be saved for days until a feast could be made for their arrival, for hearths to be extra tended to, and for the courtyard to be prepared to clear the way for the host.

Finally, the days of busy bodies floating around the Great Keep came to a stop. The feast was warm and ready at all available tables. The hearths were warm and ready for sleepy heads to rest within the rooms. The tubs were filled with scalding hot water that would warm by the time they were used. Lady Stark stood for hours at the Great Keep's entry stairs in the courtyard.

She wanted to be there exactly when he walked through the archway. Despite the cold biting at her nose, the Lady stood resiliant and tall.

It was nearly in the afternoon when Cregan's party arrived. He came through first, leading as head of the host as any Lord should. A wheelhouse followed, surrounded by a small league of soliders all around it. She bounced on her heels slightly, seeing Cregan dismount from his ride. Though she found herself bemused and slightly hurt when he glanced at her and made his way towards the wheelhouse instead. Had Sara recovered enough to join and perhaps wanted to surprise her good sister? She hoped so, for she had missed her greatly. After growing up with only brothers, Aelys found a best friend and sister in Sara Snow. The whispers about Lady Stark befriending the bastard of Winterfell followed her around like a dark shadow, but she never paid them any mind.

Bastardry had never bothered Aelys before. Not even when she was a woman of noble birth and was taught that bastards were born inherently lustful, evil, and made of sin.

She waited patiently at the top of the steps for Cregan to fetch Sara.

To her surprise, he only pulled out of the carriage with a bundle of clothes in his arms. Pelts and blankets, it seemed. A plainly-dressed woman from the South stepped out after him but stayed trailing behind. A maid of some sort, though she had no clue as to why a Southern maid would need to follow Cregan back to Winterfell.

As he strided towards her, a strange and unhappy look on his face, she forced her anxiety back down her throat and raced to meet him. "Husband," she greeted with a smile. "You should come inside. A feast has been prepared for you—and your men, of course." Reaching out to caress his face and simultaneously brush flecks of snow from his loose hair, she couldn't help but stop to admire her husband's handsome features. It had felt like an eternity that they were separated, and she had begun to forget the full details of his frame. Forgot his scent in the room and his side of the bed. Nearly forgot the warmth that he provided simply from standing nearby.

The very warmth he is giving to her now, in the chilly courtyard.

His eyes appeared to gloss, his nose and cheeks pinking even more so than they had already grown in the biting air. Glancing over Cregan, she assessed quickly for signs of fatigue or illness.

"Cregan?" she asked gently. "What is wrong?" She prayed he did not catch whatever Sara had caught, or hid a wound under his mass of leathers and pelts.

When he shiftly lifted the bundle in his arms to gesture for her to look at it, she finally spared a look to the mysterious ball of cloth. She had completely forgotten about it until now, noticing the maid still behind Cregan a few yards back, head tilted down and looking at her slippers. Peeking over a fur pelt, Aelys gasped at the sight. A babe, only a few moons old by the looks of it. Her mind raced with possibilities. Why would Cregan bring a babe back instead of leaving it in more temperate climates like the Riverlands that he stayed in on the way up North?

"Has one of your men died?" She asked in a hushed tone, assuming first that one of his soldiers perhaps fathered a bastard babe before perishing in a battle or falling to sickness. "Is the babe an orphan?" Cregan did always have a soft spot for younglings, showcased clearly by his time spent personally training young squires of Winterfell. He had lost his own younger brother in their youth, and the hole had never filled from that loss of kin.

"Aelys..." he started, meeting her eyes with a soft and sympathetic look. "This is my son." Was said loud and clear for any listeners to hear.

A jest. Cregan had seldom liked to be humorous in front of crowds, or anyone but herself and Sara, but he must have been in good spirits today. Briefly glancing at the surrounding people, she found only pitiful looks from the women and severe looks from the men. Shaking her head, Aelys forced a smile onto her face and a shaky laugh. "Don't jest, Cregan. We have no son." She emphasized.

He only stared at her back. No words of comfort, no sudden burst of laughter among his men to tell her that the biggest prank in the world had been pulled on her. Just shameless silence.

He had declared her second best in front of all of Winterfell. Her people and his.

"No." She said firmly, shaking her head 'no'. She breathed in and out deeply, trying to clear her blurry eyes and woozy head. Glaring down at the false babe in his arms, she found many similarities that she wished she had not. The same straight brows that Cregan had, the same scattered freckles, the same pale skin. The only difference was the hair color—black as a midnight sky or dragonglass. The mother must be beautiful.

Moving her eyes to the maid behind Cregan, she found that the girl had a mousy blonde color to her tresses. She could not have possibly bore a black-haired babe. She felt sick, like she'd throw up and choke at the same time. "Don't do this to me. You'd never do this to me." She pleaded out, voice small and hoarse.

"It was one time. I swear it on my honor and Stark name." Cregan promised. But every word was like poison, filling her heart with a heavy black liquid and drowning her from the inside out.

"On your name?" She hissed out, uncaring of the onlookers for this one moment. She was allowed to be angry, callous, and spiteful, even. Any self-respecting woman would be. And she'd be damned if she wasn't. Any Stark woman ought to be when ruling over the entire North. Any Glover woman is.

"Your honor? You swore on your honor the day we said our vows under the Weirwood tree. Under OUR Gods! Did that mean nothing to you? Did I—?" Words spilled from her mouth before she can think properly. But she did not regret any of them, knowing she was in the right. Bile rose in her throat, pushing itself past the forced down emotions. She swiftly covered her mouth, stilling herself to prevent any more embarrassing. Subconsciously, she clutched at her empty stomach with her free hand, both mourning the fact that she'd have no children and thanking the Gods for not giving her any previously. A cry finally escaped her lips, watching the plain maid take the babe into her arms again as Cregan looked on helplessly to his wife.

Aelys found her voice again, though it was ragged and tired. "I thought you wished to wait. You told me you wanted it, too." He was a liar, the worst kind of man. "Was it just not me you wanted a family with?"

She'd rather be struck with his hand than his deceitful mouth. It would hurt much less.

"I did, Aelys—I do!" He pleaded, stepping forward to console her. His arms looked like steel traps in her louded mind.

She took a lengthy step back. She would not share his warmth, nor his love. Or his bed, his room, his damned dining room. His children. Not when he had shared it with another woman. Given her his love, his attention, his son.

She could not bear to keep herself calm any longer. Adressing the entire courtyard, who had made themselves the Stark's own personal peanut gallery, she spoke firmly. "The feast is growing cold. Enjoy it while it's warm." Without a second glance back at the Stark, Aelys excused herself to her chambers, where she emptied the contents of her stomach into the chamberpot until she could only dry-heave nothingness. These chambers had not been used since she arrived in Winterfell, instead choosing to sleep and stay in their marital ones. She would not step foot into those again unless she was dragged kicking and screaming.

Aelys awoke to strong arms lifting her from the stone floor. Groggily, she was stirred from her deep and preserving sleep. How long had she been traveling? How long had she been buried under those pelts? Time was a blur when she was in a near comatose state, dead to the world. Limbs were numbed and her body felt warm after so long in the cold weather.

"I've got you, sweet girl. We're going home." A familiar voice rung in the back of her head. Even the jolting movements of a horse trotting could not fully move her to consciousness as she fell back asleep.

When she fully gained her sense of mind, she could clearly hear the sound of two men arguing. The warmth of a hearth was next to her as she lifted heavy blankets and furs off of her body. Glancing around, Aelys found herself back right where it all started. In Cregan's room, formerly their marital chambers that she had long since moved out of. A large oil painting sat over the heart, depicting a newlywed image of her and Cregan. They both smiled brightly in the photo, much to Cregan's complaint that the painting did not make him look 'serious enough'. She only laughed and tipped the painter extra gold dragons for the accuracy.

She loved that painting more than any others they kept in the Great Keep. Now, the two faces looking down at her only served to remind her of the falsehood she lived every day while Cregan was absent. Taking care of Winterfell and the North all by herself, just to come back and be thanked by his uncouth mistakes.

Shakily standing up, she winced at the feeling coming back to her limbs. Wriggling all twenty of her toes and fingers, she ensured they still all had feeling. Miraculously, she did. The numbess still felt vaguely there, and her throat was extremely dry and achy. But at least she was alive. Even if it was back in Winterfell, she could attempt her return to the Motte as soon as the storm died down.

It had been a dreadful blizzard. Not a rare sight in the North, but usually none lasted so long. Aelys could not help but feel it was the Gods punish Cregan and Aelys for their marital spat. Something like this must be so futile and useless in their eyes and the eyes of the people of the realm, but to Aelys it was her world and her life. No one could help Aelys but herself. She'd leave these spoiled halls even if the Old Gods and the New wished otherwise. If Cregan didn't have to keep oaths, why should she?

Opening the large wooden door, Aelys found the source of the faint yelling. Her eyes widened at the sight of her father in front of Cregan, in all his gruff charm with his silver hair and beard. She hadn't seen him in nearly two years. She stayed at the archway under the door, simply listening in as the men shouted further down the hall. If either turned their heads, they would spot her eavesdropping.

"—cannot even keep her safe during Winter! Am I to expect her to stay safe during a wildling attack, or worse? Or will you be prioritizing the safety of your mistress?" Harriston shouted, veins nearly popping out from his forehead and neck in his fury. Snow still gathered on his pelt coat, meaning he had just arrived recently.

"It is my mistake that she was endangered out there—but I would never let such a thing happen again under my protection. This is her home, I cannot allow her to go back to the Dreadfort. She is a Stark." Cregan emphasized, though had a defensive raised tone.

"Was she a Stark when you bed a whore in King's Landing?"

"The situation is more complicated than that." He responded, clenching his jaw.

"Nothing could ever be more complicated than losing your wit at a brothel, Stark. There is no argument to be had. She is staying with her family, where she was intending." Harriston growled out, a tone of finality to his tone. As he swung on his feet to head down the hall, face set in a worried and seething anger, he finally spotted his daughter.

"Aelys!" He yelled in relief, rushing toward her and scooping her up into his thick arms. "We're going home immediately. We will wash our hands of the Starks once and for all."

"I will not allow that." Cregan spoke from behind. As Aelys hugged her father back just as tightly, it was a battle to keep her tears from flowing in his safe arms. She missed her father more than she knew.

Before Harristone could speak, Aelys nodded. "We will settle this." She said flatly. Her father hesitantly let her go, nodding once firmly after seeing the resolve in his daughter's eyes.

"Very well. I will wait in the dining hall for you." He sighed, walking away.

Aelys shivered in the loss of warmth again. In her bare feet and night gown, she felt the cold of the cobblestone walls and floors start to seep under her skin again. "Here," Cregan murmured, gently shifting his mass of brown wolf pelt over her shoulders and clicking the direwolf emblem into place.

She allowed it, though she did not thank him with words. She took a deep breath, looking him in the eyes. "I want to separate. Divorce, I mean." She said tiredly.

Cregan flinched, jaw ticking and heavily considering her words. "That is entirely my fault. It is in your right to ask that of me." He said, voice dimmed and not nearly half of his assuredness. "But please, hear me out."

"What could I possibly hear you out with?" She asked, exhaustion clear in her tone. She'd dealt with this situation long enough.

Cregan nudged the door back open, nodding for her to enter. Reluctantly, she led the way in and watched as he gently shut it behind them. "I swore an oath, nearly nine moons ago." Cregan started.

Her brows furrowed, bemused. "To whom?"

Guiltily, he looked down at her, looking much alike to a kicked pup. "My sister."

"To Sara? What ever for?" She grew frustrated, knowing he was beating around the bush.

Taking a deep breath, he told her everything. "Sara stayed with her friend Alysanne Blackwood in Raventree hall for the entire time I was aiding King Aegon. In that time—she fell pregnant."

Aelys' heart dropped to her stomach. The same sick feeling overtaking her. She did not say a word.

"Davos Blackwood and Sara had built a bond, much like we did." He said. "When she told Davos of the news, they both went to Lord Blackwood to plea to marry each other. He refused, not allowing his heir to marry a bastard."

"And you legitimized Brandon as your own in turn?" She hissed.

"Sara begged me to. She lived her life as a bastard—she did not wish the same for her own son. I swore to her that my nephew would never be allowed the same treatment. I knew Aegon would do it." He trailed.

"So you bring him home, and humiliate me instead? You didn't even tell me, your own wife! You chose Sara over me. She is your sister, I know, but she chose to be with Davos Blackwood." She could have taken a tea, or moved to Essos or Dorne where bastards were more accepted. There were other options, but neither Sara nor Cregan used them. "That is cruel, Cregan. It is heartless." She cried.

"I never wished to hurt you, I only wanted to protect her. It was my oath." Cregan pleaded, grabbing her hands in his.

She shivered again, though unknowing if it was in chill or her own anger. Part of her was happy that he never truly took another woman to bed—never picked another other her. Though he still hid the biggest secret in the world from her for moons. Allowed her to suffer in their shared home and withstand the pitious looks of the people and court.

"I can't trust you. Not ever again. You could not trust me with your own kin's truth, and punished me for it." She stated. She could not allow herself to cave in so easily, to fall back into his arms.

"I understand, sweet girl." He muttered, softly stroking the apple of her cheek almost mindlessly. "I will sign whatever the Maester's conjure up. You will be free to marry whoever you wish—someone who will not lie to you."

The Starks were known for their loyalty and devotedness to their oaths. If Cregan Stark had lied to his wife so easily, no lesser man could ever make her happy with faithfulness and loyalty. Aelys had accepted her life to be one of loneliness from the day Brandon was allowed into the home.

"I will stay in Deepwood Motte for the time being. From there, I will see where my path leads." She said vaguely, unknowing now of what her heart desired. "Wish Sara well for me." Aelys asked of him, leaving him behind as she wiped any straying tears from her face.

"I love you, Aelys." He said, calling softly after her.

"I know." She whispered to herself.

In the dining hall, Harriston awaited her arrival. Perking up when she entered, he knowingly took her into his arms. "I'm tired, father."

"Let's go home. Your mother has missed you dearly." He said, planting a fatherly kiss to her temple.

Aelys would not yet send word for a formal separation to the Citadel or to the King. For now, time apart was what she declared best for herself.

divider by - @issysh3ll

tags - @palomavz @emithefrog @karinalight @johnshelbywife @tojisrealwifey @baddielizzy @pearldaisy @brookiecookie @jessicar401 @hardkiddonut @littlelilly27-blog @nayaniasworld @just-mj-or-not @flaneurpastel @unsweetenedpeatea @blucesita09 @maxmegara @deeeeexx @masschotch @janniepark1997 @spongelistener @margaaaa30 @paracii @lovebabe18 @rey26 @damneddamsy @yunnifer @kenzcarson @glqmmywhqmmy @arizonadesert @blumin8 @its-your-girl-savy @dreamygirli3 @aemondloverr @zaranobiyuyu @nsr-15 @oxymakestheworldgoround @isansstuff @high-speed-r

so many tags dont work 🥲 will try to tell in comment sec

ending is ambiguous. Will she decide to divorce or eventually mend their relationship? Up to you!

might make an alt ending where he really is just a shitty guy but this had been my idea from the start (many guessed it and i could not reply to them because of it lmao)

sorry if those two scenes got repetitive, but I wanted to show the 'cregan bringing brandon home' from both of their more detailed perspectives. Cregan's shame and guilt and her humiliation and heartbreak.

so many people guessed so close (to the sara part at least) only saw Jace thoughts tho, but he's already dead long before Cregan's walk down to the South. Would have been much more dramatic, but I think Jace would never allow a child of his to be apart from him. Many people swayed me to lead them to separate instead of stick together, and it does make more sense to have her leave him in the end. Although he did not cheat he still lied and publicly humiliated her, even unintentionally, but he's a grown man who is smart enough to know consequences.

[slytherinsmuse]

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ Hidden Moments | Draco Malfoy ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Fem! Reader

Warnings: characters are 18+, soft Draco

Summary: Fluff | A reserved new student finds comfort and connection in the unexpected warmth of Draco Malfoy.

Word count: 7557

author's note: Thank you for this request, anon person! I hope you manage to see this because there is no way to tag you. I also really really hope that you like it! ♡

You sat quietly at the Slytherin table, staring down at your breakfast as you absentmindedly stirred your porridge. The Great Hall buzzed with morning chatter and laughter, but it all felt distant, like background noise that didn’t quite reach you. You weren’t used to this place yet—not the towering walls, not the crowded tables, not the countless faces that were still strangers to you. You felt like a misfit puzzle piece, unsure where you belonged in the grand picture of Hogwarts.

Moving in the middle of the school year had been jarring, to say the least. Just a few weeks ago, you’d been at your old school, surrounded by friends you’d known for years. There, you’d felt safe, comfortable. But that world had been left behind when your parents had abruptly decided to move back to England. You were sure that they had their reasoning but now everything was new and unfamiliar, and it felt as if the ground had been pulled out from under you.

Adjusting was harder than you’d anticipated. Your natural shyness and introverted nature made it difficult to reach out, to speak up, or to introduce yourself. You kept to yourself, trying to avoid the eyes of the other students, your shoulders slightly hunched as if to make yourself smaller. Each meal felt like an ordeal, sitting alone at the Slytherin table, acutely aware of the laughter and conversations happening around you but feeling somehow apart from it all.

You sighed softly, poking at a piece of toast, hoping to blend into the background, just another face in the crowd. But the weight of your solitude was settling on you, heavier with each day. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to make friends—you just didn’t know how to start. The thought of approaching anyone, of forcing yourself into an unfamiliar social circle, made your stomach churn.

Just as you were sinking deeper into your own thoughts, you noticed someone sitting down across from you. Startled, you glanced up, meeting the cool grey eyes of none other than Draco Malfoy. He looked at you with a faint, unreadable smirk, his gaze lingering as if sizing you up. The Draco Malfoy—you’d heard his name more times than you could count in the first month since you’d arrived. He was known for his sharp tongue, his confidence, and the way he commanded attention. Yet here he was, sitting across from you, his eyes flicking from your nervous posture to the untouched food on your plate.

“Lost in thought, are we?” His voice was smooth, almost teasing, breaking the silence in a way that felt both comforting and intimidating.

You felt your cheeks warm, your eyes quickly darting back down to your porridge. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to…” You trailed off, unsure how to explain the storm of emotions that came with being the new, quiet girl at Hogwarts.

He chuckled softly, the sound surprisingly warm despite his reputation. “Don’t apologise.” he said, leaning forward slightly. “It’s just rare to see someone so… silent here.”

You glanced up at him again, noticing the hint of intrigue in his expression. It felt strange, having someone like him show an interest in you, the shy girl who barely spoke. But his gaze wasn’t unkind. If anything, it held a quiet curiosity, as if he were genuinely trying to understand you.

The thought made your pulse quicken, and before you could help it, you muttered, “I’m… just not used to this place yet.”

Draco’s smirk softened, and for a fleeting moment, you could’ve sworn you saw a glimpse of something gentler in his eyes. He tilted his head, studying you with a look that seemed oddly thoughtful. “Well, Hogwarts does take some getting used to. But who knows? You might surprise yourself.”

You felt yet another rush of warmth creep into your cheeks as you nodded, hoping your face wasn’t as red as it felt. Draco’s gaze lingered, and in that brief silence, he took in the softness of your features, the subtle beauty of your face, and the way your cheeks had flushed a delicate pink. Something about it made him pause, his usual confidence faltering as he wondered why he found you so… intriguing.

He shouldn’t have been interested, he knew that. He was Draco Malfoy—the boy with a sharp tongue, a cold demeanour, and a reputation for being dangerous. Innocent, shy girls like you weren’t supposed to be on his radar. You were the opposite of everything he was used to, and he was well aware of the shadows he carried, the things that made others keep their distance.

And yet, he couldn’t seem to help himself.

For a moment, he wondered what it was that made him want to approach you. Maybe it was the way you sat there, quiet and introspective, as if the world around you was a whirlwind you wanted no part in. Maybe it was the vulnerability in your eyes, the way you looked both fragile and resilient at the same time. Or maybe it was simply that he hadn’t seen anyone quite as stunning in a way that felt so… unguarded.

He cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “You know, people aren’t always as they seem here.” he said, his voice softening in a way that surprised even him. “Don’t let this place get the best of you.”

Before you could respond, he stood up, his usual mask slipping back into place. He gave you one last lingering look, his grey eyes holding a quiet intensity, as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t bring himself to. Then, with a graceful turn, he walked away, blending back into the bustling crowd in the Great Hall.

As you gathered your things and rose from the Slytherin table, you noticed the subtle, piercing gazes from a group of Slytherin girls nearby. Their eyes tracked your movements, whispers exchanged between them as they took in the fact that Draco Malfoy—the Draco Malfoy—had chosen to sit with you. Feeling the prickling sensation of their stares, you quickly looked away, your cheeks warming once more, and quietly slipped out of the Great Hall, heading toward your first class.

The next few weeks passed in a blur, the strangeness of Hogwarts gradually becoming a little less overwhelming. But the biggest change came from Draco’s steady, quiet presence that somehow became a constant in your days.

It started with him joining you in the library. He would stroll in casually, scanning the rows of tables, and his gaze would settle on you as if you were the only one in the room. Without a word, he’d take a seat beside you, opening a book or unfurling a scroll, but he rarely spoke. You began to understand that he didn’t come for conversation; he came for the silence. For the comfort of sitting next to someone who wasn’t demanding anything from him. And slowly, that realisation helped you relax in his company, allowing the quiet between you to grow into something familiar, something that didn’t need filling.

In classes, Draco would occasionally choose the seat next to yours, sliding his books across the desk and flashing you a brief smirk before settling in. During group assignments, he’d gravitate towards you as well, his approach casual, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. You found yourself looking forward to these moments, the way his presence seemed to bring a subtle warmth to the otherwise intimidating newness of everything around you.

You couldn’t deny that it confused you at first—this gentleness he showed you was so different from the way he treated others. You had seen him snap at classmates, mock students with a cold glint in his eyes, and dismiss people with a sneer. His biting remarks were sharp and unkind, making you wonder why he would ever show interest in someone as quiet as you. And yet, here he was, somehow finding his way into your routine.

As the months passed, you relaxed further in his company, almost forgetting the unease that had once overwhelmed you. You began to enjoy these quiet hours, especially when you’d find him lounging in the Slytherin common room on late evenings. Sometimes, he’d settle down beside you on the couch, his body angled toward you as he made light conversation—little things, unimportant things that felt oddly meaningful because they were shared just between the two of you.

You began to notice the softer side of him, the one he kept hidden from everyone else. With you, he was calmer, almost unguarded, and you often caught glimpses of something thoughtful and kind beneath the layers of harshness he presented to the world. He seemed to find solace in your presence, as if you were a quiet refuge from the demands and expectations pressing down on him.

One night, as you sat together in the common room, the firelight casting a warm glow across his face, you turned to him, curiosity getting the better of you.

“Why are you so… different with me?” you asked softly, your voice barely audible above the crackling of the fire.

Draco looked at you, surprised, his gaze searching yours for a long moment. For once, he seemed at a loss for words. Then, with a quiet sigh, he leaned back, his eyes distant yet gentle.

“Maybe I need a break from… everything else.” he murmured, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. He looked away, almost as if he were embarrassed to admit it. “With you, it’s just… easy.”

You didn’t press him further. Instead, you smiled, a small, understanding smile that told him you knew, that you understood. And as the two of you sat together in that quiet corner of the common room, you felt the invisible line between you grow a little fainter, replaced by a warmth that seemed to settle in the space between your shoulders.

You felt your cheeks flush as you glanced down, fingers fiddling with the edges of your sleeves. Words danced on the tip of your tongue—words that could have told him you enjoyed his company, that he’d somehow become a comforting presence in your days—but you were far too shy to admit it aloud. And yet, there was a small part of you that sensed he already knew, that he could feel the same unspoken bond forming between you.

After a while, you gathered the courage to look up at him, offering a small smile. “Goodnight, Draco.” you murmured softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes softened, and he gave you a slight nod, a quiet acknowledgment that seemed to hold more meaning than any words could. “Goodnight, Y/N.” he replied, his voice carrying a gentleness that still surprised you.

You rose from the couch and walked up the staircase to your dormitory, your heart fluttering as you replayed the evening in your mind, wondering if you’d ever truly understand why Draco Malfoy of all people had chosen to be kind to you.

The next morning the usual hum of chatter in the Great Hall seemed louder, almost electric with excitement. You quickly caught snippets of conversation from the students around you, words floating through the air like bubbles.

“Did you hear? They have announced the Christmas ball!”

“I can’t wait to see what everyone wears! I’ve already got my dress planned…”

“Who do you think will ask you? I heard Blaise is already planning something big…”

The news about a winter Christmas ball spread through the hall like wildfire, with students leaning in close to whisper about who would be asking whom. You felt a pang of nervousness as the reality of the event sank in. Social gatherings were never easy for you, especially something as grand as a ball. The thought of dressing up, of dancing and mingling with so many people, sent a familiar wave of anxiety washing over you.

In the middle of your anxious thoughts, a new one formed, a quiet, tentative hope that made your heart skip a beat. You couldn’t help but wonder—would Draco ask you to the ball?

As the day went on, you noticed girls from all houses casting glances in Draco’s direction, some giggling behind their hands, others making excuses to speak to him in passing. It seemed that many hoped for his attention, but he remained as aloof as ever, barely acknowledging them. Yet every so often, you caught his gaze drifting toward you, a fleeting glance that made your cheeks grow warm all over again.

The idea of going with him was enough to send a thrill through you, but it was quickly overshadowed by the panic that settled in your stomach at the thought of attending such an event. Draco Malfoy was an enigma, unpredictable at best, and you couldn’t be sure he would want to bring someone like you, the shy, quiet girl he mostly saw in moments of solitude.

That same evening, you were sitting in the library with your books spread out before you. Just as you were starting to take notes, you felt a familiar presence settle beside you. Glancing up, you saw Draco, his usual calm expression softened with the same quiet interest he always showed when you were alone together. He didn’t speak right away, instead opening his own book and letting the comfortable silence settle over you both.

But as you tried to focus on your reading, you couldn’t shake the hope buzzing in the back of your mind, the anticipation of the possibility. Would he, you wondered, break the silence and ask you to the Christmas ball?

Draco’s eyes were slowly flicking over the pages of his book, seemingly lost in his own world. Minutes ticked by, the comfortable silence stretching on as he read. Then, almost casually, he closed his book and turned to face you.

“So…” he began, his voice soft but with a trace of amusement, “are you planning on going to this Christmas ball everyone’s talking about?”

Your breath caught, and you glanced up, feeling his gaze settle on you. Nervously, you shook your head, almost afraid to admit it. “No, I don’t think so.” you murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The thought of dressing up and stepping into that grand hall, surrounded by so many watchful eyes, made you anxious.

Draco raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not much of a gatherings type, are you?” he asked, his voice holding a teasing warmth that put you slightly at ease.

You nodded, letting out a soft sigh. “I’m… not really comfortable with big events. Especially when there are so many people. I feel like they’re all watching.” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

To your surprise, Draco chuckled, shaking his head as if he found your answer endearing. He leaned back slightly, folding his arms as he regarded you with that familiar, unreadable glint in his eyes. “You’re really something, you know that?” he said, his tone light. “Most people here would jump at the chance to go and show off, to be the centre of attention for the night.”

You looked down, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of your book. “Well, I’m… I’m not most people.” you replied, a faint smile tugging at your lips. Being around Draco had somehow made you a little braver, enough to admit the truth.

Draco studied you for a moment, his expression softening, as if he were seeing you in a new light. “Good!” he said finally, his voice so quiet it was almost a murmur. “Maybe that’s why I like being around you. You don’t care about any of that… nonsense.”

You looked up, surprised, meeting his gaze. There was something vulnerable in his expression, something he rarely showed to others. He paused, as if weighing his words, before finally speaking again.

“Would you… reconsider going? If…” He cleared his throat, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. “If you had someone to go with who didn’t care about all that either?”

Your heart skipped a beat, your pulse quickening as you tried to process what he was saying. Was he… asking you to go with him?

“I… I don’t know.” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. “I mean… maybe if it was someone I… trusted to understand.”

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips, and he leaned a bit closer, his gaze steady and warm. “Well…” he said softly, “you know where to find me if you change your mind on going.”

He rose from his seat, picking up his book, but before leaving, he paused, casting you one last look. “Think about it, Y/N.” he added, his voice just above a whisper. “It might be nice.”

And with that, he left, leaving you alone in the library, your heart racing as you replayed his words in your mind.The idea filled you with both excitement and a nervous anticipation, a warmth that lingered even after he was gone.

You sat alone in the library, Draco’s words replayed over and over in your mind, the softness in his voice, the gentle way he had approached the question. You’d seen other boys ask girls to the ball with grand, showy gestures—flowers that burst into magical blooms, charmed notes that floated through the air, even songs sung embarrassingly loud in the corridors. But Draco… he hadn’t needed any of that.

There had been no spotlight, no audience, no pressure. He’d asked you so simply, as if he already understood that the idea of a big, public proposal would have made you want to disappear. Instead, he’d done it in his own, subtle way—quiet, sincere, and perfectly considerate of your feelings. It was exactly what you hadn’t known you wanted.

A warmth settled over you as you realised how well he seemed to understand you, how he could sense what made you nervous without you even saying it. You’d grown used to people overlooking your quiet nature or not understanding why you shied away from the spotlight, but Draco… Draco saw it and didn’t ask you to change. Instead, he made space for it, like he was offering you a safe corner in the middle of all the chaos around you.

You smiled softly to yourself, fiddling with the corner of your book once again. A part of you still felt nervous, the idea of going to the ball both thrilling and daunting. But another part of you—a quieter, braver part—whispered that maybe, just maybe, you could say yes. The thought of being there, in the midst of all the festive excitement, with only Draco beside you, made the idea feel a little less overwhelming.

With three weeks left until the ball, you found yourself caught between excitement and hesitation. Some days, you were certain you’d say yes, picturing yourself in the glow of the ballroom lights with Draco by your side. Other days, your nerves would flare up, reminding you of how out of place you might feel, surrounded by the dazzling gowns, the lively music, and the endless watchful eyes.

But through it all, Draco remained by your side, unbothered by your indecision. He continued to sit next to you in the library, quietly absorbed in his reading while you went through your own books. Sometimes, you’d exchange a few words or simply share the now familiar comfortable silence. He didn’t push or pry; he simply kept you company, content in the easy rhythm you had both fallen into. It was as though he had sensed your uncertainty and was giving you the time you needed.

Meanwhile, the Slytherin common room buzzed with excitement about the upcoming ball, with Draco’s friends, Blaise and Pansy, constantly teasing him about not having a date yet.

“Come on, Draco, who are you taking?” Blaise would press, nudging him with a knowing smirk. “Or do you plan to go alone, sulking in a corner all night?”

Draco would only shrug, an amused glint in his eyes as he brushed off their questions. “Maybe I prefer the idea of a quiet evening.” he’d reply, his tone nonchalant but his gaze occasionally drifting over to where you sat, studying or writing by the fire.

Pansy, however, wasn’t so easily deterred. She’d roll her eyes, crossing her arms with an exasperated sigh. “You’re Draco Malfoy! You could have anyone in this school on your arm.” she’d insist, clearly baffled by his indifference. “And you’re telling me you don’t even have someone in mind?”

Draco would simply smirk, a secretive look in his eye that none of them could quite decipher. “Maybe I’m just waiting for the right person to come around.” he’d say coolly, casting a glance in your direction before returning to his book.

Every time you overheard these exchanges, your heart would flutter. Though you didn’t show it, you felt a growing warmth at how patient he was, how he seemed unfazed by the usual social pressures that accompanied events like this. Draco could have easily chosen someone else by now, succumbed to the excitement like everyone else around him. But he hadn’t. He was waiting for you, with a quiet confidence that made you feel both comforted and nervous.

As the days ticked by, you found yourself inching closer to a decision. You were no longer as frightened by the idea of the ball, knowing Draco would be there, steady and reassuring as always. And finally, a few days before the event, you decided that maybe you were ready to say yes.

You were sitting  in the common room, quietly finishing up an essay when Draco joined you on the couch, his usual easy smile lighting up his face. He didn’t say anything at first, simply leaning back, his presence calm and familiar as always. The warmth of the fire crackled nearby, casting flickering shadows over the room, and you couldn’t help but feel how the gentle, golden light softened Draco’s sharp features, adding a warmth to him that no one else seemed to notice.

Your heart began to race, and you glanced down, gathering the courage to speak. You’d been turning this moment over in your mind for days, each thought punctuated by the question of whether you were ready. But seeing Draco here, just as patient as ever, you felt a small, shy smile forming on your lips.

He noticed your shift, his gaze sharpening slightly with curiosity. “What is it?” he asked, his tone low and gentle, as if he already sensed the weight of your words.

Taking a deep breath, you finally looked up, meeting his eyes. “Draco… about the ball…” you began, your voice barely above a whisper. You watched as his expression softened, the faintest spark lighting up in his gaze. He leaned forward, his focus entirely on you, his expression one of quiet anticipation.

“I’d like to go…” you said softly, your heart pounding so hard you felt it might echo in the quiet room. “With you.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you. His lips curved into a genuine, warm smile, one that seemed to hold a world of understanding, as if he knew just how much it had taken for you to say those words. His eyes softened, his gaze steady and reassuring, and you could see a look of satisfaction flashing across his face as he nodded.

“Good.” he replied, his voice carrying an unmistakable note of excitement beneath his usual cool demeanour. “I’ve been waiting.”

A small, relieved laugh escaped you, and Draco chuckled as well, his eyes never leaving yours. In that quiet moment, with only the crackling of the fire in the background, you felt the weight of your nerves slipping away. All that remained was a warmth in your chest, a quiet thrill that settled in your heart, as if every anxious thought had been soothed by the simple, steady comfort in his gaze.

To your complete surprise, Draco reached over, his hand finding yours, his fingers brushing yours in a way that was both gentle and confident. His thumb traced small circles over your knuckles, a gesture so tender it sent a pleasant shiver through you. You glanced down, unable to hide the blush creeping up your cheeks, but Draco simply smiled, his eyes holding a soft amusement as he took in your reaction.

“I wanted to ask you.” he murmured, his tone low, almost conspiratorial, “but I thought I’d give you time. I know you don’t like… big scenes.”

You nodded, feeling a warmth in your chest at how well he understood you. “Thank you… for waiting.” you replied, your voice soft.

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his fingers lingering as he replied, “You’re worth waiting for.”

The words hung in the air between you. You found yourself lost in his gaze, feeling a connection deeper than anything you’d ever felt before. And in that moment, you knew you’d made the right choice. Whatever nerves remained seemed to melt away in the warmth of his touch, replaced by a quiet excitement, a thrill at the thought of the night to come and the promise of a moment shared only between you.

~~~

It was the day of the ball. You stood in front of the mirror, nervously fiddling with the hem of your gown. The soft black fabric flowed around you like liquid midnight, gliding over your frame with a grace that felt foreign yet beautiful. It was far out of your comfort zone—elegant, sleek, and perhaps a bit too daring for someone used to hiding in the background. The gown covered you in silky waves, yet you couldn’t shake the feeling of being completely exposed.

Your fingers brushed over the card your mother had sent with the gown, her excitement evident in every carefully penned word. She had understood your hesitation, always supporting you in your quiet ways, but her joy at the thought of you stepping into the world was unmistakable. Her words were warm, encouraging, and they echoed in your mind as you took a deep, steadying breath.

With a final adjustment to your elegant hair clip, which held your carefully styled hair in place, you glanced at your reflection, hoping it conveyed even a fraction of the confidence you were trying to muster. You could still hear the gentle encouragement in your mother’s voice, and that small, steady reassurance felt like a quiet strength resting in your heart.

As you made your way down the stairs, you were met with the sight of other girls, adorned in gowns of every colour, dashing past with bright eyes and breathless excitement. They giggled, glancing over their shoulders as they rushed to their dates, their expressions alight with anticipation.

You lingered at the edge of the common room, feeling both a part of and apart from the thrill that filled the air. For a second you thought about abandoning the plan, about turning around to hide back into the safety of your dormitory. But you didn’t, you pushed forward. When you reached the bottom of the stairs, you stopped, breath catching in your throat as your eyes found Draco waiting near the entrance.

He looked striking in his formal attire, a tailored black suit that brought out the sharpness of his features and the cool grey of his eyes. He was watching the door, his expression carefully composed, but as soon as he saw you, his gaze softened, a flicker of warmth melting the usual coolness in his eyes.

For a moment, his gaze swept over you, and you could have sworn you saw the faintest hint of awe there, a subtle appreciation as his eyes lingered on the way the gown draped over you. He took a step closer, his hand extending towards you in a gesture that felt both formal and gentle.

“You look…” He paused, searching for the words, his usual smooth confidence giving way to something more genuine. “You look beautiful, Y/N.”

A blush crept up your cheeks, and you managed a small smile, your fingers brushing his as you took his hand. “Thank you.” you murmured, your voice soft. “You… you look amazing too.”

His lips curved into a slight smirk, but there was a softness to it that felt reserved only for you. “Ready?” he asked, his thumb brushing against your hand, sending a reassuring warmth through you.

With a small nod, you felt your nerves settle slightly. It was just you and Draco now, away from the giggling girls and the excited chatter. You stepped into the hallway, your hand in his, his grip steady, and you couldn’t help but feel grateful for the sense of calm he brought.

When you finally reached the doors to theGrand Hall, Draco paused, turning to you. “If it gets to be too much… just let me know.” he said quietly, his gaze warm and reassuring. “We can slip away, find a quiet corner somewhere. Just us.”

The kindness in his words, the unspoken promise of understanding, made your heart swell with gratitude. You felt the tension in your shoulders ease, the comfort of his presence settling over you like a gentle cloak.

“Thank you, Draco.” you said softly, squeezing his hand as you offered him a genuine smile. 

As the two of you entered the grand hall, the immediate stares from students around you made you instinctively shrink back, your nerves flaring up under the weight of so many curious eyes. You moved a little closer to Draco, letting him act as a buffer between you and the crowd. Sensing your discomfort, he slid a reassuring hand to your waist, pulling you close in a subtle but protective gesture. The warmth of his touch grounded you, his presence like a steady anchor amidst the swirling noise and lights of the hall.

With his hand on your waist, Draco guided you to a quieter corner where he pulled out a chair and gestured for you to sit beside him at one of the tables. You gratefully took the seat, feeling safer tucked close to his side. His casual confidence helped ease some of your nervousness, and though you couldn’t escape the occasional glances thrown your way, you felt a bit more at ease with him near.

It didn’t take long for his friends to spot him. Blaise, Pansy, and Theo approached the table, each wearing expressions that ranged from amused to downright mischievous. Blaise was the first to speak, his lips quirking up into a teasing grin as he looked between you and Draco.

“Had to go for the quiet one, huh, Draco?” he teased, waggling his eyebrows. “Didn’t want to risk someone who’d actually talk back?”

Draco rolled his eyes, but his hand remained steady on your waist, not moving an inch away. “Some of us value peace and quiet, Blaise.” he replied smoothly, his tone laced with just enough sarcasm to make his friend chuckle.

Pansy leaned in, her eyes narrowing playfully as she looked you over, though her expression wasn’t unfriendly. “Didn’t think I’d see you at one of these, Draco.” she said, her voice teasing. “Or you, for that matter.” she added, nodding at you with a raised eyebrow.

Draco’s arm tightened around you slightly, his tone cool but lighthearted. “I’m full of surprises tonight, apparently.” he replied, glancing down at you with a small, private smile that made your cheeks warm. His friends exchanged knowing looks, a mix of surprise and amusement clear on their faces as they took in the uncharacteristically soft look Draco wore when he looked at you.

Theo crossed his arms, a smirk forming on his face. “Never thought I’d see the day when Draco Malfoy would be so… domesticated.” he joked, earning a snicker from Blaise.

Draco shot him a look that was both annoyed and amused, shaking his head. “Better domesticated than chasing after a loudmouth all night.” he replied, his eyes glinting with amusement.

Blaise raised his hands in surrender, chuckling. “Fine, fine. Guess we’ll leave you two ‘quiet ones’ to yourselves, then.” He winked at you before they moved to join the rest of the crowd, casting a few playful glances back in your direction.

As they walked away, you felt yourself relax a little more, the warmth of Draco’s hand still resting on your waist a quiet reminder of his presence. He looked down at you, his gaze softening.

“Sorry about them.” he murmured, giving your waist a gentle squeeze. “They’re… not exactly subtle.”

You shook your head, managing a small smile. “It’s okay. They seem… nice, in their own way.”

Draco smirked, his expression softening as he looked at you. “Nice might be a bit of a stretch. But they’re loyal. And they’re less insufferable once you get to know them.”

You chuckled softly, your nerves easing bit by bit as he continued to keep you close, shielding you from the attention of the room. The music played on, and though the hall was filled with laughter, chatter, and the dazzling movements of dancers, in your corner of the room, it felt like it was just the two of you. And with Draco by your side, you found yourself starting to enjoy the night in a way you hadn’t expected.

Draco never pushed you to join the others on the dance floor or to mingle with the lively crowd that filled the hall. Instead, he seemed perfectly content to sit by your side, his presence calm and reassuring, as if this corner of the grand hall were your own private sanctuary. He leaned back, relaxed, his gaze soft as he looked at you, and the two of you settled into a quiet rhythm, chatting in low voices amidst the distant music and laughter.

You found yourself growing more at ease, the earlier tension gradually slipping away. Draco had an effortless way of drawing you out, his questions thoughtful, never prying. He seemed genuinely interested in getting to know you—asking about your favourite things, your thoughts on Hogwarts, little stories from your past. With every answer, he’d listen intently, offering the occasional smile or chuckle that made you feel… seen, in a way you hadn’t expected.

And he, in turn, shared parts of himself that you could tell he rarely let others see. You learned about his favourite places at Hogwarts, like a small alcove by the lake where he liked to go to think, or the dusty, hidden corners of the library where he would escape when he wanted peace. He even told you about his love for quiet nights spent by the common room fire, when he could let his guard down without feeling the weight of others’ expectations.

Despite still feeling slightly on edge, there was a warmth in Draco’s presence that made the evening unexpectedly pleasant. He didn’t seem to mind your shy responses, your glances down as you fiddled with the edges of your gown, or the way you occasionally looked out at the crowd with slight apprehension. He simply adjusted, keeping the conversation easy and gentle, as if he understood exactly what you needed.

At one point, the music shifted to a slow, softer tune, and you caught a glimpse of couples drifting gracefully across the dance floor. Your heart fluttered slightly, wondering if Draco would ask you to dance. Part of you was terrified at the thought of being in the spotlight, of stepping out onto the floor where everyone could see. But a quieter, hopeful part of you wondered if he’d pull you in close, if his touch would feel as steady as it did now.

Draco must have noticed your gaze, because he leaned forward slightly, his expression thoughtful. “Do you want to dance?” he asked softly, his tone gentle, leaving you the choice.

You hesitated, feeling a mixture of longing and nerves, and shook your head slightly. “I… I don’t know if I’m ready for that.” you admitted, a shy smile tugging at your lips.

He nodded, a warm understanding in his eyes as he settled back into his chair, his hand still resting on yours. “That’s perfectly fine.” he murmured. “I’d rather sit here with you anyway.”

A comfortable silence fell between you as he continued to hold your hand, his thumb tracing gentle patterns over your fingers. It was a simple gesture, but it made you feel safe, like he was willing to shield you from the world outside your quiet bubble. He didn’t push, didn’t ask you to do anything you weren’t comfortable with. He was just… there, content to be beside you, in whatever way you needed him to be.

As the night went on, you found yourself relaxing more, the low murmur of his voice and his quiet laughter easing the last of your nerves. You’d never imagined that something as simple as sitting beside him, exchanging quiet words, could feel so intimate, so genuine. It was as if he were letting you into a part of himself that no one else got to see, and in turn, you felt safe enough to let down your own walls, if only just a little.

In that moment, with his hand in yours and the soft glow of the candlelight reflecting in his eyes, you realised that this was exactly what you’d hoped for—a night spent in quiet companionship, away from the noise and expectations of the world. Just the two of you, in a space that felt like it was made for you alone.

And somehow, that was enough. More than enough.

You glanced up at Draco, feeling the now-familiar warmth spread across your cheeks, and took a deep breath. Gathering the courage, you looked into his eyes, feeling a small, shy smile tug at your lips.

“Draco…” you murmured, your voice soft, “I… I think I would like to dance with you. Just… away from everyone else.”

His eyes lit up, a gentle smile crossing his face as he gave a slight nod, understanding instantly. He rose from his seat without hesitation, his hand extended towards you. You placed your hand in his, feeling a spark of excitement as he guided you through the hall, weaving between tables and clusters of students, until you reached the doors of the Grand Hall.

Stepping outside, you were greeted by the cold winter’s night air, the faint echo of the ball’s music drifting into the quiet. Draco led you down a pathway lined with twinkling fairy lights, stopping at a secluded spot beneath a large, ancient tree. Here, the soft notes of the music were still audible, blending with the peaceful sounds of the night. It felt magical, almost as if this place had been waiting for the two of you.

Draco turned to face you, his hands gently resting on your waist as he looked into your eyes, his expression warm and inviting. The moonlight cast a soft glow over his features, accentuating the rare tenderness you’d come to recognize in his gaze.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice low, as if speaking too loudly might break the spell of the moment.

You nodded, your heart fluttering as you placed your hands on his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his presence wrap around you. Slowly, he guided you into a gentle sway, the two of you moving to the distant melody drifting from the hall. There were no grand gestures, no fancy steps—just the simple rhythm of your bodies moving together, perfectly in sync.

For a moment, everything else faded away. There were no prying eyes, no expectations, just the two of you in this quiet corner of the world. You looked up at him, your cheeks still rosy, feeling the thrill of the dance and the intimacy of being so close.

Draco’s gaze softened as he looked down at you, his voice barely a whisper. “You know, I never thought I’d enjoy a night like this so much.” he murmured. “But… you make it easy.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and a soft smile graced your lips as you looked back at him. “I feel the same way.” you replied, surprised at how natural the words felt. “I didn’t think I’d even be here… but you’ve made tonight feel… special.”

He chuckled softly, his eyes never leaving yours. “I think it’s you who’s made it special, Y/N.”

The music swelled in the background, he pulled you a little closer, his hands firm yet gentle on your waist. You let yourself relax in his embrace, feeling safe and cherished in a way you hadn’t expected. 

The two of  you moved together in quiet harmony, the world around you seemed to fall away, leaving only the soft music, the gentle sway of your bodies, and the warmth of Draco’s embrace. He pulled you just a little closer, resting his chin gently on the top of your head as you nestled against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat filled your ears, calming and comforting, grounding you in this perfect moment.

You let your eyes close, feeling the warmth of his body radiate through you, and it was as though you could both feel each other’s unspoken emotions in that silence. The night air was crisp, but in his arms, you felt nothing but warmth.

After a few moments, he sighed, the gentle exhale stirring your hair. He shifted slightly, and you felt his chin lift as he looked down at you. You glanced up, meeting his gaze, seeing a softness in his eyes that made your heart race.

“Y/N.” he murmured, his voice low and vulnerable. He paused, as though choosing his words carefully, his expression uncharacteristically uncertain. “I… I’ve wanted to ask you something for a while now.”

You felt your breath catch as his hand gently traced along your waist, the tender pressure sending a pleasant shiver through you.

He swallowed, and his gaze held yours, steady but filled with a quiet intensity. “Would it… would it be okay if I kissed you?”

Your cheeks grew warm, and you felt a nervous, shy smile tugging at your lips. The question hung between you, and though you felt a rush of nerves, you also felt a quiet, undeniable thrill that made you want to lean in and close the space between you.

Biting your lip, you nodded slowly, your gaze dropping to his chest for a moment before lifting to meet his eyes again. “Yes… I’d like that.” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

A gentle smile curved his lips as he leaned down, his hand sliding to cup the side of your face. His thumb brushed softly along your cheek, his touch tender and reassuring, as if he wanted to make sure you felt safe in his arms.

He closed the distance between you, his lips brushing against yours in the lightest, softest of kisses. It was gentle, unhurried, filled with a warmth that made your heart flutter. His hand held you close, cradling your face as he kissed you again, a little more deeply this time, and you felt yourself melt into him, the world around you disappearing entirely.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, a soft smile playing on his lips. His hand stayed on your cheek, his thumb brushing soothingly along your skin.

“Thank you.” he whispered, his voice a gentle murmur in the night. “For trusting me… and for tonight.”

You smiled shyly, your fingers tracing the lapel of his suit jacket as you looked up at him, still a little breathless. For a moment, you simply let yourself take in his warmth, his gaze soft and unguarded in a way you knew he rarely showed.

But instead of replying, you surprised even yourself as you stood up on your tiptoes, leaning in to press your lips against his once more. It was a bold move, uncharacteristic of your usually reserved self, but something about this moment felt right, like it was meant for just the two of you.

Draco’s initial surprise softened almost instantly as he returned the kiss, his hands gently moving to your waist, pulling you closer. This kiss was deeper, filled with a newfound confidence and passion that sent your heart racing. When you finally pulled away, both of you were smiling, his forehead resting against yours as you shared a quiet, almost breathless laugh.

“Oh wow?” he murmured, his voice low, full of surprise.

You chuckled softly, feeling a little more daring than before. “Maybe I should be bold more often.” you whispered, meeting his gaze with a new spark of confidence.

He smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I’d certainly encourage it.”

In that moment, with the quiet music playing in the background and his arms wrapped around you, it felt as though you had found something rare and precious—a feeling that went beyond words, beyond the excitement of the ball, and straight to the heart of what it meant to share something true.

You weren’t sure what would happen between you and Draco after today. But as the two of you stood together, swaying gently under the stars, you knew that this night was a memory you would hold onto forever.

Likes, reblogs and comments are always very much appreciated! ♡

© slytherinsmuse. please do not copy, claim, translate or steal any of my works as your own.

[1hot-mess-express1]

I just read your Toge not saying I love you out of fear of making reader a curse should they die and I wanna 1 up you, what if he said it while they were dying? Or like on their death bed when they're like old and grey because the guilt of not actually saying momentarily like, eats him up and he says it without thinking? Or he goes to and reader stops him and just has that look that says they know and instead reader says this sappy stuff about how they've always felt loved by him and that they always noticed His efforts to show how much he loved them.

Feel free to ignore this btw, it was just something thats been jumping around my head as of late. I hope you have a lovely week!!

-🎃💫

Any Last Words?

Toge X reader

Angst w/comfort

W.C: 1567

Synopsis: Toge is left gravely injured after the Shibuya incident and he finds himself reflecting

A/N: So sorry lovely Anon I have no idea how long this has just been chilling in my inbox but I saw this and fell in love w/ the concept immediately, this is a little rushed but I really wanted to get this done before life got too busy again

As a sorcerer, death is a constant companion—always lurking, always watching, waiting patiently to swoop in and remind you that no matter how powerful you are, she’s the one holding all the cards. Toge was no exception. He could vividly recall clinging to his father's pant leg, peeking around at the men in suits whose large frames cast menacing shadows over them. They were hunting down the alleged cursed speech user, warning his father that this child was dangerous, a threat to society—this child needed to be eliminated. If his father were a good man, they said, he would cooperate.

“A child who has inherited cursed speech can manipulate the world around them. If a child with this technique were to yell ‘no’ at you, you would have no choice but to comply; your body would freeze up, and you wouldn’t be able to move. They likely aren’t strong enough yet to cause real harm, but you see why we need to eliminate this threat early.” The man in front of them adjusts his glasses, peering straight through a trembling Toge.

“Of course, sir, I’d love to help you with this, but as you may have guessed, I don’t see many children other than my own, and unfortunately, this little guy is mute. He hasn’t spoken a word since the day he was born.” Toge’s father ruffles his hair lightly as Toge buries his face deeper into his sweater.

The man stares through Toge one last time before his gaze flickers up, and he breaks into a tight, uncomfortable smile. “Right then, we’ll be on our way. If you hear anything, don’t hesitate to give us a call. We wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to happen.” He hands over his business card and walks away.

That night, Toge meets Gojo sensei for the first time. His father told him this man would take him somewhere safe, that he wouldn’t have to be afraid, and that he could help others with his gift. That reassurance did little to quell the tears welling up in his eyes. He wanted to stay, to keep pretending just a little longer, but it was time to grow up. The world lost some of its wonder that night as he clutched the hand of a stranger, fighting back tears as his father waved him off with a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

From that day on, his life became a constant reminder of the cruelty of his new world. Corpses littered the scenes of curse sightings, and teachers, supervisors, and even students sometimes wouldn’t make it home from missions. He watched from the sidelines as their loved ones mourned and then returned to school as if nothing had happened. It was hard not to become detached from your own life when it could be lost in an instant.

Then there was you. A second-grade at best, from a line of non-sorcerers. The horrors of this world never seemed to touch you. You always smiled and laughed, enjoying the life you were given. For a moment, Toge thought you were naive. He was sure you didn’t realize the horrors lurking around every corner, ready to pounce and tear everything from you.

When you received word that Yuji had died, you wept, embarrassingly so, for someone you had never met. You cried openly, tears streaming, snot running down your nose as you wailed like a child. He stood there, stunned by the raw display of grief, and you left him little time to process it before you wrapped your arms around his neck, crying into his shoulder. You spoke of how young Yuji was, how much he had ahead of him; you wept for his friends, his family, all the lives he was meant to touch. Toge doesn’t remember when he started crying, but his face burns as tears roll down onto the top of your head. He doesn’t know why, but he clutches you tightly and cries freely for possibly the first time in his life.

A breathy laugh escapes him as he recalls the memory of you sniffling into his shoulder, much like you are now. He winces in pain as the gentle laugh wreaks havoc on his injured body. He tries to wrap an arm around your head, to run his fingers through your hair, to comfort you and reassure you he’s okay, but nothing happens. Right, he lost that arm just hours ago. At this realization, another laugh roils through his stomach, and he can’t hold it back this time, choking on the pain as his body shakes in your arms.

It was never supposed to be like this. He was supposed to come home in one piece, ready to cook dinner with you and the others in the dorm. You would scold him for being reckless and dote on him as you haphazardly administered medicine. He was supposed to lie with you on the couch, eyes heavy, his hand tracing through your hair while a movie flickered around them, lighting the otherwise empty room.

This time, he allows himself to cry freely, clutching you impossibly closer as he wails like a child, mourning everything that should have been, all the things that could have been. You lean back slightly at his sudden outburst, cradling his face in your hands, brushing his bloodied hair out of his eyes. He doesn’t expect the soft smile gracing your features as you stare back into his eyes. How could you smile at a time like this? He had let you down, he could have died, and he was moments from abandoning you here, whether he wanted to or not.

You place a chaste kiss on his forehead, the warmth of your lips lingering against his cold, clammy skin. The gesture is so gentle, so filled with affection, that it catches him off guard. For a moment, the world around him fades—no pain, no fear, just the softness of your touch grounding him in the present. You pull his head into yours, your foreheads pressed together, and he can feel your breath mixing with his, shallow and uneven. It’s too much. He can’t breathe, his chest tightening as the weight of his emotions threatens to suffocate him.

He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut as if that could block out the reality of the situation, as if it could shield him from the intensity of your gaze. He knows if he looks at you, really looks at you, he’ll see the depth of your love and concern etched into your features, and he doesn’t know if he can bear it. How can you look at him like that, with such unwavering trust and devotion, after everything that’s happened? After all he’s lost, after all he’s failed to protect? The guilt gnaws at him, sharp and unrelenting.

“I-I…,” he starts, but the words catch in his throat, choked by the guilt knotting there, making it harder to breathe with each passing moment. He closes his mouth, trying to steady his nerves, but instead, he feels your lips on his, warm and gentle.

You kiss him with no urgency, as if your life is guaranteed, as if you aren’t in a hospital room. No, you kiss him, and he’s transported back to his dorm, the breeze carrying the gentle glow of the afternoon sun through the room, and he can smell the remnants of your shampoo as you tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. He’s home, he’s safe, and he’s loved unconditionally.

When you break away, you reach up to hold his face in your hands, running your thumb over his curse marks. Those marks, once symbols of his power and burden, now seem almost fragile under your tender caress.

You lean in, your voice barely above a whisper, the words carrying a weight that transcends the simplicity of their meaning: “I love you too.” The sincerity in your voice cuts through the layers of doubt and fear that have wrapped themselves around his heart. He feels a surge of emotions—relief, gratitude, love—all mingling together, overwhelming in their intensity.

He can’t help it—the boyish smile that breaks across his face is instinctive, almost involuntary. It’s the kind of smile that reaches his eyes, lighting them up with a glimmer of hope buried under the weight of his doubt. In that moment, everything else falls away. The wounds, the battles, the relentless weight of his responsibilities—they all seem distant, insignificant compared to the simple truth of your words.

His resolve solidifies, a quiet determination burning within him. He might not be able to express his feelings in words, but he vowed to spend the rest of his life showing you, in every way possible, just how deeply he loved you. He would make it his mission to always come home to you—to listen to you animatedly recount your day, your eyes sparkling with excitement over the smallest details. He would continue to bring your favorite snacks, the ones that always made you smile, and remember the little things, like moving the sheets into the dryer on Saturdays.

As long as he lived, he would fight to return to you, day after day, because each time he walked through that door and saw you waiting for him, it was a victory—a promise kept. And maybe, just maybe, one day, when the time was right, he would…

[lab1rynth]

hii! :D

I was wondering if requests were open and if they were, if I could request a sub sugar daddy type yandere? So basically, a yandere who just buys everything for you and does anything to get your attention? But he isn't a daddy, just pure sub. you don't have to do this and can change anything u want,, :)

Also, could I be an anon, and if yes can I be 🎀 anon please? tyy <3

Welcome New anon! Hope you dont mind, I also made him a dilf!!

Yan!DILF/Sugar Daddy

Yan!Dilf who's kids you meet on the the day you first moved in next door, they were playing with a garden hose outside when they noticed you dropping off boxing and went to see you. The two drenched kids welcoming you to the neighborhood and inviting you for dinner, which you accepted gleefully, much better than the bowl of ramen you were planning on snacking on.

Yan!Dilf who's quite surprised when his kids bring in a total stranger, though welcoming you with kindness once his kids explained who you are. He made sure to calmly tell them how dangerous it is to welcome strangers into the house without his permission, but let it slide this time.

Yan!Dilf who decides to do a barbeque so you all can just relax and eat outside, his kids just splashing around with the hose and accidentally getting his shirt soaked showing off his torso quite a bit. He wasn't ripped and he did have a little bit of chub to him, like a dad bod. You, of course, caught yourself staring and directed your attention back to laughing at the kids.

Yan!Dilf who continues to invite you to dinner every night for the next few months, having you learn more and more about him. He's a single father, his exe wife died during child birth after giving birth to the twins 7 years ago. He hasn't really tried dating since then, he's been so busy with work and his kids that he never actually had time to give it a thought.

Yan!Dilf who you start spending more time with before dinner, helping around the house, watching the kids when he needs to do something. You fill a whole in his heart that has been left empty for a long while. He finds himself falling in love with you, wanting to just be there right beside you for the rest of his life.

Yan!Dilf who starts taking you out to eat when the kids are at school, buying you clothes, food and necessities even if you refuse. He just wants to spoil you. His face turns bright red every time he sees you wearing the clothes he bought for you, feeling so proud anytime you eat food he makes for you.

Yan!Dilfs kids who one day propose a sleep over, of course you say yes to it! You head over to the house and help the twins make a little fort, their father joining in around the end to help his kids fix up the fort, as it kept falling apart. After making a little snack platter and turning on a movie on his laptop, he got dressed in a grey short sleeved shirt and boxers, showing off his body quite a lot, hoping you'd notice.

Yan!Dilf who ends up cuddling you with one arm and his kids with the other as you sleep under the tent, though all he can do is stare at you, pressing a kiss on your head and holding you close, admiring your beautiful face.

Yan!Dilf who confesses his love to you the next day after making breakfast and dropping the kids off, he's on his knee's cupping your hands in his own and begging you to be with him, telling you how much he loves you and how he dreams of wedding you some day, opening up his heart and spilling his emotions for you.

Yan!Dilf who, for all this time, has been collecting photos of you on his phone, looking at them before bed every night after you go home. He dreams about your future as he sleeps, and he wants more kids with you. If you're able to give birth, he's nervous and scared that the same thing will happen to you that happened to his wife, but he's willing to try if you take enough precautions. If you can't, he's so excited to be able to adopt some in the future with you!

Yan!Dilf who will do anything for you, right when you ask, no matter what. You dont like someone? They aren't going in a 100 mile radius of you ever again. Sex? Hell yeah, baby, lets strip. Want a massage? He'll learn all of the good techniques just for you.

Yan!Dilf who was never able to get you off his mind, or out of reach, without pouting. He cuddles against you and holds onto your hips and hands whenever he can. This man whimpers whenever you trace his finger along his skin or give him a smooch. He lets out small moans anytime you press kisses to his neck or massage his back, he's basically putty in your hands.

[granolawriting]

Sarahs teacher ༊*·˚

pairing: no breakout!Joel x fem reader

Summary: Joel saves you from a uncomfortable interaction with a drunk, and it quickly devolved with him fucking you in a single stall at the bar. Though when you see the little drawings his daughter leaves in his car, you peice together your connection only after it's too late.

Content warning: 18+ NSFW, age gap, grey hairs so hes about that old, picture part 2 joel cause he's the sexiest, also this outfit he has on is pretty acruate to how I pictured him while writing, hair pulling, p in v, creampie, surface level degrading (slut, whore), praise degrading (pretty slut), pet names (darling, sweetheart, baby), southern hospitality!, crazy confident and blunt, breif harassment (not by joel), biting, leaving a mark, dom!Joel, sarah mentioned/met

word count: 4.4k

masterlist

inspired / requested by this wonderful anon!

Clanging of glass against wooden tables, the saturated musk of whiskey and heated bodies overwhelms your senses as you walk within the bar. 

You watch as men raise voices in argument over games blaring on TVs hung high over the center of the room, feeling eyes trace your shape as you make your way to the counter. 

“Just water for now, please.” 

The bartender obliged, and as you sit down upon old wooden barstools with short backs to provide minor support to your height off the ground, a pair of eyes seems to fall on you that feels a bit more welcomed than those prior. 

Hair fell long right above his eye, salt and peppered hair that was well groomed though currently unkempt in a way-- as though the day had been long on him. Multicolored stubble compliments the smirk of the man that gazed upon you with dark brown eyes hooded by thick lashes. His skin was tanned, and complemented greatly by the dark brown of his jacket coupled with the muted greens of a flannel below it. He had his sleeves rolled up, seeing both his elbows placed on the counter as a glass of whisky was held lightly between a few fingers over the cup just a few inches from his face did he soak in every part of you with his gaze. 

His eyes resting on yours set your body aflame, the confidence of his intent made you compelled to want to let him do whatever he wished. A man probably twice your age, like a fine wine did he fire off nerves within you that even men you adored couldn't properly emulate. He was experienced, cocky. He wasn't shy about getting what he wanted like most men your age, and that felt new to you. 

You were getting ahead of yourself, within the few seconds that held eye contact between you and this stranger you felt an eternity of lust seep deep in the pits of your stomach. There was no means to even believe that was his intent, the most you can really give yourself was the complement of his elongated gaze affixed on you. But after a few moments his eyes tore away and engaged in what played on the TVs, and watched as the people went by. Leaving you to yourself for a moment to yearn for him, after so much as a glance. 

… 

“This drink came from the man right down there.” 

What sat before you was some sort of vodka tonic, and as your head moved to glance upon that stranger once more with a welling of anticipation for his next move, a different hand shot out and waved to claim that prize. Your heart sank. Some 20 something stood to approach you, a hat upon laid back hair that sported some football team you knew nothing about, and the careful steps of a man trying to impress whilst also being a few drinks in. he slides up tho the empty space on the counter next to you, and elbow propped against your side to lean in, does the stench of cheap liquor and sweat permeate your senses as he begins to talk to you. 

“Mm, what's your name, pretty lady?” 

A scoff quietly escapes you as the slur of his words make any attempt at flattery obsolete.

“What's it to you?” 

Brows furrow at the harsh response to his kind gesture, he retorts;

“Well I just bought you that drink didn't i? Don't I deserve a little somethin?” 

A little something what do you look like? A hooker? 

“You don't deserve a damn thing. I didn't ask for this cheap thing.” 

He leans in a bit closer to you, closing the gap of space between your body and his as you grow increasingly uncomfortable with his advances with no way out.

“Oh come on don't be like that, listen, how about we get a few more and you can join my buddies over there. We’ll have fun.” 

Slowly you move yourself away from his body inching closer to you,

“No, I think I'm good where I'm at.” 

He grabs your wrist as you try to leave, with the untamed grip of a man not wholly sober and increasingly offended; 

“Oh don't be like that, are you even here with everyone? You’re just asking for attention.” 

A new voice chimes in from behind the both of you. 

“Now, the lady said she don't want anythin to do with you. Aint no sense in tryna force her, especially if you want to keep that nose of yours unbroken. Ya understand me boy?” 

The stranger from earlier, carrying deep southern drawl and a sternness in his voice comes to you like a guardian angel. He looms over the short heighted man in comparison, with an air of dominance and intimidation that supersedes anything that that could have done in comparison. 

“You didn't tell me you were with someone. I.. I'm sorry sir.” 

His voice shrinks at the sight of conflict with him, he turns to you then to him for apology, before scampering off to his friends with a tail between his legs. 

The man turns to face you now, dwarfing you in his shadow as he looks at you. There's a kind smile in his eyes, with a soft smirk on his lips as he goes to take the place of the man before him. 

“I'm sorry that man was bothin ya darlin’. Aint no way to treat a lady like you.” 

your ears perk up at that final part-- a lady like you. You feel flush at his flattery, giving a moment to shift your body closer to his ever so slightly to lean into his words. 

“A lady like me hm? And what does that mean?” 

Once again he doesn't properly cower at the confrontation of very bold flirting -- you can tell this isn't his first time playing this kind of game. And you were more than glad to play along. 

“Well, just mean a lady pretty as you, that's all.” 

Coy smile coats his face as he takes another sip of his drink.

“Oh well, thank you sir. Can't say it's every day a handsome man like you comes to my rescue.” 

Sir. his eyes flick up from his drink to the sound of that, and you notice this time. 

“No bother, names Joel.” 

Joel. Where have I heard that name before? 

“Ahh, well, sir Joel, I'll be heading to the bathroom for a bit. Think you'll still be here when i'm back?” 

You hop out of your chair, brushing off and readjusting the dress you wore as you centered yourself on the floor once more. 

“Mm I'm sure I will sweetheart.” 

He smiles as his drink is raised to his lips once more from hovering fingers over it's top, he sends you off with a wink and the knowledge that as you walk away he gets a greater view of the body he could only see from across the bar. 

…

Knock knock 

“I'm in here.” 

In a single stall are you leaning over a metal sink to correct makeup and hair in the mirror of the bathroom. You didn't need to use the bathroom, just needed to fix your makeup if you thought you could have any more confidence with Joel. 

Knock knock knock 

“Dude- i'm fucking in here.” 

You go to open the door and chew out whoever was pounding on the door, like there weren't other stalls to use. Though as you crack open the side of it you see Joel standing before you, before quickly pushing his way inside it as well. Turning you around does he pin you against the wall adjacent to the door itself. 

“Listen here darlin’. I wont play coy, there aint nothin I want to do to you more right now then to have ya all to myself. I cant fuckin stand it.” 

His hand lays flat on your shoulder as it pushes you against the wall, the other hand making its way to cup your jaw. His calloused fingers stroke your cheek as you stand there speechless. 

“Use your words baby. Come on, I know you fuckin want it.” 

“Y-- yes sir. I…I wouldn't mind” 

You stammer out a weak consent that seems to be the only thing that can come to mind as you grow intoxicated by his scent, his aura. Whisky coats his breath as he looms over you, the smell of his cologne masking scents of sawdust and tobacco as you feel his heat on you with how close he stands to you. 

“Good.” 

His lips smash into yours, feeling his tongue immediately trying to invade every part of your mouth, taste every last drop of your spit as though he was addicted to it. His hands trail up and down your body as his fingers pay no regard to the loose fabric that made up your dress. Gripping your waist he let up from your kiss, turning you around to face the mirror that was just moments ago used as a means to fix your makeup, now you found yourself pushed down onto the cold metal of the sink that still held your eye makeup and brushes. His hands traced all up and down your back as though he was worshiping the body below him, standing right at your backside you could feel his bulge growing from the inside of his worn jeans. 

Fuck hes big. 

His body falls to cup yours, fully clothed does the request become but a low whisper deep in your ear as his hand trails up your neck to your hair, pulling it back as your back arches to compliment the placement of his bulge. 

“Good girl. Now don't you look so pretty?” 

He refers to the mirror in front of you, and as you gaze at yourself within it you see hairs falling in front of your face, as arms twice as large as yours grip onto your hair to force your face to look directly within the mirror. You look at him, watching as his face contorted into what looked like a proud lion with his fresh prey. His smirk was selfish, and the way he looked at your body made you feel naked. Undressing what was left of you with his eyes, he didn't leave any more room for imagination as he let up from you for a moment to unbuckle his belt. Watching as the jeans fell to the floor with a heavy clunk, and all that remained was his boxers that swiftly followed. You couldn't see his cock, but as he grazed it along your folds you could just feel how much there was. 

“Now ain't that a sight. All this ‘cause of me hm? Gotta say I'm honored.” 

He pushes your panties down, a trail of your own slick following suit that leaked down your thigh unabashedly. You feel a heavy hand pressed down onto your back. 

“Arch your back for me darlin’.” 

And as you do so, you feel him grab your ass, slapping it and pulling it apart to look at your heat before you could feel his tip directly at your entrance. He lets it linger for a moment, cupping himself to you slightly and brings your hair back to look at the mirror once more. 

“Look how pretty of a fuckin’ slut you are baby. Absolutely drenched for my cock, you better take it good alright? I'm not here to play nice with ya’.” 

You nod your head as much as you could in understanding before you felt him piercing you. It was so much, too much. You felt as though you were going to be split open entirely as the first pulse he did in you felt as though he’d never reach the base. As he grew to be halfway inside of you you felt full to the brim, biting your lip with closed eyes to try and take it all without a whine. 

You feel a jerk of your hair as he went deep into you. You felt his body flush against yours but with eyes closed he yanked your neck up to look at him. 

“Don't close your eyes, baby. I want you to look at me.” 

A steady pace was founded soon after, feeling him go in and out of you elicited timed whines and moans, your brain felt as though it was melting in a way, the only thing that your body could think of as every pounding force inside of you made your nerves shoot off and you felt it everywhere in your body. Down to your fingers was the sense of taking in every vein, every curve, every little inch of his cock as it used you like you were some toy. 

Your fingers fall to your own clit, desperate to cum on his cock already do you draw circles over your own throbbing parts, as your mind grows numb at the feeling of the two combined. Though Joel is quick to notice. 

“Do you want to fuckin’ cum for me darlin’? Come on now all ya gotta use is your words and I can do all that for you. You're mine right? My pretty little slut.” 

His free hand snakes over your thigh to find your fingers, pushing them aside as his calloused fingers match the same motion you had just done but with greater intensity. Your whole body is at his disposal, feeling nothing but the pleasure he's giving you, your hands grasp at nothing to try and stabilize yourself against his cock. Looking at the mirror he forces you to watch as he groans over you, watching the sweat drip off his hair down onto his chest as he grows less and less controlled in his movements. You watch as your own face pathetically contorts into inexplicable pleasure, you are addicted to him. The way his cock feels inside of you, his fingers on your clit. You feel your heat building up in your stomach quickly, a flame sweltering in your stomach that was going to peak at any moment. 

“God-- fuck Joel, i’m going to cum. Oh my god--” 

You feel yourself contract on top of his cock, your insides desperately wrapped around him as you finish. your legs shake but as he presses himself into you even more you cant move almost anywhere. 

“Fuck you feel so good, god-- so fuckin’ good i'm--” 

His fingers still trace a sensitive clit as your body moves involuntarily to the rhythm of his cock inside of you, your body completely overwhelmed as he finishes inside of you after only a few more strokes, you feel a heat fill deep inside of you. Keeping it in for a second does the excess of his finish seep out of the edges of you, trailing down your leg onto the floor. 

Jagged breath fills the air that was once filled with groans and whimpers, shallow breaths to try and come back to reality fill your lungs as you lay against the counter ever still. You listen as Joel adorns his jeans once more, looping the belt into propper hole before grabbing paper towels from the nearby dispenser. His hands travel down the side of your leg where you and him mixed together in remis of pleasure and slowly takes the dry towel to it, mopping up all that he left on you. 

“Here ya go darlin’. Now, turn ‘round for me.” 

Waiting as you turn slowly, your body just getting in tune with being able to move on it's own again you face him. A face covered in sweat, hair stuck to his face he still looked enchanting. He takes you in, a look of yearning and hunger still coated his eyes as he looked you up and down.

“This’ll only hurt for a second sweetheart.” 

His fingers move the straps of your dress to your shoulders, moving them down to expose your chest. Bending down does he place small kisses on your chest, but before you could question it you felt his teeth sink into your chest. Sucking with intent to leave a mark, shallow pants meet fingers through his hair as you whine softly. Soon his lips let up, and a wet mark along your chest remains. 

“Didn't want ya to forget me too quickly. Just say this is a little reminder of me.” 

Joel smiles at you, a wink following his brazen claim on your body well after tonight somehow made you more attracted to him. There was something so matter of fact, demanding about him. He just took whatever he wanted and it had just happened to be you. The perfect combination of southern charm and degradation was enough to fuel you for a lifetime off this very night. 

He opens the door for you as you exit, following you out swiftly after does the walk to the general bar feels like your own walk of shame in a way. But were you really ashamed? They all knew what had just transpired, but part of you was proud of it. Joel certainly was. 

“You got any ways of gettin’ home sweetheart?” 

His voice inquired from behind you, making you turn to face him once more as more proper light shone on him giving him even greater features to be enamored by. 

“Oh well, my place is around a 20 minutes walk from here, so that's how I got here.” 

His brows furrowed at that notion, though it's better than any alternative of driving here with the intent of getting drunk. 

“Seems like I'll be takin’ you home then. You want anything before take ya?” 

“What? No- you don't need to take me home. It's such an inconvenience and-” 

“Listen sweetheart. It wouldn't be right of me leavin’ you hear all by yourself after all we just did. It's only proper.” 

You acquiesce. He does make a good point, and as he opens the door for you once more he leads you to his old truck, the seats smell of wood and coffee and you survey the insides to see a small drawn picture of what seemed to be him and a small girl upon his dash. A medium of crayon depicted two simple figures holding hands under a sun. 

“I didn't know you were such an artist Joel” 

You nudge him, teasing him about the photo briefly. 

“Now, you know I didn't do all that. Was my girl Sarah, made it when she was about 5 I think. Shes my whole world that little girl.” 

His smile lit up at the mention of his daughter, one that left you a bit dumbfounded because you didn't expect him to be a proud father given his introduction but you had no doubt he was a good one nonetheless. 

The drive home was slow but soothing, low country music played on his CD player as he drove down the road to your apartment. And as you signified to him which one was your place he pulls off to the side and drops out of the truck before you. Opening the door for you does he lead you out and to your door, with a kind farewell that despite all his degradation can never override his innate hospitality. Bidding you farewell as he leaves back into his truck, there's no part of you that feels as though you’ll ever see him again. But for a hookup, it's the nicest way you’ve ever been treated after. By a longshot. You won't be quick to forget him, with or without his hickey. 

…

School bells ring in your ears as you stand atop a small ladder that gets you to the top of the ceiling to tack on the final decoration for your parent-teacher night. It’d been over a week since you’d met Joel, and as the Friday before a long weekend creeps up on you the last thing you need to do is go through a line of parents and hope none of them have bad things to say about you. You fancied yourself a very good 7th grade teacher, with some of the children within your grade holding bright futures ahead of them. Specifically Sarah, not only was she a rising athlete but she was incredibly academically gifted. The anticipation to meet her parents grew purely out of curiosity, on what kind of scholars they were to raise such a well behaved child. 

Parents began to pour in before too long, the clock ticking from 4 to 6, conversation over conversation about the behavior of students, curriculum taught, and teaching philosophies wore you out by the time there was a little less than 30 minutes left of the window to greet parents. 

A clock shining at 6:16 made you feel as though your day was done, no real stragglers came in at the last 15 minutes, and as you finished up with the ones who came in the last 30, you began to relax at your desk for a moment. 

Until, of course, you see the thick curly hair of a certain sarah enter your classroom. You felt rejoiced, noting that if you had to deal with anyone, it’d gladly be her and her parents. Though as you watched with a smile on her face as she walked in it was soon no longer matched by you once you saw who her father was. 

Alone in the classroom did you stand across from Joel, whose daughter he held softly by her shoulder. your heart sank. 

What are the fucking odds? 

His usual confident demeanor was completely wiped by what seemed to be genuine shock at the sight of you. 

“I'm sorry we’re so late miss, dad always works super late so I can never come as early as I want. This is my dad, Joel!” 

Thats where I knew his fucking name from. 

Sarah breaks the silence with apology on his behalf, followed by an introduction as you slowly lower yourself within your seat once more and usher them to sit across from you. 

“Oh- oh, there's no worries. There's still time before we technically finish, so I'm more than glad to see you Sarah.” 

Your conversational tone is light, you keep eyes on Sarah while trying to talk to her about school and life, hearing about her new position on the soccer team is the only thing keeping you sane as the same musk you tasted down your throat is sitting right across you once more. 

Sarah's eyes darted over to the entrance to the classroom, spotting what seems to be one of her friends who also arrived quite late. 

“Oh-- dad. Dad, I'm going to go say hi to my friend. Can I go? Please?” 

“No sarah, you’ve gotta stay right here.” 

A diversion of eye contact with you that put all eyes on a whining sarah led you to chime in at the sight of her dismay, 

“Oh it's alright, there's a few things i’d like to speak to you about anyways.” 

She darts away without a second thought, taking your word more to heart than her own fathers. 

So there you two are sat-- eyes locked in on one another as you watch Joel's demeanor falter. He’s barely the man you met at the bar, all semblance of confidence gone to be replaced with a much more sheepish embarrassment at the face of his daughter being directly connected to his hookups. 

“So, Mr. Miller then is it?” 

You take this as a means to taunt him. 

“Funny seeing you here isn't it? Your daughter is exceptional, I'll give you that. But doesn't every day something like this happens does it?” 

He clears his throat, arms crossing as he lies back slightly upon the chair. 

“Now, I mean no disrespect here but you can’t be tauntin’ me like this darlin’. Taking everythin in me to not pin you over that desk just like I did before.” 

Your cheeks grow red and flushed. He wasn't sheepish, he's holding back. If it wasn't for his daughter being right down the hall he’d probably already have you wrapped around his cock again. 

Silence consumes you two once more as you feel your words choke in the back of your throat, you don't have a proper response to something so brazen but his eyes read yours and he makes it clear you needn't say anything at all. 

“Listen sweetheart, if I spend another minute in here with you you’ll probably wanna shut that door and hope no one comes a knockin. So I'll save you the trouble. How’s about you give me your number, and I'll make sure to find time to see you again.” 

You scramble for pen and paper to give him what he wants, you now sheepishly handing him your number as you watch him rise from the seat and straighten himself. 

“Was meanin’ to do this last time. I ain't felt anything as good as you for as long as i can remember. Usually I wouldn't do this, bein’ sarah's teacher and all, but hope you can understand that I can’t resist another night with you.” 

He grabs the paper from trembling hands, feeling his calloused fingers graze yours once more, shooting a shock of nerves to heat up your lower stomach from a mere touch. 

“I’ll see ya around darlin’.” 

A wink and a smile are the last thing you see of him before he takes himself to your door, disappearing as you hear a group of young girls as he walks into the hallway all clamoring something about Sarah as he takes her home. 

You’re left sitting in an empty classroom once more, a clock shining at 6:28 as your cue to leave is imminent. But as you look around you, all you can see is Joel. Every place you look there you are pinned against it with a skirt ridden up and cock shoved inside of you. Even in the empty space in the middle of the classroom you see your knees bare against linoleum as his hands grip your hair and guide it up and down him. You yearned for him, you needed him.

A text chime snapped you out of your trance. 

“5pm, tomorrow. I’ll pick you up.” 

And it seems like he needed you too. 

“And wear what you wore today, I want to take it off of you myself.” 

[pomegranate-pen]

Daym sis !! It took you this long to finally do your reqs ? Better late than never ig, ok but fr tho I’m glad you’ve decided to do your reqs for lackadaisy. Cause I was starting to worry !! So I’m glad your ok <33

Anyways, may I req a Rocky Rickaby x rich (closer to a billionaire) Fem! or gn! reader headcannons? Who is kinda polar opposite to Rocky? They’re kind, social, friendly yet calm, reserved, secretive and kinda mysterious because of their status? And it’s not like they got this money from some distant cousin, they had to work hard.

I can also see them spoiling Rocky in little, subtle ways. Like when his violin is broken from his rumrunning, the reader gifts him with a new one, and despite having no note to specify who exactly gave it to him, he can probably guess who it is. Can this also be like a friends to lovers kind of thing? That’d be cool.

Btw u dont have to do this if u dont wanna, or u can do this later, No pressure ! Make sure to take care of yourself, take breaks and have a wonderful day !!!

Rocky Rickaby x rich!gn!Reader headcanons

A/n: what?? Pomegranate pen actually keeping her promise and releasing something at a weekend?? That's impossible!!! Nsjwjwjwjw anyway, hi dear anon!! Tysm for requesting, I will admit, this was very fun to write,especially since I really missed writing for lackadaisy these few days. Thanks for requesting!! I hope you enjoy this!!

-----

Maintaining a bountiful fortune costs your time, soul and trust and in the world where greed overtakes all morals people have, you always need to be careful on whom you let see your weakness, whom you let see your heart.

So safe to say, you weren’t so keen on trusting a place so deeply rumoured as the lackadaisy speakeasy, let alone become a sponsor of it.

Or at least, that was the case before you met the infamous bootlegger of the place, Rocky Rickaby when he suddenly crashed face first with your car in a farmer's field late in the night. You truly thought he was dead at that moment, you were certain you just accidentally killed someone late into the night because the exhaustion of your soul-consuming meetings finally caught up to you. but then as you got out of the car, as you tried to reevaluate the situation and tried to find any sort of farm or shelter that you could ask help from, a sudden groan of pain gets your attention. The grey cat looks at you with the wooziest eyes and the silliest of grins.

One of his hands shakily goes up to point at you. “…has the nightingale sent her prettiest angel to take me away?” His voice was anything but coherent. “…why I must be quite the lucky…poet..”

As relief washes over you to the fact that he’s breathing, at the very least, you notice a nasty wound opening up on his head, a bit of blood ready to gush out of it. then you notice the box of what seems to be bottles of moonshine that spilled with him as he was running away.

 Before you could think of anything else- you hear grunts, gunshots and yells from across the fields, and in that moment of flight or fight, you grab onto the concerningly lanky cat and drive away.

Through all your yells to yourself about literally taking an injured stranger into your car and running away, you also realized why you felt such an urge. Your brain has seemed to connect the dots.whoever this guy was, it was obvious his job was the unsavoury kind, a bootlegger. An occupation you remember having a long time ago, a job you remember being your worst. Perhaps,you’ve felt sympathy for the guy and decided to save him before things got deadly.

Nevertheless, with an abundance of self-deprecation and worry for what will be the outcome of your quick and on-pressure decision, you took him to your house.

Maids and servants alike gasped in horror when they saw their boss caryying a man who looks like he took a deep swim in the mud, blood trickling down his blue suit and staining your own clothing. You quickly ask for their aid and bring him to the fireplace, let the maids patch him up while you get a proper change of clothes and soothing tea as well.

 The servants urge you to go to bed, to be rest assured that when the mysterious lanky cat wakes up they’ll be there to explain everything to him. Yet, you could not let anyone face the burdens of your silly and perhaps bad decision (though some of your employees commented that you could be deemed heroic in a certain lens. “some might even say a tad romantic!” a certain person with a known interest for romance novels added. You dismissed it all.)

You decided to stay the night sitting by the arm-chair next to the couch he laid on, awaiting his clarity while taking a small nap yourself. With a grunt and roll of their eyes,some from amusement and others from worry, they brought a blanket and a pillow and left you be. Next to the lanky, drifted asleep and bad-shape cat that was covered in bandages.

You were expecting at least a decent night’s sleep, since there’d be no way he’d be able to wake up quickly after the day he’s been through.his body would definitely take its time in recovery. What you hadn’t expected, was hearing rustling and shifts in the night, ones you dismissed as servants just shifted around to finish up the last of their tasks, but then hearing creaks, stumbles and the sound of something clunking and shattering on the ground before finally, a creak of a window opening. That is when your eyes immediately opened, and you were met with the cat who was hit with your car tangled up in his own bandages trying to make an escape. You both froze for a moment. Him, being midway out with his escape, his hand still latched on the window, and you, still in your armchair with a frazzled expression.

 “uh…sorry about that….” His eyes trail to the ground.”statue?...” he gives a nervous grin while pointing at the shattered artifact.he then looks up and gives a nervous chuckle. “and the torn drapes.” He then looks around again and winces. “annnnd the shattered vase.”

 After that failed attempt to escape seemed futile, you brought him back in and briefly explained the situation. Rocky told you his side of the story- though, with a few skipped parts and avoiding to get into details about what specifically failed so spectacularly in his task to retrieve some booze.

You talk for a little while, giving some small brief summaries about who you are and what you do, and gleefully answering some silly questions Rocky had about your status. You found yourself enjoying your talk with Rocky, talking to someone who's so incredibly lively. You've been around soulless businessmen for so long that you almost forgot what it’s like to actually speak to a person, to forget about status and money, to not read between the lines of every sentence someone utters. You finally felt like yourself for a moment, like something about Rocky’s eccentricities and unhinged nature has rejuvenated your soul.

 Yet, as Rocky looks back at the clock, he quickly gets up to leave, needing to go back to his work before anyone assumes he’s dead. You tried to convince him to stay a while longer, to sleep for the night so he can heal up. yet he didn’t falter. He quickly put on his coat and hat, looking at you with a charming smile. He tilts his hat, giving a small bow before graciously saying goodbye.

What he hadn’t noticed, was that your eyes trailed his clothing for a moment and noticed something intriguing. Something that could hint at where he truly works at. A small pin, in the shape of a club.

  After that, a few weeks have passed by before you decide to finally visit. Your main reason was to just make sure he’s  okay and that his injury has finally healed up. yet a part of you knew that you were also deeply curious about him, and had felt the urge to know more about his life. Perhaps, he’ll rise the ranks like you did. Or maybe just like old co-workers of yours at the bootlegging game, he’ll get himself into deep trouble.

Nonetheless, you visited the Lackadaisy speakeasy. The place you heard a cacophony of rumours and chats about, yet never visited it yourself. The empty mine with dark lights engulfed in the room left a lot to be desired. something was missing, something crucial that was holding the whole place up together. The very few guests that were there however, were noneother than the wife of Atlas May and…

  “…Wick Sable?!”

Wick chokes on his drink, tail frizzing up in distress as his ears perk up and take a note of the familiarity of that voice. He coughs out the drink he was meaning to enjoy (even if it’s taste wasn’t really in the highest of tiers in terms of ‘enjoyable’), looking at you with a stressed smile. “ah…L/n..what an unexpected surprise.”

Depending on your relationship with Wick, this interaction could go in three ways. If you're good friends, he’d have to suffer a bit with both your teasing and Mitzi's about not telling you about his frequent trips here. If you're mere acquaintances, then though he’d have to suffer only  Mitzi's teasing about him being so secretive about his visits, he’d still be forced to explain his relationship with the place to you over a few drinks. If you’re known to be rivals or enemies, well, not only would he be utterly displeased by the idea of you finding his go-to bar, but what would irk him more would be how Mitzi will try to make you a regular patron around here. often shutting up any sort of jab or retort Wick has to your musings and letting you have control over the conversation.

 As you start getting accustomed to the ambiance of the mine and the piercing galre of the bartender, the man of the hour-well, your hour, at least, comes in. this time with his suit only a tiny bit ruined by dirt and tears, but still not as bad as his awful state when you first found him.

His eyes beam when he sees you, and he immediately starts flirting with lines of poetry and song while he shoves the cart of illicit beverages he found into a small orange cat;s hands and takes the abandoned violin that was on the bar counter to strum up a tune.

Everyone expected him to be flat out rejected, to be ignored and maybe even weird out the new patron. But low and behold, the new patron merely giggled and smiled, matching his playful energy and cheeky jokes.

Safe to say, everyone’s jaw was dropped, while Rocky himself was beaming with joy and pride.

After that, you’ve become a regular at the speakeasy.often visiting the place to mainly speak with Rocky and develop a nice friendship with him. 

Your conversations with him were always insightful, since he was the very clear opposite of you. While you were known in society for your calm demeanour in different matters (often preferring to panic in the inside rather than out.), Rocky was known to be loud and spontaneous. No one knew how on earth you two got along so well, but you somehow did. He was able to bring charm and joy to a conversation, something that you desperately missed from your old life. While you were able to become the reasonable one in the relationship, often convincing Rocky to avoid causing some disastrous chaos that would’ve left the speakeasy in shambles.

Rocky’s clumsiness and acts of chaos has left him with more injuries and broken things than he can count. It’s something that you took note of immediately, and whenever you’d see his clothes, your heart would often ache for him. But you knew Rocky. You knew he wouldn’t accept something you bought with your own money, that though he’d act grateful, he’d somehow make some gleeful excuse to try to avoid taking it. And so, you’ve decided with the help of a few delivery boys to send these gifts to him anonymously instead. 

Now, though in everyone else’s eyes, Rocky doesn’t look changed at all, the keen observer would notice his new and clean clothes, and his violin of fine-quality and craftsmanship.

You’d often rant about your job with Rocky. Especially when you had had enough drinks in your system to forget the poised and strong demeanour you must uphold. Ever since you reached the top of the board, you’ve become a fish out of water. You cannot relate nor have any sort of fun with the people you’re often forced to speak with. Especially since the people in question are known to be incredibly judgemental and gossip-obsessed.Rocky would always hear your whines and try to cheer you up with a song, or maybe a funny story he can tell about another dangerous and concerning adventure he had for the day. Since he noticed how you always smile when he rambles on and on, and though you often give him a concerned glance, you never stop listening to him with a smile.

Another way you try to help Rocky is by helping the speakeasy itself, since you know how much it means to him. You sponsor the place and try to help Mitzi when she’s in any sort of financial difficulty, and you try to strum up some business by making your clients and fellow businessmen have meetings in the speakeasy.

This has created a sort of conundrum for the guests you bring. Because unknown to their own knowledge, they're often the same people you rant about all the time to Rocky. And so, Rocky always has the urge to somehow scare and intimidate them with his insanity. He treats them just as he treats Wick, sometimes even worse. He jabs, he nudges and he pretty much freaks them out when you’re too distracted talking about the business at hand to even notice his actions. And the worst part is, whenever you do look up, Rocky immediately stops his actions and gives you a charmed smile and innocent wink. As if he’s been as innocent as an angel the entire time. 

After a while, it didn’t take long for your maids to realize that Rocky wasn’t just some simple friend to you, but in fact, someone you’re into. And they made this theory of theirs become known to you when they suddenly start asking for details about your day at the speakeasy, specifically your hangouts with Rocky. You try to deny it at first, but you couldn’t help but admit that something about Rocky was different from others. To you, your friendship with Rocky was an entirely new and incredible experience, an experience that you cherish deeply, and…you wouldn’t mind for it to become something more.

So,you start initiating the flirtations, ones that Rocky immediately answers back with equal amounts of enthusiasm. Slowly but surely, your hangouts have become dates, and your rants have become more personal.

soon enough, and in the other’s point of view, shockingly so, you two have become a couple. An incredibly cheesy one at that.

 For a moment, everyone thought perhaps this was a sugar baby type of situation. That was until they all wondered what on earth could their lackluster bootlegger and not-half-bad violinist Rocky Rickaby offer in the sugar baby aspect of it all? they all came out with an utterly empty answer. However, though the relationship was far from such a thing, it doesn’t mean you don’t like showering Rocky with gifts all the time. Especially since you firmly believe he deserves at least some sort of nice luxury in his life. You’d often try to do the same old trick of anonymously gifting them, but he has caught you once in the act, and with a bountiful amount of kisses has convinced you to drop the whole act.

Rocky may at first be in somewhat of a denial for such attention. Though he will gawk, be giddy and awe-struck about the amount of gifts he is receiving, a part of him would also somehow feel guilty for it. like he doesn’t deserve such nice things in life. it’s a guilt that you quickly scold him for, and as punishment by even more gifts for him than before.

Though you are of high-status, both you and Rocky still prefer dates in the dark streets of Mississippi rather than any luxurious restaurant. You once tried to go to one  of course, but the night has ended with the kitchen going on fire and Rocky somehow freeing all the lobsters from their tanks. Nevertheless, it was still a great night, one where you couldn’t help but laugh in pure freedom because you felt all the societal pressure in your shoulders wash away. It didn't matter who the guests were in that restaurant, it was of no importance what they whispered about you or your partner whom you wouldn’t trade for the world. All that mattered was you and Rocky, dancing under the stars as rain started to pour.

Teasing Wick has become a mutual activity for you two. An activity Mitzi even joins in from time to time. Lord knows how many jabs Wick has to put up with whenever you both are at the speakeasy at the same time (which unfortunately for him, is quite the common occurrence.) it’s gotten to the point where whenever he sees you two together he gives out an exhausted sigh and asks Viktor to give him a stronger drink.

There are times where Rocky wonders if he’s worth it. times where the stink eyes and glances of high society get in his head a bit and he wonders if he’s truly worth all the reputational risk you’re putting yourself through. Those are the times where you must quickly go against such negative thoughts, to grab his hands and tell him firmly that he’s worth more than anything to you. though it never truly diminishes his insecurity in the matter, it does help lower it down.

You’re absolutely horrified and livid when you realize he’s living in his car. It’s something your heart breaks at and you quickly urge him to just come live with you instead. You have plenty of room to spare and would absolutely adore having him around. It’s an offer you wouldn’t let him say no to, no matter how hard he tried. You even offer to buy a house for him, if he’s uncomfortable with the idea of living with you. He quickly denies having such a thought, and in the end, he moves into your mansion.

Some maids are weirded out by him while others are a bit fearful. But they quickly learn to accommodate him, especially since he’s always bringing you into a better and happier mood. Hell, you even renovated one of the rooms to be his own workshop of sorts where he can write his poems. He never really uses it, preferring to work on his ideas with you beside him instead, but he does put some sizable amount of things in there. things he has definitely brought from his cluttered car.

Even though everyone had their fair share of surprised reactions when they finally found out you were dating, it was Aunt Nina who was the most shocked of all. she never believed Rocky could find a normal partner..let alone one that’s known for their wealth and successful businesses such as yourself. She even once wondered if Rocky has used some sort of devil witchcraft to steal your heart.

There are often times where both of you tend to falter, tend to become incredibly silent after a conversation that went wrong. You both have so many secrets you can’t share, so many thoughts and feelings that are hard to describe, let alone explain where they came from.Rocky admires you, he truly does. Because he knows you’ve worked hard for your status in the world, and that it’s normal for wealthy people to have secrets of their own. You are the same, you respect him, and know that his life wasn’t the most simple nor easiest. Yet both of you cannot help but sometimes get frustrated by the other for keeping important things a secret. You more than him, you will admit. You can’t help it. You don't want him to be in danger. But knowing how strange and unhinged his luck is, you’re certain he’s bound to get into deep trouble if he doesn’t find someone to help him. And that’s when you ask him, why can’t that someone be you? Why can’t he rely on you when he needs it? You’re not a simple person, you have more than enough resources and money to protect both you and him from any problems.

and that is when he asks why can’t you be more open to him,yet ask him for such an act? He knows very little about your family life, and there are times you skip a few stories and relationships you had with certain people you rant about. He has noticed, he just never spoke about it.and then, a chilling silence takes over the room. And you both need time to collect your thoughts before you talk.

In the end, you both reach out for each other at the same time and talk things out, and though you both know talking about each other’s past will take a lot of time and trust, you’re willing to wait for it, and will never forget that you’re by each other’s side for when you’re in need of help.

Though you both are an unexpected match for sure, that doesn’t falter the endless love and admiration you have for each other.

[koishiro]

# - “𝐒𝐇𝐄’𝐒 𝐒𝐎 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐈𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐒”

☆◦ 。 3 : 45pm

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ — 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 : megumi finds it hard to muster up the courage to sit next to you on the train let alone talk to you to which Yuji unintentionally helps

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ — 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 : megumi x fem!reader

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ — 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 : fluff

masterlist | jjk masterlist | anon masterlist

Megumi’s routine had become a habit.

Every evening, he would trudge out of Jujutsu High with his hands buried in his pockets and catch a train from Kyoto to Umeda. It wasn’t far, maybe 30 minutes at most but it was his escape from the constant chatter and boisterous energy of his classmates.

Megumi wasn’t one to smile, and his cold expressions and closed-off demeanor made people hesitant to approach him. He preferred it that way, but unfortunately for him that didn’t keep everyone away.

Which led him to where he was now, Kyoto Station.

As he settled into his usual seat on the train, he noticed someone he hadn’t before - diagonally from him sat you, wearing a navy cable knit jumper with straight grey button up pants complimented by your white converse. You sat near the doors, your bag tucked to your chest as you chatted away with the person sat next to you. Megumi found that you had this aura surrounding you, drawing people to you, including himself despite his usual attitude of keeping people at arm's length.

Megumi found you intriguing, why are you so happy? And while talking to a stranger? Someone you don’t know? Maybe you do know them, he wouldn’t know and you’re certainly acting as if you do.

For some reason, unbeknownst to Megumi, he wanted to be on other end of your conversation, your attention. How was he so easily drawn to you?

To any other bystander he probably came off as a creep with his eyes locked onto you adorned with his usual grimace on his face. but could you blame him? He found it hard to rip his eyes away from you.

Even as you turned your pretty head towards his direction, confusion clearly expressed towards him which didn’t last long as you quickly sent a smile his way.

The gloomy looking boy, now caught, shot his head in the opposite direction of where you sat, eyes wide and a blush creeping up to his cheeks. How could he be so stupid? Of course you’d be able to feel his stare burning holes into the side of your head.

But then he realised. You smiled. At him. A complete stranger whom you’ve never spoken to before. His heart felt as if it was about to burst out of his chest and explode in… happiness? No, why on earth would it be happiness? It must be embarrassment, surely.

During Megumi’s internal panic he failed to realise you stood next to his seat, waiting for the train’s doors to open as the internal speaker announced the next stop,

- The next stop is Umeda, platform 2. Please change here for the Nozomi line, the Hikari line, and the Kodama line. This train is bound for Asakusa.

A light brush against Megumi’s fingers, hooked onto the train’s railing, broke his state of conflict. Snapping his neck up towards the person who apparently has no self-awareness of personal space, he found your big doe eyes staring back in an apologetic stare and weak smile.

“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention” even your voice was alluring. Megumi’s eyes softened as they met yours, his mouth gaping like a fish. How does he respond without sounding like a complete jerk?

- Arriving at Umeda, platform 2. The doors will open on the left side.-

“It’s fine.” It’s fine? It’s fine? That’s all he could come up with? What a lame response! Now you’ll definitely think he’s a jerk. What he didn’t expect though was for you to flash him another small smile before the doors of the train opened, letting you step out and away from his curious eyes leaving Megumi to his thoughts once again.

Weeks went by and the continuous cycle of now sitting opposite you, in order to get a better view without making it too obvious of course, continued on. Megumi had been content just watching you with a mix of curiosity and confusion, what made him so interested in you? Was it the way you spoke to people with such ease? How you were always so happy? Maybe it was the fact that you didn’t shy away from anyone, instead sharing smiles to passer-by’s or people with staring problems like himself.

It was as if the sun was hidden away inside of you, shining through every possible crevice. He couldn’t get enough, he wanted more. Gazing at you, staring at you, watching you wasn’t enough anymore.

Even during practice, training and lunch Megumi often found himself staring off into the distance, thinking of the next time he’d see you. Like now, as Megumi played with the food on his plate, he wondered if tomorrow you’d talk to the person next to you like you usually do? Of course you would, you always do. But when was it his turn? When would it be his turn to talk to you? What would you talk about? How would he even start a conversation with you?

This internal battle of his didn’t go unnoticed by a certain pink haired boy sat across from him. In fact, it piqued Yuji’s interest more than anything as he took note of his friend’s far away expression. What could be making Megumi space out so much? His furrowed eyebrows made it clear that he was frustrated with or at something, but what?

“You okay? You look frustrated, either that or you’re seriously constipated” Yuji said with a smile apparent in his voice. Megumi always found it hard to believe he was younger than this idiot at times, a few months, but still.

“Shut up, you’re not funny.” He replied flatly, back to his normal snarky self having been interrupted from his thoughts. Yuji, taking no offence replied, “well going off that you haven’t touched your food since we sat down and the way you keep glaring at the poor wall behind me, could you blame me for jumping to that conclusion?”

He had to give it to Yuji for being so perceptive for once, an unusual occurrence. He debated whether to tell Itadori about this ‘problem’ of his and if he did what could he possibly do to help?

“It’s nothing.” Megumi couldn’t see any point in telling Yuji about this so called ‘problem’, he really hit rock bottom if he was going to get advice from Itadori of all people. “Doesn’t seem like nothing” Yuji pestered on.

Wanting to shut his friend up, Megumi chose to tell Yuji, maybe then he’d be left to sink back into his thoughts. “There’s this person, on the train I usually go on. I-“ cutting himself off, Megumi debated whether telling Yuji this was a good idea or not, “I don’t know how to talk to her.” He continued, deciding this couldn’t get any worse.

“Her? So it’s a girl?” He was clearly wrong, it could get worse. “Do you like her or somethin’?” His friend said as he stuffed two rice balls into his mouth.

“Of course not” Megumi replied all too quickly to be truthful, “I just-I don’t know, I just wanna talk to her I guess but she’s so pretty, it makes me nervous”, he struggled to express already embarrassed to explain this to Yuji of all people as he averted his gaze towards the fork he held, tracing along his untouched food. “Sure sounds like you do, why don’t you just sit next her?” Now this piqued Megumi’s interest.

Yuji had a point, a really good one at that. He noticed that you’d always speak to the person next to you, no matter who they were, you always found something to talk about. Maybe he didn’t need to start a conversation, maybe you would. All he had to do was sit next to you right? That would be easy enough, right?

While Megumi was sent into yet another internal battle, Yuji leaned over the table with his chopsticks in one hand, “you gonna finish that?”

The next day turned into next week as Megumi tried to pluck up enough courage to sit next to you, and when that opportunity did arise it was quickly taken away again when someone got to the seat before him.

But not this time, not today. Today was the day Megumi Fushiguro would officially sit next to you and wait for you to start a conversation with him. Now that he thinks about it, it doesn’t sound all that great. He could just about muster up enough courage to sit next to you but was too much of a coward to talk to you? This isn’t going to work out after all, maybe staring is enough, who was he to-

“Would you like to sit down?” Just like every other time he would start to sink down into the dark depths of his thoughts, he was just as quickly broken out of it.

Shifting his eyes away from what looked to be a staring contest between him and the floor of the train as he stood near the door, he met your big, kind ones that seemed to hold a certain warmth just like the first time he set his eyes on them. All he could do was stare at you, as if slowly losing himself in your eyes.

“Would you like to sit down?” You repeated after not receiving any verbal or physical reply. Snapping back into reality, Megumi gave a short nod as he nervously walked the short distance towards the seat next to yours. Wiping the palm of his hands on his trousers before eventually taking a seat, he waited patiently.

How long does he have to wait? He expected you to have started a conversation by this point. Did you not want to talk to him? Maybe he should grow some balls and start a conversation with you. But about what? He knows nothing about you, so what exactly is he meant to say?

Scanning over your outfit, Megumi noticed your shoes. They were different from the pair you usually wore and he could tell they were new by how clean they were considering you were on a subway.

“I like you shoes.” He said without much thought. I like your shoes? Why would he say that?! What kind of conversation starter was that?!

His internal screaming match was cut short when he heard your enthusiastic reply, “Thanks! I really like them too! I was originally going to get a different pair but they didn’t have my size but then I saw these and plus they were more affordable than the others so I had to get them! I’m actually heading back to that store now! What about you, where are you heading?”

Now this was something Megumi hadn’t expected. What he had expected was for you to stare at him as if he was hopped up on drugs but this was a much better outcome than he could’ve hoped for, this was his chance.

“I’m heading into Umeda, my friend’s birthday is coming up and I still don’t know what to buy her since she’s a girl so I thought I’d have a look around” The calmness and stoic expression his face held hid the nervousness he truly felt, the way his heart wanted to rip out of chest and admit all the feelings he held in that moment. For Megumi, this couldn’t get any better.

“I’m headed to Umeda too! Maybe I could help since y’know, I’m a girl!” But of course, Megumi stood corrected, but this time he wasn’t complaining. In fact and even though he didn’t physically show it, he was ecstatic! Not only did he gather enough courage to sit next to you and not only did he start a conversation with you but you also asked if you could hang out with him! How should he reply without sounding too enthusiastic and needy?

A nervous expression adorned your face as a silence lingered between you two whilst, unbeknownst to you, Megumi once again internally freaked out whilst keeping his usual stoic expression on his face, so you quickly added, “If that’s okay with you of course!” Of course it was! How could it not be? “Actually that would be really helpful, thank you”

He made a mental note to thank Yuji when he gets back.

=͟͟͞͞ ⌧ 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐋 : well this ended up being longer than I originally planned－

— 𝘒𝘰𝘪 𝘹𝘰

[littlemissmentallyunstable]

title: paparazzi

pairing: grayson hawthorne x (first person) reader

synopsis: you’re running away from the paparazzi and you bump into a gorgeous stranger who offers to buy you a drink

warnings: mild swearing

a/n: this was a request from an anon who wanted to see grayson hawthorne x reader where the reader is a famous singer. I hope you enjoy… this is what I managed to come up with. Note: this is the grayson equivalent of starstruck for jameson

tag list: @tornqdowarnings @whatsamongus @wish-i-were-heather @inmyheaddd @never-enough-novels @peterlcsingwendy @lxvebelle @xoxo-vee @emelia07 @zoyaaaabear @thoughtdaughter3 @f4iry-bell

I step out of the recording studio at exactly 6:23 am. I’d stayed there over night with a few people to try and get the sound I wanted from the new single I hoped to drop soon. Unfortunately I hadn’t managed to accomplished what I’d set out to do, so now I’m just feeling pretty lousy and absolutely exhausted. It’s so early in the morning that I wasn’t expecting to be met with bold flashes of several cameras as soon as I stepped foot out of the building. I curse under my breath and begin to walk in the opposite direction as quickly as I could. I swear one of these days I’ll be blinded. I wish I hadn’t decided to wear heels as they were not proving useful.

The paparazzi were relentless as per usual and continued to follow me down several different roads. They cry out my name and various questions. I begin to wonder who’s tipped them off that I was there, no one was supposed to know. But I let the curiosity die quickly. I glance behind me and realise they’re closer than I realised. So mutter a quick prayer and begin to run. As fast as I can in my heels. I knew for a fact I looked like a wild idiot, but I didn’t care now I needed to get away. The flashes were more frequent now, the clicking of the cameras louder. My feet are screaming for me to stop, my breath shallow. I really should plan my outfits better. Just when I think I’m screwed, I notice a small, secluded alleyway and decide to take the chance and run down it. I hope they didn’t notice.

On the corner is the door to a coffee shop, so I take the chance and dash in. Not many places are open at this time, so I count my lucky stars as breathlessly a make my way to the counter. I make sure my back is turned to the window, so prying eyes won’t recognise my face if they pass. I grip into the counter and catch my breath back.

“You look like you could use a coffee,” says a voice directed at me.

I look up to see a well dressed man, looking at me. He looks slightly recognisable but not enough for me to know exactly who he was. He had pretty grey eyes that stood out against his pale complexion and golden hair.

“Thanks, nice to know I look as horrendous as I feel,” I scoff sarcastically, not realising what I’d said be for the word had left my lips.

“You don’t look horrendous,” he offers kindly, too kindly.

“You just told me I look like I could use a coffee,” I state, running my fingers through a matted clump of hair.

“That was my way of offering to buy you a drink,” he explains to me.

“Oh…” I say, my eyes wide as red creeps up my cheeks.

I felt so stupid and horrible. This poor guy was trying to be nice, which he didn’t have to be, and I had totally just shut him down.

“Oh god sorry,” I ramble, “that was totally rude and-“

He laughs, thankfully cutting of my meaningless waffling, “don’t worry. Let me rephrase, can I buy you a drink?”

“Do you really want to?” I ask, arms folded, looking at him quizzically.

“Yes I really want to,” he assures me.

“Then that would be nice,” I agree.

He seemed trustworthy enough, though I was really going to regret saying that later is he turned out to be some sort of axe murderer. The coffee barista who looked as equally exhausted as I felt asks for our order. I quickly murmur to the man who offered to buy me a coffee what I wanted and he orders two of the same. He very kindly pays and the barista goes off to make the drinks.

“Sorry again about that,” I laugh sheepishly, “it’s too early for me in the morning to function politely.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he shrugs, “believe me I’ve had much worse interactions.”

I look him up and down, trying to gage who he might work for. A finance department maybe? Or maybe he was lawyer? Though he looked awfully young.

“You look too fancy to be hanging out in a coffee shop,” I say, trying to fish for some answers.

“Is that because I’m wearing a suit in 6:30 in the morning?” he asks me.

“Possibly,” I say, my eyes trailing down, “and those shoes.”

He chuckles softly, “even fancy people need coffee.”

“So you are a fancy person?” I reply, cocking my head towards him.

“Possibly,” he smiles, mirroring what I’d said to him.

I purse my lips, still trying to work this guy out. Presumably he was rich, the guy even looks expensive. And he seems too perfect to be real. I lean back an analyse him. He looks to be around twenty or so and holds himself with confidence. He doesn’t even look the slightest bit tired despite the time.

“Here’s your coffees,” the barista says, her expression flat and her tone even flatter, “enjoy.”

“I’ve never heard someone sound so melancholy saying the word enjoy,” I mutter once she’s gone around the corner.

He grins, “maybe she’s not a morning person.”

“I mean fair enough there,” I say. He passes me my cup and guides me to a table, “oh thank you.”

“I’m Grayson,” he tells me as we sit down, shifting his eyes so they exactly meet mine.

“Y/N,” I say, opting not to use a pseudonym as I would usually do. Something about him settled me, made me feel like I didn’t need to hide who I really was.

He smiles slightly and stares wistfully elsewhere.

“What?” I ask him as I take a large sip of my coffee.

The caffeine enters my blood stream and flows straight to my brain. Suddenly my energy levels are raised and I’m more alert. I actually feel awake now.

“That’s a pretty name,” Grayson replies quietly, the smile not leaving his face.

“Thanks,” I say, feeling unusually flattered. It wasn’t just the words he said but the way he said it, so tenderly, like my name was the most beautiful thing that had ever graced his lips. My cheeks are heating up again.

He opens his mouth to reply, but I notice a familiar flash in the corner of my eye. My mind plays a string of colourful words I wouldn’t dare say out loud.

“Oh god,” I groan, “duck.”

“Ducking isn’t going to help, we need to leave,” he says to me, standing up, suddenly alert and ready. He seems a little too prepared for this situation and I’m sceptical. But I don’t have time to be sceptical.

“But you just bought the coffee,” I complain. I feel horrible, he’s just spent good money on that and now I had to leave it.

“Forget about the coffee,” he replies, gesturing for me to stand up.

I get up, “I’ll pay you back as soon as we’re out of here.”

“Come on, there’s a back door we can slip out of,” he explains.

I don’t have time to question how or why he knows that or whether I should follow him. Paparazzi burst through the door, some yelling questions, some taking pictures.

“Oh shit,” I curse, covering my face with my hand, as if it’ll do anything.

“Run?” He suggests to me.

“More like sprint,” I scoff, “I really hope you don’t mind ruining those fancy shoes.”

“Who said I can’t sprint and keep them in perfect condition?” Grayson winks at me.

I roll my eyes, smiling widely, trying to suppress the blush that I can feel rising in my cheeks. He swiftly grabs my hand and pulls me towards the back door. I’m too flustered to even care where I’m going, my cheeks were now positively rosy with colour as I grip his hand. He leads me out and begins to run, not letting go of me, actually he holds on even tighter. Suddenly I feel my legs begin to drag and I realise that I might break an ankle if I carry on in these heels. I tear my hand out of his.

“Keep going!” I yell.

He immediately stops and runs back over to me, “what’s wrong?”

“I can’t keep up with you in these heels,” I heave. Actually I probably couldn’t keep up with him full stop, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

“Take them off,” he tells me.

“What?” I gape.

“Just trust me,” he says.

After a brief second of intense eye contact, I slip off my shoes. Then to my surprise he does the same.

“Put mine on,” he instructs, handing me a pair of clearly very expensive shoes.

“Are you kidding?” I ask.

“Stop with the questions and just wear the shoes, otherwise they’ll catch up to us,” he replies, eyes darting around, scanning for the paparazzi.

I look down at the shoes, which didn’t have a scratch nor crinkle in them. They practically looked fresh out of the box.

“Oh my gosh they’re actually still in perfect condition,” I gape, “how did you even manage that?”

“It’s a talent,” Grayson shrugs.

“Clearly,” I say, “oh god I’m going to end up ruining them.”

He shrugs, “I have too many shoes to count, it doesn’t matter.”

“What about you then, what will you wear?”

“I’m going to wear the heels,” he says, with a straight face, as he picks up my pair of black high heels.

“Really?” I reply, slightly curious on how he was going to a) get them on and b) run in them.

“No, but you should se the look on your face,” he smiles, “I’ll carry them for you.”

I want to slap his arm but I settle for rolling my eyes, I quickly throw his shoes on. They’re one hundred percent going to slip off but I didn’t care by this point, they were more comfortable than my heels.

“Thank you,” I breathe, just as a crowd of voices seemingly get closer.

“Ready to run,” Grayson asks me, extending his hand for me to hold.

“No,” I reply, gripping it tightly.

“Good,” he nods, “let’s go.”

We start to sprint again and quickly fall behind, losing a shoe more than once, praying the paparazzi did not catch that one. Grayson takes my hand back into his and it gives me the energy to move slightly faster.

“My car is this way,” he shouts over his shoulder, dragging my left suddenly.

He stops so abruptly I crash right into his back losing my balance. I can feel myself falling and brace myself for impact as I hit the floor but it never arrives. I open my eyes to find Grayson had caught me. His hands fit perfectly around my waist and held me from my inevitable doom on the pavement. We are frozen for a moment, a beautiful holy moment.

“You okay?” He asks, hurriedly.

His face was so close to mine, his lips look so soft. I can feel his hands on my body and I don’t want him to let go. I want to stay here for all eternity, just so I can feel this good. But I knew it wasn’t possible.

“Yeah, yeah I’m good,” I nod, standing up straight as his hands fall from my waist and I dust myself off.

It was odd how now my waist seemed colder than before, less complete without his strong hands upon it. I shake the notion from my head.

“This is my car,” he points at it, “jump in.”

“I can’t get into a stranger’s car,” I exclaim, folding my arms across my stomach.

“Says the same girl who followed the stranger to his car,” he says, not even bothering to suppress his chuckle, “besides we’re not strangers.”

“Yes we are,” I argue.

“What’s my name?” He asks me with a straight face.

I stare at him, confusion decorating all of my features. He gestures for me to carry on and answer.

“Grayson?” I say hesitantly.

“And you’re Y/N,” he says, “see, not strangers.”

Annoyingly he has a point but I think he can tell I’m not entirely convinced.

“My car has black out windows, they won’t be able to see us,” he tries.

“Or see you murder me,” I mutter.

“I’m not going to murder you!” Grayson exclaims, trying not to laugh.”

“How do I know that?” I ask him.

“Get in the car,” he tells me, rolling his eyes.

“Sounds like something a murderer would say,” I grumble.

He’s about to reply but is cut off.

“THEY’RE OVER HERE!” someone yells.

I weigh up my options, sigh and then get into his car. I didn’t want to run in to the paparazzi and this was my best option right now. I was fairly certain he wouldn’t murder me but it’s better safe than sorry right? Besides it meant I get to spend a little more time with this intriguing soul. We both sit in silence for a few moments before I lean down and take his shoes off of my feet, passing them to him.

“Thanks again,” I beam, “for buying me coffee, lending me your shoes, letting me stay in your car and not murdering me.”

He returns my heels, “no problem. It seems to have been an eventful morning.”

“You can say that again,” I sigh, then look at his shoes, “I don’t think I managed to keep them as unscathed as you did but…” I trail off, not really knowing how to finish my sentence.

I think he senses it as he replies with a simple, “they’re fine.”

We fall into another silence, as we both awkwardly put our shoes on and stare out of the windshield. I don’t think either of know how to rally approach conversation. I sit there and take in the dramatic events of this morning wondering what the day might bring, when I realise I probably owe Grayson an explanation.

I sigh, “look I’m really sorry about that by the way.”

“What? Why are you apologising?” he asks, blinking rapidly.

“For the paparazzi,” I clarify

“Why are you apologising for the paparazzi?” Grayson says, running a hand through his hair.

“Who did you think they were chasing after?” I laugh.

“Me…” he murmurs. My jaw drops, that was not the response I was expecting. He looks too serious to be joking.

“You? You’re famous?”

“I’m Grayson Hawthorne,” he says

My eye widen. How hadn’t I put two and two together? A blonde man, who looked to be about in his twenties, dressed in an expensive suit with gorgeous shoes, with impeccable running speed and the first name of Grayson. All the signs were literally screaming in my face and somehow I’d missed them. It’s as if I walked right past a neon sign, decorated with bold flashing lights.

“I thought they were chasing after me,” I say, leaning back in the seat and gazing out of the window.

“How comes?” Grayson questions.

“I’m a singer,” I shrug, not making eye contact with him.

“You’re joking,” he says.

“Do I look like I’m joking?” I reply flatly, as my eyes finally will themselves to meet his.

“What do you sing?” he asks me, a spark in his eyes. He almost looks excited, for me, for my music.

“Songs,” I laugh cryptically.

He rolls his eyes playfully at me, “What songs?”

I name him a few of my most famous hits that most would’ve heard of. Though my heart was racing in my chest, what if he’s heard my songs and he hates them…

“You’re not Y/N L/N are you?” he asks me, narrowing his eyes.

Damn it.

“The one and only,” I manage to say, a smile plastered on my face, wishing for the ground to swallow my body up whole.

“My brother listens to you all the time, though he’ll never admit it and would kill me for telling you that,” he says, “but I must admit I’ve never listened to you myself.”

I don’t think I’ve ever been more relieved in my life. The breathe out slowly and calm down slightly.

“Let’s keep it that way,” I tell him.

“What if I don’t want to keep it that way?” he replies, mischief underlying his tone.

“You’re going to have to,” I say, making sure I sounded stern enough to warn him to never listen to a song.

“I could just google you,” he points out, taking out his phone. I’ve never wanted to smash anything more violently.

“You could,” I shrug, “but it was make me severely angry.”

“Oh no!” he says sarcastically, a stupid witty grin on his face.

“Hey!” I exclaim, smacking the top of his arm.

I know I’m not really a threat for him at all and when I leave he would most likely google my music and never want to talk to me again. But I convince myself that was okay because if we never see each other after today it wouldn’t matter what he thinks about my music.

“Can you sing for me now then?” Grayson asks, his voice soft and very persuading.

“Absolutely not,” I scoff, folding my arms. His voice was not persuading enough.

“Why?” he replies, almost offended.

“I’m on a vocal rest,” I tell him.

“You’re not doing a very good job, all you’ve done is talk,” he grins, looking to amused at himself for my liking.

“I’m on a vocal rest from just singing,” I lie, “I can still talk.”

“Is that even a thing?” he asks, probably sensing that I’m an awful liar.

“Yes?” I say trying not to sound guilty and failing.

“I think you’re lying,” Grayson replies, a playful look in his eye.

I’m about to answer when my eyes flick over to the dashboard where the time was red on the screen, “Oh my gosh!”

“What?” he asks, alarmed at my sudden burst.

“I’m meant to be at rehearsal in five minutes,” I groan, reaching for the door.

“I’ll drive you,” he says quickly.

“You don’t have to do th-“ I begin.

“Address?” he interrupts me, starting the car up.

“Noble Studios,” I sigh, accepting my fate. He probably wouldn’t take no for an answer.

He nods, “Wait how you on a vocal rest if you’re going to rehearsal?”

“I’m on a vocal rest until I get to rehearsal,” I say, making it up as I go along.

He raises his eyebrows, “Do you ever get any sleep?”

“What?” I ask, confused at the randomness of the question.

“Well you’ve just been in recording studio and now you’d going to rehearsal,” he clarifies, “so do you ever get any sleep?”

“Usually no,” I blow out a breath.

“You should go home and rest,” he tells me.

I blush deeply and replay the words over and over again in my head. The words he said to me. I steal a glance at him for a moment and quickly turn away.

“I will after rehearsal,” I explain, “but I’ve got to make it, I’ve got a concert tomorrow night.”

“Then after this rehearsal you promise me you’ll rest from then until tomorrow night,” Grayson tells me gently.

I nod, too shy to meet his eyes. The silence we fall into is comfortable until I’m brave enough to break it.

“Who do you listen to anyway?”

“What?” he asks quickly.

“What artists?” I wonder aloud, ���you said you’d never listened to me, so then who.”

“Frank Sinatra is one of my favourites,” he murmurs, almost with a shyness in his tone.

“Frank Sinatra?” I giggle.

“Are you laughing at my music taste?” he raises his eyebrows.

“No I’m laughing because it’s so on brand for you,” I chuckle.

Of course Grayson Hawthorne liked Frank Sinatra. With his shoes and suit and general demeanours, who else would it be? I could even imagine Grayson singing his songs.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.

“It’s a compliment, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” I grin playfully.

“Do you even know who Frank Sinatra is?” he says to me, like I’m a complete moron.

“Of course I do, he’s that rapper right?” I tease him.

His head whips towards me faster than the speed on light. He’s staring so intently at me I’m worried we might crash. He death stares me, a mix of offensiveness and utter shock in his expression.

“I’m kidding,” I giggle, “Frank Sinatra was a singer popular in the 40s and 50s, taking on a classical pop style in his music.”

“That wasn’t funny,” he snaps, hands tight around the steering wheel, as he gets his eyes back on the road again.

“I think it was,” I sing song.

“You made me doubt you competence as a person,” he shakes his head.

“Well I’m sure if we ever meet again I’ll probably do something to make you doubt my competence again, count that as the practice round,” I wink as he pulls up outside the studio, stopping the car parallel to the entrance staircase.

“I hope we do meet again,” he says quietly.

“Me too,” I murmur.

We both look up at the same time, our eyes meeting. Both unable to look away. My heart hammers in my chest and my leg bounces up and down. I’m so addicted to the sight of him that I contemplate skipping rehearsals.

“Thank you,” I whisper, tearing my gaze away. Why did I have to be responsible?

“You better keep that promise,” he tells me.

“I will, don’t worry,” I smile, “thank you so much again, you’ve been a life saver.”

“I think we sort of saved each other,” he replies, it was a little cheesy but makes me smile widely nevertheless.

I sigh, a lean back, “We’re going to be all over the newspapers tomorrow.”

I didn’t know why I was still talking but my mouth always seems to struggle when it’s time to stop moving and so something productive. Or maybe… maybe it was because I wanted more time with him.

“All press is good press,” he shrugs nonchalantly. He knows what it’s like to deal with this crazy lifestyle, he gets it. I didn’t think I’d really ever get to know anyone who would understand how I feel.

“They’re going to speculate we’re dating,” I warn him.

“Is that such a bad thing?” Grayson asks me, quirking a brow upwards and tipping his head to the side.

“Are you flirting with me?” I blurt out before my brain can filter my words.

“If I was would you want me to stop?” he questions.

“No,” I murmur, without a second a hesitation.

“Can I have your number?” Grayson asks.

“What?” I reply, slightly in shock whilst still trying to process the information.

“Incase you ever need me to drive you away from paparazzi again, of course,” he says, biting his bottom lip ever so slightly.

I smile tickles my lips, “of course…”

I quickly fumble around for the pen at the bottom of my bag and look for some paper.

“Just write it here,” he says, running a finger across his hand.

“Are you sure? What if you get ink poisoning?” I ask.

“I’ll have your number so it would’ve been worth it,” he smiles, smoothly.

A chill runs down my spine and I feel all warm and fuzzy.

“You know you’re really good at this whole flirting thing,” I tell him, smiling like an idiot on drugs.

“I’m glad you think so,” he replies. Why did his voice have to be so addictive? It isn’t fair!

I slowly lean down and write the numbers etched into my brain onto his hand. I concentrate hard to make the numbers look neat and tidy, incase a girl with messy handwriting was a red flag for him. I take a minute to analyse his hands, they were strong, slightly tanned but looked so soft. I remember back to when my hand was in his when we were running and how perfectly mine fit into his. Maybe one day we’d hold hands just for the feelings between us and not in a freezer attempt to escape flashing cameras and annoying people. I bring my head back up and stare at the number, thinking how awful my handwriting looks. I tip my head up further and my eyes meet Grayson’s. He wasn’t looking at the number on his hand, he was looking at me.

Now our faces are inches from one another’s but I’m selfish enough to want them to be closer. After a few moments of our eyes being cemented in place, analysing each feature of one another’s faces, I slowly realise that I need to leave. My rational senses pull together and I step out of the car to begin to make my way towards the rehearsal centre. I can hear the car hasn’t yet left. He’s waiting, I can feel him watching, he’s making sure I’m safe. It makes me beam even wider.

“And hey,” I say, turning around, “you ever want a free concert ticket, it’s yours.”

“I might have to take you up on that,” Grayson smiles, causing a warmth to blossom in my heart.

I had a feeling this wasn’t the last time we were going to meet…

a/n: sorry this took me so long!! I got wayyy to carried away whilst writing this… originally it wasn’t going to be this long but here we are. anon, whoever you are, I hope you enjoyed this and if not I can try again!! you were my first request ever and that means a lots, so thank you!!

also I feel like I wrote Grayson really out of character but the reasoning behind that was in my mind I thought in public settings or around his family he has to be the serious one always on task etcetera but when he meets someone who doesn’t know he’s Grayson Hawthorne, he allows himself to be someone more open… IDKKKK but thanks for reading anyways 🤍🤍

TIG masterlist

[wholoveseggs]

See you're taking request.

How about Elijah and reader meeting in a library and bonding over any English classic (story takes place in around 1950-60s) like Macbeth or Frankenstein or The picture of Dorian Grey and again meet in a debate hall or something similar?

Between Pages

{Masterlist}

It's the 1960s, and you are a college student finding solace in the campus library. There, you encounter more than knowledge within its walls.

~♡♡ Thanks for the request anon! - This was a fun challenge to write!! ♡♡~

You ever know the exact gif you are going to use before you even write the story? This is one of those cases...

5k words - Warnings: no smut, mild drama, bullying, human Elijah, mentions of cheating.

You were sitting in the library of the university, your back was hurting from sitting hunched over your books for hours and the letters were swimming in front of your eyes. You sighed and ran a hand over your face, trying to rub the tiredness away. When you really got into a book you tended to lose track of time and any sort of physical feeling, the world disappearing around you. It was the only time when you felt like you could forget about all the worries in the real world.

You were in the middle of a particularly exciting scene when someone cleared their throat. You looked up and were surprised to see a guy standing next to your chair. He had curly hair and was wearing a black leather jacket over a dark red shirt.

"Can I help you?" you asked. The guy smiled slightly and took a chair, sitting down across from you.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing all alone in the library on a Saturday night?" he asked. You were taken aback by his forwardness.

You looked around the place, pointedly glancing at all the books, "Reading?" you said, making it sound more like a question than a statement.

The guy chuckled, "Well, don't you have anything better to do? You know, like go out with me? Have a couple of drinks?"

You narrowed your eyes, "Sorry, but no." You turned your attention back to your book, hoping that the guy would take the hint and leave you alone. But he stayed put, leaning back in the chair, arms crossed over his chest, looking at you.

You glanced up again, feeling his eyes on you, "Did you want something?" you asked, a little irritated.

The guy smiled, "Yeah, for you to say yes."

You felt uncomfortable, like a cornered animal. There was something about the way this guy was looking at you that made you feel like he was going to pounce if you didn't agree to go out with him. A sickening feeling of unease started to spread in the pit of your stomach.

"I'm sorry, but no," you repeated, trying to keep your voice level.

The guy leaned forward, resting his elbows on your chair, getting closer to you, "Aw, come on, don't be like that. Just give me a chance."

"I don't think she's interested." A smooth melodic sounding voice chimed in. You and the guy both looked to your left. There was another man sitting in a lounge chair, his eyes on his book. His appearance was striking, with dark brown hair and a sharp jaw. He looked up from his book and just stared at the other guy, one eyebrow raised.

 "You heard the lady. Now fuck off, would you?" the stranger added.

"Hey, fuck you!" the first guy spat. He was obviously pissed, his hands were clenched into fists.

"I'll pass," the stranger said, a smug grin on his face. "And so will she. Now leave before I make you.”

You were speechless. You didn't know what to say or do. This was not the way you had imagined your Saturday night.

The guy got up, a frown on his face, "Pity." He mumbled and walked away. You were still trying to comprehend what had just happened when the stranger's voice brought you back to reality.

"You okay?" he asked, a concerned expression on his face.

You looked at the new guy, a grateful smile on your face, "yeah, thanks. He was a bit too persistent."

"Don't mention it. This is not the place for picking up girls anyway."

You laughed, "where do you like to pick up girls then?" you asked jokingly.

"I don't," he replied seriously, continuing to read his book. You looked at him, trying to make out his features in the low light. He was dressed casually, in jeans and a black leather jacket over what looked like a white Henley shirt. He had a nice profile, a slight dimple on his chin, and a nice mouth that was gently open as he read.

You had to concentrate not to stare, and to get yourself back to your reading. But after a while, you couldn't help it, you glanced at him again. He looked up, meeting your gaze with dark, beautiful eyes. Your cheeks flushed red.

“Need something?" he asked, a smirk playing on his face. You quickly shook your head.

"No, I'm fine, thank you."

He looked at you for a moment, studying your face, before his eyes went back to his book. But you noticed he was glancing at you every so often, a thoughtful expression on his face.

When you finished your chapter you looked up at the clock, realizing you had been there for six hours. It was now around midnight and the library would soon be closing. You let out a heavy sigh, you did not want to go back to your dorm, and risk running into your asshole of a roommate and her friends. They had been harassing you for weeks, throwing mean remarks your way whenever you encountered them. It just made sense to keep your nose buried in a good book, rather than being around bullies.

You grabbed your bag and headed for the exit. The library was almost completely empty apart from some older students who were still hunched over their books and looked like they wouldn't leave until the library closed. And then there was him. The guy in the leather jacket. He was still sitting in the same spot, his eyes on his book but you noticed his eyes were not moving across the page. You frowned and turned away. Just because he helped you did not mean you had to become friends.

Moments later, you found him standing beside you as you walked towards the exit, "that's one of my favorites," he said, pointing at the book you were holding in your hands.

"Frankenstein?" you asked.

The guy nodded, "what do you think of it?"

"I think the monster is misunderstood. That it deserved pity, rather than death," you said, not sure why you were opening up to this complete stranger.

He smiled, "me too." There was a short silence.

"I'm Elijah, by the way. I don't think I introduced myself properly earlier." He said, holding out his hand.

You shook it, "Y/N. Nice to meet you."

"I'll see you around, Y/N," Elijah said, smiling at you. He held the door for you before disappearing down the corridor.

You woke Sunday morning to the sound of your roommate and her friends getting drunk and singing shitty songs. You groaned and grabbed your pillow, putting it over your head, trying to muffle the sound. But after half an hour of lying in bed you had to get up. You stood and went to the bathroom to get changed, hoping to sneak out before they noticed you.

You put on your bra and then went to the closet to get a fresh shirt and dress. When you opened the closet door you were surprised to find nothing hanging. Your head whipped around and you saw your roommate sitting on the floor, her back against the wall and your clothes thrown around her.

She was laughing with her friends and your cheeks turned red when you realized they were on your bed. A lot of them were pulling at your dresses, shirts, and bras.

"Are you seriously wearing these ugly things? I would never be seen dead in this," she laughed, holding up one of your favorite blue dresses. She had the skirt tied around her head and her girlfriends were busy tying one of your shirts around her midsection.

"Come on guys, let's put on a fashion show!" she exclaimed loudly. The whole dorm was busting out in laughter, the girls throwing more clothes around.

"Can you please give me my clothes back, I have to go," you said in a small voice.

"Go where? Do you have a date? Wait, don't tell me you actually managed to lure someone with one of those ugly dresses!" your roommate laughed. Her friends joined in and they had a hard time standing up due to the amount of alcohol they had already consumed.

You ignored her remark and just stood there looking miserable. You bent over and picked up the closest dress, pulling it over your head.

They all looked at the dress you were wearing. It was purple, flowing down over your curves nicely, but it was an outdated style and it didn't suit you.

"Definitely not going on a date in that!" your roommate sneered, laughing. You ran your hands through your hair. You felt frustrated tears sting behind your eyes but blinked them away.

"Have a nice day Kathy," you said coldly, before grabbing your bag and leaving the room. Your face was burning hot with embarrassment. You couldn't wait until you could live on your own, far away from this place. Away from these people.

You settled down in one of the plush lounge chairs in the library, pushing away all the bad thoughts. Today would be a peaceful day, no bitchy roommates, no annoying classes. You felt yourself calm down. What you wanted now was to read a good book and just relax.

You were just flipping to the bookmarked page when you felt someone sit down across from you. You looked up and saw Elijah smiling at you.

"Nice dress," he remarked, pointing at your outfit. You smiled and felt a blush creep across your cheeks.

"Thanks. Went a bit off the rails with the style this time."

He leaned forward, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," you said, bracing yourself for whatever it was he was going to say.

"What exactly are you doing here? Spending all your weekends cooped up in the library, reading?" Elijah looked at you, curiosity in his eyes.

"I could ask you the same thing."

He smiled, "I asked first."

You shrugged, "No point in lying I guess. It's much easier to lose myself in a good story rather than deal with real life, you know." You looked down, avoiding his gaze.

"I can understand that. These days everything's just going downhill," Elijah said, running a hand over his face, "the war in Vietnam, all the conflict here at home. There's a feeling that things are not going the way they should."

You looked up, amazed at his observation, "Exactly. Society is changing and it's overwhelming sometimes."

Elijah chuckled softly and reached for the book in your hand. You watched his fingers as they grazed yours. There was a strange feeling in the pit of your stomach as he touched you, and his lips curved upwards in a soft smile when you met his eyes.

"Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus," he read, running his fingers across the paper, he flipped to the page you were on and skimmed through the text, a thoughtful expression on his face. He handed the book back to you.

"It is a fantastic read, I think the author has done a great job capturing the fear society felt in the 1800s, towards advances in technology and the creation of artificial life," he commented.

You smiled happily, "I love this book. I always come back to it and get surprised by new details I have failed to notice earlier."

He gave you a wide smile, it made his face glow, "Do you have a favorite scene?" Elijah asked, his dark eyes on your face. You bit your lip and thought for a while, going over the book in your mind.

"My favorite scenes are when the monster finally meets Victor. Although it's an awful situation, it's actually pretty touching," you answered truthfully.

Elijah gazed at you fondly, "Why is that?"

"Because it shows the human ability to empathize, something everyone deserves to have," you told him, taking the book and flipping to the chapter in question, reading a paragraph out loud to him. He didn't interrupt you once, just looked at you, a soft expression on his face.

When you finished reading Elijah grinned, "beautiful, if not a bit bleak."

The two of you would spend hours every day, sitting together and exchanging thoughts about the books you were reading. You always enjoyed going to the library, but now you even anticipated it, hoping to run into Elijah. You would wake up a little earlier, dressing up a little nicer. When you would walk into the library he was the only thing in your thoughts, his beautiful smile, and how he was always so kind to you.

After almost three weeks, you found Elijah waiting at your usual table, his jacket still on.

"I thought it would be nice to go somewhere else today," he said.

You arched an eyebrow, "Where?" you asked,

"There's this restaurant near here, it serves some delicious food." he replied, giving you a sweet smile.

You looked down, thinking that even though his plan sounded lovely, you couldn't afford a fancy restaurant.

"My treat," he added, as if reading your thoughts.

You swallowed and smiled at him, nodding, "Okay, yes. Let's go."

While you walked towards the restaurant you realized it was the first time you were spending time together outside the library, and outside the university grounds. Your heart was beating a little faster, and you hoped he wouldn't notice how nervous you had become.

The restaurant looked very cozy, wooden tables, candles, and a fireplace. You breathed in, the smell of spices making you sigh contently. You sat down at a table in the corner, and a woman came by to offer you the menu.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

You smiled at her and ordered a glass of wine, Elijah ordering something as well. You were a little overwhelmed by all this, not used to nice restaurants, nice wine, and good looking men.

Elijah was gorgeous, so out of your league, it hurt a little. But you pushed those thoughts away, you didn't want to think about such things now. You had a hard time making friends, and you were happy to have found a companion in Elijah, you didn't want to ruin anything by falling for him.

When the food arrived, you dug in, enjoying the flavorful mixture of fresh vegetables, pasta, and rich red wine. The conversation was easy, just like in the library, you discussed literature, everything from Frankenstein, to Macbeth to Poe.

It struck you that you knew nothing about his actual life, only his interests and his views of the world.

"So, what do you like to do outside of the library? Outside of class?" you asked him. He ate a piece of food before answering, seeming to think about the best way to answer the question.

"Not much really, I keep to myself mostly."

You stared at him, curious as to why. Surely someone as handsome as Elijah wouldn't be alone. You hoped it didn't sound like you were prying when you said, "What, there's no girlfriend you're hiding somewhere?"

Elijah gave you a gentle smile, but there was a sadness in his eyes. "I had a girlfriend, Katherine, but it didn't work out. She was cheating on me and using me to get what she wanted." He said, playing with a fork on his plate.

"That's awful, Elijah, I'm so sorry. But it's her loss, if she was stupid enough to cheat on you," you said quickly, wanting to support him.

He gave you a grateful look, "I believe in finding a lesson in every heartbreak, otherwise you end up repeating your mistakes over and over."

"So what did you learn?" you asked.

"I learned to trust my instincts more, not dwell on a past I can't change."

You nodded, "that's very wise, you know." 

Elijah laughed, "no, it's the truth. People make mistakes, and sometimes we have to learn the hard way."

There was a comfortable silence between you as you both kept eating. Then he suddenly spoke. "What about you? Why spend all your spare time in the library?" Elijah said, his eyes glued to your face.

You sighed, "I have this roommate," you started. "Every day and every night she spends all her time partying with her friends. They drink a lot and make fun of me," You continued, recounting stories of how rude she and her friends have been to you. Elijah gave you a thoughtful look as you spoke.

"Don't mind them. They don't realize what a wonderful person they're missing out on," he said simply. You could feel a blush spreading across your cheeks.

"They stole a bunch of my clothes, that's why I dress in outdated clothes from thrift stores. I have tried to talk to them, to stand up for myself, but they just laugh at me and continue to be cruel." You had not intended on saying all this to him, to vent. But you realized you had been holding this all in. Nobody knew or cared, until now.

"Thanks. For listening to me." You gave Elijah a little smile.

"Of course," Elijah said, taking your hand from across the table and squeezing it.

"I can't help with the roommate, but I can help with the clothes," he said, giving you a friendly smile, the one that made your stomach do flips.

"You already paid for dinner, I can't possibly ask for more," you muttered, worried you might be becoming a burden.

"I'm not asking. What time do you have classes tomorrow?" Elijah asked, letting go of your hand and finishing his food.

"Um," you were a bit startled but that was Elijah's fault for being so damn charming. You were not used to anyone wanting to be friends with you.

"Nothing after three."

"Great, I'll pick you up," he said, winking at you. You couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips, he had done this twice already, that winking thing that seemed to always catch you off guard.

You found yourself becoming even more smitten with him as the evening went on. It helped that he was devastatingly handsome, of course. But he was also kind, interesting, intelligent, and funny. And to your surprise, he seemed to enjoy talking to you as much as you enjoyed talking to him.

"How about this? The color goes nicely with your hair." Elijah held up a blouse for you to see. It was a lot more colorful than your other outfits, but the model on the display did look very chic. He was absolutely spot-on when it came to the latest fashion.

You took the blouse from him and held it against your torso, wondering if it would be a bad idea.

"It will match your beautiful eyes too," Elijah added. That made your heart race even more, and you decided to try it on. Walking to the changing rooms you saw several women looking at Elijah as you passed them. One of them whispered to her friend and the girl giggled, pointing straight at him. You rolled your eyes. Of course, they would hit on him. After all, he was the type of guy girls dreamed of dating. But apparently, he didn't care. Elijah just smiled at you, before offering to fetch more clothes for you to try on.

When you stepped outside the changing room Elijah grinned, "Beautiful. Suits you perfectly."

"Thanks," you whispered, the atmosphere strangely intimate. His comment combined with the fact that everyone was watching him made you blush.

The two of you worked through the shop, searching through racks and throwing clothes into a basket, until you each had quite a few pieces. Elijah took the basket from you and went to pay. All the outfits he had picked for you seemed to cost an enormous amount of money, and while he was paying you shook your head at him. He simply smiled and handed you the bags.

"So, what do you want to do now?" Elijah asked you, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear and causing a warm feeling to spread inside you.

"I have this book I want you to read, it's back in my room. We should stop by and get it," you offered, wondering if you were being too forward. 

"Are you asking me to go to your room? Tsk tsk, how scandalous," he mocked, but the humor in his eyes told you he agreed.

Together, you drove back to your dorm, you were hoping that Kathy actually went to her psychology class today, it was her favorite subject after all.

When you got to the door you opened it, relieved that your room seemed empty. Elijah waited patiently while you looked around, until you finally found the book you had been talking about on your side of the room.

You sat on the bed, cross-legged, and he sat down next to you. The twin bed felt awfully small and Elijah was so close. Yet somehow it didn't feel weird.

"Have you read all these?" He asked, pointing at the pile of books, currently stacked in three columns on the small desk. You nodded.

"What's your favorite?" he wondered.

"The Hobbit," you said, stretching a little on the bed.

"Ah yes, another fantasy. Why am I not surprised," he teased, and then picked a book up from the pile, "And the rest are…"

"Mostly classics, and some romance," you admitted. Elijah arched an eyebrow. "You know, Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, stuff like that."

"A romantic, huh?" Elijah said, turning towards you.

You blushed, "I guess so. But I mean, who isn't? Even if we deny it."

He nodded, "Very true. People have an innate need for a connection, something special."

"Yeah. It's the reason why we fall in love, why we create art," you said.

"And literature," Elijah added.

You smiled, "Here's the book I wanted to lend you," you said, handing it to him.

“The picture of Dorian Grey," he read the title.

"Yeah, it's a beautiful story, with an intriguing message."

"Thank you. I will let you know what I think of it."

You nodded, "Please, let me know,"

Elijah looked at you for a long time, the air seemed thick between the two of you. Your gaze kept dropping down to his lips, wondering how they would feel pressed against yours.

"Please don't judge me based on my taste in books." you said quietly, the tension was getting unbearable.

He raised an eyebrow at you, "why would I do that?"

"Kathy told me once that everyone who reads a lot is just trying to escape their sad life," you muttered, biting your lip.

Elijah gave you a little smile. "I'd like to believe it's the opposite. Books are just one way of living a rich inner life."

That made you smile, it's what you also believed and you were happy to have someone agree with you. Elijah placed the book aside, leaning close. You couldn't stop staring at his deep brown eyes.

"I enjoyed spending time with you today, outside the library. I miss you when you're not around. Your eyes and smile keep popping into my mind." he said softly, reaching his hand up and tucking your hair behind your ear. You blushed, unable to form any words.

Elijah closed the distance between the two of you, his lips softly pressing against yours. It was a sweet kiss, slow and unhurried. You closed your eyes and wrapped your arms around his neck.

"I can't get you out of my head," he breathed, before kissing you again. The second kiss was different, there was a hunger to it, an intensity you hadn't felt before. Your fingers moved up to his hair and his hand caressed your cheek. You loved the feeling of his body so close to yours, his smell, his warmth, was completely intoxicating.

He gently pushed you back onto your pillows, kissing you slowly. Elijah pulled away, his lips hovering just above yours. "Is this okay?" he asked softly, his thumb stroking your cheek.

"More than okay," you whispered.

He grinned and went back to kissing you. Your hand slid down his back and slipped under his shirt and he broke the kiss to lift his arms and remove it.

You let your hands roam over his chest, admiring the view. His body was perfect. Your lips found his again and the kiss deepened. Elijah's hand found its way under your blouse, stroking your skin.

"Elijah?" Kathy's voice suddenly echoed through the room. Neither of you had heard her come in. You gasped, quickly sitting up and pulling your blouse down.

She was standing in the doorway, gaping at the two of you.

"Katherine, what are you doing here?" Elijah asked, annoyance clear in his voice.

"What are YOU doing here? With her?! In my dorm room!" she yelled, shooting a mean glare in your direction. You stared at her, mouth agape. How did she know Elijah? And why was she so angry at you for being with him? Then it hit you. She was the ex-girlfriend he told you about. The one who had cheated on him and used him.

"Oh fuck," you said quietly, "You're Elijah's ex."

She gave you a fake smile, "Oh, did he talk about me? That's cute. I see his standards have gone down dramatically,"

Kathy's friends all stood behind her, peeking over her shoulder to look at you and Elijah. You felt your cheeks heat up and looked away. Elijah's expression hardened and he stood up, walking over to Kathy.

"You don't get to talk about her like that. Not after the way you treated me," he said through gritted teeth.

Kathy looked at him and huffed. "Please, you were always so boring. I can't believe you are making out with that loser."

You could feel tears starting to well up in your eyes, her words stinging. Her friends were all giggling and snickering behind her, mocking you. Elijah looked back at you momentarily, and you saw anger flashing in his eyes.

"Did you ever tell your little friends why I dumped you? How's Stefan? Or was it Damon? No wait... You tried it on with my brother as well," he smirked.

You could hear her friends gasp and whisper among themselves. Apparently, this was new information to them as well.

Kathy narrowed her eyes at Elijah, "I was the best thing that happened to you, and you know it,"

Elijah rolled his eyes at that, letting out a sarcastic laugh, "You were never the best anything, Katherine."

Her face fell, and her jaw dropped open. Her friends all stopped talking. "How dare you?" She spat, her hands balling into fists, she looked at you, and back at him.

"You have ten seconds to get out," Kathy hissed.

"Kathy I live here," you said, standing up.

"Not anymore you don't. This was my room first. Get your crap and get out." She said, pointing her finger at you.

"Fine. I rather sleep in the streets, probably more peaceful than this shithole," you said, grabbing your bag and shoving your books inside, as well as the clothes Elijah had bought you.

Elijah quickly pulled on his shirt and picked up his jacket. He reached his hand out, offering it to you. "Come on,"

You nodded, taking his hand, walking past the stunned group of girls. They didn't say anything, but you could feel their gaze on you.

Once you were outside the building, he turned towards you.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly.

You nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Elijah looked down at his feet. "That was a very unfortunate coincidence."

You couldn't help but chuckle. "I had no idea you were going to be my roommate's ex-boyfriend. It's kind of funny if you think about it."

He lifted his head and gave you a small smile. "Yeah, it is. Although, I'm not sure what's worse. Dating Katherine, or living with her," he joked.

"We should start a support group," you joked back, earning a full-blown laugh from Elijah.

He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you closer. "I'm sorry, I hope this didn't ruin anything between us."

You placed a gentle kiss on his lips. "No, it's fine. But now I need to find a new place to stay," you sighed, resting your forehead against his.

"Or, you could stay with me," Elijah offered.

You bit your lip, the thought of living with him was tempting. But you didn't want him to think that's all you were after.

"You don't have to. I can manage," you mumbled.

Elijah's fingers brushed along your jawline. "I'd love it if you'd move in with me. No pressure, you can take the spare bedroom."

You couldn't stop yourself from smiling, the idea of living with him made your stomach flip. "Are you sure?"

"Of course," he replied, placing a soft kiss on your lips. 

"I'll pay my share of the rent and I'll cook," you promised, your hands playing with the collar of his shirt.

"Absolutely not, you are my guest," he laughed, "you will relax and I will take care of everything."

"But, I can't let you do that!" you argued, but he simply kissed you, shutting you up.

He took your hand, leading you to his car. "There is one thing about my place though," he said, a mischievous grin playing on his lips.

"What is it?"

"I have a library."

Your eyes widened, "No way! How big is it? Does it have a ladder?" you asked excitedly.

"Yes, yes, and yes," Elijah answered, looking very pleased with himself.

"Then why do you hang out at the campus one?"

He shrugged, "I've already read everything in my collection. Most of the books at the campus library are brand new."

"Hmm, fair enough," you mused, getting into his car.

"Plus, we wouldn't have met if I didn't," he winked.

"I suppose not. Maybe we should thank Kathy, then," you said, a grin spreading across your face.

"Definitely not," Elijah said, and you both laughed.

As he started the engine, you couldn't help but smile, thinking about how your life would change. You'd get to spend every day with the man of your dreams. And maybe, just maybe, you'd get a happy ending.

[izgnanik-a]

Some more trans Ghoap? Previous fic link here

Thank you to the lovely anon who loved it so much to send me an ask for more in the funniest way. I love that you loved it.

Cw: mutual pining, sexual tension, fingering, toys, semi-public sex, more frotting, slight dom/sub, Johnny’s a pleasure dom, ftm!Simon

// Don’t like?? Don’t read // MDNI //

Having Johnny’s number meant the ball was in Simon’s court to contact him. He gave him his number because they’d had a good night, a great night even, though it was embarrassingly short.

Simon ran through his thoughts the morning soon after, realizing he probably seemed so pathetic. Cumming from humping this guy with clothes on, and then falling asleep??

He needed to move out of town ASAP.

Simon let a few days pass, anxiously eyeing the note every time he’d sit in his living room, or even staring at it from the kitchen. He’d stand at the counter, eyeing the vibrant thing until it imprinted into his mind.

What harm would come from texting Johnny back? He obviously showed interest in Simon, regardless of their night together.

And they hadn’t even gotten to the good part where Johnny’s hands would be all over him. Didn’t even get to the part where Johnny’s mouth was supposed to run through the folds of his cunt.

Fucking idiot.

Simon finally sat at the coffee table, a full week later, the night of the club event again, sticky note in hand, phone in the other. He contemplated if any of this was a good idea; bringing a stranger to his own apartment was risky but so was going to someone’s house.

But he was apparently desperate, and had no other options but a big Scottish guy who was a dirty talker and good with shoving his tongue down Simon’s throat.

He input the number into his contacts, sitting with a draft message open in front of him. He didn’t know what to say. Sup? Hey? It’s Simon? Nothing. He was so embarrassed by their last encounter that he would rather never show his face at the club again, never call.

Simon bit his tongue as he sent a shotty text of hey, and stared at the screen. He’d make himself a cup of tea, take a shower, let the message linger before he’d return to it.

The moment his hand touched the kettle —

DING.

He stared across the room to his phone on the table from the kitchen doorway. He clutched his hands into fists before moving for it. Staring at the lock screen, he eyed the message.

Took u long enough.

Simon paused, plucking it up. Do you even know if you’re texting the right person? He watched the bubbles appear and disappear.

I’m sure I am. ;)

Simon began to wonder just how many people Johnny had wooed like this at the club. How many people had fallen in Simon’s exact steps. There was technically no ulterior motive besides getting fucked — so there was no harm in playing the game, right?

Simon humored. Okay then — what color are my eyes?

There was a long pause, long enough for Simon’s kettle to whistle. His phone chirped.

Blue.

Lucky guess. Simon sat down on the couch. Half of England has blue eyes.

Then don’t ask stupid questions. Ur smarter than this. He replied.

Simon was taken aback. Johnny was blunt, but not overly critical. Maybe this wasn’t Johnny. He leaned forward in his seat. Fine. He sent. What’d we do when we left the club?

It would come out in truth whether or not Johnny was a one person at a time kind of guy, or if he really thought that Simon was just some stupid bloke.

We went back to urs, and u fucked urself on my hip. I told u how much of a good boy u were, and u came in ur pants before I could eat u out.

Simon didn’t want to show his face at the club so he skipped this week. He received a text from Johnny asking where he was, when he had lied and said he was going out with a friend, he had received a “ :( “ and “ be safe .”

The next day he received a good morning text and a soft looking selfie from Johnny; the orange hue of sunlight came in through his bedroom, dark grey sheets and blankets, his hair ruffled, sleep in his eyes. He was shirtless, tattoos creeping where the camera couldn’t fully see. But Simon outlined the roundness of his cheeks, the cushion of his chest, the absolute beauty of this man.

God — he could touch himself raw.

He sent a flimsy good morning message back, and proceeded with his day. Dinner came, and Johnny sent another photo. He was sat by candlelight, face red, and a wine glass in front of him being the culprit. His chin was leaned on his palm, pouty frown on his face.

Wish u were here.

Simon felt flushed. This man was lusting after him, and he was just feeding Johnny scraps. What would he even do if he had Johnny in front of him again?

Simon sent, how much have you had to drink?

Enough. Came back almost too quickly.

Are you driving home? Simon wondered who Johnny had gone out with. Was it with his friends? Another date? Another—?

Another date would have to reference to having gone on a date with Johnny. Simon hadn’t ever gone out with him. Only used him as a scratching post to get his rocks off.

Came with friends. Still wish u were here.

Simon started to think if he did something heroic, like showing up to where Johnny was, sweeping him into his arms, and took him home — would it get him laid.

He shouldn’t be so selfish. The man was drunk off wine. He wouldn’t take advantage of him like that.

Lmk when you get home safe. Simon sent and let his phone ding for the rest of the night. He regretted doing so when he woke up.

Waking up to drunk messages from Johnny was a handful to sort through. Half written messages, horribly written ones, and a singular photo.

Simon’s mouth was dry; Johnny was laying on his bed, shirt shucked up between his teeth, the bottom of a tattoo under his pecs showing. The hairy expanse of his stomach and happy trail showing, pants unbuttoned and pulled open to show his briefs. Johnny’s hand was holding the bulge of his cock in his pants.

The message underneath read wish u were here bad.

Simon felt his cunt throbbing perversely. He felt all urges to leave the house vanish, and all he wanted to do was touch himself like Johnny was in the photo.

It had been the last thing Johnny sent, but there wasn’t much thought to why. Simon contemplated but didn’t fight himself long before he was moving for his bedroom, unbuckling his button, and pulling the curtains over the windows before sliding his pants off.

He grabbed his silicon dildo from his closet along with his lube, situating himself up by the pillows before pouring a drizzle of lube on his fingers. He slipped his fingers between his thighs, already warm and soft under his touch. He kept the photo on his screen as he touched his clit, glancing over when he lost focus on why he’d been so bothered.

He imagined it was Johnny touching him, but he wouldn’t be so desperate and quick. Johnny would praise him, run his hands up and down his thighs as he shoved his tongue down his throat. He’d makeout with Simon until he was throbbing in his jeans, grinding himself into Simon’s hot cunt, and still refuse Simon relief.

He wouldn’t aggressively rub Simon’s clit. He’d run his fingers over his mons, along his outer lips and work his way down. Maybe he’d even eat Simon out. He’d get so cock drunk that he wouldn’t even put his fingers into Simon until he was begging him, writhing, squeezing his face between his thighs. He go at it for hours.

He wouldn’t keep shoving his cock head into Simon’s cunt to the point where it was burning. He’d make sure Simon was gushing pre before lubing himself up, and he’d play with Simon’s clit. Tease him with his tip, pushing it between his folds, and running it back over his mons. Just making a mess.

Then he’d lean over, whisper sweet things in his ear as he was pushing in.

“You’re doing so well for me. Such a sweet boy.”

“So soft. I can’t stand the way you feel under my hands. It’s too good.”

“I wish you could see the way you’re taking me. Splitting open on my cock, panting so hard, and I haven’t even gotten all of it in.”

“I love the way you clench when I play with your clit. Pushing yourself on my cock to take the rest of it. So greedy.”

“Such a good boy for me. Only for me. Say it, sweet thing. You’re mine, aren’t you? Yeah?”

Simon fucked himself down on his dildo as he rubbed his clit, eyes shut, mouth open, grinding until it pushed up against his front wall, lighting up stars in his eyes.

“That’s it. Good boy. Of course you needed something to grind up against. Be sweet for me and cum, using me as a toy to get off.”

Simon moaned painfully as he orgasmed, sitting on the full length of his dildo as he slumped down on his shoulders and knees. He grimaced as he dragged his fingers over his clit to feel the lingering shock of his orgasm. Like the masochist he was, he kept rubbing until he was jerking away from his own touch.

Sliding until he was belly down on the bed, he pressed his forehead into the sheets as he took deep breaths. Dildo abandoned behind him, covered in lube and his own excrements.

All his time was becoming occupied with obsessing over this man, over this Scottish devil who teased him and praised him. He should feel sick for doing such ludicrous acts.

But he couldn’t bring himself to take the shame he was being handed.

The photo was left without another word. No acknowledgment that it ever happened. Come the night of the queer event, and Simon was sitting in his seat with a drink in hand. He knew Johnny would come, because he’d asked, practically begged him for an answer, and he was jittery with nerves.

He’d jerked off more times than necessary to Johnny’s photo, a teasing non-nude photo, the prerequisite of promised sex. There would be no slowing down when Simon got his hands on that man. He’d tear him apart in the bathroom stall if he had to.

Simon couldn’t see the front door so he was left to wonder if Johnny was really coming. Would he come? Would he treat Simon differently? Would he cling to Simon, keep him under his arm, and drag him this way and that way all night? Or would he just take Simon to some quiet spot and finish what he was promised?

Simon was lost in thought as a crowd was closing in on the other side of the bar. He looked up from his drink.

From across the bar, the low LED lights underneath painted the high points of Johnny’s face in red, like some lucrative predator. He kept his eyes on Simon, making sure his prey didn’t run off before he could sink his teeth in.

The air felt electric, and Simon was buzzing again.

All he could think about was the photo, and the desperate ache of Simon’s thighs every night he rode his poor dildo.

Johnny rounded the bar, and Simon tried to brace his dignity before Johnny yanked it out from under his feet. His hand slid along the back of Simon’s shoulders before it wrapped around his waist, his chest pressed to his spine, cheek to Simon’s neck. The hug was as intimate as fucking was, but it was careful, stomping the line between friends and fuck buddies.

“Hel-lo sailor.” Johnny purred against the side of Simon’s face, giving a chaste kiss to his cheek before pulling himself aside. Not far enough to give Simon space, but enough to press his chest to Simon’s arm, facing him while standing between the bar stools. “You’re here early.”

“Spying on me?”

“No.” Johnny trailed off with a seductive smirk, sliding into the seat beside Simon, still facing him. His thighs bracketing Simon’s body. “What’re you drinking?”

“Vodka.”

“In a weekday?” Johnny guffawed. “I didn’t know you were the type.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

Johnny smiled, leaning in on the back of Simon’s chair. “Oh yeah? Care to share?” He hovered in Simon’s space, and he was just choking on his spit.

Simon watched him peer at his lips, and back up to his eyes. “Got a light?”

Johnny was all hands and tongue and teeth. His body was plush up against Simon’s, keeping him pinned up against some stranger’s car in the dark of the parking lot.

Simon let his head tip back against the roof of the car as Johnny bit all along his throat, mouthing and nipping along his collar. Simon gasped as Johnny managed to get a thigh between his legs, searching until he got the right angle and—

Simon whined out loudly, like a kicked puppy, and clenched his mouth shut when Johnny pressed down on him.

“Feels that good, huh?” Johnny pressed his smiling lips to Simon’s cheek, holding the other side of his face. “Go on, ride it like last time.”

Simon’s face was hot red. He was driven by carnal desire and nothing more. He couldn’t explain why his thoughts left him. All he knew was how to listen.

And grind he did.

Simon gripped the back of Johnny’s neck, pressing his cheek to his bicep, and grinding his clothed cunt until he felt raw. Until his hips were giving desperate humps, meeting Johnny’s hips before bumping the side of the car.

Johnny’s hands were soothing down his back, over his hips, guiding him, and slipping into his back pockets to cup his ass. He found amusement in Simon’s empty headed lust.

His lips pressed up against Simon’s ear. “Do you want my help?” He hummed, crushing Simon’s body to the cool glass of the car again. He collected Simon’s face in his hands, looking into his eyes. “You want my hands?”

Simon panted over his wet mouth, clarifying finding him in moments of need. “Yes.”

“Yeah?” Johnny smiled, “Unbuckle your pants for me.”

Simon gulped, licking his lips, and let his hands fist in Johnny’s shirt at his sides. “Not here.”

Johnny glanced around, and shoved his hand in his pocket between them to find his car keys. He unlocked his car, underneath Simon, and reached for the handle. “Inside.”

They shuffled into the small backseat, bumping into each other within the confined space, and Simon ended up straddling over Johnny’s lap.

“I think I liked outside better.” Johnny joked, kissing Simon into silence. His hands smoothed along his thighs, squeezing his ass. “But this is fine too.”

Simon kissed down Johnny’s throat, biting his neck as he did, and kissed his collar before there was a hand in his hair bringing him up again.

“I like kissing you.” Johnny said.

“Then stop talking.”

Johnny smiled, one hand dragging underneath Simon’s shirt. “But I want to have my mouth on other parts of you.”

Simon gave a high sigh when Johnny kissed him again. Simon ran his hands down Johnny’s chest to his stomach. Teasing at his belly, feeling his happy trail, and waistband.

Johnny gazed up at him with soft eyes, “You can unbuckle my pants if you’d like.” He whispered.

“Why would I want to do that?” Simon teased.

“Maybe you’re curious.”

Simon scoffed. “Curious?”

“Because I didn’t send you the photo I wanted to the other night.”

Simon felt hot, maybe it was because the air in the car was growing thicker or because Johnny was a literal heater under him.

“You never text me back.” Johnny smirked.

“What was I supposed to say?” Simon huffed.

“A compliment would have been nice.”

“You come off as cocky, you know that?”

Johnny hummed as he leaned in to kiss Simon’s mouth again, reaching between them to unbutton his own pants. The sound of his zipper slipping down made both men look down between them. Johnny leaned back in his seat. “You next.”

Simon hesitated. Sat in the lap of a very hungry beast, he hated to steal its dinner. “There’s something I have to say first.”

“Okay.” Johnny sat closer, putting his hands on Simon’s hips.

Before Johnny’s mouth could silence him, he shouted into the hot silence. “I’m trans!”

Both men stared at each other at the intrusive utterance.

Simon felt his heart suddenly shifting to blare in his ears when Johnny stared up at him. He felt like his breath was too loud, panting too heavy, holding Johnny too softly.

“Okay.” Johnny said plainly. And his hands began petting Simon again, smoothing up and down his waist. “Do you want me to stop?”

Simon didn’t even answer. He was launched by the reassuring question, sinking his mouth into Johnny’s again. He unbuttoned his pants, desperately trying to shove them lower so he could get his underwear down enough.

The dripping smell of his hot cunt filled the space, making Johnny seem less interested than he was.

Simon’s hands were collecting one of Johnny’s off his hip, bringing it to his stomach, dragging downward to his thighs. He panted over Johnny’s mouth as he took his sweet time to Simon’s cunt.

He had a teasing twinkle in his eyes when he parted his fingers, deliberately touching Simon’s pubic hair and outer labia instead of his warmer tip.

Simon grit his teeth, gripping Johnny’s wrist. “Just fucking do it already.” He growled.

“I can’t help it. I like the way you look.”

And Simon must’ve looked like a freak; pants pulled down under his cunt, half way sitting in Johnny’s lap, half straining his thighs as he arched his ass back between the seats. His head bumping the ceiling, hands clutched Johnny’s body like some soul eating creature.

Simon relished the moment Johnny’s two fingers were closing around his swollen tip, gently tugging and stroking him between his fingers. Simon fucked into hand, panting and shaking as he held himself up.

Johnny clutched the bottom of his jaw, making him look into his eyes as he played with his tip. “Look at you. Sweet—sweet boy. You’re so big in my hands. Practically drooling into my palm.”

Simon tried to tuck his face down but Johnny kept him firm.

“You’ve been like this all night?” He pulled Simon’s face in, ghosting his tongue along his bottom lip. “Poor thing. Were you thinking about the photo? Would you like to know what got me hot that night?”

Simon whined as Johnny cupped him, nulling his chances of grinding against his palm.

Johnny mouthed in his ear. “I was thinking about eating you out, all night. And I couldn’t stop thinking about you absolutely loving it.”

Simon began moaning desperately, muffling it into Johnny’s shoulder as Johnny rubbed his palm against Simon’s clit. His fingers rubbing past his hole, making an absolute mess of him. He rocked his hips against Johnny’s every stroke, breath getting higher and higher.

“There you go. Make a mess of me, sweet thing.” Johnny held the back of Simon’s head, keeping his lips on his cheek. “I’ll suck you off dry and then maybe you can fuck me.”

Simon was seeing black spots in his vision as his eyes were rolling back. He clutched to Johnny’s wrist as he whined in agony, orgasming the hardest he has alone, and still forcing himself to grind against Johnny’s stagnant hand until he was crying from overstimulation.

He felt his cunt throbbing, his head pounding, and—Johnny’s soft hand on his thigh. He soothed his hand up to his hip, and down to where his jeans cut off access. Then up again. He didn’t usher Simon along, didn’t redirect him to a more comfortable spot yet, just soaking in the blissful moment.

Simon moved first. Sitting his bare ass on the backseat, his knees resting in Johnny’s lap, head against the glass of the door. He shut his eyes, parched again. His pants were still tangled around his thighs.

Johnny squeezed his calves softly.

Watching him, Johnny made no effort to get Simon out of his car. He was quite content with squeezing up and down Simon’s calves, rubbing his thumb into each ankle, and up to his thighs. He gave him a soft look before smiling, his thumb stroking the skin of his thigh underneath.

“Why do you do that?” Simon asked.

“Do what?”

“Touch me.”

“I like to.”

“You’re always touching me.”

“I like to.”

“Why?”

Johnny shrugged. “You’re attractive. Though your humor is really dry.”

“Alright.” Simon began tugging his pants up. “Times up. I won’t be insulted by you.”

Johnny laughed, leaning over to trap Simon against the door with a kiss. He smiled down at him, “I like you.”

Simon glanced between his eyes with bewilderment. “You don’t know me.”

“I want to.”

Simon shook his head softly. For a man who just got a handjob, he really was something else. Maybe he was always this dumb, or maybe it was just the endorphins. Johnny liked that.

“I’m a really good cook.” Johnny insisted.

“I bet you’re a lousy cook.”

“Let me cook for you, and we’ll see.”

“What if it’s a flop?”

“Then we stick to handjobs in parking lots.” Johnny stated.

“I’m not doing this in your backseat again.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Johnny stared down at Simon, smile slowly growing more and more on his face.

“You’re unattractive when you smile.” Simon lied.

“You’re attractive when you cum. I want to see you do it again.”

next chapter?? maybe??

fic masterlist link

tf141 masterlist link

[eustasskidagenda]

hello im so excited that your ask box is open and youre taking requests! i dont request things often, so this might be a but of a weird concept, and i apologize if its too detailed. however the idea literally wont leave me alone. orz;;

maybe eustass kid has a crush on a somewhat reserved reader whose slow to open up and he hasnt quite realized thats what hes feeling until they stop on an island and meet readers childhood friend. they show a whole new side of themself with said friend by laughing openly, making stupid jokes, being much more physically affectionate. basically reader acts close with an old friend and kid gets jealous about it.

i dont mind if you do a oneshot, drabble, or headcanon, im just curious about your thoughts on this :3 thank you so much and i hope you have a great day!

Hello dear anon! Sure, I'm always happy to write for my pookie. It was fun to write, and it makes me smile a bit because Kid is such a mess, I love this angry tulip. Hope it will match your expectations. ☆

☆Kid with a s/o slow to open up

CW : g/n reader, a bit of cursing but fluff overall

WC : 700

Kid has always been loud. Whenever he's angry, he needs to shoot at someone. What can he say? His heart is filled with emotions, boiling and exploding like a thousand sparks. That's why you're a mystery. Always calm. Not letting others know what's on your mind. What makes you so quiet? He can't tell. 

Just like the moon and the sun, you are polar opposites. And yet, as the sun always chases the moon, he's always looking after you. And he's everything, but not discreet. Asking loudly for almost all of his crew what they think about you and why you are so reserved. 

Sure, he's used to introverted folks. Killer is one of them. But here's the difference: he can second-guess every word, thought, and breath of his best friend. He could probably achieve all of his sentences. And even through the mask, Kid could also guess the exact expression on Killer's face. 

Killer, who is likely aware that Kid has a small crush on you.

Kid is genuinely frustrated. Loudly frustrated, obviously. He needs to feel in control of everything and hates when he doesn’t have a full-understanding. Usually, he fails to notice reserved people because he's taking all the attention. But there's something about you: your slight smiles, the flash in your eyes, the way you're always listening to others but never talk about yourself. He can't tell why, but it keeps his mind alert. 

Perhaps you pose a bit of a challenge. Kid would never give two flying fucks about you if you were easy to see through. He's always looking after you because you're still a mystery. Sure, at the beginning, it was just to try to figure out who you really are. But now, it turned into something bigger. He hasn't noticed it yet, that’s all. Kid sucks with feelings. Feelings are actually something he hates because they make him feel weak. It puts his loved one in danger. Showing your weaknesses to enemies is a foolish move, Kid knows that perfectly.

However, everything is about to change. He decided to stop on that island for the day. For the first time, you asked to avoid robbery or harming anyone around. 

"Ugh, we're pirates, y/n" Kid doesn't want to look like a nice guy. He's a tough, rude pirate. He has a reputation to uphold. For him, the only good way to open a path is by violent means. Kindness? For what? If he's still alive today, it's because he toughened up and decided to never show mercy to anyone. 

"Fine, fine, I won't kill those people." Heavy sighs. But he wants to understand. He needs to understand. And finally, he's about to understand. 

Because suddenly, you're smiling heartily and running towards those scumbag strangers. What. The. Fuck. It's like seeing the sun after an eternity of blizzards and grey clouds. You're a bright light, a true sunshine. A burst of joy. You're joking, laughing, talking, and talking a lot. You never said more than two sentences in front of him, and now you're chatting endlessly with those strangers and hugging all of them. 

He's pissed off. Are those random people with terrible sense of style and ugly make-up better than him? The great Eustass "Captain" Kid? No way. 

"Guys, here's my captain, Kid. Kid, here are my childhood best friends."

Kid's face is a mess of angry scowls and boiling with frustration when they say hello. Why aren't you smiling as warmly when you're with him? Why is his heart pounding so hard, almost painfully in his chest? And damn, is it the cold or are his cheeks completely red? 

Poor Kid is both flushed and flustered. His first reflex is always exploding when he feels something. "Do you have a problem with me?" Barking through gritted teeth. 

He's ruining the happy-shitty mood and he doesn't care. 

So now, try to explain that you don't have a problem with him. Good luck, he's very stubborn. But once he's more or less calmed (because he's still pissed off), he still can't understand why his heart is racing at the sight of your soft, warm smile.

He wants to see that side of you more often. He wants to be part of those privileged people allowed to know the real you.

Yes, maybe he has a crush on you.

[quecksilvereyes]

“You cannot live your life to please others. the choice must be yours.” Susan

Uh. So this prompt possessed me a little bit, I sure hope smoking isn't a trigger for you, anon.

____

Sometimes, in the summers, when the air is thick and heavy, dripping with unshed rain and pressing into the hollow of her clavicles, Susan Pevensie stands in her mother's garden, and bathes in the sun. She drapes her blouse, soaked with sweat, and her skirt, soaked with perfume, over the old rocking chair that has long since splintered under the weight of its age, and then:

A breath.

With closed eyes and soft mouth, rouge-dotted and lipstick-smeared, Susan Pevensie tilts her face towards the light. Her brassiere is damp with English rain that won't fall, her petticoats are stiff with English breeze that won't blow and her wrists are strung up by English strings that won't pull.

Blue skies are rare, here. England is grey, and England is cloudy, and England rains and rains and rains until it has made itself sick and its ground unsteady. Some weeks, the clouds hang low for so long that the sun cannot reach what it wishes to nourish. Some weeks, Susan sits by her window, her head pressed against the glass, and watches the clouds drip into fog, the fog drip into the earth, and the earth drown and cry. Until her skin matches the grey of the skies, until her mind drips from her every breath onto the paneled glass, until she can't see through the fog, anymore.

"Su", says her brother, then, his hands on her forehead, his mouth in her hair. "Susie." His hands, shaking and unsteady, are warm and getting warmer with every passed winter. His voice, soft and careful and stripped of teeth, drops steadily deeper. When he turns his head, the beginnings of a stubble scrape against her cheek.

"Light of my life, sun of my skies."

The skies are grey. The grass is grey. The fence is grey. The world is grey.

Peter's eyes are blue. The clouds don't gather around his pupils, and his irises are clear as they've been for days. The English sky has never echoed the yellow freckles.

The Narnian skies were ever centered around the pupil of her sun, in the soft yellow streaks of Peter's eyes.

Susan wets her lips. She doesn't wet her cheeks.

Peter climbs onto the bench. "My sister", he says softly. "Where have you gone?"

Susan buries her face in his chest and leaves behind great streaks of make-up on his bleached dress shirt: a mouth of lipstick, a blur of rouge, a dust of powder. Splotches of mascara, lines of kohl. Marks of eyeshadow.

Peter rubs her back, and Susan doesn't cry.

In the summers, she drinks the sun with greedy mouth and empty stomach and hungry, hungry skin. In the dripping air and the burning grass, Susan Pevensie strips to her undergarments - and breathes.

In, and out.

A breath, and then another.

Beyond her closed eyes, the world drips reds and oranges, and bright, stark yellows. Beyond her hollow mouth, the air coats her windpipe; a slow dripping of heat.

She is alone, here. She drops her ball-jointed limbs and her painted porcelain face, turns her opal glass palms right side up, and breathes.

Until her lungs settle, and the fog has run dry. Until the colours are a bit sharper, a bit brighter. A smear more familiar.

-

The party is slow. Nicotine gathers heavy on the ceiling, and the music is a little too loud to be ambient. The drinks are spiked, the hems are lifted, and Susan is standing by the door, watching her friend lose the last of her lipstick to a stranger's mouth.

The boy is. Well, he's fine. Polite and gentle, soft-spoken. He ducks his head and worries the tips of his fingers and the spread of his lips until they bleed. His hair would curl, if it was long enough, and when she blows smoke in his direction, he coughs.

Smiles.

Susan takes another drag of her cigarette. Flicks the ash to the floor. Smiles.

"You'll have to forgive the cigarette", she says around the smoke seeping from her mouth. "It calms me down."

The boy blinks at her, and wets his bottom lip. It is dark with blood, dotted purple where he has almost broken skin, swollen with the almost-injury. "I can't imagine anyone ever denies you much of anything", he says. "You're too pretty for that."

"Too pretty to be annoyed with?"

He shrugs. His shoulders are slumped forwards, and it makes his suit jacket sit oddly on the rounded curve of his back. "People love pretty things. Better to keep them around."

Her cigarette is stained with her lipstick, and the tips of her fingers drip with it. The smoke in her lungs is warm, and the alcohol in her blood is warmer, still, so Susan tilts her head. "When I was a little girl, my mother bought me a little lace collar. I wore it until it broke, and begged her to fix it when it had long become too threadbare to even be touched."

The boy nods, and takes a breath.

Susan clicks her tongue. "I'd gotten beet juice on it, and it wouldn't come out in the wash. No matter the soap, no matter the scrub. There was a small pink stain near the lapel, and it simply bled in all directions. So my mother soaked it in bleach."

The boy cannot pull his shoulders forwards any further. He cannot bend his back more. He digs his teeth into the purple marks on his lips.

"The bleach dissolved most of it. The lace was too delicate." Susan throws the cigarette stub on the floor and savours the last breath of it, the hot coating of her tongue. "If she hadn't tried to get the stain out, it wouldn't have broken."

The boy's teeth break his skin. The blood pools, dark and shy, around the enamel and into the corners of his mouth. "You couldn't have worn the stained collar", he says, with his soft voice and his soft eyes, his soft, soft hair.

"Why not?"

"Well", says the boy. His shirt is starched and bleached. There is a wrinkle ironed firmly into the placket. He coughs again. "It was already ruined before your mother bleached it. It was stained."

Susan crushes the stub underneath her shoe. The music covers the sound of the grinding and the soft hiss of the dying embers. "It was mine, and I loved it", she says. "Was it my mother's call to make what I could bear?"

The boy shrugs. "It's a lace collar. There are others."

Susan hums. "Perhaps. But I wanted this one." Across the room, someone spills red wine over someone else's lap. Someone else holds their cigarette too close to their lover's sleeve. "You shouldn't live your life to please others. You mind the smoke, and you mind the talking. And yet-"

The boy laughs. The corners of his eyes wrinkle, the apples of his cheeks flush dark, and the blood on his lips spreads slow across his teeth.

"And yet", he says, "here I am."

[lackadaisy-headcanon-supply-unit]

hi, the way this blog is formatted and the menu is written is so creative and fitting! i had a great time looking through it

may i request some fem reader w rocky? maybe him playing the violin or reciting poems in a public space to himself and reader is the only one to react (positively) so he immediately is struck in awe. please and thank you :)

Good evening, Anon!! First off, thank you very much for the compliment. Two things you should know, however...

This ended up over three thousand words long somehow. (For the record, it was gonna be a scenario.)

It's the cheesiest meet-cute I've ever written, so I advise you all to brace yourselves, folks-

That being said, enjoy!! <3

When you heard it, everything else quieted.

The thunder of cars bolting down a busy road, metal armor bobbing upon four wheels as they broke past and left smaugful clamor clashing against the monstrum business blocks, softened to but a distant skitter of shiny black bugs ambling self-importantly about. The cacophony of pedestrians, indiscernible faces in square suits and tasteful pastels spewing bits of language into one converging mess, each voice independent yet competing for dominance until they clawed at your eardrums and suffocated your thoughts now felt no graver than the meek rustle of forest foliage when coddled by the summer breeze; a humming chorus to a beautiful solist’s serenade, and when a bycicle trilled inches past normally skittish, city-dweller you it didn’t even occur to step aside as you were far too absorbed in the one delightful sound that made the greys of asphalt’s reign seem greyer and dulled even the most striking women’s daywear to sun-worn cleaning rags in comparison.

It was a melody the color of blue, matching his eyes.

You hadn’t a chance to admire them for long when you spotted him in the crowd. They drifted closed for long stretches of time as their owner’s features suggested a deep, gentle focus on the music, his whole being smoothing into the instrument. There was something bewitching about the violin, you found; seemed even its players could seldom resist its particular pull, fingers dancing across the strings as if possessed by magic. The rosined bow dipped to and fro in a hypnotic sequence that pulsed like the rise and ebb of the tides; sometimes the pace changed, slowed to but a meandering, peaceful ponderance before it flew from the threads of catgut like nimble sparks of lightning, with the ease and comfort of at least a thousand hours of practice.

Must’ve been a classical piece, if not improv; but for that far too complex. Vivaldi? Mozart? You hadn’t heard it before, so you couldn’t confirm, however it proved the enchanting stranger to be both talented and educated. He looked up from his divine craft to initiate eye contact with passersby and, yes, he had the bluest eyes indeed, seated under emphatic brows, and he gave a hopeful smile of such integrity to those undeserving strangers who walked past in indifference as if he’d been an smaug-borne ghost, a trick of the light invisible to all but yourself and when he turned in resignation and his gaze caught upon you, playing still, your breath hitched in your throat.

How long had you been gawking there, frozen on the sidewalk like a dimwit? Oh, no. He must have thought you such a creeper; a notion which you had to rectify, and rectify it quick. Puff your chest out, march up, tell him you liked his playing and leave a dime; you took off at once with this very plan in mind.

In doing so, you forgot you had stood on opposing sides of the road.

Heels clicked across hot concrete in a headlong hurry. You realized that the cars were still coming midway through when his eyes widened in horror and a spontaneous screech of tires replaced that joyous melody. You stumbled back, blinded by car polish and a pair of glaring headlights you profusely apologized to before skittering away from a second car in the right lane when it came to an angry halt likewise. Loud honks scolded you along your path whilst you yelled back sheepish sorries.

Well, talk about making an entrance.

As you reached the paved edge, a hand manifested to help you up on it.

“Are you alright, miss?”

And blue eyes. You felt yourself sink further into the road with the transient wish those cars had hit you after all, nonetheless took the offer and tottered along with the stranger’s help. He held bow and violin in his other hand, by the neck, and you narrowly avoided stepping on their rickety case with a meager amount of coins and a crumpled up bill inside.

Ah, right. He’d been busking, after all.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” he reiterated, scanning you, and you realized you’d missed the previous question. “It’s hardly safe to cross this thoroughfare without looking both ways first, you know. You ought to try that next time.”

“I know, I know– I’m sorry. I’m fine.”

You weren’t. Not when this handsome vagabond with the most radiant blue oculars you’d ever seen and enough of a musical gift to put you in a trance kept observing you from such proximity whilst implicitly chiding you for being a tunnel-visioned idiot.

“Well, great news, then!” he grinned. Oh. That’s a lot of teeth, you noted with slightly raising eyebrows. “I doubt I’d have been able to sleep tonight had you met an undue fate under the stampede of these motorized beasts all for just trying to reach me.”

An odd penchant for metaphors, too. When you didn’t respond right away, he withdrew his gesturing hand in contemplation.

“You… were careening specifically my way, yes?”

“Yes!”

You snapped out of your appreciation for his endearingly boyish timbre and thereby commenced a frantic battle with your purse as you attempted to pry something from it.

“Right, I was heading this way– just give me a moment–”

He watched in intrigue as you counted something he couldn’t see under your breath, then produced the intended amount of what he identified to be cash and reached to hand it over to him, near breathless.

“I really loved your playing.”

You couldn’t bear to look him in the eye yet hardly missed his astonishment when he conceived the sum.

“Miss, that’s ten dollars.”

“Yes,” you affirmed curtly. “What of it?”

“I can’t accept that.”

Hearing which, you did finally face him with a frown.

“You’re a very kind soul,” he asserted in a hurry, smile never faltering, “and I’m thoroughly humbled by your contribution, but I cannot rob a lady of her hard earned pay in good conscience for that frivolous noise–”

“It was beautiful noise,” you interjected with knitted brows, “I really did enjoy it, and you deserve much better audience than the pedestrians of some drab street corner who’ll never bother to pay your music the attention it deserves.”

You pointed curtly toward the flow of people. Some in turn spared you a glance, but then you blended into their scenery again like another pair of shop mannequins.

“So take it from a lady,” you enunciated, all but shoving the money in his chest, “and I sincerely hope you end up in a concert hall someday.”

You exhaled and waited. He stared at your extended hand, then you, then at your hand and back again and gorgeous as you found those gleaming sapphires you couldn’t for the life of you tell what he was thinking. Your arm muscles trembled, and you contemplated whether sparing yourself from the awkwardness of further playing statue might be worth giving up anyway.

Finally, he seized your wrist with both hands. He didn’t seem to notice your startlement as he was busy beaming at you bright enough to put celestial bodies to shame.

“What’s your name?”

“Uh…”

God forsake it, that smile alone was turning your heart into a fluffy, overripe dandelion inside your chest. If he kept up, you feared he might just blow it apart.

But you managed to tell.

“Well, miss…” he began, implementing your surname, and you would’ve bolted on pure instinct had you not taken root at your spot, “your generous praise is, by far and large, the most invaluable gift I could’ve received on this brilliant morning.”

You took a deep inhale, acutely aware of his touch tingling across your skin even though he meant nothing by it… you supposed.

“You have certainly made a lowly troubadour’s day with your gracious approbation,” he patted your knuckles, at the same time gently shoving your offer away. “You see, I could tell from the moment our gazes locked across the street that I would enjoy the pleasure of meeting someone positively extraordinary… right after she ambled through the active traffic. Call it a concise connection of kindred souls, if you will. You, miss, have proved yourself a true appreciator of the arts.”

When those blue eyes were holding yours hostage so intently, you almost did believe he could see into your very soul. You tried to brave it, however.

“Thank y–”

“Which is why this won’t be needed.”

You held the rejected money against your chest, where he had guided it.

“You’ll be better off forfeiting it to charity,” he suggested, “if aiding the honest predicaments of your fellow citizens in need is a cause dear to your heart. Like orphans! Those poor, unmothered things, always caught in the throes of some quintessential lack or other; surely they could put your benevolent funds to good use… that is, in case you are looking to make a charity. If you’re not interested in, erm, providing for the orphans, that’s still quite fine. You just seem to me the sort to care for children. But that doesn’t make it your obligation, of course, to feed the orphans… no one is about to force that duty upon you… in equally sound conscience I suppose you could just as well keep the money…”

He proceeded along his mildly morally concerned tangent, but any of it beyond the lip movements you ceased to process. Some convoluted cliché about personal indulgence over supporting the waifs of the world, you reckoned. In terms of lifting your spirits it achieved a ludicrous heap of nothing, and amidst your silent marinating in this strange and unexpected failure of your strange and unexpected encounter, you continued to clutch the bills to yourself.

You didn’t figure that may have looked like dismay on his end until he trailed off, fidgeting vaguely as he probed your expression. The warmth of his hands on yours still lingered.

“My attempt at a point is,” he resumed at a slower pace, “you’re awful generous, but to tell you the truth, I’m quite comfortably off without the help. I am employed, after all.”

“You are?”

Rude as it sounded to gape the question so, you hadn’t considered that possibility. He was… well, not badly dressed, but his clothes appeared worn and a tad oversized on his comically skinny limbs, granting him a ragamuffin sort of appearance.

Though you still found it quite charming.

“Sure am!” he grinned in earnest, and you’d soon come to accept that his face simply looked that way when he did. “This is only some nifty supplemental income for a craft I spend day and night honing anyway. Really, I play out here to preserve my associates’ peace of mind more than anything. The other day they got so peeved with all the melodic caterwauling my boss had to fetch a broomstick and chase me out into the great wide open after failing to quiet me down.”

A chuckle escaped you at the joke, and it’s like his eyes gleamed brighter.

“What can I say,” he admitted with a theatrical shrug, “a musician’s ichor pulses to the ever-flowing rhythm of higher realms beckoning. That can hardly be helped. When my eager heart doesn’t sing Apollo’s odes from the strings, it reaches for the lyre, however… but they don’t deal in stanzas and limericks on the job market in contemporary times.” He glanced off into the distance wistfully, as if envisioning an ideal future where they did. “Miss M, our aforementioned lady-in-charge, says it’s only since our customers can’t exactly do the Lindy Hop to recitativo verse form.”

“So that means you’re a poet?”

“Indeed!”

You hummed in acknowledgement. He gave his vest a proud little adjustment as part of the performance, not that it served to make him look any more presentable.

“Vivacious vicinal versificator,” he expatiated with a playful half-bow, “humble herald of numinous inspiration, eulogizing the beauties of this peculiar earthly life to the cobblestone and the stars for a passtime. Old Muddy Miss herself has proven to be my most faithful audience… and for lack of substantial competition, in her listening skills she remains unexcelled.”

“Not for long, I should hope.”

That made him pause. Your nerves struck you alert as you rushed to explain.

“That is, well, I would be curious to join said, um, audience… mayhaps… sometime. I mean– you have a fascinating vocabulary, sir, so I can only imagine…”

He listened on with perplexed blue eyes; you mentally smacked yourself for the honorific. No one so refreshingly unrefined as this overeager stray puppy of a man could even remotely qualify for a ‘sir’, and you were happy about that, because had you made so many social blunders with any other stranger in succession you would’ve craved death.

He took his sweet time providing a readable reaction, but when he did he laughed. Not with a mocking edge, as you had feared; the sound tinkled as melodically as his trusty violin.

“Oh, miss, you’re just a bundle of pleasant surprises.”

You came to chuckle along, too, a nervous smile stretching your lips. He took your hand again.

“I’d be delighted to deliver a private recital,” he dipped forward then paused, perhaps contemplating whether a kiss on the back of it would be appropriate, peering up at you in a bluest display of rapt attention that made your heart leap, “if that’s truly the case.”

You averted your eyes. The vague unease as if you’d given your name to a fae in a stroke of recklessness minutes prior melted into the bustle of sluggish, smoke-ridden traffic.

“So where is it that you work?” you switched the topic.

Attuned, he let go of your hand as if it had burned him, adjusting his hat like an excuse.

“Little Daisy Café,” he responded quickly, perpetual cheer intact. “It’s just an ambitious spit from here, actually, a few blocks down that way.” He pointed in the opposite direction from where you’d been headed. “Awful cute little gem of an establishment. Perhaps you’ve been to?”

“No, not that I recall.”

“Well, I can only recommend that you drop by. The pancakes are to die for.”

“And there’s live music?”

You both glanced at the violin, then back at each other. He gave you another grin that you couldn’t help but detect as somewhat complicit.

“Makes your early beverage taste all the sweeter.”

You let your eyes linger on one of the boutique windows in the background; a closed one under construction. The ample light struck it at an angle which obscured the debris-filled darkness and activity inside, flawless glass surface glimmering at front in gorgeous deceit. Its reflective sheen conjured an alluring vision; deep azure sky dotted with fringed, fluffy lamb-clouds.

Suppose you offered it.

“Well, if you won’t let yourself be tipped,” you sighed, putting your money away, “may I treat you to breakfast, at least? A plate of those fabled pancakes, even?”

Childlike delight flashed across his face before the metaphorical reins were pulled back with a frantic grip.

“Why, miss, you’re spoiling me,” he lamented, “but I really shouldn’t–”

“I was heading for the bakery myself,” you continued with a pacifying gesture, “but now with your recommendation in mind, I might as well try a treat from that ‘little gem’ of a café, no? You could show me the way there, and… I suppose I could listen to those stanzas of yours, if you’d be willing to share…”

The words intended to compose the rest of your reasoning kept tumbling from your grasp before you could string them together, and someone in the crowd of pedestrians laughed. A snooty, feminine laugh. He kept watching you and you only, however, engulfing you in that mysterious blue once again.

“…granted that is okay with you, of course.”

He began to smile like the sun itself and dove with startling momentum for the violin case.

“Why, it’d be most uncouth to refuse the benevolent offer of such lovely ladyship,” he concluded while packing away his instrument then slapped the lid over the case once finished, money withstanding, “and I don’t reckon I’ll make two more pennies to rub together this morning, so I’d be more than happy to escort you along.”

He grabbed the handle and sprung up, beaming at you with the energy of a couple additional suns before he got an idea and moved to offer his free arm toward you like the smoothest of gallants. Clearing his throat, to boot.

“Mademoiselle?”

You put a hand to your chest, accentuating the action with a playful once-over.

“Chivalrous,” you chuckled before locking his arm with your own. The two of you would set off this way not unlike lovers, which he stiffened at the realization of.

“Too much?” he questioned.

“No, it’s quite alright.”

The cracks in the sidewalk became very interesting all of a sudden, however. You could feel his skinniness and lack of musculature thus far only guessed through the rolled-sleeved shirt; not that you minded.

Must have not gotten treated to meals often.

“About that poetry,” he piped up a bit quieter than before, “granted you won’t tire of my voice ahead of time…”

“Don’t be silly.”

You gave him a look, then caught yourself.

“Well, alright,” he resigned with an evaluating pout when you turned away, “but, uh… unfortunately, most of my limbs are occupied. And the fervent gesticulation makes up half the performence.”

By that point, you found yourself believing him. You all but burst into laughter at the mental image.

“Maybe you can gesticulate it to me after the fact,” you quipped.

“…Fair enough.”

You reached a street corner together and turned it. From the corner of your eye, a young couple were teasing each other by a flower shop on the opposite side of the road with a posy gift of piquant red tulips, blushing and giggling. You matched the bouncing steps of the stranger you were intertwined with in newfound giddiness.

“Let’s see,” he pondered, scanning the rows of buildings in an absent-minded manner before his eyes lit up. “Right! As fortune would have it, there does happen to be one I’ve been itching to inflict on a willing pair of ears for the past week…”

He made a big show of clearing his throat before he began; you were eager to let the mesmerized flow that had brought you to him in the first place take you along, absorbing the dramatic inflection and animated spirit oozing from his entire complexion as he made the widest gestures he was capable of in his inhibited position nonetheless.

A stranger indeed…

“Wait!”

Before he could proceed with any experimental odes to clay and calicos, you cut him off. He turned to you right away, magic put on hold.

“I never caught your name.”

He glanced around in recollection before those notorious brows sprung up.

“I never passed it,” he exclaimed, bewildered, and wriggled from your hold haphazardly as he scrambled for his hat. “Oh, foolish I! Forgive me this horrendous discourtesy, milady, if you might find it in your heart.”

You simply observed him in amusement.

A zephyr swept along the length of the street, bringing where you stood a nectarine fragrance which, though delicate, transcended the heavy smoke and for a delightful moment let you smell nothing but itself. With his hat now off and held politely to his chest, the breeze ruffled his tousled hair as it did yours. His blue eyes shone in the urban grey like diamonds.

“The name is Rocky Rickaby.”

And when he said it, you already knew you wouldn’t tire of that voice anytime soon.

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Best and Worst of Both worlds (part 22)

Part 23

Tw: Monty being a creepy lil shit, mans can't take no for an answer, short chaprer

Tell me what y'all think of the series so far i loce reading the comments and anon asks plpplsplps thanks

"(name)-" Yves's eyes were blank when you hung up. He slowly puts his phone down on his desk. He starts disassembling it, pulling the battery out and carelessly tossing it to the side of his laptop. You're not going to call him again.

He drummed his perfectly manicured fingers onto the table. Yves sighed heavily as he massaged his forehead. He extended his hand to grab a luxury bottle out from a metal pail of frosty ice.

He uncorked it and poured his champagne flute full of alcohol. It was filled to the brim, but Yves is skilled enough to pick it up without spilling a drop.

He walked up to the massive, crystal-clear window that allowed him to see the skyline and the city from a bird's eye view. The sky is dark but devoid of clouds. It's picturesque, but its beauty means nothing to Yves now. You aren't here to appreciate it with him and neither will you appreciate it from the pictures he sent.

He stared past his reflection as he sipped on his drink.

In his vast, lavish hotel room, he is the only occupant within it. Yves doesn't see the need to switch all the lights on. Just enough to see, but it made his room rather dim and ominous.

He continued staring out into the distance wordlessly and unblinkingly as he drank from the special glassware.

Silence envelopes him like the deep ocean. He wished that it also engulfed his mind. But alas, a man can only pray to receive such mercy.

__

The three of you laughed at a joke Evangeline said. She seems to be quite the comedian, her brain spins fast to think of witty sayings and comparisons.

The rain somehow worsened since, stuck in traffic and with nothing to do, you, Evangeline and her father resorted to singing along to songs, albeit off key with cracking voices.

Perhaps Mr. Jones was having a bit too much fun. So much so that he didn't pay attention to the road ahead of him.

You and Evangeline were forcefully jerked forward upon impact of the front to the bumper of someone's car.

Mr. Jones gloved hands were gripping tightly on the steering wheel and his hat is not on his greying head.

He turned to check on his daughter and his client.

"Is everyone okay?" He asked. Evangeline nodded and you did so too. You felt a bit sore where the seatbelt wrapped around your body, but otherwise, you're unharmed.

"Oh no... I hit someone..." Whined Mr. Jones. "I hope they're alright." His voice has much more guilt than fear or annoyance. He quickly pressed the emergency button with the triangles to signal the surrounding cars to move around him.

Among the downpour, you heard a car door slam shut. Followed by incessant knocking on the window at the driver's seat.

Mr. Jones gulped as he rolled down his window.

"Hey, what the fuck!? You just hit me!

"I am so sorry, Sir--"

"It'll cost me an arm and a leg to repair it, my paycheck isn't going to be ready until next week! I can't drive around without my bumper- look! The entire thing is gone!" The stranger with a sickeningly familiar voice but unfamiliar accent ranted at the older male.

"I-I'll give you my details. My deepest apologies sir, I will cover all the damage incurred. I am so sorry for this." Stammered Mr. Jones. He rushed to pull out a pen and a notepad.

"Yeah, you better! Today cannot get any worse." He grumbled to himself. He's standing under the rain, getting more and more drenched by the minute.

The man stuck his head into the car to avoid the pouring rain. But immediately snapped his neck to the back seat.

You and Evangeline had blood drained out of your faces. Montgomery's eyes lit up so bright that you thought he was actually illuminating the car.

"Hi Darlin'! Fancy meetin' you here!" His southern accent returned. You gave him an awkward wave.

"And yer friend too! Hello! Thanks for givin' my sweetheart their lunch." You looked to your friend, she has the most natural and confident smile on her face.

"Glad I could help, Sir."

"What are ya doin' in a fancy car like this?" Montgomery turned to you. "And where are y'all goin'?"

You struggled to answer. You don't know what to do.

It's times like these you wish Yves is here.

"We are going to my house for a little playdate." Evangeline answered for you.

You let out a discrete sigh of relief. But then you considered the possibility of him tailing you three. Your muscles started to tense up again.

"Well, ain't that fun. I'm goin' to the mechanic to get my car fixed 'cause of him!" Montgomery replied with a snark. Mr. Jones apologized once again as he handed Montgomery a piece of paper with his details on it.

"I'm sorry, Sir Montgomery. It was our fault, we were distracting dad and caused him to hit you." You appreciate that she is keeping his attention off you.

"Your daddy, eh?" He looked around the well-kept interior of the car. "Must be nice to be this rich." He narrowed his eyes at her.

"I wouldn't say we are rich. We definitely are comfortable though. I'm grateful to have such privileges and stabilities!" She beamed, you don't know if she's ignoring Montgomery's obvious spite towards her financial status or she's oblivious to it.

Montgomery visibly rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to you. "(Name), baby!" He addressed you in a sing-song voice.

"Why haven't ya' called? And, I missed ya' to death. Where were ya'? I hope you ain't skippin' school." You stammered and stuttered, you squirm under discomfort. You don't want to be around him any longer.

"Sir Montgomery, I suggest heading to the mechanic soon if you want to make it before it closes." Mr. Jones scribbled on something. "Here. Please accept this." He handed Montgomery a cheque. His eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Thank you." He stored the cheque somewhere that it wouldn't get too wet.

"As for ya, my sweetheart. What time will ya' be going home? I'll give ya' a lift back." He now stared at you, not caring that droplets of rain dripped down from his eyelashes and into the car.

Evangeline hooked her arms around yours. "They will be staying over. Isn't that right, (name)?"

His facial expression darkened. Montgomery did not like how she was touchy with his partner.

You meekly agreed.

"Well damn. Gimme your number then, sweetheart, I'll call ya."

Since you have two witnesses and you are in a car, you straight up told him no. You said that you're not comfortable with him contacting you and you never agreed to be in a relationship with him.

You thought that would be enough to either send him to a fit of rage or quit.

But instead, he rolled his eyes and huffed. Pretending that this is just a trivial matter.

"Can you cut the hard-to-get act just this once? It's rainin' cats and dogs out here, I wouldn't chase you any less if ya' handed me your phone number. In fact, I'd pursue ya even more!"

Horrified, you looked to Evangeline.

"Sir. (Name) is serious. They're not comfortable with you, they're not in a relationship with you. Please stop, you're being a creep!" She defended you.

"Shut yer' trap! You don't know squat about our love!"

"Don't speak to my daughter like that!" Mr. Jones finally came to her aid.

"What the- You should smack some sense into her! Talking to people like that--"

You interrupted the argument telling him that you are not giving him your phone number or any other information about yourself.

He threw his hands up in the air in exasperation and gave up for the time being.

"Fine. You ain't wanna give it to me? I'll find out my damn self, I'll prove how devoted I am to ya'." He grinned and winked at you. Which made you want to vomit.

Evangeline is baffled how Montgomery isn't taking anything except his car bumper seriously. He's barely angry that you humiliatingly rejected him in front of two people, but instead sees it as a couple's game. Just mildly annoyed that you're making him work for your basic information, but otherwise determined and playful about it.

"Mark my words, I will win this challenge and take my prize!" He declared to you. "Have fun at your tea party with goldilocks over there. I'll see you tomorrow, honey."

Montgomery waved and then returned back to his car. The brake lights lit up before he sped off to the nearest mechanic.

You began hyperventilating, which led Mr. Jones to hand you a brown paper bag. Evangeline tried to console you by putting your hair and squeezing your hand.

Why do these things always happen to you?

[esther-dot]

Do you think Jon and Sansa will meet again at Castle Black, and from there, they will plan to take Winterfell? Or will Sansa take Winterfell on her own and reunite with Jon along the way? I’m of the idea of two lost souls who, when united, find the strength in each other to take the land of their family. But I don’t know, I haven’t finished the books yet so I need guidance on this.

I don’t consider myself an ASOIAF expert, anon so I don't offer guidance, but I will def share my thoughts with you!

In order to talk about this, I'm afraid there are some ADWD spoilers, though. If you mind that, maybe revisit this post after you've read it? Short version, I agree with you. Sansa should be involved in retaking Winterfell because we need a Stark there:

Battles had been fought at Winterfell before, but never one without a Stark on one side or the other. (ADWD, Jon VII)

but I think the reunion happens first because of the The Girl in Grey theory. I'll explain more below the cut due to the major Jon spoiler.

In ADWD, a character named Melisandre tells Jon about a vision she has:

She stood beneath the scorched stones of the Lord Commander's Tower, cloaked in darkness and in memory. The light of the moon was in her hair, her red hair kissed by fire. When he saw that, Jon's heart leapt into his mouth. "Ygritte," he said. "Lord Snow." The voice was Melisandre's. Surprise made him recoil from her. "Lady Melisandre." He took a step backwards. "I mistook you for someone else." At night all robes are grey. Yet suddenly hers were red. He did not understand how he could have taken her for Ygritte. She was taller, thinner, older, though the moonlight washed years from her face. Mist rose from her nostrils, and from pale hands naked to the night. "You will freeze your fingers off," Jon warned. "If that is the will of R'hllor. Night's powers cannot touch one whose heart is bathed in god's holy fire." "You heart does not concern me. Just your hands."

"The heart is all that matters. Do not despair, Lord Snow. Despair is a weapon of the enemy, whose name may not be spoken. Your sister is not lost to you." "I have no sister." The words were knives. What do you know of my heart, priestess? What do you know of my sister? Melisandre seemed amused. "What is her name, this little sister that you do not have?" "Arya." His voice was hoarse. "My half-sister, truly …" "… for you are bastard born. I had not forgotten. I have seen your sister in my fires, fleeing from this marriage they have made for her. Coming here, to you. A girl in grey on a dying horse, I have seen it plain as day. It has not happened yet, but it will." She gazed at Ghost. "May I touch your … wolf?" The thought made Jon uneasy. "Best not." "He will not harm me. You call him Ghost, yes?" "Yes, but …" "Ghost." Melisandre made the word a song. The direwolf padded toward her. Wary, he stalked about her in a circle, sniffing. When she held out her hand he smelled that too, then shoved his nose against her fingers. Jon let out a white breath. "He is not always so …" "… warm? Warmth calls to warmth, Jon Snow." Her eyes were two red stars, shining in the dark. At her throat, her ruby gleamed, a third eye glowing brighter than the others. Jon had seen Ghost's eyes blazing red the same way, when they caught the light just right. "Ghost," he called. "To me." The direwolf looked at him as if he were a stranger. Jon frowned in disbelief. "That's … queer." "You think so?" She knelt and scratched Ghost behind his ear. "Your Wall is a queer place, but there is power here, if you will use it. Power in you, and in this beast. You resist it, and that is your mistake. Embrace it. Use it." I am not a wolf, he thought. "And how would I do that?" "I can show you." Melisandre draped one slender arm over Ghost, and the direwolf licked her face. "The Lord of Light in his wisdom made us male and female, two parts of a greater whole. In our joining there is power. Power to make life. Power to make light. Power to cast shadows." "Shadows." The world seemed darker when he said it. "Every man who walks the earth casts a shadow on the world. Some are thin and weak, others long and dark. You should look behind you, Lord Snow. The moon has kissed you and etched your shadow upon the ice twenty feet tall." Jon glanced over his shoulder. The shadow was there, just as she had said, etched in moonlight against the Wall. A girl in grey on a dying horse, he thought. Coming here, to you. Arya. He turned back to the red priestess. Jon could feel her warmth. She has power. The thought came unbidden, seizing him with iron teeth, but this was not a woman he cared to be indebted to, not even for his little sister. "Dalla told me something once. Val's sister, Mance Rayder's wife. She said that sorcery was a sword without a hilt. There is no safe way to grasp it." "A wise woman." Melisandre rose, her red robes stirring in the wind. "A sword without a hilt is still a sword, though, and a sword is a fine thing to have when foes are all about. Hear me now, Jon Snow. Nine crows flew into the white wood to find your foes for you. Three of them are dead. They have not died yet, but their death is out there waiting for them, and they ride to meet it. You sent them forth to be your eyes in the darkness, but they will be eyeless when they return to you. I have seen their pale dead faces in my flames. Empty sockets, weeping blood." She pushed her red hair back, and her red eyes shone. "You do not believe me. You will. The cost of that belief will be three lives. A small price to pay for wisdom, some might say … but not one you had to pay. Remember that when you behold the blind and ravaged faces of your dead. And come that day, take my hand." The mist rose from her pale flesh, and for a moment it seemed as if pale, sorcerous flames were playing about her fingers. "Take my hand," she said again, "and let me save your sister." (ADWD, Jon VI)

The vision keeps coming up and dictates some of Jon's decisions. Jeyne Poole (Sansa's friend) was forced to marry Ramsay in the guise of being Arya, she escapes, and people expect her to reunite with Jon and be the girl in grey (escaping a marriage, she was pretending to be his sister). Others point to Alys Karstark who runs to Jon to escape a marriage. The problem is, Mel doesn't know who it is, she only knows sister. People pick Jeyne because of the Arya connection, but neither she nor Alys are Jon's sister. And Jon has another sister, Sansa.

I would argue the reason that the girl in grey is Sansa (ie Sansa will flee North to escape LF's plots and reunite with Jon before Winterfell is taken/she is in a position of power), is if you read Jon's passage about the girl in grey, Jon being dead is written all over it. His white breath, the reference to him as a stranger, Jon telling himself he isn't a wolf...you see, here is the major spoiler...

Jon is assassinated at the end of TWOW.

Now, he may not actually be dead-dead, some of us have said he might be in a coma like Bran, but a) we believe he warged into Ghost (I am not a wolf--he will need to come back to himself, not lose himself in Ghost), b) the stranger = Jon is dead, c) the white breath = his body being cold cuz he's dead etc. The other side of this is, the way Jon sees Mel and remembers a different redhead can be viewed as foreshadowing for recently undead Jon seeing a redhead and mistaking her for Ygritte. The description of Mel's words like a song made people think of Sansa (it's been speculated Sansa's singing will help Jon remember things post rez/help him return to himself), and Ghost's strangely positive reaction to Mel may foreshadow how he reacts to Sansa as a familiar person. So, when I read that passage, it sounded to me like Sansa and Jon will be reuniting shortly after his rez, or even perhaps before his rez, so yes, I imagine that happens at the Wall.

Way back in 2013, a famous Jonsa essay predicted that Jon and Sansa would be reunited first of all the Starks, and then in 2016 that happened on the show which spurred a lot more discussion in the Jonsa fandom about Sansa being the girl in grey in the books as well.

I'll link some additional posts with various thoughts on how it might go.

Jon as the Stranger, Sansa as a silent sister. Pertinent quotes:

Then one morning she spied three women in the cowled grey robes of the silent sisters loading a corpse into their wagon. (ACOK, Arya VII) The women in grey bowed their heads. The silent sisters do not speak to the living, Catelyn remembered dully, but some say they can talk to the dead. (ACOK, Catelyn V) Grey was the color of the silent sisters, the handmaidens of the Stranger. (AFFC, Brienne VIII) When we find the Imp, we will find the Lady Sansa too. She is not dead . . . but before I am done with her, I promise you, she will be singing to the Stranger, begging for his kiss." (AFFC, Cersei IV)

@loveroflemons wrote a post in 2017 talking about Mel's prophecy and the map of the North to explain why Sansa is the Girl in Grey here. @une-nuit-pour-se-souvenir has a post explaining that Sansa is Ned's narrative heir and her path North will follow his here, and some general ideas for her TWOW story here.

@istumpysk talks about The Girl in Grey foreshadowing here. @aegor-bamfsteel tried to give us a time table here, @redteabaron has talked about the possibility that Sansa will be hunted by Ramsay for some Red Riding Hood parallels here, That and Sansa meeting Ghost while Jon is still out of it is discussed here as well. And this post talks about Jon saving Sansa from Ramsay while warged into Ghost using some king’s prize/thief quotes. I also found a Tolkien poem (Martin is a massive fan) that has Girl in Grey vibes here (not proof, just fun).

Anyway, it's a very popular Jonsa theory, for many of us, a given at this point. For a different ask i scrolled some BNF blogs and they mocked it a lot, called us delusional because they can point to the other girls as fulfilling the prophecy, but to me, that prophecy takes up too much space for it to disappear without a real payoff. It makes sense to me that Martin would use that vision to prep us for Sansa arriving in the North.

Let me know what you think after you read ADWD!