#shattered skies: the morning lights

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part ii)

a/n: such a cute chapter seriously, kooky Claere tries very hard to fit in and nearly succeeds

Cregan Stark felt an unexpected warmth stir within him as he stood at the cold threshold of Claere’s chambers that morning. She hadn’t noticed him yet, past her table overcrowded with steaming choices for her finicky appetite, her attention fixed on her slumbering dragon outside the frosted window. It was the first time, in weeks, he had seen Claere appear so... alive. Always, she remained untouched by the glow of the fires or the company of others. Yet here, framed by the muted sunshine, she was no longer the spirit of assumptions, but something more tangible—more real.

Her ivory hair, neatly brushed and woven into elegant braids, glinted in the soft morning light. A rare flush graced her ashen cheeks, lending an unexpected warmth to her pallor, while her lips, usually discoloured, now hinted at a shocking vibrancy. Her thickset leather gown, tailored to fit, cinched snugly to her form, warding off the biting winter chill. One could question her sanity or wisdom—but never the timeless beauty that clung to her like a second skin, untouchable and undeniable.

"Leave us," Cregan announced, breaking the quiet spell that lingered in the room.

The subtle command had Claere's handmaidens hurrying to obey, scurrying as they retreated from the room. Only one remained—the worried young girl who had raised her concerns to him—hesitating for a breath as she passed him.

"My lady is yet to break her fast, my lord," she mentioned before slipping away, casting a fleeting glance at Claere as though she feared leaving her alone.

Cregan’s gaze wavered on the closed door before shifting back to his wife. Claere’s violet eyes met his unflinchingly, but there was something delicate beneath the surface, a thread of tension woven through the air between them.

He divested his weighted fur cloaks and sword, then turned his attention to the table. He surveyed the spread before him—an abundance of food, more than enough to feed a small army. Golden loaves of bread, platters of roasted meats, a tray brimming with two hot pies, and rich, steaming pots of chicken porridge adorned the surface. Yet, despite the lavish display, it all felt strangely hollow.

His brow furrowed as he took in the untouched offerings. “This is more than enough for a feast,” he said to her, casting a sidelong glance. “Yet you’ve chosen to starve yourself.”

She was gaunt enough, pale enough—he could not bear the thought of her fading further into herself. Claere did not spare him another look or a reply, tucking her knees under her chin and continuing to stare blankly at the grey skies beyond.

"Come, try this. The venison is one of my favourites, the best you’ll ever taste," he attempted, his voice quieter than he intended, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile silence between them.

He skewered slices of the tender meat and placed them on her plate. "Especially rare this season. Smoked to perfection."

It was met with nothing. She didn’t move, didn’t even blink. It was like talking to a marble statue. Cregan’s tolerance waned, but his determination remained. He tried again.

"Perhaps some fruits from the capital?" His eager eyes flickered over her pale frame. She had grown up surrounded by the opulence of King’s Landing, maybe something from her past would awaken her hunger.

At last, a response—her gaze shifted, just barely, in his direction.

"Apples, cranberries. Oranges from Dorne," he murmured to himself, unaware.

That caught her. Her violet eyes brightened, if only for a second. Her head turned ever so slightly, just enough to show she had heard him. It was a faint glimmer of interest, the smallest shift in her otherwise impassive demeanour. Cregan seized the moment.

"Yes. Blood oranges, all the way from Sunspear," he continued, his voice gentle, as though coaxing her from some distant reverie. He reached for the bowl of oranges, their vibrant colour standing out amidst the endless grey.

"Sweet and ripe." He peeled one slowly, letting the tangy scent of citrus fill the room. "The taste of sunshine, I hear," he remarked, cutting into the orange and setting a few slices on her plate beside the untouched venison.

For a moment, the room held its breath.

He sat beside her, not prodding further, allowing the zest of the fruit to permeate through the chill in the air. It waited as a peace offering between the two of them. Although his hands itched to reach out, to grab her, shake her, force her to acknowledge the danger of her disinterest, he held back, knowing that force was not what she needed. Not now. He would start slow; small.

The moments stretched on, though his patient gaze never left her.

Then, slowly, almost unnoticeably, Claere reached forward. Her fingers touched one of the slices, and she brought it to her lips. The smallest trickle of juice touched the corner of her mouth, and something unspoken shifted between them. Another followed and another, until the orange slices disappeared.

Cregan said nothing, only watched, as though witnessing some small, hard-won victory. He reached for a second orange, peeling it with care, and setting the fresh slices in front of her.

"I don’t eat meat," Claere said suddenly, her voice clear as day, shattering the silence.

He blinked. For a moment, the absurdity of it all struck him. This was Claere Velaryon—the mysterious princess they all feared, who, in their minds, feasted on flesh like some beast from old Valyrian folklore. The one who terrified even her own attendants.

And here she was, delicately picking at oranges, refusing meat, no more grotesque than a rose bracing against the cold.

It hit him then—why she had not eaten a morsel at their wedding feast, why she never showed face at suppers, why she had been refusing to eat all this time. She wasn’t what they claimed, made of stone and shadows. She was simply, achingly, human.

Cregan stifled an amused grin, the irony too sharp to ignore. "Duly noted," he murmured, glancing at the untouched venison beside her. "I’ll take that."

He took her plate and switched his empty one with it. He managed to fill it with natural foods on the table—bread, butter, and fruits. Certainly, Northerners depended on their beef and mutton rather than daily grains. Anything hot and juicy to bear the brunt of the cold.

Whilst silently biting into a slice of buttered bread, Claere continued to scrutinize her drowsing dragon through the windowpane. Luna could’ve been mistaken for a snowy cliff by the treeline, her silver scales tough enough to brook the battering breezes outside. It should have been awake by now, trilling for Claere to come join her. Yet, peculiarly, the she-dragon continued to doze through the day.

Cregan followed her gaze, a frown tugging at his features. "Did you fly too far last night?" His concern edged through his voice. "It's been asleep too long."

Just then, Luna unfurled her leathern wings, flapping away the snow before digging her snout back into the earth. Steam sizzled off her throat and belly, a spot of the everlasting fire she harboured.

Claere took her time to respond, her voice almost proud. "She is overfed."

He scoffed under his breath. "That beast could swallow half the North, and still—"

"I took her out to hunt, my lord," she interjected, her tone soft but deliberate. "Just this morning."

His hand froze mid-motion, tightening ever so slightly around the knife as her words settled in.

"You took her to hunt," he repeated, glancing at her once he’d wrestled his wrath back under control.

She nodded, matter-of-fact, as though she were recounting an uneventful ride instead of defying his explicit orders. To Cregan, it was a quiet betrayal.

"You flew alone? Down to Castle Black?" His voice dipped into treacherous waters, barely containing his growing irritation.

"We only rode a little past Last Hearth, never crossed the Wall," she responded patiently, her tone so measured it made his irritation feel misplaced. "Luna caught some wild boars there. I reckon she’ll be sated for a few days."

Her calm, composed words felt like a blade twisting in his side. The frustration simmered beneath the surface, no longer containable. He leaned back, tossing the half-sliced apple onto the table with a heavy thud, the act punctuating the helplessness he felt. There was no forcing her, no bending her will—just standing by, powerless, as she made decisions he could neither influence nor control.

"Have I defied you, my lord?" she asked abruptly, her violet eyes watching him closely, an unexpected spark of interest flickering within them.

Claere held his gaze, unblinking, unperturbed by the smoldering in his eyes. There was no trace of fear, no hesitation—just that infuriating calm that always seemed to shield her from his concerns, as though the dangers of the world brushed past her without consequence.

He inhaled sharply, shaking his head as if to dispel the misplaced rage bubbling up. She hadn’t crossed the Wall; she hadn’t endangered herself, not in the way he feared. She had simply done as she had always done—navigating the wilds with a certainty that unnerved him.

He sighed despite his frustration. "No, you have not."

He reached for a cluster of cranberries, carefully plucking them from the vine and placing them onto her plate, trying to make the gesture feel routine, almost tender.

"You are the Lady of Winterfell," he continued. "You have as much right to defiance as I do."

She studied the crooked smile tugging at his lips, her brows drawn in thought, as though she couldn’t quite decipher the mystery before her.

"Do I not repel you?" she asked quietly, her voice betraying the faintest trace of genuine curiosity.

Cregan furrowed his brow, caught off guard by her question. "Whatever made you think that?"

Her fingers touched her chest as if pointing out the obvious. "You think me mad. The way the others do."

Realization softened his expression. "If that were true, I would not be here." He paused, his gaze more intent now. "Just as the moon is to the night, you are, to me. Distant, yet always prevalent. I have come to be curious."

A slight frown creased her forehead. "Curious?"

"About everything," he said, the softness of his smile deepening. "I want to know everything."

The silence between them grew thick, loaded with things unsaid. She wasn’t accustomed to being seen this way—not with such intent. For so long, she'd been surrounded by whispers and wary glances, all feeding into the myth of her coldness, her distance. But now, here was Cregan Stark, looking at her not with suspicion, but with inquisitiveness. That simple admission seemed to unnerve her.

"You want to know everything?" she echoed, disbelief threading through her voice.

He leaned in slightly, the firelight casting flickering shadows on his face. "Yes."

Her gaze dropped to the plate of fruit he had arranged with such care. Her fingers toyed with the edge of a piece of bread as if contemplating whether to trust him with whatever weighed on her mind.

"There is not much to know," she murmured. "Everything is plain in sight."

His smile returned, warmer this time. "Then you're not as impervious as you appear."

Her lips parted as if she were about to say something, but hesitation froze the words in her throat. For a brief moment, it seemed she was on the cusp of revealing something that had been buried for far too long. But just as quickly, the moment passed. She closed her mouth and turned her gaze away, her hands folding neatly in her lap, retreating back into herself.

Cregan watched the subtle shift, the way her posture tightened ever so slightly, the way her eyes retreated into that familiar, distant place. He had nudged the door open, but only a crack. It wasn’t enough to draw her fully into the light, but it was something. A start.

"You don’t have to tell me everything right away," he said gently, his voice shaking with laughter. "It will take time. And I will be here until then."

She looked at him then, a faint expression—almost like fondness—ghosting across her features. There was a tenderness in her eyes, nonetheless guarded, yet undeniably present. She gave a small nod, her voice quiet and uncertain.

"Perhaps one day, my lord," she promised.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Her gaze drifted back toward the window, back to Luna, her sleeping dragon. She seemed lost again, caught in her daydreams, her thoughts wandering far beyond the walls of Winterfell. Cregan leaned back in his chair, watching her in silence, his gaze tracing the curve of her face and her breath's steady rise and fall. Luna and Claere, both wrapped in an ancient mystery he was only beginning to understand.

The barriers between them had not yet fallen, but a door had been opened, however slightly. For now, that was enough.

For the first time since their marriage, Cregan allowed himself to believe—perhaps, just perhaps—there could be something more than the looming noose of duty between them. Something honest. Something soft.

X

As winter’s dawn closed in, Cregan’s quiet affections for his wife burgeoned like an arrow loosed from a bow, swift and certain. As she was known to the people of Winterfell, Lady Stark remained the same distant figure veiled in cold beauty, a foreign wife to their lord, a creature of dragon lore. She made no effort to blend into their world, and they met her aloofness with cautious smiles and bowed heads, unsure whether to approach or retreat. Claere drifted through the castle like a morning mist, silent, elusive, always keeping to the shadows, never quite a part of Winterfell’s daily rhythm.

But unlike the rest, Cregan began to take notice. Rather, it was incredible to watch unfold.

Beneath the layers of distance and impassion, there was another side to her, subtle and easy to overlook if one wasn’t paying attention. Claere was still unfamiliar, avoiding scrutiny and taken by the darkness, yet she had begun to tend to her littler assignments as a lady of the keep. It wasn’t grand or overt—there were no loud declarations or public displays of command—but she moved with purpose.

She listened more than she spoke, and when she did, her words were often strange, riddles of foresight that left the common folk wary. To the unsure blacksmith, who sought her blessing for a new forge, she meekly said to him—"Strike iron before the bell tolls twice. On the third, the flames will consume more than metal."

Whispers continued to follow her wherever she went: the dragon witch, the phantom of King’s Landing. Still, Claere remained unfazed. She attended her duties with modest accuracy, stitching herself into the rhythm of Northern life, even if it repudiated her.

Gradually, some saw her walking the cold halls, her footfalls deliberate, attending to the tasks that had once been left to the servants. Lord Stark had heard whispers of her wanderings of late—through the kitchens in the early hours, startling the cooks who were not accustomed to their lady appearing so near the hearth. She frequented the stables, her pale eyes watchful of the stablehands, though she never interfered. Most strangely, she had taken to visiting the kennels where the pups—the direwolf cubs born just before the first snowfall—played.

It was an odd sight to behold: Lady Claere, who rarely engaged with the people of the keep, standing among the yapping pups. She never knelt to pet them, never extended a hand to ruffle their fur. Instead, she would watch, as if the simple act of being near them was enough to quiet her mind. The small, wriggling wolves nipped at her skirts, tugging with playful insistence, but she remained still, observing them. Understanding them.

"They are quite fond of you, my lady," the kennel master remarked one day, eyeing the scene with amusement.

Claere glanced down at the pups nipping at her fur-lined cloak, her expression unreadable. "Then why do they attack me so?" she asked, her voice lilting with dry bemusement.

The kennel master chuckled, tossing scraps of meat at her feet. The pups immediately abandoned her skirts, their attention fully captured by the morsels. They tumbled over one another, growling and yipping as they fought for the food.

"I hope that answers your question, my lady," he said, his grin widening.

She looked at the scramble of bodies and fur, her lips pressed in a thin line, as though she was still unsure.

And on the rarest of occasions, Cregan would find her by the ancient weirwood tree in the godswood, her hands clasped to her chest, staring into the carved face of the old gods. The white bark seemed to cast her in a radiance, a lone figure amidst the snow-covered branches. Her eyes, those pale violet eyes, seemed lost in thought, as though she communed with the far beyond, elsewhere.

Likewise, her deeds—those small, almost invisible deeds—spoke volumes. Cregan had once found a handkerchief waiting for him in his study after a particularly gruelling day. The little fabric was sloppily stitched, the pale blue thread forming what he could only assume was meant to be a dragon—Claere's touch, unmistakable. Despite the uneven embroidery, he carried it with him always, tucked close to his chest beneath his leather coat of plates. It was the smallest of gestures, but to him, it was the great deal of effort she had put in for him.

But formality, he decided, did nothing for them.

One night, he summoned all the courage he had left, sweeping into her chambers with a boldness that surprised even him. He found her sitting near the hearth, her slender fingers too close to the flames, seeking heat from the piercing frost that had begun to seep into Winterfell's very bones.

"I would like to," Cregan began, his voice betraying a touch of nervousness beneath its usual strength, "sleep here tonight."

She turned to him, startled, her violet eyes dashing briefly to the bed. She blinked, slowly understanding the meaning behind his words.

Her lips parted, and she spoke with faint surprise. "You desire an heir."

Cregan's heart lurched in his chest, his eyes widening in shock. "No. No, princess," he half-laughed, quickly stepping forward, his voice dropping to a gentler tone. "You mistake me. I want no such thing from you."

She remained quiet, her gaze searching his face for meaning. "You do not?"

"I do, of course. In time, yes. Heirs." He scratched his jaw nervously. "I implied that I merely..." He hesitated, struggling to find the right words. His hand moved toward her, hovering in the space between them before finally resting gently upon her cold hand.

"I simply want to be close to you. No titles or expectations. You and I."

Claere stared at his hand on hers, the firelight dancing across her face, her expression caught somewhere between bewilderment and awareness. She had never imagined such a request from him. To her, as preached by her mother, marriage had always been about duty, obligation, and the future of his line.

"You mean to sleep here," she repeated, her voice softer now, doubtful.

"Aye, I do," Cregan replied, his hand still resting over hers, warm against the cold of the room. "I would like to be with you, as we are. If that would please you."

Her eyes flickered with something he couldn't quite place—an emotion she rarely showed. Vulnerability, perhaps. She nodded slowly, her gaze dropping to the flames.

"Very well," she whispered.

Then on, he cherished those quiet nights spent by her side, even while she remained true to her unstinting oddities. For all that surrounded her, she had, in her own way, become his constant.

The gentle strumming of her harp in the dead of the night became Cregan's personal lullabies, even if was hair-raising to the rest of them. He found her wandering through the corridors in the small hours, her movements slow, as though she drifted through her dreams. It should've unsettled him—the sight of his wife, half-asleep and roaming as if the world outside fell to nothing at her feet. Whenever the night sky beckoned her, she would climb the ramparts, sprawling herself across the ancient stone, her hands and eyes tracing the constellations. Sometimes, in the earliest hours of dawn, he would wake to find her already gone, Luna’s shadow a fleeting blur in the sky as she took flight.

"The court grows restless, my lord," the maester had said cautiously one time, his voice a quiet murmur as they stood in the Great Hall. "They believe Lady Claere's patterns... worry the people. A lady shouldn’t wander alone, especially not at such hours."

Cregan's rubbed at his brow, frustrated. "What would you have me do? Chain her to her chambers? Berate her like a child?"

"They mean no harm, my lord," he continued, trying to tread carefully. "You appease her too much. Her place is—"

"Her place," Cregan interrupted, his tone final, "is wherever she chooses to be."

He couldn’t bring himself to curb the parts of her that made her who she was. She wrought no trouble to anyone. Besides, stopping her could bring about dire consequences he knew little about.

One evening, after hearing her footsteps echo along the parapet walls, he quietly followed. Of course, for a dragonrider, such a height would not bother her, but his heart raced faster at the reflection of slippery death. Claere was already there, gazing up at the stars with a look of quiet reverence. He carefully lay beside her, trying to see the sky as she did, wondering what enigmas it held for her.

"Do you see them?" Claere asked, not turning to face him.

Cregan followed her gaze, his breath clouding in the crisp cold air. "Their radiance comes to nought with your presence," he said in all honesty.

Her eyes still fixed on the heavens, simply nodded, offering no smile, no warmth—just that silent acknowledgement that always seemed to deflate him.

"Untouched," she told him, an awed confession, "since I first laid eyes on them. Even in King's Landing and Dragonstone. Here. Yet they tell me a distinct story every night. Of old, of the things yet to come."

Cregan found himself leaning closer on his elbow, her calm conviction tugging at his control. It was easier to touch her nowadays, never past a soft squeeze of her palm or shoulder, but nevertheless, he basked in her liberties to him.

He traced her hairline by her temple, tucking a curl behind her ear. He was afraid she was going to melt right through his fingertips, vanish into steam.

"What do they say to you tonight?" he asked.

"Iā gēlenka qogron," she replied, her Valyrian tongue as smooth as the silks she wore, getting across his skin like a breathy caress.

He shook his head. "I can't understand your language."

"A silver lining."

For the first time in a while, she looked at him, a faint smile playing at her eyes, like two streaks of comets in the night. An elfish smile spread on his lips, his soul wrecked and decimated at the mere sight of it. A softness that she allowed just for him.

The aforesaid silver lining came on two fronts, both owed to his good wife, though neither understood immediately.

The first glimmer of change came as Claere sat by his feet one evening, quietly weaving another garland of winter roses upon a vine. He wondered what significance it was to her, why she had taken a liking to such an absurd, sweet thing. It was rare in these parts, yet she always had a throng of them every fortnight.

Instinctually, he reached out to gently touch the back of her head, brushing his fingers down the silvery hair that was left loose from her plaits. That gesture was enough to impart the warmth from the chill around them. Then, without turning to him, she spoke softly; suddenly.

“You could grow things here. Even in the cold.”

Cregan frowned, tilting his head slightly. “What do you mean?”

She did not answer right away, her fingers hesitating on loops of the vines, thinking. "Like these roses. They rise out of the ice."

He flickered his gaze to the withered flowers in her pale hands.

“The hot spring beneath the castle,” she sounded off. “It could heat the glass. Protect the plants.”

“Glass?” he asked, perplexed, trying to piece together her words.

She saw her nod, turning her head just enough to catch the slope of her nose and bow of her murmuring lips. Such a distracting sight.

“A house of glass. With the heat from below and light from above, you could grow food. Even in the blackest winters.”

Cregan sat back, stroking his lip, unsure if she was speaking in riddles again or if there was some truth hidden in her quiet musings. A glass house? In Winterfell? He mulled over her words long after the conversation ended, unseeingly staring at her sleep, wondering if she saw something he didn’t, or if it was simply another of her cryptic thoughts, floating like a wisp of fog, impossible to catch.

Days passed before the idea began to take shape in his mind, the pieces coming together as he considered the hot springs that ran beneath the castle, the ancient warmth that had always been a part of Winterfell. The more he thought about it, the more her words made sense—elusive at first, yes, but not impossible.

“She has clever foresight beyond her years, my lord,” one of the builders remarked when Cregan indistinctly shared the concept, the man’s eyes widening at the simplicity of it. The Glass Gardens, so it was named.

“To grow fresh produce in hard frost… it could change everything. But it will take great labour, and the men—”

"Insignificant," he interrupted, anticipating the instant objections. "Use every muscle we have, builders and stewards alike. Stop at nothing. Winter is coming."

X

A heavy silence draped the great hall as the Lord and Lady of Winterfell sat together at the head of the long table, their presence commanding every eye in the space. The low light of the hearth flashed, candles careened, casting long shadows against the weathered stone walls, the flickers dancing across Cregan’s gruff yet relaxed features and Claere’s hypnotic beauty.

The hall was teeming with people, the sounds of clinking plates and jovial laughs—lords of vassal houses, bannermen, and their ladies—but not a soul dared to question their sights. They watched, breath held, as the husband and wife dined in quiet harmony after weeks of isolation. Yet, the silence wasn’t strained. There was something subtle between them, implicit but unmistakable, a warmth that didn’t need words to be discerned.

Claere, shrouded in a grey fur-lined cloak, a gift from Cregan, picked at the peas on her plate. To those watching, she remained in her customary quietude, never quite fitting into their climate. But Cregan saw something else. He could sense the effort in her posture: the way she held herself more present tonight, despite her usual evasive manner. She wasn’t quite comfortable, but she was trying. And he was prepared to help.

Cregan’s watchful grey eyes, sharp as winter but softening with each glance, rushed often to his wife. Though she barely touched her food, he noticed her little, doubtful movements—the way her fingers skimmed the rim of her goblet, the way her eyes lounged on the stagnating hearth, her mind a million miles away.

He tore a piece of bread and placed it on her plate, a routine gesture between them now. He gently squeezed her hand over the table, bringing her back to reality.

"You must eat something," he murmured, meant for her ears alone. There was no force in his words, only a gentle concern from his growing care.

Claere’s violet eyes flickered toward him, surprised at first, but she didn’t resist. She took a small nibble of the bread and sipped the spiced broth, hesitant under the weight of so many eyes upon her. Yet, when she met Cregan’s gaze, just for a heartbeat, something shifted. An unassuming smile tugged at his lips, softening the edges of his usually stern features.

The tension in the hall, once thick with curiosity and judgment, began to ease. The subtle exchanges between the lord and his lady had not gone unnoticed by their audience. How his smile grew when she looked at him, a rare sight for those who knew him.

It wasn’t until a shift in the crowd drew the noble couple's attention—an approaching woman with two small children clutching at her skirts—that the atmosphere around them began to change.

In their small hands, they carried something bright—gleaming in the candlelight like polished stones. As they came closer, Cregan's brow furrowed in confusion. The sight of what they carried made him lean forward, his voice low with disbelief. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Bless me. Are those...?” he drawled out in wonder.

The woman’s hands shook slightly as she stepped forward, her eyes darting nervously between Cregan and Claere.

“Lord Stark,” she stammered, her voice trembling. She strained a pleading gaze at Claere. “This is too generous of a gift, my lady. We cannot accept this."

In her hands, and those of her children, were dragon eggs from Luna's most recent clutch—small, vibrant, coloured crimson and green. The sight of them made the hall grow quieter as if the very air had thinned with the enormity of the gesture. The children, however, clutched the eggs to their chests, unwilling to part with them. Their small hands curled protectively around the gleaming shells, eyes wide with the wonder of it.

Claere’s gaze flicked to the children, and then to the mother. "They earned them."

"They are unaware of what these symbolise to your bloodline," the mother refused. "Dragon eggs don't belong in the hands of people like us."

“Are you to refuse gratuity from your lady?” she said, with the quiet authority that left no room for argument. Claere regarded the children with a measured gaze, her expression still cool.

"They are gifts for your family. I owe the little ones a keepsake for their bravery today."

"Bravery?" Cregan questioned.

"We helped her locate Luna's clutch, m'lord," the young girl confessed in a mumble.

"And Lady Stark let us keep some of them," the young boy finished. "We found five so far."

"Two out of five is scarcely anything," Claere subdued the stressed mother. "I have plenty to spare."

The children, despite their mother’s soft pleas, clung tighter to the eggs, their fingers wrapped around them as though the treasures belonged to them alone. The mother’s face flushed with embarrassment, her hands trembling as she tried to gently pry the eggs from her children’s grasp.

“But, my lady, this is—”

Claere’s attention had already drifted to her plate. Her expression tightened for a brief moment, something unspeakable crossing her features—a subtle unease she hid from the hall, but not from Cregan. Ever observant, caught the unease settling into her posture, the slight tightening of her fingers around her goblet. He saw the far-off look in her eyes, and his heart sank.

Claere, at that moment, glanced down at the eggs in their small hands, and her gaze seemed to shift—becoming distant, as though she were looking far beyond the walls of Winterfell. Her eyes briefly lingered on the older boy, trained right through him, a flicker of foreboding.

Sensing this, Cregan squeezed Claere's thigh to summon her attention. When he did, he gave her the most infinitesimal shake of his head, searching her eyes. For a quiet moment, she remained frozen in place, still cold-eyed, as if deliberating some far-off future.

But then, with the smallest exhale, she relented. The tension in her shoulders melted, and her gaze gentled. Turning back to the woman, Claere’s voice was soothing now, in a way that almost made her seem more benevolent.

“Your son will grow strong,” she said, softly touching the boy's head. “He will see many winters, and live long." Then she nodded at the girl. "So will she. Great things await in their morrows."

The woman’s eyes filled with gratitude, her children clutching their eggs close as they looked up at her in awe. She bowed deeply, her voice cracking with emotion.

“Thank you, milady, truly," she said profusely. "Thank you.”

As the woman and her children backed away into the crowd, their wide-eyed wonder a stark contrast to the stunned silence that had settled over the hall, Cregan relaxed into his chair, his gaze still fixed on Claere.

He was the perfect blend of amusement and concern. “You mislike lying," he claimed.

Claere, still staring after the departing family, shook her head, her expression contemplative. “No,” she said, her tone almost introspective. “I do not care for it. The truth is simpler.”

Cregan arched a brow, the corner of his mouth lifting in a teasing smile as he sipped his ale. “You avoided the truth."

"Akin to deceit."

He set down his mug with a sigh. "Fair enough. Whatever did you see?"

Her eyes tightened, toying at her sleeves as if thinking over revealing this to him. "The boy will live long... but he will be sentenced to takeing the black for assault. His path is laid."

Cregan absorbed her words, and the dinner noises got louder. He rubbed a hand down his mouth, nodding to himself.

"That boy's future is his to shape," he relieved, his eyes locking on hers. "No sense in weighing down tomorrow with troubles that haven’t come. Perhaps knowing less will allow him to make other choices."

She quirked a side of her lips to an imperceptible smile, a shared understanding evolving between them. "Perhaps."

He gently caressed the back of her head. "Maybe don’t make this a habit. I don’t fancy sharing my ale with a doom-monger every night."

Her laugh surprised him. It was soft, barely more than a breath, like a secret that had slipped free—genuine, and entirely unexpected. Cregan blinked, caught off guard. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted to hear it.

"You laughed," he noticed breathily.

Claere paused, her brows drawing together as though she hadn’t noticed it herself. “Did I?”

He nodded, still watching her, his eyes softening. “Aye, you did. A sound like that could warm even these old stones."

She looked down at her lap as if trying to recall the moment herself. Her fingers resumed their nervous picking at her sleeves, but there was a faint flush on her pale cheeks, a subtle shift in her usual guarded demeanour.

“I suppose I did,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Cregan leaned closer, nudging her arm, gentle but teasing. “Well, don’t stop now. I think I'm rather fond of it.”

Claere’s thin lips graced a vague curve, so sweet and humble, though she quickly turned her gaze away from him, her fingers smoothing the fabric of her dress.

Gently, unable to stop himself, he reached out, cupping the side of her pale cheek. This time, she did not flinch or shy away. Instead, she closed her eyes, allowing herself to lean into his touch, indulging in the warmth of his hand, even if just for a fleeting moment.

For Cregan, it was another crushing triumph. For Claere, it was the first time she permitted herself to feel something other than the cold isolation that had surrounded her since arriving at Winterfell. And for those watching, it was a glimpse of an undue union slowly becoming more than mere duty.

There it was: Cregan's second silver lining, with far less fanfare and more consequential than the first. A quiet tempest of affection began taking root in the frozen North, thawing what had once seemed unreachable—the first warmth of spring after a long winter.

X

[thewulf]

Until the Morning Light || Aragorn

Summary: Request - I wanted to see if I could request an Aragorn x reader. You don’t have to write anything! No pressure <3 It is a bit cheesy, so…Maybe something where they started having strong feelings for each other during their travels to destroy the ring and are so desperately longing after the other, just that they never confess and even the encouragement of the fellowship doesn’t help... Read Rest Here

A/N: Gosh I just adore this man! Thank you for the request always!!

Pairing: Aragorn x Reader

Word Count: 5.1k +

TW: Violence, orc violence, death, blood, crying, angst, Battle of Helm's Deep, lotr warnings

Born under the vast skies of Rohan you grew up amidst the rolling plains and the echoing calls of horses. From a young age you were not just a child of the land but its protector, honing your skills with a blade as well as you could listen to the whispers of the earth. Your heart was fiercely loyal and brave and tempered by the tender tales of your mother. She bestowed upon you a rare gift, a deep connection with nature that allowed you to sense and communicate with the world around you in ways few others could.

This unique ability was distinct from the innate affinity that elves hold with the forests and rivers. Unlike the elves whose communion often involves a harmonious coexistence and a capability to influence nature’s growth and health your gift did not extend to bending the will of the woods or the waters. Instead, it manifested as an intimate understanding. An almost magical perception that let you hear the secrets of leaves rustling in the wind and feel the subtle shifts of the earth beneath your feet. It was a communion, but of a different kind. A silent dialogue that did not seek to alter but to understand and empathize, providing guidance and comfort where it was most needed.

Such a profound connection to nature brought with it a heightened awareness of the creeping darkness that threatened to engulf Middle earth. The very land you communicated with now echoed with the distress of encroaching evil. A warning you felt deep in your bones. It was during this time of growing shadows that tragedy struck your life profoundly. You lost a beloved family member to the dark forces spreading across the land. An event that shattered the peace of your world but also forged a new resolve within you. Carrying the weight of this loss, you vowed with a heart heavy yet unyielding to protect your homeland and its people. This vow was sacred and resolute. It sharpened your resolve as much as your blade and became the echo of your every step on the path of the Fellowship.

It was during these turbulent times that Gandalf the Grey came to your village. The wise wizard saw in you not just a skilled warrior but a unique spirit whose abilities were as rare as they were needed. With words as compelling as the winds of your homeland he requested your presence in the Fellowship. "Middle-earth needs hearts like yours," he said. His eyes twinkling with a mixture of seriousness and kindness.

Thus, with a heart full of resolve and a spirit called to a greater cause, you joined the Fellowship. Not just to honor your vow but to fulfill a destiny that seemed written in the very leaves of the trees you so loved. As you set out from Rohan the wind seemed to carry whispers of encouragement and the land itself seemed to nod in approval. Its daughter now a guardian in its most desperate hour.

Upon your arrival at the rendezvous point where the Fellowship was gathering you were immediately aware of the intense gazes of many. Their eyes scrutinizing every new face—evaluating, assessing. Yet, when you first met Aragorn his gaze was different. It was calm, welcoming, devoid of any judgment that demanded you prove your worth. He seemed to see right through the facade that others often expected you to wear. The mask of a warrior constantly proving herself. Instead, Aragorn acknowledged your capabilities as if they were as clear to him as the daylight.

As you both shared the duties of setting up camp that first evening Aragorn asked you about your journey from Rohan. His genuine interest was refreshing, and soon you found yourself teaching him about the unique properties of the athelas plant found in your homeland. Its healing powers far greater when used with the right incantations. A secret you had kept closely guarded. To your surprise he not only listened intently but also shared his own knowledge creating a beautiful exchange of wisdom.

As the journey progressed Aragorn often sought your company for the watch shifts. During these quiet hours under the vast, starlit sky, you both would sit by the fire. The crackling flames casting flickering shadows on your faces. It was here in the solitude of the night that you shared stories of your pasts. You spoke of your family in Rohan. Of the laughter and tears of your childhood and the deep connection you felt with the land.

Aragorn, in turn, shared tales of his travels. The burdens he carried and the hopes he harbored for peace in middle earth. These exchanges that were filled with laughter and sometimes a comfortable silence laid a strong foundation for your growing affection. There was an ease between you. A mutual respect that flourished without the need for words making each shared moment a treasure.

One evening deep into the journey after a particularly taxing day when tensions within the Fellowship seemed to strain the very air around you Aragorn noticed your weariness. Without a word he took up your watch insisting you rest. "We all have our strengths," he said softly with a gentle smile playing on his lips. "Tonight, let me watch over you." It was a simple act. But in that moment his kindness felt soothing to your soul. It solidified a bond that was quickly becoming as vital as the quest itself.

These moments under the stars with Aragorn where you didn't have to prove yourself but were simply accepted were what you cherished most. They were reminders that in the looming shadow of war there existed moments of peace and deep, unspoken understanding.

Aragorn's presence became a constant in your days and you found yourself increasingly seeking his company. Whether strategizing for the next leg of the journey or sharing a quiet moment away from the rest of the group his steady demeanor brought a comforting consistency to the unpredictable days. After a particularly fierce skirmish against a roving band of orcs you sustained a slight wound. Aragorn was quick to your side. His fingers skilled and gentle as he tended to the injury. His touch was always gentle and careful. It sparked an unfamiliar warmth in your chest. His concerned eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your heart skip.

As Aragorn wrapped your wound Legolas strolled over with an amused twinkle in his eye. "I see our esteemed leader has found yet another calling… nursing the wounded with such tender care," he commented lightly. His gaze flickering between you and Aragorn with a knowing smile. Aragorn responded with a dismissive grunt. His cheeks tinged with a faint blush, but his eyes remained warm and soft as they met yours again.

Gimli has overheard the exchange and joined in with a hearty laugh. "Ah, but it's a good thing we have Aragorn for both fighting and mending. Saves us calling for Elrond every time someone gets a scratch!" he boomed before clapping Aragorn on the back with such force that it drew a surprised smile from the usually reserved ranger.

This playful banter brought a light-hearted moment to the group easing the tension of the long journey. Later that evening as you sat by the campfire the teasing continued. Gimli’s loud snoring eventually became the subject of jest, and you all shared a hearty laugh. Emboldened by the relaxed atmosphere you nearly confessed your growing feelings to Aragorn. But just as you gathered your courage he turned contemplative, his gaze lost to the horizon.

"I sometimes wonder what lies ahead for all of us," he said softly. A distant look in his eyes. "The weight of this quest, it's much to bear—for all of us." His words were heavy with the burden of leadership and the uncertainty of the future, and they momentarily stalled your confession.

Despite this the bond between you only deepened, strengthened by each shared challenge and quiet moment of understanding. Legolas and Gimli’s lighthearted teasing served as a gentle reminder of the friendship and affection that blossomed even in the darkest of times, adding a touch of warmth to the journey's cold nights.

As you and the Fellowship arrive at Helm's Deep the air is thick with the weight of impending conflict. The massive stone walls of the fortress loom over you, their stark, gray surfaces a harsh reminder of the battle that awaits. Shadows stretch long across the ground as the sun dips below the horizon casting an ominous glow that barely penetrates the gathering dusk.

Around you, soldiers move with a sense of urgency. Their faces set in grim determination. The clanging of armor and the sharp ring of sword against stone fill your ears. A constant reminder of the stakes at play. Despite the hustle and bustle a heavy silence hangs over the assembled troops, each person lost in their own thoughts of the coming night. The air is cool and carries a hint of moisture. The breeze whispering through the battlements as if in mourning for lives yet to be lost.

In all of this your gaze finds Aragorn. His expression is one of resolve marked by the burdens of leadership and the knowledge of what everyone is fighting for. His presence is a steady force amid the chaos, and you feel a strange mixture of comfort and unease as you stand beside him knowing the challenge that lies ahead.

In the midst of this anxious bustle your childhood friend, a charismatic warrior named Ealdred from your village, unexpectedly arrives to aid in the battle. His arrival brings a sudden surge of warmth to the cold stone surroundings of Helm's Deep. As soon as Ealdred sees you his face lights up with a wide, infectious smile and he strides over with open arms.

His greeting is loud and joyous in the subdued murmurs of the assembling warriors. "Ah, if it isn’t the bravest shield-maiden of Rohan!" he exclaims while enveloping you in a hearty hug that lifts you slightly off your feet. The familiarity and comfort of his embrace, reminiscent of your shared past filled with training and childhood adventures, momentarily lift your spirits.

Laughter rolls easily from Ealdred as he sets you down. His presence a stark contrast to the tense air around. "I told myself I wouldn't miss a chance to fight alongside you again," he chuckles before clapping you on the shoulder with a warrior's camaraderie. The sincerity in his voice and the joy in his eyes are a balm to the unease that has been gnawing at you since your arrival at the fortress.

From a short distance away, Aragorn watches this reunion unfold with a complex whirl of emotions. He notices the brightness in your smile. A glow he has seldom seen during the long and perilous journey. Your eyes sparkle with laughter, reflecting a happiness that stirs a pang in his heart. The ease of your interaction with Ealdred, the way your body leans slightly towards him in familiarity and comfort, does not escape Aragorn’s keen observation.

Each laugh shared between you and Ealdred, each nostalgic look exchanged, seems to draw a line of subtle tension through Aragorn. He tries to focus on the preparations at hand, but his gaze involuntarily drifts back to you. The way Ealdred's hand lingers on your back, the warm, open smiles, the apparent joy of your reunion… it all fans a flame of jealousy that Aragorn struggles to suppress.

Though he attempts to dismiss these feelings as trivial they gnaw at him with an intensity that surprises him. The sight of your unabashed happiness with someone else plants seeds of doubt and worry that even the din of the oncoming storm cannot drown. The moment crystallizes something crucial within him. The realization of how deep his feelings for you have grown and how much he fears the possibility of not being the one who brings such joy to your eyes.

As you and Ealdred laugh over shared memories such as recalling the escapades of your youth in Rohan, his arm casually drapes around your shoulders in a brotherly gesture. The familiarity and ease between you two are evident. But to an observer like Aragorn each laugh, and touch seem to whisper of something more.

From his vantage point Aragorn watches the interaction his chest tightening inexplicably with each passing moment. The way Ealdred looks at you with such open admiration and joy, ignites a flame of jealousy in Aragorn’s heart that he can neither quench nor fully understand. His grip tightens on the hilt of his sword. A subconscious echo of the turmoil brewing within him.

Ealdred, ever observant, catches the intensity of Aragorn's gaze from across the way. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he leans closer to you, lowering his voice so only you can hear. "I believe the great ranger isn't just watching out for danger, you know," he teases nodding subtly towards Aragorn. "The way he looks at you... it’s as if he’s trying to will you to notice him. Quite the admirer, our King-to-be, wouldn’t you say?"

Your eyes widen slightly. The comment catching you off-guard. For a moment you're lost in thought considering Ealdred's words. You glance over at Aragorn observing his now averted gaze, the stoic mask momentarily fallen, revealing a hint of vulnerability. The idea of Aragorn, a king, having such feelings for you seems almost unfathomable. Yet the possibility stirs a flutter of excitement deep within.

Laughing softly, you shake your head trying to mask your sudden nervousness with humor. "Oh, Ealdred, don't be silly. Aragorn and I—we're just friends," you reply though your voice lacks conviction. "Besides, how could a king ever see anything in someone like me? I’m just a warrior from Rohan. Certainly not a lady of court."

Ealdred gives you a knowing look, his smile suggesting he sees right through your casual dismissal. "Well, even the mightiest kings need true friends and perhaps something more," he murmurs while giving you a playful wink before turning his attention back to the bustling activity around Helm's Deep. “Go to him, I will see you around.” He gives you a push.

As Ealdred walks away you're left with a curious mix of doubt and wonder, pondering his words. The thought lingers in your mind mingling with the echoes of what might be unspoken truths between you and Aragorn. The idea feels both impossible and thrilling, setting your heart racing as you watch Aragorn commanding his men with natural authority. Could there really be more to your friendship? The question hangs in the air, unanswered but increasingly impossible to ignore. Of course, you wanted more but when you learned of his destiny not so long ago you let those thoughts fall away.

Meanwhile, Legolas and Gimli, having observed Aragorn’s unusual demeanor, seize the opportunity for a bit of light-hearted ribbing. "Come now, Aragorn," Legolas chides with a graceful arch of his eyebrow, "your warrior's stare is more intense than any orc's glare we've encountered. And far more directed at our friend than any foe."

Gimli chortles, adding his own gruff commentary. "Lad, you're as subtle as a dwarf in an elf’s dance," he laughs before slapping Aragorn on the back. "Even the blind could see the way you look at her!"

Aragorn was caught between his role as a leader and his personal turmoil and offers only a rare, tight-lipped scowl in response. Though the corners of his mouth twitch, betraying a reluctant amusement at his friends' observations.

Once the teasing subsides Aragorn's gaze drifts back to you, now mingling with a quiet reflection. The light-hearted jests of his companions echo in his mind, stirring a resolve. Perhaps it was time to confront these feelings. To explore the truth behind the glances, the smiles, and the unspoken yearning that had begun to shape his heart. As night falls over Helm's Deep, the looming battle stirs a newfound courage within him. A courage not just to fight enemies, but perhaps to also voice the truth of his heart.

As the day before the battle approaches the air at Helm's Deep grows tense, filled with the weight of impending conflict. Soldiers go about their final preparations. Their movements sharp and focused, while commanders issue last-minute orders with stern expressions. In this bustle, Aragorn finds himself repeatedly glancing your way. His usual calm demeanor overshadowed by a restless concern that has little to do with the battle strategies at hand.

Finally, unable to contain the turmoil stirring within him, Aragorn approaches you. His stride is purposeful yet there's a hesitation in his eyes that you've seldom seen. "I need to speak with you," he says, his voice low, drawing you away from the others under the pretext of discussing the morrow's tactics.

You follow him to a quieter part of the fortress where the sounds of preparation are but distant echoes. As you stand there facing him in the dim light of the torches, Aragorn seems to struggle with his words. His gaze intense and searching.

"A moment ago, I was thinking about our positions for the battle," Aragorn begins, his tone tentative. "But truthfully, that's not why I asked you here." He takes a deep breath. His hands clenching and then relaxing at his sides. "I... I've noticed a distance growing between us while we’ve been here, one that wasn't there before. And I fear," he pauses, his voice tightening, "I fear it might be due to misunderstandings... emotions left unspoken." His admission hangs between you, stark and revealing. The air feels heavier as if charged with the gravity of his words. His eyes never leave yours, seeking, perhaps, a sign of your feelings.

You feel a knot form in your throat. Your own emotions a whirlwind of confusion and revelation. The thought that Aragorn might share even a fraction of the feelings you've struggled to hide sends a shiver through you. But there's also fear—fear of what such an admission means in the face of the darkness that might claim tomorrow.

"Aragorn," you start, your voice barely above a whisper, "I... I've also felt something change. But I believed you saw me only as a… friend in battle, nothing more. With the shadow of war over us I thought it best to keep my feelings to myself." Your confession feels like shedding armor you didn't realize you were wearing, leaving you exposed but strangely free.

Aragorn steps closer. His presence enveloping you in a sense of warmth and safety that contradicts the coldness of Helm's Deep. "I have long admired you, more than as a friend," he confesses, his voice steady but filled with emotion. "But I too feared to speak, to disrupt the bond we have with uncertainties of heart. Yet on the eve of such uncertainty… I find that silence is a greater burden than the risk of sorrow."

The distance between you diminishes with his words bridging gaps formed by unspoken doubts. As you look up into Aragorn's eyes, reflecting both the torchlight and his earnestness, you realize that regardless of what the morrow holds, this moment—honest and raw—has changed something fundamental between you. No longer just allies but something deeper. A connection forged not just in the heat of battle but in the vulnerability of shared hearts.

The emotional confrontation beneath the shadowed walls of Helm’s Deep leaves the air between you and Aragorn charged with newfound understanding and fragile hope. As the initial shock of your mutual confessions fades, the reality of the coming dawn—laden with the uncertainty of battle—sets in, lending a poignant urgency to your words and thoughts.

Aragorn’s eyes that reflected a mix of resolve and tenderness, lock with yours. “We stand on the brink of war, a war that may consume us all,” he says, his voice steady despite the turmoil you know roils beneath. “But this moment… this truth between us, cannot be overshadowed by what tonight may bring.”

You nod feeling the weight of every word. His hand was still holding yours. He squeezes gently trying to ground you. “I have carried this in my heart, thinking it unwise to speak, fearing the complications it might bring,” you admit. Your own voice stronger than you feel. “But now, facing the unknown, I see only the folly in silence. My heart, just like yours, cannot bear the burden of what-ifs.”

Aragorn’s face softens. The warrior’s mask yielding to the man beneath. “Then let us make a promise,” he proposes. His gaze searching yours for hesitation. Finding none, he continues, “If we survive this war, if fate grants us passage through this darkness, I promise to explore this path with you. To see where our hearts might lead us, unburdened by duty.”

Moved by his words you feel a resolve awaken within you. “I promise, too,” you respond, the night air around you bearing witness. “To find you again. In a world at peace and discover the depth of what we might become together.”

The pact, sealed with the sincerity of shared heartbeats, seems to carve out a small sanctuary against the chaos of the impending battle. As you both stand together the day turns to night and the distant sounds of the encroaching army grow louder, yet, in this secluded moment, there’s a sense of peace. An oasis of calm before the storm.

Aragorn gently lifts your hand to his lips. His kiss a feather-light promise against your skin. “No matter what comes,” he whispers, his breath warm against your fingers, “know that tonight has changed everything.”

As you part ways to prepare for the night ahead, each step back to your respective duties is reluctant but necessary. The promise of a future, however uncertain, fuels a quiet courage in your heart. A courage not just to fight, but to survive, to return, to begin anew.

The stars overhead that were witnesses to your solemn exchange, twinkle with a hopeful light. They cast a soft glow over Helm’s Deep. In the quiet before the battle, you hold onto the memory of Aragorn’s words, the warmth of his touch, and the promise of tomorrow. A tomorrow where you might explore the uncharted paths of both peace and passion.

And in the quiet before the storm with the world held at bay, it is enough.

As night envelops Helm's Deep, the distant roar of the approaching enemy fills the air. A grim reminder of the battle that lies ahead. The walls were thick with the tension of awaiting warriors and bristle with weapons as the moonlight casts long shadows across the battlements. You take your place among the defenders. The weight of your armor familiar and reassuring against the chill of the morning.

Across the way, Aragorn readies himself for combat. His eyes briefly meeting yours across the crowded space. In that fleeting glance you find a silent exchange of resolve and reassurance. A mutual understanding that whatever the day brings, you are not alone.

The battle erupts with the thunderous sound of orc drums and the clamor of arms. Waves of enemies crash against the fortress's defenses. Each assault more ferocious than the last. Amidst the chaos you find yourself fighting back-to-back with Aragorn. Each move synchronized with an instinctual precision that speaks of your deep connection. His presence by your side is both a comfort and a spur pushing you to fight with a fierceness you hadn't known you possessed.

As you parry and thrust Aragorn covers your flank. His swordplay a seamless dance of deadly grace. Every time an orc breaks through the line threatening to overwhelm you, Aragorn is there, his blade swift and sure. In return you guard his back with equal vigilance, your own combat skills honed by years of training now coupled with a personal drive to protect him at all costs.

From the corner of your eye, you catch brief glimpses of Legolas and Gimli, their unique partnership effective and deadly against the enemy. Despite the severity of the battle, you see Legolas shoot a quick, satisfied glance towards you and Aragorn, a small smirk playing on his lips as he loses another arrow into the horde. Gimli, engaged in a competition of his own with the elf, nonetheless nods approvingly in your direction after cleaving another orc with his axe.

The battle rages on. Each moment a blur of sound, motion, and adrenaline. But within this turmoil your bond with Aragorn becomes your strength. When fatigue begins to claw at your limbs it is his steadfast presence that reignites your resolve. When despair whispers in the shadows of your mind it is the promise of a future together that keeps the darkness at bay.

As the tide of the battle shifts with every orc felled and every moment you and Aragorn continue to stand, the hope for victory grows. It was fueled not just by the strength of arms but by the power of the unity you have forged in the heart of conflict. The knowledge that someone fights beside you not just for the fate of middle earth but for the promise of a shared tomorrow is more potent than any weapon forged by dwarves or elves. Together, you fight not only to protect Helm's Deep but to preserve the future that you vowed to explore. In the heat of battle that promise binds you ever closer. A promise that against all odds you will survive to see what lies beyond the war.

As the echoes of battle fade and the sun begins to rise over the now-quiet walls of Helm’s Deep, the air is filled with the heavy scent of rain and renewal. The fortress, though scarred by the night’s ferocity, stands resilient. A showing of the courage of those who defended it. Among the weary soldiers there’s a palpable sense of relief mixed with sorrow for those lost. A bittersweet victory.

In the aftermath as others tend to the wounded and recount the close calls you find yourself seeking out Aragorn. You find him standing alone looking out over the battlements at the dawning day. His profile etched against the lightening sky. His stance is one of a man who has carried too much, seen too much, yet stands ready to face whatever comes next.

Approaching quietly, you stop beside him, sharing the view in silence. After a moment he looks down at you, his eyes reflecting the myriad emotions of the night. Without a word he takes your hand. His grip firm and warm, anchoring you both in the now.

“Aragorn,” you begin but he shakes his head slightly, asking you to stop.

“Let me speak before the world rushes back in,” he says softly. His gaze holds yours, intense and unwavering. “Last night in the middle of this mess I realized something beyond the fear of losing what is precious. I realized what it means to truly love.”

He pauses, searching your face for understanding. “I have loved before,” he continues, “but never like this. Never with such clarity and raw hope. Last night I fought not just for middle earth but for the chance to see what lies ahead with you.”

Tears gather in your eyes as his words wash over you. Each one landing with the weight and warmth of a cherished caress. He continues as he uses his thumbs to wipe away your shed and unshed tears. “You have given me a reason to fight. A reason to return no matter the odds. And if this battle has taught me anything it is that I want to face whatever comes next. Not as a king. Not as a ranger. But as a man hopelessly in love with you.”

Aragorn's confession was simple yet profound. It stirred something deep within you. A surge of love and commitment that mirrors his own. You step closer diminishing the space between you and rest your head against his chest listening to the steady beat of his heart. “And I, too, want nothing more than to face the world with you, Aragorn. To build a life where love is our strength.”

Aragorn begins to speak, his voice low and filled with emotion, confessing his love and the revelation that had come to him amidst the chaos of battle. But as he speaks, something within you stirs. A fierce, overwhelming rush of feeling, amplified by the adrenaline that still courses through your veins.

Before he can finish you close the distance between you were driven by a surge of emotions too powerful to contain. Your hands find his face pulling him down towards you, and your lips meet his in a kiss that is anything but gentle. It's a kiss full of life, of survival, of shared battles and shared dreams. Your bodies press together, each curve and angle molding into the other, as if you could somehow merge into one being united against whatever may come.

Aragorn responds with equal fervor his arms wrapping around you to lift you slightly off the ground deepening the kiss with a passion that mirrors your own. His touch is both a claim and a surrender. A recognition of the bond that has been forged in the heat of battle and sealed in the quiet of dawn.

As you finally part, breathless and hearts pounding, you rest your forehead against his, eyes still closed as you savor the closeness. "I love you," you whisper. The words barely audible but heavy with meaning. "I fought for this, for us."

"And I," Aragorn replies. His breath warm against your lips, "will continue to fight for every day we have together. For a chance to love you as you deserve, fiercely and freely, without the shadow of war."

The promise hangs between you profound and sacred. As you step back still encircled by his arms the world around you seems to awaken. The sounds of the fortress stirring to life, the calls of soldiers and the distant cries of those mourning their fallen. It all fades into the background as you look up at him, seeing not just the warrior or the king but the man who holds your heart.

The sun was now fully above the horizon. It bathes you both in golden light, its rays like a benediction over your newfound commitment. You prepare to face the new day with him. Not just as survivors but as partners bound by love. Each beat of your hearts proof to the battles you’ve endured and the future you will fight for together.

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[justporo]

Evening Rituals

The sun might be lost for Astarion, but what he can hold onto are the sunsets once the sun itself has hidden beyond the horizon. And so he sits and watches - and you hope to help him mend what's broken.

MASTERLIST | AO3

Author's Note: I wrote this after I thought of that recent headcanon of Astarion liking to catch as much of a sunset as possible - because they're beautiful and we all know he loves beautiful things. Coincidentally the sky this morning - although it was a sunrise - was just as I imagined it for this piece. Pairing: Astarion/GN!Tav (You) Warnings: light mention of past trauma Wordcount: 1k Song: Am I Dreaming - Lil Nas X ft. Miley Cyrus ~~~

The room was dark so the sky could be more vibrant.

At least that’s what Astarion always said when he insisted on getting up as soon as the last golden ray of the setting sun had climbed down below the horizon. He’d thrown open the thick brocade curtains covering the tall window in your room, only to do the same with the window and then perch on the window sill: one leg drawn up, the other hanging casually down from the little nook and his head up towards the gradient sky.

His posture seemed casual enough. Inviting you to think that he was merely languidly relaxing. But for you who’d become accustomed to carefully notice even the most minute of details of your lover, you saw the tension in his spine and the way he leaned towards the last moments of daylight. The way his eyes spoke of yearning and a dear one lost.

It had become an evening ritual this. Since evenings were now the start of your days.

It had been merely a couple of days since your final battle for Baldur’s Gate and so for the time being you’d chosen to remain in the relative comfort of the Elfsong tavern. Until things had blown over a bit, the dust settled.

One of those things being how your vampire had been forced back into the night.

And how he hadn’t been ready for it. Although, if you were quite honest with yourself, who could have ever expected him to be ready for something as cruel as that?

Astarion fully hadn’t been prepared for this sort of breakup yet. That’s what he’d said several times. Sometimes half-joking, sometimes with as much earnestness as you’d heard from the man.

And you knew that even his new found, undying and powerful love for you could only take the sharpest edge off the pain all this was causing him.

He was mourning the loss of the sun. The griefing doubled by it being the second time it had been taken from him.

Because a heart already shattered into pieces, already once broken and barely just starting to stick together again was so prone to breaking down even more.

And so Astarion sat and watched how the last remains of sunlight slowly got drawn from the skies every evening. Observed how the colours changed from simmering, liquid gold at the rim and got drowned out by all shades of the colour blue imaginable. Like a curtain dragged down over the city ever so slowly - until glittering stars and a vibrant moon brought some solace with their silver light. As if offering a soft caress as a small apology to the vampire who would have to make do with them instead from now on.

And you sat with him every night, trying to offer additional comfort even though you knew that even you couldn’t substitute all the warmth of golden daylight. At least you wanted to be there for him while he was trying to mend the pieces as best he could.

It might not have been healthy how Astarion clung to shreds of what was left. But could you really blame him? You saw the pain in his crimson eyes every evening once he had settled down to watch, how he practically made himself sit through the pain time and time again. It tortured you.

But you also noticed the spark on his face, at least a silver lining. When he smiled and whispered to himself how beautiful it looked. “Almost as beautiful as you,” he joked sometimes. And then you smiled at him or kissed him. But not for too long as to not to keep him from his moment of serenity.

Mostly the two of you remained silent. You needn’t speak about this, it was an unspoken agreement between you. And a lot of thoughts must be going through Astarion’s mind at any given time. Two centuries were a hefty time span to sort through. And you felt he needed these moments to slowly work through it. To patiently let the major dust storm settle and see how pieces fit together after that. So usually you just stayed with him, observed him as much as the sunset sky, while you hoped you’d be a piece in the puzzle once he would have figured it all out.

Today you had quickly went down to the taproom to get yourself a mug of hot tea while Astarion had already flung open the window to perform his routine.

When you returned he was already there, head leaning against the window frame, one leg up and angled, softly swaying to a melody only the vampire heard.

Kneeling down in front of the window on a pillow you set down your cup on the window sill and then your head on top of your arms right next to it. Vapour curled lazily from the boiling hot beverage you’d brought for yourself, dissipating somewhere towards its way up to the flamboyant sunset.

The sky was different today. Mixed with the usual oranges, yellows and and blues was a breathtaking blend of purples and pinks, stroked over with some soft sheens of clouds that glowed even more vibrantly with the unusual colours.

Astarion was mesmerised, mouth slightly agape, as if he’d never seen something similar. Truly the way he could admire every single instance of the sky darkening slowly had you in awe and broke your heart simultaneously.

The vampire loved beautiful things, loved to look at them, again and again. And if that was what remained, he would hold onto it.

You took him in, took careful note of how his profile outlined darkly against the softer pastels of the early night, eyes shining. The warm light tones painted him softly - in a way that made your heart ache even more.

Astarion noticed you watch him and smiled at you lovingly - and just a little wicked. You hoped you saw a tiny bit less aching in it today. He stretched out his hand to stroke your hair softly while not breaking eye contact. He admired you very similarly to how you had been looking at him. And to how he previously had drank in the dusk sky.

Tonight his eyes didn’t stray from you while the colours slowly gave way to the darkness of the night.

The pain and the beauty of sunsets might be fleeting. Always prone to betray one.

But you were there. And you stayed even beyond darkness.

Taglist (DM if you want to be added please): @spacebarbarianweird @sunfire-ancunin @tragedybunny @dependsonthedream @tallymonster @magazzne @micropoe10 @aoirohi @my-bunny-prince @lumienyx @fayeriess @darlingxdragon @hereliesblackdragon @ayselluna @ajokeformur-ray @i-cant-get-into-my-other-account @rikuyrk06 @marina-and-the-memes

[midnightsslut]

Since you’re so good at connecting songs (I’m still in awe about how you made me realize that atw and illicit affairs are about the same subject), what is your most big brain/audacious/out there theory/connection about Taylor’s songs?

first of all, thank you! i have to say, I’m not the first one to get the idea that there are parallels between those two songs, but I’d never really sat down with them line by line. this ask really got me wondering because i feel like there are a lot of parallels I can think of but idk how out there they are. here is one that i don’t see people talking about a lot:

coney island feels like the other perspective of the story in you’re losing me, especially when you consider that taylor asked matt berninger about writing songs that deal with their own relationship issues with his wife. of course, coney island and you’re losing me were written at different points in their relationship, but the sentiment appears to be the same.

this got long, so I’m putting a cut here.

first of all, here is how taylor described coney island in her evermore interview with zane lowe (around the 37-minute mark)

The perspective I was coming from was like a male perspective of regret or guilt after a lifetime of apattern of behavior, and i've been kind of touching on sort of things like that on the song tolerate it where there's this person one side of the relationship who's felt like they've just… Their partner's been there, but they haven't *been* there. They've been there, but they're just sitting next to each other, eating breakfast, but they haven't they haven't been there […] I really loved writing, ‘we were like the mall before the internet / it was the one place to be.’ I was trying to reflect on the coney island visual of a place where thrills were once sought, you know, a place where once it was all electricity and magic, and now the lights are out, and you're looking at it, thinking ‘what did I do?’

‘break my soul in two, looking for you, but you’re right here’ —> ‘you say “I don’t understand,” I say “I know you don’t”’

‘and if this is the long haul, how’d we get here so soon?’ —> ‘how long could we be a sad song before we’re too far gone to bring back to life?’

‘did I close my fist around something delicate? did I shatter you?’ —> ‘my face was gray, but you wouldn’t admit that we were sick.’

‘over and over, lost again with no surprises / disappointments, close your eyes / and it gets colder and colder when the sun goes down’ —> ‘i’m getting tired even for a phoenix / always rising from the ashes, mending all her gashes’

‘what’s a lifetime of achievement if I pushed you to the edge, but you were too polite to leave me?’ —> ‘fighting in only your army, frontlines, don’t you ignore me / I’m the best thing at this party’

‘do you miss the rogue who coaxed you into paradise and left you there?’ —> ‘and the air is thick with loss and indecision’

‘will you forgive my soul when you’re too wise to trust me and too old to care?’ —> ‘now I just sit in the dark and wonder if it’s time’

‘the mischief, the gift-wrapped suburban dreams’ —> ‘remember looking at this room? we loved it cause of the light’

‘sorry for not winning you an arcade ring’ —> ‘choose something, babe, I got nothing to believe unless you’re choosing me’

‘did I leave you hanging every single day?’ —> ‘every morning, I glared at you with storms in my eyes’

‘did I paint your bluest skies the darkest gray a universe away?’ —> ‘my face was gray, but you wouldn’t admit that we were sick’

‘and when I got into the accident, the sight that flashed before me was your face’ —> ‘now you’re running down the hallway / and you know what they all say / you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone’

‘but when I walked up to the podium, i think that i forgot to say your name’ —> ‘don’t you ignore me, I’m the best thing at this party’

you’re losing me is key to the entirety of ttpd, really, so this gives us the ability to draw parallels to sooo many songs on the album. coney island is a goldmine actually. no wonder she’s mashed it up with so many songs on tour.

my next post will be connecting right where you left me and chloe et al whenever I get around to it (to be clear, I don’t think they’re about the same person).

[little-reader]

"The Son of A Monster." Ch. 9 - Season one ending.

Masterlist

Carl grimes x Male!Reader

Warnings; Graphic Gore, Death, blood, Slow-burn, Sexual tension, Gay awakening (For both), Cursing, Negan is the Readers dad, Enemies to lovers story. Fighting. Zombie Apocalypse.

I had woken to silence and still. My eyes felt burned out as I opened them. I was bruised. I refused to move, but instead looked around the room. Same bed as last time. I must have passed out. I felt fine though, well, okay enough to move my head. Toby was looking over something, a gun in his holster, and glasses hanging on his nose. It was late morning, a few birds chirping off in the distance and the sun shining in the front windows.

My throat was dry and I was dizzy. I looked over to the nightstand, where water sat again. I blink a few times, before reaching over slowly. I could see my hands shaking, sweaty, as I grabbed the glass. I felt the weight of the water as it slipped from my grasp.

I felt my shoulders jump when the glass landed on the floor and shattered into several pieces. My eyes closed tightly as I heard Toby mutter an “aw, shit” and move away from his chair. I could hear the wheels on the chair scratch against the wood as he pushed it in and moved around the room. 

I wanted to know if someone else came into the room. My eyes were being blinded by the lights in the room. They would strain too hard to see anything if I tried to open them.

I felt glass press to my arid lips and a hand pushing back my long hair, that I have yet to cut since it's been growing out these past few months. The voice was muffled. Like it was underwater. I grunted and shifted my head away, cracking my eyes open and trying to focus on the person in front of me. My ears started to clear out and I could see the faint outline of the person in front of me. 

Eric something. That curly man's husband. Aaron. I know Iris loved to have meetings with the two. She said they were both great to talk to, helping and kind. Iris. I forgot about Iris, I haven’t seen her since I left. How long was I out? 

I muttered nonsense and looked around slightly, checking for more people. Only him and Toby. Toby was cleaning the glass and water off of the floor. “Kid is out of it,” Toby said, looking down at me. “Can’t hold anything, probably can’t move much right now.” He dumped the glass in the trashcan. 

“He needs water,” Eric said, placing the cup back on the side table. He sighed and started to work on the bandage. “He should be fine, his infection has left in the past few days.” He stated. “It makes it even better he doesn’t smell like puss, and that he’s finally conusious.”

Toby nodded. “Barely.” 

I let my eyes close again as they continued in silence. Then, there was a sudden sting that honestly brought me to life. I grabbed the man's arm and yelled, more out of shock, as he cleaned up the wound. I tried to move away, but surprisingly, he was able to keep me in place. I grimaced, “Stop. That… fucking hurts.” 

“And he’s talking, even better.” A known voice, one that I haven’t heard until now. Iris came behind the curtain, holding her stomach. I sensed sarcasm in her voice when her tired eyes gazed at me. The bandage was changed in a second before Eric moved back. 

I kept eye contact from where I lay. Eric patted her shoulder before he left the office, toby leaving, giving us space. I already knew what was coming, something I wasn’t in the mood for, but it was better for me to if it happened now.

“You… okay?” I said, slowly debating my words. She took that as an invitation and came closer. 

She pushed back my hair and sat on the edge of the bed. I closed my eyes and relaxed slightly.  “You need a haircut.” She whispered, one hand playing with my hair and the other tracing my jaw. I felt her nails scratch slightly on my skiing. “And a shave.” I shook my head and held her hand. 

“Like it long,” I said, rubbing her hand with my thumb. “You shouldn’t be back here,” I stated, my eyes searching hers. She shook her head. “He’ll come back. Harder than ever.” I stated. She only nodded and kissed my cheek. 

“You’ve been out for two weeks.” She stated, resting her head on mine. I sighed. A whole week, plus the days I missed before I passed out. “Ricks got a plan. A good one. But this will cause death, and a blown-out war.” She said, grabbing my chin and pointing at her. “Soon, nowhere will be safe. You need to recover, now. If you don’t, you’ll die.” It was bland, the way she said it. Ominous. Her tone scared me slightly as I held her wrist in my hand. I could feel the pulse under her thin skin.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and she hummed. “I… don’t want that relationship with you, Iris. I can’t. I really can’t.”

“Shut up.” She said, kissing my forehead, She then dug through her pocket, and grabbed one of my hands, before placing something in it. I peered down and smiled. “I saw it on one of our dead ones. I didn’t tell anyone who it was.” She said, handing me the knife and I smiled. I traced my fingers over the carvings and held the switchblade to my chest. 

“Thank you.” 

-

I sat in that bed for four days since I awoke when I decided I was truly ready to leave it. I had gotten changed and then left for the Grimes. No one was home, but I later found out what their plan was. It involved me. Rick and the groups have been working hard. They have a whole huge plan, though Iris said she was not allowed to speak any further in the matter, and I should get rest while I can. I wasn’t quite sure if I had a choice in the whole matter, but I guessed I would be forced into it.

-

“He’s probably dead by now,” Simion said, staring at Negan from his stance at the door. Negan sat there thinking, “formulating” a plan. At least, that's what he was trying to do. His mind had been all over the place. “Kid’s got a mouth on him. Plus… I know you don’t want to hear it, but that shootout and the wound he had the last we saw him. He wasn’t doing so hot.” He stated, pushing himself off the wall and making his way over to Negan. “They must have killed him.”

Negan slammed his fist onto the table. “Shut the hell up, Simon. You don’t get to tell me whether my kid is dead or not.” He said, rubbing his eyebrows. He didn’t say anything else. 

-

I was reading through one of Carl's Marvel comics. I wasn’t allowed out of the room until tomorrow, meaning, the plan was more likely in the next two days. I still wasn’t sure what they were planning to do, but it had to be a strong plan to take down multiple armed stations. I know a few that are harder than the others. Station three, the one I ran, was the easiest. This one had a baby, but it was away from most mobs or civilization and safely guarded but not as armed. 

Though, knowing the crowd, they would keep the baby alive and well. 

The door creaked open. I kept my eyes on the comic in front of me, as the steps paused. 

“Your… awake?” Carl asked, wide-eyed and confused. I nodded and hummed. “That's… you should be sleeping.” He stated, placing something down in the room before snatching away the comic and placing it down neatly in his stack. 

“I was reading that,” I said, leaning up by my elbows. My eyebrows furrowed as he cleaned up his desk, ignoring me. “Hey…” I softened my tone slightly, throwing my feet over the bed and fully sitting up. He was shuffling his desk around, I didn’t quite understand why he was doing it now. I watched, silently, as he finished up and sat down, with a box in hand. 

“You left these here.” He threw the box to me, I caught it and examined it. My cigarettes are barely used, only two missing. “I meant to give them to you when you first woke up, but…”

I paused and peered up at the boy. “... yeah…” I placed them down softly on my pillow. “Thank you.” It was a simple gesture from him, but I was thankful. I watched his eyes droop, though I couldn’t tell what he was feeling. No, that's a lie. The way his eyebrows were furrowed, the twitch of his nose, and the crinkle of his cheeks. “You're upset?” I asked, tilting my head slightly.

“Stupid plan my dad has.” He stated. It only made me more curious. “He wanted me to talk to you about it.” I sat up straight on the bed, feeling a slight jolt in my abdomen. “You okay?” He asked, turning towards me slightly. I only nodded and grunted for him to continue. He messed with his hands nervously.

I patted the bed. “I can wait,” I stated, scooting closer to the wall, leaving room for him. He looked at me like I was stupid, thought I was grinning at him stupidly, and got up to cross over the room and join me. 

We end up on the bed together, my arm wrapped around his shoulder and his head barely resting near my chest. Anxiety. He was anxious, I could tell by the small twitch and fidget of his connected fingers. His breathing was slow but I could feel his heartbeat fasten slightly. 

I reached over and untangled his fingers before wrapping them with my own. I feel his sigh and shift. He lifted my hand and moved beside me, keeping our hands interlocked. I stared at his side profile for a bit, allowing him to take a moment where he could be calm. Plus, I just like looking at his freckles.

“It can't be that bad.” I slightly whispered after a while. He shook his head and huffed before looking at me.

“Dad has been collecting fuel and cars since Negan left. He built metal walls on them so he could line them up. We had some before this, we had to move walkers away from an area before they got out and destroyed Alexandria. The metal plates are strong enough to reject bullets. He plans on taking those cars to your dad, telling him to give up. If he doesn't, he sends a signal to Daryl, and Daryl starts leading a whole army of walkers to your dad's sanction.” Carl explained in detail, trying not to leave anything out. I nodded through the whole thing. Damn Nut, Rick is. He’s smart but ruthless and risky. 

I paused, he still didn't tell me what I had to do. “My part?”

“The fucking bait.”

I hummed, moving away from him slightly. The bait, Rick was smart. Though, unfortunately, that wouldn’t work. He was too stubborn for that. He’ll try to destroy everything before Rick can get to him, even if he fails. Or maybe it will make him back down. He’s protected me for years, but maybe it’s time for me to leave the nest, and fly. Fall first, then pick myself up, slowly. I’m already in that stage. Getting left behind. I didn’t realize that. I was left-

A hand slowly brought me back from my own thoughts. Carl looked at me sadly, his hand barely laid on my shoulder. 

“You won't be there?” It came out like a whisper. He let out and small breath and shook his head. I felt myself do the same. “It won't work.”

“Think we all know that,” Carl said, in a very light tone. I patted his hand lightly and left it there. “I could sneak in-” “No.” I interrupted him. “But-”

“If your dad said no, then it's dangerous. I'm more experienced than you. I'll be fine, Carl.” I stated, turning to look at him. I think he realized I was serious because he glared at me.

“You could get hurt.”

“So could you.” We both, we're getting pissed. Though, I wasn't letting down. I wasn't going to let him walk into a battlefield with no shield. That would give an opportunity for Negan to have a hostage, Rick to get distracted… or Carl on the ground bleeding out. “I can handle myself, I've been through this a thousand times. Carl… I'd rather me get hurt than you.” My voice turned into a whisper, my face rested and eyes softened. His eyes didn't soften a bit as they stared into mine. His eyebrows twitched from the strain and he swallowed slightly.

“I don't want….” He picked his lips. “I don't want you to die.” It was simple. I smile a bit and let out a chuckle. “It's stupid-�� he paused and glared harder at my slight laugh. “-and you're stupid.” He shoved my shoulder and tried to move away from me. I laughed a little harder and pulled him over, my arms wrapped around his shoulders. He crossed his arms as I connected his back to my chest. “We don’t have to fight. We can fix it, agree, and be in peace. My dad doesn't have to kill yours, no one has to die.” He ranted on. It was purely background noise for me. I've heard this from others. Peace. They weren't wrong, but they were Human. Brutal, Foolish, and disgusting creatures who ruin each other without truly realizing it. Human instinct. I won't tell him that because I know he knows that. 

I remember what my mother used to talk about. Humans were disappointing, and destroying the beauty and life of the world, taking everything from the soil and drying it up. 

I watch as Carl breathes, frustrated. I rest my head on his shoulder, slowly. Relationships are weird too. Not a bad weird. It's confusing, the beginning of a relationship, I ask myself what I can do and what can't. I test the waters.

Carl sighs and leans closer to my body. “You sure you're gonna be okay?”

I thought for a moment. I've been through war and fights with other groups we've encountered. All messy, leaving dead and injured. People were a resource, but medical supplies were rare. 

I dug through my pocket, taking Carl's hand and placing the switchblade in it. “Promise,” I said, wrapping my arms around him.  Carl ran his fingers over the cover and metal. 

“H? You pick this off of someone.” He asked, looking at the engraving. I stared at the knife. Flashes of the fire, hue.

“Something like that… it's important to me.” 

-

Rick came to see me in the morning. He was calm, asking if Carl explained. I agreed to do whatever, however dangerous. It wasn't for him though, Carl and Iris, and the twins. Those were my main focus.

“You know this won't work, right?” I asked him before he left. Rick paused and turned slightly on his face. He opened his mouth and closed it. “Maybe… you'll kill him…” I could see a slight grimace in his face when I said that, though I continued. “But not today, not tomorrow. He'll kill your people like there's no tomorrow, destroy you, and finally, leave you with dead family before you kill him.” 

I lifted myself from the living room couch, my bag sat beside me, extra clothes, food, medical kit, two cans of food, gun and ammo, and a knife. Rick said just in case something went wrong, everyone would need one. Cigarettes in another pocket with a lighter.

Rick nodded, he didn't know how to reply to that, considering Negan was my dad. What was he supposed to say? “I'll kill your dad”?…sounded bad. 

The next second, I was told we were leaving soon. I was heading upstairs.

“We’re leaving soon, about 20 minutes,” I said to Carl, who was on my bed looking at the knife, his hat laid beside him. He didn't give a straight reply, only a short “hm” and he dragged the knife tip over the bedside table. I stared for a second, before dropping my bookbag gently and kneeling. “I'll be fine,” I whispered, tucking his hair out of his face. His face was stone cold, with little emotion but pissed. 

“Don’t leave.” He whispered. I gave a slight sigh and shook my head. “You came into my life and became a best friend and… what if you don’t come back?”  My face saddened with a frown as I lifted myself halfway. My hand reached through his hair as I gave him a light kiss. He hummed, pushing back slightly. I hummed and pulled back, staring into his eyes. I wasn’t sure if it was love, or the thought of me not coming back that made me push for more. His lips were soft, dry, but soft. I had my hand under his bandage that wrapped around his head as I pushed up, both of us laying on the bed. I went easy, remembering he wasn’t as experienced as I was. He was also younger. 

I moved my head to the side, allowing me to get more room. We barely separated with each kiss, spit smearing over our chins and going to his cheek. One arm under him, the other holding his hip. His shirt slid up slightly, allowing the little touch of his skin to press on my thumb. I cherished this, keeping it close, keeping him closer. His hands, one in my hair, the other wrapped around my neck, moving slightly, he wasn’t sure where to place them or what to even do. 

I allowed myself to pull back. His eyes, were full of lust, eyes I’ve seen before. I probably had the same. I felt my tongue run on the bottom of my lip. The spit trail from my lips to his fell and broke apart. I reach up and grab his hand, wrapping my fingers into his, and connecting them. I pressed my forehead against his. “I gotta go, Woody.”

I loved him. My heart beat into his, making a tune and forming a song altogether. Funny, how it all began. The King and Monster fight, while the prince falls for… well, the son of a monster.

--

Season one ending. Season 2 chapter 1 - Woody

[kitthepurplepotato]

Week 8 - Wonderland ✨

Summary: It’s a secret.

Warnings: Swear words.

First part Master List

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

“Good morning, sweet pea.” Midoriya looks up in his new glasses with a smile on his sleepy face. He’s sitting on the sofa in a criss-cross applesauce position, with a brand new notebook in his hands; he was chewing the top of his pen deep in thought while he muttered incoherently to the notebook until you came in; his face changed into his usual sunshine smile after, work abandoned.

You need the make a confession…

You really hate these glasses.

Looking into Deku’s eyes was already hard for you, but these glasses makes him look so innocent and geeky you can barely stop yourself from ruining his look and kiss him until his eyes change into that deep pine green, almost black color he usually have when he’s jealous.

This should be illegal. While normal Izuku feels unapproachable, a star on the sky you can’t reach, this one is warm and calm and it’s calling your name; it makes you feel like falling in love with him isn’t the most insane thing you could have done in your current situation, but something that was bound to happen; something that was written in the skies, a story where you walk among the stars and take the one you like the most like it’s the easiest thing in the universe to hold one so closely. You wish to be able to live in this story. You want to be the only girl who keeps a star in her shirt pocket, right by her heart, the steady beats keeping the little planet alive. The two of you would live a happy life; there’s nothing else you need other than the comfortable pressure on your chest to be able to keep moving, knowing the little star will never let you get hurt in any way.

Well, your thoughts definitely got out hand right now. Izuku does that to you quite a lot these days; he shines so brightly it hurts your eyes sometimes. Maybe, you should have used the Sun as a comparison instead, because that’s what Izuku really is; if you selfishly take the sun away from the world, just to keep it in your pocket, everything crumbles; Izuku is more than just a person, he’s the savior of Japan, the number one hero who’s everyone’s and no one’s at the same time; you must not take him away…

“I’m a human, Y/N. You know that more than anyone else.” A sudden caress drags you back from your daydreams; Izuku’s standing next to you, slowly stroking your cheeks, a new emotion decorating his beautiful face; you try and try but you can’t understand it, it’s deeper than the ocean and darker than the black hole, warm but mysterious at the same time.

“Did I mumble all of that out loud?” You ask shyly, a hint of pink dusting your cheeks.

“Funnily enough, I also compare you to the sun in my mind; maybe there are two suns in this story. Do you think they can burn themselves if they have the same blaze? Can they blind themselves if they are already used to the blinding light?” Midoriya mutters, his eyes never leaving yours. There is a sudden understanding in his eyes and he moves towards you to knock your foreheads together. Your breath hitches but you continue to listen intently. “What if we had this all wrong and we are actually the same? What if we are the two halves of the same planet, one not complete without the other? What if what we think is wrong is actually the solution?”

“Izuku, I…”

The sudden screech of Izuku’s high tech bracelet shatters the glass wall around you; it falls to the floor with a loud clatter, painting the walls in rainbow colors for only a second before they disappear, leaving nothing but the darkness of the early morning in the living room.

“Nerd, are you busy?” Katsuki’s hologram suddenly pops out of the little bracelet. “Woah, sorry.”

You never thought you’ll live long enough to see the big, tough Dynamight flustered, but here you are.

“Katsuki, I love you and I respect you but if it’s not important enough for you to yell ‘it’s go time’, send a fucking message instead.”

… and Midoriya is fucking mad. Another thing you’ve never thought you’ll ever see.

“I will let you get away with your attitude this one time but if you ever talk to me like this ever again, I’ll howitzer impact you to the moon.”

“Deal.” Midoriya presses the button on his bracelet without saying goodbye. He takes a deep breath and tries his best to smile but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Can we have a chill evening today? Just you and me watching a stupid movie while we forget about all our responsibilities?” Izuku sighs, his head buried in his usual spot in the crook of your neck; you are quite sure you have a head shaped dent in there by now.

“Anything for my Sun.” You grin and you can feel Izuku rolling his eyes fondly.

“Shithead.” He giggles and moves towards his room like that whole conversation didn’t even happen. To be fair, it’s probably for the best.

“You better be back by eight, it’s your fucking day off.” You reprimand but Izuku only laughs in his room. You can hear the rustle of his costume as he changes.

“With all the pent up anger I feel right now, this fight will be done and won in a heart beat.”

~•🥦•~

Izuku stays true to his word and comes back after a few hours; there are no injuries on his body this time and he sounds as chirpy as he usually does on his day offs which means his stamina wasn’t used up for healing; in conclusion, Pro Hero Deku did not get hurt today. What a day to be alive.

“Someone was in a hurry to come back tonight.” You raise a single eyebrow knowingly.

“I could smell the popcorn. That’s all I was waiting for all day, really.”

Sassy Izuku is your new favorite by the way. You have no idea where he was hiding all this sass for the last two months, but hell if you are not into it. Not like there is anything you are not into when it comes to the green haired hero.

“Oh, okay then, I’ll make All Meowt eat all the Katsudon I made while you were away. It was made with love and tears from missing you so much, but you know what? Go eat the popcorn while your favorite food rots away together with my broken heart.” You make a dramatic swoon-motion; you can hear Midoriya giggling in the background, his eyes shining happily as he looks into your eyes. His eyes glaze over for a second, like he’s not even the room anymore, so you come closer to him to get him out of his stupor.

“You okay?” You ask, your hands caressing his cheeks soothingly.

“Yeah.” Izuku mutters. “I was just thinking about how much I love… coming home to this. To you. Yeah. That’s it.”

“I also love… when you come home smiling like this. Happiness looks good on you.”

You are not lying. It really does look good on him; his eyes shine brighter than the chandelier in the living room, all sweet and sparkly as he looks into your eyes, looking for answers to the questions he doesn’t even know he wants to ask. Midoriya is beaming today for some reason and so are you; as though there is a magnetic field pulling you closer and closer to the man in front of you and the closer you get the more right it feels.

“I’m only happy because of you, you know that, right?” Midoriya mumbles as you embrace him tightly in the middle of the entrance, as though you haven’t done the same only a few hours ago.

“You are killing me.” You mutter into his uniform. “One day, my heart will give in and if it does I want you to carve ‘killed by smooth moves’ on my tombstone.”

“I wasn’t flirting with you, I was stating facts. Two different things, Sweet Pea.” Midoriya smiles as he leaves a tiny kiss on the top of your head, his hands on the both sides of your cheeks. You feel like a little kid in between those huge, scarred hands. He moves towards his room to change into his comfy sweats and you enjoy a lovely dinner afterwards. The dinner is silent but the silence is gold; It’s comfortable and sweet, the air filled with unsaid words but somehow it’s not giving you anxiety anymore. The fleeting touches and tiny smiles say more than thousand words ever can.

~•🥦•~

It’s always so nice to have these moments with Midoriya when all the problems of your real life are just tucked away somewhere in the corner while you melt into his side and forget everything that has been bothering you during the day. There is a cheesy romantic movie playing on the TV, the main couple crying and kissing in the rain after being away from each other for too long; it’s heartbreaking, but to be honest, you don’t concentrate enough on the show to actually understand the feelings behind it as you are too distracted by your roommate in his new glasses, round with a thin rim, dark green like his disheveled, still wet hair. He looks absolutely beautiful. So fucking beautiful it churns your insides and makes you feel dizzy, makes you feel like you’re levitating in the air and the only thing keeping you from flying away is Izuku’s gaze on you; he looks at you with half lidded eyes wondering around your face left to right, top to bottom as though he’s trying to remember every single shape, every single pore, every single crevice.

His eyes wonder down to your lips and you bite on them instinctively, shy from the sudden closeness. You have no idea when did he move closer, or maybe it was you, somehow the time works in a weird way right now, five minutes might have passed but maybe it was only a few seconds, who knows? Maybe it’s already tomorrow but it might be yesterday. Your mind is in a frenzy and so is Izuku’s; the credits roll in the background but you have no idea how did the movie end; your mind is too full with green clouds and turquoise sparks as Izuku suddenly moves closer and closer, his lips scraping yours in the middle of the movement. The world stops spinning and everything turns green; Izuku stops right there and takes a deep breath; the warm air tickles your lips and makes you want to move further, the last bit of your restraint snapping like an old rubber band under too much pressure. You don’t need to take the first step as Izuku has the same thought; he puts his lips on yours, soft and gentle; he barely moves, just takes your bottom lip in his, leaving one tiny peck then he jerks himself away right after. He looks terrified and guilty and you can see the words coming out of his mouth but you can’t really hear them; you touch your lips, your heart pounding heavily in your chest, you barely understand the implications of the action and maybe that’s why you decide to shut him up with your mouth. Izuku stares at you with wide eyes after you move away and you stare back with the same expression, panting and utterly confused by how this had happened; the confusion twists into something else as you both continue to look into each other’s eyes, looking for sign, begging for something to stop you from making a mistake but you can’t find any; Izuku slowly knocks your foreheads together, giving you more than enough time to move away but you don’t; you can’t, it’s physically impossible to do so. Izuku cups your face, his eyes still full of worry and his head full of thoughts while your hand comes up and you tangle your fingers into his green locks and it hits differently from this angle; the usually friendly gesture has so much heat to it now; he pants and looks at you again, looking for a sign one last time before he closes the remaining distance and kisses you again; this time, properly.

And fuck, Midoriya Izuku is an amazing kisser.

He doesn’t deepen the kiss, he just pecks your lips once or twice, sometimes taking your upper lip in his mouth to gently suck on it, it’s sweet and careful, just like Izuku himself yet it still leaves you hot and bothered, begging for more but you decide to behave and just enjoy what you get, letting him have the upper hand. His kisses are so soft you want to cry from happiness, he makes you feel so fragile but somehow, the feeling isn’t unwelcome; it reminds you of the time he took you into his arms when you fell asleep on the sofa, of the way he carried you to your room, soft and careful about his movements, making sure you don’t wake up; it’s the same now, just in a different situation and it fits so perfectly; everything feels like a fragile dream, as though a single harsh movement would make the dream fade away. You have no idea how much time has passed; maybe five minutes or maybe an hour. By the tingles of your lips, it was probably much longer than you think. Izuku slows down completely, leaving featherlight kisses on your lips then hides his face in the crook of your neck; now that your head is less cloudy you realize he’s shaking.

“What’s wrong?” You ask while you massage his head soothingly.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is shaky and he grabs the t-shirt wrinkling on your stomach, clenches his hand around it; he’s clearly shaken up by this and so are you. You’ve already been way past the friend zone since the beginning but this… this is another level. You can’t just shake this off the way you usually do.

“Izu, we don’t need to talk about this. And I… I can’t lie to you and say I didn’t like it. Don’t make me do that.” You say with tears pooling in your eyes. You know it’s not the right solution to the problem and it will bite you back later but this happiness inside you is so pure and so terrifyingly strong you want to be selfish for once and keep this false happiness for as long as you can. Midoriya nods and gives you a sad smile, finally moving his head up to look at you and jesus, you could get used to this look on him, his lips swollen from all the kissing, dusty pink creeping up his cheeks, his eyes so soft and fond it makes your insides churn. His glasses are dirty and he probably can’t see through them properly anymore and you can’t help but giggle at that.

“Sorry, I dirtied your glasses.” You take his glasses off fondly and put them down on the coffee table.

“Hundred percent worth it.” He smiles softly and your heart flutters in a new way, it’s something deeper, something you can’t easily come out of and you probably never will. You have a strong urge to tell him all of that, tell him how much you love him and how much you want to keep doing what you’ve been doing for the past hour but you decide against it; Izuku is clearly overwhelmed right now and he definitely does not need your mess of emotions on top of that. “I’m going to sleep, okay?” He mumbles, his hands moving up and down on your arms calmingly.

“Yeah, good idea.” You nod and stand up, ready to leave but the greenette pulls you back for a crashing hug.

“Thank you.” He mumbles wetly. “Thank you for existing. For being so understanding. You are the best thing that has ever happened in my life and I don’t want to loose you because of this.” Izuku sniffles, pulling you impossibly close.

“Do you remember when you said I could be a mass murderer and you would still beg me to stay with you?” You mumble, deep in thought. Izuku nods. “It’s the same for me, Izu.” You smile sadly and make your way to your room.

“Y/N, I love you.” He declares without a hint of hesitation, his eyes boring holes into your skull. He means it - his eyes tell.

“I love you too, you silly nerd.”

It’s not the same. He can’t feel the same. But his eyes… they tell you a different story but maybe it’s just the reflection of your own emotions, it’s what you want to see, far from the reality, somewhere in Wonderland where all of this is easy, where pulling him close and telling him to stay and share the bed isn’t something you need to push down. It’s all a dream and it’s time to wake up from it. You don’t need to love someone romantically to want to kiss them. It happens sometimes. It was a moment of weakness, that’s all.

You close the door behind yourself, your back sliding down on it until your bottom hits the floor.

“Fuck…”

~•🥦•~

— Deku’s mental health support group —

Deku: I kissed her.

Kacchan: You kiss her every single fucking day Deku.

Deku: Not like this. I fucked up.

Shitty Hair: You actually kissed her? How did she react?

Deku: …

Deku: …

Kacchan: Shitty Deku…

Deku: She kissed me back. We’ve kissed for a whole hour.

Shitty Hair: BRB crying RN

Kacchan: He’s not lying.

Deku: Can I call you?

~•🥦•~

Mama Katsuki: Oi freeloader, you ok?

Y/N: I’m having a meltdown.

Mama Katsuki: So is Deku. Stop feeling shitty. You are both stupid as fuck.

Y/N: Well, thanks for the pick-me-up! LOL

Mama Katsuki: Any time. Now call Headphones or whatever. I already sent her a message, she’s free.

Y/N: That’t really thoughtful.

Mama Katsuki: Fuck you.

…Next Chapter!

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

*The potato hides behind the sofa and waits for the comments section to blow up* 

TL: @porusuniverse @stickygumchewer @sixxze @mily-moo @aei-sedai-moiraine @aymasakusa @kastuari @kenzie-deadly @shiviwrites07 @lukerycyja-reblogs @cloroxisadelectabletreat @coffeent @kisskissshutmydoor @bobcar1 @yazminetrahan @cringefan @ronimacaroni77 @thekookiecorner @dangerousluv1 @emperatris-rinaka @shotos-angelic-whore

[moamidzyism]

ski sweethearts (k.th)

☆。.:*·ﾟwc 862 fluff ౨ৎ // repost ❥ ୧‿︵ req. for @miupow secret santa event -- prompt: taking bf taehyun skiing for the first time ୨୧ taehyun x gn!reader, established relationship [masterlist • reblogs + feedback appreciated]

when you asked taehyun whether he knew how to ski, he eagerly said yes. so naturally, you thought he was as excited for this trip as you were. but on your way up to the ski resort, it did not go unnoticed by you how tightly he was gripping the steering wheel when you asked him when was the last time he went skiing, or how his jaw was set every time you pulled out the map of the resort and pointed out all the slopes you wanted to see, and you definitely noticed how he was responding with absent minded hums and monosyllabic answers. his gaze was fixed on the road, but it was very obvious that his mind was somewhere else.

you didn’t really begin to notice how nervous he was until the two of you settled in your room that evening. the warmth from the fireplace casted a soft glow as you busied yourself with arranging your skiing gear and getting ready for tomorrow. taehyun, seated on the bed, stared at his phone, seemingly engrossed in a video. when you asked what he was watching, he dismissed you, mentioning something about some meme that his friend, kai sent him. what you did notice was the subtle shift in the room when you glanced over to see him put his phone away and join you in getting ready for bed.

still as the lights dimmed, the room quieted, and you both found yourselves wrapped up under the covers, you quietly observed your boyfriend pull out his phone again to resume his secret study session.

the next morning, the two of you woke up bright and early to get to the mountain. the crisp winter air filled around you as the two of you geared up to going skiing. you couldn’t contain your excitement, clad in your all white snow suit.

you embarked on one of the easier slopes, hand in hand, the crunch of the snow beneath your skis filled the quiet mountain air. taehyun followed you, though the unease in his eyes betrayed the nonchalant facade he put on.

“you should go first,” he suggested.

you obliged, gliding down the slope effortlessly. you stood at the bottom, watching him try to meet you. he is trying his hardest to remember all the movements and techniques he watched in the videos he binged last night. the descent began smoothly, he was mirroring your motions, the wind was tousling his hair. but his movements are not as smooth as he initially led on to you. as he continued, he became more and more uncoordinated, wobbling occasionally as he tried to maintain his balance.

still you find it endearing how his confident facade doesn’t waver. “you okay, baby?” you ask him, when he finally joined you at the bottom.

“yeah, it’s just been a while since i’ve done this.” his gaze flickered to the snowy expanse around you.

the two of you kept going and he was determined to match your pace, not that you made it any easier on him. but he loved a challenge and you were going to give him one. with every stretch he was definitely improving, his skills slowly starting to match his coolness.

however, he always gets a little too overconfident.

you should have known when he asked if you needed any help that he was flying a lot too close to the sun. but you rolled your eyes and persisted to a much steeper slope than the others you had done. you easily tackled it, waving at him teasingly from the bottom.

He glided down the slope, but as the slope turned steeper, his skis betrayed him. a momentary loss of balance, a fumble in execution, and his confident facade shattered. panic flashed in his eyes. the once-smooth descent had turned into a chaotic dance, skis crossing and poles flailing.

your heart raced as you witnessed his fall. the panic set in your eyes, a mix of concern and feat etching across your face. time seemed to slow as taehyun tumbled, the snow embracing him in an ungraceful spill. a muffled cry of pain escaped him as he clutched his injured ankle, his confidence replaced by the rawness of his pain.

you rushed to his side, and with the assistance of the resort staff, you guided him back to your hotel room.

by the fireplace, the two of you sipped hot cocoa. taehyun, leg propped up on the coffee table between you, winced in pain as he found a comfortable position.

“so, were you ever going to tell me that you didn’t know how to ski?” you teased.

“i thought i could learn quickly before we actually went,” he confessed, a sheepish grin playing on his lips. “i didn’t want to slow you down.”

“but then you got injured,” you giggled, lightening up the mood in the room.

wrapped in blankets, the two of you spend the rest of the night with hot chocolate in hand, recounting tales by the fireplace. the pain that had marred the day seemed to be a distant memory. a sweet ending to an unexpectedly eventful day on the slopes.

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[hannibals-favourite-meal]

.⋆｡Lost Souls Part 1｡⋆.

The Lost Princess Chapter 8

Jotun!Loki x plus size reader

With the discovery of who Loki really is, Y/N returns to the avengers determined to forget him, but things are never that simple

Warnings: violence, arranged marriage, angst, enhanced!reader, swearing, unhealthy relationship, age gap, some Steve x reader, Steve is an asshole in this chapter, making out, angst, depression, drugging, sickness, flashbacks, almost smut

WC: 3.9k

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

It was raining. Fat droplets of water splattered on the thick glass panes of the tower's windows, joining together and falling when their weight became too great. Dark clouds hung over the city like a curtain, concealing the light of the setting sun.

Y/N was alone in the sitting room, her eyes fixated upon the horizon, waiting. The mug of tea cupped in her hands had long-since gone cold but she didn't bother getting up to make a new one, instead she just sat patiently.

There was a flash of silver in the distance and FRIDAY chirped. “Arrival in two minutes ma'am.” Silently, Y/N rose to her feet and placed the mug to the side. She tugged down the sweater she was wearing, once again concealing her scarred skin.

The elevator hummed beneath her socked feet as she stepped inside. Without needed to be commanded, the doors shut and began to move upwards. Each floor that she passed, the elevator dinged.

By the 10th ding, she forced her body to relax, shoulders slumped down, her jaw unclenched. And when the doors opened once more to the empty landing pad, she was smiling brightly.

The wind picked up, sending the rain straight into her face but as the drops of water touched her skin, they evaporated away. The quinjet slowly came into landing, the wings folding with a series of mechanical hums, the engines shutting down as soon as the wheels touched the ground.

Her stomach churned as the plane opened up, revealing a lone figure. The blue of his uniform was dulled by the grey skies behind him and he was slightly dishevelled but he was fundamentally unchanged from when Y/N greeted him that morning.

As soon as his gaze was set upon her, Steve beamed. “Doll!” She knew he loved when she waited for him to return home, he said that it reminded him of the 40s when wives would wait on their husbands.

She braced herself as he ran at her, dropping his shield at her feet before wrapping her up in his arms. Her smile faltered just for a second as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. “I love coming home to you.” He muttered into her skin, his lips grazing her pulse point.

She didn't answer with words, instead she hugged him even tighter, pretending that what she was supposed to be feeling in the arms of the man who loved her was real. Steve rewarded her with a kiss to her throat before he pulled away. “How about I go shower and then we can have some dinner and cuddle.”

“That sounds perfect.” She cooed and cupped his square jaw, her thumb softly brushing the apple of his cheek. He dipped down and captured her lips in a soft kiss.

“Then let's go, doll.” Steve grabbed his shield and swung it onto the holster on his back. With a hand on the small of her back, he led her into the tower, wilfully ignoring the way that the light in her eyes dimmed.

She let him lead her, it was easier that way- she did not have to think about the months before, simply washing them away in his caring embrace.

Y/N could feel Wanda's eyes follow them as the pair walked past the kitchen and to Steve's room but she refused to waver, keeping her head high and her eyes on the ground.

It would be enough, it had to be enough.

The rain on Jotunheim was unlike anywhere else in the Nine Realms. The freezing temperatures froze the drops as they fell, turning them into crystal clear ice that shattered into millions of tiny pieces as soon as they struck the ground.

The sound had been jarring to Loki at first but after years, it was comforting. A drumming tempo played upon the windows of his isolated cabin, lulling the god into a peaceful trance as he read the same passage over and over again. Normally, he would have been finished with the entire book by now, and the one after that and the one after that but these were not normal circumstances.

He felt his mind failing him, crumbling before him but he had no motivation to even attempt to put it back together. There was truly no point since everything he had worked so hard for was destroyed.

His crown was gone, stripped from him by his father for being a traitor to his own kind. All of his comforts were taken away and burned save for his books and his wedding ring. It was not a sentimental nor a pitying action but a reminder, as his father had told him, of what he had done, of who he had hurt with his selfish actions.

The black metal had been enchanted to remain upon his finger no matter how hard he tried to take it off, not that he had ever even thought about removing it.

And her.

She ran. She was taken. She chose her brother. She didn't know everything.

He loathed her. He loved her.

With a heavy sigh, Loki shut his book. The gold lettering on the leather cover yet again reminding him of what he had so foolishly lost. “To sleep, perchance to dream.” He muttered softly, recalling Hamlet's own strife.

Loki rose to his feet, his body weak. “Perhaps I will dream of her.” The rain never stopped as his eyes slid shut, plunging him into peaceful nothingness.

“Do you ever dream about me?” Her voice was distant, wavering like TV static during a storm.

“Always. You consume my every thought little star.” She scoffed, looking back at him from over her shoulder. Her eyes were shrouded in shadow, her skin so much more dull than he remembered.

“That's bullshit.” She hissed. “It's been months since you last visited. I prayed to you everyday but you never bothered to show up until you wanted something from me.” He glanced down at the necklace in his hands, a promise he wished to form with her.

“I cannot always leave my home, they will get suspicious.” He attempted to make her understand. He stepped closer but she pulled even further away. A tear rolled down her full cheek.

“Yeah, I know.” She turned away from him, fixing her eyes to the growing storm clouds on the horizon. “I need to go home now.”

“Wait-”

“Goodbye Loki.”

The smell of coffee and bacon filled the small kitchen, providing a comforting warmth to Y/N as she stood over the stove, mindlessly cooking breakfast. Her dream was still so vivid in her mind.

It made her chest ache with betrayal and confusion. She had known him, or at least she thought she did, and he had turned into a monster. It was because of him that Hydra had taken her, because of him that she was tortured, because of him that she was forced into a marriage she didn't want that warped her own self view to the point where she couldn't even remember who she was before.

And yet, her heart still yearned for him.

She wanted to cry, to scream, to do something other than becoming some obedient girlfriend to another man who only loved the idea of her. But she did none of that, instead she kept her mouth firmly sewn shut and her hands busy.

“Well this is certainly a good morning, doll.” Strong arms wrapped around her thick waist as Steve laid his chin upon her shoulder. Her smile was soft but it didn't reach her eyes.

“I just wanted to surprise you.” She responded as she flipped the bacon. He squeezed her even tighter and kissed her temple.

“Mmm you spoil me. Maybe tonight, I can spoil you too.” His lips travelled downwards, causing her to sigh as he reached her neck. His palm spread open along her soft stomach and pushed her body further into his own, allowing her to feel his hardening length against her back. “I'll grab some wine and dinner stuff when I finish my run and you can be my dessert.”

Y/N internally cringed but quickly tamped that feeling down. “I would love that Stevie.” She purred, intentionally rocking back into his cock. Steve hissed into her skin, laying one more sloppy kiss to her throat before he pulled himself away from her reluctantly.

“Tease.” He snipped and with a parting squeeze to her hips, he left the kitchen, adjusting his sweatpants as he did.

There was a beat of blissful quiet and then another set of footsteps approached. “How long are you going to continue this?”

“What are you talking about?” She replied to the witch but didn't turn around, knowing that if she did, Y/N's will would crumble. The edges of the bacon curled, turning black as they burned but she didn't pull them off the fire.

Wanda's eyes stared into the back of her skull. “You can pretend all you want but it won't work, you will return to him.”

Anger flared inside her. “Wanda.” She warned, her voice dropping dangerously low. The steel pan handle began to bend in her hold, the metal starting to melt.

“You're bound to him, not just by marriage and the longer you reject that, the longer you and him will suffer. You're already suffering, how long has it been since you used your powers? You're either numb or angry all the time, you're killing yourself! But you can fix all of this, if you just-”

“Enough!” The pan was slammed back onto the stove, its contents now entirely charcoal, smoke steadily rising from it. Y/N snarled at her friend. “What I do or do not do is none of your fucking business and you certainly have no right to tell me to return to a man who blatantly manipulated me just for his own gain. And for once, I would like to make my own fucking decisions and have at least one person fucking support me- god knows my brother doesn't considering that he hasn't talked to me in a week. So either you be my friend or you leave me the fuck alone.”

Blinded by her rage, she stormed from the kitchen, not noticing the way that Wanda smiled knowingly at her, waving off the small cloud of smoke she left behind.

Loki's vision was blurred, coated with sleep that he couldn't quite wipe away. Taking in a laboured breath, the giant turned to lay on his back, easing the growing pain in his limbs.

It had been days since he last left his bed, letting his body and soul rot into the silk sheets he had stolen from the palace. He thought they still smelt of her but as the days continued, he knew that it was only his mind seeking some sort of false comfort as his body slowly began to fail.

Long blue fingers curled into the pillow beside his head as cold tears dripped down his cheeks. “My little star, I am so sorry.”

His eyes shut once more.

Y/N didn't mind Steve's bedroom, it was homey and a little old fashioned but he always kept the ac on and it was tucked away from the rest of the residential rooms so it was quiet. Without the super soldier there with her, she felt like she could breathe given how private it was. But that was not the case at that moment.

Still wound up, she stormed into his room, slamming open the door as he pulled his running bottoms on. “Take those off, you won't need 'em.” Steve easily obeyed, letting his hands drop in favour of grabbing at her, pulling her into a needy kiss.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I'm ready Steve.” She breathed against his lips and his eyelids fluttered as he let out a deep groan. His head dipped down in favour of lathering her neck with sloppy and uncoordinated kisses that sent the wrong kind of chill down her spine.

She would forget Loki, that's what she was ready for and if Steve could accomplish that, he deserved to take what he wanted.

“I can't believe this is actually happening.” Steve's voice vibrated through her skin as his hands clamped down onto her hips, keeping her in place against him. Her head was tilted back, eyes shut and lips parted with her soft breaths.

She couldn't believe it either but she wouldn't say that out loud, instead, she sank into his arms letting him feel the expanse of her body against his.

His hands slipped down to her ass, holding the flesh slightly too tight as he bit down on her neck. She winced but swallowed it down, happy enough for the distraction. That ache in her chest had yet to dissipate, in fact only becoming stronger with each passing moment.

“Steve.” She forced the moan from her throat, just barely biting back the name that constantly sat on the tip of her tongue. He responded with a roll of his hips.

She let his touch wander beneath her shirt. This was normal, it was expected. Boy meets girl, girl and boy get crushes on each other, they kiss, then they sleep together. That was the natural order but everything about this felt so wrong. All she could think about was him: about the mark that he left on her soul, the ring he had put on her finger, the promises he made to her.

Just as her doubts began to take priority on her mind, she was suddenly bare before the super soldier, her shirt dropped unceremoniously to the floor and everything stopped.

Steve's blue eyes went wide as he took in her naked torso but not out of lust. “What did he do to you?”

“It wasn't-” She tried to get out but was quickly cut off by Steve grabbing her hips in a vice-like grip but somehow not touching any part of her scar.

“That fucking monster, look what he's done to you.” He scoffed in disgust. “We'll make him pay, I promise. We- we can fix this, you can go back to normal, I promise.”

“Excuse me?” It took barely a flick of her wrist to push the man away, sending him sprawling onto the floor of his bedroom, his face now fixed with a look of bewilderment. “Fix me?”

The air began to shimmer around her as her anger once more made an appearance. The floorboards groaned as Steve rose to his feet, his stature was supposed to be imposing she thought but she could only see a boy attempting to throw his weight around.

“I can help you, I'll help you forget him and we can properly go back to the way things were.” His voice was so full of pity that it sounded disingenuous.

“Like getting rid of my powers?”

“Yes!” He said before he could stop himself.

Everything froze in that moment and for a second, Y/N found herself tempted to agree with him, to let him strip away everything that had happened to her over the past 7 months. But then, Steve spoke again.

“Don't you want that? We can be together, like we're supposed to.” He reached out for her but she flinched away, her hand automatically reaching for her necklace. His nostrils flared.

“This is what's best for you.” He snarled but it wasn't Steve's voice that echoed that same phrase in her mind.

The regret set in almost instantly from the moment she turned her back on Loki but he had broken her heart and her trust. The tears started as soon as she stepped through her front door.

“Oh my sweet girl.” She collapsed into her mother's arms, sobbing loudly and staining her shirt with hot tears. Her mother cooed, rocking her gently as she attempted to comfort her heartbroken daughter. She held her close, even as the storm closed in on their small home and the light of day gave way to the blackness of night.

It was only when she finally fell asleep, exhausted and burnt out, that her mother let her go, gently laying her on their small but plush couch to sleep away her tears.

Lightning flashed across the sky, lighting up the living room in a bright white. A huge clap of thunder startled her awake as it shook the house. Slowly, she sat up, rubbing at her sore eyes while attempting to get her bearings.

Her stomach turned with anxiety as she looked around the shadowy room, unable to make out any defined shapes in the darkness. “Hello?” She croaked out but nothing changed.

Just as she sighed and laid back down on the soft cushions beneath her, the room lit up once more, revealing a man standing in the corner by the window. Then darkness consumed them once more.

Frozen in fear, she could only stare, wide-eyed, at the place she saw the man, hoping that it was just some figment of her tired mind. The thunder that followed was more distant than before, a mere groan as opposed to the roar it had been only seconds before.

Then, lightning struck once more and the man was standing beside her head. He was tall and had all white hair but what caught her attention the most was a golden eyepatch that perfectly reflected the powerful storm outside.

Her jaw dropped, about to scream but a huge palm over her mouth forced her to remain silent, effectively muffling any sound she could make. “Stay silent child, this will be quick.”

With his free hand, he reached into a small bag that was tied to his hip and pulled out a small vial half-filled with a dark liquid. “You have become a nuisance, a distraction and I will not have you disrupt my plans.” The hand over her mouth then darted to her jaw, forcing her lips apart with a bruising force.

“You will forget him and he will forget you.” The liquid was vile as it touched her tongue and she attempted to squirm away but the teen was no match for this man and the foul concoction was forced down her throat.

As soon as the glass container was empty, he released her. She sagged back down, her eyelids suddenly weighing a tonne as the man stepped back, slipping back into the shadows. Her memories of the boy she loved, slipping through her fingers like sand, tumbling away into nothing. “You will thank me for this one day. This is what's best for you.”

Y/N stumbled back, her hands flying to cradle her head as if it could ease the painful migraine overwhelming her senses. The room spun and she struggled to catch her breath. Everything, she could remember everything.

“It wasn't his fault.” She whispered in shock. Her eyes fluttered open to meet Steve's gaze, pinning him in place with a glare. “I did this to myself. I had no control over my powers and I was foolish enough to literally play with fire with no one around to put me out. Loki saved me, not only from Hydra but from myself and he did it long before I even met you.”

“You have never once bothered to ask me what would make me feel better, only assuming that you were the solution to all my problems- that your love,” she hissed this last word, “could somehow cure me of who I've become. And I'm fucking sick of it. I've tried this my way- training and constantly forcing myself to relive my worst moments, I've done this your way- pressing all my emotions into a tiny little box so I'm just a doll that can be kept locked away for your enjoyment. Maybe it's time I try my husband's way. And that's right, Loki is my husband and will remain to be until the end of our days.”

“Y/N-” Steve tried to stop her but quickly retreated, the heat radiating from her skin far too hot for him to endure.

She scooped up her shirt and slipped it back on, the special fibres created by Tony withstanding the flames threatening to burst from her, and looked at the soldier with pity. “Thor told me that Loki was an oddity, a strange man but he was no monster. I should have listened to him, I should have told him to bring me back to Jotunheim the moment I found out who he really was but I didn't, instead I squeezed myself back into a roll I outgrew months ago. I regret that the most, that I turned my back on the one person who could possibly understand my pain. Hopefully, there's time to make this right.”

Her steps from his room were slow at first, shaky with her nerves but with each muffled thud of her bare feet meeting the floor, her confidence grew. Embers flew behind her as she began to run, gunning right for the front door.

FRIDAY chirped from somewhere behind her, yet she continued to run, her smile growing wider the closer she got to the outside.

“Stop!” Tony slid in front of the door, his chest heaving with laboured breaths. Y/N slid to a halt a metre away from him, her heart pounding loudly in her ears. “I can't let you go.” He practically begged.

“I have to.” But he shook his head. “Tony.”

“No. I cannot lose you again. I'll- I'll build you a huge building so you can destroy it, I'll engineer some kind of robot boyfriend that'll obey your every command, it worked with Wanda! Just please, don't go.” He sounded so tired, so worn down and unlike himself, it made her chest seize for a moment.

She stepped closer, the fire inside dulling enough that she could touch him without hurting him. “You have done so much for me Tony. You've become the grumpy father I never wanted and I don't think there's any way that I can repay you.”

“You could stay here.” She smiled sadly, placing a hand on his chest. The low hum of the arc reactor sent a soft vibration up her forearm.

“I need to know who I am and I can't do that here. I can't do that surrounded by people who only see me as that innocent assistant who could do no wrong. I know you may not like it, but Loki is my way back and I have to follow that path.”

Sighing heavily, Tony's shoulders sagged. “You know I hate admitting that other people are right.” He murmured.

“So I won't make you say it. But you need to trust me, I'll come back. I still need my healthy diet of burgers and trashy TV.” His breath hitched before he pulled her into a fierce hug and then quickly let her go, swallowing back his tears as best he could.

“If he so much as looks at you wrong-”

“I know, I know. He'll have me to deal with.” She smirked, making Tony beam.

“That's my girl.” He stepped aside, albeit with some hesitance, to let her pass. The doors opened to her and with one last look at the man she had come to see as a father, she ran outside.

“Heimdall! Take me to Loki!” The last thing Tony saw of her was her bright smile as the rainbow light enclosed around her body, taking her to a place he could not follow.

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[ahonice]

right where you left me

luke hughes x fem reader

word count: 1.6k

warnings: angst, cursing, reader is a sad little bitch.

note: another song fic smh, i don’t like this one very much but i just needed to write something.

italics are song lyrics

+++

friends break up, friends get married. strangers get born, strangers get buried. trends change, rumors fly through new skies, but i’m right where you left me.

you met luke the night you moved into your college dorm freshman year, your parents were unable to stay to take you out to dinner so they gave you thirty dollars to go to a local diner. so there you were, having the most depressing meal of your life, when a boy slid into the seat across from you.

“you look really sad.” 

“thank you.”

he laughed before apologizing, “i don’t mean it to be rude, but is everything okay? this is the saddest i’ve ever seen someone with a milkshake in front of them.”

“yea i’m okay, just moved into my dorm today and my parents weren't able to stay for dinner. i guess i just miss them.” you looked up from your untouched plate of chicken fingers to see who exactly was talking to you.

“oh i get that, i moved in a couple days ago. the first night is definitely the hardest.” he offered you a smile and stuck his hand out, “i’m luke.”

“y/n.”

matches burn after the other. pages turn and stick to each other. wages earned and lessons learned, but i’m right where you left me.

you found yourself at that diner a lot, going there to do your homework late at night when your roommate needed the lights off, going there whenever you were sad or just needed time to yourself, as well as going there whenever you and your boyfriend had a date night. it wasn’t the only restaurant you and luke ate at, but it was the most common one.

your relationship with luke was great, you were happy, he was happy, everyone around you was happy. that’s why you were blindsided when luke suggested you take a break during your weekly date nights.

“i just think that’s what is best for me, and for us, going forward. i need to focus on my rookie season in the nhl, i can’t have any distractions.” hearing luke refer to you as a distraction hurt, everything about what he was saying hurt. 

“okay.” you didn’t want to agree, you wanted to fight him on it.

“once next season is over, then we can get back together, reevaluate everything.”

“okay.” one year, one year without him seemed impossible to you, but you needed to let this happen, this would only strengthen your relationship. luke would soon see what a life without you was and all you could do was hope he didn’t like it. this was the last thing you wanted, but you didn’t need him resenting you for any issues that could possibly come up during his rookie season that could easily be tied back to “he has a girlfriend, he is distracted, he isn’t putting hockey first”.

help i’m still at the restaurant, still sitting in the corner i haunt. cross legged in the dim light, they say what a sad sight. i swear, you could hear a hair pin drop, right when i felt the moment stop, glass shattered on the white cloth, everybody moved on, i stayed there, dust collected on my pinned up hair. they expected me to find somewhere, some perspective, but i sat and stared right where you left me.

your visits to the diner became more frequent after luke moved to new jersey, you were there the second your classes were finished for the day and you didn’t leave until the early hours in the morning. 

you were used to it, the pity glances from the other customers when your tears began to spill, the sad smiles from the waitresses that had become all too familiar to you, the text messages from your friends and luke’s teammates checking up on you. nobody seemed to understand why you guys were broken up, but all you could respond with when they asked was “we aren’t broken up, we’re on a break.”

did you ever hear about the girl who got frozen? time went on for everybody else, she won’t know it. she’s still twenty three, inside her fantasy how it was supposed to be. did you hear about the girl who lives in delusion? breakups happen everyday you don’t have to lose it. she’s still twenty three, inside her fantasy.

you were in the diner, in that same booth where two of the three lightbulbs that hung from the ceiling were burnt out, more often than you were on campus. after summer break, once you had begun your junior year of college, you tried to avoid the diner with all that you had in you. your roommates telling you it does no good, it will only harm you to be in a place you once associated with happiness that now brings you nothing close to the fact. 

you snuck out of your house at two in the morning after three weeks of being back in ann arbor, hiding your weakness from those you shared walls with, ashamed of yourself as you stood in front of the double doors, the left one still stuck after two years of you coming here. 

you scanned the diner, seeing a couple familiar faces, giving them a fake smile before you made your way into the back corner. a false flash of hope struck you as you saw the back of a boy's head in the booth you could call home, but it wasn’t luke, you knew it wasn’t. you quietly made your way over to the booth, tears in your eyes, and got the attention of the boy in the seat luke once claimed as his.

“can i sit here? i won’t bother you, i just need to sit here.” 

you’re sitting in front of me, at the restaurant, when i was still the one you want. cross legend in the dim light, everything was just right. i could feel the mascara run, you told me that you met someone. glass shattered on the white cloth, everybody moved on.

luke’s rookie season had officially ended with the devils being taken out of the playoffs in the first round, leaving him to head back to michigan while you were still in it. the school year was ending in two weeks and you were studying for your finals when your phone lit up.

from: luke

hey, i’m at the diner. we need to talk.

you could hear your heartbeat in your ears as you abandoned all of your materials and ran towards your car. you went fifteen over while driving to the diner, rolling through a few too many stop signs as well, but you made it and quickly went inside. you smiled as you saw the familiar back profile of your boyfriend sitting in your booth. 

“hey luke.” you smiled, sitting down across from him.

“i met someone else.” your smile fell just as fast as your heart broke. in the time that luke was trying to figure out his career, life on his own, trying to be the best that he could be without any form of distraction, he met someone else. “-and i’m sorry. i didn’t mean for it to happen, it just did.”

you scoffed, your sadness quickly turned into anger. “how long?” 

“i met her the night of my first game.” it was like the wind had been knocked out of you, that was only six days after you had agreed to go on a break, it took him six days to decide that you were not what he wanted, but what really made you angry was how long it took him to tell you.

“luke that was over a year ago, why did you not tell me sooner?” the tears in your eyes threatened to spill, but you wouldn’t let them, at least not in front of him. 

your question was met with silence, the tension in the air was so thick it was choking you. 

“this whole time you were with another girl? while i was pathetically sitting around, waiting for you, because i really thought that we were doing this whole thing so you could test the waters of your life in the nhl, but really you wanted to test the waters of your life without me.” you quickly stood up, cutting luke off before he could even try to speak. “goodbye luke.”

help, i’m still at the restaurant. still sitting in the corner i haunt. cross legend in the dim light they say what a sad sight. i stayed there. dust collected on my pinned up hair. i’m sure you’ve got a wife out there. kids and christmas, but i’m unaware. cause i’m right where i cause no harm. mind my business, if our loved died young, i can’t bear no witness and it's been so long.

you had just graduated and you decided to spend your last night in ann arbor in the diner, but this time you had company. your parents, friends, and boyfriend william. william was the boy who was sitting in luke’s seat that one night during your junior year, a friendship had blossomed after you that depressing night. it was never anything romantic, until you and luke officially broke up because you had the common decency that luke apparently lacked. tonight was unlike any night you had spent in the diners in the years before, you were happy, you were sitting in that same booth with all three lightbulbs lit, you could see other patrons and the waitresses and for once they weren’t looking at you with pity. 

i’m right where, you left me.

+++

note: lol i actually hate this but i needed to write something i haven't in weeks (because i have zero inspo lmao i need help) but anyways enjoy, leave feedback, tell me if you loved it if you hated it, anything. love y’all babes!! have a great day <3

[highlady-sorcha]

I Can Be a Nurse (Cassian x Reader)

You'd broken your arm as a kid when you fell from a tree. The fall had seemed impossibly long, just watching the ground rush up to meet you, knowing it's going to hurt when you hit. At the same time, as a human, you hadn't had the flexibility or the knowledge to try and shift around so you didn't break anything- or try to not break anything. The jarring snap of bone as you hit the ground had stuck with you long into adulthood, even after you’d been made into one of the fae. 

  Nothing compared to the crunching of your leg shattering when you fell from the training ring of the House of Wind. 

   It had been a foggy morning. No one else had been there- Azriel off doing whatever it is he does in the shadows, and Cassian off to check on the Illyrian camps. There had been a report of a female having her wings clipped- something Cassian could not stand for. He’d wanted to shoot into the skies last night and hunt down the male that had done it right when he got the message, but you’d made him wait till dawn. The male wouldn’t have gone far if he really thought that what he’d done was right. He’d stick around to face down Cassian out of pure arrogance. 

And if he did run, there was no better tracker and hunter in Prythian than the High Lord’s General himself. 

It had been so long since you started training with Cassian up here, it seemed perfectly safe to venture out to the ring on your own- no matter the weather. You’d been out in the ring on your own plenty of times to stretch and mindstill when life became too much. 

You’d dragged a practice dummy into the ring, but still closer to the side than usual. Yesterday had been particularly brutal and you were sore, the practice dummies were particularly heavy. You’d pulled out a practice blade. A long, heavy great sword, and given the dummy several whacks as a warm up, before heading into practicing some of the maneuvers that you had just started to go over with Cassian. They involved incorporating gymnastics into swordplay, being able to nimbly move around the enemy in unpredictable ways to avoid their attacks and distract them from combat- giving you an easier way into their guard. 

A little over a half hour into the exercises, you’d launched over the dummy’s head, intending land on your knees and bring the sword into his groin. But, the moisture in the air had gathered on the grip of the sword, and it slipped. The butt of the hilt hit the ground just a split second before you did, leaving the point straight in the air, just below your navel. 

You kicked farther over, throwing your weight so that you’d land beyond the point of the sword and avoid disemboweling yourself on an early spring morning. 

It worked, you had not a knick on you and the blade clattered to the ground. Your weight shifted and you landed on your feet several yards behind the dummy, but couldn’t keep your footing and stumbled back- over the edge. 

You had screamed as you fell, grasping at the side of the mountain for any purchase- only managing to snag a rock and rip your fingernail off. You’d fallen and fallen. Down and down and down until you came to a stop at the bottom- landing with all your weight and strength and fear on one single knee. 

You’d passed out from the pain and shock- laid there for hours unconscious. Only when Cassian had returned that afternoon and not been able to find you did he go out to the ring and start looking around. 

“(y/n)?” He hollered, his voice echoing off the sheer faces of the mountains around him. “(Y/n)? We gotta go, we’re late for that meeting with Rhys!” He paused then, pricking his pointed ears, listening for any sound. 

He was just about to yell again when he picked up the sound of breathing, and bristled. His siphons glared, casting a red ring of light around him. Cassian opened his mouth and inhaled deeply. As the breeze blew around the edge of the house, he caught the faintest tinge of fear carried with it. Stale, hours old. 

Cassian clenched his jaw as he marched around the edge of the house, praying to the mother, the cauldron, anything out there that this not be related to not being able to find you. 

A stronger breeze blew in as he approached the edge of the ring you’d fallen over. The stink of fear was much stronger here, and for the first time he noticed the blade laying behind the practice dummy. The red light from his siphons flashed brighter, glaring off the shining blade. 

Panic gripped his gut as he jogged to the edge, noticing a scuff on the ground from your boot. When he looked over the edge and saw your body laying in a crumpled pile far below, he roared and leaped over the edge himself. Throwing himself into an almost vertical dive, he was at the bottom in a heartbeat. 

You laid at his feet, in a broken heap, just inches from the tips of his boots. He knelt as he screamed in his mind for help. 

Rhys, Rhys please help. Please, I’m at the House of Wind and- 

Before he could finish the thought, Rhys appeared out of nowhere, stepping onto the rock beside him. Cassian carefully scooped you into his arms, your limbs bent all the wrong ways, things shifting and cracking under your skin as he lifted you from the ground. Gut rolling, he cradled you close. 

Without a word, Rhysand had laid a hand on Cassian’s shoulder and winnowed you to the river house. 

Madja had visited. Spending hours setting bones to heal properly, doing what she could to minimize the lasting impacts. As night began to fall, you awoke in a haze of blinding pain.

“Cass..” You whispered. He was the first thing that came to mind for comfort. A gentle hand the size of a bear paw folded one of your hands into his. The palms were warm and covered in thick layers of callouses, earned from years of hard labor. 

“I’m here, kitten. I’m here,” he murmured before pressing his mouth softly to your temple. Pain raced up your neck into the back of your head as you turned towards him before prying your eyes open. Thick crust clung to your lashes, and your vision swam for a moment before focusing. 

You were in the room Feyre had given birth to Nyx in the year before. A room that you knew everyone generally avoided like it was cursed. Only when someone was sick and needed tending did they sleep in here. 

Cassian had pulled a velvet tufted chair up to the side of the bed. His eyes had dark circles under them, his mouth a taught line. He leaned close, on his elbows with your hand close to his lips. The intensity in his hazel eyes was too much. 

You groaned as your stomach flipped, nausea rolling over you in thick waves. In turn, clenching and unclenching your throat. For a few moments, you fought the sensation, a clammy sweat breaking out on your forehead before your eyes snapped open. 

“Trash-“ you got out, before vomit filled your mouth. 

Cassian lunged to the rescue. A dented bucket was in his hand. He braced a hand between the back of your shoulders and pulled you up to sitting just as you retched, the sick slapping into the bottom of the bucket. 

You coughed and gagged and choked, until there couldn’t possibly be anything left to come up, ever again. Finally, you sagged back against the pile of pillows, drenched in sweat, your nose running and eyes stinging. The muscles in your stomach ached from the force of throwing up. 

Unable to do anything else, you just groaned and shut your eyes, trying to think back through what happened and how you’d gotten there.

Once you’d laid back, Cassian pulled the bucket away and set it on the floor beside his chair. He looked at your face, pale, bruised and cut from the fall for a moment longer before standing up. 

Cassian carried the bucket to the hall, murmuring something to someone outside the door before gently shutting it again. The sink in the attached bathroom ran for a moment before turning off, and the sound of water draining was the only thing that filled the silence of the room. 

A moment later, a cool cloth was laid across your forehead, covering your eyes. Trailing drips of luxuriously cold water raced down your temples, and you nearly moaned at how fresh, how relieving it felt. 

Wood creaked and groaned as Cassian took his seat again, the chair protesting under his bulk. He took your hand back in his, kissing your knuckles before allowing the room to lapse into silence. 

A considerable amount of time had passed, and you’d dozed before you felt better. The pain was still a raging presence, but it had lessened in some places- namely your head. 

You pulled off the rag Cassian had placed on your forehead, now warm from your body and struggled to sit up. 

Warm hands cupped under your arms and pulled you upright, against the headboard. Your head spun, but stopped after a second. Weight bowed the mattress beside you, and although your leg screamed in pain at the shift, you swallowed it back. 

Cassian was still in his leathers- never settled in for the night. Mud still crusted his boots and you could see that his chin length locks were disheveled from flying. 

His intense eyes were focused on you and he took your hand in his again. 

“I fell,” you offered. Your voice barely more than a croak.

Cassian gave you a wry smile that didn’t meet his eyes. 

“Yea, I’d say you did. Do you remember what happened?” 

Dutifully, you relayed your morning. The fog, the practice, a tiny mistake that had almost cost you your immortal life. 

“But I’m ok Cass- really. I’ll heal.” You assured him. 

Before he said anything, Cass reached for a glass of water that sat on the bedside table. He held the cup and tipped it to your lips. You braced your own hands over his, expecting him to let go- but he didn’t.

The water was sweet and cool, and trickled down the back of your throat in a revitalizing way. Gently, you pushed his hands away when you’d had enough. 

His eyes were soft as he took in your face. As you watched, they began to rim with silver before they overflowed. 

Cassian brushed it away, but not before you saw it. A lump formed in your throat and your own eyes began to sting. 

“What’s wrong Cass? Why are you crying?” You choked out. 

He scooted the chair forward so his knees were smashed against the side of the mattress and took your hand in both of his. Slowly,  he bowed his head and laid it on his hands. His long locks fell toward and tickled the inside of your wrist. 

“I got to the mountain a while after you fell. I don’t want to think about how long you were laying there,” he finally said. “I didn’t know what had happened, I just had this feeling I couldn’t shake and kept looking for you instead of just assuming you’d gone somewhere. Like, down in the city. When I finally looked over the edge of the ring and saw you laying there at the bottom…” He was silent for a long moment, his breathing evened out as he paced each breath to try and calm himself down. “You looked like a doll someone had thrown away. Like trash. I thought you were dead.” He sobbed. 

Your heart constricted. As much as your ribs screamed in protest at the movement, you twisted just enough to run your hand over his scalp, through his hair while murmuring that it was ok. 

He looked up finally, with tears in his eyes, his nose starting to run. “I know you’re in pain. I’ve had shattered bones and there’s not much that hurts that bad. I felt terrible when Madja said that was the biggest issue, because of how relieved I was.” He swallowed hard. “I just can’t lose you. Maybe I haven’t said it often enough- I probably haven’t. But there is no me, without you.” 

You laid back against the pillows and stared back at him, willing warmth and love to him. Praying that he could feel half the love you felt for him. 

“It’s a good thing I’m going to heal then,” you finally said. 

Cassian laughed, before sniffing and wiping his nose down his arm. He grinned then and fixed you with a mischievous smile. “It is, and good thing I can be a nurse.” 

**Thanks for Reading! This is one posted on my Wattpad account, but thought I would share it here. See if anybody was interested! Feel free to tell me what you think

[necroromantics]

🧺 — Laundry And Taxes

chapter 2. // (masterlist)

Toby wiped his dirt-stained hands onto his jeans as he stood over the 6ft deep hole he had dug in his backyard, the dark silence of midnight encompassing him. His arms were overworked and weak, strained from endless hours of laboring at the hole. Back where he was from, digging a grave only took about four to five hours, but here in the backyard of his childhood home, he had been working until dusk.

The boy turned around from his handiwork and picked up a dead rabbit which had been rotting on the grass behind him. Grabbing it by the ears, Toby tossed the body into the grave. He stared at the carcass for a moment, devoid of any purpose, before his face scrunched in repulsion. Toby gripped the handle of the shovel, gritted his teeth, and began to cover the rabbit back up with dirt.

Once the dark skies brightened with the morning summer sun, his mother had awoken to see what her son had been doing throughout the night. She caught him sitting in the backyard smoking a cigarette staring out at the forest that wrapped around their home, graveyard dirt on his sneakers and animal blood smeared on his hands. At six in the morning, Connie rushed out and asked him what happened, and demanded he put the cigarette out at once. Her boy only looked at her in a daze, as if death had meant nothing to him. Toby shook his head, brushing his mother off as he pushed past her and headed inside. As Connie looked out at her yard, she noticed for the first time how many dirt patches there were. From that point on, it had only gotten worse as his mother insisted he start to get out more, talk to more people, do more things. Her ignorant attempt at aiding her troubled son.

A jingling melody of a bell filled the air of the corner store as Toby walked in; his attempt at going out more. He looked as he always did, tired and a mess. Feral, ruthless, diseased. He glared through his thick brow at the cashier, something of a warning sign. As he walked past aisle after aisle, the boy occasionally pocketed a chocolate bar or two. The buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead brought him back to the times he was able to get away with nearly anything, and nobody dared to try to stop him. Without buying anything, Toby made his way out of the store, before being stopped by the man behind the counter.

“You gonna pay for those?” The cashier pestered.

Toby stopped in his tracks, shame turned into anger, and anger turned into violence.

“Pay for what?”

“Those bars you stole. Either you pay for ‘em or I call the cops.”

His jaw clenched as he felt a familiar burning sensation boiling in his chest. It was righteous, it moved him. He took one of the stolen chocolate bars out of his sweater pocket and chucked it hard at the older man.

“Have your fucking chocolate bar then.”

Toby spent his time in the world eagerly awaiting the day he were to wake up from his fever dream of a new life. It itched and clawed at him, a loud sort of desperation for what once was. He needed answers. He knew far too well that he wasn’t built for this world, and he needed to go back to the place he was made for. The world which shaped and molded him with violence into nothing but a weapon. And what is a weapon in a world with no war?

Toby stepped back, gaining momentum before kicking the basement window of the local library in. He wrapped a spare piece of cloth around his arm and pulled out the shattered frame of glass, before crawling his way into the building which was now closed for the night. If he wanted answers, he was going to get them.

The boy walked around the faintly nostalgic library, looking aimlessly for the newspaper archives which he knew to be kept in the back. Toby had been on similar trips to libraries in his days as a proxy. To get rid of evidence, or to find some. This time, he was hellbent on finding any articles that would prove he wasn’t completely alone in this strange world.

Once he found the large filing cabinet that held numerous documents and archives, he slid open the drawers for articles from 1990-2010s. The boy sat on the cold floor of the silent library, sifting through newspaper after newspaper. He skimmed over every word, looking for any evidence. The first thing he noticed was that there was no Jeffery Woods manhunt, which used to be front page on many different papers for awhile back in the late 2000s. The second, was that as he read over an article that used to contain a small segment about a recorded series titled Marble Hornets, it seemed that the entire column had never existed in the first place. The space was now replaced with retail advertisements.

There was a jingle of keys heard from down the hall, and the sound of heavy-booted footsteps, which was slowly approaching the archive room. Toby whispered cuss words to himself as he quickly shoved the documents back into the filing cabinet and snuck out of the room, utilizing his knowledge on stealth to not get caught by the security guard. To his luck, the boy managed to wriggle his way out of the open window he kicked in, and ran out into the night. All he gained was the knowledge that Toby had nothing left of the life he once lived. Or the war he once survived.

It was a constant uphill climb of a life for the boy. A Sisyphian punishment. The boy couldn’t sleep well that night, worse than the previous nights, and the next morning his mother insisted he were to get out of the house and go to the park, or the mall. Toby decided disgruntledly to visit the park, possibly he could find signs there, beyond the trees. The desire for answers consumed him, his light at the end of his tunnel vision. The boy approached the playground, eyeing his surroundings and making mental notes of all the people, and things, in the area. The tall, mighty oak trees painted the surroundings green, the sky was clear and vastly blue. A perfect summers day.

Quickly, he noticed a small group of older boys sitting on and by their bikes, one of which was mocking Toby’s strange twitches and jerks as they whispered and laughed amongst themselves. A real comedian. In that moment he was dragged, tossed, thrown, kicking and screaming, into the past he once lived. Back when he was first seventeen, back in middle school. The hunger for revenge. He may have had the body, but he wasn’t that same kid anymore, Toby wasn’t weak anymore. And he wasn’t going to let anybody mess with him ever again.

Without a second thought, Toby turned around to face the group, fire and fury in his dark eyes. He approached the boys, and like a rabid dog, he tackled the one who was making the jokes to the ground. Toby grabbed a fist full of his hair, and drilled his other fist into the boy's face repeatedly, ignoring the desperate attempts from the older to squirm out from under him, screaming. Everybody looked at the violent scene, mortified.

Back when Toby was seventeen for the first time, he drew clear lines that he wouldn’t cross. Things he wouldn’t do. But as he grew older, angrier, he crossed those lines and gained the dangerous knowledge that the world wouldn’t come to an end if he did bad things. He could hurt people and still wake up the next day. As he continued to scream at, and beat the other boy bloody, Toby could’ve sworn there was a line there once.

The drive back home with his mother after getting picked up at the police station was tediously long. Toby was trying his best to ignore Connie's disapproving silence as he glared out of the passenger window at the passing city beyond them, darkening into evening skies.

“What has gotten into you?” Connie spoke, exasperated. Toby continued to ignore her.

“Well?”

“It doesn’t matter, just drop it,” He responded, irritation growing in his tone.

As the two made their way into the house, Toby was greeted by his older sister leaning up against the kitchen counter. Toby felt words breaking in his throat, he stared at her like an angry bear. Lyra stared back frightened at his swollen eye. They saw each other with a strange surprise. The boy avoided her gaze, turning his head down to look at his feet like a bad dog as he pushed past her and made his way to his bedroom.

Soon thereafter, Toby had begun getting into petty fights with his sister, and often talked back to his mother. One particular evening, Lyra had shouted at her brother for being disrespectful towards their mom. She had made an unsettling offhanded comment about how Toby was going down a terrifyingly familiar path. A path the family had seen his father go down for years before Connie mustered up the courage to kick him out.

“You think any of that shit matters to me? None of this is real, none of it” Toby yelled back, waving his hands around and laughing to himself.

“What the hell is wrong with you? I’m real, you’re real, mom is real. And look at how you’re treating her.”

“You? You shouldn’t even fucking be here right now, you’re supposed to be dead!”

Lyra paused at the cruel words of her little brother. The boy gave her half of his orange one morning, and broke her heart in the evening. They both cross lines they shouldn’t. They’re both afraid of their rage.

“Just… Enough. I shouldn’t even be here right now. So do us both a favor and stay out of my business.” Toby lowered his voice at his sister's surrender and without another word, left again into his bedroom.

That night, as Toby laid silently in his bed, facing his bedroom window, he saw a fraction of light creep onto his wall as his door opened. A small shift of weight pressed down onto the mattress beside him.

“What happened to my sweet boy?” Connie spoke with a deep sorrow in her voice. No words could ever explain to his mother what had happened to him. Nothing he could say would ever make her, or anyone, understand the unfathomable. Toby gave her no response, and minutes had passed before Connie sighed and took her leave.

As his family had laid to rest late into the night, Toby quietly climbed out of his bed which creaked as his weight shifted. Grabbing an empty old backpack, he made his way into the darkened kitchen and began piling in canned foods, water bottles, and money from his mothers purse. He paused for a moment before entering the garage, where he knew he could find a familiar old hatchet sitting idly.

He stared at and took in all of his surroundings, and listened to the quiet ambience of the house. Toby knew that this was a home for a boy, not a killer. He had lost his innocence so early, shaped with horror from before he could remember. Toby wanted terribly to look out at the house he stood silently in and feel something good, something happy, like a distant memory that would make him smile warmly to himself when he thought back to it. But no matter how hard he tried, all he could remember was the battlefield. Constantly fighting to survive, wondering if he would ever make it out alive. Quickly, he scribbled a message onto a post-it note and left it on the fridge for his mother to find in the morning when she realized her son was no longer there.

“I’ll come back this time, mom.”

[imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese]

The Enucleation of Eris Morn

A Festival of the Lost collaboration with @hiseumingo through @d2artevents

Link to Ao3 if you prefer to read it there

There are queer things told in the deep space cold      By the ones who venture far I seen horrible blights and gruesome sights      Too dark for planet or star But none are as bad, or as horribly sad      To make even a Deathsinger moan As when hope got squished, and ol’ Three-Eyes wished      On her Ahamkara bone

Wei Ning was a Titan, and always fightin'      Everyone loved her laugh If bad stuff needed killing she was always willing      To fight on Earth's behalf She volunteered when the call went out      To clear the Moon of Hive The Great Disaster's what they called that after      Very few got out alive

Now Eriana-3, was an Exo, you see      A Praxic Warlock, too She loved Wei Ning more than anything      So when Crota killed Wei, she knew There'd be nothing here that'd ever come near      To what she'd lost and, well, The only thing left was to get revenge      And march straight into hell

Ol' Three-Eyes was once Two-Eyes      And was a Hunter at that time She and Wei were tight, and when they took Wei's Light      The Hive had crossed a line So when Eriana-3 said come with me      First in line was Eris Morn They made a pact, and just like that      The First Crota Fireteam was born

They needed a way for Crota's death to stay      Or he'd just get back up from his throne Wei Ning bein' snuffed was proof enough      They couldn't use brute force alone His brains might've been scattered but Toland the Shattered      Said he knew a way "I think he's a jerk, but it just might work"      Was all Eriana had to say

So they gathered three more to kick down the door      And finish what Wei Ning began They snuck on the Moon's surface with terrible purpose      Intent to enact their plan They didn't know as they went down below      Giving one last look at the skies That no one among them would ever again      See the stars with their own eyes

Vell Tarlowe was the first to go      Got overrun by Thralls The horrid crunch as his bones got munched      Echoed through those hellish halls Sai Mota laughed as she breathed her last      While Omnigul watched her die The wormrot infested her, then it digested her      And that was the end of Sai

Eriana's doom was a snappy tune      By a Deathsinger named Ir Yut As it turns out that musical shout      Was power absolute A power so strong came out from her song      Eriana's Light couldn't outshine Toland betrayed her, and when Ir Yut had flayed her      He was willingly next in line

Toland's secret goal was to rip out his own soul      And in death become redefined He sold them all out to that Deathsinger's shout      And it blasted his fractured mind It's incredibly tragic that his love of Hive magic      Corrupted his brain with its call But he got what he wanted and now the Moon's Haunted      By Toland the sparkle ball

Now, he wasn't the first, but by far the worst      Was the fate of the Hunter Omar A Hive Wizard caught him, then gleefully taught him      That death ain't the worst thing by far She enjoyed how he squealed, every time that she peeled      Another small piece of his Light Eris Morn cried, at the time, still two-eyed      Unable to save him that night

Six had gone in with a good plan to win      'Till hope from them all was torn Five had found death and the only one left      Was the Hunter Eris Morn She knew she was stuck, but she wouldn't give up      And her ghost encouraged her sweetly Yet, each time she rested the Hive manifested      She couldn't escape them completely

They hid best they could but her ghost understood      That the Hive were attracted to Light And that little ghost loved Eris Morn most      And acted upon that insight So as Eris cried at her ghost's suicide      She was hid by the shadows around her And try as they might there was no more Light      To track, so the Hive never found her

Lost in the dark, without her ghost's spark      Eris Morn was abandoned in hell She wouldn't give in, and let the Hive win      But the way out, she couldn't tell She fought and she hid and somehow, she lived      For a hundred years all alone She had one option left, and it wasn't the best:      An ahamkara bone

She made her bargain in that bleak garden      Of chitin and sickness unkind The bone took its price, and it wasn't nice:      Eris learned the way out, but was blind Now what would she do? And as if on cue      A Hive Acolyte found her location No ammo, one knife, but she still clung to life      And fought with sheer desperation

Without her sight, it was quite the fight      But in the end Eris struck true And as the Hive died Eris realized,      Perhaps three eyes could replace two With a snick and a chop, her eyeballs went plop      With her own knife she dug a new hole With a bit of Hive voodoo and a lot of bad juju      She soon achieved her goal

Running on pure spite in that endless night      Eris Morn was purpose driven With her wits and her grit, she crawled out of that pit      But the Hive would not be forgiven As she saw the stars rise with her Acolyte eyes      Her need for vengeance burned bright And so Eris Morn, became Bane of the Swarm      And to this day continues to fight

There are queer things told in the deep space cold      By the ones who venture far I seen horrible blights and gruesome sights      Too dark for planet or star But none are as bad, or as horribly sad      To make even a Deathsinger moan As when hope got squished, and ol’ Three-Eyes wished      On her Ahamkara bone

[rabbitenn]

TEARS OVER.

@highcollargirl requested: can you write sogo x fem reader where mc falls ill and sogo takes care of her and they kiss at the end.

ft. Osaka Sogo x fem! reader.

cw/genre: comfort/fluff.

Thank you for requesting, this is a very soft and sweet idea ! I hope it’s to your liking <3 I’m deeply sorry it took me so long to post it…

Everything seems blurry.

With weakening steps, you try to make it to the kitchen, perhaps you’re just dehydrated.

But no, this is wrong.

Why is it so hot? And what’s this coat of cold sweat drenching your clothes?

Just a little more…

Leaning against the wall, you finally make it to the kitchen, parched lips finally tasting the insipid sweetness of cool water.

And yet, the awful sensation doesn’t dissipate.

Your breathing grows heavier, it might be best to go back to bed.

Was the room always spinning, though?

This is bad, your legs can’t hold you anymore.

The last thing you remember before blackness engulfs you is the hard wooden floor hitting your knees and a subtle lavender fragrance, wrapping itself around you in balmy waves of softness.

—

You come to in a warm lit room.

Your room.

You remember exiting it this morning, but the way back to it… it’s all blurry.

Perhaps you dreamt it in your feverish state; however, you think you remember someone holding your body, a steady heartbeat lulling you into the peaceful sleep you hadn’t known for days.

Your lashes flutter open, the purple skies outside sending in dusk light into the space.

“You are finally awake, dear.” A soothing voice greets you.

Then, you register the pleasing sensation of someone caressing your hair, their movements soothing the heat and sweat.

And when you turn towards the voice you always loved to hear sing, your gaze meets one that matches the violet clouds of the crepuscular skies.

“So…” You call him, voice still hoarse from sleep and fever.

He brushes a few unruly strands away from your eyes, his touch so delicate; a barely there brush of butterfly wings against your flushed skin.

“How are you feeling?” Your lover asks, already knowing the answer can’t really be all that good, just by seeing your lidded eyes.

You stretch a little, sitting up in bed.

“Not great, honestly.” You mumble, bringing a hand to your forehead. Your thoughts are still fuzzy, a sharp pain piercing through them in chaotic disarray.

“I expected that much.” Sogo says, a concerned smile reaching his lips.

And it must be your jumbled mind, but you think a kiss from him would make all your pain disappear.

Before you can tell your boyfriend that, though, he adds:

“You should probably lie down for now, dearest. I’ll bring you some snacks, okay?”

Truth is, the prospect of eating your favorite treats sounds very tempting right now, but you don’t want Sogo to leave.

And you are aware you’re probably being childish and whiny, but you don’t care about that right now.

Before he can get up from the bed, the idol feels a slight tug on his sweater’s sleeve.

“Stay here…” You ask, as you look up at him.

And something in the way you ask, something about your tired tone, and your eyes that you’re struggling to keep focused, tugs at your partner’s heartstrings.

He could never say no to you, after all, could he?

Lashes of moonlit hyacinth brush against his cheekbones as he graces you with one of his tender expressions.

Under warm ironed covers, he joins you, the softness of his embrace a thousand times more comforting than any blanket. To be with him is to stand beneath demure lilac skies, a spring breeze gently touching every blossom, their fragrance wafting around and towards aster hued clouds.

You nuzzle against Sogo’s chest, as his lips tenderly place a kiss to your temples.

From between fluffy blankets, you look up at him.

His lips are too tempting for your dry lips.

You need him.

But at the same time, you don’t want him getting sick too… He has important work, both for IDOLiSH7 and MEZZO.

If he couldn’t perform because of you…

Your line of thought shatters at the call of your name, his voice barely above a whisper.

So’s face is millimeters away from yours, warm breaths mingling together.

And against yours, and his, better judgment, you both lean in.

Starlight and an horizon lined in shades of amethyst collide when his lips touch yours, a starry nebula, opening the gateway into a shared parenthesis in time, dyed in morning glories.

—

The next time you open your eyes, you are in a dim lit room.

You know this room.

Its walls have witnessed the affection shared between you and the man holding you close to his chest right now, after all.

“Good morning, So.” You whisper, planting a delicate kiss to his jawline. “I love you.” Are your words, before you cuddle against him, for a few more minutes of sweet dreamy indulgence.

Your boyfriend’s kisses were certainly the best medicine.

[justapoet]

hearts don't break around here

There were flowers on her desk. It was a random Wednesday morning, she had just greeted Bleta and some other workers ‘good morning’, and there were flowers on her desk. A whole, entire, huge bouquet of red— Somethings. She had no idea what flowers those were. Worse: she had no idea how they were there to begin with. Or, Percy is a florist that seems to see the world through the colors that he sees everyday — bright, different and slightly utopic. Annabeth, an overly serious architect that works just across a lovely flowershop, and doesn't really look for the beauty around her world and outside her office's walls. When she starts receiving flowers out of nowhere, with notes signed only with an initial, her biggest plan is to figure out who could possibly be sending them. What she doesn't know is that all she has to do is look out the window.

read it on Ao3

The hostile atmosphere of the city of New York was almost palpable for anyone used to being or living there, hardly masked by the illusion of tourists fascinated by every old building lost among mirrored skyscrapers. The cloudy skies that stretched over people's heads and the cold, albeit gentle, breeze shattered the fantasy that the most famous city in the country could be as welcoming as in the films.

It was fun when one stopped to analyze everything that people have been told and what actually happens when you're there to see it. The hostile climate of New York, or the strange cold that surrounds London; perhaps how pleasant it would be to arrive in any city in Latin America, or the tranquil and strangely cultured air in Amsterdam — and how different it can all be when one switches perspectives.

It was fascinating, in fact, how things are put together in such different ways when placed in the same place. How the old buildings gave off a nostalgic air, more because of the strange feeling that they would soon disappear than because of the amount of time they had stood, or how the newer constructions seemed to carry with them an air of boredom and stress more than any possibility of a well-designed future. Fascinating, and rather hopeless.

Or perhaps the boredom belonged not to the city, but to those who lived in it at a rapid pace, with no time to admire anything other than their own misery or unhappiness. People who walk with their heads down, dragging their feet or marching towards what brings them the tragedy in which they sink daily, ignoring the landscape and cursing anyone who stops to do so.

Whatever was the case, the hostile climate was present at every sunrise as the icy gloom was replaced by warm rays wandering through the blinds that enveloped the wide glass windows of a silent office. Although the sun was up early, breaking the dawn, the grey fog that would sometimes take over the entire urban territory still masked its discreet presence for a few hours, cutting through the atmosphere as the city began to come alive again.

On the dark surface of the rough wooden desk, the faint rays of sun flickered in the reflection of the jug of water, and highlighted the white of organized stacks of sheets of paper. A laptop, two pens and a triangular gold plaque also shone against the light, and the silence was absolute against the noise of the cars, buses and a whole society outside the wide, mirrored building.

Absolute, except for the light, brief snores that cut through the air on the other side of the spacious office.

Covering almost the entire room, a fluffy grey carpet stretched under the desk, only to be interrupted a little further on, next to the immense glass wall from where the city of New York didn't appear so dense. The city itself, however, was hidden behind long white curtains of light, diaphanous fabric, the daylight timidly penetrating the mostly dark environment.

Just before them, a set of armchairs and a sofa in the same shade of grey were elegantly positioned around a round coffee table with a translucent glass top that supported a neatly folded jacket and an equally neat engraving on top of it. Next to the table, on the floor, a pair of black dress shoes rested perfectly aligned, and the only thing seemingly out of place was the woman stretched out on the couch.

One of her arms was over her face, covering her eyes to protect them from the daylight. Her hand hung beside her head, turned uncomfortably away from the windows, her nose almost wedged between the backrest and the seat, and her other arm was folded, hand flat over her stomach, partially trapped between two buttons of her white button shirt.

Her chest rose and fell rhythmically, and her lips parted to mumble something that tried to sound like sentences. The shirt was wrinkled, as were the black trousers, and only one of her feet was covered by a white sock — that also seemed to be about to come off at any movement of her feet. The brown braids of her hair were disorganized and seemingly tangled, making an exquisite contrast with the surroundings.

A few more soft snores sounded in the air until they were interrupted by the double wooden door being opened from the outside, followed by the low click of the lock clicking back into place and soft footsteps, which stopped after no more than two soft ‘knocks’ and were accompanied by a sigh. The next moment, the footsteps sounded again against the floor across the room, only to cease again when near the couch.

“You're the most depressing situation I've ever seen,” a male voice sounded, and the figure stretched out on the sofa jerked upwards in fright. Her brown eyes looked around hurriedly, shoulders tense, and the weight of her torso being lifted by her arms, until her pupils caught sight of the person speaking. She relaxed one more time.

The woman grunted, and the man rolled his eyes.

“What time is it?” she asked, bringing her hands to her eyes and rubbing them over the eyelids.

“Too early to come to work and too late to go home,’ the man replied, sighing and turning round to face the arm of the furniture. “You do remember that you have a house and a bed, don't you? Because I didn't spend hours hopping from shopping center to shopping center so that you'd simply forget that you have at least six pillows, Annabeth.”

The woman laughed softly, yawning and throwing her legs over so that they rested against the tiled floor.

“For starters,” Annabeth retorted, stretching one of her arms above her head. “We spent hours in shopping centers because you wanted to find God-knows-what to put in the living room, Grover. Besides,” she groaned, facing her friend. “Yes, I know.”

Annabeth stood up, putting her hands on her lower back and stretching her muscles, grunting before exhaling in relief. Grover rolled his eyes again.

“And what goes on in your head that you decide to sleep on the couch in your office?” he asked, arching one of his eyebrows. Annabeth shrugged briefly and sat down once more.

“Work,” she replied. “And a surprising laziness to drive anywhere,” she frowned, and Grover shook his head in denial. “Besides, Oliott called.”

Grover raised both eyebrows this time.

“Again?” he asked, his voice surprised and disbelieving. Annabeth nodded. “God, that man is unbelievable,” he continued, crossing his arms in front of his chest and shaking his head.

Annabeth sighed, nodding.

“Tell me about it,” she said. “Can’t really blame him, though. I, too, would be desperate if I bought illegal land in protected territory and needed someone to build in it so I won’t go to jail.”

Grover snorted, suppressing a smile, and shook his head.

“Hope he’ll rot, fucking asshole,” he grumbled. “What did you say?”

Annabeth threw her body backwards, leaning back on the couch and leaning her head on the cushioned backrest.

She sighed again.

“The same thing as the other eight times,” she replied. “That we, first, don’t make business with criminals as a firm; second, I don’t design for assholes as a person. And that we don’t have space in schedule whatsoever to take any more projects.”

“We don’t?” Grover asked. Annabeth smiled mischievously, turning her head and resting her ear against the cushion of the furniture.

“We do,” she mumbled, voice filled with childish playfulness, and Grover laughed at how juvenile his friend sounded. “But he doesn't know that. Or he does, but it doesn't matter anyway,” she shrugged. “Can’t wait to turn on the news and see him being arrested.”

Annabeth yawned, then, long and trying to somehow muffle it. Grover, who had been sitting over the arm of the couch, stood up and straightened himself before turning towards the architect, arms crossed over his chest and one of his eyebrows arched in judgement.

“Get up,” he said, and Annabeth — who hadn’t noticed closing her eyes for a second or more after yawning —, stared at him with clear confusion on her face. When she spoke again, another yawn threatened to leave along her words.

“What for?” she asked.

Grover simply rolled his eyes.

“If you don't sleep in your own bed, do you really think I expect you to look after yourself?” Grover argued, and Annabeth waggled her eyebrows and nodded briefly, agreeing. “Come on, get moving. I’m buying you breakfast.”

Annabeth snorted, and Grover walked round to the back of the sofa once more, standing in line with his friend’s head, only to land a light slap near his ear. Annabeth exclaimed in surprise and cursed quietly, laughing softly before getting up and picking up the jacket from the coffee table.

Grover, who was already near the door, waited for Annabeth to approach and grabbed the handle, opening the door and holding it for her to pass through. She, trying to knot the small bow in her shirt while still tripping over her shoes, took long enough so the man would huff and snatch her hands from the failed attempts and claim she needed to breathe, anyway, so she could deal with it later.

Annabeth laughed, following him to the elevators.

[…]

         Large urban centers rarely had places that hide from the eyes of passers-byes. Everything was too clear, too crowded, too big — things were always extremely visible, and there were always too many things to be seen, to be heard, to be noticed and talked about.

New York was no different, and perhaps was quite too much that stereotype that Hollywood had established globally. Huge shops with bright signs, crowded shop windows and people who were surprisingly not bewildered by so much information; the city was just a huge anthill of people who were desperate, consumerist, bored or all three, in some cases.

There was a narrow side street, however, between two corners — one with a huge Starbucks shop and the other with a bank — which apparently hadn't been overwhelmed by chaos or huge lights. There, simpler shops with vintage content such as vinyl, comics or clothes that didn’t completely care about following the current strange branding, as well as two restaurants and a cozy coffee shop adorned the weathered pavements. In the center, from one of the pavements, one could access a park that was usually empty.

The café faced the park. Its white façade with sash windows and double wooden doors already indicated the comfort that the bright surroundings gave off, the extensive shelves with books only adding to the cozy impression that spread throughout the place. At the back, where a bay window with light cushions made the café even more inviting, was Annabeth’s favorite place to be whenever she found her way there.

Grover and she had discovered the café a few years before, trying to find somewhere they could study without the chaos outside and the noise of the city driving them crazy or completely out of concentration. She would take her drafts and sketches while Grover took his books and notes — and they wouldn’t speak, simply basking in each other’s company and, more often than not, ordering more coffee than anyone should ever consume in a span of eight hours.

         They’d given up the last café they had thought would be a good idea after the fights in the kitchen got too loud and would catch their attention more than whatever they needed to focus on. Sure, Annabeth and Grover loved to know about the chaos — a cheating husband and a best friend and something involving purple dresses, when they last went there —, but, at the time, their finals were nearing and they needed a saving grace.

After a wrong turn, they spotted the façade, which at the time was an aqua green color, and placed one last bet on the place. It was late afternoon, and the orange of the setting sun — and urban pollution — reflected in the windows and accentuated the warm lamps inside the uncrowded and seemingly perfect establishment.

After that day, when they met River, Nicholas and Naomi, who worked there, the two of them decided that it was the right place for them to meet and, since then, that little café — which, honestly, none of them can remember ever asking what it was called — has become one of the best places in the world for unwinding and spending time with a good book.

With time shorter and shorter for them to be there as more than a passage to get coffee, the pair tried to make most of the occasions in which their schedule wouldn’t get in the way of enjoying each other’s company. Sometimes Juniper, Grover’s fiancée, would join them, as would Thalia, one of their best friends. River, Nick and Naomi — who were teenagers fresh into sophomore year when they first met — would also join the conversations whenever they could.

When Grover dragged Annabeth out of the firm, she already knew where they were going, and dropped her jacket on her friend’s car instead of putting it on as she usually did. The man had removed his jacket on the way, while humming any song on the radio and commenting on any news — gossip, if Annabeth was being honest — that was going round the building's departments.

Nicholas greeted them as they entered the cafeteria, always with his animated face that looked like it belonged to someone who hadn't slept in days and said that he would take care of their usual orders — with a little treat on the house, since they were the first customers of the day, as it was usually the case. The pair thanked him, walked to the back of the establishment and took their seats around one of the round tables, the one in front of the bay window.

It was a pleasant view, as the property extended a little further into a small yard surrounded by live fences and various flowers, always well looked after. There were a few tables dotted around, as well as ottomans surrounding lower tables, and the atmosphere was something straight out of a publisher’s portfolio. The hedge divided the café from a costume shop — old, she knew — and a vinyl record shop that Annabeth could not deny having fallen in love with at first sight.

Just a couple of minutes later, Nicholas returned with their favorite coffees on a tray and a smile on his face — for no reason, as the pair knew after so many years. Grover fidgeted in his chair, eager for his first caffeine fix of the day, and Annabeth simply shook her head with a soft giggle.

“A double espresso for you, sir, and a flat white for the beautiful lady,” Nicholas announced, changing his voice to a falsely dismissive tone as he spoke to Grover, and gently tapping his saucer against the table, only to turn to Annabeth, speak with false pomposity and then bend down to place the order in front of the woman.

Annabeth chuckled, and Grover simply rolled his eyes.

“One of these days, I'm going to rat you out to your manager, kid,” Grover grumbled, bringing his cup to his lips and holding back a groan of satisfaction when the strong drink came into contact with his tongue. Nicholas' smile widened, and Annabeth gestured with her hand as if to say that it was just an empty threat.

“Oh, yes; of course,’ Nicholas said, mockingly. “You love me, Grover. You should stop denying it to yourself,” he said, followed by a wink, and Annabeth pressed her lips together not to laugh.

“There's nothing to deny if what you say are lies,” Grover shrugged, and Nicholas made a false expression of offence. “Besides, I've never denied that River has always been my favorite,” he mocked, and Nicholas frowned in fake indignation.

Annabeth took another sip of her drink. And before the waiter could reply, she spoke:

“Where is River, by the way, Nico?” she asked. “You always arrive together,” she pointed out, and Nicholas made a move to tuck the tray under his arm, smiling with satisfaction at whatever he was going to say next.

“Belgium,” he replied, and Annabeth stopped the cup in mid-air, halfway to her lips. Grover straightened his back and narrowed his eyes, while Nicholas just shrugged. “Or on a train on the way to Belgium; I don't know the exact situation.”

“Belgium,” Grover said. “As in the country? In Europe?”

Nicholas nodded happily. Annabeth cleared her throat.

“And since when is River in Belgium?” the architect asked. “Why is he in Belgium on a Thursday morning when we saw him yesterday afternoon?” she frowned.

“Has he finally realized that the world isn't so big when you have money?” Grover asked, also with arched eyebrows.

Nicholas simply shrugged.

“About your question,” Nicholas pointed at Annabeth with his head. “Since last night, apparently. About yours,” he pointed at Grover in the same way. “I think the answer goes together with her other question. The world is definitely not as big when you have money and that, in a way, makes it easier when you want to run away,” he shrugged again, his animated tone faltering a little.

They knew River well enough to know what it was all about. And Annabeth personally understood all too well why the boy had taken a ticket to Belgium in the middle of the night.

“It took him longer than I thought it would, for him to do something like that,” Annabeth said, her eyes downcast, staring at the drawing in the foam of her cup. The two men agreed in silence. “And let's be clear that I'm referring to running away from those two as much as filling that pocket with money and going anywhere in the world. Although, frankly, I always thought he was going to take a boat,” she joked, lightening the mood in the room.

“I think we can all agree on that,” Grover said. “I've never seen anyone so insistent that packing up and travelling around the continent wasn't the best thing to do on a gap year. I'm glad he gave it a chance.”

Nicholas squeaked in amusement.

“Tell me about it,” he agreed. “I nearly put him on a plane myself. Imagine having the world in the palm of your hand and spending your days in a lost coffee shop in the middle of New York! I mean, he can do the most incredible things on this trip! See the Colosseum, the Louvre, the Parthenon, that hooped thing in Warsaw-

“Segovia Aqueduct,” Annabeth interrupted, and Nicholas chose to ignore her.

“... Pantheon, Arc de Triomphe, Eiffel Tower...” Nicholas listed. “And along the way, he could meet the love of his life. Imagine that!”

Grover laughed.

“Why do I think you and Naomi bet on that?” he asked, and Nicholas smiled mischievously once again. “For God's sake, Nico! What are the chances of River simply bumping into the love of his life on a train to Belgium?!”

“There are!” Nicholas argued, and Grover laughed even harder. Annabeth followed, taking another sip of her coffee. “Hey, don't you even start. What were the chances of River travelling anyway? Even more so in the middle of a Wednesday?!”

Annabeth tilted her head slightly to either side, agreeing.

“Well, yeah. You might have a point,” she said, and Nicholas smiled. “And you also have access to food,” she smiled, amused. “And food is always a good idea, don't you think?” she suggested, and Nicholas rolled his eyes before turning in his feet and walking towards the counter and the kitchen.

Annabeth lifted her wrist to look at her watch, then picked up her cup again to take a little more of the drink. After a few minutes, the architect felt a pair of eyes burn into the side of her face. She turned her head around to find Grover, leaning back on his seat, his elbows resting on the window ledge, legs crossed and a look on his face that Annabeth honestly didn't know if she wanted to decipher.

“What's wrong?” she asked anyway. Grover arched one eyebrow again.

“When are you going to give yourself a chance?” he asked, his serious tone and frank countenance staring into the confused expression of his friend, whose frown deepened at the environmentalist’s words. “Just like the one you’re glad River gave himself.”

Annabeth squinted, a little because of confusion over the last sentence Grover had said and a little because of the context of the sentence itself. She also threw his body back, leaning against the comfortable cushion, but leaving her head raised so that she could face the man in front of her.

“I like New York,” she said, as if that were some kind of explanation. “And I've lived alone for years, which frees me from any River-like motives.”

Grover rolled his eyes and grunted.

“You know very well what I mean,” he said, and Annabeth cocked her head to one side. Her friend sighed again. “You live for work, Annabeth, for God's sake. When was the last time you agreed to go out with anyone? Or by yourself?”

“Now?” she asked, pointing her finger at the table, and Grover bit his tongue. “Grover, I'm the director of the firm. I sort of have to work a bit harder than the others, and you know that.”

Grover nodded, but his pose remained the same.

“Oh. ‘A little’, you say. I'd like to emphasize it, then. You've been abusing any hyperbole or augmentation for years,” he retorted. “And it's not just going out with me, Annabeth. When was the last time you had a decent night's sleep in your own bed? Or the last night you even went to bed?”

The architect opened her mouth to say something, but Grover didn't let her speak before taking the floor again.

“When was the last time you left the house without a suit? Or the last time you, I don't know, met someone who wasn't a client?” he asked, and Annabeth chose to close her mouth. “Annie, when was the last time you ever flirted with someone?”

At the last question, Annabeth frowned again. Grover arched his eyebrows again, tilting his head slightly to one side and waving his foot in the air under the table where his legs were crossed.

“And what does that have to do with anything?” she asked, and Grover just sighed loudly, shaking his head. “What does it have to do with anything? I’m serious!”

The man sighed.

“I know! That's even worse,” he pointed out, raising his hands in exasperation. “Do you plan to spend your whole life being miserable and lonely and solving other people's problems?”

Annabeth opened her mouth in indignation, and Grover just lifted his chin, his lips twisting in defiance.

“Ouch,” Annabeth said, placing one hand over her chest. “I'm not miserable, G-Man.”

And if she pouted, Annabeth would deny it completely.

“Hm,” Grover muttered before reaching into his bag and slipping his hand inside, taking out his mobile phone and unlocking it. Annabeth frowned again, alternating her gaze between the man’s face and the mobile phone he was skillfully typing on until he smiled briefly and cleared his throat. “Hm. ‘Miserable’. Adjective and noun of two genders: ‘who or that which, by its misfortune, arouses compassion’,” he recited, and Annabeth sighed briefly before crossing her arms over her chest, too. “There's even a picture!” Grover exclaimed.

Grover turned the mobile phone towards Annabeth, and it took her a few seconds to notice that her friend had switched it off and there was only the black screen reflecting her twisted, confused face. The man had a proud, smug smile on his face, and Annabeth just snorted before pushing Grover’s arm to get the mobile phone out of her face.

“You think you're hilarious, don't you?” Annabeth asked, and Grover nodded in agreement. “And despite your blatant offence towards me, I appreciate your concern, but I don't need any advice. I’m fine, Grover,” she said, his tone serious and extremely formal.

“I know you are, I can see that,” he said. “But being fine doesn't cancel out being miserable, Annie. Come on, haven't you ever wanted to fall in love with someone? I know you have. We grew up together,” Grover said, and Annabeth settled a little further into her seat. “To be given flowers, to smile for no reason, to have someone to hug or to tell unfunny jokes to?”

Annabeth mumbled something, but spoke again before Grover asked.

“Doesn't that sound too cliché? Sugary?” she asked, and Grover just shrugged.

“Love has been love since the world was a world, Annabeth. It may sound repetitive in theory, because it is the theory,” he argued. “What really changes is that you're the one feeling it.”

She arched an eyebrow. And chose not to comment on the poetics, given the smile so sincere on Grover’s lips — thinking of Juniper, she knew, because the glimmer in his eyes was quite obvious.

         “And what's so special about that?” she retorted, and her friend merely repeated her previous gesture, but leaned forward to reach for his cup again.

“Love is a universal concept, but this one anyone could call their own,” he said. “Which, you must admit, is quite something,” he sipped his drink. Annabeth just shrugged, imitating her friend and picking up her cup as Nicholas returned from the kitchen with another tray, spouting words that the two of them were still too slow to decipher.

As she ate the slice of cake Nicholas had brought — and I'm sorry it took so long, but I forgot to make it part of the sweet display and I really don't need to be sacked now, so close to my first semester of Med School — Annabeth pondered some of Grover’s words.

Smiling for no reason? It sounded merely silly. Having someone to hug? Sometimes... It would be nice, but it also sounded too trivial to have at the cost of a possible heart. Telling unfunny jokes? Isn't that what she's in that friendship for starters?

And to receive flowers?

Annabeth laughed to herself.

It was too sweet — and the hope was too foolish — for it to ever happen to her.

“I don’t even know why you brought ‘falling in love’ up, Grover,” she said, then, suddenly. Her friend took his time to savor the piece he was taking to his mouth and ignored her for a minute before swallowing.

“Because I saw your face when Nico joked about River finding love in a train, dipshit. I know you better than you know yourself.”

And she didn’t know how say anything back to him, because there was no way she could deny it, either. Tragically, Annabeth hated to admit, she was a romantic — and she would often daydream of meeting someone and being enchanted and going through every single cliché on the book.

She shook her head, ridding it of the stupid thoughts, and focused on her cake again.

As they left the café to return to the firm, Annabeth left the conversation, her thoughts and unfounded hopes hanging on the glass of the bay window, hoping that the wind or the passing of people would blow them away.

[…]

         Sometimes, he believed New York was quiet for the big city it undoubtedly was.

         Of course, there were lights and noise, and people walked around in their own misery all the time — but it was calmer, from where he stood, because the anguish didn't seem to be constantly in the spotlight. There were more trees here and there, and one could hear the birds every morning, as well as dogs barking and whatever it was that seemed to be screaming when the sun comes up.

         The streets, at least the newer ones, were wide and full of lights, and were crowded as the daylight shone down on them, penetrating through the clouds and shining on the buildings — but quietened down as the moonlight began to replace the golden glow with a pale, soft glow. Things seemed to get a little quieter, and the pace would slow down significantly, making it seem as if the great city had had the courage to fall asleep.

         The New York he lived was quiet for a big city; it was.

         It was the first thing that crossed his mind whenever he woke up in the morning or in the middle of the night, and one could hear the crickets sharpening the silence around the streets. If he tried hard enough, he would be able to hear the sleeping city itself, a few cars and motorcycles from time to time, some owls hiding from the remaining lights of the streetlamps.

         It was a feeling he had forgotten he could ever feel — if he ever had, because growing up in central New York takes away most of the sense of silence. It was soothing, most of the time, and it helped whenever he couldn't fall asleep after a busy, hellish or chaotic day.

         Because, even if New York was quiet for a big city, he could count on his fingers the number of slow days he'd managed since work had started again.

         And wasn’t it surprising when one worked at a flower shop?

         Switching on his cell phone, then, Percy kept a quick pace out of his house, the headphones now loud in his ears and his eyes straying to the hour on the screen once more. He sighed, and his fingers tightened the strap of his bag over his shoulder, his feet moving a little faster.

         And, because his New York was quiet for a big city, it was easy to dodge the crowds as he walked through the people occupying the streets. The sidewalks were long and, although crowded, there were far fewer people than Times Square when it was summer or the very end of the year.

         The drier weather, however, was something Percy still longed to get along with ever since he had mover further from the coast — Montauk, where he spent so much of his childhood and had yet to see for a few years, now. While the streets of New York were crowded and always in motion, the coast always had a gentle breeze every now and then, passing over people's heads and through their clothes as they walked in the shadows of the buildings made. The heat seeped in, the sun being reflected by gigantic buildings, which left the air humid, almost sandy.

         The very core of New York, on the other hand, was not hot, but dry — and Percy should have gotten used to it by now, but his muscles always felt uncomfortable, his nose often ran, and his brain would most likely stop working when the clouds declared a truce.

         Juniper would always make fun of him, as would his mother — but sometimes she also faced the same problems with the cold and drier weather. And then Paul would make fun of her, because someone who did grow up in central New York shouldn’t be so unused to its weather, regardless of how many years she’d spent on the coast.

         Those were funny interactions — except for the time Percy nearly had an asthma crisis, and his father nearly snatched him to Greece just for good measure (with his mother’s permission, that was) — that made him laugh every time he remembered them, especially on the way to the flower shop, not far from his apartment but not exactly near it either. Percy held his breath whenever a funny comment came to mind, so as not to look completely crazy while laughing in the middle of the street, especially when he was half-running to where he needed to be.

         In less than fifteen minutes — running and bumping into a few people — Percy was already able to see the mirrored building opposite the flower shop. The building, an architecture office, was a huge construction with large windows and busy people, although he never paid it any attention. The flowers and the people were better to look at than a skyscraper with ties and walking headaches.

         Apart from that, the architects and engineers who worked there rarely stopped their busy day to talk to anyone — and Percy could swear he'd never heard any of their voices in his entire life. Overall, he could understand; the firm was always bustling with clients and he supposed that being stressed was just a direct consequence of it.

         But he doubted it to be completely true even more after meeting Grover, who was more of an angel than a real person.

         The point was that he had met him before, through Juniper’s stories, the sighs of love and the moon eyes at the mere mention of her fiancé. In later conversations, the shop’s team discovered that he was an environmentalist and worked at New York’s newest influential architecture firm — which wasn't exactly a surprise, as Juniper talked about him as if he were Superman.

         And Percy, although he worked at the shop his entire life, never paid enough attention to see either Grover or Juniper entering or leaving the mirrored building. Neither of them did pay attention to the flower shop, either, and it was a funny Tuesday morning when Grover entered the store only to bump into Percy’s presence behind the counter.

         The environmentalist was leaving the mirrored building early and walked to the flower shop as soon as Juniper let him know she was there. It was flattering how he smiled, and even more so how his comment about how much he had heard about Percy gave away how much Juniper cared about him and the whole team — but the florist couldn't help seeing the woman nearly explode in embarrassment when he offered Grover an entire bouquet.

         The man’s ears turned red, and Percy believes that was the moment they decided to be best friends.

         Ever since they met, then, on Tuesdays, Grover would show up with or without Juniper — the days she didn’t work —, just to chat or keep Percy some company when he wasn't buried up to her neck in piles of paper and work and stress. Sometimes he would talk about how crazy things were, or how much his best friend, who worked with him, could annoy the life out of him — and Percy would doubt it, of course, because Grover had the patience of an angel and a mocking tone in his voice while he pretended to hate whoever she was.

         It was one of Percy’s favorite friendships, if he was honest. Of course, it wasn't rare or difficult for Grover to be someone's favorite person — Juniper herself was the most obvious example — but it was a delightful experience to know and feel that he was also one of his dearest friends.

         But about the mirrored building, that was all Harry knew — Grover. And some of the gossip that went around, of course. Like how Hawks cheated on Bernardez with his superior, Minelli, and still refused to admit that he wasn't one hundred percent heterosexual. Or even how Mendes got angry and broke a few things when Levesque was promoted in his place.

Percy didn't know any of them, but it was particularly amusing to hear Grover tell him with such a conspiratorial tone in his voice. It brightened up his days and got him out of his own head sometimes.

Which was always useful, of course.

Taking the last few steps to the store and slowing down, Percy smiled as he approached the horizontal white wooden fence with vertical black metal bars, stepping onto the wooden walkway that crossed the well-tended garden. Percy tightened the grip on the strap of his backpack, looking around and waving to a couple sitting at one of the tables before stepping through the doors into the cooler atmosphere.

The large windows around the wooden walls gave the flower shop a comforting clarity, and the sophisticated building seemed cozy with all the flowers around it. The arrangement of the tables, the frames, the bouquets, the lights and how warm the whole place seemed — even with the air conditioning on — made it Percy’s favorite place in the whole world.

It was a friendly and danger-free environment, as if nothing outside it could reach anyone inside. The flowers seemed to be a reminder of how much beauty the world could hold, and sometimes being there was all he needed for the tightness in his chest to ease.

“Ma?” he called out, walking up to the counter. Harry put his bag on a coat rack while he still didn't go to his own locker, also picking up the apron he had hung up the day before.

As soon as the apron was around his neck and waist, an older woman came out from behind one of the wooden walls in the middle of the flower shop, with a small flower in a small vase in her hands and a fond smile on her face. Percy arched an eyebrow, a small smile on his face too, and waited for her to notice him.

Sally Jackson was a lovely woman, someone who seemed much younger than she actually was. The only wrinkles on her face were scars of smiles through time, and the kindness of her expression would fool anyone to how much pain the world could hold — and that was something Percy grew up admiring and looking up to. His mother would always have a smile to offer and advice to share with her flowers and whoever needed to hear it, and her arms were the most welcoming place for anyone to ever step into.

The flower shop was practically her home, although Percy obviously knew that Sally didn't live there — anyone could be fooled, considering that she never seemed to leave. She always seemed to be at peace as she strolled through the bouquets and flowers, and everything there seemed to revolve around the woman; the place felt like a safe haven, and the feeling of “home” hung in the air for anyone who wanted to breathe it in.

Percy always took a deep breath, then, and exhaled slowly each time his demons and the noise seemed to try to reach him. The mixed scent of all the flowers could be a little nauseating at first, but the contrast with some other citrus plants would make his lungs feel as fresh as if there was the purest oxygen passing through each of his pores. It was safe, welcoming and almost addictive.

And his mother didn’t ask questions when Percy seemed to breathe more deeply than necessary, and simply invited him to take a walk, taking him away from the throng of people coming in and the noise they carried. It had always been that way; she wouldn’t press on the hurtful matters, trusting him to come to her whenever he felt ready to — and how he loved that woman and everything about her nature.

Most of the time, the days at the flower shop passed the same way — a warm mist covering the dim, welcoming sunlit room, and one of them, lost in their own head, wandering around the flowers as if there were no evil within those walls. A smile would remain on both their faces, suddenly, for no reason, with no time to leave, and it would simply be easy to be there.

Sally kept walking to one of the display tables, but she didn't hear Percy’s greeting as she looked at the flower in her hands. The man arched an eyebrow, placing one of his elbows on the counter and pressing his hip against it, crossing his legs in front of each other as he stared at her.

Percy waited, and it took about three minutes for Sally to look around, searching for something. The man shook his head, stepping away from the counter and then stretching out his arm to reach one of the tools underneath it, on one of the shelves. When his hand reached the pliers, Percy walked closer to his mother, not bothering to call out to her, but just to place the tool closer.

“That’s it, that’s it,” she muttered to herself, accepting the pliers and not sparing a glance at her son, who swallowed a laugh and put his hands behind his back, watching curiously as she cut some branches and leaves from the plant's stalk.

“Which ones are those?” Percy asked, observing the yellow-brown flower that looked a lot like a sunflower in a strange way. Sally, who was concentrating on her task, only answered after a few minutes in silence.

“Gaillardias grandifloras,” she replied. “Also known as Spanish lace,” she said again, and Percy smiled a little at the new piece of information he had been offered.

“And what do they mean?” asked the man, and she let out a happy sigh at that question. It was almost a rule by now that any new flower would result in those two questions coming from Percy, and the flower shop owner couldn't say that it bothered her at all. If anything, it flattered her more than life — that her child grew up to remain as curious as he had been as a little kid.

“Modesty, charm, happiness,” his mother replied, and Percy smiled. “Joy of being together, too. It's a subtle option to give to friends or to that person you have a crush on and never dare say a word about,” she added, and a brief laugh escaped Percy’s lips.

“Not a problem I have, luckily,” Percy joked, shrugging softly.

“Yet,” Sally laughed, the sound soft and charming as Percy always remembered it to be. “I'm counting the days until you climb the walls and want to leave early because there's a pair of eyes you can't get out of your head,” she said, and Percy could only roll his eyes affectionately.

“Where did that come from, uh?” the curly-haired man asked, turning his body when the little bell on the door sounded and looking again at the woman next to him when the guest dismissed his help with a smile and a wave of one of his hands.

His mother, eyes so kind and smile so sweet — welcoming and proud and teasing when looking at him, as if, even if Percy was able to do wrong, there was nothing but goodness in his soul —, shrugged.

“I just have a good feeling, dear,” she decided to say “That love is in the air,” she nearly sung.

Percy arched his eyebrows again.

“Oh, really?” he asked. “And what makes you feel that way?” he wiggled his eyebrows, and Sally smiled, lifting the flower in her hands and smiling at it, ignoring Percy’s condescending look.

“The flowers, Percy,” she said, inhaling the sweet scent close to her nose. “All the flowers,” she added, and Percy couldn't help but smile along with her.

“Let's hope they listen, then,” the man said at last, turning once more as the bell rang again and a trio entered the store. The girl saw him, and Percy smiled, waiting for them to approach so that he could greet everyone. “And you should stop behaving this mystical. Soon enough you and Juniper will be hosting a summer camp to clean souls and vibes.”

“The flowers will listen,” she said. “And you act as if you wouldn’t be right in the middle of the summer camp trying to pretend that you’re the Lord of the Waters and can communicate with fish,” she added in a sharp, teasing voice, narrowing her eyes and causing Percy to stick out his tongue. “Insolent.”

Before he could vocalize his apologies, however — because he was a good son, excuse him —, his mother smiled, and the man just rolled his eyes, knowing then that it had been a joke; mostly.

Sally slapped his arm softly, and Percy took a few more steps, catching up with the group that had entered and stopping after a while. He smiled sweetly, but also frowned when he noticed one of the boys and the girl teasing their other friend, pointing at flowers, and then making a low joke that would give anyone the impression that the boy wanted to disappear.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” said Percy cordially, interrupting the group dynamic a little. “Can I help you today?” he offered, and the boy who was being teased swallowed dryly, clearly nervous about the florist’s presence there.

read the rest on Ao3

[tosomeonessomeone]

Echoes of you.

words・ 1.1K/pairings・ Felix x reader / genres・ overwhelmingly sad/ warnings・ just sadness. Based in Eloise song Drunk on a flight.

As the first light of dawn peeked over the horizon, casting a golden hue across the cityscape, Felix stood on the deserted street, his heart heavy with the weight of impending goodbye. The echoes of the song reverberated in his mind, each verse a painful reminder of the inevitable end.

"We broke up when we woke up," he whispered to himself, the words hanging in the crisp morning air like a solemn vow. It had to end, you both knew, the jagged edges of your fractured love too sharp to mend.

Felix traced the familiar contours of the sidewalk, each step a silent farewell to the memories you had woven together. The ache in his chest was palpable, a raw wound exposed to the harsh light of day.

"We couldn't speak from the pain," he admitted, the admission heavy on his tongue. Words had failed you, swallowed by the vast expanse of unspoken truths and unshed tears. And so, you stood on the precipice of goodbye, your hearts heavy with the weight of whati could have been.

With a heavy sigh, Felix hailed a taxi, the screech of tires against pavement a discordant symphony to your fractured love. He climbed into the backseat, the weight of his decision settling like a shroud around his shoulders.

"We had to jump on a plane and pretend," he mused, the bitter taste of regret lingering on his lips. The distance between you stretched further with each passing mile, the chasm widening with every beat of his broken heart.

As the taxi pulled away, Felix watched the city fade into the distance, a blur of lights and memories swallowed by the vastness of the horizon. And in that moment, amidst the chaos of goodbye, he found solace in the quiet promise of a new beginning, a faint glimmer of hope on the horizon of his fractured heart.

On the plane, Felix found himself drowning in the numbing embrace of alcohol, the bitter taste of whiskey a poor substitute for the warmth of your touch. As the liquor flowed, the boundary between reality and oblivion blurred, each sip a desperate attempt to erase the ache in his heart.

"Well, I got so drunk on that flight," he admitted to himself, the confession a whispered lament to the empty seat beside him. The cabin was cloaked in darkness, the soft hum of the engines a haunting melody to his shattered dreams.

The passage of time became irrelevant as Felix lost himself in the haze of intoxication, the boundaries between day and night merging into an indistinguishable blur. Yet, even in the midst of his inebriation, he couldn't escape the echoes of your absence, your ghost haunting every corner of his mind.

"But I didn't want to," he confessed, the words heavy with regret. Without you, he felt incomplete, a shadow of the man he once was. You had been his anchor, his guiding light in the darkness, and now, adrift in a sea of uncertainty, he struggled to find his way back to shore.

"I'm not me without you," he murmured, the truth ringing hollow in the emptiness of the cabin. In your absence, he was a mere echo of himself, a fractured reflection of the love you once shared.

And since you split the sheets, Felix found himself searching for you in the faces of strangers, a desperate longing etched into the lines of his weary soul. In every person he met, he sought traces of your laughter, your warmth, your essence intertwined with his own.

"In every man person I meet, I look for you," he confessed, the admission of a silent prayer to the empty skies above. For in the depths of his heart, he knew that you were irreplaceable, a beacon of hope in a world consumed by darkness.

And so, as the plane journeyed on into the night, Felix found himself adrift in a sea of memories and regrets, haunted by the ghost of a love now lost, yet forever etched into the fabric of his being.

In the quiet solitude of the cabin, Felix's thoughts drifted back to moments of tenderness and strife, each memory a bittersweet testament to the complexity of your love.

"You used to stroke my cheek when I spoke French to you," he reminisced, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Your shared language had been a bridge between worlds, a secret code that bound you together in intimacy.

But amidst the whispers of endearments, there lingered moments of discord, fragments of a past marred by misunderstandings and unspoken grievances.

"Then you'd pick a fight," he confessed, the memory of a sharp pang in his chest. Your love had been a battleground, marked by passionate clashes and tender reconciliations, each argument a testament to the depth of your connection.

"And what it meant to you," he whispered, the words heavy with regret. In the heat of the moment, you had both said things you couldn't take back, wounds that cut deeper than you dared to admit.

"We used to fight for the sport," Felix acknowledged, the admission tinged with resignation. Your conflicts had become a twisted dance, a cycle of push and pull, love and resentment intertwined like thorns in a rose garden.

"And then when we'd get bored, we'd just make up again," he confessed, the confession a whispered admission to the empty air. Your reconciliations had been fueled by a desperate longing for closeness, a fleeting respite from the storm brewing beneath the surface.

"With a hint of resentment," he added, the words hanging between you like a heavy shroud. Beneath the facade of forgiveness, lingered echoes of past hurts, wounds that refused to heal, scars etched into the fabric of your shared history.

As the plane journeyed on into the night, Felix found himself adrift in a sea of memories, navigating the turbulent waters of your love with a heavy heart. For in the quiet depths of his soul, he knew that your story was far from over, a symphony of love and loss, hope and regret, echoing into eternity.

Since you parted ways, Felix found himself adrift in a sea of faces, each stranger a potential reminder of the love he had lost. The lyrics of the song echoed in his mind, a haunting refrain that followed him wherever he went.

"And since we split the sheets," he acknowledged, the words heavy with longing and regret. In every person he encountered, he searched for traces of you—the curve of your smile, the sparkle in your eyes—a futile quest to fill the void you had left behind.

"I look for you," he confessed, the admission a whispered prayer to the empty spaces between them. You had been his compass, his guiding star in a world fraught with uncertainty, and now, adrift in the vast expanse of loneliness, he struggled to find his way home.

The memory a bitter reminder of the depths of his despair. In the haze of alcohol, he had sought solace from the pain, a fleeting escape from the relentless ache in his heart.

"But I didn't want to," he confessed, the truth a bitter pill to swallow. Without you, he was adrift, a ship lost at sea, tossed by the merciless currents of longing and regret.

"I'm not me without you," he whispered, the words a solemn vow to the empty air. In your absence, he was a shadow of his former self, a mere echo of the man he once was.

And so, as the days turned into nights, and the seasons shifted like sands beneath his feet, Felix continued his search—a solitary figure lost in the labyrinth of his own heart, yearning for a love that had slipped through his fingers like grains of sand.

[livingincolorsagain]

a’s sambucky master-list 2023:

ao3:

Rough Surfaces

There was an inherent loneliness to being Captain America.

And it wasn’t like Sam had never been lonely before. He'd been lonely, he’d been alone, and he’d been lonely and alone, but there was something about this, a feeling so old he was surprised he could still feel it; that it still affected him.

That hollow silence that was once filled with the sound of life.

Figaro meowed and Alpine didn’t answer, and for a split second, Sam forgot. He panicked.

Then he remembered, and it weighed him down, an ache so deep it felt engraved into his very being.

And really, it was fine. It wasn’t like he couldn’t do this alone, he could, but.

He didn’t want to.

Mostly, he had started to believe he wouldn’t have to.

The Chance of You

It’s a bright winter morning, with clear skies and a gentle breeze, the sun a welcome kiss of warmth on Bucky’s cold cheeks, when they meet for the first time.

the great war series:

if we survived the great war

The rev of Bucky’s motorcycle cut through the quietness like a clap of thunder in the middle of the night. Sam straightened unconsciously, feeling something bitter and burning rising up his throat.

He strained his ears, waiting with a held breath as Bucky walked in, steps silent, even now, with no other sound to soften them.

All week, Sam didn’t know what he would do when he laid his eyes on Bucky, and now that he was getting closer and closer, Sam felt the last remaining bit of his patience shatter.

somewhere in the haze

It was raining outside still, or maybe again, the lightning momentarily brightening the room, and Sam thought that was what disturbed his sleep, but then the sound of footsteps registered, and his heart skipped, his body jerking in shock. He tried to push off the bed, grab the gun underneath it and investigate, but his body refused to comply, sore and raw as he felt.

The footsteps grew closer, until Sam heard the creak of the bedroom door opening, and the steps stopped and light poured in from the hallway, and it was only then that Sam realized the footsteps were familiar.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” Bucky said, sounding faraway.

secrets i have held in my heart (and check out the wonderful gifset made by @saryasy)

The thing about falling was, it was impossible to forget.

You could never forget the drop, the way your heart moved in your chest, as if trying to reach out and hold onto something, to break the fall; the way it jumped and skipped and stopped and raced. You could never forget the roaring wind, the sound of your shout echoing and fading. You could never forget the crash, softened by white snow that grew crimson around you.

Bucky fell once, and it was burned into his memory like a lightning scar on skin, permanent and tender to the touch.

when you unfold me (and tell me you love me)

In the quiet, subdued safe house, the heater groaning was the only sound inside. It was almost, but not quite, masking the howling of the wind outside.

Sam stared out the window, watching the whirlwind of snow as it painted everything a bleak white.

He was hyper aware of the ice pack on his left shoulder, right where Bucky had left it, trying to stay still so as not to pull on the new stitches that went from below his ribcage down to the middle of his stomach.

let me put my lips to something

Bucky took a firm hold of Sam’s wrists, pinning his arms to his sides and holding him in place.

“No,” he said, trying to bite back his smile and be firm, but it was hard when Sam’s eyes were that bright, his gapped-tooth smile so wide and infectious.

Then, Sam’s smile turned a bit mischievous, and he surged forward, mouth open as it latched onto the closest part of Bucky—which happened to be his neck—and bit down.

A small moan escaped Bucky’s lips before he could stop it.

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(also can be read on ao3: love in a few words)

cats, scarfs, and homemade soup

pumpkin spice latte proposal

things you said after it was over

where it hurts

because the world is ending

rules

sock drawer