#happy star wars day eve

[queen-of-many-fandoms]

A Merry Christmas and Life Day Eve to you!! 🎄 🦌❄️☃️🎁🎅

[itsonlydana]

Find a cure for my heart | hobbit

pairing: Thranduil x human fem!reader 👑

On the eve of the battle, you and Thranduil spent a night that spurred a flurry of letters while Dale grew as a city and you both grew too, first apart, then closer again. However, you couldn't bring yourself to burden him with the truth that your health was deteriorating with each passing day.

warnings/tags: sickness, angst, mentions of death (reader is actively dying but only realizes after Thranduil helps) hurt/comfort, happy end

words: 5,6k

an: finally finished this fic after working on it since January. If you are interested in being tagged when I post new fics– comment that under this post or send it to me in my inbox!

+ masterlist + rules

🌿 reposts and comments are appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

Contrary to general belief, the elves did not return to their forests immediately after the battle.

In the stories told, there would be remarks, on how the Elvenking offered his help to the yet-to-be-crowned King Bard once more, bringing aid with however warriors he had left for disposal to search the endless chaos and ruins of Dale for survivors until many sunsets later.

They would speak about the sorrow of losing friends and family and neighbors to a war that had been won at costs no one could comprehend yet, and they would mention how the great Elvenking guided them through the darkest of nights for he had experienced this all before; the grief, the helplessness and the colossal question of What now, who's to say we haven't lost ourselves as well as those we have to bury?

Many had their own experience with the Elvenking, whether it was a hand pulling them off the ground, a loaf of bread delivered to them after days of fighting, or a warm blanket to huddle under to finally lay their body to rest under the watchful eye of Elves that had sworn to protect them.

You had your own story. A different one.

But it wasn't one with the Elvenking, no; the night before the battle, where the air was filled with the sound of blades being sharpened and children crying for their parents, you had met Thranduil, King of the Woodland Elves but most importantly: a set of strong arms that caught you as you stumbled out of Bard's tent.

You needed to run away from the discussions over how to draw the dwarfs out of the mountain.

You'd been a friend to Bard for many long years but standing in that luscious tent, being offered wine as the Wizard, Bard, and the Hobbit pondered over what was about to happen while you weren't sure your mind caught up on what had happened already, there was no room for friendship inside your panic-riddled chest.

Just as you flung open the tent flaps and tried to dash away to get some air, your foot caught on a root, and had it not been for Thranduil's fast reflexes, you surely would've planted your face into the dirt and mud.

Up until now, you had no idea what had transcended between the two of you at the moment where his arms held you up, his softening face looking down at your widened eyes filled with tears and your tongue too tied up and heavy to say anything other than: "Air– please"

Whatever it had been, likely an unspoken wish – by Thranduil or you, or maybe you both; it didn't matter – for someone who would not pass judgment over the urge to disappear from your skin and role and crown for one night, a fallen star flung across the darkened skies at the right time.

It felt as though Thranduil had pulled a sheet over your heads; your world narrowed down to this other soul and how beautiful and divine his body felt on yours as you found a way to survive the night before life as you knew it turned once more and the solid ground beneath your feet shifted and broke.

A few nights, while unforgettable and brooding with feelings neither of you admitted to, did not change that you had to move on somehow.

Although the Elves did not depart for Mirkwood immediately and Thranduil and you were given time in the aftermath to find the other in the cover of the night and under the pretense this was nothing more than mere distraction, a wishing star could only do so much shining before dimming out.

The day you awoke to a sunrise bathing the debris of Dale in a pinkish and warm light, pillars being rebuilt dipped into molten gold, and the cracks glued together, Thranduil's strong arms were wrapped around your middle as if he wanted to hinder you from sneaking away, you knew it was him who would leave you before the day was over.

And so he did.

Sunrise came and went and soon enough all the tents were packed up on horseback and wagons, leaving flattened grass as the only reminder they had been there at all if and there were goodbyes, political between Bard and the Elvenking who parted from the weary man and his children with the promise of support, and between you and Thranduil in the form of a slow nod.

Thranduil sat high on a dark stallion, dressed in silver and long robes that hid fingerprints that spoke of an attempt to cling to transience. His chin lowered, though his eyes were fixed on you.

You knew that nod carried the conversation you had whispered into the morning mist.

And it was all that wasn't said that motivated you to step away first and turn your back on the caravan that took away a King and a Lover.

There was much to do, the looming task of building up Dale needed everyone's full attention, and that included you.

Especially you.

There were houses to plan, accommodations to be made so that no one needed to sleep under the stars.

No one could ever pry the reason why you were keen on getting a roof under everyone out of your hands; a lonely part of you wanted the stars to remember you and Thranduil lying in the grass. And no one else.

The first letter arrived a few weeks after you hadn't had the heart to watch him go and threw yourself into one task after the other, dismissing even the smallest hint of sickness, like the heaviness inside your chest every time you lifted something heavy, or tiredness crashing down onto you in moments to catch your breath, to continue working, that you wouldn't find a moment to admit how much you missed him.

That utterly ridiculous mindset stopped as soon as the messenger Elf rode into the city and hand-delivered you the first of many envelopes with the nearly indecipherable handwriting of Thranduil.

Or the Elvenking.

Because the first letter, despite being addressed to you as well as Bard, who wouldn't have been able to read it in the first place, was a list of things the King would send and a question of what else was needed that he could provide.

"It's fine," you said to Bard through a smile that didn't reach your eyes as you read aloud the letter twice, from the greeting to the last paragraph that was signed 'the Elvenking Thranduil Oropherion, Lord of Mirkwood and friend of Dale'.

In the flickering light of the candle dripping wax onto the table between you, the dark circles under Bard's eyes were all the more prominent than when he was running around the city and there was a bottomless pit in your stomach that wouldn't want to add to the many things he was already worrying about.

"It's totally fine," you said to Bard when he asked if you had skipped over a private note from Thranduil or if there truly wasn't one (there wasn't, you had turned the letter over and over in your hands until the edges became soft and wrinkled) and you both knew that to be a lie.

You answered the letter in the same professional manner because even though you wanted to, you couldn't send a letter to a King helping however he could and expecting nothing in return with a smeared "I wish for your heart and our nights and for your voice to tell me we are alright" written under tears in another sleepless night.

The next few letters follow the same pattern, Elvenking Thranduil Oropherion would inquire if there was anything Dale needed and answer Bard's question on leadership and share his knowledge of what was fundamental for a new King, and you would write for Bard on the other side.

The weeks passed and so did the hope of rekindling that fire you had thought to burn in the both of you.

That Thranduil didn't see the need to reach out was a punch to the gut that left little room for anything else but disappointment of putting your effort into pulling on a rope that wasn't attached to something on the other end.

Why waste the dwindling energy of your exhausted body on someone who would live longer than the memory of you?

Every time a new letter arrived by messenger you would find Bard until one late evening you opened the letter by yourself and saw your name written in that beautiful sharp handwriting, not Bard's added in front or behind; only your given name and not your title.

Your hands shook as you stood in the frame of what was to be your house and the ink glued together the cracks of your heart.

'Forgive me for not writing to you sooner and for how sentimental I must sound. It has been weeks since I last saw you and every time I wander through my familiar halls, I find there is no soul around that could understand me how you did, whom I could tell what plagues my mind. The time we spent together has not left my thoughts. Neither has the promise to not grow apart too much and I apologize for not contributing to that. Now, if you would still have me, I would like nothing more than to hear how you are faring. As for me…'

Nothing had the power to stop you from running off that giddy feeling that spread through your chest as Thranduil, finally Thranduil, wrote about the happenings in Mirkwood; not even the cough that sat deep where suppressed laughter spilled into the grass you fell into– the letter clutched into your hands.

Thranduil and you fell into a routine then, one that was no obstruction for the many tasks at hand but made room for each other to hold on to the promise.

You would send out two letters, one on behalf of Bard whom you taught his signature as well as a few more words every fortnight you sat down together, and one addressed to Thranduil, filled with all the thoughts that ran through your mind that you wanted to tell him.

It was by no means as precious as the talks you had now many weeks ago, not when there were days you had to wait for a response instead of seconds.

You appreciated them all the same, every bit of himself that Thranduil wrote into his messages was countered with a confession of your own.

When he said he wished to know where his son had disappeared to or rather if he followed the direction Thranduil had given to him, you admitted to the nightmares that still plagued your mind, the dreams of fire and a monster that still rested in the lake.

You offered piece after piece, chipped bits of your heart into every letter that you sent away, and after a few weeks had passed, and Dale was taking shape with its houses raking their roofs to the sky and its people planting seeds and flowers, rooting themselves into what now was theirs, there was not much left of your heart that was completely yours and not Thranduil's and the letters of his proved that the same could be said about him.

What you did not mention, not with one drop of ink, was that the nightmares were no longer confined to the few hours of sleep you fell into.

There was a dragon, not just in the cold lake where your old home lay in ashes and was drowned in the ruthless darkness, but by the heavy weight on your chest, it felt like there was one inside you as well.

You were coughing as if there was smoke blocking your lungs, blackening out what little air you heaved for when a coughing fit took over your whole body.

It started small, a cough then, a sleepless night there; both accumulated to an uncountable amount and it got only worse as the season changed and the autumn winds lost their last warm touches and the trees bared their wooden arms.

You waved it off as a common cold, nothing that would hinder you from your tasks to becoming a liability the city didn't need in its time of growth.

Then, the coughing got worse, rougher, sometimes taking your voice for a moment until you found some water although that only helped for a small moment, like trying to extinct a burning building with just the water your bare hands could carry.

The worst part was the blood that stained the cloths, the sweats that not only held you awake at night but weakened you at day as well.

"I'm better!" you promised Bard on a night when he had to sit next to your bed, wringing out the cold cloths that lay on your fevered forehead.

His voice was a low whisper when he dabbed away the sweat, pushing your wet hair back with hands that were far too gentle for what you deserved for rotting in bed and not pulling your weight, "You're not, an' that's clear for everyone but you. Did you tell him?"

"Yes," you lied through your teeth, eyelids dropping close from exhaustion but you knew sleep wouldn't come, "he said it would pass, nothing to worry 'bout."

Three days later you were on your legs again, if not a bit shaky and needing more breaks than ever.

You sat in Bard's kitchen, a warm bowl of soup in front of you that tasted like ash and firewood, and ignored the silent pleading in his eyes to tell him what was going on and why you could barely lift the spoon of a soup that you clearly did not enjoy.

Winter wore your body down like rough sandpaper on soft oak, the cold winds and dark hours an enemy far worse than what you had to encounter on the battlefield. This had no logical explanation, nor was there an enemy you could see.

Your own body betrayed you and you had no idea what you had done to deserve it.

You knew that somewhere was a solution to it all, that was the string of hope leading you through the snow outside and the fire in your blood and bones, singing down what little fight was left on the days when the sun pushed away gray clouds and you felt normal and healthy.

The sole reason why you lied in letters filled with otherwise honesty as pure as heaven's snowflakes was that you did not want to be a bother.

Thranduil wrote how much of his time the dwarfs and their trading demands swallowed; he did not need another burden and you would be damned if he came because you had a small cold you couldn't get rid of.

You had promised Thranduil to visit him in spring when the soil was rich enough for the seed to take and the livestock could roam the meadows. If you weren't better by then you would ask him.

Until then work demanded all of you. Even if that was through a white knuckle grip on the last bits of health in aching bones.

⸺

Spring brought forth daffodils pushing through the cobblestone streets. Tilda, the youngest Bardling and a wonderful distraction on the days when getting out of bed was the hardest bounced excitedly beside you and pointed at the flowers.

"Like stubborn trumpets proclaiming winter is finally over!" she said as you followed her outside. "Spring is finally here!"

You disregarded the pain echoing through your body, the weight of guilt forcing you to spend the day with the girl.

She had been knocking on your door every morning, angelic eyes asking if you wanted to come and play with the lambs that she had taken too and this morning, you couldn't disappoint her.

"Aren't they just so pretty?" Tilda crouched down, gently cupping one of the blossoms in her small hands.

Lowering your gaze from the burning brightness of the sun you got a short glimpse at the yellow dots decorating your doorstep.

Then, suddenly, black spots appeared on the edge of your vision, taking you by surprise though they have been your companion for the better part of the last few days.

"Tilda–"

You tried to hold on to your doorframe, bruised hands frantically searching for a grip on the warm wood but they slipped and caught only the edge.

The last thought that crossed your mind was that you should bring Thranduil some of those flowers before you blinked and crumbled to the ground.

⸺

You woke up to the confusing taste of grass on your heavy tongue and the dizzying realization that you were not spread out on the street but tugged inside your bed.

Above you, moonlight fell through the opened window in the slanted roof above your head and you immediately closed your eyes again.

This had to be a dream.

Though your dreams had not been like this in a long time.

Peaceful. Comfortably warm. Silent except for the croaking of toads, the buzzing of insects outside, and the laughter and clattering of your neighbors probably enjoying the night more than you.

A groan passed your lips as you tried to sit up; a seemingly impossible task with the heaviness of your bones as well as the mountain of blankets that covered you.

"What do you think you are doing?" a voice you knew all too well sneered.

For a second you thought it to be a hallucination, a projection or your dazed mind still lulled in the fog of unconsciousness.

The bones in your neck cracked as your head snapped to the other side. There was no way you did not imagine the tall figure that should be across the woods in his palace; not in your bedroom.

"What are you doing here?"

"Merely strolling through the neighborhood," Thranduil's voice dripped with sarcasm, yet a subtle tension marked his stance beside the bed. "Now, enlighten me. Did you conveniently forget to mention this sickness in your letters?"

Ah, straight to the point.

"It's trivial," you waved it off, attempting to assert yourself by sitting up.

Naturally, consciousness promptly slipped away once more.

This time you were not that surprised by the sharp taste of grass on your lips when you came to your senses once more, pushed back into the pillows that had never felt this stuffed. You were still unable to move your leg more than from one side to the other under the blankets and Thranduil was still there, glaring at you through dark furrowed brows and hardened eyes.

You wanted to say something to break the heavy silence but all that passed your lips was a giggle that was more desperate and closer to insane than amusement.

One brow lifted. "Oh, how glad I am you are entertained by this," said Thranduil. He was as rigid in a frightening calm way but all of that was overshadowed by the cloud of confusion that muddled your thoughts.

"Noo," you drew out the word and continued giggling. This had to be insanity. "You jus' look very out of place here – wait. Turn around? I need to make sure you're really here."

He didn't fit into the cramped space of your house, his fine clothing stood out against the poor backdrop of crooked furniture, used towels hanging over stools, and the small layer of dust that covered the areas you hadn't been able to clean in a while; which was most of the bedroom and you didn't dare think about the state of the kitchen.

Where he deserved a throne out of gold you could only offer the chair next to your bed, the one that was crooked and leaned heavily to one side.

That being said, nothing took away the sheer amount of power he radiated.

It easily filled every nook and cranny or tight corner of your humble house, his voice as well as the image of Thranduil, King of the Elves, towering over your bed in long robes and bathed in the light of the night sky, glittering silver like the moon knew the importance of the Elf in front of you.

Thranduil remained stoically still. "I will definitely not do that," he said. "I am here. Where I should have been a while ago."

The accusation would have hit harder if you weren't drugged up on whatever medicine he had apparently fed you while you were out cold.

You shrugged your shoulders as well as you could with your arms bundled under the blankets. "I saw no reason, it was just a cold. Nothing I couldn't manage."

Well, you hadn't managed to handle it, that was the worst realization of the whole lie.

"Clearly," Thranduil said sarcastically and ground his teeth against each other. His arms were behind his stiff back and the way he tilted his head down to you made you feel like a child being admonished for bad behavior. "Do you know how much despair I felt when Bard's letter arrived this morning?" His voice was even but there was a resonance in it – a deep rumble akin to the ominous approach of distant thunderstorms over the sea. "Nearly indecipherable scrambles where he begged me to come; telling me that you have been asleep for two whole days?"

A crack in the form of a small tremor broke through the mask of the all-mighty Elvenking.

"This morning?" you asked, caught up by the first part and ignorant of everything that followed after, and you huffed while running the calculations through your head. "Thranduil, this can not be, the journey is not manageable in one day."

"Is this truly the point you consider most important?" He closed his eyes as a pained expression passed over his face. "You deem it impossible, yet I assure you, nothing could have hindered my arrival here; the boundaries of possibility, for once, were not a barrier but an aid. It reveals your scant regard for your circumstance if your worry fixates on my journey through the land. Not on the sickness that nearly stole you from this world. Two days –" Thranduil took a deep breath, "two whole days where those around you had no idea if you would ever awake again."

"But –"

"No, you can speak when I am finished," he commanded sharply. "You were reckless. Ignorant of your health as if your life was not precious." Thranduil spat the words out cold yet they burned. He was blind to the way you flinched and lowered your burning eyes to the blankets.

You shrunk deeper into the pillows, a hollow ache inside your chest that had felt empty from the pain ever since you awoke the first time.

"But –" you repeated helplessly. This time, he allowed you to continue and you did so in a whisper: "I didn't want to be an inconvenience."

"An inconvenience?" he sneered back at you, the flickering lights of a few burned-down candles casting shadows over the creases of anger edged into alabaster skin.

He took a step toward the bed and you saw a twitch in his lips that had you blanching.

The fury brooding inside him was not new, you had seen it on the battlefield before. In ice-cold cuts of his sword as he flawlessly executed the most brutal movements while his face resembled a mask of the most dangerous kind of rage – stillness.

Now, there remained little of that stillness.

"You were a greater inconvenience by nearly throwing away your precious mortal life, all because of your unfathomable stubbornness!"

"There was lots to do!" you snapped back. Shortly but surely, you were fed up with his anger and the insults he was throwing at you. "This town was suffering far more than me and don't you dare tell me I'm wrong," you had to bury your teeth into your lower lip to stop it from shaking. "Dale needed me!"

The pale skin was flushed red around his heaving chest and delicate ears. "And I do not?" Thranduil road and his voice boomed through your little bedroom loud enough for the cicadas outside to fall silent.

Immediately, your eyes watered. You felt trapped under his gaze, engulfed in pure heat hotter than any dragon fire.

You searched for a response inside you but found none.

All there was was chaos – the loud beating of your heart against your chest like iron being beaten and shaped though all that was formed was pain sharp like a sword edge; cutting through the layers of protection you had wrapped around your heart.

Thranduil slightly lifted his nose, staring down at you through thick eyebrows and a clenched jawline. "You were dying," he said and his nostrils quivered. "I can not fathom how you through that would not have been a greater inconvenience.

His expressions made up in sound for the lowered voice he'd used to speak about what you previously refused to acknowledge.

Never before had you seen him this out of control of his emotions, not even on the nights he had bedded you where he still had a hold on himself.

The way he stood before you, dressed in fine robes not fit for riding, the hem of them stained by dirt, his boots muddy, and his face full of anguish, it was as if he could have been kneeling at your feet.

You ignored the tears slipping silently down your cheeks. "It wasn't that bad, was it?"

"It was indeed, and far beyond that."

The tears made it impossible for you to continue looking at him and your head dropped down as a sob broke through you. "I didn't know," you panicked, "It didn't happen fast so… so I thought it'd pass but – and then it got worse and worse and I was so afraid to speak to anyone about it." The words tumbled into your lap, where, under the blankets, your hands were balled to fists now that the strength to do so had returned to your body, "I – I couldn't," the night air stung as your breaths turned into gasps, "They – Bard was exhausted and –"

Thranduil's face softened ever so slightly, pushing away the furious frown. "You are too pure for this world," he said quietly and – dealing a fatal blow to your ever-fragile heart – slowly went down on one knee next to the bed until you were eye to eye and his cold long fingers could gently caress your wet cheek.

He stopped, most of his fingers covered in the glistening tears he'd freed you from and his thumb rested on the plushness of your lower lip. "The world would have lost its sunshine had you perished," his robes rustled as he drew closer, silver hair falling onto the blankets like stars flying across the skies, "You must promise me to be more careful or darkness shall be my companion from that day on."

How could you do anything else but break into tears once more?

They flooded your face too fast for Thranduil to catch them with his hand and he did what seemed more reasonable yet utterly out of character: he rose to push away some of the blankets and sat down on the mattress.

While his face showed some revelation of his thoughts at the meek bed of hay that surprised him, he said nothing except for a lowered: "Hush now, shh." while his arms found your shaking body and pulled you into his side.

He cradled you until there were no more tears to cry, until your cheeks hurt and your lashes clung together awfully damp, and then some more, his hands on your back, cooling down the firing heat that spread through you and the other in your hair. With tenderness, he massaged his fingertips into the areas where your head throbbed uncomfortably.

You cried for all the nights where you had suffered, drawing closer to a death you hadn't seen coming.

You cried out of relief that this was finally over, that you could breathe and inhale only the rich scents of Thranduil instead of smoke.

You sobbed uncontrollably long into the night, not caring one bit that by the time the wailing grew quiet and exhaustion rendered you weak enough to fall into his chest even more, Thranduils robes needed to be padded dry.

"Thranduil?" you asked and burrowed your nose into a spot of fabric that wasn't salty. "Can you tell me what was happening to me?"

He didn't start directly. Thranduil waited, his heart stuttering for a second that made you marvel that the muscle was affected by you at all despite the many proofs he had laid to your feet.

Were it not for the pounding headache you fostered and tried to push away by shutting away all the lights and leaving your eyes closed, you would have looked at his face to check for those minuscule expressions he only showed to you.

"At first I could not figure it out," Thranduil admitted at last and his previously stilled hand continuing the circular movements against your scalp, gathering hair between his fingers, "and that frightened me more than anything else. There was not a scratch or a wound, nothing that explained why you were hardly–" he flinched and his other hand held your waist tighter, "hardly breathing. Bard was the one who explained how much you fought against this illness all winter, ever since autumn to be precise. He spoke of the meals you denied, the coughing and shaking, the blood-soaked cloths, and how.. how you rarely slept and if you did, he told me he heard your whimpers and sobs whenever he passed your door."

"He noticed it all?"

"He loves you," Thranduil said, "He loves you just as much as his offspring."

You shut your eyes even closer, turning your head more into his chest as another layer of protection against the feeling of pain that flinched over your face like a stone skipping on water, leaving ripples of agony at the memory of the many times Bard had pleaded you to talk to him. "I never wanted him to hurt at my expense."

"He is aware you thought it to be better this way," Thranduil lovingly stroked your hair – and it was love, soft and beautiful like the elf who abandoned his kingdom to race to save you – "To go against his word to you declares him a strong man and leader, Dale will flourish under his guide and your gentle hand will provide your people all they will ever need."

"So what was it?" you asked the question eating away at you, "This sickness?"

Thranduil's fingers twirled a lock of hair as he hummed lowly, "The beast in the lake is at fault," he said, "and its body infesting the in any case dirty water that you used to still your thirst."

You lifted your head at that, staring up at Thranduil whose gaze was already on you. "The dragon?" you repeated perplexed, "I got sick because of that damned dragon?"

Thranduil nodded, "I sent out the order to have its carcass removed this instant, so no one else has to suffer this fate."

You drew your eyebrows together, the hard crease between them immediately found by Thranduil for him to smooth the frown away with his thumb and a soft click of his tongue.

"So I was the only one?" The conclusion was confirmed by another nod that sent you down another spiral of confusing thoughts and loose threats of a riddle that made no sense to you.

"A mystery," Thranduil said as if he could read your thoughts, "There is no explanation as to why you solely were affected and quite intense at that. I was glad to have brought Asëa aranion with me – although you required more than a handful until your heart finally calmed."

In a moment of contemplating silence, you barely managed to stifle a yawn.

Now that your body seemed to be fine again, all your muscles yearned for the sleep that had evaded you for the longest time.

Thranduil's pleasantly warm body around you lulled you into a state of calmness, his body heat and the memories of his touch you replaced with the feeling of his strong chest in your back, and his hands threading hair through his fingers.

He was curled up in your bed, in your home, not some tent under the stars though you could see them if you looked up and through the window.

As you did so, your eyes didn't travel further than Thranduil and the watchful look on his face.

"You're as beautiful as the day you left," you remarked in a whisper like a slip of your tongue but you meant every word.

While your body ached and wore new scars his hands and mouth hadn't explored yet, he could've been away for a day or less.

You lifted a hand to stroke over his left cheek, over the faint scarred muscles that you knew by whispers hid what he deemed hideous.

Thranduil caught your hand before it reached his cheekbones and his lips pressed a light kiss against the calluses, the signs of hours of work.

"Rest, meleth nîn, you need it."

There was no denying that the elvish words had meant something important, that was clear by the way his tongue had wrapped around the words and breathed them out like a kiss but his lowered lashes and downturned lips hindered you from asking what he had said.

This was not the time to question what was probably just for him.

Later, when you were not falling into the depths of sleep cuddled against Thranduil's chest, when you would step outside your house with his looming presence in your back ready to help you with every foot you set on the grounds, there would be stories awaiting you.

Stories of the Elvenking storming into the city on horseback and all alone, the wind seemingly carrying him faster than possible and the fury and worry on his face lowered all citizens to the grounds as he yelled for their King.

They would speak about the way he nearly broke down Bard's door and how he carried your unconscious body in his arms to your house, demanding for the crowd to make themselves rare before he had them all seized and locked into his halls for obstructing his path; and even though he had no authority, Bard was close on his heels and no one dared to object.

You would hear about the day he sat by your side, caring for you and barking out orders for more water, not the one from the lake but from the springs, and how Bard and his children were the only ones allowed to visit – explaining the yellow flowers that took up every single glass your house had to offer.

Thranduil would tell you the meaning of the words he had said that first night he had spent in your bed, fully awake and watching your sleeping form in his lap until the birds woke you up in the morning; and he would say these words on all the nights that followed.

With him in Dale, or you in Mirkwood – never apart from then on.

[ninzied]

pumpkin

a triple drabble for @milowren29 ♡ happy halloween everyone!

Henry’s flatmate loves his dog, David.

More specifically, Alex loves to dress his dog, David, every year for Halloween. There’s pumpkin David, and strawberry David. There’s whee ghostie David and Chucky doll David, who looks so sad holding his fake bloody knife that Alex immediately changes him into a UPS costume instead.

He spends such a long time fiddling with the delivery box that Henry grows suspicious, though it doesn’t appear to open when he happens to give it a closer glance later.

Halloween comes and goes. The costumes, however, do not.

Alex insists on taking them home with him for Thanksgiving. Henry has a lovely time. Little pilgrim David does too.

For Christmas, they stay in the city. They take Santa’s elf David on long, snowy walks and marathon Star Wars at night with hot chocolate, David’s reindeer antlers adorably askew while he sleeps on the couch between them.

On Christmas Eve, Henry comes home from a half-day at the shelter to find Alex and David, thick as thieves, in the kitchen.

They both freeze when they see Henry. Alex, stretched onto his toes, nudging dog biscuits over the top of their fridge. David, on the counter beside him, tail mid-wag, patiently waiting for his cue to jump.

He’s in a new doggy headband today. A sprig of mistletoe dangles from the top.

“What are you two doing?”

“Rehearsing,” says Alex. “You’re home early.”

Henry reaches easily over the fridge for the biscuits, setting them onto the counter for David. Henry takes a moment. Then he takes Alex’s face in his hands.

The following autumn, David’s in his UPS costume again.

This time, the box does open. There’s a second, smaller one inside.

Henry smiles, kisses Alex, then pulls out a little felt box of his own in answer.

[r0-boat]

Fluffy moments with whb kings

During a war between demons and angels and during times where you literally have to fuck to survive. You still make plenty of time for wholesome fluffy moments with your favorite devils.

Satan

Satan takes you out on joyrides he'll ride throughout the town taking you to many different places that he wants to show you. From wreck rooms to beautiful parks in Gehenna. Because of his depression He was never really interested in doing anything even the things he liked but now that he has you he's almost always gone with you at his side. He feels like he's enjoying things again for the first time and what feels like eternity. His people are seeing more and more of his playful smile They can definitely tell how happy he is with you!

Mammon

Mammon loves spoiling you that goes without saying. However when he really feels like his heart is going to melt for you he'll take you out on a classic date night with an arm around his he will whisk you in the most romantic night he could think of maybe he'll even borrow you for a few days as he books if five star hotel. He wants you to enjoy your time with him and he'll be with you every step of the way. Whether it be trying out the menu or relaxing with you in a jacuzzi He will not take his hands off you.

Leviathan

How you and Leviathan are normally towards each other versus the other 10 to 30% of the time is like night and day. The two of you feel like newlyweds especially Levi, He looks so lovestruck where he can't take his eyes off you, or all he can think about is trying to get you a new present or maybe flowers as this is his first crash your relationship or any person he was interested in. Levi is more nervous since he doesn't know what to do other than insult you. He's been getting better at just accepting Your lovey dovey side when you get into that mood even when he's not used to it.

Beelzebub

Beelzebub literally cannot stop touching you. He has to have any body part touching you at all at all times. He's a Velcro demon, and especially in moments like these, he is practically attached to you. He was walking through an amusement park with an arm around your waist or binge-watching a movie, practically lying on top of you.

Lucifer

He is a demon, a fallen angel yet you give them such deep feelings that he doesn't understand, some lustful and dirty others fluttery and loving. When he feels the ache to be close to you He asks if you want to go to the garden with him. Yes his little garden a flowers and vegetables and fruits. He recently installed a hammock to lay in bed with you outside. The rocking of the hammock, the Sunny sky, the peaceful atmosphere, and Lucifer's chaste rising and falling as he reads a book lulls you to sleep

As you fall asleep on top of his chest He thinks to himself 'Perhaps this is how Adam and Eve felt when they were in The garden of Eden.'

Belphegor

Lazy days with you are his favorite. Because that means he He keeps you all to himself, for anything, binge-watching his favorite anime or, playing his favorite games, or maybe just sleeping away. Even if you tried to leave the room to do anything he will follow. He will probably pass out on the way there but he will follow you. Like a sleepy puppy following you to anywhere you go He will follow you holding on to your clothing, asking you to come back with him

[alxtiny]

New Year’s Eve with Ateez

Masterlist

• Hongjoong

The clock slowly ticks down to midnight in the background, providing order to the chaos you and Hongjoong had unleashed on the small coffee table in the living room of your modest apartment. A bowl of your favourite snacks lay abandoned by the couch along with two matching cups that were once filled with warm coffee.

You both had decided to make a collage on New Year’s Eve, one that had all the best moments of your year displayed together. You had gathered all the pictures he took throughout the year. Each photo held a special memory, ones that you wished to never forget. A frame that could fit around twenty photos was found and purchased, several bottles of glue, pieces of cardboard and a couple of scissors lay scattered around the table.

Picking up a photo, Hongjoong smiles, reminiscing, "Remember this one? It was from our trip to that cat café in Seoul."

You nod, adding the photo to the collage, "Ah, and here's the one from my exclusive rooftop concert – such an unforgettable night.", you point towards a picture with you and all the boys in it, pure joy reflecting in all of your eyes.

Hongjoong says, "Oh and this one is from when we celebrated your birthday. You looked so happy and so beautiful."

You laugh, "And this one is from our impromptu beach day – remember how we were finding sand everywhere for weeks after that, but it was so much fun."

With each photo meticulously placed, the frame decorated with paper butterflies and fairy light, the collage was a run through the year. Glancing at the clock, as the final seconds of the year come to a close, Hongjoong smiled fondly at you, "It's been an amazing year. I would do it all again if i could."

You giggle and peck his lips as the clock strikes midnight, “With you, jagiya, every moment is amazing, I can’t wait to make another year just as memorable together."

You press yourself against Hongjoong, holding onto him tightly, happy that you’ve begun your year in the arms of your favourite person.

• Seonghwa

Seonghwa’s face lit up as you suggested watching the entire Star Wars franchise on New Year’s Eve. He went as far as getting matching Baby Yoda onesies for both of you. You spend most of the morning preparing fitting snacks for your movie marathon.

As the Star Wars saga unfolded on the screen, you could see the excitement in Seonghwa’s eyes. You set the bowls of food on the table in the centre and cuddled up into Seonghwa’s side, both of you draped in the fluffiest blanket you owned.

“Hmm, I haven’t watched this one,” you comment as Solo: A Star Wars story begins to play, Seonghwa chuckles in response, "I can't believe you've never seen this one before. This is such a masterpiece!"

You nudge him playfully, "Well, I was hoping to watch with you, you’re always so cute when you explain the lore." Seonghwa’s cheeks flush at your words as he turns his focus back to the tv

The clock inches closer to midnight and the room is filled with the sound of lightsabers clashing and the yelling of the occasional stormtrooper.

As the credits of the last movie roll, Seonghwa turns off the tv and sighs contentedly, leaning his head against the back of the couch, "Wahh, that was so fun!! You ready for the final countdown?"

You nod, "Absolutely."

As the clock strikes twelve, the room is illuminated with the glow of the fireworks going off outside, Seonghwa turns to you, eyes sparkling, and says, "Happy New Year."

You smile at him fondly opening your mouth to respond but before you can, you feel his soft lips on yours, you lean into him further, deepening the kiss. You pull away a few seconds later, your forehead resting against Seonghwa’s, who whispers out a small I love you and you echo back his words. The room fills with the echoes of fireworks, and the distant sound of people cheering to the new year, you feel the happiest out of all of them, starting off the year in your lover’s embrace.

• Yunho

As the New Year's Eve excitement fills the air, you and Yunho settle near the tv in his living room, dressed in your comfiest clothes, controllers in hand,ready to try out his customised Spider-Man PS5. The room is filled with the sounds of web shooters and yelling of npcs, and you find yourselves entirely engrossed in the musings of the friendly neighbourhood spider man.

Yunho grins, "This new suit is amazing! Watch me swing through the city."

You playfully tease, "Better not let any of your non existent mortal enemies get away."

You knew he’d been waiting ages to try out the game, you could practically see his puppy ears stand up in excitement as he opened the gift from Playstation some time ago. So when you suggested that since both of you were off on New Year’s Eve why not take this time to set up his PS5, to make it even better you gifted him the new spiderman game, of course now that it was so so tempting who was he to say no to your wishes.

The clock on the wall indicates the last few minutes of 2023 but you don’t notice as the intensity of the game increases. Yunho sits on the floor, back against the couch, and you relax between his legs, the controller in your hands.

Yunho chuckles, "This is the best way to spend New Year's Eve."

You nod, "Definitely."

The hour hand on the clock soon passes twelve and there’s a chime from Yunho’s phone, directing him to the change of the hour. Seeing you engrossed in the game, Yunho kisses the top of your head almost making your character get killed. You whine and turn around, meeting his gaze, and playfully peck his jaw, this time getting him flustered and pausing the game. “Happy New Year,” Yunho says with a glint in his eyes.

He grabs your face to pepper small kisses all over your face, finally stopping at his lips. You both burst into giggles, you lean into him and whisper “Happy New Year, yuyu” against his lips, finally closing in the distance and kissing him deeply, his hands going around your waist to hug you tightly.

• Yeosang

The crisp December air greets you and Yeosang as you embark on a skateboarding adventure on New Year’s Eve. Despite you telling him that winter was not the most perfect weather for skateboarding, all he did was give you big puppy dog eyes and pout at you for what seemed like hours, you finally relented the night before, you couldn’t say no to such a face for too long. Laughter fills the air as you navigate the streets, your skateboards occasionally slipping on the road, but you were enjoying nonetheless.

Yeosang flashes you a perfect grin, "See I told you it you be fun and to think we almost didn’t do this"

You chuckle, "Alright alright maybe you were right this time."

Going around the block a few times, you reach back to your house, out of breath with exertion. Yeosang lies down on the snow covered ground with a content smile on his face. Taking your chance, you hit him with a snowball.

He gasps out loud, “How could you!” he says standing up quickly and gathering snow in his hand to throw at you. You begin to run away , him chasing you around the yard with a huge snowball in his hands. Yeosang captures you in his arms, and playfully tickles you with you telling him to stop between fits of giggles.

Yeosang laughs, "Caught you!"

You take in a deep breath, "Okay, okay! You win!", he lets you go as you admit defeat.

Heading home, you both cuddle under warm blankets, reminiscing about the past year. Yeosang says softly, "So many great memories this year."

You smile, "I’m sure it only gets better from here."

As the sun sets and January 1st inches closer, Yeosang peppers sweet kisses on your forehead, "To another year together."

In the quiet moments that follow, you feel the comforting rhythm of Yeosang's heartbeat. His whispers and kisses become a lullaby, and you soon fall asleep, ushering in the new year with the warmth of his presence and the promise of countless shared moments ahead.

• San

To end the year, you and San came up with the wonderful idea of volunteering at a cat shelter. The nearest cat shelter in your vicinity hosted a fundraiser and open store for people to help out and maybe take home a few kitties. The air is filled with the soft purrs and playful antics of cats of all ages and sizes.

You watch as San, with stars in his eyes, takes his time getting to know all the cats that come near him. Although, one shy kitten, barely a few weeks old with white fur and few grey spots, captures your heart, as it attempts to come near but retreats to its enclosure after a few steps. You carefully go and pick it up, taking it to San.

You smile at San, "Sannie, what do you think about bringing this little one home as a New Year's gift for Byeol?"

San's eyes light up, "Can we? Really?"

“Mhmm, yeah I’m sure Byeol would appreciate having someone to play with when we’re not around, she seems lonely these days,” you reply.

San holds the kitten carefully in his hands, petting its head lightly, “ Let’s name her Dal, after the moon.” You agree with his idea.

With a small purple ribbon on Dal's head, you take the kitten home, where Byeol greets the new addition with curiosity and excitement.

Later, as midnight approaches, you, San, and the kitties make your way to the roof. The night sky above, filled with stars, serves as the perfect backdrop for the countdown.

San whispers, "I'm grateful for this little family."

You reply, "Me too."

As the clock strikes twelve, San kisses you, the warmth of the moment shared with the cats around you. San expresses, "Happy New Year, my love. Here's to more moments like these."

Under the moonlit sky, you and San welcome the new year with gratitude and love, surrounded by your furry companions.

• Mingi

Mingi’s recent fascination and liking towards various types of nail art amused you, so what better way to spend your day off on New Year’s Eve than to paint each other's nails. Of course, Mingi, who’d been wanting to try other designs but didn’t have the time to, eagerly agreed, and you both settled down with an array of colourful polishes.

You carefully paint Mingi's nails, adding tiny details that relate to ateez and obviously not missing his signature phrase, 'fix on,' that went on his index finger. He grins, impressed, "Wow, you're good at this! Let me also try.”

As Mingi offers to reciprocate, he struggles a bit, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration and the tip of his tongue sticking out. You think of how cute he looks when he’s focusing.

He tries his best ultimately resulting in a slightly messy but endearing outcome. You look at your nails in awe surprised that he got it this good in the first try, "I love it, Mingi. A little more practice and I might never have to spend money on getting my nails done."

Mingi flusters at your compliment but then turns to compare both of your works and pouts, "Yours are way better."

You laugh and kiss his pout away, "I love it because it's you."

Putting away the nail polish after your nails dry, you both head to the balcony to countdown to midnight. The sky lights up with sparkles of the fireworks as the clock hits twelve. Mingi kisses you deeply, “Happy New Year, n/n.”

“Happy New Year, Mingi!! 2024 will be even better for us, I’m sure of it.” You reply enthusiastically, Mingi smiles at your words and pinches your cheeks, making you giggle and kiss his nose in return. When the laughter subsides, you look into the sky wishing for more and more new years to celebrate together.

• Wooyoung

The warmth of the oven and the sound of laughter filled the kitchen as you and Wooyoung busily prepared snacks for the New Year's Eve celebration. The countdown to 2024 was only a few hours away, and you wanted to welcome the new year with a delicious start.

A variety of sweet and savoury items lay scattered across the kitchen island and managed to reach till the small dining table outside. Wooyoung donning his ‘kiss the chef’ apron, floating through the kitchen, multitasking and meticulously checking and rechecking his delicacies. Everything had to be perfect so the year could have a perfect start as well. From gimbap to sugar cookies of different shapes and flavours, Wooyoung had set a challenge for himself this time.

As you mixed the ingredients for the icing, you couldn't help but notice bits of sauce and powdered sugar adorning Wooyoung's face, which he seems to not have noticed being immersed in the task at hand. Suppressing a giggle, you pointed at his cheek, "You've got a little something there, Wooyoung-ah."

He furrowed his brows, looking at you with confusion before realising what you meant. Instead of wiping it off, he grinned mischievously, grabbing a dollop of frosting and smearing it on your nose. You gasped in surprise, and he chuckled at your reaction.

"You seem to have a little something there too, n/n," he teased, his eyes sparkling with playfulness. You burst into laughter at his actions and shook your head before once again returning to decorating the cookies.

After finishing the snacks, Wooyoung packed some away in containers, ready to share the delicious treats with the ATEEZ members. He let out a big sigh and took a moment to appreciate the festive atmosphere. You chuckled, “You sound like you just finished an year worth of labour, Woo.”

“Didn’t I though,” he winked and passed a few plates of food to you.

With snacks in hand, you both moved to the living room, settling on the couch with a cosy blanket. The soft glow of fairy lights adorned the room as you cuddled up, savouring the warmth of each other's company.

As you indulged in the delightful snacks, Wooyoung's gaze softened. He noticed a few crumbs near your lips, and seizing the opportunity, he leaned in for a sweet kiss.

“Hmm, a little too sweet don’t you think,” he mused, leaning back in for another taste.

In the background, the first fireworks of 2024 began to light up the sky, signalling the arrival of the new year. You and Wooyoung pulled away from the kiss, smiling at each other as the colourful explosions mirrored the joy in your hearts.

"Happy New Year, Y/N," Wooyoung whispered, his voice filled with love.

"Happy New Year, Wooyoung," you replied, sealing the moment with another tender kiss, grateful for the sweet beginning of a new chapter in your lives.

• Jongho

Jongho and you had decided to spend this New Year's Eve in a cosy, intimate setting – just the two of you and a karaoke machine that you had bought recently.

As the sun set and the evening unfolded, the room filled with laughter and the sweet sound of your voices harmonising with the music. When it was Jongho's turn, his eyes gleamed with excitement. He selected "Everything," his solo from ATEEZ's latest album. The room fell silent as the first notes filled the air.

Jongho's powerful voice resonated through the room, capturing the essence of the song. You couldn't help but be mesmerised , your eyes fixed on him with an overwhelming sense of love. His gaze met yours at times, and you could see the sincerity in his eyes as he poured his heart into the lyrics.

When the final note lingered, the room held a moment of silence before erupting into applause. Jongho's cheeks flushed, and he shyly looked away.

"That was incredible, Jongho," you whispered, your voice filled with admiration. "You sing with so much passion and emotion. It's like you were singing just for me.”

Jongho's bashful smile widened, and he mumbled a shy "Thank you, and it was for you" as he pulled you into a warm embrace. The soft glow of the room and the fading echoes of applause created a peaceful atmosphere, as the two of you settled onto the couch.

As the clock approached midnight, you held each other close. The soft hum of distant fireworks and the warmth of Jongho's embrace enveloped you, creating a perfect moment to welcome the new year.

"Happy New Year, jagi," Jongho whispered, his voice carrying the weight of all the love he felt for you.

"Happy New Year," you replied, savouring the tranquillity of the moment. With the turn of the calendar, you and Jongho found the perfect way to start the new year.

© alxtiny . Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, repost, or use my works on any platform in any way.

Send an ask or a message to be added to taglist

DISCLAIMER: THIS IS PURE FICTION AND NOT RELATED TO THE MEMBERS OF ATEEZ IN REAL LIFE PLEASE DO NOT TAKE IT SERIOUSLY

Taglist:

[esmedelacroix]

24 days til' Christmas

going dancing with boyfriend!choi san on christmas eve⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆

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

One of the downsides of dating a K-pop idol was that there was no privacy whatsoever. Which would result in yet another Christmas Eve at home, probably watching movies. Any moment spent with San was happy, but it was Christmas for Christ's sake!

What must a girl do to go on a simple date with her famous boyfriend? you thought to yourself.

You were making some shrimp jjigae (Korean stew) for San. San was arriving at the Incheon Airport that evening after the last leg of his tour. You were excited he would be home right in time for the holidays. It was still upsetting that the two of you couldn't go on a date on Christmas Eve like you usually did.

He had gained a ton of popularity after his comeback, the two of you were spotted at an Italian restaurant and it was all over the internet after 30 minutes. In just 10 minutes the whole internet knew what the two of you were eating, drinking, and wearing.

San's company didn't have rules against dating, but the two of you decided not to be obnoxiously public about your relationship. He talked about you in interviews and attended red carpets with you occasionally but that was all the two of you were comfortable with.

On your way to the airport, San's song came on the radio. You had your sister take a video of the two of you singing along to his song so she could send it to him.

San and the guys would be arriving at a private gate. Hopefully this time the fans didn't find out somehow. You waited there anxiously for him, looking around for any fangirls in the area every two seconds. Finally, you say your handsome boyfriend steps out immediately looking around for you. You were already running towards him and the second you entered his view, he abandoned his suitcase and ran to you spreading his arms out to you.

The scene was right out of a cheesy film. Hongjoong practically died from cringe but deep down he was so happy that his Sannie had someone he loved to come home to. Wooyoung being Wooyoung was videotaping the entire moment.

"Yeobo[Sweetheart], I've missed you so much," San said as he held you tight.

"I've missed you more," you sighed as you looked up into his eyes running your fingers through his hair.

CLICK! CLICK! CLICK!

Because no lovey-dovey moment lasts forever, the two of you heard the clicks of cameras along with the footsteps and screams of an atiny stampede.

San quickly took your hand and ran through the airport with the boys and their bodyguards following you behind. The two of you couldn't contain the giggles from the adrenaline rush running from fans like you were elementary school kids playing tag at recess.

Once you got away, you went to dinner with the guys and listened to their tales from tours. Including lots of pranks from Jongho and Mingi, and lots of scolding for San and Wooyoung from Hongjoong.

After dinner, you gave the boys their Christmas gifts since you would be with San in his hometown that day. You told them to open their gifts when they were at the dorm knowing that you would be awaiting a particular text from Seonghwa about how thankful he is that you got your hand on the "Ahsoka Tano's T-6 Jedi Shuttle" Lego Star Wars set.

San would be sleeping over your place before the two of you went to his hometown. After the two of you finished watching the newest episode of Single's Inferno, you thought it would be worth a shot to ask San what he would think about going to a Live Jazz club with you for Christmas Eve.

To the inquiry, as expected he answered "I don't think so," which was his nicer way of saying, "No we're going to get caught.

Even when you told him that your sister would be playing saxophone there and that you wanted to support her and the two of you could watch from backstage he was still very hesitant.

You knew that there would be a slim chance that San would agree with you, and you noticed a glint of guilt in his eyes when he said no to you.

To San, you were his kryptonite, he was physically unable to say no. to you without wanting to gauge his heart out of his chest. You went to bed with a bit of a heavy heart after overthinking in the shower and realizing that your relationship with San would never be normal.

. . .

The morning was perfect. San had made you breakfast in bed without burning down the entire kitchen. San was a great cook, but he was also a very messy one at that.

That afternoon the two of you wrapped up gifts for San’s family and baked gingerbread cookies while cozying up together and sipping hot chocolate and eggnog. It was perfect, festive, and domestic. But San knew that you were still thinking about the Jazz club occasionally texting your sister throughout the day to ease her nerves.

"Jagiya[baby], we are going to have to go somewhere really quickly," San started as he entered the living room putting your cost on.

"But San, it's a little late. I promised my sis I'd watch the live stream of her performance," you answered.

"I know and I'm sorry but there is an emergency formal meeting at the company and I don't want to leave you home alone, I know how much you like to get ready anyway," he explained walking over to you, ushering you to get up.

You gave him an irritated glare before springing up and squealing, "You know me too well babe,"

You got up and gave him. smooch on the cheek. You didn't care if it was a formal meeting. San could see how bored you were of watching the same holiday hallmark movies. He also knew how much you loved to dress up.

You did your makeup and wore a red cocktail dress, accessorizing it with a jewelry set you had removed from your brother who was completing his military service. You put on your favorite heels, give yourself a bold bloody red lip, and throw on your favorite trench coat.

San gawks at you for what feels like minutes before checking back into reality and getting up. "You look stunning darling," he said as he pulled you into his side by your waist and kissed you on your cheek.

San had already heated the car and opened the door for you before walking over to his side and getting in. He passed you the aux and you immediately started playing your favorite holiday tunes.

As San drove he began to take unfamiliar turns. He was oddly driving away from the direction of his company. You found this strange but shook it off as nothing.

The two of you sang along to Christmas tunes before he finally pulled into a parking spot. There stood the live jazz club that your sister was performing at. The two of you were right on time. San quickly got out of the car to open the door for you, taking your hand and helping you out of the car. "San what is this?" you chuckled in surprise.

"You know I can't say no to you baby," he replied, taking your hand and leading you into the club where the two of you had great seats. No one could see the two of you since the event seating was arranged in booths and the club was dimly lit.

Everything was perfect and quite discreet. You don't know how hard he had pulled this off. But you knew he had the help of your sister. You could tell she had been lying to you about something lately; you just didn't know what.

It was amazing, the two of you enjoyed music and a great meal. Sis was playing excellently as always until your favorite Christmas song was playing, "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" Other couples had been dancing all night.

San could tell that you wanted to dance to this song with him. You were practically swaying in your seat. He was afraid of the press ruining your date but he simply did not care in the moment when he stood up and held his hand out for you to take.

You looked up at him cracking the brightest smile he had ever seen grace your lips. The two of you swayed slowly to the music. You could feel stares whisper and some flashes but you didn't care. You were too focused on each other.

You were too focused on the feeling of love and excitement enveloping the two of you as you spun. There were already articles and posts up but when the two of you got home you were too infatuated with each other to glance at your phones. The two of you slept peacefully that night as Santa dropped your gifts off and feasted on the milk and cookies you had left out for him.

taglist: @aripet22

[thedrarrylibrarian]

Christmas 2023

One of my favorite holiday traditions it to give a book on Christmas Eve. So hopefully in time for you to cozy up before bed, here is my Christmas Eve gift to you - a rec list!

Just the Two of Us by torino10154 (200 words, rated T)

"I can't believe this is our first Christmas, just the two of us," Harry said as he placed the star on top of the Christmas tree.

Christmas Brunch by @drarrily-we-row-along (583 words, rated G)

Draco wanted to host brunch for his parents on the first Christmas in their shared flat. Harry thought that seemed like a great idea.

But the week leading up to it has been a nightmare, Draco is stressed and Harry's losing his mind. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea after all.

For Everything a Season by @shealynn88 (1,342 words, rated T)

"Our children are a joy, Harry, but I’m glad it’s just you and me.”

Harry goes soft. “Why’s that?”

“Well, many reasons. But right now, you’re under the mistletoe, and I prefer to take my time, and the children would make an awful racket if they were here to see.”

Draco Malfoy and the Cursed Sweater by @slytherco (1,804 words, rated T)

After falling victim to Harry's stupid prank, Draco finds an unexpected partner in crime.

Underneath the Tree (You'll Find a Piece of Me) by @squintclover (4,435 words, rated M)

Harry and Draco find themselves in a holiday home amongst friends at Christmas. The Secret Santa Hermione has planned is sure to go perfectly. Surely...

Even Children Get Older by @lou-isfake (4,500 words, rated M)

It started with don't wake the baby.

Snow on the Beach by tinaakitten (4,915 words, rated T)

Over multiple Christmas Eves, Harry and Draco find their way back to each other.

Featuring cute Harry Potter obsessed toddler Scorpius.

Deliberate Denial by edaniels0221 (7,244 words, rated G)

Professor Harry Potter can't help but to deny his children's ridiculous notion that he has a crush on the gorgeous new Hogwarts Healer, but as he comes to find out, one can only be in denial about liking Draco bloody Malfoy for so long.

Löyly by @citrusses (10,323 words, rated E)

Somewhere between the steam of a sauna and the icy waters of the Gulf of Finland, Harry heals from a broken engagement and a failed career. Draco Malfoy helps.

25 Additional Scenes for Ain't That the Garden of Eden by @romaine2424 (12,139 words, rated G)

The additional scenes cover missing moments in December, Harry's election, and Inauguration.

Because Cats by @icmezzo (14,589 words, rated T)

Harry has a cat, and Draco doesn’t. Then Draco has a cat, and Harry doesn’t. Then Harry has a cat again, but Draco doesn’t. Then Draco has a cat, but Harry—OMG HOW WILL IT END.

Waking Up Slow by @sweet-s0rr0w (21,941 words, rated E)

'Twas the night before Christmas, although it’s July Draco’s a shopkeeper, no-one knows why There’s hiking and witch caves, freak snowfalls and more Bad Christmas jumpers, nosy neighbours galore Narcissa’s here too, but… something’s amiss And what’s in those chocolates that’s making them kiss?

Be sure to check out @skeptiquewrites wonderful Happy Hour Rec for this fic!

All I Want for Christmas by CaityCatt (36,509 words rated M)

Harry feels like a bit of a grinch at Christmas, but his true love has a plan to change all that.

The Coldest of Days by Anonymous (54,683 words, rated E)

At thirty-one, Harry Potter finally has it all: four incredible children, a naughty Niffler named Penny, and a brilliant boyfriend who has managed to fill the hole in his heart.

But because Harry is Harry, chaos is bound to follow. On a cold December morning, Draco wakes up with no memory of the war, his children, or his life with Harry.

That, and he’s insisting that he’s been thrown fifteen years into the future.

The Art of Thank You Notes by fictionclaw (82,286 words, rated E)

A few years after the war, Harry receives a ministry notice that Draco Malfoy’s house arrest will soon be lifted and that the wand he has kept may be sent to the ministry. He doesn’t think much of it when he sends the wand directly to Malfoy Manor with a note.

But one letter swiftly follows another and Malfoy sneaks his way into Harry's every day life without either of them minding.

Or; Harry and Draco find reasons to write letters to each other and Black heirlooms and family histories are uncovered while they figure out why that is. Lunch dates, careful friendship, confusing feelings and Draco's art included.

I hope that wherever you are, you know you have a place by my fire and a place in my heart. Merry Christmas Eve to those who celebrate, and the Happiest of Holiday wishes to all!

[nowritingonthewall]

Let me take your hand

Fandom: Star Wars

Character(s): modern!AU Poe, Shara Bey and Kes Dameron

Pairing: Poe Dameron x gn!reader

Summary: Sometimes all you need to make the pain a little more bearable is someone to take your hand, hold you gently, kiss you softly and tell you that they love you.

Words: 6900

Warnings: Hurt/comfort with a lot of hurt (!) in the beginning, aftermath of losing a parent (please please please don’t read if you fear that you might not be able to bear reading this!), reader celebrates Christmas, kind of spoilery if you haven’t read “Free Fall”

A/N: This was supposed to be a cute little spin-off of another Christmas story that spiralled completely out of control. 2023 was the third Christmas with this story living rent free in my mind and I was really determined to finally write and finish it this time before becoming really sick for two months. Even though it’s nearly Easter I hope that maybe one or two of you might still like it <3

As always, I apologize for not being a native speaker.

Christmas used to be Poe’s favourite time of the year.

There were presents, bright sparkling lights all over the city, the smell of freshly baked cookies, joyful songs on the radio, people being so much kinder than usual, chocolate glazed koyo berries and most importantly: both of his parents would be at home. Because Christmas was sacred.

Sure, presents were nice and everything, but sneaking into his parents’ bedroom before dawn on Christmas Morning, cuddling up to them under their warm blankets, lying safe and snug between them in a huge loving hug sandwich, knowing that for once there was no rush to get up and nothing to worry about because the day belonged to no one but their family?

There was nothing in Poe’s whole world that would ever be able to beat that.

Christmas was his favourite thing in the entire universe.

Even his very first memory was created on Christmas Eve. Shara and Kes would dance together at every possible (and impossible) opportunity they got, but that very first dance in the light of their Christmas tree on Christmas Eve was special.

It was as special to them as the song that had to accompany their dance: 'Let Me Take Your Hand' by Hera and the Rebels.

It was the song that had played on an old record player when they had met in an airplane hangar for the very first time. It had played when they had shared their first kiss, when Kes had proposed to his beloved Shara, when they had their first dance at their wedding, and when Shara had told Kes with happy tears in her eyes that they were going to be parents.

Music like a tender hug wrapping its loving arms around you, caressing your soul and soothing your heart, leaving you feeling like nothing in the world could ever hurt you.

Would you let me take your hand

And hold you gently

And kiss you softly

If I said I loved you

That Christmas Eve, as his parents began to sway in tune with the first few bars of the old forty-five crackling over the loud speakers, little Poe had no idea that he had just become part of a very long and love-filled Dameron Christmas tradition.

He was simply the happiest little boy, cuddled against his Dad’s chest, who held him gently yet safely close to his heart. With his Mom taking his hands in hers and making funny faces at him while singing along to the music, his eyes sparkled even brighter than the lights of the Christmas decorations around him.

As soon as the song was over, he wiggled his tiny feet and clapped his little hands in excitement, squealing giddily, “‘gain pwease!”

And his parents didn’t mind at all. With the record playing over and over again, they took turns kissing each other and placing the softest of kisses on their son’s forehead, cooing how much they loved him.

Poe couldn’t get enough of it.

On his eighth Christmas Eve, as Poe clung to Shara’s leg during their dance, he decided that part of him couldn’t wait to grow up and find his special someone to dance to their song. He vividly imagined how he would look at them the same way as Kes was looking at Shara.

Of course, his parents would still be there and enjoy dancing right next to him. He would do a show of being embarrassed when his Mom would try to ruffle his hair, because for some weird reason, grown-ups were supposed to hate it, even though he wouldn’t actually mind at all. And his Mom and Dad would love you nearly as much as he would and his parents would be so happy for their son to carry on their Christmas tradition.

If only he had known. If only he had known that this would be the very last Christmas with his Mom. Maybe he would have clung to her a little tighter, maybe he wouldn’t have nicked quite so many Christmas cookies, maybe he would have told her how much he loved her just one more time.

But then again, if he had known, it probably wouldn’t have been the most wonderful Christmas ever or the last time that he could remember his Dad looking truly happy before everything changed forever.

Only a year later it was hard to believe that any of those beautiful memories had been real at all.

Despite his insurmountable grief, Kes had tried his best to make this Christmas as magical for his son as it used to be. It was just that he had never quite gotten the hang of how Shara had always managed to make the Christmas tree and their apartment look so beautiful and festive and welcoming. And no matter how many Christmas lights he would string or how many candles he would light, it seemed like all their warmth and brightness had left when Shara did.

It was the night before their first Christmas without his Mom when Poe woke up to the most desperate stifled sobs coming from the living room. Full of worry, he stumbled out of bed and through the flat, the sinking feeling in his tummy growing heavier with each step of his bare feet on the ice cold floor tiles.

When he reached the door to the living room, the picture unfolding in front of him nearly tore is heart apart: The hunched over figure of his Dad lying under the Christmas tree, face hidden behind his hands, crying so violently his whole body was shaking.

Before even being able to form a single coherent thought, Poe had already crouched down on the floor right next to his Dad, trying to pull him into a hug – just like he knew his Mom would have done to comfort him.

His arms didn’t quite reach all the way around the package that his Dad had folded himself into but Poe tried to make up for it by pouring all the softness and warmth and tenderness from his big little heart into his words when he said, “I love you, Daddy! It’s gonna be okay!”

His Dad didn’t react. So Poe tried again, squeezing him even tighter this time but all it drew from Kes was another heart-wrenching sob.

But Poe wasn’t going to give up that easily. After all, just because his Mom wasn’t here with them in person, it didn’t mean that she didn’t celebrate Christmas with them. And if she was looking down at them from her cloud in Heaven among all the most beautiful angels in the universe (because there was no doubt for Poe, that’s exactly where his Mom would be), it would surely break her heart to see her two boys crying on Christmas Eve. And he couldn’t let his Mom down, could he? Not at Christmas.

And there was one thing left to try.

Hurrying over to the record player, he found what he was looking for exactly where his Mom had stored it away neatly last year. Ever so carefully, as if handling the most precious item in the world, he let the record slide out of its sleeve and placed it on the turntable. Slowly and gently, just like his Mom had taught him, he lowered the tone arm before turning back to his Dad.   

With the first few soft sounds floating across the room, Kes finally raised his head, looking up to where his son stood, holding out his hand for his Dad. As he slowly got on his feet, Poe took a step towards him and tried his best to put on a brave smile, his eyes encouraging and full of hope.

Kes looked at his son. And he looked at the record player. Then he walked straight past his son and with a cry of agony that made Poe stumble backwards with a start, Kes tore the record off the turntable and threw it to the ground with enough force to break it into a thousand pieces. Yet they were nothing compared to the millions of pieces that little Poe’s heart shattered into at this very moment.

As his father stormed out of the room, Poe kept staring at the broken remnants of the last happy memory of his family. Trying to understand what on earth had just happened. What had he done wrong?

Maybe it was the shock, maybe it was the confusion, but he didn’t even notice how he began to shiver as the cold crawled up from the floor over his bare feet and under his thin pyjamas. Until he could no longer tell whether the numbness creeping into his heart and soul came from the cold or the growing ache in his chest. He had never felt more lost or lonely in his entire life.

For the briefest of moments, he wondered whether it would be possible to glue the pieces back together again. But as he knelt down and began to pick them up slowly, one by one, that last flicker of hope was extinguished quickly.

As he pondered over what to do, he spotted the stack of Christmas napkins that his Mom had bought last year, after Poe had insisted that the teddy bear pictured on them looked just like his beloved plushie Mr. Beebs. He had spent hours sitting right next to her, learning how to fold them into the most intricate shapes, just like his Mom had done, until he had declared excitedly that his Mom would never have to worry about folding a set of napkins for their guests ever again because now she had Poe to take care of that. Taking one of the napkins from the stack now, he could vividly remember the fondness in her eyes as her smile had outshone his proud little grin.

After spreading the napkin out on the floor, he piled the pieces of the record up onto it, carefully and gently, until even the tiniest of pieces had been accounted for. Looking around the room for something to tie the napkin bundle up with, his gaze fell upon Mr. Beebs sitting on the couch with his tiny bow tie around his neck. It didn’t seem right to take it, but Poe apologized to his teddy and promised that he would only borrow it for a little while.

Having the napkin tied neatly together, he got up off the floor, taking one last look at the Christmas tree. A source of warmth and comfort for as long as he could remember, its lights and decorations almost seemed like they were mocking him now. As his eyes began to wander along its branches, his gaze came to rest on the star at the top of the tree.

“I am sorry, Mommy,” he whispered.  

As Poe held the napkin bundle gently against his heart, the tears began to fall. Unseen and in silence, yet hot and burning.

He was still clutching the little bundle to his chest when he found himself crying quietly in his bed a little later. He held it even tighter when he could hear the soft footsteps of his father approaching.

“Poe?” Kes’ voice was so gentle, it was barely audible to his son.

“Poey, sweetheart… I am sorry! I am… I am so so so sorry!”

Staring at the wall in front of him, Poe couldn’t see how his father’s tears over losing the love of his life had turned into tears over the fear of losing his son. He couldn’t see how his father reached out his hand towards him, only to hesitate at the very last moment, too afraid that he would just make things worse.

He couldn’t see how Kes longed for nothing more than to hug Poe close to his heart and never let him go again, desperate to find a way to comfort his son without subjecting him to his own soul crushing pain.

All he could see, over and over again, was that moment when his father walked right past him to smash their record to pieces.

His father didn’t want to take his hand.

Determined that he didn’t want Kes to see him cry, Poe pulled the covers over his head. And just like he had wrapped the napkin around the broken pieces of the record, Poe could feel something else wrapping itself around his heart. Not nearly as gentle and careful, but way harder and tighter and indefinitely more painful.

His father didn’t want to take his hand.

It was the last time that either of them acknowledged the song. It was the last time that music was played in the Dameron household.

And Poe never danced again.

Sometimes he would dream of it, though. Holding someone in his arms and swaying to the soft rhythm of a melody while waiting for Christmas cookies to bake in the oven or the first coffee of the day to finish brewing. But it never felt quite right. As soon as that longing ache would make itself known, he would shove it back to where it came from. Burying it a little deeper every time. After all, life was not a flipping Disney Christmas movie.

Yet there was a part of him that never stopped trying to find the song again. Even more so during that time of the year. Whether it was at the Christmas markets or at the shops, as soon as the softest sound of music could be heard anywhere, Poe would strain his ears hoping against hope to hear that comforting familiar tune just one more time.

Now and then he would hum the melody to himself, especially in those moments when he missed his Mom even worse than usual.

More than once he found himself sliding into a panic when he seemed to stumble over parts of the melody or he needed a little longer to remember some of the words. Every time that happened, he feared another piece of the memory of his Mom might slip away.

One night, after waking up in cold sweat again, he frantically scribbled down the lyrics onto the next best sheet of paper he could find as if they might be lost forever if he didn’t write them down this instant. After taking a few moments to catch his breath, he carefully folded the sheet and placed it into the little wooden box in his nightstand, which held the napkin bundle and the record sleeve.

Over the years, there were a few people that he tried to confide in but his attempts always ended up with him being made fun of. So he gave up those attempts too, burying his feelings deep under the growing pile of pain and ache and longing. They were obviously too silly to share them with anyone.

Not to you, though.

When Poe and you were about to spend your first Christmas together, it had been several years since he had bothered to put up any proper Christmas decorations at all. So when you asked him excitedly whether you could put them up together, he really did it more for you than for him.

Though he couldn’t deny that your enthusiasm was more than a little contagious. You turned the whole thing into a proper little event with Christmassy snacks and hot cocoa and festive music. After a while he found your joy so infectious that it made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Feelings that he hadn’t associated with Christmas for a long, long time.

He even sent both of you into a fit of giggles and laughter after somehow managing to completely wrap himself in tinsel rather than the Christmas tree.

And then you threw him completely off balance with one seemingly innocent little question: “So what’s your favourite Christmas tradition?”

Before he could tumble off the chair he was standing on, however, his instincts kicked in, making him fall back onto his standard go to answer: Chocolate glazed koyo berries. “My father had this really amazing way of turning them into the most delicious…” he began.

But it just felt wrong. Of course he loved his father’s chocolate koyo berries, he actually used to love them a lot. But there was something else. As he looked into your warm and loving eyes, something long forgotten tried to force its way up from the deepest pits of his heart. And try as he might, it refused to be pushed back down again this time.

Determined to keep it together, he turned away from you, biting his lips until they hurt. He was not going to cry. He was not going to ruin everything again.

“Poe? Hey… sweetie, your hands are shaking…”

Squeezing his eyes shut with enough force to give him a headache, he could hear the confusion in your voice turning into worry.

“Oh Poe, I am sorry, I should have known that this might bring back painful memories, I really shouldn’t have asked, I am so sorry…”

Trying to stifle the wave of sobs demanding to be let out, he shook his head vigorously, still refusing to look at you.

“No no no, you didn’t do anything wrong, it’s just… it’s silly!” he choked up.

You paused for a moment before saying gently, “It doesn’t look like it’s silly to you?”

He didn’t resist when you took his trembling hands in yours and helped him to climb down from the chair. Not letting go, you carefully held them steady in your hands, drawing soothing circles on them with your thumbs, as Poe kept staring at the floor.

“You don’t have to tell me now, if it’s too much,” you tried to reassure him.

“No, I want to, I just…” Grunting in frustration, he broke away and began to rub at his eyes with the palms of his hands with increasing force as if the motion would somehow be able to rub those pesky and unwelcome feelings away.

Carefully taking his hands into yours once more, you slowly led them away from his eyes. As you cupped his face with your hands, tenderly caressing over his temples with your thumbs, he finally looked at you, revealing his sore eyes glistening with tears and all the pain and grief that lay beneath.

It broke your heart.

You hesitated, as you had to fight your own tears welling up inside of you now before asking softly, “Is this about your Mom?”

Poe nodded ever so slightly.

Your voice turned even softer. “Does it have anything to do with the little box you keep in your night stand?”

Of course you had seen the way that he looked at that box. You had seen how he would rest his hand on that box, how his expression would turn from soft to pained and to soft again. Now and then he had even seemed to be humming a soft little melody while gently caressing over the lid of the box. Yet despite all of your questions, it had never felt right to ask him about it before he was ready to open up to you.

Closing his eyes again, Poe took a few shaky breaths. Letting his fingers wander up your arms, until they came to rest on your hands still holding his face, he tried to ground himself, focussing his attention on you. Your kindness, your gentleness, your warmth.

“Do you really want to know?” he finally managed to ask before his voice broke again.

“I do,” you said gingerly. “Of course I do. But… I wouldn’t want you to feel like you’d have to tell me anything that you aren’t ready to share yet.”

Nodding slowly, he furrowed his brow, deepening the pained expression on his face. An even more overwhelming wave of sadness radiated from his eyes, spreading over his already grief-stricken features. He tried to open and shut his mouth a few times before giving up and taking you by the hand to lead you into the bedroom.

You knelt down on the floor right next to him while he opened the drawer of his nightstand to remove the little wooden box and carefully opened the lid, revealing its contents to you. You saw the record sleeve and the lyric sheet and the napkin bundle tied together with the bowtie borrowed from Poe’s old childhood teddy Mr. Beebs.

Taking a deep breath, Poe took the bundle out of the box and placed it on the floor in front of you, unwrapping it ever so carefully.

He hadn’t opened it in decades. The moment that the napkin came undone around the broken pieces of the record, the tight layer of repressed feelings and ignored pain and buried grief wrapped around his heart fell away with it. Until there was nothing left to hold back the swelling flood of tears.

As soon as the first desperate sob ripped through his body so violently that it threatened to take his breath away, you were there. Catching him, holding him, comforting him, sheltering him.

And Poe cried like he had never cried before.

“It’s not fair! It’s not flipping fair, it’s not… she should be here… she should still be here… here with us…”

Everything seemed to bubble up to the surface at once. Pain and anger and confusion and helplessness.

“I wanted to hug him, I… I just really needed to hug him and… and I wanted to, but… but… but I was too small and… and… how could he just smash it?”

You were barely able to make any sense of all his memory fragments and turbulent emotions that were demanding attention all at once, but that wasn’t important right now.

“He came to apologize that night but I couldn’t… I couldn’t… I didn’t want him to see me cry and I… I… I should have…”

As you held him gently in your arms, he clung desperately to you, sobbing helplessly against your shoulder.

“I just… I… I failed them. Both…”

“Oh, Poe,” you whispered as you buried your face in his curls. And even though you knew that he wouldn’t be ready to believe you yet, you added gently but firmly, “You didn’t fail anybody!”

Smoothing some damp curls from his forehead, you pressed a tender kiss to the top of his head, when a new wave of tears began to stream down his face. Hot and desperate tears that had never been given a chance to dry, burning in his heart during all those years.

And now you were kissing them away. Softly. Every single one of them, even tough they were replaced by fresh ones immediately. Until sheer exhaustion made him collapse into your embrace.

As you cradled the back of his head, steadying him against your chest, rocking him gently back and forth, you knew that it wasn’t just your boyfriend crying in your arms. You held the wounded little boy, who couldn’t understand. Who blamed himself without even knowing what he had done wrong. Who hurt so deeply and yet would rather take care of everybody else around him before tending to his own wounds.

“I am here for you, Poe,” you cooed gently, hugging him tight. “I love you!”

And for the first time in decades, it felt like a few of the million shattered pieces of his heart were beginning to heal.

Unbeknownst to Poe, you made it your year’s goal to find the song for him.

The fact that Poe hadn’t been able to find it in all those years despite all his efforts, not even in the endless vastness of the internet, didn’t deter you in the slightest. Or so you thought. At least for the first eleven months of the year.

By the time December came around again, you were so close to admitting defeat that Poe began to worry about what brought you so low, even fearing that he might have been the one dampening your mood with his lack of Christmas spirit.

So, in an attempt to make up for that, he suggested taking you to the annual charity Christmas bazaar at your local school, hoping that a little Christmassy shopping spree for charity and the sparkly atmosphere of the Christmas lights might cheer you up again.

You tried not to get your hopes up, you really did. But the moment that Poe popped off to the restrooms and you found yourself stranded in front of a stall with several boxes of old forty-fives, you had to start browsing, of course.

Sorting swiftly through the records, you had gone through at least fifty of them, when your brain gave you a little jolt. You stopped. Going backwards very slowly, you looked at each of them again until you got back to the forty-second one. You carefully removed the record from the box. You read the title on the sleeve. You stared at it in disbelief. And you read it again. You shook your head. You read the title a third time. And despite your best attempts to stay calm, you couldn’t stop yourself from letting out a little scream that made the elderly gentleman behind the display ask in concern whether you were all right. It took every ounce of self restraint you could muster to keep yourself from throwing your arms around him and hug him until he turned blue. In the end, you hugged him anyway.

After handing the stall owner enough money to prompt him to ask you again whether you were all right, you hid the record in your bag and quickly hurried past the next few stalls, hoping not to give anything away.

You still weren’t able to keep the shine out of your eyes, though. Which Poe noticed immediately the minute that he caught up with you.

“What’s gotten into you?” he asked raising a confused eyebrow.

Letting out a happy sigh that you weren’t able to contain, you smiled, “I’m just really looking forward to Christmas!”

His gaze softened as he pulled you towards you, placing a tender kiss on top of your head. Gently rubbing your noses together, his smile grew wider until it painted crinkles around his eyes.

As he rested his forehead against yours, he whispered, “Me too!” And for the first time since what felt like forever, he actually meant it.

You spent the better part of the remainder of the run-up to Christmas trying to come up with the best possible plan to present the record to him. Should you simply hide it in a pile of other gifts in his stocking, should you make him close his eyes while you put the record on, should you wake him up with the music on Christmas Morning or maybe something completely different? In the end you decided that you would leave it up to Poe because the last thing you wanted was to overwhelm him in any way or even cause him more hurt.

When you found yourself cuddling with him on the couch on Christmas Eve, however, it became increasingly harder for you to remain patient until Christmas Morning.

Lying half atop on you, Poe had completely melted into your embrace, burying his face in the crook of your neck, while you played with his hair. The ease and trust with which he relaxed in your arms melted your heart. You were just about to turn your head and place a gentle kiss to his temple, when he lifted his head.

“Are you okay, bups?” He asked, raising a worried eyebrow at you.

“Hmmm?” you mumbled a little absentmindedly. “Sure, why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re as tense as a loaded spring about to go off. And I mean that in a very non-euphemistic, sfw way. Although…” he wriggled his eyebrows, looking way too cute with his tousled hair curling itself into every possible direction, “I wouldn’t mind adding some ‘n’ into the mix a little later…”

You couldn’t help breaking into giggles, which made Poe grin in return. “That’s better,” he smiled, placing a sweet little kiss to your forehead before furrowing his brow again. “Wanna tell me why you are so nervous?”

You really hadn’t intended to spoil this peaceful moment but you also knew that Poe wouldn’t stop worrying until he knew what was up. With a heavy sigh, you reluctantly tried to wriggle yourself free from underneath Poe to sit up, drawing some grunts of protest and a pout from him.

“I have a little surprise for you.”

Humming in a slightly more relaxed tone, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you towards him again.

“And can we stay on the couch for that or do we have to transfer to the bedroom?”

You snorted, “I’ve clearly given you the wrong idea now.”

With another smile, you brushed a few stray curls from his forehead and left a soft kiss in their place.

“You can stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Getting up to fetch your little present from the hiding place in the bedroom, you swiftly returned and set down next to Poe before giving it to him.

It took a few moments for Poe to realize what he was holding in his hands. As they began to tremble, he couldn’t help but keep staring at the record.

“How… where did you…” he whispered.

You gently laid your hands on his before explaining softly, “Actually… you kind of led me to it yourself when you took me to the Christmas bazaar three weeks ago.”

He let out a small shaky laugh that turned into a soft sob.

You immediately began to rub his back in soothing circles, leaving tender kisses all over the side of his face until he began to lean into you.

“Would you like me to play it?” you asked him gently.

He slowly peeled his gaze away from the record to look at you. As his big brown puppy dog eyes began to sparkle, he slowly nodded as if in a daze. He had gotten so used to hearing the song only in his memory, had both dreaded and hoped for this moment over and over again. As you put the record on and the song began to float across the room, it felt too surreal for him to grasp.

The music sounded even softer than you had imagined it. And so much more comforting than Poe remembered.

It sounded like the warmth of his Mom’s hand caressing his face and his parents’ laughter and tickle fights and the smell of his Mom’s baking and Kes scooping him up to carry him on his shoulders and morning cuddles and running towards his parents’ embrace. Both of them holding out their hands for him.

Just like you did now.

“Dance with me?” you asked him softly. Warm and open and welcoming while still giving him all the room that he might need.

Poe’s tears fell more slowly this time. As you laid your arms around him, pulling him towards you, swaying both of you to the soft rhythm of the music, he didn’t fight the soft and shaky sobs that turned another layer of destructive pain and grief into hopeful feelings of comfort and familiarity and home.

His head found his place leaning on your shoulder as your cheek came to rest against his. You held him gently and at the same time so close that there seemed to be no room left for anything that might hurt him. And yet your embrace was so soft that he knew he could trust you with his wounded bare heart in your hands.

As he wept in your arms, you kept caressing over his curls, leaving a trail of soft kisses along his hairline until his tears began to mix with your own. The moment Poe noticed the wet streaks running down your face, his eyes widened in alarm and he quickly reached up to wipe your tears away. But you gently laid your hands on his and shook your head with a sparkly-eyed smile.

“Don’t worry about those, Poe. Not all tears are bad.”

And Poe’s eyes that had been sparkling with tears of pain and sorrow slowly began to sparkle with something else.

It might not have been quite what he had imagined the first time to be like. Dancing to his parents’ song in the light of the Christmas tree with his own special someone.

Yet as his sobs subsided to the gentle rhythm of your soft kisses to his face and your hands tenderly smoothing over his hair, right now in this moment, he felt like the luckiest person in the universe.

Except for one thing.

When he let out an involuntary sigh, you pressed one more kiss to the top of his head before asking, “Why don’t you call him? Ask him to come over for Christmas?”

“Who?” Poe raised his head in mild confusion.

“Your father?” you smiled.

“How did…” Trailing off and letting out another sigh, Poe began to shake his head. “Me and my father stopped doing Christmas years ago. I don’t even have his number.”

“Well, funny thing…”

As Poe began to raise his eyebrows, you allowed yourself to break into a mischievous little grin, making him smile through his tears.

“I spoke to Auntie Leia the other day, and…” you began.

“…she had his number and gave it to you?” Poe finished your sentence in only mild disbelief.

“Of course she did,” you nodded and smiled again. “I don’t know how but it’s like she knew.”

Poe shook his head, unable to suppress a soft giggle. “She always does.”

You hesitated a little before you asked him, “Did you know that your father keeps asking after you whenever he meets her?”

Sobering up immediately, Poe lowered his gaze to the ground, furrowing his brow. “No, I… I didn’t…”

“Hey…” Cupping his face and gently guiding him to look at you again, you asked, “I can call him for you if you don’t feel up to it?” Your eyes softened before you added, “And no, Poe… I don’t think that would be ‘silly’.”

Poe let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. “Could you do that for me…?”

So you did. And less than an hour later, Kes was standing at your door. His knock was so soft and cautious that you would have missed it, had you not been on your way to the kitchen at exactly that moment.

He was shivering from the cold as it looked like he hadn’t even bothered to take the time and find appropriate clothes for the freezing temperatures outside. Yet when you had introduced yourself and motioned quickly for him to come in and step into the warmth, he hesitated.

“Are you really sure that Poe wants to see me?” he asked full of doubt.

You gave him a reassuring smile. “Yes he does. Of course he does! We just didn’t expect you to be here so early.”

“Oh… if you want me to come back later…”

“No, no, please… come in! You must be freezing.”

As Kes stepped into the light of your flat, you could see the clear remnants of tears on his face that had been hastily wiped away. And your heart broke for him just as it had for his son.

Poe had spent the last half hour bent over your record player, carefully removing remnants of dust from the needle and the grooves of the record. Deeply focused on his work, he gave a little start when you entered the living room, announcing brightly, “Look who is here, sweetie.”

“Hello, Poe!”

Turning around, Poe let out a soft, “Hey…” before clearing his throat and saying more firmly, “I am glad that you came.”

“Really?!”

His father’s reaction threw him off for a few moments. Was he really so utterly convinced that Poe wouldn’t want to see him?

Kes had to swallow a few times as he began to fumble nervously with the handle of the bag he had brought with him.

“Oh… these are for you!” he finally said, producing a huge bag of chocolate koyo berries.

Poe gasped in surprise. “But… these take days to make, how did you…?”

The smile that spread across Kes’ face somehow made him look even sadder. “I still make them every year, just in case you might... Never mind, you probably don’t even like them anymore, I just thought…”

Taking a step towards Kes, Poe reassured him, “No, no, of course I still love them, that’s really thoughtful of you… Dad!”

For a brief moment, Poe’s gaze flickered over to you and you started the record player. It took only a few notes for Kes to recognize the melody and his eyes widened, displaying a myriad of emotions.

“I… I’ve been searching everywhere,” he whispered. “I thought that maybe if I could find it, if I could just… you might…” Kes’ voice broke and he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to gain his composure.

When he opened them again, his son was standing right in front of him, offering his hand to his Dad. The look in his eyes was neither angry nor reproachful, but open and warm and encouraging with maybe a slightly pleading undertone. And it hit him full force just how much Poe reminded him of Shara in that moment.

Clasping a hand over his mouth, Kes let out a half-stifled shaky sob as his eyes began to glisten with tears. Taking a careful step towards his son, he took Poe’s hand into both of his. Placing the softest of kisses on his son’s hand, he gently held it against his chest right above his heart.

“Oh, Poey,” he whispered. “I am so... I am so…”

The moment his voice faltered again, Poe pulled his Dad into a hug. This drew a surprised little gasp from Kes before he threw his arms around his son, holding him closer than he had ever held him before. Like he was never going to let him go again. He knew that he might not be able to make up for lost time. But he could show Poe how much he meant to him right here and right now. Between violent sobs and desperate kisses to his temple and his cheek, Kes pulled his son close over and over again.

“Me, too!” Poe whispered through his own tears. “It’s okay, Dad… I love you!”

Maybe okay wasn’t exactly the right word. Maybe it was never really gonna be okay again. But as they both clung to each other, it certainly felt more okay than it had in a very long time. Maybe this could be the beginning of creating their new okay.

As his Dad’s desperate kisses slowly turned softer, he pulled back just enough to be able to gently cup his son’s face in his hands. “I love you, too, Poe. So so so damn much!”

You were just about to sneak out of the door to give them some room when Poe softly called out to you, “Hey… c’mere!”

They both invited you to join them with open arms. There may have been some feet casualties before the three of you found your rhythm but those were easily laughed away.

Christmas Eve turned into Christmas Day and Poe was still dancing. Safe and snug in a hug sandwich between the two people that he loved more than anything else in this world and who loved him just as much in return.

As Poe’s face once again found his familiar place in the crook of your neck, he mumbled, “I wish my Mom could have met you. I really wish that she could have been here with us just one more time.”

“I think she is, Poe!”

Instead of an answer, he let out a little sob against your shoulder, hugging both you and his Dad a little tighter, as Kes gently ruffled his hair.

And when Poe looked up again and his gaze came to rest on the star at the top of the Christmas tree, he could have sworn that it shone brighter than he could ever remember.

Sometimes life may cause you wounds that seem to hurt so deeply that all the time in the universe wouldn’t be able to heal them.

And sometimes… sometimes all you need to make the pain a little more bearable is someone to take your hand, hold you gently, kiss you softly and tell you that they love you.

Thank you for reading 💜

[ayyyy-le-simp]

Hey pookieesss 🤭

Happy Final Bad Batch Eve. I’m totally not crying.

All day I’ve seen final goodbyes and sad edits. And so to help ease the nerves and anxiety, I come here with some hopefully funny shenanigans. Featuring my beloved Mami again.

My mother has very little knowledge on Star Wars (which relatable, im still learning). And so I’ve asked for her to give me her thoughts on The Bad Batch characters!! I call this ✨ pre-game comfort ✨. Writing this two hours before midnight (it’s 10pm where I live).

Enjoy <33 and everyone thank my beloved mother!! (Spanish lines will be translated, blue print is me)

“I already told you, Rambo.”

“Was he ever shirtless?”

“Unfortunately no.”

“Damn.”

“He’s a 7/10 though.”

“That’s the one who died, right?”

“Pobrecito.” (Poor thing.)

“Cómo se llama?” (Whats his name?)

“Tech.”

“Ahh okay. He died the same way Bucky Barnes died.”

“Bucky Barnes didn’t die though. He came back as the winter soldier.”

“Exactly. And who’s that mystery clone guy?”

“I think that mystery clone is Tech.”

(Guys she supports our delusions.)

I’m typing this on my phone at the moment, and for some reason, tumblr isn’t letting me type under pictures and it’s literally annoying me and I’m too lazy to made separate posts, but stay tuned. But I might make another version on my tiktok 🤭

ANYWAYS

Moving onto Crosshair

“He reminds me of your dad. Bald and tall.”

(I showed my mom the scene of Crosshair sitting by himself in the cafeteria)

“Ay pobrecito.”

Moving onto Wrecker

“He reminds me of Drax. From guardians of the galaxy.”

“I think he would like Pitbull.”

“MR WORLDWIDE!”

“I literally love him.”

“Quién? Wrecker or Pitbull?” (Quién means who)

“Wrecker.”🤭

“Estas loca.” (You’re crazy.)

Moving onto Echo

“What happened to him?! Why does he look gray?”

“He needs to eat some red meat. Get some blood in that skin. That’s some low iron.”

“Yo le daría carne asada.”(I’d give him carne asada.) [steak]

“Echo? Like the movie Earth To Echo. I like that movie.”

Moving onto Omega (my literal daughter)

“She looks like her name would be Estella. Or Estrella.” (Estrella means Star in Spanish)

“I like Omega. It’s a cute name.”

Moving onto Phee

“I like her, she’s voiced by Wanda Sykes. I like Wanda Sykes, she’s funny as hell.”

“She really liked Tech.”

“She and Tech deserved better.”

“In my mind, Tech is not dead, he’s happily married to Phee.”

“You’re delusional.”

“I know.”

“Pobrecita, she didn’t see him around.”

Moving onto Cid

“Isn’t that the puta that snitched them out?”

(Puta means bitch)

“Yeah.”

“Hm. She’s a witch for that.”

BONUS:

CAPTAIN REX✨✨

“…”

“…”

“Que guapo.” (How handsome.)

“…”

“RIGHTT.”

“But he’s a captain?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh no. I can’t go cheating on my Captain America. America’s ass. He’s the only Captain in my life.”

“He can be your space Captain. Space’s ass.”

“Space’s ass.”

“Space’s ass.”

OKAY THANK YOU FOR READING THIS 🙏🏽🙏🏽PRAYERS FOR THE FINAL EPISODE IM SCARED GUYS WE NEED A HAPPY ENDING 😭 😭 🙏🏽 I NEED THEM ALL TO BE WELL AND OKAY AND SAFE OR ELSE I’LL BE A MILITARY WIFE IN MOURNING

[cetaitlaverite]

Anything to Anywhere

Masters of the Air - John Egan x OC

happy 1st november. here's a christmassy chapter to celebrate. masterlist is hereeee <3

21. A Unicorn Indeed

The war didn’t stop for Christmas. In Stella’s experience, the war didn’t stop for anything. Flights for both 138 and 161 went out the same as they always did. Stella’s first flight with 161, in fact, was set for the 27th. She would be leaving Tempsford for Tangmere on Boxing Day.

Barely anyone had gotten leave to go home for Christmas. Guy had, after his nightmare time in occupied territory, and he left on Christmas Eve for a whole three days back at home in London. Most everyone else, though, including the air exec and the wireless operators and the medics and the nurses and the cooks and the ground crew, were stuck in Tempsford, where even letters from home would take months to get to them; all correspondence had to be addressed to the RAF head office in London to be picked up by a special courrier. No one was allowed to know where they all were, even family.

On Christmas Eve, all four girls in Hut 6 sat on Lucky’s bed in their pyjamas, talking about home. Lucky had given Stella her childhood stuffed bunny to hold onto and, in return, Stella had given Lucky Ralph. She sat fiddling with his paws as she spoke of the home and the family she’d left behind in Poland.

“On Christmas Eve, as you say - Wigilia is how we call it - we are busy all day to make sure everything is ready before the first star appears in the sky,” she was saying. “All of the food is cooked and all of the dishes are washed and the tree is decorated. We do not want to be doing any work after the first star is in the sky. And then we sit down to dinner with twelve different dishes and everyone must try some of all of them, but before we eat we must break the opłatek - this, I think, you call wafers. And we wish each other good luck for the next year. And then we eat.”

“You eat your Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve?” Houds asked.

“Yes,” Lucky answered, quirking an eyebrow. “We also exchange presents.”

“In England we do all of that on Christmas Day,” Houds said.

Lucky scoffed. “I know this. I have been living in England for three years by now.” She shook her head, pulling a face. “Strange traditions you have.”

“What about you, Babs?” Donny asked with an amused grin, turning to Stella. “How do you usually celebrate Christmas?”

Stella shrugged. She burrowed further into John’s jacket, zipped up over the top of her pyjamas in what she’d claimed was a bid to stay warm but was actually a bid to feel close to him. She set her eyes on Lucky’s stuffed bunny, currently sitting perched on the side of one of her calves as she sat cross-legged on the bed. “I haven’t celebrated since before the war,” she replied, “but back home my brothers and I used to pull names out of a hat and that would be who we would buy a present for. Then on Christmas Day we would have dinner the same as every other night but we would give each other our presents afterwards.”

Houds’ eyebrows were furrowed when Stella glanced up. “Did your parents not get you any presents?”

In an attempt to be subtle, Donny elbowed her in the ribs, but Houds complained so loudly about it that the effect was lost.

Stella chuckled under her breath. “No,” she answered simply. “My parents…” She trailed off. She hadn’t ever gotten so far as to tell John about her parents. If she told the other girls then they’d know more about her than John did, and she didn’t want anyone to know her better than John did. But then Lucky leaned her head on Stella’s bicep and peered up at her with her wide eyes and Stella forced the thought out of her head; she still didn’t even know if John was alive. He wouldn’t want her guarding herself from people in his name.

“My dad left when I was young,” she said, and now her eyes were on her sleeves, her hands having retreated into them. She ducked her head, trying to be subtle as she inhaled John’s lingering scent on his jacket, and then went on, “My parents didn’t want so many children but I suppose my mum was super fertile. They were both angry when they found out she was pregnant with me. From what my brothers tell me, they tried to hold it together and my dad managed just about long enough for me to be born but it went downhill afterwards. When I turned nine he decided I was old enough to go without a father and he left one morning, very casually, just walked past all of us out of the house and never came back.

“My mum,” she continued, “didn’t want nine children either, much less to have to try to raise us all and keep us all alive with no husband bringing home any money. So my brothers had to go to work and my mum started working as a maid, but we never had any money regardless of how much they were all trying to work. So, no, my mum didn’t get us presents. She worked as hard as she could just to put food on the table. So my siblings took care of it and we got gifts for each other and, when all of us had started working, we started trying to get her a gift, too.”

The other girls had been quiet whilst Stella was speaking, watching her closely, drinking it all in. They couldn’t comprehend, really, how this girl who had grown up so differently from them had landed herself in the same place. There were many men who had come from similar backgrounds to Stella in the RAF, yes, because the RAF was actively recruiting; it didn’t matter if you were a man who had never flown a plane before because they wanted to train you anyway. The RAF was full to the brim with working class men and boys, in fact, who had learnt to fly during the war and were now being promoted up to the brass.

But women? No. No one was elbowing anyone out of the way to train women to fly planes. There was ancestral money associated with female pilots because they had to have their fair share of civilian flight hours to even apply for the ATA.

Yes, Stella Finley was a unicorn indeed, a working class girl who had learned to fly against all odds and now found herself one of only four women who flew for the RAF. And now she was about to fly for Squadron 161, the most secret of them all.

It was Houds who spoke first. “So that’s why no birthday cakes,” she said simply.

In spite of herself, Stella laughed. “Right,” she confirmed. “And my birthday’s in November, so everyone would be saving up for Christmas presents anyway. No birthday cake for me.”

���What about birthday presents?”

“From my oldest brother,” Stella confirmed with a soft smile. “Will. He always got me a birthday present. And one year, when money was good and all of my brothers had started work, they scrounged up enough money to get me this.” She pulled down the zip of John’s jacket a few inches, then tugged down the neckline of her pyjama top and withdrew the chain around her neck, held up the end to showcase the charm hanging from it. A tiny little silver bird caught and glinted in the overhead lights. A hummingbird.

Lucky reached out to touch it and smiled. “Pretty,” she said.

Stella grinned. “Thanks.” She let all three of them have a look at it, then promptly tucked it back into her pyjamas and zipped John’s jacket all the way back up, burying her chin in it momentarily to restore the warmth she’d lost. “Anyway,” she said after a couple of moments, “Donny, how do you and Daisy usually celebrate Christmas?”

They carried on talking about Christmas traditions for a while and then they got to talking about life in general; how Donny had met Daisy and how long it had taken him to propose, what it was like being married and whether or not any of the other girls thought they might get married eventually. Houds declared that she would only get married if she found a man who would let her have her own bedroom and sleep in her own bed, and wouldn’t force babies upon her. She didn’t see herself as a mother. Lucky said she had always thought she’d marry one of the boys who had grown up on the same street as her, but that he’d been killed during the Nazi invasion of Poland.

“Now?” she said. “I do not know. If I fall in love I will get married. I am not worried if I do not.” She was sly as she turned her eyes on Stella. “But Babs will marry the man who owns the jacket, will you not, Babs?”

Stella sputtered a scoff. “I don’t even know if he’s alive!” she exclaimed when she found her voice, sitting bolt upright on the bed. “I’ve never even kissed him!”

“Did you ever want to?” Houds asked curiously.

Stella’s cheeks were on fire. She picked up Lucky’s stuffed bunny and held it in front of her face, shaking her head from behind it. “I’m not talking about this. For all I know he’s been dead for two months by now.”

“But you don’t really believe that,” Donny deduced. “It’s unlikely that it was the pilot who didn’t get out when there were so many parachutes from his plane.”

“He still might have been killed on the ground,” Stella pointed out. She wasn’t sure why she was trying to insist that John was dead - she’d spent many nights convincing herself he wasn’t, coming up with any and all arguments which would point to the fact that he had gotten safely out of the plane and had navigated himself to safety - but maybe she just wanted the others to come up with some new ones, to confirm to her what she hoped more than anything in the world: that John was still alive, was safe somewhere in Germany, a prisoner of war who was guaranteed to survive the fighting, as much as he would have hated to be locked up.

“If he’s a POW he’ll be fine,” Donny said, as she’d said many a time before. “The Nazis aren’t nice to them, from what I hear, but they honour the Geneva Convention. If your Yank gave himself up and went willingly he’ll survive the war. Will you kiss him then?”

Stella peeked out from behind the bunny to find Houds looking at her with raised eyebrows, Lucky wiggling hers, and Donny smiling wildly.

Throwing herself forward on the bed, Stella buried her face in Lucky’s duvet. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Have you ever kissed a man?” Lucky asked. She was audibly grinning.

“Yes!” Stella cried. She sat up only momentarily to throw a pillow at her, then flopped back over again at once.

“Who?” Lucky challenged, unphased as she set her pillow back down in its rightful place.

“I briefly had a boyfriend when I was a teenager,” Stella said, turning her face to speak more clearly, rolling her eyes. “I’m not completely innocent.”

“But you’re a virgin,” Houds surmised.

Stella scoffed. “Not that it’s any of your business but yes, I am.”

“Does John know?”

Lucky got the same pillow thrown back in her face for that one. “Yes,” Stella all but growled. “But I’m not at all sure why it’s relevant.”

Lucky was cackling by now. “I bet he is lying in his POW bed somewhere in Germany dreaming up all of the things he would like to do -”

“Shut up, Lucky!” Stella cried. Her cheeks were in flames. “I don’t want to talk about this! You might be making innuendos about a dead man!”

“He’s not dead, Babs,” Donny cut in, laughing. “I can almost guarantee it. And I can’t wait to meet him once this is all finished.” She was smiling widely when she reached over to pat Stella’s leg encouragingly. “Tell us about him,” she said.

Sitting up straight, Stella busied her hands with smoothing down her hair, fighting to calm the blush in her cheeks. Once she had collected as much composure as she was likely to get, she set to fiddling with Lucky’s rabbit’s ears as she ventured, “He’s very tall.”

“How tall?” Houds challenged.

Stella laughed. “I don’t know! Much taller than me. Maybe about a head taller than me.”

Donny nodded her approval. “Very tall for a pilot,” she acknowledged.

“Very,” Stella agreed. “And he’s broad, too. Wide shoulders and a strong chest. Big arms.” She flushed as she said it. She didn’t like to admit that she’d noticed his arms but she certainly had. She’d never seen them bare but she’d felt them when he’d carried her on his back. Even just the thought of them made her feel hot.

Lucky whistled. “Big arms,” she echoed. “Very attractive.”

Stella rolled her eyes jovially. “He has dark hair,” she went on. “I used to think it was black but it’s a very dark brown, you can tell when he stands in the sunshine. Curly hair. Long-ish at the front and short on the sides.” She was smiling as she spoke, now. “And he has blue eyes. Dark blue, but they shine brightly when the light hits them. And he’s always warm, even when it’s cold out. He hates to be cold but his hands are always warm.”

“What else?” Lucky demanded.

Stella nudged her affectionately. “He likes to sing, even though he’s terrible at it. And he likes to dance, too. He can be very opinionated but I can’t resent him for it because I’m exactly the same. One time we had a major falling out and we hated each other for weeks because of it, but even then he still sat with me in the infirmary after my plane got hit by flak, to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Stella sighed. Her eyes fell to the duvet, trying to make out imaginary patterns in its folds. “He’s funny and passionate and he cares so much about the people he loves. He always let me talk at him for hours on end about things he must not have cared about at all. He loves baseball - he supports a team in New York called the Yankees, even though he’s actually from Wisconsin - and he -”

She faltered, sniffling. She hadn’t even realised there were tears in her eyes until one had slipped out and fallen down her cheek.

Ruefully, sadly, Stella laughed at herself, hastily swiping away the tear. “He tried to tell me he loved me the last time I saw him, the night before his plane went down. And I wouldn’t let him.”

“Why?” Donny asked softly.

“Because I was afraid. I -” One more sad little laugh, one more shake of her head. “I didn’t think I deserved him. I wasn’t good enough for him. And I thought he’d figure it out eventually, so I didn’t want him to promise me things only to take them away later on.”

“Oh, Babs,” Donny sighed, giving her knee a squeeze.

Lucky flung her arms around Stella’s waist and burrowed into her side.

From the other end of the bed, Houds was smiling softly at Stella. “I bet he misses you an awful lot,” she said. “And I bet he loves you even more.”

Stella tried to smile back but she knew it fell flat. “I miss him so much,” she confessed. And I think I love him even more, too.

The pub was shut on Christmas Day, so everyone gathered in the mess hall to celebrate. The cooks had made a roast dinner and sat down to eat it with them, and Mouse had gone to the effort of securing Christmas crackers for them all to pull before they ate. 

Everyone had to wear their silly paper crown and many a petty argument arose over colours. Stella didn’t mind what colour hers was - she’d never had a Christmas cracker before, never had a silly paper crown to wear - so she traded with three different people until everyone was happy with what they’d gotten. In the end, her crown was yellow, and the joke in her cracker was so diabolical it was actually funny.

The celebrations were loud and joyful. Stella had never known a Christmas like this. Even at Thorpe Abbotts Christmas had been a quiet affair, though she wondered whether that was still the case now that the Americans were there.

But here, at Tempsford with the Moon Squadron, this wild group of fearless pilots who ferried people and supplies illegally in and out of occupied territory knew how to celebrate. They had lost a lot of pilots this year, after all; they knew to be grateful when the opportunity arose to revel in the joy of being alive.

They drank the alcohol supply on the airfield dry as evening pushed into night, and pushed all of the tables aside so they could dance to the music on the radio. With flushed cheeks and a sore throat from so much laughter, Stella was spun around the dance floor again and again and again, and whenever she got tired she remembered how she’d spent last Christmas alone and reading in her hut and she decided to dance some more.

She thought of John when Goose suggested they all take turns singing. They didn’t have the instrumental versions of any music, so whoever knew the song on the radio would just sing loud enough to cover the original singer.

And John would have loved it. All of it. The wild revelry, the celebration of being alive, the alcohol and the dancing and the singing and the stupid paper crowns and the terrible jokes and how everyone told everyone else how much they loved them every five seconds.

When ‘Blue Skies’ came on the radio, Stella volunteered herself to sing before anyone else could. Because this was John’s favourite song and she couldn’t give him a Christmas present, not the way she wanted to, so this would have to do.

She sang loudly and without self-consciousness, even though she’d never much enjoyed singing, and Lucky stood up to join her as soon as she held an arm out to her to ask. And so the two of them stood with their arms wrapped around each other, singing at the tops of their lungs to cover Irving Berlin’s crooning, swaying in time to the beat. And Stella thought about John, tried to imagine him celebrating Christmas with Buck and Curt and DeMarco and Brady and everyone else who had gone down, and hoped, more than anything, that he might be able to feel that she was thinking about him, hoped that he might be thinking about her too.

[the-lonelybarricade]

Feysand Holiday Fic Recs

A collection of holiday-themed Feysand fics for you to enjoy while snuggled down beneath a big, cozy blanket with a cup of hot cocoa!

Spicy fics indicated by a 🌶️ emoji

Please make sure to spread the holiday joy and kindness by leaving kudos and comments on any of the fics that you find and enjoy from this list 💕

One-Shots:

Modern:

The Holiday (🌶️) by @velidewrites - When two sisters with a terrible taste in men (or is it?) decide to swap houses for the holidays, they don't expect to fall in love.

Dada by @julemmaes - Rhysand and Feyre have tried everything to make their little boy talk, now they can only wish for a Christmas miracle

Home for the Holidays by @darling-archeron - Feyre and Rhys have been best friends for years. And Feyre knows that's all they'll ever be - friends. When Rhys brings her to his family Christmas party, she realizes that not everyone has the same impression of their relationship.

Going Home by @darling-archeron - When Feyre's flight home is cancelled, she finds herself stranded in Chicago on Christmas Eve. Luckily, she runs into a familiar face at the airport.

Christmukkah by @live-the-fangirl-life - When Feyre can't celebrate the holidays with her family, Rhys decides to help

Merry Christmas, Feyre Darling (orphaned) - Feysand Fluffy Highschool AU fic

Don't Be a Jerk (It's Christmas) by @the-lonelybarricade - When the group in the corner of the cafe are being too loud for Feyre to study, she decides to take matters into her own hands.

A Letter Never Sent by @the-lonelybarricade - Rhysand was assigned as Feyre's secret santa—again. But after nearly confessing his feelings to her last Christmas, he'll be making sure not to put his heart on his sleeve this year. Or; Rhys accidentally gives Feyre the wrong Christmas letter.

A Letter to Satan (🌶) by yafan92 - When Feyre sends a drunken letter to Santa on Christmas Eve, she doesn't realize that she actually sent it to Satan, who shows up willing to grant her Christmas wish.

Feysand Holiday Fluff Fest by @nomattertheoceans - A series of 31 holiday prompt fills for December 2019

All I Want For Christmas Is You by dr_woodsprite - Rhysand and Feyre’s first Christmas.

A Very Feysand Christmas by @librarian-of-orynth - Feyre and Rhys buy, and then decorate, their Christmas tree.

Merry Christmas, Darling by whimsicallydrifting - Rhys and Feyre are celebrating their first Christmas together as a married couple, and Rhys decided to be romantic and take care of all the preparations: tree, dinner, and decorations. It didn't go exactly as he'd planned.

False Identity (🌶️) by addiewritesthings - One night at a bar, recent divorcee Feyre Archeron is approached by a beautiful dark-haired man who wants to know her name. Only the name she gives him isn't her own.

Canon:

In the Spirit by @noirshadow - the Inner Court confronts their biggest enemy to date - Dry January.

Winter Solstice with Nyx by JAWhitethorn - This is a fluffy, happy story about Feyre & Rhysand celebrating Solstice with the Inner Circle and Nyx, when he is almost five years old.

Solstice Lights and a Scared High Lord by Littlelionman15 - Rhysand thought it'd be a good idea to put himself under the christmas tree as another winter solstice present for Feyre, but things don't go as planned, and the possibility of a new haircut comes in play when Feyre has to help him get out.

I Am Lost And Led Only By The Stars by highfaelucien - The first Christmas after the war and Feyre is disappointed when Rhys can't make it back from the Illyrian camps due to a violent snow storm. Rhys decides to throw caution to the wind and do whatever it takes to get back to his mate in time.

Christmas at the Cabin by @illyriantremors - The entire squad goes to the cabin in the mountains to spend a week together at Christmas. Mayhem and shenanigans ensues.

Seven Days of Solstice by @msfeyredarling - On Feyre’s fiftieth, Rhys decides to celebrate Feyre following the seven days of the winter solstice.

Secret Weapon by addiewritesthings - Feyre returns home one evening to discover exactly what Rhys and Nyx have been up to all day.

Multi-Chapter (all completed):

Modern:

A Christmas Prince by @separatist-apologist - When reporter Feyre Archeron is sent to the small European Principality of Aldovia to cover the upcoming coronation of Prince Rhysand, she's mistaken for a royal portraitist. Deciding to lean into the lie in order to get a better story, Feyre is caught up in the drama and politics of Rhysand's life with no way out that doesn't betray them both.

Once Bitten, Twice Shy by @the-lonelybarricade - "You didn't put up Christmas lights so my friends and I decided to decorate your lawn for you"

Silent Night by Lyetta - When a spare of the moment decision sends Rhys down the riverside path, his life is turned upside down by a beautiful woman in need of help.

Home for the Cold Spell by @thegloweringcastle - When faced with yet another birthday alone in her hometown, Feyre decides to gift herself the thing she needs most: an escape. Things go well; she explores new places, meets new people, and finds a muse in the most arrogant (and beautiful) man she's ever met. 

[ragingbookdragon]

A Memory Lives On

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader One-Shot

Word Count: 1.7K Warnings: Sad...?

Author's Note: I kinda forgot Simon's entire family was murked on Christmas Eve so...here's sad and kind of happy -Thorne

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

Spades always has a ridiculous amount of money. Everyone is at an understanding that it’s from her job as an international assassin, but they still can’t help but wonder how there just seems to be a never-ending flow of funds. That being said, they’ve never exactly questioned the extra supplies and protype weapons that mysteriously appear in the base for their whims. And the gifts she gives are stellar too.

Last year on Gaz’s birthday she bought two thousand dollars’ worth of Lego sets of the Death Star and the Millennium Falcon from Star Wars. Gaz cried. He literally opened the wrapping paper and cried for a solid five minutes because he had been so happy.

Another year she gave Soap a week’s vacation for his birthday, a full week rented at Blair Castle in Highland Perthshire. The entire castle to himself, full service from the best cooks and servants’ money could buy. Soap came back more Scot than he’d ever been.

One birthday, she’d given Price six boxes of rare cigars, three boxes for each brand of Royal Danish Cigars and Arturo Fuentes Opus X. Everyone had to admit that they’d never seen the Old Man so damned relaxed while smoking a cigar whilst reclining in a velvet chair with a bourbon in his hand.

And yet, for Ghost, she never gave him gifts. But then again, he never celebrated his birthdays to begin with, so there wasn’t ever a need. Ghost didn’t do parties like the others did. Didn’t want cake and beer and junk food and to relax. Ghost worked on his birthdays. It wasn’t a special day to him. It was just another Tuesday or Friday. Still though, he respected Spades for not spending lavish amounts of money on him like she did the others. It wasn’t worth it; he wasn’t worth it.

It does surprise him however, to see her at his door when he opens it at six, already awake before then, but he’d finished paperwork in the meantime.

She smiles calmly, eyes a telling tale she has something planned. “Good morning, Simon,” she greets. “I do believe a Happy Birthday is in order for our resident phantom.”

He grunts in response and waits for her to move—she doesn’t.

“Price has already cleared us for leave today and I’ve something for you. Would you mind accompanying me?”

Now he’s curious, suspicious, but more so curious. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“You always do, Simon,” she replies with a tut. “But I would enjoy your presence if you came along. It is a gift for you.”

Ghost lets out a sigh, but motions for her to lead and she does, to the garage where he climbs in the SUV with her and allows her to take him. “Where are we going?” he asks, but the signs on the road are familiar enough that he already knows.

“Manchester. There’s something waiting for us.”

It’s all she says, and the rest of the ride is filled with silence until they pull into the parking lot of The University of Manchester and begin walking across campus.

“Please don’t tell me I’m attending a college class,” he mutters, and she lets out a laugh.

“Oh, indeed we are. A course on morals and how ambiguous they can be during war.” She gives him a look and gestures for him to follow.

There’s a woman standing there outside the doors, and she smiles as the two approach. “Miss Christensen it’s so wonderful to see you.”

Christensen, Spades fake surname she uses, he recognizes.

“It’s wonderful to see you, Mary.” She introduces Ghost. “This is a friend of mine, he’s accompanying me today. His name is Michael.”

Ghost’s lip curls in disgust at the name but he shakes her hand and allows them to lead, wondering what on earth is at the university for him.

Mary leads them into an office, and they sit across from one another; he feels awkward in the confined room, but relaxes as Spades’ hand rests on his forearm. “So,” she starts, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Miss Christensen?”

Spades smiles. “Michael and I were both intrigued on perhaps obtaining more degrees. We came to check out the potential majors and more importantly, the scholarships we could apply for.”

“Oh yes!” Mary chirps and pulls out a folder that Ghost wonders if she has pre-made for visits like these. “We have quite a few. Old ones that have been around for years, and our newest ones that have been in circulation for the last few years.”

“I heard you had a particular new one that showed up. Would you explain that one?”

“Ah, yes, our newer scholarship started by a rather mysterious sponsor.” She pulls out a packet. “The Joseph Riley Foundation.”

Ghost all but freezes at the mention of a name he hasn’t heard in years.

“Our sponsor created the foundation in memory of a young boy who was sadly killed many years ago. His name was Joseph Riley. Grew up right here in Manchester. From what our sponsor told us, he loved jets and wanted to fly one in the army.” She smiles, but it’s full of sadness. “It’s unfortunate he never got to experience it. Still though, his memory lives on here.” She hands the packet to them, and Spades simply gives it to Ghost to look over. “This scholarship works hand in hand with the British Special Air Services, or SAS, and gives students the opportunity to have a job in the SAS when they graduate. As long as they meet the required terms, they join as an officer with a bonus if they graduate above a three grade point average.”

“Specifically, what does the scholarship provide? Is it entitled to specific degree?”

“Indeed. Aviation degrees, specifically those in aviation engineering and maintenance, aeronautical science, and physics.” She seems rather pleased with herself that she knows so much. “Our sponsor supplies endless funds and expertise along with it for this scholarship, it’s perhaps become one of our most coveted scholarships simply because it’s extremely beneficial to the education. Most of our students in those majors have this.”

Spades is content to listen as she rattles on about it, but Ghost is still stuck on the pages of the history of the scholarship, and a photo of a small boy with a face that looks too familiar.

***

By the time the entire tour is done, Ghost is as mentally drained as Spades looks and she bids farewell to Mary as she escorts the two to their vehicle and waves them goodbye as they pull out of the parking lot.

Spades says nothing, content to stay in silence, but Ghost feels like he has to say something, even if he isn’t even sure what to say.

“Why.”

A snort escapes her. “Because typical birthday gifts aren’t your cup of tea.”

“I haven’t thought about Joey in years,” he murmurs, staring out the window. “I can’t bear to.”

“Yes, I imagine it’s not a pleasant memory…the end, at least. He was just a babe, wasn’t he?”

“Five,” Ghost says quietly. “He…had just turned five.”

She sighs deeply but doesn’t offer Ghost the pitied, “Such a horrid shame,” he’s heard before.

“You come here every year on my birthday?”

“Mhm,” she responds. “I visit the science building and interview the students who’ve obtained the scholarship. Make sure it’s being put to good use. And then I cash a very generous multi-million-dollar check to the school for the foundation. Keeps it thriving and sought after.”

Ghost has never kept the memory of his family alive. It died with him that Christmas Eve as the only surviving Riley. But something aches deep in his chest as he imagines his nephew fresh out of basic, ready to travel and be a pilot for the jets he so loved playing with as a babe. He swallows thickly and looks out the window as Manchester fades away. “Thank you, Spades.”

“Happy Birthday, Simon,” she replies instead and turns on the radio, a catchy pop song drowning out the ache in his chest. “I do have one more gift, if you’ll let me spoil you a little.”

Ghost lets out a groan, already drained far too emotionally to do this again. “You know I don’t do gifts.”

“Hush,” she tuts with a disapproving click of her tongue and commands, “Reach behind your seat.”

He does as she says and reaches back and down, grasping what feels like a box; Ghost pulls it to his lap and stares at it. “What is it?”

“Well, perhaps if you open it?”

He ignores the sarcastic jab and carefully removes the tape around the box and opens it. Inside is a smaller box, about twelve inches and he pulls it out, tosses the first box into the backseat, and opens the second. His eyes widen as he stares at the blade resting in the velvet.

“…Wow…” he manages to mutter, and she smirks at the wheel.

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, she’s lovely,” he says, taking the knife out to admire it.

“She’s one of a kind too. Made by an old Blackfeet man in the mountains of Montana. One of the best blades men for diamond knives there is.” She reaches over and touches the hilt. “It’s made from a buffalo and carved with protection symbols.”

Ghost twists the knife in his grip, handling it like any other. “It’s just for show, isn’t it?”

“Oh no, sweetheart,” she says. “That knife is one hundred percent battle ready.” Her expression changes. “I had thought about an obsidian blade. Wanted to make a joke about having a knife as black as your heart, but then I figured why waste it when I can get you a knife I know you’ll use. Hence, the diamond knife.”

“It’s really made of diamonds?”

“Indeed. One of the strongest knives you’ll ever find on the face of this earth. It’ll make for quick work of jugulars and aortas.”

Ghost is seemingly satisfied as he stows the knife in the hide sheath and tucks it into his jacket; and she can feel the smirk he has on his face, knowing he’s itching to use it.

“Happy Birthday, Ghost.”

[imagineteamfreewill]

Gentle and Kind

Title: Gentle and Kind

Pairing: Prince!Sam Winchester x Queen!Reader

Word Count: 14k

Warnings: Arranged marriage, Christmas, threats, angst, fluff, and mentions of death, wounds, war, violence, and sex (nothing happens)

Summary: Y/N’s kingdom has been at war for a long time, and when King John offers her respite in his castle for Christmas, she eagerly agrees.

A/N: This fulfills trope #21 on my 25 Days of Tropes list! It was honestly going to be a short one shot, but it got away from me and now I think it’s the longest thing I’ve written all year. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy and that you had a safe and happy holiday season!

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Your muscles ache from weeks of fighting with the knights in your first garrison, and the dried blood in your hair is not likely to come out on its own, but for the first time in a long time, you’re relaxed. The carriage is driving through safe territory—the safest you’ve been in since Crowley invaded your kingdom and declared war on you and your people. There’s no fear of being ambushed here.

When King John sent a messenger to your war camp, you had been surprised. He isn’t known for reaching out, and to send a personal, royal messenger straight into war territory is a dangerous move. Nonetheless, the King of Ashela had invited you for a short respite in his castle, just in time for Christmas. You’d accepted after much consultation with your closest advisor, Sir Robert.

You begin traveling east to Ashela four days before Christmas Eve. Your armies travel west, back to Athos. Newer, freshly trained knights had arrived a few hours before your departure to relieve your weary soldiers and allow them rest of their own, though Sir Robert had carefully selected four of them to travel with you as your personal guard for the journey. They ride horseback outside the carriage, and Sir Robert is in the second carriage with the gifts you’ve brought for the royal family.

Charlie is resting across the carriage from you. She’s abandoned the formal dress that you know King John will expect of her as your lady-in-waiting, but you don’t blame her, nor do you correct her. Wearing trousers is easier nowadays, and you’ve done the same. You’ve gotten into the habit of wearing the traditional captain’s uniform, or even a soldier’s armor, rather than the gowns you used to wear before the war. Even as the horses carry you down the tidy forest road that leads to Ashela, you’ve donned your armor. It's a habit to put it on each morning, and you wanted to display your strength and empathy for your men even as you left them behind on the battlefield. 

You let out a restless sigh and shift in your seat, and your armor clanks as you move. You wince when something bumps into a bruise on your back. A small part of you wishes you’d chosen to wear something else, but there’s no point in stopping to take the armor off when you’re already so far into the journey.

“Do you think I’ve made the right choice?” you ask when Charlie looks over at you, no doubt checking if there’s something she can do to ease your discomfort. She’s a good friend, and you’re often grateful that you chose her to be your closest lady-in-waiting. “Do you think that leaving my men during this time is the right thing to do?”

In response, Charlie offers you a tired smile. She’d journeyed overnight to your castle—Eryas Court—then back to the war camp, in order to collect the gifts for John Winchester and his two sons. Even if they were inviting you for respite during a war, you didn’t dare show up empty-handed.

“My lady, you can only do so much. You may be a queen, but you are also just a woman,” she replies.

You sigh again and look out the window at the stars as you mull over the most recent battle plans your captains had shown you before you’d left the camp. The Elciums have been encroaching slowly upon the village that surrounds Eryas Court, but you’ve been able to keep them at bay since winter began. You’ve even managed to take back some of the territory they’d taken over the hot summer months.

The carriage falls back into silence, except for the clatter of the wheels and the constant rhythm of the horses’ hooves against the packed dirt. After a while, you find yourself nodding off with your head against the sturdy carriage wall. You don’t fight it, and you let yourself be lulled to sleep for the remainder of the journey.

Charlie’s hand over yours wakes you. You startle, and she sits back in her seat as the carriage rocks with your movement. Your hand immediately flies to where your sword would be, but you’ve unstrapped it from your side for the journey. Sir Robert had said it wouldn’t be proper for you to show up dressed for battle, so you’d met him halfway. He would keep hold of your sword, at least for the trip to Ashela. Once you arrive, he’s to return it directly to you for safekeeping. It was your father’s sword before it became yours, and you don’t trust many with it.

“It’s okay,” Charlie soothes, and you stare wide-eyed at her, gasping slightly for air. “We’ve arrived in Ashela. You slept all night, and for most of the morning.”

Nodding, you close your eyes. It’s shocking that you weren’t plagued with nightmares. The last time you left the war camp, you struggled to sleep, even in the chambers where you’d spent every night since birth, at least until the Elciums invaded.

Your mouth is dry and you swallow a few times to try and get the sandy feeling to abate. You wish you had some water, or at least something to drink. There’s a knock on the carriage window and you flinch away, sliding toward the center of the bench.

You sense Charlie shifting in her seat. “It’s one of the guards,” she says a moment later. “Are you ready to meet King John?” 

You’ve never been to Ashela before, nor have you met John and his sons. They’ve been fine neighbors, however, and you have no complaints. You hear what others say about them—the Winchester sons are strong soldiers and scholars, and King John is exacting in everything he does. They’d be formidable foes, and you’re here to make sure that your kingdoms are allied, if only informally.

You nod again, and you open your eyes as Charlie pushes open the carriage door. You lift your chin as the sun immediately floods in through the opening.

Charlie exits first, and she helps clear a path for your exit. A strong hand is offered and you use it to climb from the carriage. Your legs are stiff from sitting so long, especially after months of fighting, and you have to bite back a groan as your muscles stretch.

“Your Majesty,” a deep voice greets.

The winter sun is practically blinding and it takes you a second to get your wits about you. Tall, lush evergreens stand in clusters around the castle, reaching toward the bright blue sky. They’re interspersed by dark green bushes and several boulders. A forest continues behind the clearing you stand in, and the trees grow so closely that light can’t reach through their branches. The darkness this creates is both intriguing and a bit terrifying.

Snow covers the grounds and all the trees surrounding it, except for a gray stone path that has been cleared for you. King John and his entourage stand on a larger patch of gray stone a few feet away, and you bow politely in his direction. He returns the gesture.

“King John,” you say. “Thank you for your kind invitation.”

“You’re very welcome, Queen Y/N. I expect your journey was a pleasant one?”

“As pleasant as can be expected.”

You can feel everyone’s eyes on you as Charlie adjusts the chainmail hood you’ve let fall from your head, revealing the blood caked in your hair and the healing cut that follows your hairline. There’s a sizable bruise on your temple as well, from when an Elcium knight hit you with his shield.

The man to John’s right clears his throat and steps forward with a small bow. “Your Majesty, I’m Prince Dean, head of Ashela’s royal guard. Please allow me to provide you with new armor while we repair yours, and your knights’,” he adds, gesturing to the four men standing near you.

Each man stands with one hand at his side and the other resting on the hilt of his sword, and though they hold their heads high, you recognize the weariness in their stance and in their taut expressions.

“That’s very generous, Prince Dean. Thank you.” You answer with a bow of your own, and he smiles kindly before you turn your eyes to the man on the other side of the king.

He’s tall, taller than any of the men in the King’s entourage and in your guard, and his hair just barely brushes over the collar of his jacket. It’s almost chestnut in the light. When he smiles at you, the urge to smile back is so strong that you can’t fight it. You meet his eyes, and you smile for the first time in a while.

“Prince Samuel, Your Majesty,” he says. He bows, short and sweet. “If you’re ready, I can show you and your lady to your chambers. I’m sure you’re eager to rest.”

You bow back, still smiling. “Thank you, Your Highness.” You nod politely to the King and to Prince Dean, then follow Prince Samuel toward the stone castle at the end of the cleared path. Two of your men travel with you, and Charlie is close behind you to the right, but the other two knights stay with Sir Robert. You realize only as you enter the castle that you’ve left your sword behind.

Samuel leads you through the halls of his home, explaining the history of various paintings and rooms, but you only catch bits and pieces. He walks quickly, and while your armor is protective, it’s made to help you fight on horseback, not take extensive walking tours through beautiful castles.

“Here are your chambers,” Samuel finally says, and you clatter to a stop.

Charlie bumps into you, and she grabs your arm for stability. You catch Samuel’s eyes flickering down to her hands on your arm before he collects himself. Your time on the battlefield has caused your decorum to slip just enough that you know you’re being much too informal for the occasion. Suddenly very conscious of your mistakes, you clear your throat and straighten your posture, fixing him with the most composed, diplomatic look you can muster.

“Thank you, Your Highness.” You allow one of the guards to enter after Samuel opens the door, leaving you feeling a little more exposed. You’ve grown used to being surrounded by people fighting for your kingdom—fighting for you. “Your father was very kind to invite me here. We’ve brought gifts for him, and for you and Prince Dean.” You gesture back the way you’d come. “I’m sure that Sir Robert, my advisor, has already passed them along.”

Samuel dips his head in thanks, smiling. “We’re happy to have you. We’ve been trying to show more diplomacy than in the past.”

You raise an eyebrow. Most kingdoms are not so open about their goals, at least in your experience.

The guard exits and nods his approval of the chambers you’ve been given, and Charlie takes that as a sign to enter and make sure the room is prepared to her standards as well. You don’t move.

“Ashela has always been diplomatic,” you carefully reply. You’re not sure what to make of his disclosure. 

“But not always welcoming. I’m trying to change that.”

“You? Not your father?”

Samuel lifts his chin slightly at the question. There’s a hint of pride in his expression, but none in his voice as he answers, “My father has put me in charge of our relationships with neighboring kingdoms. This is one of many steps I’m— we’re taking,” he corrects, “to strengthen those bonds.”

“I see.”

You glance through the open doorway, where Charlie is instructing a chambermaid how warm you like your rooms and how often to tend to the fire. Mentally, you file away the information that Sam has just given you, then turn your focus on more concrete matters.

“I suppose there are festivities I should like to attend?”

He nods, and you can feel his gaze still on your face, even as you watch your friend peek out the windows to see the view from your chambers. “Indeed. There’s a feast tonight, shortly after sundown. I can instruct someone to fetch you.”

“I would like that very much, Prince Samuel,” you say.

You turn back to him, and he takes that as a cue to take your hand and kiss the back of your knuckles, where the skin is rough and scarred from so much fighting. The gesture is simple, but it surprises you nonetheless. Prince Samuel is gentle and chivalrous. It’s been a long time since you’ve been treated that way. Your hand seems to tremble as you pull away, and your breath catches over a lump in your throat.

“Very well. I will see you tonight, Ma’am,” Samuel says. He bows low. It’s a sign of respect he’s not obligated to, and it makes you want to cry. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep over the past few weeks or maybe it’s something else, but to be treated like a queen—not just a captain—is something you didn’t know you’d missed.

“No need for titles,” you find yourself saying, your voice thick with sudden emotion. “You may call me Y/N, if you wish.”

If Sir Robert were here, he’d be interrupting and excusing away your brash actions, but you’re practically alone and the only remaining guard won’t speak up, even if he wanted to. It’s up to Sam to respond, and he only stops and stares at you for a long moment. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest as you wait, desperately hoping he won’t be cruel.

“Sam,” he finally replies. He offers you a small smile. “You may call me Sam.”

You nod and smile wide, glossy-eyed as Sam turns and heads further down the hallway, opposite the direction he’d first brought you. Once he’s around the corner, you step into the warmly lit chambers, where Charlie has moved onto the wardrobe of clothes that has been prepared for you. Clearly, they hadn’t expected you to show up with all of your finery, and you’re thankful that they had the forethought to provide something for you.

The other guard exits and closes the door behind him, allowing you privacy as the two knights take their places in the hallway. You stay close to the door, where you can see the whole space.

“The Prince seems very polite,” Charlie says after a few moments. Her back is to you as she sorts through the dresses.

“Very.” You don’t say anything more.

“And handsome, too,” she prods.

“Charlie,” you warn. “I have other, more important matters than a polite and handsome prince.”

She sighs and you can picture her rolling her eyes at you. Finally, she pulls a plain dress in your favorite color from the wardrobe, then turns and holds it up for you.

“This will do for now,” she decides. “But I’ll have to find you something else for the feast.”

You glance at her, not bothering to ask how she already knows about the feast, before turning in a circle to take in the enormous room that has been given to you for your respite. It’s bigger than the counsel tent at the war camp. The bed itself could fit the entire map table, and the size of the fireplace reminds you of the enormous bonfire that the men use to cook their meals. The walls and floor are made of the same tan stone as the rest of the castle, but the stone is so smooth that it reflects the light from the flickering flames. There’s a dark wood door in the corner, which you guess leads to a room for Charlie, if Ashelan castles are built like your own.

Everywhere you look, there are lavish curtains, tapestries, and paintings framed in gold. There’s a mound of pillows to lounge on by the fire, and several dark wood chairs standing behind them in a semicircle. Their carvings are so elaborate that you hesitate to sit in them. The bed is draped with soft, plush fabrics in deep greens, reds, and a creamy white that reminds you of the milk your nursemaid brought for you as a young girl. Evergreen boughs are wound around the posts of the bed, though they’re partially hidden by the fabric curtains that have been fastened against the wood. The whole room has been decorated with more sweet-smelling pine branches, as well as clumps of red berries that glisten in the light from the fire and the candles in the window. It’s amazing to you that the candles are already lit, given that it’s only midday, but Ashela has many customs that you’ve always found strange. For instance, Prince Dean was married several years ago in an arranged marriage. Your father had explained the ancient custom to you, explaining the benefits to each kingdom. You still remember that conversation so clearly, and even though your father has long since passed, his words are forever imprinted in your memory.

“Sometimes doing what’s best for your people isn’t immediately what’s best for you, Y/N, but if you’re lucky enough, the two will align.”

“It’s too much,” you murmur, and you escape back out into the hallway, leaving the door to your chambers wide open as you flee. Your heart is racing again and it feels like the walls are starting to close in around you. The panic is irrational. You know it is, but you can’t stop it as it pushes you forward down the hallway.

The guards give you worried looks, but you ignore them as you hurry around the corner where Sam had disappeared. You walk quickly, following the sound of loud voices until you reach an open-air chamber where Sam and his brother are lounging at a table. Two gold goblets sit in front of them, and a candlelit tree has been placed in the corner of the room. An enormous dark fur blankets the floor. The fireplace here is as big as the one in your guest chambers, if not bigger.

Both men stand as soon as they see you.

“Your Majesty,” Dean greets, and he frowns slightly when he looks at you properly. “Is everything alright?”

You clear your throat in an attempt to compose yourself. “I desire a moment alone,” and then you add, “With Sam.”

Dean raises an eyebrow and glances at his brother, who nods slightly but doesn’t say a word.

“Very well,” Dean says. He picks up his goblet and drinks the last of its contents, tilting his head back to get the last drops. “I’ll be in my study.” He nods politely at you before leaving through a passageway just to the right of the tree.

Sam waits until the sound of his brother’s footsteps has disappeared completely before he speaks up.

“Is everything alright?” he asks, and you shake your head.

“I apologize, but I must ask for new chambers.” Sam’s face twists in confusion and, predictably, he opens his mouth to ask why. You continue before he has the chance. “I have been fighting with my men for many moons, and the rooms you have given me are much too lavish. I’m afraid I simply won’t be comfortable in something so big, as foolish as it sounds.”

Though your words are composed and formal, you wring your hands in front of you, hoping Sam will ignore the way you can’t stop fidgeting. You feel so flighty that it makes you irritated even with yourself.

His expression turns sympathetic. “I see. There must be something I can do to convince you to stay, Y/N. Those chambers have been carefully prepared for you by some of our most trusted servants. If I were to request the change, I’m afraid they might take offense.”

“You care deeply for them,” you say, quieter now. Something about him and the sound of his voice calms you, and the anxiety you’d felt only moments before has started to diminish.

“I do,” he answers. “They work hard, and they deserve to be treated with respect.”

“I agree.” You nod and fall silent, looking down at your hands. Suddenly, you feel very foolish to have searched him out to ask for something so trivial. You’re a queen, after all. You should be used to nicer things than this. You shouldn’t be so overwhelmed by a room so similar to the ones from your childhood.

“It wouldn’t be offensive, however,” Sam begins, and you look up at him, holding your breath, “to only have one Ashelan maid to assist you.”

You exhale a small sigh of relief, as small as you can manage without being completely obvious. “I suppose one would be sufficient. She could help Charlie. Lady Charlie, I mean.”

He smiles. “I’m sure Lady Charlie will grow accustomed to our castle soon enough. She seems very intelligent.”

“Oh?” You can’t help but ask what he means. Charlie is smart, there’s no denying it, but many men have mistaken her for a frail, unassuming creature before. Sam would be one of the first to correctly identify her.

“She has the same look in her eyes as you. You are not one to be underestimated. I’ve heard about the way you fight on the battlefield.”

Before you can respond, there’s a noise in the hallway and you look over your shoulder to see what it is. One of your guards in the entrance. Your stomach sinks, knowing that he’s most likely been sent to retrieve you.

“I should allow you to get settled,” Sam says. He nods politely at the guard before looking back at you. “Though I hope you will tell us about your traditions in Athos at the feast. I am eager to learn more.”

You watch him for a moment, judging if he’s earnest in his request, and then you nod. Offering him a small smile, you follow the guard back to your guest chambers, where Charlie is waiting patiently for you, a warm bath already drawn.

The night is hard. After your bath and a meal brought up by the Ashelan maid, you try to rest before the feast, but the nightmares come quickly this time. You toss and turn, and you wake up screaming. The guards burst into your room as Charlie rushes to you from where she’s been inspecting your armor for what needs the most care and attention. 

Once it’s determined that you aren’t in any danger, she convinces the guards to withdraw. She holds you then, letting you cry in her arms as you tremble, remembering the horrors of the dream and the reality that shapes them. You cry yourself to sleep, and you’re certain that you only stay asleep because Charlie decides to stay with you. She tucks you back under the heavy blankets and drags one of the carved chairs over to your bedside. There, she curls up with one hand holding yours and the other propping her head up so she can rest as well. You have minimal nightmares after that, though her presence beside you is reassuring enough that the few times you do wake, you aren’t too afraid to fall back asleep.

You sleep through the feast, much to your dismay. John, Sam, and Dean are waiting for you when you enter the Great Hall to break your fast with them the next morning, however.

“I trust you slept well,” Dean says to you once you’re settled in the seat across from him. Charlie sits beside you, and Sir Robert is on your right, across from Prince Sam. John is at the head of the table. There’s another man across the table, opposite Charlie, and another on her left. You don’t recognize them, but you suspect that they’re friends of Sam and Dean, or that they’re the lords-in-waiting. John doesn’t seem to have an advisor with him, but there’s an empty seat at the far end of the table.

“As well as can be expected,” you reply. Your smile is strained, but you offer it anyway, then move your hands out of the way of the servant who comes to bring you your meal. “I apologize for missing the feast. I so badly wanted to come, but it was best that I stayed in my chambers last night.”

“We understand completely,” John tells you. “We are not strangers to war.”

You nod, and everyone goes back to eating. The Great Hall is silent. It’s a complete change from your meals in your tent at the war camp. Though you always dined with just Charlie and Sir Robert, you’d always been able to hear what was happening outside the tent walls. There’d be shouting and laughter, songs and teasing. Sometimes there was crying and men groaning through their injuries, but you ate those meals quickly.

As you eat, you look around the room. The Great Hall is decorated similarly to your chambers, with evergreen boughs, red berries, and candles that burn even in daylight, but there’s also an enormous tree at the far end of the hall. It’s lit with candles, just like the one you’d seen when you’d searched out Sam the day before. The tree stretches dozens of feet up, and you wonder how old it must be to have grown so tall. 

“We do not decorate like this in Athos,” you say, and all three Winchesters look at you in mild surprise. A bit embarrassed by their eyes on you, you falter slightly, but the interest on Sam’s face when you don’t continue spurs you on.

“You use plants here.” You gesture to the tree. “But we decorate with wooden carvings of our ancestors, and woven tapestries that we hang beside every door and window.”

“What are the tapestries?” Sam asks. His father and brother have gone back to eating, even though they still watch and listen, but he’s set down his fork and is now giving you his full attention.

“They’re different for each family. My family has tapestries that show the beginnings of our kingdom and the first king of Athos, and over the years, I have created many simple ones as gifts.”

“I’m sure they were wonderful,” Sam says. He holds your gaze for a moment before he smiles, and you smile back.

There’s a fluttering in your stomach. The clinking of John’s fork on the table makes you look away. There’s heat in your cheeks, much to your chagrin, and you exhale shakily. It’s strange to be so rattled. You’re not even sure why the conversation is affecting you so much. You’ve talked about Athoan traditions countless times before today with countless royals and monarchs. Something about Sam simply shakes you to your core.

John sips from his goblet, then gestures at Sam with the cup before he sets it back on the long table. “Samuel will show you the grounds today. I’m sure he can answer any questions you have about Ashela.”

Somewhat surprised that the King doesn’t plan to meet with you himself, you nod. It’s not atypical for kings to pass you off to one of their advisors, but you don’t mind it in this instance. You’re still weary from battle, and Sam is excellent company.

“Very well,” you reply, dipping your head just a little. You pick up your own goblet to take a sip. The drink is warm, thick, and rich, and you frown a little before peering inside the cup.

“Is everything alright?” Dean asks.

You nod and glance over at Lady Charlie. She picks up her own goblet and takes a sip as you set down yours. She pauses for a moment, her cup paused in midair, then smiles.

“Hot chocolate,” she murmurs. “It’s a traditional drink here.”

Raising an eyebrow at her, you whisper, “How do you know that?”

She gives you a sly smile and shakes her head. You know the look—she’ll tell you later.

You sit back in your seat and turn your attention to Dean, who’s still watching you. His father and Sam are both watching you now too, and Sam is frowning with obvious concern.

“Everything is fine,” you reassure them. “I’ve never had hot chocolate before. It’s delicious, John. You have fine cooks here in Ashela.”

He nods in response and stands. You stand as well, as does the rest of the table, and you watch as the King leaves through a door on one side of the Great Hall. 

Dean clears his throat. “I have duties to attend to, brother.” He claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Remember that Father said—”

Sam cuts him off. “I remember. Thank you, Dean.”

A moment later, Dean excuses himself, and you watch him leave, too. Sir Robert mumbles some excuse and bows to Sam before leaving as well, no doubt to study policies and look over ledgers in his own guest chambers. He’s always been a bit of a recluse, and there’s little privacy at the war camp. You suspect he’ll spend most of his time hidden away while you’re on respite.

You turn to Charlie. “You should rest,” you quietly tell her. “I know that you did not sleep much last night—”

“I’m fine,” she replies.

Shaking your head, you grab her hands and squeeze. “Please. I’ll feel better, even if you just relax by the fire. I feel awful that I’ve kept you up.”

Charlie nods, though you can tell she’s reluctant to leave you by the way her eyes cut to Sam. He’s pointedly staring at the candlelit evergreen and sipping his hot chocolate, giving you the semblance of privacy even though he’s mere feet away.

You squeeze her hands again and offer her an earnest smile. “I’m okay. I don’t mind being with him,” you say, soft enough that you’re certain Sam can’t hear from across the table. “He’s… nice.”

This makes her smile wide, and you can practically see all the possibilities she’s conjuring up in her head.

“Nice?” Charlie teases.

You playfully scoff and drop her hands, smoothing your skirt. Turning to Sam, you say, “I’m finished eating, if you’re ready to begin.”

Sam hums and sets his goblet down. “Will Lady Charlie be joining us?”

She takes that as her cue to shake her head and curtsy. After years of practice, the action is smooth, despite the fact that she hasn’t worn a formal gown in almost a year. She’d complained in private to you that morning that she wished the two of you could continue wearing trousers, and you’d agreed. The dresses that have been provided for you in Ashela are all too big, and you’d spent part of your morning being poked and prodded by the castle seamstress as she frantically altered the bodice to fit you. They might’ve fit before the war, but the fighting has given you more lean muscle than anything. Your own dresses back at Eryas Court will likely need altering when you finally return home.

“I have other things that require my attention, my Queen,” Charlie says, and she gracefully exits the Great Hall, though not before throwing you a meaningful look before the doors close behind her.

“Shall we?” Sam asks.

You jump, surprised to find that he’s come around to your side of the table and stopped alongside you while you watched your friend depart. He offers his arm and after a very brief moment of hesitation, you take it.

You and Sam traverse the grounds on foot, and he shows you the snow-covered gardens, the stables, the knights’ training field, and the arboretum where his mother is buried. Finally, he leads you to a frozen lake set far back from the castle. It’s surrounded by the same pine trees that seem to be everywhere in Ashela, and there’s a small wooden hut sheltered by the two largest. From inside, Sam pulls out sharpened blades with leather straps. It takes you a moment to realize that they’re for skating on the ice.

“Would you like to skate?” he asks.

“I’ve never been skating before,” you admit, and you look at the lake. It’s smooth and glossy, with few imperfections on its icy surface. You can’t help but wonder if it’s actually safe. Though ice skating has grown popular in Athos since the start of your reign, you’ve never allowed your court to participate. You’ve heard too many tales of the ice breaking under the skater’s weight. A small girl in the village had drowned just last winter.

“I’ll keep you safe, Y/N. You have my word.”

Scanning Sam’s face, you try to determine whether or not you can trust him, not just to lead you around and show you the castle grounds, but with your life. 

You place your hand in his after a long moment of deliberation. “You’ll have to show me how.”

He smiles, and it’s almost as bright as the sun on the snow. You let him lead you by the hand to the edge of the lake, where a downed tree has been positioned lengthwise. Sam helps you to sit, and then he very carefully kneels in the fresh, powdery snow to help attach the blades to your boots. The knees of his trousers are soaked with snow when he stands, but he doesn’t seem to care as he sits beside you and attaches the blades to his own boots. He helps you up with both hands, encouraging you as you wobble and sway in his grip.

“Move slowly,” he advises as he steps onto the lake, leading you onto the ice as he skates backwards.

It takes all your effort and concentration to stay upright at first, but with Sam’s encouragement and gentle guidance, you quickly get your bearings. You’re able to skate around the lake on your own after only an hour’s practice.

“You’re a natural!” Sam says as he skates beside you. His pace is surely slower than it would be on his own, and you smile over at him.

“Your assistance was a great help,” you tell him. “Thank you.”

He shakes his head a little. “I have the feeling that you would have been fine on your own.”

You fall into silence as you skate side by side, but a quarter hour later, you carefully stop a few feet away from the fallen tree. Sam stops as well and he holds his hands out to help you just in case something is wrong.

“Y/N?” he asks.

“You’ve been skating for a long time, haven’t you? For several years, at least?”

Though he seems confused by your sudden question, Sam nods. “Since I was a young boy.”

Smiling, you gesture with one hand toward the open expanse of the lake. “Show me what you can do, then. You must be very skilled.”

“I don’t know if “skilled” is the correct term…” He rubs the back of his neck with his dark green mittens, and you chuckle. His nose is pink, as are his ears from where they peek out from his furry hat.

“I’m not your queen, so I can’t command you, but I am your guest. Please show me?” you ask.

He’s smiling again. “Very well. Do you want to sit?” He gestures towards the tree, the other hand already reaching for your elbow.

You shake your head. “I will stand, thank you. Now go!” You shove at him, not enough to put him off-balance, but enough that he laughs and ducks his head before he skates away.

Sam is skilled. It only takes you a minute to figure out that he had been telling the truth—he’d been skating a long, long time. He moves with great ease over the ice, and you marvel at his speed. He flies by you three times before he slows, then stops sharply. A shower of ice flies up into the air before it rains down again. His breath comes out in heavy white puffs of fog and his chest heaves with exertion, but you’re smiling wide, giddy from the show.

You clap for him. “You underestimate yourself! You’re very fast!”

He laughs as he catches his breath. “Dean and I would race as children.” He points toward the far edge of the lake, where there’s a large gap between two trees. “There’s a river there, and we’d race from here to where it meets the forest road.” He pants for a second before looking back at you. “We should return. We’ve been out in the cold for a long time.”

Nodding in agreement, you let Sam lead you off the ice and back to the log, where you clumsily unstrap your skates. He takes them and puts them away while you fix your skirts, hat, and boots. When he returns, you stand and take his arm, and the two of you head back to the castle.

You eat a small meal when you return—mostly bread, cheese, and sausage—and it’s while you’re eating that you ask Sam for a second tour of the castle. He’s more than happy to oblige.

“All of these paintings,” you say as he escorts you down a long, decorated hallway, “They have similar styles, but the others you’ve shown me do not. Who painted these?”

“I did,” Sam replies.

You stop to stare at him. “You did?” You can’t hide your surprise, though you know it’s rude. “You painted them? All of them?” There must be at least two dozen in the hall.

He nods, and his cheeks are a little pink, though the castle is much too warm for it to be from the cold. “Yes, all of them.”

Turning back to the landscape he’d just named, you marvel at it. The colors are vibrant, matching the rest of the castle, and the gold details glimmer in the candlelight. Though the sun is going down outside and there’s little light coming in from the windows, you can still see everything clearly.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Would you like to see where I paint them?” he asks.

You look away from the painting to nod. “I would like that very much, yes.”

Sam smiles and offers you his arm again, and he begins to lead you down a narrow hallway that you hadn’t noticed before. You would have labeled it a servant’s passage had the lush carpet not continued down its length. There are wooden doors every few feet, but Sam ignores them and keeps walking.

After several minutes of walking, you come to the end of the hall and the last door, which is slightly higher than the rest. There are two steps leading up to it, but Sam needs neither to step into the room. You opt to take them, and he places a hand over your head so you don’t hit it against the wooden beams that border the opening.

Though the door is smaller than normal, the room is not. The ceiling stretches high up into one of the castle’s towers, and windows let light in even from high above. The wooden floor is swept clean, and an easel is set up near the largest of three windows at eye level. It’s big enough that you could sit in it and let your legs dangle outside of the tower. The window faces the arboretum, and if you squint, you can see the frozen lake in the distance.

A table with paints and brushes is set up beside the easel. Sam approaches it so naturally that you’re sure he must spend a lot of time in this room. 

“It reminds me of my study back home,” you quietly say, and Sam looks over at you as he picks up a brush and dips it into one of the pots of pigment.

“Do you like to paint?”

You shake your head with a small smile. “It’s not one of my talents. But I like to look at art. My castle is full of paintings, tapestries, and carvings.” You pause and watch as he adds brushstrokes to the painting on the easel, easily picking up where he’d left off. “You must paint something for my castle before I leave.”

“What would you like?” he asks.

You pause and look around the room as you think. There are several paintings leaning up against the rounded walls, along with piles of supplies that look like they might topple over any second.

“Could you paint the lake? In winter?” you finally request.

The room is quiet for a moment as Sam paints. When he doesn’t reply, you look over at him. He’s staring at the canvas in front of him with his brush in mid-air, but then he turns and meets your eyes, as if he can feel you watching him.

“Why not in summer, when the grass is green and the sunlight makes the water glow? Or in spring, when the wildflowers are blooming? Or in autumn, when the wind blows clouds through the sky?”

He describes the seasons so well that you can picture the paintings in your mind, but you shake your head, not looking away.

“No. I want the lake in winter, so I can remember skating for the first time,” you explain.

He stares at you, and you stare back. Your heart feels like it’s out of control and you have to force yourself to break eye contact. All the while, your thoughts are scattered and though you know in your head that you should be more composed and that you shouldn’t be alone with him in such a remote part of the castle where there are no guards, Sam makes you feel safe.

“We should prepare for dinner,” he finally murmurs, breaking the spell that had fallen over the room.

You glance up at the windows to find that the sun has disappeared from the horizon. Darkness is creeping in, and shadows are stretching across the floor of Sam’s tower. Have you truly been so distracted that the time flew by that quickly?

Nodding in agreement, you step back out into the hallway and make your way down the narrow passage. Once in the main hall, Sam escorts you to your room in silence. Charlie is waiting for you there, and she helps you change into a more formal gown for dinner. She doesn’t utter a single word about the strange expression on your face, nor does she mention the fact that you’ve been without a guard all day.

The dinner is less formal than you were anticipating, and you fall into comfortable conversation with the King. He knew your father before you were born, though the last time they’d met was when you were a young girl. He tells you story after story of their times together, and you’re learning about their last visit when one of the Ashelan guards posted outside the Great Hall bursts in.

“Your Majesty,” he greets, hurriedly bowing to the King. “A messenger has just arrived for Queen Y/N. It’s an urgent matter.”

“Send them in,” John replies. He gestures toward the door and you stand as a haggard soldier in your colors staggers through. He’s supported on one side by another Ashelan guard, and your blood runs cold at the frantic look in your soldier’s eyes.

“Your Majesty.” He starts to bow but loses his balance. He only remains upright thanks to the guard beside him. He’s gasping for air.

“Peace, soldier,” you tell him, though you feel anything but. Your heart is pounding in your chest again and your hand trembles as you place it on the back of your chair. You can feel everyone’s eyes on you. “What news do you bring me?”

“A m— message from King Crowley, Ma’am. He says that if you do not surrender by Christmas, he will take Eryas Court.”

You stare at him for a moment, then scoff. “He cannot so boldly assume I will surrender! Have our armies held the camp?” you ask.

“No, Ma’am,” the soldier replies, and it feels like the floor has fallen out from underneath you. Your stomach twists as the soldier continues, “His men slaughtered our armies, and they have infiltrated the village. They have surrounded Eryas. The men returning to their families are at the keep, and are holding it as best as they are able, but they are tired, Ma’am.”

Lady Charlie gasps beside you, and you lift your chin, silently sending up a prayer. Crowley has caught you off guard, but you can’t show it.

You turn to look at John. “Is there a room I can use to speak with Sir Robert and send word to my captains?”

John nods and stands, directing his attention to the first guard. “Prepare my study for Queen Y/N and Sir Robert. Escort them there once it is ready, and have one of the servants available to fulfill any requests she might have,” he orders.

The guard nods and bows before hurrying back out into the hallway.

“And you,” John continues, looking at the guard supporting your weary soldier. “Take him to see the doctor. Get him a meal and fresh clothes, and prepare him a place to sleep.”

The soldier still has his eyes on you, and you quickly cross to him before the Ashelan guard can take him away. His entire body is covered with blood, sweat, and grime, and he smells like the worst parts of the battlefield. His legs shake when he struggles to stand straighter as you approach.

“You can trust the people here,” you gently tell the man. “Thank you for what you have done. You have brought your people great honor. Now, rest.”

The man salutes you and you bow your head, then watch in silence as the guard leads him out of the Great Hall and towards the servant’s door you’d passed earlier that day on your tour. Once he’s out of sight, you turn and face Sir Robert, who has moved to stand at the end of the table closest to you.

“I apologize for cutting our dinner short, John,” you say. He nods once. “Can I ask that Lady Charlie be escorted back to my chambers once she is finished dining?”

Charlie stands from her seat. “I’m already finished, my Queen, and if it pleases you, I shall stay to assist you.”

You could cry at the loyalty and care from your friend, and you almost do. You catch yourself, however, and you swallow the lump that forms in your throat. John and Dean are talking in hushed tones, but Sam is watching you. His eyes are sad and you have to look away as soon as you notice. You’re barely holding it together as is, and you’re sure that he can tell.

The guard assigned by King John to escort you to his study appears in the doorway, and you quickly follow after him. He leads you down the main hallway and up a set of stairs to a dark wooden door that you’d glimpsed earlier. He opens it in silence, then closes it once you, Sir Robert, and Charlie are inside. 

Almost immediately, you brace your hands on the large table in the center of the room and hang your head. A sob escapes you and Charlie places a comforting hand on your back as you let out a few more. The tears run across your cheeks to the bridge of your nose, then drip onto the table beneath you as you cry.

Sir Robert stands in silence until you’re able to compose yourself a few minutes later. He’s watching the flames flicker in the fireplace with his back to you.

“How many men have we lost today?” you ask, dabbing at your face with the handkerchief Charlie has somehow produced.

“ There were 6,000 in the garrison when we left,” he answers. There’s no emotion in his voice and a small part of you feels ashamed for crying, but you push that thought away before it can fester.

“And how many do you think are defending the keep right now?”

Sir Robert turns. His expression is grave and the light and shadows from the fire deepen the wrinkles on his face. 

“Less than 5,000, if I had to guess.”

You sigh heavily and look back down at the table, then straighten until you’re standing tall again. You cross the room to stare out the window. From the King’s study, you can see the gardens, which means you’re on the opposite side of the castle from the tower where Sam paints. Silently, you start to pace the length of the large fur covering the floor between two shelves of ancient books. Lady Charlie sits at the table while Sir Robert remains by the fireplace, and both of them watch as you walk back and forth.

Nobody speaks until you stop, but there’s a knock at the door right before you can admit that you have no solution that won’t end in a sorrowful amount of bloodshed. You turn to look as the door opens, revealing King John.

“Y/N,” he greets. “I may have something that will assist you.”

You turn to face him fully. “What is it?”

He walks to an elaborately carved chest on the mantle and carefully removes a rolled parchment. It’s sealed with wax, but there are two seals. Curious, you meet John at the table. Charlie stands to make room for the two of you. It only takes a second for you to recognize the crests imprinted into the seals.

“What is this? Why does this hold my family’s crest?” you question.

“And mine,” he adds. “This decree was created and signed by your father and I during our last visit together. I promised to keep it safe until the right time had come.”

“The right time had come? For what, John? How come I’ve never heard of this?”

He glances at you, then breaks the seals and unrolls the parchment. It’s yellowed with time, but the words are written in black ink and they’re as clear as day.

“Let it be known that on this day, Y/N Y/L/N of Athos and Samuel Winchester of Ashela are betrothed in marriage. Upon agreement from both parties or in time of need, they shall be wed and the marriage shall be consummated within a fortnight,” John reads, and you feel yourself falter. Charlie places a hand on your back to help keep you upright.

“Athos shall be ruled by Y/N as the heir apparent, and any heirs produced by Y/N and Samuel shall become the next heirs. An alliance shall be formed between Athos and Ashela at the time of marriage. This betrothal can only be broken by death or upon act of God.”

At the bottom of the parchment, there are two signatures. Only one is familiar to you, and the world tilts around you for a moment when you see it.

“I beg your pardon,” you say, your mouth suddenly very dry. “But this cannot be true. I would know if I were already betrothed.”

John places the parchment on the table and it rolls up again. “Nonetheless, your father has signed it and stamped it with his royal seal. You are betrothed to my son, and in agreement with the decree, our kingdoms will be allied after your marriage is consummated.”

A dark shadow in the doorway makes you look up. Sam ducks into the room, his eyes immediately scanning the people in the study. When he sees the distress on your face, he frowns, but he answers to his father first.

“You called for me, Father?” he asks.

“I did.”

John picks up the parchment again and hands it to Sam, who unrolls it and reads it over. You watch his eyes scan the words once, twice, then three times before he looks up. He glances at you for a split-second.

“This must be false,” Sam finally says. “I would know if I was betrothed! You would have told me a long time ago!”

“Why do you think I never pressured you to marry, as I did your brother?” John asks.

Sam clearly doesn’t have an answer because he turns his attention to where you’re standing behind his father. “Did you know about this?” he asks.

You shake your head, hands clasped in front of you. “I did not. I’m just as shocked as you are.”

“I can’t believe that you are treating Y/N like this! She is in the middle of trying to save her people and you’re scheming!” Sam accuses. He’s glowering down at his father, even though he’s only a few inches taller.

John scoffs. “Samuel—”

“You say that this was created when we were children? And yet it has remained hidden from us until now? Why wouldn’t my father have told me about my own betrothal?” you ask, relieved that Sam is just as angry and surprised as you. It stings a little that he seems disinterested in marrying you, but you have more important problems than your feelings.

Sir Robert speaks up from where he still stands by the fireplace, and you whirl to face him when he says, “The betrothal is real. I witnessed the decree when it was written.” His expression softens when you meet his eyes, shocked at his revelation. “I had just been appointed as your father’s advisor. It was the first decree I helped him create.”

You can’t help but feel betrayed. “You helped him? All this time, you knew about this, and yet you never said a word?”

He nods, and there seems to be genuine regret in his eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Why now?” Sam questions. “Of all the times, Father, why would you tell us now?”

John gestures to the parchment in Sam’s hands. “You’re to marry whenever you agree there’s an opportune time, or if there’s ever a time of great need. If you marry, an alliance will be formed between our kingdoms. I can send our armies to help defeat Elcium and save Y/N’s people. Your people, once the marriage is consummated. Your enemies will become my enemies.”

Torn between a mix of anger and humiliation, you turn your back on the men, taking a few steps away from the table to stare out the window. Has it really come to this? Will you really have to marry to save your people?

There’s a shuffling of papers behind you, and the crackle of the fire, but nobody dares to speak. You know that they’re all waiting for you to make the decision. Though you’ve only known him for a few days, you’re certain that Sam would never force you to marry him and follow through with the decree. 

“Would you form an alliance without marriage?” you finally ask, without turning around.

A beat passes, and then John answers, “Think over what I’ve said, Y/N. I will be in the Great Hall, awaiting news.”

He leaves after that, and you hear Sir Robert and Charlie excuse themselves as well, which leaves you alone with Sam. He keeps his distance from you as you continue to stare out the window with your arms wrapped around yourself. Despite the fire, you’re cold all the way down to your bones, and you shiver.

“What are you thinking?” Sam finally asks. His voice is gentle, hesitant even, in the silence of the study.

“I don’t know.” You shake your head. “This isn’t…”

“Did you dream of marrying someday?”

Surprised at the question, you have to stay quiet and mull it over. Then, after a few moments, you nod. “Yes,” you tell him, quieter than before. “Someday. I knew it was probably expected of me too, but then Crowley invaded…”

“And you had to put the needs of your people before your own desires,” Sam guesses.

“It’s my duty as queen.”

Your father’s words return to your head, ringing loud and clear as a bell.

“Sometimes doing what’s best for your people isn’t immediately what’s best for you, Y/N, but if you’re lucky enough, the two will align.”

Turning around, you smooth your skirt and meet Sam’s gaze. “As is marrying you,” you say.

“You’re not going to oppose the decree?” he asks. Sam sounds genuinely surprised, and he steps closer. He’s still in his dinner clothes, though you know he had time to change. 

“I don’t have a choice,” you admit. “If I don’t marry you, your father won’t aid my men, and my people will die. My kingdom will be taken and I’ll spend the rest of my life in prison or as a servant to Crowley, unless he decides to kill me, which is unlikely. Crowley is a ruthless king, and he tortures for sport.”

Something hardens in Sam’s eyes, and his jaw clenches. “You can stay here indefinitely as my guest. I wouldn’t let him do that to you.”

“And I wouldn’t live in hiding while my people suffer,” you counter. Closing the distance between you, you reach out and grasp Sam’s hands in yours. “I will understand if you choose not to marry me. It is your choice, and I will live with whatever decision is made.”

“Why wouldn’t I marry you?” he asks. 

“I don’t wish to force you—”

“You wouldn’t be,” Sam says, cutting you off. “Though I haven’t known you long, Y/N, I find you wonderful company. You’re kind, intelligent, brave, and you care deeply for your people. I could not ask for more in a wife, though I hope we can become friends first.”

You duck your head, caught off guard by his praise. Sam crooks one finger underneath your chin and lifts it until your eyes meet his again.

“You’re beautiful, too,” he murmurs. “Far more so than any woman I’ve ever met.”

“I… Don’t know what to say,” you admit. After months of fighting and living in the war camp, the tenderness in Sam’s voice and his touch is foreign to you.

“Say that you’ll marry me. Say that we’ll save your people before any more harm can be done.”

Silently, you nod. You don’t look away as Sam smiles wide, his eyes full of a joy so complete that it makes your chest ache just from witnessing it. He pulls you close, crushing you against him as he hugs you tightly, and you gasp in surprise.

“I’ll tell my father to make the necessary arrangements,” Sam says as he pulls away. “The sooner we are married, the sooner we can rescue your men.”

You nod again, a bit numb as Sam kisses you on the forehead, narrowly missing the bruise, and hurries out into the hallway. His footsteps are quick and the sound fades before you can even recognize that he’s truly left you alone in the study.

“Y/N?”

Charlie appears in the doorway and you turn to her, trembling hands clasped in front of you.

“Are you well?” she asks. She steps into the room and you can immediately tell that she’d heard the whole conversation between you and Sam. The walls and doors are thick here, but Charlie is an expert at eavesdropping.

“I— I’m getting married,” is all you can reply.

She gives you a knowing look and then carefully guides you to sit in one of the high-backed chairs near the fire. The warmth helps to soothe the shock from finding out your kingdom was most certainly doomed, then from finding out it would be safe once you were married. Your world is changing so quickly that you can hardly keep up.

“He’s a good man,” she tells you.

“I know he is,” you reply, staring at the fire. It makes your eyes water but you can’t look away. If you do, you might cry for real for the second time today. Your emotions have been twisted by so many things and people today that you’re unsure of how to feel.

“It’s okay to be scared.”

You turn your head just enough to show that you’re listening, but you don’t look away from the fire.

“You’ve been through so much, Y/N, and I know you believe that queens should not show their weakness, but you forget that you are also just a woman,” Charlie continues.

This time, you turn to look at her. “But I am not just a woman, Charlie.”

She gives you a gentle smile, then reaches out with one hand to squeeze yours. “When you’re with Prince Samuel, you are.”

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you admit, your voice breaking. You clutch her hand with both of yours when she moves to pull away, turning in your seat so you can better face her. “What if he expects me to spend more time being a wife than being a queen? I cannot afford to give up who I am because of a man.”

Charlie considers your question for several long moments before she sighs and collects your hands completely in hers. She holds your gaze as she says, “You are brave for doing this. I cannot tell you what to expect, but I can tell you that I have heard many things from the ladies and the servants here in Ashela. All of them, every single one, has told me that Prince Samuel is as wonderful as he seems. I do not think that you have very much to fear, but I will be by your side no matter what you face.”

You inhale deeply, closing your eyes, and then breathe out. Charlie waits patiently as you try to collect yourself, and her presence is enough reassurance that it doesn’t take you very long.

Finally, you nod and stand.

She does the same, dropping your hands. “Now, I need to get you ready!”

“Ready?” you ask, and Charlie laughs. She guides you out of the study and into the hallway.

“For your wedding! I can’t give you the prettiest dress, but I’ve asked around and we’ve come up with something that I think will work.”

A spark of excitement grows inside of you as she chatters on about her plans for the impromptu wedding. It’s amazing to you that she’s managed to work so quickly, but you don’t question it. Charlie has many ways of doing many things, some of which are better left unsaid.

Soon, you find yourself back in your guest chambers. Charlie helps you into a plain ivory dress, then fixes your hair. You sit quietly as she works, and when a handful of Ashelan maids and ladies start to swarm around you, you simply close your eyes. It’s been a long day, and exhaustion is starting to creep in.

“The Queen needs to rest before the ceremony,” Charlie announces, and you open your eyes just enough to see the women leaving. She starts to blow out the extra candles, until there’s only one remaining beside your bed.

“You only have an hour,” she murmurs as you carefully climb under the covers. She helps you arrange your dress so that it won’t become wrinkled.

Nodding tiredly, you rest your head back against the pillow she props up for you. “Thank you, Charlie. For everything.”

She smooths a hand over your hair and sits in the chair beside you, closing her eyes as well. She doesn’t have to say anything for you to know that she’s staying close to help you sleep. 

The ceremony is simple. You don’t expect much, but John rouses enough servants for there to be an arch of evergreen placed at the end of the Great Hall, and there’s a bouquet of branches and berries for you, as well. Sam dons his royal robes and a thin crown with vibrant gemstones that sparkle in the candlelight from the nearby tree. John and Dean change clothes too, and somehow Charlie finds a new dress just in the nick of time. Only you aren’t wearing something elaborate. It stings a little—you’d once imagined your wedding day as an occasion to remember, but now you could simply melt away into the background and it’s quite possible that nobody would even notice. It gives you a miserable feeling in the pit of your stomach, and when you pass by a mirror on the way to the Great Hall, you have to look away. Tears prick at your eyes before you can stop them. 

A priest marries you with little grandeur, and in only a few words, you find yourself bound to Sam in marriage. It’s not even dawn on Christmas Eve when he leads you by the arm back out of the Great Hall. Charlie stays behind with Sir Robert to help prepare the carriages for travel while he advises John on where to send his armies, and when you arrive at Sam's chambers, they’re empty. You’re alone with him for the first time as husband and wife.

“We should leave for Athos immediately,” Sam says, and you nod in silence. He lets go of your arm once the door shuts behind you, then hurries into a separate, adjoining room. You set your bouquet down on a nearby table.

Through the curtained archway, you can see a bed similar to the one in your guest chambers, as well as a writing desk and another easel. Sam’s sword is propped up against the wall near the fireplace, and a bow and arrow are laid haphazardly on a nearby dining table. The room is decorated for Christmas, just like the rest of the castle, though the greenery here is minimal. Where you would expect to see much of his personal belongings, there are empty spaces that leave you feeling strangely out of place. His chambers are practically bare except the furniture and the decorations.

Sam goes behind a dressing screen and you look away, heat in your cheeks at the thought of being alone with him while he undresses. It’s not the first time you’ve been alone with a man in a similar state of dress—you’ve lived in a camp full of soldiers, many of whom are careless—but it’s the first time where something could be expected of you.

“Sam?” you call out, staring at the candle on the window ledge nearest to you. Outside, the sun is just barely beginning to rise. Its rays are slowly stretching over the snowy landscape, revealing the hundreds of pine trees and the lake whose frozen surface glitters in the light.

“Yes?” You hear him pause and the room falls silent. When you don’t immediately answer, you hear some quick shuffling, and then he’s coming out from behind the screen and approaching you.

“Y/N?” he asks.

You turn, and Sam is standing before you in plain clothes. There’s no trace of the robes or the crown. The only thing that would give away his royal status is the signet ring on his left pinky. There’s a plain gold ring on the finger beside it, which matches the one he’d given you during the ceremony.

“Your father said our kingdoms would only be allied once our marriage was… consummated,” you say, deciding to use the same language as John, though you know there are easier ways to say what you mean.

“I do not expect anything of you,” Sam gently replies.

“But your father—”

Sam shakes his head. “He does not need to know what’s between you and I.”

You’re holding your breath; you can’t breathe a sigh of relief until you’re absolutely sure Sam will go along with the ruse. “You will lie to your own father? Your king?”

He’s quiet for only a moment before he answers, “He is not my king any longer. I am married to you. I am your husband, and you are my queen. I will tell him whatever I must to ensure that your people are safe.”

You gingerly take his hand and allow yourself to breathe again. “Our people, Sam.” You pause to look up at him, offering him a small, grateful smile. “Thank you.”

He nods and leans in to kiss you on the cheek. “We should leave. I am ready, if you are.”

“Don’t you want your things?” you ask, glancing around his chambers. 

Sam lets go of your hand, then walks around his room. He gathers his sword, a book from beside the bed, and a small wooden case from near the easel before he returns to your side. You take the book and the case from him so he can strap the sword around his waist, then hand them back to him.

“The servants have already brought many of my things to the carriage. The rest can be brought another time.”

Nodding, you take Sam’s arm and let him lead you out of his chambers, through the castle, and to the waiting carriages. There are three of them, two of which belong to you, and another that is clearly Ashelan. It rocks as the occupants move around.

John, Dean, and two of your guards are waiting at the open door of the middle carriage when you arrive. As you walk the gray stone path leading away from the castle, you catch a glimpse of Sir Robert as he climbs into the carriage at the front of the line.

“Y/N,” John greets. He nods politely to you, then to Sam. “My men are already on the way to Athos. Sir Robert has been helpful in ensuring they will be of sufficient help to you. I have also sent word to Crowley to inform him of our newly formed alliance. I suppose everything went well after you retired to Sam’s chambers?”

He raises an eyebrow at his son, who nods once. The implications of his words weigh heavily in the winter air, and you shift your weight from one foot to the other, trying not to look nervous or uncomfortable. You cannot give away the lie.

“All is well,” Sam replies. He smiles a little and places a hand over where yours rests on his arm. “She is ready to travel now.”

Dean hugs his brother goodbye, then leads you toward the carriage. He stops a few feet away and holds his hand out to one of your guards, who produces a familiar sword.

“I believe this is yours?” Dean asks.

You smile, relieved that you’re once reunited with your father’s blade. “Yes, thank you.”

Taking the sword, you fasten it around your waist. The weight is comfortable, and it bumps against your thigh as Dean helps you into the carriage.

Meanwhile, Sam talks quietly with John. You’re too anxious to eavesdrop once you’re alone, so you sit back on the seat and try to keep your breathing even as Sam finally climbs into the carriage and the door shuts behind him. He sits opposite you, where Charlie would normally sit. It feels strange to not travel with her by your side, but you remind yourself that she’s in the next carriage, and that you’ll see her again when you arrive in Athos.

Moments later, the horses lurch forward. You sway with the movement, and Sam reaches out to place a steadying hand on your arm. You offer him a small smile before you sit back once more.

The sun rises as you journey to Athos, just like it does every day, and you cling to that normalcy. Even as you wring your hands, your mind whirling with every possible outcome of the coming battle, the sun continues on its path. You find yourself glancing out the window at it more often than usual. The snow outside is beginning to melt and drip from the tree branches as the temperature warms from the light, and as the horses carry you closer to home, the snow starts to disappear entirely, replaced with mud and trampled grass left in the wake of tired soldiers and weary knights.

Suddenly, Sam shifts to sit beside you, and he takes your hand without a word. You stare at him, baffled by his strange actions, but he doesn’t say anything, nor does he look at you. Finally, you look back out the window. His thumb rubs over the dry, scarred skin of your hand, and though it’s foreign to hold hands with a man you barely know, there’s something comforting about his presence. It’s soothing enough that you doze off for a while, grasping at what little rest you’re allowed during the journey. He holds your hand the entire time.

After the half-day ride, the carriages arrive in the village that surrounds Eryas Court. You release Sam’s hand and sit forward on the bench to give yourself a better view through the window. 

The houses and shops that you’ve grown up around have been burnt and destroyed, and there’s rubble lining the cobblestone paths. Wooden stalls and stables have been smashed into splinters, and stone buildings have begun to cave in on themselves. Your breath hitches when you see blood staining a wall.

“Where are the people?” you ask, your voice cracking. “Where are my people?” The question is desperate, meant for nobody but the world, and you feel Sam pulling you away from the window a few seconds later.

“Let me go!” you bark at him.

He pulls you back a second time, and you twist in your seat, angry and aching with grief, but you stop when you see him.

Sam’s expression is grave. “We don’t know who’s out there. You are not dressed in your armor, and you are giving Crowley’s archers an easy shot. Until we know what’s happening, you need to stay hidden,” he advises.

You stare at him for a moment, then nod mutely. All the anger drains out of you, because he’s right, and you’re no use to your people if you’re dead.

While leaning back against the wall of the carriage, you can still see enough through the window to tell that the destruction starts to lessen as you near the keep. The pressure in your chest starts to ease when the noise of villagers and soldiers talking reaches you, and you exhale shakily when you hear someone call out,

“Make way! The Queen is here!”

There’s a commotion outside the carriage. Cheering erupts as soon as the first person spies you through the windows. Sam’s hand finds yours again. He squeezes, and you squeeze back even harder, clutching his hand as the carriage moves through the crowd and into the guarded castle.

When the carriage stops, you and Sam wait until the door is opened by guard. They help Sam out first, then you. You don’t know what to expect as you exit, but you’re relieved to find that most of your castle is still intact.

“Eryas Court lives on, Your Majesty,” someone says, and you turn to find Sir Robert walking from his own carriage. Charlie is close behind, and you start to smile.

“Indeed, Sir Robert,” you tell him. “It seems the battle was over before we even arrived.”

After a moment, you laugh and pull him into a hug. It’s improper, but you find tears brimming in your eyes when he murmurs in your ear, reminding you that your father would be proud of how you’d handled the invasion.

“Welcome to Athos, Your Majesty,” Charlie says.

You release Sir Robert and turn to where Sam and Charlie stand off to one side. He gives her a short bow as she dips into a curtsy. An Ashelan man is standing on the other side of Sam. You recognize him as one of the men from your breakfast the day before. There are several Ashelan servants helping yours unload the carriages, as well.

“It’s a beautiful kingdom,” Sam says to you. “How long has Eryas Court been standing?”

“Four generations,” you proudly reply. “Would you like a tour?”

He opens his mouth to answer, but the conversation is put to a halt when the captain of the guard approaches and bows in your direction. 

“Your Majesty,” he greets. He does the same for Sam before turning back to you. “I bring word from the fields.”

“How are my men?” you ask. Your expression grows serious as you focus on the matter at hand. Sam stays silent, allowing you to do your job without interference.

“We have lost many, but we have made it through the darkest nights. Elcium has retreated, and they have dropped their banners. They stand with white flags now.”

You raise your eyebrows, unable to keep your expression neutral. “They have surrendered?”

He nods. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“That’s very good news, Captain,” you tell him, smiling. “Tell them that we will negotiate terms after Christmas. I will expect a full report then, but I have other matters to attend to tonight. I will also expect to see your wounded, and I would like a full list of the dead. Please ensure that any news about the Ashelan soldiers is sent to King John, and also reported to King Sam.” You gesture to Sam without looking his way.

Your captain bows to both of you, then heads back the way he had come. Satisfied with the news, you turn back to Sam with a wide smile.

“Let me show you my home.”

Sam smiles back at you, then offers you his arm. Before you leave with him, you instruct Charlie to make sure everything is in order after the maids unpack your and Sam’s belongings in your chambers. She agrees with a smile brighter than you’d seen on her in a long time.

You and Sam walk the castle grounds most of the afternoon, stopping only to have tea. You show him your favorite spots, tell him stories of your childhood, and you show him the study you’d abandoned after inheriting your father’s. The windows there overlook the wildflower fields, and the river beyond. Though there’s no flowers in bloom now, he assures you that the frozen river is subject enough for his paintings.

As the sun begins to set, you and Sam retire to your chambers. They’re smaller than you remember, and it feels cramped as the two of you prepare for sleep. You’d never opted to take on your father’s chambers when he passed, instead choosing to stay in the rooms you’d had your whole life.

Charlie helps you change into a sleeping gown, and behind an opposite dressing screen, you hear Sam and the Ashelan lord—Castiel—talking quietly. When the two of you emerge, you share nervous smiles as Castiel and Charlie leave to go to their own quarters.

“I’m not quite ready to sleep,” you say after the door finally closes behind them. You keep your distance, unsure of how to act now that you’re alone.

Sam nods. “I’ll try to keep to myself, so there’s room when you are ready to retire.”

You glance at the bed, then back at him. “Perhaps I will go to bed early then.”

He frowns a little and searches your face for something, clearly trying to figure out why you’ve changed your plans. Truthfully, you don’t want him to have to try and make himself small. You’re already feeling too many emotions; you don’t want to add guilt into the mix. 

You smile as if you don’t know what he’s thinking, then head to the bed and climb under the covers on one side. Charlie has warmed the heavy blankets with irons, and the furs from last year’s hunts still provide you with plenty of warmth. 

Sam watches, still standing in place, until finally you let out a sigh.

“I’m perfectly okay sharing a bed with you,” you tell him. “We are husband and wife. If we don’t lie together, it will raise suspicions.”

“And I am prepared to face them.”

“Do you really not want to share a bed with me?” you ask, a little hurt by his resistance.

His eyes widen slightly and he shakes his head. “I do not want you to be afraid of me, nor of expectation that I might—”

“I am not afraid of you.” You sit up in the bed, suddenly aware of the nighttime chill in your chambers as the blankets fall from your chest. “I have fought in many battles, and I have seen many horrible things. Sharing a bed with a kind, gentle man who is now my husband is not a fear that I possess, Sam Winchester. Even so, I am capable of much more than you may realize, and I am not afraid of anything you could possibly do to me.”

He stares at you for a moment, and then a small smile appears on his face. “Very well.”

You lay back as Sam crosses the room and climbs into bed beside you. Both of you lay on your backs, staring up at the fabric canopy. You want to talk—you feel like you should, anyway—but the events of the past few days start to catch up with you, and you find your thoughts beginning to wander as Sam’s breathing grows slower on the other side of the bed. He falls asleep before you, but not by much.

When you wake, there’s a heavy weight over your waist and hot breath against the back of your neck. Your legs are intertwined with Sam’s and your back is pressed up against his chest. It’s not uncomfortable, but you lie and stare at the wall, trying to figure out how you and Sam have become so entangled. Surely, you would have kicked him during your nightmares.

“Are you awake?”

His question is barely a whisper, but then Sam shifts and you feel him raise himself up on his elbow to look down at you. He’s checking to see if you’re asleep, you realize.

You turn your head to meet his eyes in the darkness. “Yes,” you answer. “I’m awake.”

He sighs softly and lays back down, resuming the close contact from before. You wonder if you should push away. Is it improper to sleep like this if you don’t know each other, even if you’re married? Does it matter?

“Can I ask…” You finally begin, breaking the silence that had fallen over the room again. “When we went to sleep, we were not touching.”

“No,” Sam answers. His breath tickles the hairs at the nape of your neck and you fidget under the covers, but you don’t pull away. “You were dreaming. It was a nightmare.”

“Oh.”

You can imagine why he’s pulled you close now. Without Charlie sitting by your bedside, there had been some anxiety over if you’d sleep through the night, but Sam’s comforting touch seems to have soothed you. For the first time in weeks, you feel well-rested.

“It’s Christmas,” you say after another minute has passed.

Sam yawns and his thumb strokes against your stomach. His voice is drowsy in your ear.

“So it is,” he replies.

“Merry Christmas, Sam.”

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

You turn in his arms until you’re facing him, and you carefully place one hand on his chest. It feels natural to be this close and to lean against him, and Sam watches you with half-mast eyes as you get comfortable. When you do, however, you don’t know what to say. You stare at each other, listening to the castle stir awake. Finally, you lay your head down on him. He helps you get comfortable, and then you close your eyes. You can hear Sam’s heartbeat.

“We’re married,” you murmur.

He hums. “So we are.”

“What do we do now?”

“Celebrate Christmas, I suppose.”

You move your hand, unconsciously fidgeting with the tie on Sam’s sleep shirt. “Can we stay here for a while first?”

Sam presses a kiss to the top of your head and you smile to yourself, even though you know he could probably see.

“Yes, Y/N. We certainly can,” he answers.

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Sam: @fandomoniumflurry

[ghost-orchids-storm]

My first ever real memory of Star Wars was when I first watched Rebels, I was so young back then. I adored it, especially Sabine Wren. She was the reason I got into art. She is one of the main reasons I am an artist. I'm trailing off a bit. As many stories go, my dad got me into Star Wars, and I fell in love with it. I never really had any issues with anything new in Star Wars because I was just excited for new content, I never really minded if it wasn't that good because I was just eager for new stories and ways to expand my creativity. During 2019, I really got into Clone Wars with my big sister. We would hang out in her room and make bracelets with the names and armor colors of the clones, I still even have the Wolffe bracelet she made me.

And now I'm watching The Bad Batch with my sister and dad eagerly waiting for the next episode, knowing this is the last episode we'll get. I won't lie, I'm nervous, which will probably sound stupid to onlookers, wondering why this girl is getting all emotional over copy-paste fictional men. But these guys are my childhood. They're important to me, and I'm willing to admit that. No matter what this episode will bring, I'll still be watching and enjoying Star Wars. I always will until the day I die. Because it's my past present and future.

Despite the fandoms' toxicity and its problems, I'm still proud to be a part of it. This fandom is my home, my community, and I'm glad to be a part of it.

I wish you all a happy bad batch eve. May the force always be with you, my beloved fellow fans.

I'll see you all in the world between worlds.

[dramaticpandabear]

Happy Star Wars day everyone! May the Force be with you!

…Especially since it’s also the eve of St. George’s day, where all the evil things in the world will have full sway once the clock strikes midnight

[bcolfanfic]

the people want more backstory about rosie adopting naomi!! (when u have time ofc)

rosieeeee. sweet man.

after he comes home from bagram august 2021 he contemplates staying in active duty, and maybe starting the application process and what not to go down the JAG path. but he came home from bagram with a lottt of anexity and the more thought he gives it the more he's just. ready to be done. ready to not worry about if he's gonna get sent into another fire in another war etc etc. goes back to practicing "normal law" mostly property law with an agriculture focus.

the thought of adopting just kinda washes over him out of the blue one day. is talking to a co-worker who adopted as a single parent and can't shake the "huh, what if i did that" feeling. talks himself out of it for a couple weeks, but then it comes back in his head, and he /really/ can't shake it this time.

sees his mom for lunch or something and she can tell he's off. asks if he's alright thinking it's ptsd related and he just blurts out something to the effect of do you think i'd be a good dad?

she pauses for a long moment bc she gen was not expecting that at all. but sees the look on his face and that he's asking genuinely and just. melts. yv rosie in my mind is super close with his mama (dad died when he was young) and seeing her baby so sincerely thinking about something like this just. makes her heart swell up. she tells him she think's he'd be a great dad, and prods a little about why he's asking which is a nice outlet for him to talk things out loud with someone.

the next people he tells that he's considering it are croz (his bff <3) and jeanie and they're both practically jumping through the phone like yes oh my god of course you'd be a good dad are you kidding????

he's a very private person and maybeee tells ev too because he figures croz will anyways. but outside the two of them everyone else doesn't know a thing till he actually has her. (think he similar to the bucks does the waiting child thing. was fully expecting to get an older kiddo since that's typically how that goes. but they call him about a lil 11 month old baby and he says yes before he can think twice about it. the social worker he's been working with nudges him a little about considering changing/choosing her name since she's so young, which he stresses a considerable amount over since he was not expecting to have to worry about that lmao. but he gives it some thought and goes with naomi and it Feels Right.)

croz and jeanie go out to be there and see lil baby naomi right after he gets her. croz texts a pic of rosie with her to the gc and everyone is like ????. they all think they somehow missed/forgot an entire crosby child existing lmao. but then croz is texts something to the effect of new rosenthal just dropped (: and they're like WHAT. lmfao. bucky just about screams and scares the hell out of gale across the house. dramatic ass. (which ironic, when him and gale end up more or less being in the same predicament with their friends finding out about baby micah with how sudden all that is).

goddd rosie is so happy. gets all teary talking to croz about it and croz gets a lil emotional too telling him he knows exactly how he feels. tells him that feeling never really goes away, and that he's already such a good dad which makes hm realllly cry. sweet boy.

naomi is that man's moon and stars. obv all the guys that have kids love their kiddos to death. but esp since it's just the two of them before aiden comes along, they're bonded real tight in a way that just. idk makes her real stiff competition for the most adored little girl on the planet.