#this was sitting in my drafts for mother's day

[skwigelfskwisgaar]

He could see his breath. Sweden, 1984. Cold winter blanketed everything in white. He was wearing a thick wool sweater his mother picked out for him, knitted in a creamy color to bring out his sparkling blue eyes.

Cold. Numbing cold. And blinding white snow. It pained his eyes. Still he marched on. Pride bloomed in his chest, his heart swelling in joy after he studied for music class and successfully remembered everything they had covered.

It was the first thing he felt. Pride and joy.

Each step he took it brought him closer to home. The snow under his feet gave way easily, promising relief from winter's grasp and the blinding snow.

He had been looking forward to school. He had been such a good student. His mother had promised sweet bread and spiced mead for him to try. He would be like the warriors of Valhalla. Drinking mead, eating a feast of his choice. He was so excited to show her his grade in music class. He finally remembered the terminology and the scale! He struggled with it badly before -

He took a small hand out to turn the doorknob.

Skwisgaar's heart thumped in his chest. He knew where this was going and he screamed at himself to stop before the all too familiar sight played again.

He flung opened the door.

"Momma, I'm home!"

Skwisgaar smiles as the smell of lussekatter rolls fills his nose, and his mom's special stew. He was so happy that she found them a home. She was tired of moving just like he was. Unpacking and packing up was always a hassle.

He quickly took his shoes off and walked over to the kitchen to see Serveta in an apron saying "Kiss the Chef", pulling out the rolls from the tiny oven in the kitchen. She placed them down on a cooling rack before going over to kiss Skwisgaar on the forehead.

"Skwisgaar? I'm in the kitchen!"

... what? The kitchen? It felt like the very day he first saw his mother's very active lifestyle, and not... whatever this was.

A deep confusion set in the adult Skwisgaar's mind. Was this not the day he first walked in on his mother? What was going on?

" So tell me? How was school?"

"I did it! Just like we studied yesterday. I remembered all the words and passed the test in music class." He looked at the table set up and smiled big - his mom had prepped her stew, his sweet rolls were cooling down and she had gotten some fruits and jams to eat afterward. And right in the center was the bottle of spiced mead.

"I knew you would get a passing score. Go and wash up, put your books away, and come down to set the table. Afterwards, we can watch some television."

In his mind, Skwisgaar's confusion gave way to hurt. To anger. To questions he knew the answer to.

Serveta took off the oven mittens she had and began to take off her apron, leaving Skwisgaar to walk up to his room as he hastily put his books away. She had a plain blue dress shirt on with buttons down the front, and a pair of white jeans on. She looked like she walked off one of the American fashion magazines she liked to gawk over in the big market.

" You think I'm going to let you drink your first glass out of a cup? You must be mistaken." Serveta pulled out a set of glass ...teacups? Skwisgaar had seen her and his grandmother use them when drinking glögg around this time of year. The glasses were in a bath of water in a pot in the sink, and as she dried them he noticed it was hot water they had soaked in.

Coming back down, his mother dried her hands and stepped aside as he washed his own hands and quickly set the plates and the glasses down. This was after his first growth spurt, the first of many that made him the tallest member of Dethklok. He remembered how awkward he felt and lacking in grace it all was. Watching how to move himself because his body's new height was changing so frequently, he couldn't keep up and adjust.

"If you're drinking glögg, you're going to do it properly."

"Like you?" Serveta stopped, a questioning look on her face. She responds, "Yes? It's meant to be taken like a tea. Hot and steaming." She takes the mead and sets it in the pot, before finally sitting down.

Skwisgaar paused as Serveta finally took the bottle of mead and poured it into the glasses. Rasing the glass up to her face, she took in a deep breath and blew a bit on the top of the liquid. Passing one of them, he took it, a genuine wonder in his face and touch, never blinking. As if the glass would vanish if he blinked.

As they ate, that pit of anger grew. Fury rose in him. What was this weird ... dream? Nightmare? Deep down, he knew what it was. Quit lying to yourself.

It was the childhood desires he ruthlessly buried in the snow. It was the yearnings of a child that he left behind with her that first time he was forgotten, ignored, accused of being selfish for wanting a mom. For wanting his mom to care. The childish want for companionship from his family that he numbed with each high, each couch he slept on, each step he took away from her and the disasters that befell him and his first few bands in Gothenburg.

Back in the murky glow of the kitchen, dream Skwisgaar asked the strange version of Serveta about her day, as she served food and he tore open a roll, still warm to the touch.

"Traditionally, your grandmother made me wish for something for the first glass of the season."

"I wish this was real. That you actually cared."

Skwisgaar had glued his eyes to his mother before she spoke, now boring holes into the glass in his hands.

"Make a wish, Skwisgaar."

The words came out before he realized what he said.

He looked back up and watched as his small hands poured out the glögg, right into the rolls. "Then I wish you stopped hurting me."

"Oh, Skwisgaar," she replied, back in her normal red strapless dress, "wake up and stop wishing for useless things." He looked at her as she rose, he face disappointed and annoyed. That was the woman he knew.

You're not useless. You were distant, but not useless.

She hands him her glass, before dusting her dress and patting his shoulder. "Then drink mine. I don't need it anymore." She walked away, her heels loud as she took each step away from young dream Skwisgaar.

"Don't you have a wish?" He asked.

"It came true years ago. You are not in my way, anymore."

He drank her glass, as the ache in his chest became less and less until he couldn't hear his heels anymore. All he felt was anger.

Fury.

- - - - -

He jolts as he wakes and tosses the covers off. He touches his chest, his arms and then his head. No sweater, long hair. Adult sized.

After making a mental note to never touch whatever Pickles was handing out last night, he got up and texted his mom to make sure she was fine before he washed his face. It was something his grandma did when she dreamt of him or his mom, before passing away. She'd make an effort to go out and find them, always believing dreams were omens. An old habit he kept.

This burning coal of anger simmered deep in his gut, and he figured that with sleep efrectively ended for the day, he might as well grab his guitar and play.

Isn't that what he did anyways? Just put to song what words could never describe?

His phone flashed.

"Hej, momma."

His mom was calling.

Confused, he picked up regardless.

"Skwisgaar?"

"Hello, stranger. You never text. What's happening, Skwisgaar?" Serveta quipped in her usual way.

It brought relief he didn't know he was seeking to hear her usual tone, her self coming through in unfiltered annoyance. Tension rolled off him. There were some background noises of what he assumed was possibly the lumber mill for firewood, or maybe she was in the city. There was chatter and vehicles and the sound of water.

".... I was checking in to see if you were... uh, if you were okay."

"I was headed to the market. Isn't it... four in the morning where you are?" Huh, so it was.

"I'm ... busy. With recording. And planning... tour stops."

"Skwisgaar, I know when you're lying. You and my mother always reached out when you had odd dreams."

He sighed. The rage was simmering low in his gut bow, not boiling and flowing through him like it did earlier. Oddly enough, Serveta was cooling him down a bit. Was this what moms did? If anything, he only saw how they made his bandmates uncomfortable, at best.

"Am I not allowed to call you anymore, mom?"

"I was not expecting it."

There was a pause. He was always such an awkward person when speaking to his mother. Always the awkward teenager that she let go back in 1988.

"Uh, I'll visit soon. We can make plans later this month."

"...thank you. For asking. And I'll have some glögg and lussekatter ready for you."

"... do you think you could make some of that stew?"

"That was your grandma's recipe. I'll have to search for her recipe book, but I can." With the promise of a visit and the excuse of being needed for Dethklok stuff, he hung up the phone and collected his thoughts.

With plans to visit her at some point in the future, Skwisgaar brushed his hair and grabbed his guitar after he dressed himself.

She may not have been the best mother, but she was his.

Pickles was able to get over his mother. He was able to heal, and finally tell her off. He could maybe do the same. Or at least try to mend things. Maybe it would work out better.

Murderface was able to keep his grandmother happy. Even if it meant spending boatloads on scooters and medical expenses, he could see that Stella did care and appreciated Murderface. She and Rose were tied for most visits - considerably impressive, given her limited mobilty.

Toki had been in contact with Anja on several occasions. He didn't pry on that particular aspect of Toki's home life, but she messaged him frequently. He also made sure that she had access to him with her own Dethphone, although she seemed more confused than thankful for it when the exchange happened.

Nathan had his mother visit him frequently back when they kicked out Magnus. She was the woman who made sure her kid and his friends had food to eat besides beer. She made sure they knew a mother's touch, helping them with chores and being at their first few venues to give them a ride back. It was maddening at first, to him anyways - his mother was rarely around and having one this ... present was stifling. It nearly suffocated him. Over the years, though, he really came to appreciate Rose Explosion.

He left his room, ooting to stop by the kitchen to grab coffee. As it brewed, he pondered on the women who shaped this band, who raised his bandmates.

If they all managed to get along with their mothers, couldn't he?

[sourkreem]

he probably smells like really bad

[ceilidho]

Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 1 | masterlist

-

“I’m not looking for a babysitter that can only come by every now and then,” he says sternly and pauses for emphasis, brows furrowing to convey the seriousness of the situation. “I’ve got a busy schedule and his mom isn’t in the picture. I need a real commitment.”

You sit across from him wringing your hands under the kitchen table, wondering again what it is you’re doing here. Babysitting has never been your schtick; you’re somewhere in between too old to do it as a casual gig for extra cash and too young and inexperienced to be considered for a full-time position. 

Yet, it seems like that’s what he’s looking for, based on the information he’s told you and your general impression from having been in his house for less than twenty minutes. The house is a mess—toys strewn across the baby’s bedroom and the living room, dishes crusted with day old food sitting in the sink, the bookshelf in his study covered in a fine layer of dust that tells you that this man spends so little time in his own house that it’s become something of a requiem to single fatherhood. 

“So, a nanny?” you ask.

He hems and haws over that for a bit. “Bit too fancy for my tastes, but that’s more like it. It won’t just be watching the baby—I need someone who can help out around the house as well. ‘Used to run a tight ship before him, but cleaning’s not been my highest priority these days. Sure you’ve picked up on that.” He says the last part wryly, lips curling up into a crooked grin under his mustache. 

“Well…” You trail off while glancing at the mess in the living room out of the corner of your eye, toys and blocks scattered over the playmat. Your own smile is sheepish. 

“I work odd hours, so I’ll be gone a lot; you’ll probably have a few late nights here, but I pay well. Think that’s something you can handle?”

A polite refusal sits on the tip of your tongue until you swallow it back, suddenly conscious again of the dwindling funds in your bank account. It’s not that you don’t think you could handle the job. You’ve babysat before (only preteens, you correct yourself internally, but surely there are some transferable skills there). And, eclipsing all of your arguments in favour of walking out the door right now, is the very salient and pressing need for an actual income. 

“You’re military, you said?” you croak out instead.

He nods, hums. “Bit of a glorified desk job these days. They don’t put the old timers out in the field. Still, keeps me busy.”

You frown at that. “You’re not that old.”

That gets him to cock an eyebrow. “Love, I’m over twice your age, easy. I’m plenty old for a first time father on top of that; should’ve already been an old hand at this, but I’ve been married to the job for too long.”

You don’t ask if the baby was an accident or how it came to be that he chose to raise the baby on his own rather than try to work something out with the mother or give him up altogether. It seems uncouth. Rude. It’s none of your business and, more to the point, hardly relevant to the job. It’s just your own insatiable need to pry and know every little detail raising its head to sniff the air. 

“Well, I think—” You chew on your words and then backtrack. “—I can handle the job. I live nearby, so I can be here whenever you need me. If you need references, I can—”

“No need,” he cuts you off, waving a hand in front of him. “I’m a good judge of character. If you wanna help put the baby to bed, we can talk salary and I’ll go over my schedule this week with you.”

The chair scrapes against the tile floor when he stands up, pushing it out from under him. Standing, he towers over you, a big, fit man despite his protests to the contrary. Hardly out of his prime. You’d put him at forty-five at the latest, and still a work horse of a man at that; broad like a draft horse, like he flips tires and runs marathons for fun. When you push out your chair and stand as well, you’re still forced to look up at him. 

“Sure can, Mister…—?” You realize with a slight start that you only remember his first name, though it hardly feels appropriate to call him by that given the fact that he’s about to become your boss. Already is your boss. 

“Price. But John works just fine,” he corrects, his smile warm, almost paternalistic. 

You ignore the flash of heat up your spine and the way your belly constricts when he reaches across the table to shake your hand. His big, calloused palm dwarfs yours, fingers easily overlapping. You might as well be shaking a mitt. 

“Well, thanks for the job, John,” you say with a smile of your own, ignoring the way yours strains at the end, anxiety already gnawing a hole through the lining of your stomach that your stomach acid will now most certainly leak through. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t, sweetheart.”

His words seem like a bellwether for something that you can’t yet articulate or even anticipate. Regardless, they make you swallow reflexively when you start salivating out of nowhere. You should probably quit on the spot actually, just out of principle alone, but again you remember the gut-churning sensation of checking your bank balance in the middle of the grocery store the other day before putting half of the contents of your cart back onto the shelf beside you. 

You follow him into the playroom instead, where a fuzzy headed infant gasps up at his daddy, blinking big lovestruck eyes up at him. Your own heart feels like a melted caramel in your chest when John picks his son up, eyes crinkling with affection. The baby is so tiny in his arms.

Any thought of being a good person evaporates from your mind. As if you ever had a chance. 

You don’t know how he found you. Through a friend of a friend of a friend’s dad’s coworker, maybe. Word of mouth. Watercooler conversation and a heaping cup of gossip.

“Did you hear the Captain’s looking for a babysitter?”

“For what? To bang?”

“No, dipshit. He knocked some broad up and she left him with the baby.”

“No kidding. The Captain?”

“Didn’t I just fuckin’ say that?”

“Price, you mean? Captain Price?”

“Are you fuckin’ deaf? Yeah—Price.”

“Christ. Godspeed to him. A baby. Goddamn.”

“Give it a rest, it happens all the time. That’s why you always wrap it up. Anyway, you know of anyone that’d be up for it?”

And then somehow, your name gets mentioned. Much to your relief. Job opportunities don’t knock on your door all that often, and when John finally gets around to telling you your hourly rate, you almost burst into hysterical giggles in front of him. It’s more than you expected. More than you deserve, if you’re being honest. You’re retroactively grateful that he didn’t ask you to name your rate because you wouldn’t have dared propose something anywhere close to what he offers.

It’s a straightforward gig. John doesn’t work the typical nine-to-five, so you show up at the times he made you write down on that first day in his living room after your interview and you leave whenever he comes home. The first week is fairly true to the schedule he laid out for you. He’s only late by around half an hour one evening, but that was another condition that he made you well aware of prior to giving you the job. 

You know better than to put up a fuss. You’re already learning on the job as it is; with your anxiety at a ten at all times, you appreciate the extra half hour to keep googling baby-specific information. What to do during tummy time. The benefits of baby massage. How to change a diaper. You’re learning all sorts of things these days.

To your credit, he could’ve done worse. The day after John hires you, you sign up for an intensive babysitting course over the weekend and read the online manual front to back. Your CPR certificate is still valid, but you book a refresher course as well just to be on the safe side. It’s a bit unbearable to watch the funds drain out of your account before you’ve even had a chance to earn your first paycheck, but it’s worth it for the burgeoning confidence that you bring on your first day.

Babies are fun to be around, you realize, much to your own delight. Babysitting—or rather, nannying, but John still introduces you to the neighbours as his babysitter, plus nannying requires a host of additional accreditations that you simply just do not have—might not have been a job that you ever expected yourself to like, but you find yourself kind of morose at the end of each day when you have to say goodbye to baby, and even going so far as to turn in early when you get home so you’ll be ready bright and early the next morning.

Babies also smell better than anything you’ve ever smelt in your life. You could huff the top of this little guy’s head morning, noon, and night. Milky and clean; it barely takes a few days to become addicted to the smell of his little head. When he’s cradled in your arms, you can’t help but press your nose to the top of his head and take a deep inhale, eyes fluttering shut. It’s some good shit. 

You keep a journal filled with notes to relay to John when he comes home at the end of the night and keep your phone close to you during babytime to film any important moments that John might’ve otherwise missed. 

“He started babbling today,” you tell John the second he walks through the door, the video already pulled up on your phone. You haven’t felt this excited in ages. “Look.” 

He’s still in his fatigues and everything, but he humours you and takes the baby when you pass him over, cooing and tickling his belly until the baby squeals and babbles again for him. 

“See?” you gush, mooning over him. You don’t have the presence of mind to be self-conscious in the moment. 

“Yeah,” John remarks, lifting his son up to blow a raspberry into his belly and grinning at his ensuing peals of laughter. “Ain’t that something.”

If the smile in his voice has anything to do with you, you don’t pick up on it.

On top of everything, John turns out to be a really good boss. Despite his gruff, intimidating exterior, he’s remarkably kind and patient with you. He doesn’t nag you for missing a spot when cleaning the bathroom. He doesn’t scold you the day your car breaks down and you’re forced to take the nearest bus to his place, tacking on an extra twenty minutes to your commute, even though that means that he’s invariably late for work. When you accidentally use scouring powder on the inside of his Le Creuset Dutch oven and scratch off the enamel, he gently talks you out of a sobbing fit, seemingly unbothered by the state of his scratched up crockery.

He shrugs when you bring it up. “It’s got a lifetime warranty anyway. I’ll bring it into the shop over the weekend. No use getting upset about it.”

Unflappable. That’s the word for it. It’s like as long as he’s able to come home to the baby and you in one piece, nothing else matters, and that sense of calm permeates the whole house; for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you have to walk on eggshells around someone. 

Your only qualm—and it’s hardly even a qualm, to be honest, more of just an observation—is that John is more of a physical person than you are. 

When he wants to move you, he does—two big hands clamped around your waist and only a fraction of his strength to move you away from the stove so he can take over cooking while you check on the baby, your mouth hanging open, aghast. Fuming at his nerve. The gall of him to manhandle you. 

You don’t hold it against him though. You haven’t spent much time around groups of men, but you’ve seen military movies before and it seems like the status quo for men to grab and push each other around. If anything, he’s gentle with you. 

It’s just that—and again, John’s the first adult man you’ve spent any one-on-one time with, what with it just being the two of you and the baby in his house, so your frame of reference is microscopic—you’re not completely sure whether it’s appropriate for your boss to be so touchy. 

You don’t mean to insinuate that he’s being inappropriate. It’s just that—and again you have to catch yourself before you go making assertions about people because John is honestly such a nice man and he’s done nothing but treat you fairly and made you feel safe and welcome, but…—sometimes he insists on you staying over for dinner after he comes home from work and doesn’t take no for an answer.

You’re never in any rush to leave. There’s not exactly anything waiting for you in your dingy little apartment. So when he asks you to stay, you have no good reason to refuse. It’s nice to get a free meal as well. With the way John gives you unfettered access to the fridge and pantry, you hardly need to buy groceries at all these days. You feel a little guilty about that, but you know what it’s like to go hungry.

Maybe that’s why you stay for supper the first time he asks a couple weeks into you working for him. You’re subconsciously mortified that you’ll eat his food when he’s not gone but not when he offers it to you.

At least dinner feels like something you’ve been given rather than just taking, taking, taking. 

Not to mention you’ve developed something of a rapport. There’s always something to talk about with John: the baby, his work, a show you watched on TV after putting the baby down for a nap, the new big Tesco four blocks from your place, his late teens before joining the military (“back when you weren’t even a thought in your mum’s head,” he jokes, cutting into his steak and something in your brain pops and fritzes out like the static between radio stations). 

The first few suppers are sporadic and never long enough to make you feel like you’ve overstayed your welcome. In all honesty, they’re the few bright spots in an otherwise dull life. Outside of your job and the infrequent dinners, you’re estranged from your family and you’ve only got a few close friends in town that you see maybe once or twice a month. Nothing to write home about. Some Friday nights, the yoga studio near your flat has a five pound community class that you pop in for, but those are infrequent too. 

Then there’s the odd night where he shoos you into the living room to put on a movie while he cleans up after dinner. You stare absentmindedly at his forearms when he rolls up his sleeves and then jump when you find him staring at you expectantly over his shoulder.

“Go put something on,” John tells you, a warning look in his eye. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Sorry,” you whisper before slipping off into the living room.

You can’t relax on the couch while you wait. You flinch when he finally joins you, sitting down on the other side of the couch suddenly. You hadn’t even heard him coming; he’s light on his feet for such a big man. 

The buddy cop comedy you picked barely distracts you from the fact that your boss is sitting on the other side of the couch. You spend the whole two hour run time so nervous that you’re afraid you’ll buzz right out of your skin. 

For absolutely no reason, of course, because all John does is make light conversation with you throughout the movie. Conversation that you respond to in curt, choked whispers. When he walks you to the door after the movie, all you can focus on is how utterly embarrassed you are for being so weird.

Your dreams that night come frantic and heady. Humid under the blanket. The phantom feeling of a body heavier than yours weighing down one side of the couch and you sliding towards it gradually, unable to even cling onto the arm of the couch to keep from falling into his lap. 

Then hands on your belly, cupping and holding. Thick fingers with hairy knuckles. A warm, tobacco smell wafting under your nose, sweet like tonka bean and smoke. Nothing you can do to keep them from travelling down your stomach and thighs and spreading your legs wide, big hands curving around your inner thighs until—

You wake up panting, fingers pressed against your clit in your sleep. It takes nothing to bring yourself over the edge, dark blue eyes swimming on the precipice of your conscious mind. 

“Sleep well?” John asks you the next morning when you show up on his doorstep, handing you the baby before you’ve even said so much as a word. You hold the baby to your chest like a makeshift shield. Anything to put some distance between you and the man who has now taken to starring in your dreams. 

“Not bad,” you squeak. 

You flinch when he guides you in with a hand on your back and shuts the door behind you. Your cunt pulses when his fingers press firm against the small of your back, hand bigger than you remembered from your dream.

As if you were ever going to end up anywhere but here.

[deanwinchesterwebsite]

"This is uh. When I was growing up me and my dad used to go at it all the time. Over almost anything, but uh, I used to have really long hair way down past my shoulders, I was 17 or 18, oh man he used to hate it. And we got to where we were fighting so much that I'd spend a lot of time out of the house. And in the summertime it wasn't so bad, 'cause it was warm and your friends were out. But in the winter I remember standin' downtown and it would get so cold, when the wind would blow. I had this phone booth that I used to stand in and I used to call my girl for hours at a time just talking to her all night long.

"And finally I'd get my nerve up to go home. I'd stand there in the driveway and he'd be waiting for me in the kitchen. And I'd tuck my hair down in my collar and I'd walk in, and he'd call me back to sit down with him. And the first thing he'd always ask me was what did I think I was doin' with myself? And the worst part about it was I could never explain it to him.

"I remember I got in a motorcycle accident once and I was laid up in bed and he had a barber come in and cut my hair. And man, I can remember telling him that I hated him and that I would never ever forget it.

"And he used to tell me 'Man, I can't wait until the army gets you. When the army gets you they're gonna make a man outta you. They're gonna cut all that hair off, and they'll make a man outta you.'

"This was I guess in '68 and there was a lot of guys from the neighborhood goin' to Vietnam. I remember the drummer in my first band comin' over to my house with his marine uniform on, saying that he was goin' and that he didn't know where it was. And a lot of guys went and a lot of guys didn't come back. And a lot that came back weren't the same anymore.

"And I remember the day I got my draft notice. I hid it from my folks, and three days before my physical me and my friends went out and we stayed up all night. And we got on the bus to go that morning, man we were all so scared. [Laughs]. and I went, and I failed. [Crowd cheering.]

"And I came home, — [laughs] it's nothing to applaud about — But I remember comin' home after I'd been gone for three days, and walkin' in the kitchen and my mother and father were sittin' there, and my father said, 'Where you been?' and I said, uh, 'I went to take my physical.'

"He says, 'What happened?' I said, 'They didn't take me.'

"And he said, 'That's good.'"

-Bruce Springsteen, on Live/1975-85

[chloe-petrichors]

seething, blooming // jace x reader

your father has always been something of an opportunist, but trying to marry you off to the blacks while he courts the greens? this is taking playing the game to a whole new level.

the rose discovers she is an instrument of war. —victor hugo.

fandom; house of the dragon pairing; jacaerys velaryon x f!tyrell!reader (no use of y/n) warnings; canon au (set after aegon takes the crown but before luke's death bc luke will never die in my eyes), altered timeline (jace and reader are in their 20s), arranged marriage, mention parental death/death in childbed (reader's mother), love at first sight vibes, jace is a flirtatious little shit with his betrothed, tooth rotting fluff, love confessions. word count; 6k+ notes; one day i might write for another man. but that day is not today. jace velaryon u have my heart. i'm not majorly pleased w this fic but it's given me enough trouble and it's as good as it's gonna get! this was longer originally, and was meant to be a bit more political at first hence the blurb/quote choice, but i haaated some of the scenes so ended up scrapping 'em. she's not as long as predicted as a result but still an ok length i think. some of the scenes i scrapped were tragically the smut ones, so have this fairly pg one-shot with the promise of the smut-shot sitting in my drafts coming ur way soon. fair warning that the scrapping of scenes has fudged with the pacing a bit but honestly i can't take this fic sitting in my drafts any longer so here u go!! i have a taglist now, mostly cos eldrith keeps telling me i have to tag her in everything, so lmk if you'd like to be added to it! requests; are open !

the rising sun paints highgarden in shades of pink and gold.

you stand upon your balcony, finger curled loosely over the pale marble as you stare distantly out over the rolling green fields and blooming gardens. the faint bubbling of the river mander in the distance adds to the peaceful morning, the early wash of sunlight coaxing the sleeping world into life. a cool breeze carries the sweet smell of roses and you take a steadying breath, eyes fluttering shut as you tilt your face up to the sun.

it's a morning that starts like many others. you’ve always risen from bed early, the slow blooming of morning stirring you from slumber more often than not. birds chirp and bees buzz and the river flows and you rise with it, like part of you calls to the breaking dawn.

if not for the thick sheaf of parchment discarded on your father’s desk, it could be a morning like any other. but the parchment is there, and this day will be like no other before it.

today, a dragon is expected at highgarden.

a targaryen has not stepped foot in the reach since before you were born. you don’t think even the princess rhaenyra – queen, now, according to some – had come this far on her marriage tour years ago. but your father has taken it upon himself to invite a prince to your home.

you love your father deeply, but in this you think he must be a fool. as lord paramount of the reach he is, in theory, the power of this kingdom. but anyone with a lick of sense knows that it’s the hightowers that the people look to; oldtown is home to the starry sept, the citadel and, perhaps more importantly, the dowager queen’s family line.

the tyrells have only been in power for a few generations, and people’s memories are long. too many know the truth of how house tyrell had been only a steward when the gardener kings had ruled before the conquest. and so too many see tyrell as a house grasping for power that should be beyond their fingers, and your father is apparently determined to prove them all right.

he’s been careful about his neutrality as war threatens to break out between the targaryen kin, brother and sister both claiming their right to the throne and the realm splitting down the middle. your father has not officially allied with either side, walking a careful tightrope to appease both. up until now you had assumed he sided more with the greens, but he’d sent your assumptions crumbling with only a few sheets of parchment.

your father has always been too ambitious for his own good.

gods, how you miss your mother. when she’d been alive, she’d tempered the worst of your father’s foolishness. she’d been a stark before she’d married, steadfast and sensible in the face of your father’s folly. she’d been a woman unlike any other you’ve known; ferocious and a little wild, but with a good heart and a warm smile for any she’d met.

she’d taught you how to be a lady, but so much more than that – she’d taught you to know your own mind. to know when to mind your tongue and when to speak, how to grow your roots so deep you will always stand tall, flourishing and growing like the most determined of flowers. she’d taught you a little of that northern ice, too, reminding you oft that for as much as you were a rose of highgarden you were equally a wolf of the north, and the wolf’s blood has always run thick in your veins. 

she’d called you her little winter rose; delicate and steely and a rare bloom, indeed. she had loved you so fiercely you’d flourished with her tender care, just as the patch of winter roses she’d brought from the glass gardens of winterfell had bloomed ‘neath her careful ministrations. a piece of the north she’d brought south with her, a tiny bit of her home that she’d cradled and cared for until the day you’d lost her to the birthing bed.

your little brother is nearing six, now, and many moons have passed since the sudden grief of your mother had overwhelmed you. but, in recent days you have ached with her loss more often, wondering what she would think of your father’s plans, what she would say to soothe your storm of anxiety. with your looming marriage you find yourself missing your mother acutely, the grief a reopened wound in your chest.

because you are a betrothed woman, now, to be married to a stranger, a prince who is sure to be fighting a war against his kin in the moons to come.

the velaryon prince arrives on dragon back as the sun reaches its peak in the sky.

he dismounts his winged steed in an empty stretch of land a distance from the keep itself, and your father greets him there with a host of staff to accompany him back to the entrance courtyard.

your brother leo bounces in place beside you where you stand with the rest of the household in the courtyard, fairly vibrating with energy at the prospect of seeing a real-life dragon. since the news of the prince’s arrival was announced a sennight ago, leo has done little else but babble about dragons and magic and targaryens. you wish you could share his excitement, his sheer uncomplicated joy, but this visit comes with too many conflicting emotions for you to enjoy it at all.

you’ve always known you would not marry for love. you are the eldest child and only daughter of the lord of the reach – love has never been a factor you could afford to consider. you would do your duty and marry for your house, to seal whatever alliance your father deemed important enough. you’d resigned yourself to this fate as a young girl when your mother had told you in slow, halting words the fear she had felt coming south to marry your father.

but you’d not expected to marry a total stranger. you’d thought your father would at least do you the courtesy of allowing you to meet a suitor before betrothing you to them, but in his feverish ambition to sit his blood on the iron throne he’d promised you to a man you’ve never laid eyes upon.

you don’t want to be queen.

frankly, you think yourself a touch unsuited for it. your father has many times bemoaned your wildness, the wolfs blood that drives you to stubborn recklessness. though you’ve mellowed a little with age and experience, you think you’re still a bit too prone to chaos to be queen of the seven kingdoms one day. never mind the complexities added by the fact that queen rhaenyra’s claim is so fiercely contested, and her half-brother is the one currently physically sitting the iron throne.

thinking about the mess you’re marrying into too much makes your head ache, and the blazing noon sun does little to ease it. leo beside you continues to whisper rapidly about everything he knows about dragons, which is actually quite a lot considering his young age. you think absently you might need to have a word with the maester’s again; leo has wrapped most of the household around his finger, and the elderly maester is prone to indulging your brother when he fixates on a new topic of interest instead of sticking to his lessons.

the sound of hooves on cobble stones startles you from your meandering thoughts, and you straighten your spine as your eyes take in the unfamiliar man riding into the courtyard beside your father while your brother finally falls silent.

he’s handsome, at least; a tumble of dark curls brushing his shoulders, a sharp jaw and a strong nose. though you like to think yourself more than superficial, it eases at least some of your worries to know the prince is attractive to you. your mother had done you the courtesy of explaining what was expected of you on your wedding night after your first moons blood, and in secret since you’d perused the library for books detailing more lustful acts in an effort to satiate your unending curiosity.

you’re worried enough about completing your wifely duties without having to worry about finding the man lying with you repulsive, and so you allow yourself a few moments of relief at his pretty face.

your father dismounts first, gesturing for you to step forward as the prince gets down from his own horse. leo moves forward with you, eyes wide and shining with something akin to hero worship as he gazes at jacaerys. you have a wry thought that perhaps he should marry him since he is so clearly already enamoured, but you brush that aside as your father and the prince approach.

“i am most pleased to introduce my daughter, your grace, as well as my son and heir, leo,” your father says as they reach you, his satisfaction in his successful planning clear as he smiles smugly.

you dip into a perfect curtsey as leo bows a touch clumsily at your side. as heir it would traditionally be leo’s job to greet the prince, but when you send him a sidelong glance you see he is too busy making moon eyes at the darkhaired man to say anything, and so you take it upon yourself to speak.

“welcome to highgarden, my prince. we are honoured to host you,” you greet, finally meeting jacaerys’s eyes. they’re a warm amber shade, the noon sun turning them to liquid honey as he looks at you, and you feel your cheeks flush with the appreciation you can see in his gaze as he drinks you in. it seems he does not find you repulsive either, at least.

he sketches a quick bow, eyes never leaving yours, and you feel your heart start to race in your chest at his attention. “it is an honour to be here, my lady, and to finally make your acquaintance.” he smiles at you then, small and a little crooked but there, and your flush deepens. “i look forward to getting to know you better in the coming days.”

you swallow, hoping your budding attraction is not as obvious as you fear it is. your father is looking increasingly smug as he watches the interaction, though it seems to war with some paternal annoyance as jacaerys lightly flirts with you.

“and i you,” you return softly, a smile quirking on your lips.

“—can i meet your dragon?” leo bursts out, seemingly unable to contain himself any longer, and jacaerys blinks down at him in surprise as you resist the urge to press your palm to your face.

“leo,” you scold immediately as your father chortles at his heir’s enthusiasm for dragons. “the prince has had a long journey. you should give him a chance to settle in before demanding anything of him.”

“right you are, my dear.” your father waves to the household steward before turning to the prince. “alyn will show you to your rooms, your grace, so that you might freshen up, and then we have a feast prepared for this evening to welcome you to highgarden.”

jacaerys nods easily as the greeting crowd begins to disperse, the maester corralling leo to take him for his lessons with fond exasperation even as the boy loudly protests. you mean to go walk the gardens, and so you stay standing in place as the prince trails after your father and steward alyn.

he pauses beside you, though, a slight smile on his face as you look up at him questioningly. your eyes catch on the smattering of freckles on his face, and it takes a moment for you to process his words. “i look forward to speaking to you further at the feast, my lady.”

you smile back at him, cheeks flushing once again as his eyes linger on your mouth for a breathless moment. “i shall save you a dance, my prince,” you return a touch coyly, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“only one dance?” he teases, eyebrow arching.

you hum, head tilting to the side in mock consideration as something like satisfaction gleams in jacaerys’s eyes. “i shall have to use the first dance to judge your dancing skills, your grace, before i risk promising you another.”

he laughs then, a little surprised but no doubt pleased as his eyes crinkle with his wide smile. “then i shall do my best to meet your standards, my lady.” he dips into a quick bow of farewell, then, as you finally take note of your father lingering on the steps to the keep with raised eyebrows.

“we shall see,” you return as you curtsey.

you allow yourself a moment to watch his retreating back, eyes dragging over the strong line of his shoulders before you internally shake yourself and head to the gardens, thoughts swimming with honey brown eyes and tanned, freckled skin and a slow dawning certainty that while this betrothal may be unexpected, you doubt it will leave you unsatisfied.

the feast is in full swing by the time the prince arrives at the hall.

the minstrels are playing a jaunty tune as couples twirl on the dance floor. you sit at the head table with leo and your father, watching with a careful eye as your brother cuts up his food. he’s only just mastered the art of eating his food without spilling half if it down his doublet, but as distracted as he is by the festivities and the prospect of seeing a dragon close up, you worry he’s at risk of making a mess of himself regardless.

so absorbed in your task you are, it takes a long moment for you to realise jacaerys has arrived. it’s only when your skin prickles with awareness that you look up from leo and catch sight of the prince winding his way across the floor to the head table, eyes fixed on you. your head tilts to the side slightly as you watch him move, graceful and controlled, through the crowd.

he’s in black and red again, just as he had been when he’d arrived. it seems your father had been right when he’d stated that jacaerys favours his mother’s house colours. you smooth your hand over the skirts of your dress, the deep wine-red of the material feeling less out of place now, before standing with your father to greet the prince.

you all exchange pleasantries quickly as the noise in the hall dims, people realising the prince has arrived. your father ushers jacaerys into the empty seat between you and your father as he raises his goblet to the hall before speaking in his booming voice.

you don’t pay attention to your father’s speech, too aware of the warmth radiating from jacaerys who stands only inches from you to focus. you risk a glance at him from the corner of your eyes only to find his dark honey eyes fixed on you, and you cannot help but smile to yourself even as you flush, turning your eyes back to the crowd.

rousing applause and cheers draw you back to the moment, and you catch yourself in time to raise your wine in toast with your father. you go to sit back down as the crowd returns to its revelries, but the soft brush of a hand on your arm halts your movement. you turn expectingly to the prince, a soft smile on your lips.

“yes, your grace?”

“would you do me the honour of a dance, my lady?”

your lips quirk into a sly smile even as you bob your head in a nod. “i suppose i did promise you one, did i not?”

“that you did, my lady, and i have thought of nothing else since.” dark honey eyes sparkle with mirth as he offers you his hand, and with a quiet giggle you take it and allow him to lead you to the dance floor.

you feel the heat of his hand on your waist like a brand even through the layers of your dress, and it makes your breath catch in your throat. you inhale deeply in an effort to steady yourself as you rest your palm on his strong shoulder, and are immediately overwhelmed by the woodsy scent of him as he claps your hand in his and begins to dance.

you start the dance in comfortable silence, both of you taking a few moments to get a feel for the other and settle into the steps, and when you feel comfortable enough you speak.

“how are you finding highgarden, prince jacaerys?”

“jace, please,” he entreats, and elaborates only when you blink at him in confusion. “my friends and family call me jace, not jacaerys. we are to be married, my lady. it would please me a great deal for my future wife to refer to me as such.”

you nod in acceptance, butterflies erupting in your stomach at his eager expression. “jace it is, then,” you say, and try not to feel the way your heart flutters at his radiant smile in response. “although you have not answered my question. how are you finding highgarden?”

he hums, twirling you as the dance requires and then pulling you closer before responding. “your father has been very hospitable, and it is certainly beautiful here. the grounds especially, though i’m afraid i’ve not had the opportunity to see much of them as yet.”

“a shame we shall have to rectify, i think.” you offer him a small smile as you press just an inch closer, finding yourself wanting to be nearer him. “perhaps i could show you the gardens on the morrow?”

“yes,” he agrees a touch too quickly, and you giggle as his cheeks turn pink. “that is to say— i should like that very much, my lady. very much indeed.”

you lapse into silence once more as the dance reaches its crescendo, and you find yourself reluctant to leave the comfort of his hands as the music pauses while the minstrels ready their next song.

jace seems to share the sentiment, it seems, as his eyes linger on your entwined hands for a long moment before returning to your face. “have i met your standards enough for another dance, then?”

you take a moment to pretend to consider it, eyes narrowing slightly as you hum. he shuffles on his feet as he waits for your response, and you find the nervous motion far too endearing.

“i suppose so,” you concede after a moment, grinning at his smugly pleased smile as he tugs you closer.

“and what about the dance after that?” he asks lightly, something cheeky in his eyes as the music starts up again and he sweeps you along the floor.

“you should not press your luck, jace,” you say imperiously, although the effect is rather ruined by the silly smile on your face as he laughs with you.

jacaerys smirks. “my lady, since meeting you, i have felt nothing but a lucky man.”

you smother a snort, shaking your head at his unrepentant expression. “you are incorrigible.” it comes out a touch exasperated and yet far too fond.

“yes,” the prince agrees readily, a sly twinkle in his eyes. “but i think you rather enjoy it.”

your startled laugh is loud, though thankfully not so loud as to be heard over the minstrels. “perhaps.”

after that, the night is lost to flirtatious banter and dance after dance in your betrothed’s arms as a seed of affection is planted deep in your heart. and when you wake in the morning after dreaming of nothing but jace’s lips and eyes and words, you can think only one thought;

gods, i am in so much trouble.

time passes in a slow trickle of syrupy summer heat.

as the days go by, you find yourself spending more and more time in jace’s company. you’re always chaperoned, of course, a household guard following at a respectful distance wherever the two of you choose to roam. you find the whole thing a touch ridiculous; jace is to be your husband. it’s hardly like spending time together alone would be a significant scandal in light of your impending marriage, but your father insists there will be no doubts about your honour before the marriage actually takes place and so ser dickon is assigned as your reluctant shadow.

the date of the wedding itself remains unset as you and jace start to know one another. your father wishes for the marriage to wait until the war is done – a last-ditch chance to keep his options open, perhaps. Or, if you are feeling generous, a way to try and keep you safe from the greens when war inevitably rages. jace’s mother wishes the marriage to happen as soon as can be arranged – a way to try and ensure further heirs with the uncertainty of war looming, you assume.

you find yourself hoping the queen’s will wins the day as time creeps on. jace becomes ever dearer to you the more you learn about him, and soon you think of your impending marriage with nothing but hope and warm desire.

because oh, how you want him. from the first moment you’d laid eyes upon him you’d been attracted to him, but the more you get to know him, the more your heart opens to him – the more you ache for him. for his mouth on yours, his fingertips on your skin, his voice in your ear. if you were a less reckless woman, a little less shameless, you’d be embarrassed of how easily you think of him in your moments apart.

but late at night when the candles burn low and you are alone in your bed, there is no shame to be found, only the wildness of your wolfs blood and liquid heat as your hand drifts between your legs and you find completion with your betrothed’s name on your lips.

beyond the desire, though, is a slow blooming affection. it feels like every time you learn something new about him or share a new experience together, another petal of tenderness unfurls in your chest. when your father had first told you about your betrothal, you’d not dared to hope for more than civility with your husband-to-be, but now you find yourself harbouring deep fondness on top of steadily burning desire, and you look to your future as his wife with little else but excitement.

you’re not sure if jace feels the same. you don’t doubt he desires you; his flirtation and the weight of his gaze on your form is too frequent a thing for you to think otherwise. but desire is not the same as affection, and though you hope desperately that the way he always seeks your presence whenever he steps into a room means what you want it to mean, you can’t be sure.

after a week passes, you both start to chafe at the relentless presence of ser dickon. it feels like every time you so much as think about inching closer to jacaerys, ser dickon is there with his stern glare of disapproval. and so, when one morning jace suggests taking you to meet his dragon, alone, you are quick to agree.

you leave your guard long behind at jace’s instruction; he doesn’t want vermax crowded with strangers, he explains, but you personally think he seems a little too gleeful at the idea of being alone with you for that to be sole reason behind his insistence ser dickon stays far away. you don’t say anything since you’re equally pleased to finally be spending some time with your betrothed without feeling others curious eyes on you.

your excitement starts to waver, however, as you and jace get closer to his dragon. you’ve only seen vermax from a distance before this, and though it perhaps shouldn’t the size of him startles you. he’s just so large and fierce looking, the sharp spines on his back catching your eye. the beast yawns as you slow to a stop, jace sending you a quick smile before he continues on to greet his dragon with fondness, and the glimpse into vermax’s open maw – gods, there as so many teeth – has your palms starting to sweat.

jace stands beside his dragon, murmuring soothing words in high valyrian that you don’t understand as his hand smooths along his snout. your heart races in your chest, nerves making your hands shake when faced with this great beast. you curse your reckless curiosity, your northern stubbornness that makes it impossible for you to refuse a challenge. you have no idea how jace can look so at ease, the line of his shoulders relaxed and the slightest smile on his face as he talks to his winged steed, but there he stands.

“you can come closer now.” he turns to you, brown eyes shining with excitement and, yes, a hint of challenge.

he expects you to back out, you think, and that realisation has you straightening your spine and pressing your lips together. you twist your fingers in your skirts to hide the way they tremble as you step cautiously forward, eyes darting from jace to vermax and back. when you’re within touching distance of the velaryon prince, he reaches for your hand. the shock of his bare skin against yours arrests you for a moment, the slide of calloused fingers around your wrist startling in how easily it sparks desire in you.

you’re so distracted by the feel of him that you don’t realise until it’s too late that jace has tugged you closer, guiding your hand until it’s pressed to vermax’s scales, and then you’re too busy being surprised by how soft they feel to be annoyed that he’s so easily coaxed you into this position.

you still as the dragon rumbles, swallowing thickly as your fingers twitch against green scales. he blinks lazily at you, an alien intellect gleaming there as he seems to consider you for a long moment, and as you blink back at him some of the fear in your chest shakes loose.

because this is not just some beast, you realise. this is fire and blood and magic made flesh. there is life and intelligence in vermax’s eyes, not one you recognise but one you immediately respect. being this close to the dragon is a heady rush of awe and adrenaline; the knowledge that vermax could so easily harm you at any moment but is choosing not to because he trusts his rider. it’s staggering and wonderful and beside you jace is beaming, eyes shining with happiness at seeing you greet his draconic companion, and you are helplessly, hopelessly, wholly overwhelmed by your affection, your desire, by jace.

you kiss him.

it’s barely a kiss, more a breathless press of your mouth against his, and he startles at the sensation even as his arm loops around your waist. you break apart for the barest moment, nose sliding against his as you tilt your head, and jacaerys sighs out your name with heavy relief before he captures your mouth once more.

you’ve been kissed before, so you know the mechanics of it, but it’s never been like this. his lips move smoothly against yours as his hand flexes on your waist, drawing you closer until your chest is pressed against his. your hand tangles in his hair, fingers twisting in the soft curls and he moans with it, hand dragging up your back to cradle the back of your head tenderly as his tongue sweeps over your lips.

the gentle pressure of it has you gasping and he takes the opportunity immediately, tongue sliding against yours as heat pools in your core. your thoughts tumble wildly, incoherent as you can think of nothing but of how desperately you want more. the taste – the smell – the feel of him is drowning everything out that isn’t jace and you cannot resist it, do not even want to.

you want to kiss him forever, want his hand in your hair and his tongue in your mouth for always. you think he might even let you with how relentless he is, barely giving you a moments pause to catch your breath before consuming you in another desperate kiss.

you finally part only when vermax grumbles, cheeks blazing with heat as you step out of jace’s arms. jace murmurs lowly to his dragon in valyrian, and he nudges his great snout against jace’s shoulder in response before stepping away and curling down into the long grass to sleep. you take the moment to properly catch your breath again, hand pressing to your heaving chest in an effort to soothe your racing heart.

when you peek up at jace from beneath your lashes, you flush deeply at the sight of him. his curls are a mess, his lips swollen and cheeks pink beneath his tan. he looks almost debauched, and it sends a rush of desire through you. you suddenly can think of nothing other than him looking like this only flusher and skin glistening with sweat and in your bed.

the thought startles you into dropping your gaze to your feet, and you shuffle uncertainly. you feel – unsettled. you don’t think there’s anything wrong with sharing a kiss with your betrothed, and yet something like guilt curdles in your stomach as you worry at your bottom lip. you had kissed him. for all that he’d kissed you back, you worry that now he will think differently of you. think worse of you.

a knuckle tucks under your chin, then, lifting your face so that you meet jace’s eyes. you feel small and strangely vulnerable in the aftermath of your kiss, like you have somehow shown him something you never intended to, and the urge to shy away remains. but you are not a winter rose for nothing and so you tuck the doubt away as jace runs his thumb soothingly along the line of your jaw.

“i have been thinking of doing that since the moment you first smiled at me,” he confesses, a hint of shyness in the quirk of his lips even as he stares steadily into your eyes.

“oh.” you blink at him once in surprise, the uneasiness in you finally settling at the fondness in his gaze. “oh. that’s— good.” you curse yourself for your lack of wit in this moment as jace snickers.  “i-i mean, i’m glad that it was not… unwelcome.”

your betrothed looks at you with deep affection, then, cupping your cheek and ducking down to press a fleeting, butterfly-soft kiss to your mouth before reluctantly parting from you. “it was most welcome, my lady. most welcome, indeed.” his eyes sparkle with mirth. “i find myself looking forward to the next time you greet vermax, if this is the kind of response such a thing garners.”

“jace!” you narrow your eyes at him in pretend annoyance, even as you smother a giggle with your fingers. “you should not expect me to indulge in such desires again, then, if you persist in being so smug about it.”

his laugh warms you as the two of you fall into easy banter, leaving vermax to his rest and returning to the ever-watchful ser dickon, and all the while all you can think of is how much you cannot wait to kiss him again.

as the air cools with the dying light of day, you lead jace to the gardens.

in the week since your first kiss, jace has oft tugged you into shadowy corners for more kisses any chance he’s had. his desire for you is matched only by your own for him, and as your confidence in your mutual attraction has grown, you have been equally as likely to pull him into a dark alcove to trade sweet words and sweet kisses in secret.

it’s thrilling and exciting and wonderful, but as the week passes you find a growing doubt whispering in the back of your mind.

while you cannot doubt jace desires you, not when he is so relentless in chasing after your smiling mouth, neither of you breathe a word of any feeling between you beyond attraction. perhaps it is reckless of you, foolhardy to fall for him so quickly – but then you are your parent’s daughter, all wolfs blood and deep roots, and you know no other way of being than this.

so you take him to the gardens as the moon rises in the sky, sneak past the night guards and out into the fresh air. you guide him through the blooming flowers and swaying trees, stopping along the while when the fancy takes one of you to stop and examine an interesting bloom or inhale a sweet scent. at least three times he stops you to slot his mouth against yours, to swallow your breathless giggling with feverish kisses, and each time he does it takes longer and longer for you to disentangle yourselves from each other.

eventually, with swollen lips and mussed hair, the two of you reach the winter roses. your effervescent mood becomes sombre as the moon shines on the blue flowers, turning the petals almost silver, and jace seems to recognise the change in atmosphere, a seriousness overtaking him as he watches you approach the flowers.

“my mother planted the first of these roses,” you tell jace as you kneel at the edge of the flowerbed, uncaring of the risk of dirt on your dress as you brush fingers over the pale blue petals tenderly. “winter roses, they are, from the north. from winterfell. she was born a stark, you see, and when she was betrothed to my father the only thing she asked was to be able to bring a few blooms from the glass gardens. she used to call me her little winter rose when i was a child, and she would bring me here and show me how to tend to them.”

jace kneels beside you, glancing at the side of your face before turning to look curiously at the blue flowers. “they’re beautiful,” he tells you sincerely.

“i’ve always thought so, too,” you agree almost absently, stroking the petals in an effort to calm your racing heart. “everyone told my mother she’d never be able to get them to grow so far south. they’re very rare, you see, and need very particular conditions.” your lips quirk up into a fond smile. “but my mother, for all that she became a tyrell, was always a stark at heart. stubborn, you know. and now look at them, thriving.”

you gesture out at the carefully tended rows of roses. “nobody else comes here, now, other than the gardeners and me. i think… i think my father finds it too hard, being here. it makes him miss her too much. so i come here when i need to be alone. or when i wish to be reminded of her. it's the one place in the world where i feel i can be wholly myself, without any pretence or worry.”

jace’s gaze is fixed on you, now, eyes almost black in the faint moonlight as understanding dawns on him. “thank you for bringing me here.”

you nod once, climbing back to your feet, and jace follows you. he watches you so intently, like he’s afraid that you might disappear if he dares to look away. you feel a little like you might, feel tenuous and vulnerable and a breath away from cracking your chest open.

“i’ve never brought anyone else here,” you confess quietly, flexing your fingers with nerves as jace’s lips part in surprise. “i wished… i wished to share this with you. to share who i am, myself, with you, i suppose.” you laugh a little self-deprecatingly. “however pretentious that sounds.”

“it doesn’t,” jace denies immediately. you sense he wants to say more, but he seems to understand that you’re building to saying something yourself, and so he stays quiet, expression earnest and open and fond as he gazes down at you.

“i know it’s perhaps too soon – we have only known each other a few weeks. but i… when i first found out we were betrothed, i was so scared. i worried you would be some arrogant princeling, and i dared not hope for anything more than civility between us. i’ve always known i would not marry for love, but i did not ever consider i would marry a man i had never met.”

you pause for long enough to suck in a breath, feeling a little like the floodgates have opened and you simply can’t stop speaking, can’t stop the feeling pouring freely from you. “and then i met you, and you were so unlike anything i’d expected. i know we still have so much more to learn about each other, and i know that things are— complicated, with the war, and that our marriage may be a ways off yet, but still— i find myself feeling for you, and i cannot hide it anymore. i don’t wish to hide it from you anymore.”

you let the open affection in his face buoy you as you steel yourself, pressing your shoulders back in a mimicry of confidence. “i wanted to show you this part of me, this place, because i….” you hesitate for a breathless moment, biting your lip, before gathering every scrap of courage you possess and diving in headfirst. “i am falling in love with you, jacaerys.”

you inhale the sweet scent of the pale blue petals deeply, let the familiar scent soothe you as jace stares at you with wide eyes. the winter roses are something that, until now, have been so uniquely yours. as you’d told jace, none other than you and the gardeners comes to this corner of the gardens now. the staff that tend so carefully to the flowers know to leave you well enough alone if they stumble across you, skirts splayed on the ground and fingers diligently caring for the roses. you’ve never even brought your sweet little brother, though you can admit that’s for practicality as much as anything else – his childish energy is a bit too boisterous for these delicate blooms.

bringing jace here, bringing him here to confess the deepening affection you harbour for him, feels raw. feels like you’re tearing your heart out of your chest and offering it up to him for perusal, hands bloody and soul bare. feels like saying ‘this is all that i am and all that i have been and all i will ever be and i hope, i hope, i hope it’s enough.’

jace finally, finally speaks, sighs your name, soft and sweet and tender, and hope blooms in your chest.

“oh, my sweet lady,” he murmurs, crowding into your space as he cups your cheek, and the smell of woodsmoke and dragon and jace floods your senses. “i am falling so unbelievably in love with you. only, it does not feel so much like falling as it is like choosing it, like walking into love with you with my eyes wide open and seeing nothing but you.”

it's almost unbearable, the blazing heat of his gaze as he presses his forehead against yours, and it makes you tremble as your hands clutch as his elbows in an effort to ground yourself to this moment, to him. “our betrothal was decided for us without care or consideration for our own desires,” he says, lips brushing against your own with every whispered word. “i know that as well as you, but i need you to know that if i had the choice i would choose this. i would choose you, your stubborn heart, your fierce spirit, your gracious soul.”

his hand slides from your cheek to your hair, holds you so tenderly like you are something precious, and it steals your breath from your lungs as you revel in his unbridled affection. “i care not when we marry, if we marry, in truth, because in my heart you are already mine just as i am already yours.”

he kisses you, then, a desperate and greedy thing, as if he can no longer restrain himself from devouring you whole. and you are just as needy, hands fisting in his doublet as you press yourself against him and somehow finding yourself wishing to be closer still. the world narrows down to him and him only; his mouth, his hands, his hair. you can think of nothing else, and do not wish to, because in this moment you are wholly yourself and he is wholly himself and it’s enough, it’s wonderful and delicate and it’s enough.

and, there beneath the moonlight and amongst the winter roses, deep and enduring affection, the kind of love the bards sing songs about, takes root.

taglist; @eldrith

[acid-ixx]

do i look like him?

— just another series concept. please note that talia sexually assaulting bruce is retconned in whatever portrayal i have of her. i will not tolerate any racist or sexist remarks towards her character for a mischaracterized version of her, written by some gooner.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

i don't know if anybody would be interested in a certain premise i'm planning. taylor's song, "like him" is resonating off of my body, and i've a draft written inspired off of the song featuring yandere batfam x damian's twin! reader x yandere! al ghul family.

wherein instead of being neglected, you're treated like royalty by your own family. your twin is subjected to the cruelty of being raised as an assassin. you're met with scarred hands, nicked back, and calloused skin every time he comes back from your shared room after another particularly harsh training. yet every time you worry for your older twin, he'd silence you with the same bloodied hands that handled bodies like ragdolls, gently like it has never killed, with hushed promises whispered by your ear that "this is necessary for your protection, akhi/akhti."

at first you'd be convinced that this family lifestyle is normal. your mother is doting, she is kind, she is where you learned the word mercy; unlike the fierce image she displays in public. you're often spoiled rotten with her favorite shades of clothes, and her teachings emanate within you a deep sense of loving for animals. you never truly see her cruelty for other humans, as she often makes you sit by her lap upon a seat you call a throne when you were all but a mere five year old, playing with your hair, muttering affirmations and cradling you on her chest every time you ponder too deeply about the word, 'father'.

a word you'd read from those fairytales by the library, a word you craved to know, a word forbidden to be stated by everybody within your castle-like home.

she'll call upon your brother every time your curiosity gets the best of you, and the duo would try their best to sway your attention away with playtime. either it'd be stories, or damian showing you new tricks he'd learn from masters long overthrown by your twin, or it would be as simple as talia dragging both her beloved children to the huge kitchen, demanding the head chefs to bake you and your brother's favorite dessert (a little moment to spoil your brother after a hard-earned day of training, even if damian isn't always fond of sweet confectionaries; your grin would always tempt him to take a bite of your food if it means spending a day being himself).

it seems even damian plays along with the sick fantasy of not acknowledging the possibility of an alive father figure to you. not like you'd be aware of it, too caught up with your grandfather teaching you about rare species' on the verge of extinction, his (rarely) soft gaze fixed on the way your small body would gently pat the face of his wolf companion, or your brother constantly vying for you, his younger twin's, attention, eliminating all possible rivals who could potentially act as your future playmate that only he has the privilege for, or how your mother seeks you, her youngest baby, out, for a day of rest after another mission, doting smooches on your face, her lipstick smearing all over the soft chub of your cheeks, dismissing your pouts

a perfect family, with not much left to desire for your part.

so why is it that talia would often hear damian complain about your sudden fixation about a father figure? you'd mumble, something about one of your servants who mentioned visiting her father for vacation, a man who works as a merchant for his family; you asked them what your father's job was, what his name was, "why isn't he here at the family dinner?"

you asked, with wide, pitiful eyes, a feature long foreign for hardened assassins, but associated only with you. a quality nobody in the league dares to criticize; your gentleness the only thing keeping their leaders sane, keeping most servants alive as you find precious each and every single living being; not exclusive to animals or plants, but to humans too.

you're the league's only hope for reprieve, for softness in the moments of emboldened duties and priorities. you're the fingers that caress on calloused skin and the lips that kiss bloody scars. the hearth that warms even the coldest of hearts.

which was why nobody attempted to answer you, no matter how much it breaks your heart; because nobody wanted to ruin your soft and kind heart, or see the sullen droop in your eyes, or red, sniffling nose.

yet once ra's heard the confession of you being aware of what a father is like through the mouth of your servant, he'd immediately demanded another assassin to eliminate whoever dared mentioned such preposterous concepts to his grandchild.

throughout their rage, throughout damian nuzzling his head on the crown of your, muttering that whatever his baby sibling is sputtering is nonsensical, mere fantasy, arms encasing your entire body. he'd cradle you, run his hands against your hair even with furrowed, always angered brows; all the same questions lingered in the back of their minds:

is your current family not enough? why is it that the more you grow, the more you... wear the same expression of stubbornness, a quality your mother is sure you've adopted from you... father.

she may not be the best mother, taking both you and damian away from the arms of bruce wayne after she had learned about her pregnancy after a night spent together with the man, but she did it for the sake of her children; for your future, too.

bruce wayne will not be a good influence to you. if he tries so much to subject you into becoming another one of his robins, destroying your innocence, your perception of the world into a bleak portrayal of lackluster colors— ra's wouldn't hesitate to destroy the entirety of bruce's home.

and the manor is nothing! nothing, mind you, compared to the castle you call your home. only you deserve the richest of the rich, the shiniest jewels and the best treatment in the world. what more can gotham offer you? what more, if not for broken bones and bruised knees?

and so they settled upon ruining your perception of your father, with no known face to be plastered upon your memory, no known source, or picture— at such an early age.

if you yearn so much for a father, why not paint the image as dark as the cowl he wears?

why don't they feed you lies about him never wanting you and your twin in the first place? you'll be given opportunities to call an empty line, hoping your father would pick up, would respond and tell you that he's coming for you. they'll give you time to write letters, even if it takes your crummy fingers hours to finish a dedicated letter for your father, after years of being unable to meet him; it causes all the more ache in your mother's chest, witnessing her beloved youngest stay up late, whispering whimsical wishes about how excited you are to read your father's reply to you.

all your mother could do was kiss your forehead as she sat by your side, and rub your delicate cheeks with her fingers, mumbling that her baby should sleep now.

your mother never lies to you, no?

at least, not outright in your face.

damian, hates seeing the heartbreak in your eyes, but he's the very same twin who comforts you every damn time you fall to your knees after discovering that the letters you sent to your father's locations were long since unanswered — even if they're all hidden away in a vault of every possession you thought you lost. he'll pick you up with his trained body, and you'll melt even further into his form, shivering at the prospect that you're an unwanted child in the face of your father.

soon.

soon, you'll learn to despise bruce with every being of your soul, and learn to only reserve the association of warmth for your only family. you'll be the spoiled royal of the al ghul, and you'll come to find yourself grateful that you're raised without his presence, deluded into thinking that he abandoned you, that he never truly cared in the first place.

you love your family, you hate bruce wayne.

he is not family.

he is not your father, he lost that status long ago right after you thought he'd ignore all your calls, your messages, letters, gifts, every and any signal sent to the man you once called your father right after learning his name. he made you hope, he left the light flicker once flickering within you now blown away, leaving only an empty husk of your wanting to meet your father.

you hate bruce, you hate him so fucking much, you're ashamed that he's even your father in the first place— even if he's the very same man working tirelessly, day and night, to save you, once he caught news of what his children looks like, and locks eyes with your hopeful ones, a rare sight amongst the imagery of assassin. he plans to retrieve you, to save you, from the castle you call your home; truly what you call your cage.

little did you know that you are more like your father than you are with what you call your family.

— heavily inspired by @anxiousnerdwritings portrayal of twin!reader.

a/n: i honestly don't know half of what i wrote. i'm out of my mind, and i'm honestly not confident with the outcome of this concept. if people do like it (leave comments, or inputs, or whatsoever) i might post a chapter about this (since i do have one written in my drafts a week or two ago). if not, i'm dropping this and leaving it as a concept mostly, a one-time thing at best. so if anybody does like this, please do tell me. i do have a lot in store for this concept, specifically the way manipulation works within this family convincing you the other side is evil; i've been through this once w/ my family actually ngl, so writing this was a bit fun.

[daycourtofficial]

In a world of boys, he’s a ✨gentleman✨

Summary: based on this request - your friends help walk you through all the nice things Azriel does for you

Author’s note: I forgot all about this tbh lmao why was this just sitting in my drafts all alone

“I think Azriel has the best manners,” Feyre says, her cheeks glowing from the wine, wisps of brown hair coming out from her braid.

“And the biggest wingspan,” Mor adds, raising her blonde eyebrows.

“I’m serious,” Feyre turns to Mor, “he’s so polite, he cleans up after himself, he treats (y/n) like a queen, he-“

You choke on your wine. “Treats who like what?”

Mor slaps your shoulder, causing you to almost spill your glass. “Oh, do not start this again, I will scream.”

“Start what?”

Mor rolls her eyes, falling back on the couch, “pretending like you don’t know how nice Azriel is to you.”

Your face heats involuntarily. “He’s very nice to me, I’m well aware of that. He’s a nice guy.”

Mor groans, getting up for more wine, “see! This is what I’m talking about!”

Nesta and Feyre giggle, but you sit up, “what do you mean what you’re talking about? What is wrong with me thinking that he’s nice to me?”

Feyre’s giggles continue, “it’s not that, sweetie. It’s just… he’s exceptionally nice to you.”

“So? We’re friends.”

Mor chimes in, “if any male was as nice to Nesta as Azriel is to you, Cassian would slit his throat.”

“Cassian’s more of a hands-on brute, but I see your point,” Nesta corrects.

“Friends don’t act like the two of you do,” Feyre muses, refilling her wine glass.

Soft touches, sitting needlessly close to each other at gatherings, Feyre catching the two of you napping on her couch on multiple occasions.

“He always blushes around you,” Elain observes.

Images of Azriel’s reddened cheeks and ears flood your memory, and how adorable you’d find it.

“He always asks you if it’s okay for him to pick you up to fly.”

A montage of soft “may I?” and “is this okay?” flutter through your mind. His soft touches of your hair when you’d take off, knowing it was your least favorite part, trying to comfort you in some way.

“He pulls out your chair for you at every family dinner.”

“-and plates her food!”

Azriel’s scarred hands grab the back of your chair, a soft scraping noise filling your ears, replaced by your soft “thank you”.

He sits next to you, grabbing your plate reflexively, piling it with roast, carrots, and potatoes, knowing to avoid the celery.

You thank him again, oblivious to Cassian’s exasperated arm movements at the two of you, as well as Nesta’s immediate swatting of him.

Elain giggles, “he always comes by every Sunday asking me to help him arrange a bouquet for her.”

Nesta smirks as the other two females let out soft “ooooh”s, as if you all were gossipy teenagers. Maybe you were. Your eyes draw towards the bouquet sitting on the table in front of Elain, the pink and yellow hues making you smile.

“He always has a hand on you whenever you’re out in town.”

The warmth from his hand is a welcome presence on your lower back as you two push through the crowds of the Velaris stalls. You prefer going out into town with him in tow - he was much taller than you and could see over the crowds.

Not to mention how he carried all of your bags and you spent the rest of the day catching his scent on your clothes afterwards.

“I’m not even sure you own your own coat from him lending you his.”

Nights out at Rita’s always ended with the two of you walking along the Sidra, his arm around your shoulder. He’d always wait for you to start shivering before placing his coat around your shoulders, helping your arms into the sleeves.

You scratch at your neck, uncomfortable with all the attention on you. “That doesn’t mean anything… right?”

Mor huffs, dramatically falling back on the couch after draining her glass, “I can’t explain this again.”

“Ask him out,” Feyre says, while Nesta nods her head, “just do it.”

As if the Mother herself were in the room gossiping with you all, Azriel strolls into the room, a bit shocked when five pairs of eyes peer back at him, amusement in four pairs, adoration in one pair.

You can’t help the smile that graces your face when you see him, and Nesta loudly placing her cup on the table jolts you out of your trance.

“Will you- would you,” you clear your throat, rushing the words out before you get too scared, turned in your seat to peer at him, “would you like to have dinner? Tonight? With me? Alone?”

Mor and Feyre are trying, but failing, to hold in their giggles at your nervousness, but you have completely forgotten they were in the room with you.

Azriel’s lips curve into a smile, “I would love to. I can pick you up at 7?”

[fixyourwritinghabits]

Editing Your Novel Part 2: The Plot Pass

Okay, it's finally time to edit. You've got all your materials sorted, it's time to dive right in. You want to start with the big edits first, aka the plot pass.

Now listen. You're going to want to linger and fix those little bits of grammar or dialogue, and I know it's so hard not to, but letting yourself get off-track might mean wasting hours on a scene you realize later you have to delete. Fix a few spelling errors, leave a note, and stay plot-focused.

Making Sense (Of the Plot)

In the plot pass, you're asking yourself some basic questions:

Do events follow a clear order? - When you're getting everything down on the page for the first time, scenes might get jumbled up or events might not have clear causes. Maybe you have a car crashing into the cafe pages before, but in a writing haze, you wrote your main characters having a casual conversation moments later. If the bad guy beats your heroes to treasure, is it clear how they got there? (Not everyone can be Yzma.)

Do circumstances feel contrived? If there are any problems that can be solved by your characters sitting down and talking to each other, it may be better to lean into their motivation for not speaking to each other, rather than coming up with bad romcom scenarios. If the plot can be resolved by the mcguffin the grandma had the whole time, it might be better to make finding that mcguffin part of the plot instead.

It doesn't have to be perfect, and you don't have to reinvent the wheel. If someone gets bitten by a werewolf, it's perfectly fine to have them turn into one at the worst possible moment. When it comes to contrived, you're looking for problems that seem easy to solve and look for more interesting ways to complicate them.

Are your character motivations consistent to the characters throughout the story? - They can change throughout the story, but character motivations do need to be linked to the actions they take. An out-of-nowhere betrayal is way more satisfying if you lay the groundwork for it ahead of time.

Take a moment to list out the motivations of the characters in a scene you're not quite sure of can help you figure how to fix it. Having an outline helps with this a lot!

Are you following an "if... then" format? - My brain doesn't work like this when I'm writing, because as a writer you know how A got to Z, and it seems (in your head) obvious how it happened. This is where my scene card outline come in handy, because I can look at my overview of what should happen and why, and then compare it to what actually happens in the scene. I've discovered so many threads I forgot to connect that way, like why a character had a certain device (I forgot to have him pick it up two scenes earlier), or adding a few simmering dialogue bits that make the big fight pay off much better.

Can you fix the "Because the Plot Demands It" scenes? - Look, sometimes your character needs to be in that haunted house to see that damn ghost, but your character isn't the type to set foot in such a place. It's really easy, especially in the first draft, to contrive a way in there (she took a wrong turn on her way to grandma's!), but retooling these scenes to connect them to the characters motivations and needs is the way to go. The main character doesn't want to go into that obviously cursed place, but her best friend hasn't shown up for school in three days and now she's crying for help from the second floor window. Your character's strong desire to be there for her friend is a much better way to get her into that house.

This is not always easy - it took me six fricken drafts to realize a critical part of a character's motivation was because his father blamed him for his mother's death - but it is going to be worth putting in the work to hammer down.

Do you have a solid timeline? - This might not seem as important, but it's super easy to accidentally fit two weeks worth of activities in three days. Make sure you have that on reference, even if you don't mention it in the book. Also make sure to gauge your distances if your characters are on a trip, because if you do accidentally say it takes two hours to drive from Seattle to Spokane instead of five, someone will dive down your throat for it. Not me. Just someone.

Okay, maybe me. Slow down, you maniacs.

Next post we'll dive into the structure pass. See you then!

[satorhime]

. ･｡･ right where you left me ࿐gojo satoru.

── ◜ ⪩⪨ ◞ content : angst, fluff, dad!gojo (reader ‘n’ gojo have a daughter), set in 2018 and 2023, reunion, beach trips, established relationship ! f!reader. ･｡･ w.c. 3.7k & not proofread.

── ◜ ⪩⪨ ◞ synopsis : time remains the one enemy gojo can’t defeat. ໒꒰ྀི ´ ꒳ ` ꒱ྀིა notes: ik there’s a gazillion reunion fics but this has been sitting in my drafts since oct n i suddenly felt like finishing n sharing so i hope u enjoy <333 ‘m gna go cry over this fic now ;u;

satoru is having a damn good day.

it’s suspicious, it feels like a fever dream, and he can’t really pinpoint where the dubiousness comes from. maybe it’s because he feels as if he doesn’t deserve it, like if he allows himself to relax like this something terrible will happen while he slacks off. or maybe, it’s because he’s only ever had those truly good days in his youth when he was devil may care and his concerns for the wellbeing of the world slid off his shoulders weightlessly, like sheets of rain on a rooftop. a wild and selfish kind of happiness that begun in spring and ended too quickly in winter.

but today is a good day. he forgot to charge his phone last night, he is in the best mood he’s been in all year, and he can’t stop fucking smiling. gojo satoru is thriving, on top of the world, a little bit of that nostalgic, adolescent joy warming up his chest.

and it’s all because it’s a sunny day, the water is cool, and he’s on the beach with you and his baby girl.

the three of you decided to steal away on a spontaneous trip to okinawa that forced him out of his work uniform and into swim trunks with a bare chest, simply because you burst into his office with big droplets of tears in your eyes declaring yourself a terrible mother because you realized that your daughter was already three years old and she had never seen the ocean before.

it had taken him ten minutes to book three first class tickets and secure the private family villa for the weekend, fifteen to get packed, and twenty to board after hearing that.

he would do anything to please his girls, after all.

“‘anna go into the bathtub, mama!” your baby whines impatiently from the embrace of your arms, squirming and squiggling for you to let her down as she points towards the rolling ocean waves behind you. ever since she learned how to walk, she’s lost all patience for her doting parents carrying her around— especially when something catches the attention of those big, pretty blue eyes. it didn’t take long for her to become enamored with the sea, wanting nothing more than to get out of your hold and toddle towards the shallows.

“it’s called an ‘ocean’, cupcake,” you correct her, voice full of amusement and affection as you crane your head forward to kiss the soft skin of her chubby cheek, bouncing the toddler in your arms. “too bad we’re being held hostage by dada right now.”

“i heard that,” satoru mumbles with a pout, his third melon popsicle of the day hanging from one side of his mouth. droplets of green slush drips onto the broad planes of his chest in a sticky mess as it melts but he’s wholly focused on the two of you, one summer blue eye winked closed as the other peers through the lens of the polaroid camera looped around his neck. “but wait, just one more photo of my two favorite girls!”

“you’ve been taking photos for the last twenty minutes, satoru,” you huff. “we aren’t going anywhere, you know. you don’t have to take so many.”

“our baby needs to see what the three of us looked like in our prime, before we grow old and gray together.”

“you’re so ridiculous, gojo satoru.”

but despite your exasperation, you remain put. it’s hard not to feel the same way he does on a perfect day like this— contentment, light in the heart and full of love because of this little trip. the camera focuses in on you and your daughter before the shutter clicks, each snap immortalizing the sight of you and your baby girl illuminated by the lazy autumn sun.

“and done!” he cheers, catching the polaroid in his palm as it slides from the slot. it wobbles between two of his fingers as it develops, but he can already see that it’s a perfect picture. he feels his heart sink in his chest, melting into a syrupy sweet puddle of happiness that makes him lightheaded and anxious.

oh, you’ve never looked as pretty as you do right now. like a dream, a forever kind of love he never plans to let go of. wearing that cute little swimsuit he likes so much with his sunnies perched on top of your head and his baby propped up on your supple hip. the two of you are beaming, cheeks squished together, your daughter’s hand cupping your face fondly.

it’s the kind of picture that others would coo at and fawn over if he framed it in a museum, but satoru retrieves his wallet from the pocket of his swim trunks, tucking the polaroid safely in the trifold for his own selfish keeping.

“i think she really likes the beach,” you tell him, squatting to set your daughter on her feet. she waves to you and satoru before waddling toward the shallow surf, her little legs stumbling in the thick body of sand. “this was good of you, satoru.”

“what? you think i’d miss the opportunity to spend time with my best girls?” he asks you, a hand on his chest with an affronted look on his face. you resist the urge to snort as the two of you follow closely behind your stumbling toddler, rushing towards her every time she gets distracted and attempts to eat the sand or chase one of the seagulls.

“you’ve been busy lately, that’s all,” is how you respond, the accusation washed out of your tone for the gentle words instead. you don’t bring up how many milestones, how many little memories he’s already missed, just by being who he is— that no matter what, he’ll always belong to his duty first and his family second. no, you’ve always shown patience and understanding. never complaining when his side of the bed is empty before morning or your girl requests for her father to read a bedtime story in that animated, comical way you can never replicate for her. making her settle for your offkey, wobbly lullabies instead.

“i know,” he says quietly, suddenly serious— keeping one eye on your baby girl who is currently splashing her hands around in the sand and water. “one of my first year’s a vessel so the curses are getting more pesky. i don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

“you think something’s about to happen?” you ask, looking up at him, but he presses a kiss to your temple and you wrinkle your nose at the sticky feeling of his lips.

“nah,” he replies, and you almost roll your eyes because you know he’s lying. even though satoru has done his best to keep you hidden from his world, you’re no fool. you already know why he rarely comes home at night, why he was absent for christmas last year, why your daughter has never met her paternal grandparents. you know that with the reappearance of several ancient cursed objects, there is thunder crackling among the clouds. “don’t worry your pretty little head about that.”

satoru turns up the volume on the waterproof boombox half-buried in the sand next to your belongings. he can’t stand your choice of music, finds it noise most of the time, but it’s the distraction the atmosphere needs to throw off your questioning. he pulls you to sit down between his legs, your back pressed against his chest and his arms wrapped around your body.

ocean foam splashes against the tips of your toes as the two of you sit at the surf of the tide in peaceful silence, time getting away from you both in the warm sun as your baby girl plays, her energy endless— waddling around and squealing at the different curiosities and wonders the beach has to offer.

whatever will happen, satoru won’t allow it to be today.

“satoru,” you call after a long quiet, craning your neck to look up at him. “if you—”

“what, you think i’m gonna croak sometime soon?” he shoots back, already knowing where the conversation is heading. so he holds you tighter, his strong arms a protective cage around your body as his shades slide down the attractive slope of his nose. he cracks a grin at you, another obvious deflection because he knows you can’t resist when he looks at you that way. not with his hair mussed from humidity, a strip of sunscreen on his nose as he chews on that damn wooden stick from his ice pop earlier.

“i know what you’re doing,” you shake your head. “and it’s not working. i’m just worried, i’m allowed to, as your wife. you think you’re invincible but if something happens to you that’ll… it’ll—” it will break us.

satoru’s smile fades, but he thankfully doesn’t need to reply because your daughter is waddling up to the both of you now, her sand-caked hands full of seashells and stones that glimmer in the sunlight. he wants to scoff because if anyone understands the consequences of failing those you love, it’s him— it’s all he’s ever known.

“what ya got there, princess?”

“fish—!” she cries in her sweet, babyish voice. some of the shells tumble from her hands, and you watch as her expression switches from happiness to dismay to finally confusion. you have to bite your lip to hold back laughter when instead of picking them back up, she dumps the rest of the seashells in your lap. “now i don’t have any fish.”

“i think those are seashells, princess,” gojo says with a grin, picking up a shell that rests on top of your thigh and holding it up to the sunlight. “this shell looks like it belongs to a hermit crab, like your megumi-nii.”

“you’re a terrible influence on our daughter, you know.”

“i’m just setting up future dynamics, angel face,” he grins.

“look look look!” your daughter gasps, bringing your attentions back to her. “this swee-shell looks like dada—!” she squeals excitedly, her new finding held delicately in her little sand-covered palm. she stands up on your thighs to reach her father sitting behind you, holding an iridescent blue seashell next to gojo’s eyes, her tiny mind comparing the colors in wonder. meanwhile, satoru wears a smile that burns so wide it hurts his cheeks.

“it looks like you too, princess,” he boops her nose, gently taking the seashell and holding it to her eyes next. her answering giggles sound like a sweet bell calling him home to heaven, but he can’t answer it because there are two people on this earth who laugh and smile at him like he hung the moon and painted the stars. “if you put it in your pocket now, the ocean won’t call the cops on you for stealing it.”

“no, this one ‘s for dada,” she insists, shoving the pretty blue seashell back into his hand.

“thank you, my mini angel,” he ruffles her hair, and you smile softly at the little exchange because though she may be enamored with her new discoveries at the beach, her father will always be one of her favorite wonders of the world.

“i ‘anna go find one for mama now!” she announces, and you wonder how she hasn’t run out of energy yet, but you nod and stand to your feet, dusting the sand away from the bottom of your swimsuit. your baby’s entire hand curls around your pointer finger, and she pulls you along with great effort.

you glance back at satoru and find that he’s watching the two of you head closer to the water, that uncharacteristically genuine smile still on his face, and you part your lips to call him to your side— where he’s always supposed to be.

“you didn’t think we’d let you slack off, did you? finding seashells is serious business, satoru!” you tease, pretty eyes crinkling with unbridled happiness, haloed by the waning sun and the orange dreamsicle sky that holds it. “hurry up!”

“wait for me just a little while, i’m coming to you,” he calls back, a lopsided grin spreading across his mouth before he raises the polaroid camera to his face, snapping one last candid photo of the two of you before he jogs towards his little piece of heaven.

but he doesn’t think he’s imagining things when the distance between heaven and earth keeps growing further and further apart—

“satoru, you can’t stand outside forever,” your voice is gentle as it speaks behind him, your hand laid delicately on his back in comfort; breaking the sorcerer out of deep reverie, the edges of the old memory fading, replaced by the pink paint of his daughter’s bedroom door that he’s been standing in front of for the last thirty minutes. his thumb brushes over the polaroid in his hand, the one that had been his salvation and his undoing in the prison realm. he’d taken it out without knowing, his eyes reading over the date written in his handwriting.

october 30, 2018

the picture of you with your daughter on your hip that he took at the beach all those years ago— that had been the last time he’d seen her.

four, no, five years?

his feet are nailed to the floor because change makes satoru shut down, and everything has changed since then.

while time was immeasurable and immovable inside of the prison realm for him, the clock had ticked on outside of it and just like that, his little girl is no longer three years old, giving him seashells that matches his eyes or hitting the back of his ankles with her big wheel or—

“you can’t keep doing this to yourself,” you sigh. “you’ve been unsealed for months. you’re her father, no matter what.”

“i’m a stranger to her,” and to you, but he doesn’t say it. you had waited for him, in every aspect of the word. held out on hope and faith in his strength that he would return to your side, where he’s always supposed to be.

“you’re n—” but you’re cut off when the door opens to reveal your daughter standing on the other side. the child standing before him is almost unrecognizable. she’s much taller and older, wearing track pants underneath her school dress with ribbons in unruly waves of white hair. the last time he’d seen his daughter, she had been three years old and still learning things like colors and sight words and that feeding megumi’s demon dogs her vegetable purée was against the rules. now, gojo satoru was the father of an eight year old and he’d missed everything because of a mista—

“you can come in,” she says, blinking up at satoru with an expression void of emotion. “but i’m not finished with my homework so if you stay too long, you’ll bug me.”

“how did you know i was outside?” he whistles nonchalantly, unbothered by the attitude that she gives him. it fills him with bitter satisfaction that she isn’t excited to see him, that someone is angry that he failed, regardless if he won in the end. he can handle bratty children who hate him and only look at him as a tool for their success, he can’t handle a daughter who cried herself to sleep every night waiting for him while he was losing his sanity away in a cube.

or at least, that’s what he tells himself.

“i could see you and mama through the door, duh,” she replies, hip cocked to the side in an amount of sass she had to pick up from you. “mama says i have your eyesight. i don’t really get it, but it makes it easy to cheat on tests.”

he could see it in the bright blue of her eyes, even if she hadn’t confirmed it. plain as daylight, she’s exactly like he was at that age. easily irritable and bratty, cocky and spoiled rotten. suffering from the weight of being an uncontested heir to an ancient dynasty at the age of elementary.

“i used six eyes to cheat on tests too,” he relates with pride, and then he bends down to her height, waving his palm. “sooo you probably got some questions about where i was—”

“not really. grandfather said you were sealed because you’re foolish and let weakness distract you.”

“you shouldn’t say things like that,” you scold, “apologize.”

“why? i don’t want to.”

your daughter turns, disappearing back into her room after that and seeming like she doesn’t care if satoru follows or not. your hand travels up the long expanse of satoru’s back in a soothing circle as you step closer.

“huh, that’s new.”

“sorry, she’s… i don’t know if acting out is the right term,” you say, pain in your voice. “she doesn’t really understand why she’s so different, or why you were … gone for so long. i know you didn’t want her around your family so i kept her away as best i could, but she started to have crippling migraines because she didn’t know how to use her ability and well… they were the only ones who knew how to help. filled her head with foolishness every time she visited the estate, though and it’s changed her.”

“huh,” is all he says, a broken record, tongue running across his inner lip in thought.

“do you need me?”

“what, you think i can’t handle her?”

“well, you were outside the door for a half hour, ‘toru.”

he shoots you a lopsided grin before he’s stepping into his daughter’s bedroom, glancing around at the unfamiliarity of it all. you follow close behind, watching with a heavy heart as he takes in the difference eight years can make.

her tiny baby crib has been traded for a poster bed decorated with a sanrio duvet and various stuffed animals where a laptop and study papers lay scattered on top. the angel themed decorations, along with her first ultrasound photo you and satoru had hung up in her nursery had been replaced by pink paint and pictures of her with a group of friends from school and a photo of her on a volleyball team.

he has to rip his gaze away.

“so,” he starts, standing in the center of the room and trying not to feel like an intruder, desperate for something to say— something to relate to her with. “how many episodes did i miss? did aya-chan ever get married?”

“i’m too old to play with dolls now, father,” she huffs, scrunching up her nose, and though satoru expected that exact answer, it doesn’t stop his heart from shattering into a million pieces. he feels that familiar itch, anger welling in his body until it burns at his fingertips because this is no one’s fault but his own. “don’t you know anything about me?”

“my bad, you’re a big kid now,” he snorts, even as his chest aches. he sits on the edge of her bed, flipping up one edge of the coloring book laying next to her laptop. “maybe you should start paying taxes.”

“i’m also too young to pay taxes. you really don’t know anything about me anymore,” she snaps, and she’s right— he doesn’t and it burns like saltwater on a wound. now he knows why you asked if he needed you; he’d hide behind you if he could, but he settles for flickering his eyes up to you helplessly.

you realize that neither of you can be upset with her for being angry that one of her favorite people vanished out of thin air. that while he was sealed, his clan had taken advantage of his absence and your powerlessness against them, and had begun spoiling your child rotten, teaching her how to use her ability— plumping her up for the inevitable day that she becomes her father’s successor, turning her against him.

“i think,” you say softly, leaning against the frame of the door. “that your dada— your father— would like to learn, though. he’s missed a lot, baby.”

she considers this for a long while, then she heaves a great sigh, hackles lowering. she scoots off the bed and before satoru can feel the hurt of figuring she doesn’t want to be near him, she does something unexpected. she moves one of her trophies out of the way to open her closet door, rummaging around for the longest before she yanks out a cardboard box you had labeled ‘donate one day since my snotty kid is a hag now’— it’s a box full of old dolls, covered in dust. she sits on her knees in front of the box, peering inside.

“aya-chan didn’t get married, but hinata-chan did,” she explains with an exasperated sigh and a roll of her eyes, taking out the dolls one by one and setting them on the floor in front of satoru’s feet.

“to the mailman that lived in your ugliest dollhouse?”

“you remember,” her eyes widen a little in surprise before her expression shutters again, smoothing out the doll’s colorful polyester dress before reaching back into the box and retrieving a brush covered in synthetic hairs. she looks at it for a while before extending her arm and offering the brush to her father. “aya-chan decided to be independent and explore the world. she’s planning to go on a trip soon so she needs to get ready. do y’wanna brush her hair?”

satoru is sliding off the bed and sitting cross-legged on the floor before he knows it, barely wanting to breathe because he doesn’t want to shatter the fragility of the moment between them. he takes the brush, and seconds later she hands him one of the dolls that had once upon a time been her favorite one that no one was allowed to touch. you would giggle at the delicate way he brushes the doll’s hair with utmost care and precision if you weren’t about to cry at the scene instead. “oh, and where’s she headed?”

“okinawa.”

“ponytail or messy bun then?” you don’t think you’re imagining the wobble in his voice. “to compliment her swimsuit.”

a tiny, hopeful smile twinkles over your lips at the two of them on the floor, babbling away to each other about the outlandish stories they’ve created together with her dolls. how many times had you offered to play with her, only for her to burst into tears because it wasn’t the same? you know that this won’t bridge the gap between the years that have been lost, but it’s a start. just hearing the soft murmurs of their conversation, the sound of your little girl giggling for the first time in ages, makes your heart swell.

time may be an undefeated opponent, and with it comes change that no one can control, but something tells you that as long as the three of you are together— everything will be okay.

you tiptoe out of the room, because they need time to catch up and apologize and reconnect, to learn one another once more, but before you close the door, you don’t think you’re mistaken when you hear, “can we go back to the beach too, dada?”

[jacaeryslover]

KING OF MY HEART: a jacaerys targaryen one-shot.

SUMMARY: jace sits the iron throne, his children want to play with him but he's busy being a good king! reader explains and plays with them.

the ends of your deep blue dress slips against the cold floor of the red keep, you are looking for two little brown haired heads, your children. when you finally arrive to the nursing room, you see lydia trying to play with your eldest son, lucerys, she seems like she's trying really hard to make him feel better.

today is that day of the week, jace is supposed to spend some quality time with his heir, they use that time to play, read or even have lectures about the importance of his father's job, and in the future, it will also be his.

"luke, is everything alright?" you ask tenderly, you knew what happened, but you wanted your own son to tell you, or at least his sweet sister.

lucerys was a lot like you, he was bold but sweet, he had a strong sense of duty. his hair was brown like his father and his cheeks and nose were adorned with tainted freckles, your daughter rhaegan on the other hand was just like her father, she was sweet and caring.

"yes" he mutters quietly, almost like a whisper, but it was enough for you to hear it. his eyes dancing between the wooden carved horses and fishes that lydia swung in the air, in the attempt of making the child play with her.

rhaegan on the other hand, was busy drawing. she had a taste of drawing every type of things, bugs, spiders, castles, and people. she once said that portraits were her specialty.

"rhaegan, do you care to tell me why your brother is sulking?"

the quiet girl finally speaks, lifting her head from her drawing to look at her mother's sweet eyes. "he is sad because father couldn't play with him".

jacaerys never missed the opportunities to play with his children, everyone knew that. so something important had to come up for him to do so.

"well, luke. your father must be very busy, you know he loves to play with you" you say, trying to make your son a little bit happier.

"you know your father works very hard for the people of the realm, his job is of very importance"

"i know, but i miss him" luke says, and it breaks your heart. you knew it was going to be hard, balancing family and the realms duties, but it has to be done nonetheless. and you were proud of your husbands work so far.

and just as he appeared in your thoughts, he stepped into the room with a big smile, ready to dedicate the rest of the day with his children. his apologetic look did not go unnoticed by you.

"i'm sorry, my children. i had some important business to attent to. it will not happen again" he said, taking a place next to you, catching his son's hard gaze "i'm sorry luke, please forgive me" his soft voice directed just to his older son, while bringing his right hand to play with luke's brown hair. a mirage of his own brother.

okay i apologize for this, it's awful but it's been sitting in my drafts for months now and im just letting it go

[tldrthor]

Not even death (part one) | bucky barnes

// Summary: It's been 70 years of being his widow, and the world had moved on. But she never would. Commiserating on their wedding anniversary, (y/n) Barnes is attacked by an assailant as she visits her husband's grave. There's something just a little too familiar about the whole thing.

// warnings: ws!bucky barnes x avenger!wife!reader, lots of grief, canon-typical violence, angst, f!reader, platonic!steve being a cutie patootie

// word count: 4.5k

enjoyed? please like/reblog! you can find my masterlist here <3

part two | part three

The third best day of her life was her wedding day. 

“Would you switch that off?” She motioned toward the radio in the corner, its incessant drone filling the room. The news blared on—reports of the war, the draft, the daily toll of lives lost. She didn’t need to hear any more. She had already heard it in her head a thousand times, played over and over. Her fiancé was a sergeant, for God’s sake. And she, herself, was getting ready to be shipped off to Europe as a nurse, just another casualty of a war that seemed endless.

Her mother bustled around her, fingers moving with practiced precision as she pinned back her daughter’s hair, spraying the air with the sharp scent of hairspray. She worked on her like a sculptor carving stone, the final touch of a masterpiece. Every movement was deliberate, as if her daughter’s future rested entirely on the perfection of her appearance.

“Sweetheart,” her mother’s voice was soft but laced with concern, “are you sure about this?” The question came between bursts of the toxic spray. “James is a wonderful boy, but this is so rushed. Maybe you should wait until after the war. After everything settles down.”

The girl sitting in front of the mirror understood the hesitation, the fear that gripped her mother’s heart. She saw it in the tightness of her shoulders, in the way her hands shook ever so slightly as she worked. Her mother didn’t understand, couldn’t. How could she? How could anyone? The love she shared with Bucky wasn’t something that could be explained in simple words or the framework of time. It wasn’t about waiting until after the war — it was about the now. It was about carving a life together, even if that life was destined to be brief. It was about this moment. And if the war did its worst, she needed to know the world would remember their love.

“Maybe there won’t be an after,” she whispered, almost to herself, the weight of the words heavier than she intended.

Her mother paused, the hairspray can still in her hand, but didn’t turn to look at her. Instead, she leaned in, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s head, the warmth of the gesture lingering long after she pulled away. She returned to her task, the silence between them thick with unsaid things. Her mother didn’t have to say anything. She knew the question was unanswerable, the truth too raw to put into words.

The memory had been burning its way into her thoughts since the moment she woke up that morning. Over the years, the pain had dulled – god knows it had been long enough. But on days like today it felt like the pain all came flooding back – like she hadn’t moved forward from that day, and all the tragedy that followed, at all. It was her second least favourite day of the year: their wedding anniversary.

“Penny for your thoughts?” A familiar voice interrupted her self-pity from the doorway of her office. He knew what day it was. And she was certain he was here to make sure she wasn’t spiralling into the familiar, unending depths of grief she had been known to inhabit.

She mustered a small smile, relief creeping over her features as he walked in and sat in the chair opposite her. “Just reminiscing.” She typed quickly, finishing the email she absolutely had to send now, before giving her full attention to the Captain.

“Seventy-four years, huh? Hard to believe.” Steve leant back in the chair, his hands clasped neatly over his lap. She could feel him examining her every move, looking for signs of weakness no doubt. He continued; “How’re you holding up?”

She sighed. “I’m doing okay, Steve. Going to visit his grave later… if you want to join?” 

“I wouldn’t want to impose–”

She shook her head at him, cutting him off with a gentle firmness. “Nonsense, Stevie. You’re never imposing. We’ll go to the cemetery and then grab some italian from that place in Brooklyn?” 

He nodded, his features softening. He knew that her insistence was not her being kind – it was an unspoken way of asking him not to leave her alone. “Italian it is.”

A sharp knock on the door interrupted their moment. The agent standing in the doorway straightened, a look of respect on his face. “Sorry to disturb you, Commander. Fury’s requesting your presence in his office.”

Her gaze flicked up from the papers in front of her, her expression shifting from the kind, friendly one that Steve was used to, to the calm professionalism of the former head of SHIELD and current Commander. “I’ll be right there, Agent. Thank you.” 

She stood up from her desk, the movement deliberate, Steve following her lead. “Sorry, Steve. Duty calls.” Her tone softened slightly, but still carried the weight of someone used to giving orders.

“Right you are, Commander.” He smirked, a teasing glint in his eyes.

She rolled her eyes at him but couldn’t suppress a small, fond smile. Her heels clicked down the hall, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet office. Left behind in the silence, Steve reached for the photo frame on her desk, his fingers brushing over the glass as he studied the picture. 

Both of his best friends, looking the happiest they’d ever been. Him, too, standing to the right of Bucky. He still considered it one of the greatest honours of his life, to have been Bucky’s best man -- to stand at the altar as his two best friends committing their lives to one another.

Back when each other was all they had. They always had an extra inhaler on hand for him, just in case, and secret codewords for when he wasn’t feeling well, so he didn’t have to explain his chronic health conditions to anyone else. When she wasn’t commander, she was just (y/n), and when she wasn’t visiting Bucky’s grave instead of celebrating an anniversary they should’ve spent old and grey together.

Back when they were just kids, ready to be shipped off to war. 

The church was full, but it might as well have been empty. It was just the two of them at that moment. Just Bucky and her, standing at the altar in front of their family and friends, yet none of that mattered. Everything else — the wedding guests, the flowers, the music — faded away, leaving only the man in front of her.

Her hands were trembling, but she didn’t think he noticed. She tried to keep her mind away from the next steps, from the inevitable. They had no idea what would happen when they were shipped off to the other side of the world. Neither of them did. This moment was all they had.

Bucky stood tall in his uniform, as handsome as she remembered from their first meeting, when he had looked at her with those wide brown eyes and a grin that made her stomach flip. His strong hands gripped hers tightly, like he was afraid to let go. His jaw was tight, his shoulders squared — he was trying to hold it together, just like she was.

The minister spoke, but her attention was fixed on him. The slight furrow of his brow, the way his mouth turned down in concentration, the way he steadied his breath before every word. She wanted to reach out, pull him into her arms, and whisper that everything would be fine. But she couldn’t lie to him. She couldn’t promise that.

"Do you, James Buchanan Barnes, take (y/n) to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for better or worse, in war and in peace, as long as you both shall live?" The minister's voice was deep, but it seemed so far away.

Bucky’s grip tightened on her hand. "I do."

The weight of that simple phrase hung in the air between them, pulling at the corners of her heart. The words were not just an affirmation of love, but a promise — one that would either be honoured in the years to come, or one that would be broken by the unforgiving hands of fate.

The minister turned to her, his eyes kind, yet somber. She swallowed hard, forcing the lump in her throat down as her hands shook. "And do you, (y/n), take James Buchanan Barnes to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for better or worse, in war and in peace, as long as you both shall live?"

"I do."

The minister smiled softly, as though understanding what they were really asking of each other — what they were really saying. This wasn’t just a wedding. It was a promise, forged in the fires of uncertainty, that they would try to carry their love into whatever came next, whether that was days, months, or years.

Bucky squeezed her hands once, then brought them up to his lips, kissing the back of her hand gently. She saw the soft smile on his lips, the one that always made her feel like the luckiest woman in the world. She smiled back, even though the pit in her stomach had only deepened.

"By the power vested in me by the State of New York," the minister continued, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

Her heart thudded in her chest as Bucky gently cupped her face in his hands. His eyes searched hers for just a moment, full of a hundred unspoken words. Then, he leaned down, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that tasted like heaven and heartbreak. He kissed her like he was memorising the feel of her, like he wasn’t sure when he’d be able to do it again.

Got held up in a meeting, I’ll meet you at the cemetery? The text blinked on her phone screen. She sighed, slipping her coat on and locking her office door. She hadn’t really wanted to go by herself, but she didn’t mind. She knew he would keep his word.

She stepped into the cool New York air, letting the crisp bite of it settle in her lungs. She could have taken a cab, but today, she decided to walk. The weather, the perfect chill she had once shared with Bucky, should have brought some comfort. They had always loved walking on days like this – finishing with a steaming hot cup of cocoa from Marcels’ street cart. She could almost taste it, even though Marcel and his cart were long gone. Today, it was different. The cold air was suffocating, like a reminder that she would never have that again.

She got there quicker than she intended to, having realised she was marching there. The squeak of the poorly-maintained gate interrupted the eerie silence of the cemetery, even the wind barely stirring the trees. Not even the noise of the traffic dared to encroach on this hallowed ground, as if the outside world was shut out.

Her feet moved on their own, guided by the kind of muscle memory that only comes from years of repetition. She didn’t need to think about where she was going—she had walked these paths so many times, the route was etched into her mind. She had come here hundreds, maybe thousands, of times.

The last slivers of sunlight were fading, casting long, stretching shadows over the gravestones, highlighting the one she was here to see. 

Sgt. James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes Gave his tomorrow for our today. 1917 - 1945

Looking at the familiar stone, she felt the weight of the world pressing into her shoulders. She didn’t cry here these days – she couldn’t bring the tears to fall. It felt more like her heart was being plunged into an ice bath and held until it screamed for air.

“Hi, handsome.” She smiled, touching the top of the stone, ever so lightly. She had noticed, the past few times she had come, that there was a little dip in the stone where she had touched the stone every time she came to visit for the last seventy years. Another reminder of how long she had been alone. 

She remembered him at the altar, standing tall as her father walked her down the aisle. He had been a strapping young man, full of strength and kindness, with an unshakable need to protect those around him. She had adored his Sergeant’s uniform — the way it spoke of everything he had endured, his unwavering dedication, and the spirit that had always driven him. It was that same uniform he wore when he became her husband, in that perfect moment when she thought maybe everything would be okay.

And then, last year, she had seen it again — his uniform — displayed at the Smithsonian exhibition. The sight of it, the memory of him in it, hit her like a punch to the gut. She had barely managed to hold it together long enough to step away, stumbling to the bathroom where she had collapsed in front of the sink, choking back bile.

A sudden shift caught her attention – the crunch of a footstep. There hadn’t been anyone else here. Her instincts kicked in before her mind could process the danger. Her hand dropped to her side where her concealed knife rested, fingers brushing the hilt as she turned on her heel. 

A shadow at the edge of the cemetery. The figure stepped into the rapidly dimming light, revealing a man clad in dark tactical gear, his face obscured by a mask and goggles. A glinting silver arm by his side. It wasn’t the kind of thing you wore to visit a graveyard.

For a moment, as they locked eyes, there was nothing but silence. She thought, just for a second, that there was something familiar about him. There was a stiff hesitance in his actions – his face turned briefly from her to the gravestone she was visiting. It wasn’t the right time to think about it, and she wasn’t one to say no to an advantage in a fight.

In one fluid motion, she drew her blade and without missing a beat, she moved. She sprinted towards him, adrenaline surging in her veins, and threw herself in a roll to the side. The assailant’s reaction was immediate – his metal arm shot out to intercept, but she was quicker. She ducked low and spun around, coming up on his left side and launching a series of precise strikes.

Her knife aimed for his throat, but he blocked it effortlessly with his metal arm, the screech of metal against metal echoing in the still air.

The man moved quickly, the metal arm slashing towards her with terrifying speed. She dodged to the side, her own body moving like a blur but narrowly avoiding the strike. She retaliated immediately, aiming a series of rapid strikes at his torso, testing his defences once again.

His reactions were sharp, almost inhumanly so. Faster than anyone she had ever seen. She managed to keep pace with his dizzying movements, moving with the fluidity of someone who had done this dance many times before.

She threw another jab, hitting his side. It did nothing – she hadn’t managed to land an effective attack yet, and she was one of the best in SHIELD at hand-to-hand. There was something not right here, something she was missing… 

Taking advantage of her failed hit, his boot connected with her chest, sending her crashing against one of the gravestones. She hit the ground hard, but didn’t stay there – she rolled with the momentum, popping back to her feet smoothly, eyes never leaving her opponent.

He lunged forward, slashing upwards with his knife. She screamed as it made contact with her cheekbone, her hand moving up to cover her new wound and wincing at the claret staining it as she pulled away. She tried to ready herself for his next move, but with the distraction, he was too fast. His strikes were brutal, calculating, each one designed to incapacitate. She was no stranger to close combat but she struggled to match him blow for blow, as the fight dragged on.

She began to feel the weight of her exhaustion. The assailant was relentless, she would give him that. Like a force of nature. She couldn’t help but feel more and more that the odds were stacking against her. As she tired, the attacker only seemed to get quicker and stronger.

With one miscalculation, she found herself pinned to the ground, his boot pressing into her chest, the cold metal of his arm looming over her. She desperately gasped for breath, struggling beneath his weight as she began to feel her ribs crack – the harder she struggled, the tighter his grip seemed to get.

“Get off!” She shouted, desperate to break free. Her words only seemed to fuel his determination. Maybe this is it, she thought. She took a glance at Bucky’s grave – maybe they would finally be together again. 

As her struggles became weaker and weaker, a haze reached around the edge of her vision. A red, white and blue blur collided with the attacker’s side, sending him stumbling back off of her chest.

“HEY!” Steve’s voice was like the heralding of an angel. She gasped in a breath of relief as the pressure on her chest finally released.

She scrambled up, her heart still hammering – her chest in immeasurable pain. Steve stood between her and the assailant as she felt like she was hacking up half a lung and at least part of her heart. 

“You good?” He called back to her, his eyes unmoving from the man in front of them. The man who previously had been ready to kill her, but now seemed to be showing hesitation once again. She could only cough and splutter in return, but it meant she was breathing at least.

The moment of hesitation passed. 

With a growl, the attacker lunged again, attacking Steve with a fury that made her blood run cold. But Steve was ready. He met the assault with precision, using his shield to parry each blow, his movements fluid and practiced.

The attacker didn’t manage to get through Steve’s defences in the way he had hers, no longer able to use physical strength as an advantage. With a sickening crack, Steve’s shield slammed into the side of his head.

It was a move that would’ve knocked an ordinary man out cold, at the very least. But their assailant simply shook his head, as if trying to clear it. His eyes seemed to lock onto her for a brief moment, and then, in the blink of an eye, he darted back, disappearing into the shadows.

Steve and her both froze, staring at the empty space where he had been.

“What the hell was that?” She muttered, trying desperately to catch her breath. Her legs shook from the adrenaline, and Steve finally tore his eyes away to look at his friend. 

His jaw tightened as he scanned the area. “I don’t know, I’ve never seen anyone move like that.” He turned to her, “Are you hurt?”

“Cut to the face, at least a couple of broken ribs.” She wheezed. “Who the hell was that, and what did they want from me? Why did he run?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, but it definitely wasn’t a random thug. That was a highly trained killer. And whoever he is or whatever he works for, they clearly want you gone.”

She shook her head. “If they wanted me gone, why wouldn’t they have just positioned a sniper above the cemetery. This felt personal, Steve.”

He grimaced. There was something deeply troubling about the whole affair. Attacking a widow at her husband’s grave, that wasn’t a coincidence, it was a message. Nothing was sacred, and nowhere is safe.

“We need to go.” He put his arms around her, helping her along as she continued to splutter and cough. She threw one last look back at Bucky’s grave, her own blood splashed across it. Something about the imagery made her shudder.

“You’re not going back to your own apartment, (y/n). You can stay with me.” Steve’s voice was firm, with a strong undercurrent of concern – it was clear that he wasn’t asking, just telling. Normally, she would protect, argue that she needed her space. But after the terrifying encounter in the cemetery, the weight of everything – the fight, the fear, the haunting glimpse of the man sent to kill her – maybe it was for the best that she wasn’t alone.

She tilted her head, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’m technically your superior, Captain. You can’t give me orders.” The teasing edge was there, but it was tired, the last remnants of her usual strength finally slipping away.

Steve chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. But there was something in his eyes that told her he wasn’t going to let her play that game tonight.

“Unfortunately, Commander,” he replied, his tone playful but insistent. “I promised my best friend I would look after his wife for the rest of my days before he left for Europe. And that trumps any kind of hierarchy said wife finds herself at the top of.”

She smirked, recalling the days before – before everything went wrong, before there was a permanent hole in her life that took the shape of Bucky Barnes. Before the war. Before everything.

Her smile faltered just slightly as she shifted on the couch, wincing from the pain in her chest. Steve was quick to step closer, his hands hovering near her, ready to help.

“You’re sure you don’t need a doctor?” He asked, his voice quieter now, more like the Steve she had once known – concerned and kind, but with an edge of the stoic man who had seen too much and lost too many.

She shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment. “I’ve broken my ribs a thousand times, Stevie. They can’t do anything but pain management.”

There was no bitterness in her voice, just a simple fact. Her body had carried the marks of war for longer than she cared to count – bruises, scars and the slow, agonising wear of decades spent in battle. They say time heals all wounds, but she had enough marks – physical and mental – to prove that wrong.

He sat down beside her, his frown deepening. “What about the cut on your face?” He asked gently, his eyes scanning the healing wound on her cheek. “Looks like it’s going to scar.”

She reached up slowly, brushing her fingers over the cut, the jagged line that would probably never fade. “Just add it to the list, I guess.” she said quietly. Her voice was light, but there was a hardness in it. She was weary after fighting for so long – fighting to survive, fighting for what’s right, fighting to honour a love that was taken from her before it had a chance to bloom.

Seventy years. And yet, in some ways, she still felt like that woman in the secondhand dress marrying Sergeant Barnes, praying that her husband would come back to her. 

He didn’t. But she had kept going regardless.

A quiet silence filled the room as Steve stood up, moving around his small Brooklyn apartment. The soft clinking of dishes and the rhythmic sounds of him making tea or coffee or whatever else he could find to busy his hands was soothing, almost like a lullaby. 

She sank back into the cushions, closing her eyes as the pain in her side and the exhaustion in her bones began to catch up with her. She had barely slept the night before, and today had been a nightmare in every definition of the word — a fight with some kind of enhanced being, a near-death experience, and now, Steve was here, keeping her from falling into a darkness she wasn’t sure she could crawl out of alone.

“I’m exhausted,” she murmured, her voice catching slightly. She didn’t need to pretend in front of Steve, not after everything they’d been through.

Steve moved quickly to her side, adjusting the blanket around her, his eyes never leaving her face. He didn’t need to say anything. He simply nodded, a small, concerned smile on his lips as he tucked the blanket around her tighter.

“I’ll stay up,” he said softly, his voice steady and comforting. “Keep an eye out. Sweet dreams, (y/n).”

“Thanks, Stevie.” she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut as the exhaustion overwhelmed her.

Her dreams, as they always did, were filled with memories of Bucky. The sound of his laugh, the way he held her hand on their wedding day, the way his arms had felt around her when they said goodbye. And then, the last time she had seen him — the last moment, frozen in time, before everything changed.

“Guess this is it, huh?” His voice was low, filled with both sorrow and resolve.

“So much for a honeymoon.” She smiled, sadly, her fingers brushing over the collar of his uniform. “I just wish I could come with you.”

Bucky let out a heavy sigh, his hands still resting on her face, his thumbs gently stroking her cheeks. “You will. In your own way. You’re going to make a difference, (y/n). You’re gonna help save lives.” His voice cracked slightly as he spoke, and she felt it deep in her bones.

"And you’ll be back," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince him or herself. "You’ll come back to me."

Bucky gave a faint smile, though it was bittersweet. "I’m coming back," he promised, but the weight of it hung between them. "I swear it."

All she could focus on was the warmth of his touch, the strength of his hand holding hers, the slight tremble in his fingertips that betrayed the fear he wasn’t letting anyone see. The two of them stood there, hand in hand, while the world around them celebrated a union that felt both like the beginning of something beautiful and the end of something they couldn’t protect from the violence of war.

I promised, didn't I! Thank you to everyone who voted on my WIP poll, it was super informative!

Reminder you can join my taglist via the google form here <3 Special thank you to @ironwinnerwonderland who specifically requested Bucky Barnes on the form!

Masterlist

[fandomscombine]

New Kid

Spencer Reid x Reader

BG: It’s your first day at the BAU and meeting the team. The team is surprised with how you’re hitting it off with a certain Doctor but what they don’t know is that a bigger surprise is yet to come.  

A/N: My first Criminal Minds/Spencer Reid Fic! It’s been sitting in my drafts for over a year now and finally tied an ending together. (Are we over a 2-year writing slump? We’ll see!)

Honestly it’s pure season 1/season 2 team fluff crack and chaoticness! Wanted to capture the early seasons team dynamics. Hope you all enjoy!

Fun fact, it’s all the Spencer Reid x Reader fics that kept popping in my recommendations that I started reading and falling in love with Reid prior to starting the show!

WC: 1307

>>>GENERAL MASTERLIST<<<

>>>CRIMINAL MINDS MASTERLIST<<<

This is it. Your first day as a Special Agent in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Growing up reading detective stories and solving mysteries were your favorite pastimes. 

You’re grateful for having a family environment that was supportive of your thirst for knowledge and endless curiosity.

The receptionist has informed you that the team is waiting for you upstairs, ready to give your orientation tour.

"Thanks." You replied, half mildly picking at your nails. In just an elevator ride away, you'd be in the midst of the smartest profilers alive. And nothing goes unnoticed – that you know very well.

A vibration in your pocket breaks your thoughts. A smile slips to your face. 

"Stop picking at your fingers." The voice on the other line says.

"Hello to you dad." You can't help but roll your eyes. "I wasn't even–" You look down at your left hand. Shit. "How'd you even know?" 

"I just do, I watched you grow up for 25 years." 

"Yea yea."

"Hey kid, sorry I couldn’t be there—“

“You’ve got a whole auditorium full of nerds dying to hear your lectures, I understand.” The door in front of you opens and you step inside.

“Thanks kid. I’ll make it up to you. How does an extra large, extra saucy lasagne sound?”

“Oooh yes, don’t forget with extra cheese!” The monitors indicate: 3/F, 4/F, 5/F.  “By the way, you’ve told them right?” As you step out, you spot a group of agents handled near the department entrance. “Anyway I’ll see you later, gotta go. Bye.” Quickly cutting the line off, not wanting to seem unprofessional, chatting on the phone.

“Special Agent y/m/n?” Said the brunette.

You opted to be referred to by your first and Mother’s maiden name, when you first started out. Wanting to stand on your own merits and making a name for yourself.

“That’s me.” 

“Special Agent Greenaway, this is Agent Jareau, and Agent Garcia.” You shake hands with the two agents “Call me JJ” 

But you are quickly engulfed into a hug by the third, which you have to admit took you by surprise.  “You can call me Penelope.-- Opps sorry, just excited to have another female member in the team!” You give her a warm smile, patting her shoulder, “No worries, Penelope. Just caught me off-guard.”

“Come on, let’s meet the rest of the team.” JJ says, leading you all into the bullpen.

“So this would be your desk right here” points Agent Greenaway. “Which is right across from Agent Morgan–”

“Derek, Derek Morgan m’ beautiful lady.” cuts in the man. 

You can’t help but blush from the compliment. “You always flirt with the new kid, huh Derek?” You challenge, playing off his energy. 

“Ignore him,” 

“Cmon’ Elle. It’s all good fun!”

Elle directs you to a hunched figure behind Derek.

“This is our resident genius, Dr. Spencer Reid.”  She points to Reid, who is preoccupied with a lego model to have noticed the group. 

“Dr. Reid! I’ve heard so much about you!” Reaching out your hand, to grab his attention. His head instantly shoots up, eager to know the culprit who distracted him from finishing this model of the Delorean and give them a piece of his mind.

“Hey! I was just finishing -.” His voice trails off upon realizing that A. it wasn’t one of his teammates making fun of his legos but instead a face he doesn’t recognize and B. feeling bad on being the reason why your bright smile turned into a frown. “Oh Sorry! Sorry Ms–”

“y/m/n” Your father had shared stories about the team, especially Spencer, his protege. He was the person you were most excited to meet, though with this first interaction - you were discouraged with how it went. Perhaps you shouldn’t have run multiple scenarios on how you’d wow the team with such high standards. 

Dropping your arm, eager to quickly change the subject, you turn to Elle. “ So what cases do we –”

“y/m/n? As in y/f/n y/m/n!?” Spencer exclaims, his eyes wide. Big hand gestures dancing through the air as he raved.  “ The author of ‘The Correlation Between The Probability of Sudden Adult Anger Outburst and Childhood Familial Upbringing.’ ?

You’d had your thesis quoted back to you by professors and peers, but never with such childlike wonder written all-over Spencer’s face, making you blush. “Yes! But how -”

“I’ve read so much about you! Your work, I mean.” Spencer isn’t normally affected by how he’s perceived by others. Spitting out facts in the speed of light is synonymous to his identity and it’s nothing he’s ashamed of. But it's rare to have someone beautiful and intelligent be into the same niche interests that he has. Spencer only has one shot on not coming on as weird and it’s not going well, so he elaborates.  “I got it from Gideon’s pile. I picked it up on a whim but your writing is spectacular! I read through it in 12 mins!”

“Wait, you read through my 250 page dissertation in under 12 mins?” You questioned, looking around the team to check if you’ve misheard. 

“Affirmative. It would have been faster, but I was jotting down some notes.”

“Notes, huh?” Crossing your arms, the paper had gone through multiple reviews from your professors before submission. It should be damn near perfect. “Alright, Doctor Reid. I’m interested, how about you show me your notes over coffee?”

“Actually…” Spencer raised his finger, interjecting. “It might take a bit longer than an hour and I would love to dig into your brain. Perhaps we could go over it at dinner?”

“Name the time and place.” You grabbed the nearest post-it and quickly wrote down your phone number. “Now will you excuse me, I believe I’m late for my introductory meeting with Agent Hotchner.” 

With that you broke away from the make-shift team circle and headed you to Hotch’s office, leaving the team still frozen in their spot.

Derek was the first to speak. “Did pretty boy just ask out the new girl without stuttering and succeed?”

“Good, so everyone else witnessed that too right?” Added Penelope. 

JJ nodded in agreement, too stunned to speak as if it would break the illusion.

“What?” Spencer’s voice cracked. “I simply asked if we could compare notes!”

“No. Technically she initiated it.” Elle clarified.

Shaking his head, Spencer eyes trailed to the now closed Hotch’s door. 

“Yea, to which you effortlessly turned from coffee date to a dinner date!” Exclaimed Derek, earning Spencer a pat on the back. “The boy’s got game!”

“It’s not a date! At least I don’t think it is - I bet she doesn’t see me that way. Nobody does.” Spencer sighs, sulking back down to his seat. Reality catching up to him by the second, erasing any hope that a woman like you would have any romantic interest in a nerd like him. 

“Trust me kid.” Come a voice, effectively cutting Reid’s thoughts. Gideon nonchalantly walks up to the empty desk marked “Agent y/n y/m/n”, moves the box of your belongings to make space for  what seems to be a plastic bag of takeaway. “You're her type.” 

“What?” Spencer asks, more confused than ever. The looks across the team’s face reflect his own reaction. “And how would you know that?” 

“With all due respect, sir.” Added JJ, careful not to overstep. “You haven’t seen y/n and you got all that from her untouched desk?”

“Yea Gideon, we know you’re good but you can’t be that good!”

Gideon brushed off Derek’s brassiness and smirked. Proceeding to head up to his office, finally addressing the group only halfway up the steps. “I know, cause she's my daughter.”

“WHAT?!” exclaimed the BAU team, who once again found themselves frozen by a member of the Gideon family.

[roguerambles]

A Moment of Respite

Blood of Zeus - Heron x Hera's!Daughter Reader

Warnings - 18+Only.

I've had this sitting in my drafts for ages and I want to get it out before I try any Season 2 stuff. Plus I just like the idea of these two, okay--

Kind of a Part 4 to Trouble.

Enjoy the Rambles!

-

Training was not going well.

You cringed as Heron flew across the arena, crashing into the sands with a pained groan. The automaton returned to its standing position dispassionately, and beside you Zeus sighed heavily.

It had been days since Mother had left Olympus, taking some of the other Gods of Olympus with her to the Underworld. Hades had apparently allowed them sanctuary, although he declared he would be taking no further involvement than that.

...your wrist ached as the memory of Mother’s hand grasping you, Hera and Zeus’s raised voices, Mother’s betrayed expression melting into a fury you had never had directed at you before flashed across your mind.

You had chosen to stay on Olympus, and Mother and Ares had left, others at their heels.

“Zeus.” Hephaestus spoke from behind you, his voice low and gruff. “This isn’t working.”

Zeus’s jaw clenched as Heron went hurtling across the arena once more, kicking up a dust cloud of sand as he crashed into the ground with a loud, painful sounding thump. “He needs to unlock his potential.” His large hands gripped the stonework of the balcony in front of him. “Soon.”

You were not much of a warrior, but you were fairly certain that if Hephaestus’s contraptions broke every bone in Heron’s body, that would be rather counterproductive to improving Heron’s combat efficiency.

As Zeus and Hephaestus continued to bicker in hushed voices, you felt a warm presence appear at your side. Apollo sighed as he leaned against the balcony, peering down into the training ground where Heron stumbled to his feet once more.

“He doesn’t give up, at least.”

“Is this really the best approach?” You nervously played with your hands as you watched Heron get up and be knocked down, over and over.

Apollo shrugged. “Athena is too busy preparing the defences, and Ares is with Hera. We don’t have a lot of options, training wise.”

You both continued to watch for a while, and you could feel your stomach sinking the longer it went on. Heron barely glanced your way.

You had not spoken since the night Mother had left, but the memory of Heron shocked expression as he looked at you – really looked at you – and the blind panic it had created in you made your stomach churn. You had fled to your room and would probably still be there if Hermes hadn’t forced you out.

“You should say hello.”

Your head snapped around to stare at Apollo, you was still looking out over the balcony. “I should what?”

“You should go over and talk to him.” Apollo replied casually, as though he were suggesting something completely normal. “The staring is getting a little old.”

“I am not—I am not staring.”

“Heron!” Apollo called out abruptly, loudly, and to your horror Heron actually looked up towards you. “Would you like some water? We have plenty over here—”

You turned to flee somewhere far, far away, only for Hermes – where in Tartarus did he come from – to appear, blocking your way with a small, but noticeable smile.

Traitor!

Zeus sounded displeased. “Interruptions are not—”

Apollo grabbed his father’s arm and began tugging him towards the stairs, so suddenly Zeus stumbled. “You are correct, Father, we should check the equipment on the other side of the arena—”

Zeus looked confused as Hermes joined Apollo in practically dragging the King down the stairs. Hephaestus rolled his eyes and stalked towards the automaton, muttering something about “those bloody sons of Zeus”. You were rooted to the stop as Heron slowly approached, his head low, as though he were struggling to meet your eye.

Your heart clenched as Heron busied himself gathering water, taking somewhat longer than was required for the task. The silence was so dense you felt it were almost choking you. You scrambled for something, anything, to say, but your mind was a void of disjointed words. I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you. I couldn’t tell you. Please don’t be angry. I’m sorry for Electra, I’m so—

“…you’re short.”

You were yanked from your frazzled thoughts when Heron finally said something. You looked at him in confusion, while Heron cringed, looking frustrated with himself. “I…pardon?”

“I just mean….” Heron rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but directly at you. “You…the others are….you look different. Not bad, you’re beautiful, I just mean—”

“Oh. Oh! Right, yes, well, I wasn’t born like the rest of them. Mother—she made me out of clay.” Heron lifted his head to stare at you blankly. You felt your cheeks burn. “It is…unusual, I know.”

“…I’m sorry, was that rude—”

“No, no, not at all, you should hear how Apollo and Artemis were born—”

Silence fell over you again as you both fumbled over your words. You were torn between fleeing the arena altogether and staying exactly where you were because awkward or not you and Heron were talking. Over his shoulder you could see Zeus and Hephaestus by the automaton, and knew Heron would be pulled away soon. You inhaled deeply, steeling your nerves. I am the Queen of the Heavens daughter, by the Fates, act like it. “Heron….I am so sorry. About…about your mother.”

Heron looked pained, his fingers clenching around the waterskin in his hand. “…it was Hera, wasn’t it?”

It wasn’t a question, and you both knew it. You bowed your head, yours eyes beginning to sting. Do not cry. This isn’t about you.

“…yes.” You forced out, your throat feeling thick. “Heron…Heron, I know it’s not enough, but I’m sorry—”

“Why?” Heron cleared his throat, tossing the waterskin down. “It’s not your fault. You weren’t even there.”

“But….” You bit your lip. “Mother…I mean… Hera is—”

“Your mother, I know.” Heron wasn’t quite looking at you again, but he didn’t sound angry. Grief clung to his voice, and you fought the impulse to reach for his hand. “And Zeus is my…father. That alone made mother and I targets for Hera’s wrath. You had nothing to do with it.”

“Heron—”

Heron started to laugh.

You faltered, and watched as Heron hurriedly clamped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide as though startled by his own reaction. “I…I am sorry.” He choked out, eyes wide even as you caught glimpse of a mirthful smile behind his fingers. “Please…please continue…”

Your anxiety was briefly overpowered by confusion. “What…what is so amusing…?”

Heron’s shoulders began to shake. “I…I assumed your parents would disapprove of me.” He said, and the words seemed to break something in him. He doubled over, grasping his knees, eyes squeezing shut as he began to laugh even harder. “Now…now it turns out your mother is Hera. And…and I am the bastard son of her philandering husband….!”

You stared owlishly at him as his laugh grew louder – you could see Zeus and Hephaestus watching from the side-lines, their expressions suggesting concern that the automaton had hit Heron harder than they had feared.

“That’s…well yes, that is….Heron….Heron, it’s not funny!”

Heron tried to reply, but it came out as a wheeze. “I…gods…I had no idea…!”

You could feel a smile beginning to creep onto your face and tried to squash it, but Heron’s laughter was infectious, and was the most happy you’d seen him in…well, a while. “Well…no, I suppose…I suppose you are not what my mother would consider an ideal suitor…”

That brought on another wave of near hysterical laughter, and you found yourself giggling along with Heron, until you were both cackling like lunatics in the middle of the arena. You slumped against Heron’s shoulder, clamping a hand over your mouth as you saw Zeus heading towards you both.

“…if you are both finished?” He asked dryly, his eyebrows raised. Heron’s laughter stuttered to a stop, but he didn’t move away from you, the feeling of his body against yours leaving warmth against your skin.

You reluctantly straightened up, brushing away non-existent creases in your dress. “I suppose….” You gestured wordless at the arena. Zeus eyed you cautiously, before clearing his throat and turning back towards the automaton, as though he were examining it. Heron rolled his eyes slightly as you bit down a chuckle – you supposed he was trying to give you both a moment.

“Wish me luck.” Heron gripped his sword, his free hand rising to sheepishly rub his neck. “I think I’ll need a fair share of it…”

You laughed slightly, reaching out to gently pat his arm. He smiled in response, before sighing and trudging after Zeus.

“I think that went well.” Hermes said cheerfully from behind you. You nearly jumped out of your skin. “Don’t you think that went well, Apollo?”

“Indeed!” The Sun God chirped, appearing at your side. “See? All is well that ends well.”

“You two do remember…” Artemis sighed from somewhere behind you – when did she get here? – “…the approaching civil war, yes?”

“Small victories, dearest sister.”

You flushed and turned to stride back towards the stands, while Hermes and Apollo snickered to themselves. Artemis rolled her eyes as you sat beside her, although a small, teasing smile began to tug at her mouth. “Although….I did notice he didn’t deny it when you described him as a suitor.”

“Artemis!”

You blushed furiously as the Goddess of the Hunt laughed, and your stubbornly kept your gaze ahead, focusing on Heron on the sands below, feeling just a little bit lighter than before.

[therogueflame]

The Twins and One

So here is an idea for a fic that I shared with an incredible writer and mutual, @aeralux. (She will be waking up to 100 notifications but oh well.) I wanted to share it with you, and get your opinion on whether I should start writing. Please know that I have not written in years, and that this is a very, very rough draft. This dialogue came to me while I was driving. This is not done, and will be expanded on either by me or Aera.

Update (1/8/2025): Check out the final version HERE!

cregan stark x wife!reader x FraternalTwin!jace

Warnings: A little more than suggestive, targcest, cuckholding, impending threesome.

MDNI!!!

🤍

it was the hour of the wolf. Jace walks the cold halls of winterfell, missing the warmth of the south, and the warmth of his family. he is wrapped in a borrowed wolf fur coat, from cregan, and it is about two sizes too large for him. his sword rests at his hip, and he holds the hilt as a sort of reassurance.

his mind is racing with thoughts of war and thoughts of you. for the first time in his life, he has spent more than a moon's turn from his beloved twin sister. it had been six months since jace had escorted you north for your wedding to cregan. he knew this day would come someday, but he did not think it would be so shortly after your twentieth nameday. cregan stark is a good man, and is one of the crown's closest allies. jace and cregan were like brothers, but he could not help to think that he should have been your husband instead.

growing up, you always explored each other's bodies. you came into the world as one, and were practically attached at the hip. "one soul, two bodies," became a pointed remark at the red keep, meant to call out how often you were found at each other's side, but you and jace embraced it. it was true. you were his confidant, his sister, the more brazen flame compared to his tempered one. you were his lover.

as he walks, his thoughts run wild over the last time he saw you in front of him. the curve of your breasts complimenting the curve of your waist. your hair not a rich brown like his, but the same as your mother's - as pale as the moon on its fullest night. your eyes the palest purple seen in the family, reflecting your undeniable heritage.

you were his and he was yours.

he is snapped back into reality as he passes your chambers, noises coming from within them. weary and restless, jace pushes the thick door swiftly open, fully expecting you to be struggling with a dangerous man for your life. without a second thought, and before the situation is fully realized, he unsheaths his sword, ready to defend you from whoever could be harming you. and then there you are. while you are admist a struggle with a dangerous man, it is not for your life.

cregan looks up at the interruption, but seems unphased. his large body is over yours, his palms next to your head as he prepares to thrust into you. you tilt your head back towards the door, the world upside down.

"Jace?" you murmur. Cregan sits back on his knees, not bothering to cover you or himself up.

"Are you going to stand there like a frail pup or are you going to join us?" Cregan asked, and your eyes shot up to him. before you could say anything, cregan continued. "Your dear sister told me about what it was like growing up with you." You blush heavily. "Targaryens and their queer customs. But tradition is tradition. And us northmen are big on tradition."

Jace stands there, mouth wide open, not sure what to say.

"Jace, if you are going to stand and watch, could you at least shut the door?" Jace scurries to shut the door and put his sword back, clearly still shocked at the situation he has found himself in.

"Come, my young prince," cregan says as he gets up, "i want to see how you pleasured her in the south. She is always saying how much she misses you."

You roll over to your stomach as Cregan walks over to clap a hand on Jace's shoulder.

"My dear brother, I do not think I have ever seen you so speechless." you tease.

Jace looks at you, and then Cregan, and then back to you.

"Are you sure?" he looks more nervous than he did the day he claimed Vermax.

"It'll be just like old times, brother. You always did have your way with me, it will just include my other favorite man this time." you purr.

You push yourself off the bed, and walk over to where Cregan and Jace are standing. You are just as naked as you were the day you were born, and you know this is his favorite way to see you. You stroke his cheek and breathily kiss his neck. Your hands roam, pushing off his cloak in one motion and beginning to unbutton his tunic. Cregan retreats to the foot of the bed to watch. You smile against Jace's neck as he begins to relax, and you move his hands to the small of your back.

[kingkatsuki]

— when you get him a birthday cake

Masterlist.

It’s been a while and this has sat dusty and half-finished in my drafts for months, so Happy Birthday, Bakugou.🥺

Warnings: none. Pure fluff, not proofread.

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x f!reader.

Word Count: 1.7k.

Bakugou had never really celebrated his birthday, at least not since he was a child. Far too old for children’s party games and toys (although he’d still scour the internet for vintage All Might action figures as a gift to himself, because those most definitely weren’t toys).

But the thing that irritated him more than anything about his special day was the fact that everyone else seemed far more excited about it than him. Masses of texts from his friends, messages online and an influx of gifts from fans all trying to wish him a very Happy Birthday. News outlets and media suddenly in talks with his PR team to try and get an interview with him on the actual day; when truth be told he’d have agreed to it if they’d offered the day before. The tower of paperwork he was trying to work through had become tiresome and he was hoping for a distraction.

How was it that the world seemed more excited about his Birthday than the Number Two hero was himself?

Heaving a sigh as he stopped the incessant blaring of his phone alarm before wincing through tired, narrowed eyes at the bright light of his phone. The screen completely covered in well wishes that seemed to have started when the clock struck twelve. A few trying to coax him out after work for drinks and to celebrate, those he swiftly ignored. It wasn’t until he scrolled down to a message from Mina practically threatening him to go out that he groaned low and deep in his chest; how was it that his friends were trying to dictate how he spent his birthday every damn year? He’d be happy with a bowl of noodles from his favourite hole in the wall and maybe a slice of cake from the quaint bakery he liked to frequent on Sundays. Now he was going to have to stay up late, and probably carry an inebriated Kirishima home.

By the time he’d made it into the office, Bakugou had put his phone onto do not disturb. Sick of the constant stream of messages that didn’t seem to dissipate. Another thing to add to the list of things that irked him about his special day— and he hadn’t even received the call from his Mother yet. Less of a call to send him well wishes, and more an excuse to remind him that he’s another year older and still painfully single and she’s still without a grandchild. Running a palm down the length of his face as he stepped into the elevator to take it up to his floor.

“Good morning, Dynamight,” You smiled from your desk as he walked past, “And happy birthday.”

“Thanks.” He rasped gruffly in response, it was the first time he’d used his voice all morning.

“I left you a coffee on your desk.”

God, you really were the best part about his day.

You were apprehensive when Bakugou walked by with a heavy set frown across is brow. It wasn’t unusual for him to be grumpy this early in the day, the Pro was definitely not a morning person— but he seemed even more annoyed today. And you were positive the influx of gifts that waited for him by the copier would only serve to irritate him more. Especially when a US limited edition All Might figure he’d ordered from overseas as a gift to himself had still not been delivered. Grimacing when you’d checked the tracking when you woke up this morning and noticed it sat in an airport postal office on the outskirts of Kawasaki; you knew he wouldn’t be happy.

And that’s why you were even more nervous for him to see the gift you’d left sitting on his desk. A gift that definitely couldn’t compare from the small fortune he’d spent on himself.

It was difficult thinking about the perfect gift to get a man that could buy himself anything he wanted, even more difficult when the man happened to be your boss. Any time you looked through shop windows at the various fragrances, gift sets and jewellery everything felt too ostentatious, too intimate. Putting down a garish tie that you wondered why you’d even thought about buying, and settling on a single purchase of an All Might themed birthday card you were certain was for children as you decided to make him something instead.

“What the fuck is this?” You heard Bakugou shout from his office and you felt your heart rattle against your ribcage.

Standing from your desk to open the parted door to see him standing in front of your gift. The All Might card already open and displayed on top of his desk as his attention now sat on the open white box that he’d unwrapped.

“It’s uh— a cake.” You smiled softly.

Bakugou raised a brow at your answer as he directed his gaze back to the cake that sat on top of his desk. Three tiers of soft sponge covered in a vibrant orange icing, with black lines decorating it to replicate the crosses that sat against his chest on his hero costume. You’d never claimed to be a baker, the cake nothing like the one you could’ve probably picked up from Bakugou’s favourite bakery. You knew the exact cakes he enjoyed too, but when googling recipes none seemed to be close to your level or expertise.

And what made it worse is the dessert had not travelled well on your morning commute. Holding tightly onto the box while you contended with the Musutafu rush hour had meant that the tiers had now begun to slide out of place as the cake sat leaning inside its box, now looking rather pathetic.

“A cake?” He repeated, his eyes glancing back down at the vanilla sponge that had a messy attempt of ‘Happy Birthday Dynamight’ scrawled across the top. The piping bag had not been kind to you when you attempted the design, wishing the text looked more like your handwriting and less like you’d baked with a four year old. Which was probably what your boss was thinking right now as he stared down at the sweet treat.

“I’m sorry,” You felt your cheeks burn, “I thought it would be a nice idea—”

“Did you make it yourself?” Bakugou asked, although it was clear that you had. Any shop that would dare to even attempt to sell a monstrosity like this should be shut down.

“Well, yeah,” You hovered in place, “I tried to follow the recipe, and I thought it was going well, but I think I put too much buttercream on, and I’m not very good at piping—”

You found yourself rambling, and it just made you feel worse. Reaching over to flip the cardboard lid back over it to take it away and shield yourself from any further embarrassment.

“Are you not going to have some with me?” Bakugou stopped you from closing the lid completely, his crimson eyes full of sincerity.

“Cake for breakfast? It’s not even nine am—”

“So?” He scoffed, “It’s my birthday. If I can’t have cake for breakfast today then what’s the fuckin’ point? Unless you’re trying to kill me—”

“No!” You wanted the ground to swallow you whole, “Does it really look that bad?”

You looked down at the sad, pathetic excuse of a cake. Hard to see all the time, energy and love that went into it when it drooped so pitifully.

“It looks like shit.” He smirked.

“I should’ve just bought one,” You sighed, remembering how pretty all the cakes had been on the online websites you were going to order from before you had the brilliant idea to bake one yourself. Hell, even the cute little cupcakes in the coffee shop you went to each morning looked better than this.

“Nah,” Bakugou shook his head, “It’s perfect.”

It was noon by the time Bakugou had decided to pick the phone up to answer one of his mothers numerous calls to him, eyeing the voicemails that she’d left which no doubt chastised him for not picking the phone up. He’d delete those later.

“Katsuki—” Her voice already had him closing his eyes and rubbing his temple as he settled back in his desk chair. Still better than paperwork— “How hard is it for a mother to wish her son a happy birthday. Don’t you forget that I’m the one who birthed you—”

“Yeah, yeah, Ma. I’m sorry,” He sighed, “Work’s been kickin’ my ass.”

“You shouldn’t be working on your birthday, anyway!” She continued, “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”

“I’ve got too much to do.” He didn’t. The paperwork could wait, and he didn’t have a patrol scheduled this week. His sidekicks eager to find their own positions in the hero rankings so they’d picked up all the available slots, leaving Bakugou in his office.

“All you ever do is work anymore, Katsuki.” She continued, “When are you coming to visit? Your father says he hasn’t heard from you in weeks.”

“I’ll come by soon.” Maybe. He thought.

“You should be spending less time working and more time settling down. You’re not a young man anymore, Katsuki.” Here it comes, “And I want grandchildren while I can still chase after them!”

He scoffed. Even when he was a child Mitsuki still hadn’t been able to catch up with him, but the thought of her running around after his kids had an unfamiliar warmth swirling in his chest.

“It must be lonely, son,” She continued, and for once he stopped to think about it.

“There is someone, Ma—” Bakugou smiled as his eyes looked towards the half eaten cake that sat on the edge of his desk.

If he could ever tell you.

[purifiedclitoris69]

Darkness and Chaos

A/n: I have no idea how long this been sitting in my drafts, but I finally finished it. Bit unedited, hope you all enjoy! Thanks :)

Wanda Maximoff x enhanced!reader

You had always been attuned to the dark—something about shadows called to you from a young age. You first noticed it in fleeting moments, like when the shadows around you seemed to shift with your emotions, with your father's yelling and your mother's crying and both their drinking. It was subtle at first, easily dismissed, until one day, the shadows responded to your will, protecting you from the poison your parents spat. A flick of your hand could send the darkness swirling, you could create solid constructs like weapons and shields, bind enemies with shadow tendrils, teleport through shadows, and even craft illusions to confuse foes, you were an unpredictable force.

It wasn’t long before your abilities attracted the attention of powerful beings—both good and bad. The team had first encountered you during a mission to stop some HYDRA experimentation. you yourself sat in a cell experimenting with dark energy. You had been held captive by HYDRA, forced to use your powers of shadow manipulation for the organization’s twisted ends. However, the moment the Avengers arrived, everything changed. Their mission that quickly spiraled out of control but you helped them without hesitation, shadows erupted from you like a storm, weaving through the battlefield with lethal precision, and taking out the HYDRA agents like you’ve been dreaming of for ages. Your tendrils of darkness restrained enemies, while walls of shadow protected the Avengers from incoming fire. Wanda, immediately sensing your potential, your desperation to be good, reaching out with her magic, she offered you a way out—not just from HYDRA, but from the darkness inside you.

The Avengers wasted no time putting your skills to use. Your shadow manipulation was unlike anything they had seen, with Wanda’s chaos magic, capable of rewriting reality itself, the two of you became the Avengers' secret weapon against threats too powerful for conventional means. Your darkness and her chaos were like a pair of loss lovers beginning to dance. You communicated without words, your powers flowing together. It wasn’t just your powers that made you a powerful duo—it was your connection. You had trained together for months, learning to anticipate each other’s moves, covering for one another’s weaknesses. Where your shadows needed precision and control, Wanda’s chaos magic thrived in unpredictability, giving you both a perfect balance of order and chaos.

In the heat of battle, your synergy was unmatched. Wanda would send waves of crimson magic crashing into your enemies, altering the battlefield in ways no one could predict, while your shadows weaved in and out, creating traps, shields, and devastating strikes from every angle.

Naturally you guys were an inseperable pair outside of the battlefield as well. You were best friendsand everyone on the team knew it. You spend almost every free moment together, whether it's lounging in the common area, cooking meals in the shared kitchen, or training in the gym. But for you, every moment with her is tinged with something more, something you can never quite bring yourself to admit. It’s the little things that get to you—the way she smiles when she catches you stealing the last piece of pizza, or how she lightly nudges you with her shoulder when you’re both watching a movie on the couch, curled up under a blanket. Her laugh, soft and genuine, makes your chest tighten, and sometimes, when she’s not looking, you find yourself staring at her just a little too long, trying to memorize every detail of her face.

You were falling in love with her, hopelessly and utterly in love—but you can’t say it. Not yet, not when it could ruin everything.

Your days are a mix of training, missions, and downtime. During training, the connection you share on the battlefield spills over. You’re so in sync, knowing each other's movements before they even happen. When you spar, it’s like a dance of power all over again, a delicate balance of strength and grace. Sometimes, when you’re caught up in the flow, you’ll catch her eye, and there’s this spark—something just beneath the surface that makes you wonder if she feels it too. But then it passes, and you’re back to being best friends, pretending that the tension isn’t there.

After training, you’ll both collapse onto the floor, breathless and laughing. "I’m getting better," Wanda says, teasing you with a grin.

"You’re still too predictable," you tease back, though you don’t mean it. She’s anything but predictable. Wanda is like a force of nature—fierce and compassionate, more complex than anyone you’ve ever known. It’s what drew you to her in the first place. But you’ve gotten good at hiding your feelings, laughing off the moments that hit a little too close to the truth.

in the evenings, you’ll make dinner together in the compound’s kitchen. Wanda loves experimenting with Sokovian recipes, and you’ve found yourself loving the process too, if only because it means spending more time with her. There’s always a moment when your hands brush as you reach for the same ingredient, or when you stand side by side at the counter, your shoulders touching. You’ll glance at her, and she’ll smile, oblivious to the storm of emotions brewing inside you. Sometimes she'd ask you to just sit at the counter for the company and the insurance so that you wouldn't mess up her 'delicate process,' you'd act annoyed but, it always allowed you to study her more, how she scrunches her nose, the sparkle in her eyes, the way her hair framed her face, anything.

"You're staring again," she says one night, catching you off guard as you chop vegetables.

You freeze, your heart skipping a beat. "Am I?" you say, trying to sound casual, but your voice comes out just a little too tight.

She laughs softly, nudging you playfully with her elbow. "You’re a terrible liar."

You laugh it off, brushing it aside like you always do, but every time you’re near her, the feelings only grow stronger. It’s in the way she looks at you with those piercing eyes, the way she leans into you when she’s tired, like you’re her safe place.

Sometimes, late at night, when the compound is quiet and it’s just the two of you sitting on the couch, you wonder what it would be like to tell her the truth. But then fear creeps in—the fear of losing her, of changing everything. So, you stay quiet. When she gets up to leave, she often lingers, just for a moment, as if she’s waiting for you to say something more. You wonder if she feels the tension too, if maybe she’s waiting for you to make the first move. But then she’ll smile, say goodnight, and disappear down the hallway, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the feeling of her absence like a weight on your chest.

Every now and then, you catch her looking at you differently, her gaze lingering a second too long, her touch softer than it needs to be. You wonder if she’s trying to say something without saying it. But you’re too scared to ask, too scared to risk what you have, so you both continue the dance—best friends on the surface, with so much more bubbling underneath.

The rest of the Avengers don't seem to notice the tension. To them, you and Wanda are just inseparable. They joke about it sometimes—and apart of you feel like Natasha knows, Nat teasingly calling you "Wanda’s shadow" because you're always together. And maybe they're right. You follow her wherever she goes, drawn to her like she’s the only source of light in your world. But none of them know how deep your feelings were, how every laugh, every casual touch, every shared glance twists something inside you.

The hardest moments are when Wanda talks about her past—about Vision, the loss, the pain. She opens up to you in ways she doesn’t with anyone else. You’re the one she trusts, the one she comes to when the weight of it all is too much. And you listen, offering comfort the best way you can, but it kills you inside. Because no matter how close you are, a part of her heart still belongs to someone else. And no matter how much you love her, you’re not sure there’s room for you there.

The mission today is different, saving the universe different.

The sky is ablaze with kree ships, and the ground trembles as waves of invaders pour into the city. You and Wanda arrive together, side by side as always, with the rest of the Avengers already in the heat of battle. Steve's voice crackles through your earpiece: “We need backup—now.”

Your heart races, not just from the battle ahead, but from the proximity to Wanda. The mission is urgent, and your mind is focused, but there’s a constant hum in the background—your feelings for her.

You glance over at her, catching a glimpse of her eyes glowing red as she prepares her magic. She looks determined, fierce, and more beautiful than ever. You shake off the thought, trying to focus on the task at hand.

“They’re teleporting in from somewhere,” you say, scanning the battlefield. “If we shut down the portal, we can stop this.”

Wanda nods, and you can see the same determination mirrored in her expression. “I’ll handle the portal. Cover me,” she says, her voice calm but filled with urgency.

Together, you create a dome of darkness, your shadows rising from the ground and swallowing the battlefield in an inky void. The alien invaders stumble, confused, while Wanda floats upward, her crimson magic intertwining with your shadows. You stay close to her, shadows wrapping around your hands like armor as you dispatch enemies who dare to approach. Your abilities blend effortlessly, like they were made to work in unison. And in a way, maybe they were.

As Wanda’s magic tears through the dimensions, severing the invaders’ connection to their homeworld, you can’t help but steal another glance at her. She’s lost in concentration, her hands moving with precise, graceful motions, and it’s in these moments you’re reminded why you’ve fallen for her. It’s not just her power, not just the way you work together in perfect sync—it’s her heart, her kindness, her courage. You’ve seen her at her most vulnerable, and yet she’s never faltered.

With a final surge of magic, Wanda closes the portal, and the skies clear. The remaining invaders are no match for the rest of the Avengers. As you land beside her, the battle over, the battlefield is eerily quiet.

Wanda looks at you, her red magic flickering around her hands before it fades. She’s smiling softly, the exhaustion of the battle evident, but there’s something else in her eyes—something warm, something that makes your heart skip a beat.

“You did great,” she says, stepping closer. “We always do.”

You chuckle, trying to keep it light. “Only because I’ve got you watching my back.”

Her smile widens, and for a brief moment, the world around you seems to blur. It’s just the two of you now, standing in the aftermath of a battle you won together, like always. But there’s something unspoken between you. You can feel it. It hangs in the air like the only shadow you can’t quite grasp.

Admist the two of your distractions, one of the Kree is able to use the last of it's strengh shooting you twice in the back, one going straight through your abdomen. Wanda's face pales as Natasha quickly finishes of the Kree and you fall into Wanda's arms. You can barely focus, but her presence feels like a lifeline. She cradles your face in her hands, her expression frantic, eyes wide with fear.

“Stay with me,” she pleads, her voice trembling. “You’re going to be okay.”

You can feel the warmth of her hands against your skin, and in that moment, the weight of your unspoken feelings spills over. “Wanda,” you say, your voice barely a whisper, “I need to tell you—”

“Not now, y/n” she interrupts, her voice rising as she tries to keep the panic at bay. “We need to get you out of here first!”

But you can see the truth in her eyes, the fear that lurks beneath her fierce exterior. “I can’t—Wanda, I can’t hold back anymore. I love you. More than you know," you force a pained smile as the tears and burning pain blurr your vision, "I'm in love with you."

For a moment, time seems to freeze. You can see the flicker of hope in her eyes, but it’s quickly replaced by something else—fear, and with that your vision goes black.

"Hurry help! Please!," Wanda screams as the rest of the team rushes over.

"We need to get her on the jet now," Natasha says as Steve pick you up with ease, running you straight to the medical table.

You drift in and out of consciousness, the world around you a haze of sounds and sensations. The dull beeping of machines pulls you back, and when you finally force your eyes open, the sterile light of the medbay greets you. Blinking against the brightness, you focus on the figure by your side—Wanda, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the monitors.

“Y/n?” she whispers standing up, her voice trembling with relief. You try to speak, but your throat feels dry and raw, she quickly hands you a glass of water. She’s leaning closer, her hand holding yours, warm and grounding. “You’re awake. Thank goodness.”

The memories rush back—flashes of battle, the sting of pain, and the way she cradled your face in her hands as the world around you faded, as you finally confessed your love. Panic surges through you. “Wanda, what happened?” you rasp, struggling to sit up, but she gently pushes you back down.

“You were hurt. A Kree shot you.” Her voice is steady, but her eyes betray the storm beneath. “Natasha took care of it. You’re safe now.”

“safe, yeah…” you echo, relief flooding through you. “What about you? Are you okay?”

She nods, but there’s a distance in her gaze, a shadow that lingers just behind her eyes. You want to reach out, to pull her closer and make her feel your warmth, but there’s something heavy in the air—a wall between you.

“Wanda, I—” you start, the urgency of your feelings pressing at the edges of your mind. But before you can finish, she interrupts.

“Y/n, listen. There’s something we need to talk about.” Her tone shifts, the seriousness making your heart drop. You search her face, looking for any sign of what she’s about to say, but all you see is a mix of determination and fear.

"Wanda, what I said, it's true," you gulped down your anxiety, "I justt—"

“I don’t feel the same way,” she says, her voice firm yet shaking slightly. The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, you can’t breathe. “I’m sorry. I care about you, but not like that. We need to focus on being a team...we work better as we are."

Her words pierce through you, each syllable a shard of ice. You feel the warmth of her hands slipping away, and the connection you thought you shared shatters, leaving you raw and exposed. “But I—”

“No, y/n” she cuts you off, her voice rising with a mix of desperation and anguish, "I can't give you what you want. Not in that way, not after everything."

Inside, Wanda is fighting a battle of her own, her heart pounding in her chest. She wants to reach out, to tell you that she feels the same, that she’s been harboring feelings for you since the moment you became friends. But the thought of losing you—the thought of watching you slip away like Vision, like everyone else she’s ever loved—sends a cold wave of terror through her. She remembers the pain of loss, the way it consumed her, the ache that still lingers deep within her soul.

“Wanda, please…” you say, your voice breaking, and her heart aches at the sound. She can see the confusion and hurt in your eyes, and it shatters her inside.

You deserve so much more than a broken person like me, she thinks, forcing a smile that feels like a lie. You deserve someone who can be there for you completely, without fear. But I can’t be that person. I can’t be the reason you’re hurt.

“I just need you to understand,” she says, her voice steadier than she feels. “We can’t cross that line. It’s safer this way.” But as the words leave her lips, she knows they’re a lie. The truth is that she loves you—deeply, but she can’t let herself act on that love. Not now. Not when the fear of loss looms like a shadow, ready to swallow her whole. “I care about you, and I’ll always be here for you,” she adds, trying to keep her voice calm, even as her heart races. “Just… let’s keep it this way.”

You look at her, the hurt in your eyes a mirror of the pain in her heart. She watches as you swallow down the heartbreak and practically return back to the shell of the person they found at HYDRA. As she watches the acceptance settles in your gaze, a part of her breaks, knowing that she’s ultimately built your walls back up, she's pushed you away when all she wanted was to pull you closer.

What have I done? she thinks, her chest tightening as she sees the distance growing between you.

You nod slowly, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat, your heart heavy with the weight of her rejection. And as you lie back against the pillows, the silence fills the space where the truth should be, echoing with everything left unsaid, "I think I'd like some space for a little," you mumble turning away from her as you try so desperately to keep the tears from spilling.

"Okay," she agrees quietly walking towards the door, she pauses looking back as she's about to leave, "I'm sorry, y/n," she leaves.