#you just have to take the first step / the first breath / and begin.

[bnh8]

All of these actions can be easily defended though, so I don't think Haymitch was acting stupid.

Him drinking poison water wasn't stupid because none of them had any way to know that it was poison. It's not like the game makers told them beforehand, all the tributes just had to find out by trial and error just like Haymitch did. The first few tributes that ate the fruit or drank the water died, and the others learned what not to do by witnessing it.

Supporting quote: "I think about the two cannon shots that fired after the bloodbath. Did one career and one newcomer die, thereby alerting the rest of their alliance to the poisonous nature of the arena? Reminds me of the canaries we take down to the coal mines in 12."

During the countdown, he did get distracted by the rabbit, but it wasn't just because he's a dunce, it's because they literally put some kind of drug in the air around the cornucopia that impaired the tributes' thinking and made them all disoriented and unable to think clearly. He had to cover his nose and try not to breathe it in in order to get his mind back on track, and some of the other tributes were so dazed by whatever was in the air that they didn't even step off of their plates until several seconds after the gong had sounded.

Supporting quotes:

"I remember the dazed look on the tributes' faces as we awaited the gong. Did the air drug us? And is it contributing to how weak and sick I feel now?"

"I block my nose and begin to mouth-breathe to avoid the dizzying scent." "...Focus! my brain orders. What are you supposed to be doing?"

"The heady scent of pine and blossoms wafting through the woods calms my racing heart. Charming.... enticing.... these words don't do it justice. There's something almost magical about it, as if once inside those leafy arms, nothing bad could ever befall you. This must be how insects feel in the nepenthes plant, right before they drown."

"I allow myself one quick glance over my shoulder, which is enough to reassure me that the careers are late to the party, some still on their plates, others slow on the uptake and just reaching the weapons."

Him not covering his tracks in the bushes was obviously not good, but in his defense, he was still impaired and recovering from the effects of the poison. He was VIOLENTLY sick and barely able to walk. Yes, he should have covered his trail if he was well enough to think logically, but he physically wasn't able to do much of anything except use the last of his strength to drag himself to that bush and then collapse (and again, he had no way of knowing that the water was poisoned, so not his fault).

Supporting quotes:

"...so I wobble off the the north. It's no good. After a few hundred yards, I slide to the forest floor, throw up my latest charcoal tablet, and scrunch back into a ball. The chills begin, racking my body and causing my teeth to chatter so hard I'm in danger of breaking them."

"...[I] consider climbing a tree, but I'm so woozy I'm sure to tumble out."

"For several hours I alternate between violent chills and drenching fever sweats. Pain spikes my muscles, and my head feels like it's trapped in one of Tam Amber's vises."

I don't want to be that annoying person that goes actually-🤓, but I think most of Haymitch's actions weren't particularly stupid. He was a teen that was put into a really fucked up arena unlike anything there had been in the past, where the air and water are poisoned and he has no way of knowing this except for finding out by trial and error. Most of his mistakes were pretty reasonable mistakes to make.

(Also I'm not sure what you're referring to when you say an "alarming number of bunny related decisions." I'd love to hear you elaborate on that lol.)

katniss: how do you think haymitch won the games?

peeta: he outsmarted the others

haymitch in his games: drinks poison water, falls asleep in a blueberry patch without attempting to cover his tracks, tries to pet a bunny during the countdown, makes an alarming number of bunny-related decisions in general

[tinytarotandtea]

「 ✦ PICK A PILE✦ 」

What part of you is quietly healing?

Masterlist Directions: Take a moment to breathe, calm down and focus as you choose a picture from above. From left to right is pile 1, 2 and 3. Then Scroll down to your pile! Please remember to only take what resonates with you and leave the rest 🫶 A/N: Feel free to DM me Or send an ask for a free reading :)

Pile One -

Cards Pulled - Knight of Wands Reversed • Ace of Wands • King of Swords

So, pile one, your healing right now is all about finding your spark again. But, in a way that is softer and more grounded than before. With the Knight of Wands Reversed, there is a sense of burnout or hesitation in your drive. Perhaps you’ve felt like you’ve been going full speed ahead with no clear direction or that your energy has been scattered, and now you are pulling back a little to focus on what really lights you up. This part of you is healing from the rush, from the pressure to always be on the go, and it is finding a more aligned path.

The Ace of Wands is telling me that this healing process is all about a new beginning for you, a fresh burst of energy or creativity that is coming in slowly, but surely. It might be quiet at first, like a small flame flickering inside, but it is growing. You are rediscovering your passion, your desire to create and your motivation. But, it’s happening in a way that might feel more like a gentle rise rather than a forceful push.

And with the King of Swords here, your healing has a lot to do with how you think and communicate. There’s a healing in your mindset and the way you make decisions, along with how you’ve come to understand yourself and your boundaries. You’re reclaiming your mental clarity, your sharpness, and your ability to speak your truth confidently. There is a shift happening inside you where you are moving from self-doubt into self-assurance. And it is so damn empowering.

Pile one, you’re quietly healing your inner fire, your ability to take action without burning out and finding your voice again in a way that is more aligned with who you are becoming. It’s slow and steady, but it is going to be so worth it when you step into that energy full force.

Pile Two -

Cards Pulled - King of Pentacles • The World Reversed • Queen of Cups reversed

Okay, so! Pile two, your healing right now is happening in that deep, under-the-surface kind of way. This isn’t flashy and it might not even be something others can see, but it’s powerful. The King of Pentacles tells me that you’re slowly rebuilding a sense of inner security. You’re learning to feel more stable, grounded and safe within yourself, no matter what happens around you. You’re healing the part of you that felt like you had to constantly prove your worth through what you could do or give. Now, though? Now you’re learning that just being is enough.

The World Reversed suggests that you’ve been stuck in a loop for a while. Maybe a cycle that you’ve been unable to close. You might feel like you’re “almost there” but something always feels just out of reach. That part of you, the one that keeps feeling like you’re not finished, or like something is missing, is healing. You’re learning that it is okay for some things to be left imperfect, unfinished, or unknown. You don’t have to rush to the finish line. You’re healing your relationship with completion, and how you define success and closure.

And with the Queen of Cups reversed, you’ve been carrying so much. Emotionally, spiritually, energetically. This card is telling me that your heart’s been a little overwhelmed, perhaps stretched too thin from always holding space for others. But now, you’re healing your emotional boundaries. You’re slowly remembering how to pour into your own cup first. You are learning to hold yourself gently without feeling guilt. This is big. Tender healing in your heart space is happening, and it’s making room for softness, safety, and self-love to come flooding back in.

Pile two, you’re healing the part of yourself that has been holding the world together for everyone else. You are coming home to your own centre, and even if it is a little messy, it is still magic.

Pile Three -

Cards Pulled - The Hierophant • King of Cups • Six of Pentacles.

Oo, okay. Pile three is healing in the spaces between tradition and heart, structure and softness. The Hierophant says that you’ve been carrying a lot of responsibility, maybe you are the one expected to do things “the right way” or always be the strong and wise one. You are healing the part of yourself that feels like it has to follow all those rules just to feel safe or accepted.  Now? Now you’re slowly unlearning what doesn’t serve you anymore. And you’re building a belief system that actually aligns with your spirit, not just what you were taught.

With the King of Cups, we’ve got emotional depth. You’re healing your relationship with your emotions, how you express them, how you hold them, and how you give them space. You might be someone who has always been the calm in the storm, the shoulder for others, the one who knows what to say. But now? Now you’re being asked to turn that same emotional maturity inward. To care for yourself the way you care for everyone else. And you’re doing it. Gently, quietly and beautifully.

And the Six of Pentacles is here to tie it all together! You’re healing your balance between giving and receiving. You’ve perhaps over-given in the past, be it emotionally, physically, or spiritually. And now you’re learning that you are just as worthy of care, time and love. You’re someone who deserves to feel supported too. This healing is showing you that you don’t always have to be the one pouring. Sometimes it is your turn to be poured into. That's not selfish, that’s sacred.

Pile three, your healing is wise, heart-cantered and so full of soul. You’re learning to be your own guide and your own emotional anchor. That’s powerful.

[ageofmurph]

A Woman Has To Live Her Life.

groundskeeper!soap x married!reader // masterlist.

part one: ginger ࿔ you meet the groundskeeper.

set in mid-1920s after WW1, neglected wife, plot is literally centred around infidelity, 2.2k words.

a/n: okay so this is the first series that I'm writing and I'm kind of nervous about it but im also really excited and so far planning it has been really fun. right now its looking like it'll be 9 parts, but that could change. also uni is kicking my butt this semester so updates will be slow. enjoy!!

The seat of the bay window was growing increasingly uncomfortable, and the vibrant greens outside seemed to be calling your name louder and louder. The rain had passed, leaving the paddocks and forest a deep glowing green, shining with the water droplets left behind.

Your husbands voice, nasally and far more shrill than you like in a man, floated up from downstairs where he was in the middle of another card game. Him and his ‘good ol’boy’ friends from school always seemed to be sitting at a table that you weren’t welcome at.

You didn’t grow up wealthy, not by any means, but you didn’t think your situation warranted you being married off to some upper class land-owner.

At first you thought it might be alright, maybe you could grow to love him, maybe you’d enjoy moving from town out to the country. He was funny enough, gave you space, didn’t expect wifely duties of you. But each day after the wedding you saw less of him. These days the only time you spoke was at the dinner table, and even then the conversation was limited.

When you first noticed it you thought he hated you, thought he was disgusted by you- you hadn’t even consummated the marriage. Then you suspected he might be queer, and married you to stave off any suspicions. But that theory was disproved when he got too drunk at a party one evening and spent the night with his hand finding its way onto the rear of various women.

From the other room, a chorus of laughs following a rather crude joke was enough motivation for you to leave the bay window and go outside. You didn’t tell your husband you were going.

The smell of wet grass in the paddock calmed your mind. Being in the country wasn’t always so bad, you guessed. You just got so damn bored sometimes. Being an hours cycle to the nearest town (town was a generous word, it was more of a settlement really) you frequently felt isolated. Maybe getting out of the house more, even if to just spend more time alone, might remedy that.

On that first walk you ventured past the paddocks and rolling hills into the forest. You didn’t get too deep before the rain really picked up again, forcing you to turn back for the house.

When you stepped in the front door you were dripping water and your shoes were so covered in mud you couldn’t even see the colour of them anymore. You chuckled to yourself as you started to take them off when your husband rounded the corner.

“I thought I heard something-“ He cut himself off when he saw the state of you. “Where on earth have you been?”

You looked up while balancing on one leg and untying your laces. “I went for a walk through the paddocks.”

“What for?”

You straightened up, your smile beginning to fade. “To stretch my legs, get a breath of fresh air. I don’t know, just because.”

He gave you an incredulous stare for a few moments longer, “Clean this up before dinner.” He turned and walked away, his steps getting quieter and quieter.

You looked down at the hardwood floor and saw a pretty decently sized puddle surrounding you.

Over the next few weeks, whenever the weather permitted you were out for a walk. Each time you went somewhere new, and each time you felt more like yourself again. You hadn’t even realised you weren’t feeling like yourself, though it made sense with the state of your life.

It was a Tuesday afternoon and you had been kept inside not by the weather, but by your husband.

“I need you to stay here today, I’ve got a parcel arriving that I need you to be here to collect.” He yelled from downstairs.

You walked out of the room that you were in and stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at him where he straightened his clothes in the mirror by the door.

“Where will you be?”

He didn’t look up.

“Appointment.”

A beat. “Alright.” You turned away from him and towards your beloved bay window. Your sketchbook and pencil were still there from the last time you sat and looked out the window.

You decided to draw the view of the paddocks and trees out the window instead of sketching something from memory as you usually did. It was a beautiful day and even though you couldn’t be outside to enjoy it you’d be damned if you ignored it altogether.

It was around midday when you saw a figure walking parallel to the house, down towards the forest.

It was a broad silhouette. You could see a dark jacket and dark work pants. A gun, break action and clearly open and unloaded, lay underneath their arm. Their gait was wide and their shoulders squared. You deduced it was a man.

You watched him from the window, enthralled and confused. Who he was or what on earth he was doing on the property, you had no idea.

You watched him turn as he walked for a few seconds before a dog ran up to his side.

Fumbling to grab your sketchbook you kept your eyes on him, memorising the shape of him. You drew him into the scene you’d spent the past while on, and thought about him the rest of the day.

A burning question was on the tip of your tongue at dinner that night.

“Did the parcel arrive?” Your husband spoke with his mouth full- something you despised in a person.

“Yes, I put it in your study.” He only nodded.

You toyed with food on your plate, pushing it around before just making yourself speak.

“There was a man outside today, he walked past the house and down into the trees. Would you have any idea who he is?”

“Not the postman?” Dismissive as ever.

“I should hope not, he had a gun with him.”

“Ah, MacTavish.” Your grip on your utensils tightened as you learned his name. “The groundskeeper. Strange fellow. Quiet. Scottish.”

“We have a groundskeeper?”

“Of course we do, you think we could manage all of that up-keep ourselves? Please.”

God, you felt small when you talked to him. He continued.

“Besides, it’s blue collar work.” He spoke with a certain venom. “People like you and I needn’t waste our time with such labour.”

Your jaw twitched. “What do you mean by that?” Your voice quiet.

He sighed and put down his knife and fork picking up his wine glass to take a sip. “I mean that there is no reason for us to get our hands dirty when somebody else can do it for us.”

You were quick to respond. “Do you think you’re above manual labour?”

He scoffed. “What do you think?”

Your grip tightened further. “My father is a carpenter. Before the war my brothers were farmers and now they’re carpenters too. They’re the hardest workers I’ve ever known.”

He paused halfway to raising his glass to his lips. “You have brothers?”

The walk you took the next day began at sunrise and ended at dusk. It was the furthest you’d gone. Initially it was frustration that fuelled you, but negative emotions quickly left the forefront of your mind.

In the early afternoon you were elated to come across a creek; a beautiful babbling brook with big stones littered throughout. You took a step closer towards the bank and watched the sun sparkle on the water before you closed your eyes and just listened to the running water. The sudden bark of a dog brought you out of any state of relaxation that you had been in, and you whipped your head in the direction that it came from.

“Ginger!”

You watched the dog run up to you, quickly scanning its body language to see whether or not it was aggressive. You decided it was just excited- the bark hadn’t had much of a bite to it either, it was more of a yap really.

When it got closer you knelt down to pat it. It excitedly jumped all around you, trying to lick your face and hands. You laughed and held up your chin so that it couldn’t get to your mouth.

The voice that had called out drew closer, “Ginger, get down, ye silly girl.” He muttered it to himself more than trying to give her an actual order.

Ginger started to calm down but still stuck by your side. The man came closer still, walking slower now. You looked up at him and quickly scanned him up and down.

The leather of his work boots was soft and worn in. His work pants were pinstriped jeans held up with suspenders, and a blue button up with the sleeves rolled up past his forearms tucked into the waist of the jeans.

“Sorry about her, she’s still young. Ahm still working on training her an’ aw, ye ken.” He slowed to a stop a few metres in front of you.

Scottish. You realised he was the man from the other day- MacTavish, as your husband called him.

You were still smiling though you were suddenly bashful for a reason you weren’t quite sure of. “That’s, um, that’s really alright. She’s sweet.”

After sitting in front of you while you patted her Ginger started to get excited again and went to look for an appropriate fetching stick. She brought it over to you, you stood up and threw it, and she collected it and dropped it right back at your feet, sitting down and waiting for you to throw it again. You laughed and obliged. The cycle repeated.

MacTavish- which you were sure was his surname and would prefer to know his first name- seemed to accept what was happening and leaned against a tree as if to settle in.

You snuck a few glances his way while he watched Ginger chase after the stick. On the outside his posture was relaxed, though there was something underneath that looked to you like carrying the weight of something heavy on your shoulders; the demeanour of someone who remembers far more than they’d like to. A nosy voice inside of you called out to find out what those memories are.

He was also dreadfully handsome, something you cursed yourself for admitting- there was no propriety or dignity in a married woman finding another man attractive.

And while you knew that there was probably some unspoken rule that you weren’t privy to that frowned upon fraternising with ‘the help’ (you hated to hear your husband call them that) there was something about him that you just couldn’t ignore. Maybe it was something spiritual and intangible, maybe it was that the only person you’d spoken to in weeks was your husband. Maybe you were just horny, and maybe he happened to be just your type.

You picked the stick up again and threw it harder than you did the last time. “So are you our groundskeeper then?”

“Aye.”

You stared at him for a few more moments. He didn’t offer up anything else and stayed watching Ginger. She whined at your feet, and you threw the stick.

“Do you enjoy it?” It was bullshit small talk but you were bordering on desperate to talk to someone.

He let out a chortle at a joke you weren’t in on. “Sure I do.”

Suddenly feeling silly you ignored it and tried to move to something else. “How long have you been here for?”

MacTavish adjusted his stance. “Couple a’years. I needed work after the war. Floated around for a while, ended up here.”

“You were a soldier?” Your voice softened.

He paused for a long time somehow making less eye contact with you than before.

“Aye.”

You decided to leave it alone. If this was the heavy burden then your curiosity died completely. Your brothers had fought in the war, and if their stories were anything to go off of then the last thing you wanted to do was make another man relive it.

“How long have the pair a’ youse been married for? Havnae seen much a’ ye.”

You could tell he was only trying to change the subject, but you were glad to keep talking.

“Seven months. I wasn’t really getting out much until recently.”

“Why not?” He sounded like he was gaining interest, but still he didn’t look at you.

You shrugged, not that he could see. You decided to be honest and offer up something vulnerable, hopefully making him feel less exposed after you touched on the war. “I guess I just had a hard time coming to terms with the fact that this is my life now.”

He looked at you then. You were in the process of throwing Ginger’s stick as you spoke, and you watched her run after for a moment before turning to him.

You had piqued his interest. The light furrow of his brow gave it away. “Wha’, don’t ye like this life?”

“I certainly wouldn’t have chosen it for myself.” You spoke through a sigh and turned your attention back to Ginger.

“So ye don’t like it, then?”

You stilled for a moment, suddenly understanding why he’d laughed before when you had asked if he liked it. It would be outrageously inappropriate to tell your groundskeeper that you were unhappy in your marriage. That you and your husband never spoke, never had sex, hardly looked at each other, and barely knew each other at all. So you let out the smile that was pulling at your lips.

“Sure I do. I like it just fine.”

[tobesolnelyx]

I was thinking about a oneshot for Natalie x reader in the wilderness. Like maybe they were both friends because they were both outcasts and Natalie always defended reader from anyone who tried to be mean. When the plane crashed, their dynamic didn't really change : they were still sticking together, looking for one another. At first, it was quiet, almost peaceful, despite the dread of the wilderness. But then winter came. Jackie died. Maybe reader refusing to eat her ?(because that was their team captain, how could she ever eat her ? Treat her body like it was only meat?). And she started to be quieter, refusing food portions, not doing anything except the chores. She even started to drift away from Natalie, which worried the girl. And Natalie tries her best to keep reader alive, because that's all that matters to her, but it's so hard especially when reader doesn't look at her anymore. And Natalie sees reader starting to fade away and it's driving her crazy because she doesn't know what to do and she is afraid that reader isn't going to survive, or worse, letting herself die. And everyone on the team is worried, everyone noticed but nobody knows what to do either. And if it's too uncomfortable for you, maybe reader (actively or passively, the choice remains yours) trying to kill herself. Then someone on the team finds her on the brink of death and calls everyone and Natalie is the first one to rush by your side. And when reader finally wakes up, Natalie is still by her side, she never left, watching every breath, even if subtle. And maybe Natalie refuses to ever leave reader's side again, except this time reader actually accepts the help and she gets better (as good as you can be in the wilderness)

So maybe fluff at the beginning/end, hurt/comfort and angst ? Thx anyway <3

— how much tragedy? || natalie scatorccio x reader 🎞️ (pre-crash/wilderness)

a/n: thanks for req! honestly big fan of the idea — always a sucker for hurt/comfort! hope you like it <3

summary: natalie will do anything to protect you. no matter what it takes. even if it means broken knuckles and shattered lies. || angst. hurt/comfort. fluff

warnings: standard yellowjackets warnings (cannibalism, gore etc…), mentions of suicide, attempt of suicide

word count: about 3k

Natalie simply loved being close to you. Not in an overbearing way—at least not when it was just the two of you—but it didn't take a genius to see that this girl had fallen for you. Completely. And maybe, for the first time in her life, Natalie didn't want to change that. She couldn't even entertain the thought of a world where your presence might be gone in any way. Natalie could push everyone else away just to draw you in, closer and closer with each day.

And sure, there were nights when her fingers itched to pick up some random payphone on the street just to tell you it was over—but she knew that by morning, she'd be crawling back on her knees, begging you to take her in like some stray dog.

It all started when you moved into the trailer park. Life had already dragged you through enough that relocating to some shithole town like Wiskayok in New Jersey, didn't exactly feel like rock bottom. Money was tight. Your parents weren't exactly winning medals in the "doing what they should" category.

Word got around fast. Kids from your neighborhood didn't have it easy at school, so it came as a shock when you found out about Natalie Scatorccio. Natalie, who had zero tolerance for the bullshit constantly thrown her way. Natalie, who was so effortlessly cool you couldn't tell if you wanted to be her or be with her. Natalie, who strutted through the school halls with her headphones on, untouchable, unreachable.

Natalie—who one day offered you a cigarette.

It was late. You'd slammed the door of your trailer behind you after yet another fight with your parents. Your hands were shaking with rage and frustration. You collapsed onto the front steps, trying to calm yourself before having to listen to your dad's endless ranting again.

Then Natalie appeared. Of course, headphones on, dressed in her soccer gear. She walked the length of the park with heavy steps, a gym bag slung over her shoulder, lazily smoking a cigarette.

She was smiling. That's what made you stare—that crooked smile.

Then Natalie's gaze—like she knew someone was watching—landed on you. Shit. You must've looked wrecked, because she came over. The smile vanished, but she didn't replace it with that distant, blank stare you knew so well. You couldn't read her at all.

Without a word, she pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and gave you a look. The kind of look someone gives when they know what it's like to have shitty parents. What it's like to feel like a screw-up since the day you learned to talk back.

You blinked. Once, twice. Then finally took the cigarette from her hand, and she pulled out a lighter.

Your hand trembled as you reached for it, but before you could grab it, Natalie was already leaning in, lighting the cigarette for you.

"Thanks," you mumbled. Natalie looked, for a second, like she was about to turn and pretend the whole thing never happened. But instead, she dropped down beside you on the concrete steps.

She stayed.

And maybe that's why you couldn't ever let her go.

The rest happened pretty naturally. Natalie just started hanging around. At first with a hint of hesitation, then not even bothering to hide the stupid grin on her face whenever she saw you.

You started smoking more around her. One time she even passed you a joint, and after a few hits, when you were completely high, Nat couldn't stop laughing.

"I'm gonna throw up," you groaned, lying limply on her bed. Something by Nirvana was playing in the background, and the air was so thick with smoke it felt suffocating. You wondered if the smell would ever leave your clothes. Maybe it would cling to you the same way it did to Natalie

"Bullshit," Nat grinned. "And if you do, make sure it's outside."

She handed you the joint again. You looked at her through bloodshot eyes, your expression twisted in mild disgust.

"I hate you," you mumbled — but still brought it to your lips.

"Sure you do," she replied, and took your hand like it already belonged to her. Only to intertwine her fingers with yours and press them to her chest. She didn't even look at you. And that's when you knew — you were both screwed.

Natalie could've won an official title as your guard dog. Every time someone bumped into you on purpose in the hallway or threw a stupid comment your way, she was there. As if she had a sixth sense for when someone was trying to bitch at you, even just a little.

"You need to learn to defend yourself," she once said, while you were painting her nails. You frowned, not quite understanding why. Aggression wasn't... your thing. You endured the jabs and teasing because no one had taught you any other way to cope. And besides, the thought of breaking someone's nose didn't exactly thrill you.

"I have you," you replied, looking her straight in the eyes. Even if it was selfish.

"I won't always be there," Natalie said, staring at you. Not because she didn't want to. If anything, she was just waiting for an excuse to be near you. But she knew she couldn't always be.

A moment of silence. A pause. And before you could think about why you probably shouldn't, your lips found hers — brief, sweet. Nat accidentally smudged black polish onto your shirt.

Neither of you ever brought it up. Maybe because you were both terrible at talking about feelings. Still — Natalie didn't push you away.

Oh, quite the opposite. From that moment on, she may as well have been chained to your side. She even begged you to join the Yellowjackets just so she could crack jokes during practice and hear the coach yell at you both to focus, for Christ's sake!

You spent every spare moment together — drinking, smoking. Sometimes just listening to music. Sometimes Nat would sneak kisses from your mouth, even though neither of you ever defined what this was. You got used to it. Maybe it wasn't part of friendship, but you weren't complaining. There was some unspoken rule that you didn't talk about it, but neither of you ever considered being with anyone else.

You won Nationals. Nat even convinced the coach to let you room together at the hotel, despite being a complete pain in the ass most of the time. He probably suspected Natalie would sneak into your room after curfew anyway.

And honestly? She didn't need anyone else when she had you.

Then the plane crashed. In the middle of nowhere. And as if that wasn't enough — help never came.

At first, it wasn't so bad. Almost peaceful. Natalie was near, and you were far away from that New Jersey hellhole, from the annoying parents. From fights, school rumors, real life.

Nat learned how to hunt. She often went out with Travis for hours, but when she came back — whether she had food or not — she always made time for you. Sometimes she insisted on taking you along, even though you knew nothing about shooting animals and were more or less useless.

Sometimes Natalie picked flowers for you. Sometimes you'd end up in the wreckage of the plane, making out for long minutes until you had to go back. It wasn't paradise, it wasn't easy. But it could've been a lot worse.

The avalanche started with Laura Lee. When she was gone, hope began to flicker out. Something dimmed. Everyone's posture changed, like something inside had slumped.

Then came Doomcoming. You remembered little. You weren't even sure you wanted to remember. It was easier not to.

Natalie found you on the ground in front of the cabin. She was panting like she'd just run a marathon — maybe she had. You weren't sure. You stared at her, trying to figure out whether she was real or just another hallucination.

"Nat..." you started, but she just led you to the lake. Helped wash the blood (God knows whose) off your dress and the dirt from your hands. She cleaned your cuts while you stared blankly into the distance, rinsing yourself off without much thought.

Natalie should have known that's when it started. That moment, when your eyes went lifeless for just a second — that's when you began slipping out of her hands.

She never told you what really happened. Maybe that, too, was her weird way of taking care of you.

Shauna and Jackie had a fight. Jackie stormed out, and you wanted to go after her — tell her not to be stupid and just come back inside. But Nat grabbed your wrist.

Maybe Jackie wasn't the kindest to Nat, but she was never cruel to you the way the other popular girls were. Sure, she cared way too much about gossip, but she never asked where you lived, never cared that your parents weren't picture-perfect or that you couldn't afford better clothes.

"Let her go," Natalie pulled you back. "She'll be fine. It's just one night. Maybe she'll finally swallow her fucking pride."

You didn't quite understand. Jackie didn't deserve that.

But then morning came. Snow had fallen. And when you saw Jackie's lifeless body, Natalie's words started haunting you. You threw her a look from the cabin doorway, but her eyes were fixed on the corpse. That was the third time you'd seen Nat look truly terrified — once when you kissed her, once when the plane crashed. And now this.

Something inside you shattered. Whatever little hope you still carried scattered like dust, and you stopped believing her when she whispered above your head at night, "It's going to be okay."

Jackie was dead. Winter had come. No help in sight. It was hell. And suddenly, you'd rather be back home enduring another screaming match with your parents than lying curled up beside Natalie.

And just when you thought this nightmare couldn't get any worse, one night you heard knocking. Coach limped frantically back into the dark cabin, panic written all over him. But Natalie wasn't with him. No one else was.

So naturally, you went to look for her.

Natalie, who at that exact moment was tearing into a strip of meat—ripped from Jackie's leg.

Jackie, who not that long ago had helped you do your makeup for Doomcoming.

You vomited on the spot, even though there was nothing in your stomach to bring up. There hadn't been much food for days.

The next day, you found Natalie in pieces. Sitting in the snow, staring horrified at what was left of Jackie. And even though you had never cared about anyone more in your life — you couldn't bring yourself to comfort her. The words stuck in your throat.

You walked past her. Some grim compulsion driving you to see what was left of Jackie's skull.

"Wait—" Natalie scrambled to her feet and followed you, like she was trying to stop you. Like she wanted to shield you from seeing the truth. You turned around and found you could barely meet her eyes.

"Tell me you didn't..."

Even though you'd seen it. Even though it was burned into your memory. Maybe it was just another sick dream.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, trying to pull you into her arms. She was repulsed with herself. She looked like she might throw up right then and there. "I had to, okay? We're starving—"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Nat," you cut her off. "I'm starving too, and I haven't eaten a fucking corpse!"

After that, everything started to unravel. At least for Natalie.

The others noticed, but either didn't want another problem on their hands or just didn't know how to deal with it. They sent you looks, tried to reach out. But you never answered the way they hoped.

You simply couldn't take it anymore.

And the truth was: you began to vanish before their eyes. A little more each day. Natalie grew desperate.

You barely spoke. Not many people felt like talking anymore, but you — you only spoke when you absolutely had to. You refused meals. Maybe because the image of Jackie being devoured had made it impossible to eat. Or maybe because at some point, you just stopped wanting to live. Maybe you didn't care whether help came or not. What was the point of eating if you might end up like Jackie anyway?

You still did your chores. Quietly. Carefully. But your body was starting to betray you.

Natalie went feral.

You pulled away from her, and she couldn't stand it. She clung to you with everything she had, terrified of what would happen if you slipped away. She couldn't even imagine it. It would break her in ways she wouldn't recover from. She started hunting more. When she brought back a rabbit or two, you refused your portion.

She begged. Got on her knees. Pleaded with you to eat, just a little, because your wrists were getting dangerously thin. Because she could see every bone. Because your skin had turned ghost-pale, and sometimes you froze mid-movement — your body simply giving out.

You wouldn't even look at her. You scooted away on the cabin floor, just far enough that it felt like a knife in her chest. Natalie had only felt this broken once before — when her father died. Maybe that had been easier. His death was sudden, quick. This? This was slow. Cruel. She was watching you fade. Watching the life leave you, and she was powerless to stop it.

No begging helped. No touch. No voice.

The worst part was — you didn't want to live anymore. Your eyes were completely empty. And this time, not even Natalie could save you.

She was at the edge.

One day, you just drifted away.

Your legs gave out. Your body — worn thin from hunger, cold, and the never-ending fight to survive — simply stopped working. You were supposed to bring water back to the cabin that day. At some point, you just collapsed into the snow. Everything went black.

Like you were meant to share Jackie's fate.

When Natalie returned from the hunt and you weren't there, the air was already heavy with tension. She knew. Deep down, she knew something was wrong. And there was no fucking way she was letting you go.

Someone said something — Natalie snapped. Furious at all of them for letting you go out alone in that condition.

Eventually, someone found you.

Natalie nearly twisted her ankle tearing through the snow to reach you. The last time she ran that fast was during the game that got them into Nationals.

She refused. Refused to accept the idea that she might lose you. Decided the wilderness could go to hell this time, because she was not agreeing to this.

She dragged you back. Screamed at Misty, voice cracking between sobs, telling her to finally make herself useful and help.

She didn't leave your side. Not for a second. She watched for every breath, every twitch of your fingers while you lay unconscious. She skipped hunts. Obsessively checked that you were bundled in as many blankets as they had. You were still cold — but not as frozen as when she found you. You were still breathing. That was enough. Lottie could shove her wilderness truths in her ass, really.

Natalie stayed awake for nights. Slept in short, shallow bursts in case you opened your eyes. Her head had just dipped when she felt a sudden movement beside her — stronger than before. The fire crackled in the dark.

And finally, finally, your eyes opened.

"Hey," Natalie was by your side in an instant, on her knees. Her fingers gently brushed a lock of hair behind your ear. "You're safe, I promise." She clutched your hand, trying to warm it with hers, desperation bleeding through her voice. "I'm here. I'm right here. I'm never leaving you again, I swear—"

She whispered in the dark until the words collapsed into silence. Then she pulled you into her arms. You didn't speak, but that didn't surprise her. What mattered was that you were alive. Natalie still had a chance to keep you breathing — and that was all that counted.

When you drifted off again — weak, after hours of being rocked gently in her arms, lulled by promises and shattered reassurances — Natalie made a decision. She would get food into you. Even if it meant forcing it.

But before she could figure out how to do that, they organized a hunt. You and Lottie were both too far gone to be aware of much. There was no time to plan.

The next thing you remembered was waking to find Natalie sitting beside you, just like always — except now she looked worse. Shaking. Her cheeks streaked with dried tears, her hair a mess. You furrowed your brows, trying to take in the scene.

Jackie's necklace was hanging from Natalie's neck.

You were about to ask what happened when she spoke first.

"Please," she whispered, voice hoarse and cracked.

Your gaze dropped to her hands — a bowl of warm meat cradled in her palms.

"Please," she repeated.

And this time — you agreed.

You trusted her. Didn't ask where the meat came from. Wanted to believe that maybe, somehow, she'd managed to catch something. That maybe things were turning.

Natalie felt the weight slip from her chest.

She helped you sit up, carefully propping you against her chest. Her hands trembled as she fed you, silently praying you wouldn't notice that Javi was nowhere to be seen in the cabin.

She hated lying to you. Hated it more than anything.

But the thought of losing you was way worse.

And you ate. You let her help. You accepted the food.

So Natalie told herself everything else could wait.

That night, she whispered it into your ear like a secret.

"I love you."

Natalie loved you so much that she could accept the possibility of you hating her, once you knew. As long as you were still alive.

[ginandvodka-riley]

Earthquake

Tw: A small eartqueake.

As someone who lives in a country (and city) that's located in a very seismic zone, I was wondering, what about a TF141! Reader who's from a country with high seismic activity? Like China, Japan, Indonesia, Iran, Chile, Guatemala, Mexico, etc...

Just imagine.

You are their medic, so you must go with them on every mission. You don't complain, they're true gentlemen with you, treat you as family (and if you want you can be dating one of them) and on top of that, the pay is more than good.

Well, a new mission comes, you all must go to a seismic country. Everything goes fine, no injuries more than a few scratches, muscle pain and the typical fatigue. Until 2 weeks before your arrival while you all are checking a large, apparently abandoned building, completely alert, controlled and composed, an earthquake occurs. It's a medium one, not light but not dangerous either.

You are used to it, you’ve experienced worse earthquakes more than twice after all.

But they?

Poor English (and Scottish) men. They've never experienced it, it's new for them. So, when the first movement comes you stay calm and since the nearest exit is far away you sit with you back against a load-bearing wall, covering your head with your arms. However, they panic, they don't know what's happening so their first thought is "we're under attack", so immediately they grab you by the wrist, and begin to run away.

You're confused and try to get free and stop them because "what the hell are you doing?! You shouldn’t run!".

When the third movement comes it's stronger, one of them gets nauseous while the rest almost stumbled on their feet.

That's when you realize what's happening.

You shout out a firm "stop", they fix their gaze at you, horror invading their pretty eyes, and then you speak firmly but carefully.

"Sit down, cover your heads and calm down. We're safe."

It's a miracle but they manage to react from their panicked trance and obey you like the good soldiers they are.

All of you are sitting in a circle, shoulder to shoulder, away from windows and furniture, you try to soothe them explaining that it's just a mid-level earthquake, nothing dangerous, at most just 0.2 percent of the population will get some minor wounds.

Again, "we're safe".

Dogs are barking at the distance, everything around you move with some violence, the lights, furniture, you can even see through the trembling windows what’s happening outside, trees moving as if they were alive, cables too, and the damn ground seems like it could breathe.

After a whole minute everything returns to normal, they're still scared, a bit less, but fear hasn't abandoned their minds at all.

"Bloody hell, luv, how could you remain so calm?"

You explain to them how normal this in your natal home is, some places around the world are more seismic than others after all. It's just mother earth living.

Some 'funny' stories about your experiences and those of your relatives manage to calm down little by little.

It could sound incredible or even ‘stupid’ for some people to see a bunch of elite soldiers, huge and beefy as a truck so afraid of a mid-level earthquake, more so when they've seen the death itself right in its eyes.

But a natural disaster is so different from the damage that a human can cause. You can try to take control of the battlefield, can predict what could happen and plan every movement. It's an equal battle, man vs man.

Meanwhile, nature is not kind, it's strong, powerful, glorious. You can't control her, don't know how or when she'll decide to explode and sweep everything away at every step.

We are just humans, simple beings that have taken a place on earth to live because she wanted to. She allowed us to live in and thanks to her. And even when it could sound cruel, mother nature follows her own course independently of us.

You have faced her power more than once, all her glory. You know you’re just a simple human being, and you're okay with that, because you know that from earth we come and to her we'll return.

Not them though. That felt like facing death for the first time, like everything they've lived before were nothing compared to this. They saw mother earth right in her eyes, suddenly they felt raw, more alive than ever, and for the first time in years they're consciously grateful to be alive one more day.

[dexxxwrites]

「In the night」~

Sorry if it’s bad, it’s my first time really writing ･○･

You.

Sitting in your room, sitting against a wall. Because well what else are you supposed to do while you’re crying your eyes out?

No one else was awake (Atleast that you knew of.), so you go ahead and cry without many worries.

But little did you know that someone was listening. But not completely sure on what to do, or if he should even help you.

. . .

Minutes feel like hours as you continue to cry in what you thought was a private time. Until a knock comes.

Just once, and only once.

. . .

Bakugo. He was Katsuki fucking Bakugo, what was he doing outside his classmates dorm room at, what? 2:00am?

Well he didn’t exactly know either. All he knew is that he heard crying, and ignored it at first.

Until he heard whose room it was coming from.

. . .

You get up slowly and hesitantly, unsure of who it would be outside your door at this time. Wiping away any tears you had and taking a breath.

Thoughts running through your head, “Was I too loud?”, “Who could it be?”, “Do I look okay?”, “God I hope they can’t tell I was crying..”.

And with those thoughts circulating you walk to the door, and open it just enough to where you can see who it was.

. . .

At first, you thought your mind was playing tricks on you as you stare up at Bakugo with a bewildered expression. Him back at you with a scowl. Neither breaking eye contact.

One moment passes

Then another.

Before Bakugo breaks the silence by speaking in a low tone.

. . .

“Y/n. Let me come in.”

You look up at him for another moment then nod slowly and step out of the way. Still not fully understanding what he wanted, but not in the mood to argue.

Little did you know, that he was staring at you, not of anger or anything else. But he was seeing the puffy eyes you had, slight tear still on your cheek. The small pout of your lip.

. . .

After a moment of awkwardness and getting situated in your dorm. (You on the bed, Katsuki on your chair that was not in the best condition.)

You glance back up at him and then sigh quietly.

“So.. Bakugo what did you need to come in for..?”

A moment passes by with neither of you saying nothing. Bakugo wondering what he could say to not seem like a total weirdo for coming in this late.

“..heard something come from your room. Didn’t let me sleep. So I came to see what it was.. got that..?”

“Ah.. alright. Well sorry if I was being too loud. If that’s all you wanted to say then I’ll walk you out.”

Exasperated, you stand back up with a slight hint of annoyance in your tone. I mean who comes in at 2 fucking am to tell someone they were being too loud?

And if he heard shouldn’t he have minded his own damn business!

Then.. well the unexpected happens.

. . .

Katsuki stares at you for a moment then stands up and steps closer. Of course he sucked at comforting but he definitely wasn’t going to let this pass by without a word.

Not when you were crying.

“Why were you crying? And didn’t even try to say you weren’t.”

Leaning down to look at you better, then hesitating slightly as he put his hand on your chin and tilt it up.

Not wanting you to look away and even try to lie.

. . .

To say you were surprised would be an understatement.

Since when did Bakugo care about you? And why was he so insistent on knowing? (Although you’d never admit it, it was nice to know he cared this much.)

“Why do you want to know Bakugo? To use it against me?”

“No! ..No. I’m not going to use something like that against you. Just tell me idiot.”

Damn it, when he says it like that it’s hard to say no.

..well not really. But when it comes to Bakugo why would you say no? Especially since he never cares this much for anyone.

. . .

“Fine.. I just.. was feeling overwhelmed okay? Now can you at least let go of me?”

You shuffle a bit under his gaze, and touch. Glancing away for a moment then glaring weakly at him.

Tears beginning to well up once again (without your permission, how rude.)

Then once again, Katsuki surprises you.

How?

By pulling you into a hug.

. . .

What?

It takes you a moment to comprehend what is happening. But you don’t get much time to think about it before he speaks again.

“Come to me next time idiot.. I don’t care if you’re scared of me or some bullshit like that. I don’t want you to be upset like that alone.”

A beat of silence is there before the tears flow freely. (How you held back this long, I don’t really know.)

Lowering your head to his chest and slowly gripping the back of his shirt is almost an instinct you didn’t know you had.

This never happened, not between you and Bakugo. But you weren’t going to let it end now.

Not when you needed it this badly.

And unbeknownst to you, he did too.

. . .

Thank you for reading my first real post, I hope to get better over time! Please send me any advice if you feel like I need it ^^

[writingpandagoth]

Literally Ashes and Echoes need part two. We need to read how Severus and his daughter meet. How he's gonna try to make it all up to Y/n. How he's going to prove his love to Y/n. We need happy family. 😭😭😭😭😭

Im so sorry but...

It took ages I know!

But here it is also its very long so.....sorry? you're welcome?

Ashes and Echoes 2

“I will,” he whispers. “I swear I will.”

His voice is wrecked—raw from grief and unshed promises, and you don’t doubt him. Not in this moment. You’re just about to respond, to find the words to tether this fragile, impossible reality to the ground, when—

“Mom?”

Her voice cuts softly through the air. You freeze. So does he.

It’s light and curious, drifting from the hallway where she’s wandered in from the garden—sweet and steady and his. There’s a lilt in her tone, a cadence that echoes somewhere deep in your bones and his alike.

Severus flinches like he’s been hexed. His breath catches, sharp and uneven. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. But you see it—the tremor in his hands, the way his body folds inward like her voice alone has found the deepest, most fragile part of him.

“Mom?” she calls again, a little closer now. “You said you’d read—why are your eyes red?”

You inhale slowly, grounding yourself before you turn.

Eileen stands in the archway, curls tousled, hugging her sketchbook. Her brows knit in concern as she notices the tension in the room. She can’t see Severus’ face—he’s still seated, still turned away—but she knows something’s wrong.

You kneel in front of her, gently taking the sketchbook from her hands. “Sweetheart,” you begin, voice soft but steady, “there’s someone here. Someone… important.”

She tilts her head. “Someone I know?”

You hesitate. “Someone you’ve always known. Just… not like this.”

She blinks. “You’re being really weird.”

You smile, pained. “Yeah. I am.”

You glance over your shoulder. Severus is standing now—rigid, pale, every breath shallow. You nod once.

Slowly, he turns.

And Eileen sees him.

Everything in the room stills. The air itself holds its breath.

She stops breathing for a beat.

And then, in the smallest voice—

“Dad?”

Severus crumbles.

He drops to his knees like the world’s gone out from under him. His eyes fill so fast it’s like something inside him has burst.

Eileen doesn’t move at first. She just stares at him—her tiny face suddenly stricken, mouth trembling.

Then she takes a shaky step forward.

And another.

Her small hands clenched into fists at her sides, shaking like she’s trying to hold herself together.

“You were gone,” she whispers, voice cracking. “I wished you to come back. I lit candles for you. I talked to you.”

Severus is crying again, chest rising and falling in jagged, awful gasps.

“I didn’t know—but if I had, I would have come the second I could. I’m so—so sorry.”

“You missed my first day of school,” she says, a single tear tracking down her cheek. “You missed my potions project and the time I fell out of a tree and broke my arm and I asked for you when it happened.”

He sobs openly now, hands curling in his lap.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

As if pulled by something invisible, she steps closer until she’s standing directly in front of him.

She hits him.

It’s not hard but she slaps her small fists against his chest, one after the other, in trembling, clumsy movements—like her body is demanding answers her heart can’t form.

“Eileen—” he chokes.

She hits him again, and then again—until her strength falters and all that’s left is a shattered little girl crying into the robes of the man she’s loved from afar her whole life.

He wraps his arms around her carefully, reverently, like he’s afraid she’ll vanish if he holds her too tightly. He presses his face into her hair and breaks—silent and terrible and full of every missed moment.

You stand back, hand over your mouth, heart aching so fiercely you wonder how it still beats.

“Why didn’t you come back?” she asks, voice quivering. “Why did you stay gone?”

Severus chokes on a sob.

“I didn’t know,” he rasps, voice so broken it hardly sounds human. “I didn’t know about you. If I had—Merlin, if I had—”

He pulled her small body closer, breath hitching violently.

“I would’ve moved the stars,” he whispers. “I would’ve burned the world down to be with you.”

She blinks fast, like she’s trying not to cry but the tears spill anyway. “You missed everything.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I know, and I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

“Are you staying?” she asks.

He lifts his head slowly, eyes red-rimmed and pleading.

“If you’ll have me.”

Her lips tremble. Her shoulders shake. She lets out a soft, choked sound—and hugs him back.

He collapses forward, arms around her like a man holding the universe itself. His head bows against her shoulder. She clings to him—small, shaking, fierce.

You stand there, watching this moment unfold like a dream wrapped in thunder.

You watch the man you thought you lost forever and the daughter you raised alone in that grief finally find each other in the wreckage of everything broken.

And for the first time in eight years—

You let yourself believe in healing.

--

The first few weeks are hard.

He moves through the house like a man afraid of taking up too much space.

But he’s trying.

You see it in the quiet ways first.

The way he lets Eileen braid his hair with ribbons because she insists it helps him look “less like a spooky and more like someone who knows about tea.”

He helps Eileen with her homework, and she’s already learned that asking about potions is the fastest way to make him forget about her essay.

The way he lingers just long enough to ask if you’ve eaten before he disappears into the kitchen to make something.

In the way he quietly slips a worn book onto your nightstand because he remembers you liked it once. In the way he never reaches for your hand, but always keeps his close, in case you ever want to.

You see the strain in his shoulders from taking on your brewing orders when your workload piles up but he takes his time to brew each of them flawless.

You find your robes washed and folded before you even remember leaving them out. You catch him in the garden pulling weeds before sunrise just because you once cursed about how wild the marjoram had gotten.

He’s bleeding for it. In all the quiet ways a man like him knows how.

And you—?

You’re grateful. You’re so, so grateful.

But it doesn’t make it easier.

Because while Eileen’s eyes fill with light and her laughter has been louder with a new note of joy, your grief hasn’t had time to reshape itself.

You grieved him differently than she had.

You had stolen kisses and arms that felt like home that faded into nothing but a far memory. You had a coffin. You had silence. Loneliness. Pain so thick it hollowed you out.

Now he’s here, alive and breathing and the part of you that still carries that ache doesn’t know where to put it.

So you smile when Eileen throws her arms around him after he teaches her how to stabilize a tricky tincture. You watch when she crawls into his lap with her latest book and curl up like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You watch her taking his hand while they walk the garden path, rattling off potion ingredients with the kind of fierce precision that makes him laugh.

You watch as she asks him if he believes she could be a Potions Master like him one day.

You watch how he answers yes without hesitation and how her face glows at him.

And something breaks inside you.

Because this?

This is what she was always meant to have. What you always wished you could witness her have.

And now that its here, you hate how much you love seeing it.

You hate how much it hurts.

You start to realize just how long you’ve lived without his softness. Without him reaching for your hand just because he wants to. Without him kissing you like he needed it to survive.

And still—you don’t let him in. Not fully.

You let him orbit.

You don’t stop him when he leaves flowers on the windowsill every single day, small bunches, never store-bought. Wildflowers picked from the edge of the property. Arranged messily. Tied with string. Left in old potion bottles like it doesn’t matter what they’re in so long as they’re for you.

Or when he makes tea like he remembers your old habits. He doesn’t ask. He hands you the mug without looking you in the eye and making sure it stays warm when you are busy.

You don’t mention it when you catch him watching you—like maybe he’s trying to memorize this new version of you, the one that lived without him.

You don’t say what you want to.

You’re not ready.

--

It happens on a Thursday.

It starts like so many other things do—with nothing.

A quiet dinner. Eileen poking at her food. A wince when she leans too far to the left. A cough.

Severus and you share a worried look before you set into action. You pick her up from her chair carrying her into the bedroom.

But by the time you check on her after tea, her skin is burning and she can barely keep her eyes open.

You go back to the basics—cool cloths, potions, charms. A fever draught. Hydration potions. Fever reducers. One of the Muggle methods, just in case—wet cloth, open windows, cold compress on her wrists.

But the fever climbs fast. Dangerous.

She’s trembling by midnight. Burning alive.

You watch your daughter writhe under the blankets, eyes glassy and unfocused, and your heart shatters in slow motion.

“She’s not responding. Why is it not working...”

Your voice is barely a whisper. Frantic. Raw.

Severus watches you kneeling at her bedside, cloth slipping from your hands—

“She’s going to be alright,” he says, and his voice is raw.

Then he moves.

He goes straight for the ingredients. The cauldron. The flame. He pulls out books. He grinds herbs with trembling hands and curses himself for not being better, faster, enough.

He brews three different potions to give to her before sunrise.

Eileen’s fever doesn’t break.

The rest comes in fragments.

He doesn’t sleep. Not now.

The scent of sage and mint and raw magic. The shimmer of his wand as he stirs clockwise, then counter. The way he braces one arm against the table when his knees nearly give out from exhaustion—but doesn’t stop.

He brews a fourth potion.

Then a fifth.

It’s the sixth that works.

The fever breaks.

Eileen exhales, body limp and drenched in sweat. Her breathing evens. Her fingers twitch slightly against the sheets.

Severus sits beside her and lets out a breath that sounds like a lifetime.

You watch him—hair damp, hands raw from crushing herbs, robes stained from potions and panic.

And something inside you gives.

“I see you trying,” you whisper. “I see it.”

He nods, eyes wet, breath trembling.

Your whole body begins to shake until a sob breaks free.

He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches for you—slowly, gently—like he’s touching something sacred. You fall into him before you know you’ve moved.

And he holds you.

Not like a ghost. Not like someone seeking forgiveness.

Like a man who still remembers what it meant to love you once.

You press your face into his shoulder and let yourself break.

--

It was different after that.

Not perfect. Not easy. But time, quiet and steady, began to smooth the edges.

Weeks passed—nearly a month—and the house slowly shifted with them. Not all at once. Not in grand declarations or sudden changes. But in the little things. The small, daily rituals of people learning how to live around each other again.

The walls felt warmer.

Not just from the firelight or the kitchen stove, but from the texture of the life stitching itself back together. Laughter came easier. Footsteps felt lighter. The silence didn’t echo anymore.

Tea cups began appearing in odd places—left half-full on windowsills or balanced precariously on stacks of books, usually abandoned mid-theory by Eileen when a new idea struck her.

Books, once lonely, now sat in pairs.

And her drawings—gods, her drawings. They were everywhere.

Crayon sketches taped to the fridge and wedged into books and stuffed into Severus’ coat pocket. Always in threes now. A crooked family of three. You, Eileen, and Severus with his long coat, a comically severe expression, and—without fail—a red heart floating just above his head.

He never comments. Just tucks them into drawers or his brewing journal like they’re sacred.

Sometimes you find him tracing them absentmindedly. As if the shape of her art might help him make sense of something that still feels unreal.

His days revolve around her.

He teaches her theory he once scoffed at teaching first-years. He draws diagrams on napkins, explains magical transference through stories involving dragons and spell-hiccups. She eats it up.

He lets her experiment in the old cauldron with supervision and an absurd amount of protective charms.

One afternoon, she made a potion that smoked pink for no reason other than she wanted it to.

He applauded like it was the bloody Elixir of Life.

She makes him laugh. Not often, not loud—but real. Warm. His mouth softens. His shoulders drop. He doesn't flinch when she tackles him from behind while he's reading.

He lets her braid his hair. He lets her put sparkly stickers on his wand. He even wore a glittered “Best Dad” badge to the village market one Saturday—and hexed two drunkards who dared to comment on it.

At night, she curls up beside him on the couch while he reads aloud. Sometimes she falls asleep in the middle of a sentence. Sometimes he does, and she drapes a blanket over them both and whispers, “You missed a bit.”

He never corrects her. Not once.

She adores him.

And he worships her.

You see it in the way he watches her like she’s magic made real. In how he brings her favorite tart from the village when he runs errands. In how he still looks stunned every time she calls him Dad, like the word is too precious to belong to him.

And you are letting go. Not all at once.

But your walls have thinned, piece by piece. You’ve let him catch you smiling. You’ve let him brush your fingers without pulling away first. Some nights, when the wind howls too loud and Eileen is fast asleep, you both just sit beside each other on the couch.

Close. Warm. Familiar

And yet, even in all of it—his soft laughter, the comfort of bedtime stories, the quiet routine he’s built around your daughter—there’s a distance he still keeps with you.

It’s not cold. It’s not unkind. It’s just… careful.

He speaks gently. Always asks before touching. Never crosses the invisible line you never asked him to draw.

You’ve watch him reach for your hand only to pull back before doing so. Like the right to touch you has an expiration date he missed eight years ago.

With Eileen, he’s everything. Open. Attentive. Effortlessly hers.

But with you? He waits.

Waits for permission.

He still moves around you like one wrong step might crack the floor beneath him.

He still folds laundry like it’s an apology. Cooks like he’s trying to prove something. Stands behind you like he might be asked to leave at any moment.

You feel it most in the little silences.

When he hesitates before entering a room you’re already in. When he watches you laugh with Eileen and looks away too fast.

Even now—when you smile more, when the silences have softened, when your fingers brush his and you don’t pull away—he still acts like being here might be a sin he hasn’t earned absolution for.

You can feel it wrapped in his restraint.

--

It’s late when you find him in the kitchen.

Eileen’s gone to bed—tucked in after a long evening of potion theory and giggling at Severus' dry sarcasm. You heard her whisper “love you” when he kissed her forehead. You saw the way his eyes softened like it hurt to hold so much joy at once.

Now he stands at the sink, rinsing out her tea cup like it matters.

You lean against the doorway.

“You always do that.”

He doesn’t turn. “Do what?”

“Wash the same cup three times.”

He glances at it. Then shrugs. “Force of habit.”

You watch him a moment longer. The lines around his eyes. The set of his shoulders. How he always leaves space between you, like he’s afraid being too close might undo everything he’s rebuilt.

You step forward.

“Sit down.”

He turns. Blinks. “What?”

“Sit. Please.”

He obeys—slowly, cautiously, like he’s not sure what he’s about to be accused of.

You sit across from him. Hands folded.

Voice quiet.

“I need to ask you something.”

He nods once, guarded.

“Why do you keep acting like you’re about to be asked to leave?”

His breath catches.

You don’t let the silence answer for him. Not this time.

“You’re here. You’ve been here. And you’ve been… good. So good. With Eileen. With me. Why do you still hold back?.”

His jaw tightens. His fingers curl slightly against the edge of the table.

“You’ve done everything I asked,” you continue. “You’ve stayed. You’ve fought for this. For us. So why do you still act like you don’t belong here?”

He exhales. A slow, shaking breath.

Then, finally—

“Because I don’t think I deserve to.”

His voice is barely audible. Like if he speaks it too loud, it’ll break the fragile peace that’s settled between you.

You frown. “Severus—”

“I’m trying,” he says quickly, cutting you off with something close to desperation. “I know I am. But I’m just—here. A ghost playing at being a father.”

“You are not a ghost.”

Your voice is soft as you speak and your hand reaches out to touch his gently.

“I don’t want to cross a line. You’ve let me back into your lives, but I know I’ve not… earned all of it yet.”

Your heart clenches at his words.

“I was gone for eight years. I let you bury me. I get to stand in your kitchen like I belong there. And every time I do, some part of me waits for the moment you’ll remember what I cost you. I tore you apart and think flowers and bedtime stories can stitch you back together.”

He laughs, then. Bitter. Broken.

“And I see how careful you are with me,” he adds. “How far you’ve come. But I also see how far away you stay. And I thought… maybe you don’t love me anymore. Maybe you can’t. And I didn’t want to overstep. Not when I’m still—feeling what I feel.”

You stare at him feeling breathless. Your heart starts beating faster with every word.

“I told myself it would be enough just to be near you. That I didn’t need more. But it’s not true. It’s never been true.”

The silence stretches between you, soft and tense, filled with years of memory and the echo of too much lost time.

And then, quietly—

“I never stopped loving you Severus” you admit.

His head lifts.

“I couldn’t,” you say. “I tried, I really tried but you buried yourself in very soul, Severus and no matter what you wouldn't leave. I was angry but I forgave you. I forgive you with every day you stay.”

His fingers twitch beneath yours. His eyes glisten.

You lean forward, voice breaking around the edges.

“I loved you then. I love you still.”

And he crumbles.

It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s just his head bowing, shoulders trembling, eyes falling shut like he’s been holding himself together with string and breath and now, finally, he can fall apart in your presence.

You let him.

The morning after feels like something shifted.

Not suddenly. Not loudly. Just… shifted. A quiet realignment in the way the house holds its breath. A stillness that doesn’t ache anymore. It just is.

Severus moves slower now, not with hesitation, but ease. His shoulders no longer stay curled inward. His voice doesn’t get caught as often in the back of his throat. He drinks his tea beside you at the table without feeling like he needs permission to be there.

The space between you isn't fragile anymore.

It’s just space.

And it’s beginning to close.

Sometimes he rests a hand against the small of your back without thinking, sometimes he reaches out to take your hand and presses a soft kiss to the back of it.

He sleeps more. Laughs freely. You catch him looking at Eileen like she hung the stars herself. Like every laugh she gives him is a second chance he didn’t think he’d ever get to hold.

She trails him through the house like she’s always known him. Like he was never gone. Like her heart was waiting for this very shape to come home to.

She says Dad now the way other children say look. Like it means pay attention to me. I love you. I know you’ll listen.

He listens to everything.

She tells him about plants she wants to grow, potions she wants to invent, creatures she’s imagined that could revolutionize magical studies.

He never tells her it’s too much.

He only ever tells her to show him.

You watch them from the kitchen window some afternoons. Him bent over the flower beds while she chatters at his elbow, her curls bouncing, his robes dragging in the dirt. She passes him a trowel. He passes her a book. They talk about things that once only lived in bedtime stories.

And you—

You find yourself smiling at the sound of her laughter again.

It doesn’t ache like it used to.

It just warms.

--

You have to leave on a Wednesday.

Not for long—just a day to gather Rare ingredients. Short supply run. You pack your satchel with a list and too many potions for the road, but your nerves don’t twist like they usually do. Not this time.

Severus stands in the threshold of the sitting room with Eileen beside him, her face beaming, her hand clutching his hand as if she’s about to be handed the keys to the entire world.

You chuckle under your breath as you adjust the strap on your satchel.

You look at him.

“You’ll be alright?” you ask quietly.

His gaze doesn’t falter. “We’ll be fine.”

And he means it. You see it in the way his hand gently steadies Eileen when she nearly tips over trying to show you the list she made. In the way he glances at her before looking back at you. Steady. Grounded.

You kneel to hug her. She wraps her arms tight around your neck.

“Bring me back something weird,” she says, muffled against your shoulder. “And shiny. Preferably magical.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

When you straighten again, Severus doesn’t move toward you—not to kiss your cheek or wrap you in a goodbye embrace.

But he doesn’t have to.

He watches you with the kind of look that says he’s memorizing the curve of your mouth, the set of your eyes, the sound of your voice.

The door closed behind you with a soft click, and for a long moment, Severus didn’t move. He simply stood there, eyes fixed on the now-empty space, as if unsure whether the quiet left in your wake would hold. Whether the rhythm you’d let him join would still continue without you here.

Then—

“She left!” Eileen declared with more excitement than sadness, already tugging him toward the kitchen. “We can start now.”

“Start… what, exactly?” he asked allowing himself to be pulled forward.

“My schedule,” she said, with the serious tone of someone who believed the world ought to be organized by color-coded ink. “I made one. There’s potion time, snack time, dragon discussion hour, and a short break before hide and seek.”

“Hide and seek,” he repeated dryly.

“With rules,” she added, as she unrolled a scroll that looked more like a Ministry project than a child’s itinerary.

He raised an eyebrow a smile tugging at his lips. “Naturally.”

She squinted up at him. “You don’t have to look so worried. You’re the adult—I made you a rest block, too.”

He snorted—actual, audible amusement—and let her sit him down at the table.

The morning was chaos, in its own quiet, harmless way. Eileen insisted they begin with a potion she’d invented called Optimism Draft 2.0, which turned thick and purple and smelled vaguely of gingerbread. It fizzed out of the cauldron and onto the table in a trail of bubbles.

“It’s supposed to do that,” she said confidently.

He raised a skeptical brow but made no move to correct her. Instead, he handed her another stirrer after she dropped the first one and let her explain, in excruciating detail, what emotion each ingredient was supposed to enhance.

By midday, the kitchen smelled like sugar and garlic.

They ate lunch outside, cross-legged under the willow tree where the breeze carried the smell of fresh earth and clover. Eileen insisted on a picnic blanket, even if it was just bread and cheese and a few pears you’d left in a bowl.

“You’re not really an outside person, are you?” she asked between bites.

“I don’t dislike the outdoors,” Severus said carefully. “I simply prefer to observe it from a distance.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That means no.”

He smirked. “It means maybe.”

She grinned, crumbs on her lip. “We’ll work on it.”

He couldn’t help but watch her. The way her black curls caught the light. The way her face crinkled when she concentrated. The way she laughed with her whole body, like she hadn’t learned yet to fear the sound of her joy.

The afternoon brought hide-and-seek, which Eileen took very seriously. She made him promise—on pain of sticker-related punishment—not to use Disillusionment charms. When he hid using an old castle-style ward that concealed his magical signature instead, she spent twenty minutes stalking the hallway with narrowed eyes and a determined frown.

“You’re cheating,” she called finally.

“You said no Disillusionment.”

“That was a loophole, not an invitation.”

He emerged from behind a shelf laughing and earned himself glowing pink shoes for the rest of the day. He didn’t remove the hex.

They played card games on the floor, and she made him try and fail to juggle apples before bedtime. She gave him another glittery “Best Dad” badge—still sticky from being enchanted earlier—and he pinned it to his robes without comment.

After dinner, they curled up in the sitting room with tea. Eileen brought her sketchbook, flopped down beside him on the couch, and handed him a quill.

“Draw something,” she said, flopping her legs across his lap.

“I’m not good at—”

“I won’t judge you.”

He gave in, sketching a vaguely dragon-shaped blob while she giggled. She showed him her favorite pages—one of you with your wand tucked behind your ear, another of Severus with stars in his hair and a cup of tea the size of his head.

“This one’s my favorite,” she said, pointing to the three of you drawn in crayon, hands linked, smiling.

He said nothing for a long moment.

Then, softly: “Mine too.”

She fell asleep partway through a story he didn’t realize he was still reading. Her head pressed to his chest, one hand curled loosely into his shirt. He didn’t move. Not for a long time.

Not when the fire dimmed. Not when the wind picked up outside. Not even when the quiet of the house reminded him of just how much he’d missed.

He just stayed where he was.

Just wraps a blanket around them both and holding her close.

--

You return late.

The sun has dipped low behind the hills, casting the sky in soft watercolor golds and purples. The porch creaks beneath your boots. The door opens without resistance. The house smells like stewed apples and old parchment.

You step inside with the hush of someone arriving home to something sacred.

No voices. No clatter.

Just the soft crackle of dying fire.

You cross the threshold into the sitting room—and your heart stops in your chest.

Severus is asleep on the couch, legs stretched long, arm curled loosely around Eileen, who is tucked against his side, her face hidden against his chest.

His head leans back, mouth slightly open. One hand resting against her small shoulder.

Their breathing matches.

You set your satchel down without a sound.

You don't call their names. Don’t break the moment.

You just stand there.

And watch the man you grieved and the child you raised wrapped in the kind of peace that once felt impossible.

And for the first time in years—

You don’t feel like you’re carrying everything alone.

You don’t move for a while.

You just stand there, coat still on, boots forgotten, watching the two of them wrapped in sleep, tucked into one another like they were never meant to be apart.

Eventually, you step forward. Kneel quietly beside the couch, fingers brushing Eileen’s hair away from her cheek.

“Severus,” you murmur, low and gentle.

His eyes flutter open. It takes him a second to find the shape of the room, the shape of you—but when he does, something soft flickers there. He doesn't speak. Just shifts, careful not to disturb the weight pressed against him.

“She should sleep in her bed,” you whisper.

He nods.

And with the kind of care only grief and love can teach, he gathers her into his arms.

She doesn’t stir. Just lets out a quiet sound, breath brushing his neck, her arms loosely curling around his chest in her sleep. He holds her like she’s something fragile, sacred. Like he still can’t believe she’s real.

You lead the way to her room.

He lays her down like a secret.

You pull the blanket over her. He tucks it just beneath her chin.

Neither of you speaks until the door closes behind you with a soft click.

The hallway is dim. The only light comes from the low flicker of the hearth across the room. Still, it’s enough to see the way his eyes shift when they find yours. The quiet ache of everything unsaid.

“So,” you say softly, voice just above a whisper, “how did it go?”

His expression changes immediately. The tension melts from his shoulders, replaced with something warm. Open.

“She brewed a disaster,” he murmurs, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Something between a calming draught and a glitter bomb. It smelled like… sugar and garlic.”

You laugh under your breath. “She’s been obsessed with garlic lately. I don’t know why.”

“She said it repels nightmares.”

You blink. Then smile. “That actually makes sense.”

He watches you for a moment. Something soft settles into the space between you. The kind of softness that lives only in the quiet between heartbeats.

“You’re good with her,” you say eventually, your voice barely audible.

He doesn’t look away. “She makes it easy.”

You raise an eyebrow. “She spilled pumpkin juice on your lap yesterday and told you it was an accident.”

“She said it was a tactical distraction.”

Now you laugh, full and real.

He smiles, eyes crinkling just slightly at the edges. “She’s brilliant. Stubborn. Exhausting.”

“She’s your daughter.”

“And I’m ruined,” he says simply. “Completely.”

You tilt your head, smile still curling at your lips. “You’re soft, Severus Snape.”

His eyes narrow faintly, but the smile stays. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation.”

“I think you shattered that the moment she made you wear flower clips in your hair.”

“I wore them with dignity.”

“She said you looked like a magical hedgehog.”

“She is eight.”

You’re grinning now. And he’s looking at you like he’s never stopped.

The space between you hums. Not tense. Not uncertain.

Just alive.

He shifts, ever so slightly closer.

“You should get some rest,” he says quietly.

You nod.

He steps in, slowly, and presses a kiss to your forehead—barely there, but enough to melt through the last of the cold you’ve held for so long.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, voice near your skin.

Then he turns, steps toward the guest room at the end of the hall, his footsteps nearly silent.

You watch him go and something in your chest cracks open.

The last wall. The final lock.

You don’t call his name.

You don’t need to.

You move. “Severus.”

He turns just as his hand reaches the door.

You’re already there.

And when you reach for him—hands at his collar, breath trembling against his cheek—he doesn’t ask.

He doesn’t speak.

He just lets you kiss him.

And it’s not gentle.

It’s not the kind of kiss that tests the waters or waits for certainty. It’s everything you’ve buried for eight years—grief, longing, rage, need—rising all at once and spilling into him like it’s the only language you still remember.

His hands are everywhere—waist, hips, the curve of your back, down to your thighs—and in one swift, practiced movement, he lifts you.

You gasp, legs instinctively wrapping around his hips, your body pressing against his with desperate, breathless urgency. His mouth never leaves yours for long, tasting every inch of pain and memory you've offered him without words.

You break the kiss only because your lungs demand it, and even then, you barely part. He walks—solid, purposeful—carrying you through the house, through the hallway where ghosts once lingered, past the closed doors of the years between you.

Into your bedroom.

Like he belongs there.

Because he does.

The door clicks shut behind you, and the stillness is sacred.

You’re already pulling at his shirt, hands shaking with the force of everything you’ve held back. He’s just as frantic—fingers trembling over your skin like he’s trying to relearn you from memory, and terrified he’ll wake before he’s done.

He murmurs your name into the hollow of your throat, low and reverent. Not like a question. Like a homecoming.

Your back hits the mattress with a thud, and he follows—hands bracing on either side of your body, eyes locked to yours like he’s waiting for you to vanish. But you don’t. You reach for him. Pull him down. Anchor him to this moment.

To you.

His mouth finds your neck again—then your shoulder, your collarbone—burning a path like he wants to memorize every inch he was denied. Your hands are in his hair, his name on your lips, whispered like a secret you’ve kept buried in your chest for a lifetime.

Clothes are lost in a blur of touch and breath and whispered apologies turned promises. Every movement is desperate, reverent—like he’s not sure if this is real, but he’s going to worship every second of it just in case.

There is no more silence.

No more separation.

Just skin. And heat. And the aching, perfect sound of two people remembering what it means to be whole again.

--

The morning is quiet.

Soft light filters in through the curtains, golden and warm. The kind of light that doesn't demand anything. It simply arrives, settles, and stays.

You’re still wrapped in the blankets, and wrapped in him. One of his arms is tucked under your pillow, the other draped over your waist. His hand rests on your stomach, steady and warm. His chest moves with slow, even breaths behind you, he shifts behind you. Barely. His nose brushes your neck.

It had been years.

And somehow, it still felt like coming home.

You let yourself stay in this.

There’s no urgency. No ache. No fear in your chest like there used to be every time you woke alone.

Just this.

The weight of his body against yours. The warmth. The quiet.

His breath brushes the back of your neck as he shifts slightly again, just enough to pull you a little closer without waking fully. He murmurs something—your name, maybe—or just a sound meant for you and no one else.

You let yourself turn toward him.

His eyes are still closed, lashes brushing his cheeks. His hair’s a mess and the blankets are half-kicked off, but he looks… peaceful. Lighter than you’ve seen him in years. Like something in him finally let go.

You brush your fingertips gently across his arm, and his eyes open slowly.

For a moment, he just looks at you.

Like he’s still making sure this is real.

“…Hi,” you whisper, voice rough with sleep.

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Hi.”

There’s nothing to say, not really. And everything at the same time. But neither of you rushes it.

“We didn’t sleep much,” you say softly.

He nods faintly. “Didn’t want to waste any of it.”

You let out a quiet laugh, your fingers tracing the edge of the blanket between you.

“I wasn’t sure,” you admit.

His brow furrows just slightly.

“I wasn’t sure what it would feel like. After all this time. After everything.”

He watches you carefully. “And now?”

You meet his eyes, and the answer is already there, warm and steady in your chest.

“It feels like breathing.”

His hand finds yours under the covers. He links your fingers together like he had done it hundred times before.

There’s no rush to get up. No voices calling. Just the two of you, in the quiet peace of a morning that finally belongs to you both.

And for once, the silence is perfect.

A few more minutes pass in quiet.

You’re still curled into him, your face tucked against his chest, his fingers lazily tracing slow lines along your back. The sunlight has shifted on the floor. You should probably get up soon. But neither of you moves.

And then—

There’s a thud in the hallway.

Fast footsteps.

A short pause—

And then the door swings open with the urgency only a child can summon.

“Mum? Dad’s gone—”

Eileen’s voice falters as her eyes land on the two of you in bed.

She stops in the doorway, wearing one of her oversized pajama tops and her favorite mismatched socks. Her curls are flattened slightly on one side, and she’s clutching the end of a blanket like she dragged it with her in her half-awake panic.

Her eyebrows lift. Her eyes widen.

And then, very softly:

“…Oh.”

You sit up slightly, still under the covers, trying to keep your voice gentle. “Sweetheart—what’s wrong?”

She blinks, eyes flicking between the two of you.

“I woke up and he wasn’t on the couch,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I looked everywhere.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, and Severus, beside you, gives a soft groan into the pillow.

“I thought maybe he got… un-gone,” she adds, very quietly, her lip trembling just slightly.

And that breaks your heart a little.

“Oh, Eileen,” you murmur, already reaching toward her. “Come here.”

She walks over slowly, still holding onto her blanket like a shield. You pull her into the bed between you, and she curls up instinctively against your side, warm and small and a little overwhelmed.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Severus says gently, reaching out to brush a stray curl behind her ear. “I just… stayed with Mum last night.”

She peeks up at him with wide sleepy eyes.

“Because you love her?” she asks, like she’s putting the pieces together out loud.

He smiles, soft and tired and honest. “Yes. Very much.”

Eileen processes that for a moment, then looks up at you with the kind of innocence only a child can manage.

“Are you finally going to get married now?”

Severus lets out a quiet laugh.

“maybe...” you say, smoothing her hair. “we’ll see.”

Eileen hums, then snuggles down between you both like that answer satisfied her curiosity completely.

“I’m hungry,” she mumbles into the blanket. “Can we have toast?”

“Yes,” Severus replies without hesitation. “All the toast you want.”

You look over at him, and he’s already watching you with a quiet, knowing smile.

And just like that, the morning is no longer just yours.

Because some things don’t need words.

Some things just are.

And this?

This is yours.

This is what remains, after all the silence.

This is what love looks like when it’s survived the war.

It’s home.

[castieldelamancha]

"Do you regret it?"

A pair of piercing blue eyes find his in an instant. They are framed by a headful of white hair, Dean's own hair went white way before Cas, thinning slightly, but there is still enough for Castiel's fingers to gently comb through as the day ends and they lay together in bed.

Those blue eyes, now adorned with deep wrinkles, are still as alive as they once were, years ago, when they first met and neither of them would have been able to imagine they were going to end where they are now.

What only makes Dean even more sure about Castiel having kept a bit of his grace after letting it go for the last time.

Castiel doesn't need him to explain himself, of course. And it still gets Dean, a blow directly to his chest, it leaves him breathless, the telltale prickle of tears in his eyes, it leaves him speechless, to be known like this, so intimately, his very soul cradled by gentle hands from the moment they took him out of Hell.

It also isn't the first time he has ever asked the same question.

It was Castiel's first morning as a human, a permanent state now, no take backs.

It all scared Dean shitless.

Naked and entwined under the sunrise's glow, the first of many, and yet Dean felt it was more an ending than a beginning, thoughts running wild in his mind.

"Do you regret it?"

No 'good morning', no 'how did you sleep?', Dean had to open his big mouth and ruin it all first thing in the morning. Just in case he doesn't regret it, Dean had scolded himself, you can show him how clingy and insecure you can be.

Castiel had given him a bemused look back then, realisation slowly dawning on him. One of Castiel's hand found the one Dean had wrapped over his hip, their fingers tangling.

"I love you." That's all he had told Dean back then.

It was the second time and Dean had almost braced for the worst, but the walls remained as solid as they always were, the world kept spinning and his whole world was still there, safely tucked between his arms.

Castiel didn't say anything else. And it was enough, and maybe Dean could be enough too.

The memory washes over him and it seems to blend with the present moment as Castiel's hand finds his, just like Cas had reached out to him all those years ago. His hands have changed, rough with work, wrinkled and speckled with freckles, kisses from the Sun that Dean graces with his own lips now, raising their joined hands towards his face.

Castiel watches him, a reserved smile on his face.

"I love you."

That's all he tells Dean. He has told him so many times he lost count years ago and there is no fear now, the walls of their little home stay the same, and the earth keeps spinning and his whole world is now cradling his face between his hands, fingertips tracing Dean's own wrinkles.

This time around, though, Castiel takes a deep breath, gives Dean a reassuring smile, "I wouldn't trade a lifetime with you for an empty eternity without you," like he can read his mind he adds, before Dean can even say it out loud, "getting old is complicated, but I-"

"Still worthy, doing it beside you." Dean interrupts.

"Yes, Dean, exactly," Castiel nods his head, "do you regret it?"

"Never." Dean doesn't even let him finish the question.

Castiel laughs quietly, it's not a teasing thing, it's just this joy inside his chest, filling it to the brim, so big and bright it has to be let out somehow.

Castiel could tell Dean he is being dumb, that after their lives here are said and done they both know they will find each other again, in a place where time won't matter and all this aching joints and slow steps and poor vision will be gone. And still, he doesn't, it's not only about dying or getting old, is also about Cas losing such a big part of himself, his powers, his wings, Castiel knows that. The fact he himself has long made his peace with it doesn't mean Dean has stopped worrying about it.

So instead he says, still holding Dean's face, still following the deep lines of his wrinkles, "what would even be the point of flying if you weren't there waiting for me to land?"

"I love you too, Cas." And if his voice breaks and fails none of them pay it any mind, he wouldn't want to fly away either without a safe place to land.

[spore-loser]

・day four・lover ( burning together ) @nestaarcheronweek

a court of flame and fog chapter seven

neris ( nesta x eris )・autumn court au・m nesta makes a different decision, saying goodbye to the night court and forging a path of her own. ao3 : chapter one -or- chapter seven

a marriage of convenience becomes something more

7. burning together ❦

His back to her, Eris dresses in what Nesta can only assume is evening attire

—tan and loose linen pants buttoning in a high waist with an equally loose white shirt tucking in, his feet sliding into corduroy slippers. A burgundy and gold-threaded robe from his armoire confirms her assumption. He’s entirely too clothed, but she can fix that.

The just-visible raising of Eris’ brows when he turns around nearly brings a catlike grin to Nesta’s lips.

His eyes stay valiantly, annoyingly on hers. “Turning in for the night?”

“No, definitely not,” is her simple answer.

He says, “Ah,” as if he understands her meaning but stands there frozen in place, an unusually blank look on his face.

She realizes she must be direct. “Whatever you were thinking of doing – some leisure reading in your armchair or poring over court scrolls at your desk – you’ll have to put it off.”

Eris’ lips twist into the roguish smile she had come to miss on him. “If my Lady says so.”

“She does.” Mock imperiousness raises her chin. “And she says you will remove your clothes if you know what’s good for you.”

His chuckle is smug satisfaction as much as it is amusement. She feels it like a tangible thing, warm all down her spine and resting between her legs. “Her wish is my command.”

Amber eyes stay locked with hers as he takes off each piece of clothing. The robe shrugged off and behind him. The ruffled nightshirt pulled up his torso and over his head. The linen pants untied, and stepped out of, with nothing underneath them. Because Autumn folk wear no undergarments, bless them.

Nude before her, Eris reminds Nesta of a statue from the Continent; she had seen detailed illustrations of the most famous in the pages of books. He looks just like those poised bearings and toned forms carved from marble. Except the member between his legs is no minuscule thing.

She stares too long at him. It was always the pretty ones who stole her eyes when she was human…

Smug from the beginning, Eris only grows more so. “I see my Lady approves.”

The heating of Nesta’s cheeks tells her they’re staining with unmistakable color. Regardless, her reply is a haughty, “You’ll do.”

And she’s glad of it, too—for the laughter brightening his face. She thrills at making Eris laugh, coveting that sound like nothing else, warming under it like a moth to flame.

He comes over and lowers himself next to her. To take her hand in both of his, saying with mock solemnity, “The words every male wants to hear.”

Eris watches Nesta chuckle, his eyes going to her mouth. A blink of his heavy red lashes and her smile fades. His long, elegant fingers brush softly against her chin. They angle her for a kiss. At first, their lips meet with careful control—in slow, almost chaste contact. Then breath leave their lips, and searching tongues find each other. Restraint breaks away, shattered and forgotten.

//

ao3 : chapter one -or- chapter seven

d i v i d e r : @tsunami-of-tears

[salt-clangen]

Moon 18 pt 1

Green leaf

Buckle up guys bc this is only pt 1

Trigger warning: animal death and descriptions of animal remains

Typically, an apprentice ceremony followed birth order, but for Lynxdawn’s daughters, Wolfstar had chosen to begin with the obvious decisions.

“Let all cats old enough to swim gather for a clan meeting!” Wolfstar called from atop the massive driftwood trunk that crowned her den.

The clearing filled quickly. Thistle, still wobbly on her feet. Excitement hummed through the air like heat before a summer storm.

When the crowd settled, Wolfstar lifted her chin. “Today is a very exciting day—we welcome four new apprentices.”

Lynxdawn fussed over her daughters at the edge of the crowd, smoothing Sandkit’s fur with rhythmic strokes. The kits sat beside her in descending birth order, each trembling with anticipation.

“Dropletkit, Kelpkit, Coralkit, Sandkit,” Wolfstar announced. One by one, the four kits stepped forward and turned to face their clanmates as they’d practiced.

“You’ve each reached the age of six moons,” she continued, her voice rich and steady. “From this day on, until you earn your warrior names, you will be known as Dropletpaw, Kelppaw, Coralpaw, and Sandpaw.”

A wave of cheers rolled through the clearing. Wolfstar raised her tail, waiting for quiet to return before speaking again.

“Sandpaw, step forward.”

The smallest of the sisters puffed out her chest and sat proudly, her heart thudding like waves against the cliff.

“You’ve chosen the path of a warrior,” Wolfstar said, her tone warm. “Your mentor will be Shadowdive. I trust he’ll manage both apprentices he’s been blessed with.”

Sandpaw bounded to touch noses with her new mentor, practically buzzing with excitement.

“Coralpaw,” Wolfstar paused—longer than she intended. “You asked to announce your path yourself. Please go ahead.”

Coralpaw stood with poised ease, her leaf-green eyes scanning the clan. She cleared her throat delicately, even as her sisters groaned at her theatrics.

“I’ve decided,” she said clearly, “to become the clan’s first mediator.”

A ripple of gasps fluttered through the clearing. Not upset—just surprised. Even Lynxdawn blinked in shock. She’d expected Coralpaw to lean toward the arts, or perhaps take up campkeeping.

Wolfstar flicked her tail, quieting the reaction, and offered a measured smile. “Coralpaw, you understand that means I don’t have a proper mentor for you?”

“I know,” the young molly replied, unshaken. “But I think a mediator is a vital part of the clan, and I’m ready to take that on.”

Wolfstar’s eyes softened. “That’s a noble thing to say.”

She scanned the gathered cats, her tail twitching in thought. At last, she spoke. “Then your mentor will be Nightleap.”

Silence fell.

Nightleap looked like she’d been doused in cold water. She barely masked her shock before Snowspeckle nudged her with a congratulatory purr. Slowly, the black molly stepped forward, casting a glance at Wolfstar.

“Nightleap, I trust you have a wealth of insight to share. And to support your mentoring, I’ll request a mediator from another clan to assist with occasional lessons.”

Nightleap dipped her head. Coralpaw, untouched by the tension, reached out eagerly to touch noses with her new mentor.

“Kelppaw!” Wolfstar turned to the next, eager to move on. “You’ve chosen to become an artisan, and our beloved deputy was an easy match. I know she’ll pass on all her wisdom.”

Snowspeckle stepped forward with a proud gleam in her eye. Kelppaw purred so hard she shook as she touched noses with her mentor.

When they settled to the side, Wolfstar took a breath and looked to the final kit.

“Dropletpaw,” she said gently, “you haven’t yet shared your chosen path.”

Dropletpaw stiffened as if struck. Her eyes flicked briefly to Wolfstar, then to the watching crowd. Finally, they dropped to her paws.

“Dropletpaw, do you need more time?” the leader asked, her voice softer than sea foam.

The young tabby shook her head. She’d already spent days in Wolfstar’s den, seeking guidance from every cat who offered it. The last thing she wanted was more advice.

“No,” she murmured. Then louder, steadier: “I’ve decided to become a historian.”

Again a few whispers broke out, but Wolfstar only had eyes for the apprentice. Dropletpaw flinched with a squeak as her leader dropped lithely to the sand beside her.

Her eyes bright, Wolfstar spoke just to her. “Really?”

The young molly nodded, swallowing down her nerves.

Standing tall once more, Wolfstar called out. “Then I shall be your mentor.”

She bent her head. Dropletpaw touched noses with her, tail quivering with nerves.

And then the clan erupted.

“Sandpaw! Coralpaw! Kelppaw! Dropletpaw!”

Their names rose like gull cries over the water, echoing across the shore.

Wolfstar’s dreams plagued her. Even with the comfort of her mates and excitement of the clan’s growth, she slept fitfully most nights. Last night was no exception—it felt as real as the morning sun peeking past her curtain.

In the dream, she stood atop the still, gleaming ocean, the water stretching endlessly in every direction. The silvery waves lapped gently at her paws, and moonlight—strange and star-speckled—bathed her in its chill.

Then something broke the surface.

A shadowed figure, rising slow and gaunt from the sea.

A cat. A stranger.

Its mouth moved, silent. She felt the whisper of words against her whiskers like a breath of wind—but nothing reached her ears. It stared at her, its eyes like dark pits. Then it sank without a sound, vanishing below, and the sea closed over it like it had never been there.

She’d jolted awake, trembling and panting, Mallowstripe purring against her side, trying to soothe her. But she couldn’t calm down.

Her paws were wet.

Not with sweat—truly damp. She pressed her nose to them and tasted seawater.

She didn’t sleep again after that.

By dawn, she was up helping with the morning meal and patrol assignments, though she picked at her food, appetite hollow. Eventually, she gathered Ripplepaw and Snowspeckle for a patrol.

Mallowstripe tried to block her path gently, brushing his cheek against her neck in a warm hug. “You should stay and rest,” he murmured into her fur.

“I won’t be able to sleep,” she said, shrugging him off. Her deputy gave her a concerned glance.

“You could ask Lynxdawn for something to help,” he pressed. “And you need to tell her about your dream.”

Wolfstar bristled. “I’ll tell her when I get back,” she muttered, pushing past him.

Snowspeckle didn’t question her on the walk. They followed the shore toward the boating place, today’s patrol simple—just mark the border, check the tide pools, maybe some sparring. Then she’d spend the afternoon showing Dropletpaw the territory. She hoped to nap in the shade while Ripplepaw trained, but she doubted her mind would let her.

The border marking went smoothly. The sand was heating beneath the sun, and the pools shimmered cool and quiet. The water was a balm on her paws, but her attention drifted.

Something was poking from the sand a few fox-lengths away, close to the waves. A stone? A shell? It vanished and reappeared with each splash. By high tide, it would be gone.

She tried to focus on her lesson, needing to sign half of it for Ripplepaw, but she kept glancing back. Eventually, she passed him over to Snowspeckle for practice and wandered toward it.

The water felt good, a cool ribbon on her overheated legs. Ripplepaw watched her from a distance, curious. She dug carefully around the object, paws parting the sand. As she unearthed more of it, a chill threaded down her spine.

A tail touched her shoulder, and she flinched—Snowspeckle and Ripplepaw had joined her. “I-Is that…?” Snowspeckle murmured.

Wolfstar didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. With one last scrape of her paw, the sand gave way—and a cat’s skull stared back at them.

Ripplepaw had to shout three times to explain what happened, too breathless for full sentences. By the time the clan arrived—nearly all of them, though the newest apprentices were made to stay in camp with Thistle—the skeleton had been dragged further from the waves, and Lynxdawn was already ordering cats back.

Wolfstar stood like a stone beside her, explaining her dream in a whisper only Lynxdawn could hear.

“It was like the ocean gave her back,” she hissed. “Like it spat her out.”

Lynxdawn’s gaze sharpened. “Everyone but Wolfstar, back to camp,” she ordered, her voice colder than usual. “Snowspeckle, make sure patrols and duties continue as normal. We can’t fall apart over this. Wolfstar and I will return with answers.”

There was reluctance, even protest, but the cats slowly dispersed. Mallowstripe had to physically push Shadowdive away from the scene, though the tom’s worried eyes lingered on his mate. Wolfstar didn’t notice. Her stare was fixed on the skeleton.

Lynxdawn placed a paw gently on her elbow. “We have to begin.”

Wolfstar nodded, swallowing hard. Together, they moved the bones. The tradition was old—leader and cleric examined every death, no matter how strange.

She crouched beside it and began uncurling the limbs, laying the skeleton gently on its side. There was something reverent in the motion.

“There are cracks on the ribs,” Lynxdawn said, running a claw over the fractures. “Could be the cause of death… or not.”

Wolfstar didn’t answer, her eyes sweeping over the remains. Skin clung to the bones in a few places, tendons dried taut. It looked preserved. Smoked.

Like prey.

Her breath caught. She bolted up the beach and vomited behind a rock, stomach twisting violently. Lynxdawn remained where she was, giving her space but watching with concern.

Eventually, Wolfstar returned, unsteady. “Keep going,” she rasped.

“There are also fractures around the eye sockets. A lot of damage. It’s impossible to tell what happened when the cat was alive.” Lynxdawn spoke softly, as if the body could still hear.

“Could’ve been an accident,” Wolfstar murmured. “But how did she end up here?”

“It might’ve been buried here a long time ago,” Lynxdawn said. “We don’t know how old this is. Maybe some clan or group used to lay their dead here.”

Wolfstar didn’t respond right away. Her tail twitched, ears flicking against the breeze. “I’ll ask the others about Tall Waters,” she finally said. “Maybe they used this place before they broke apart. But we’ll list the death as inconclusive.”

They covered the body with driftwood to shield it from sun and wind. Wolfstar insisted on calling the cat “she,” though Lynxdawn admitted she couldn’t confirm anything from the remains.

“It feels wrong,” Wolfstar whispered. “To leave her like this.”

Lynxdawn waited.

“I want to bury her before nightfall,” she said firmly. “I don’t care if it ruins the investigation. By sunset, I want her in our graveyard. It’s only fair.”

Lynxdawn’s throat tightened. She nodded. “It’s only fair.”

As they turned to gather the driftwood and begin the somber work of transport, a gull shrieked overhead—then another, circling the waves beyond the tide pool.

Wolfstar glanced back at the place where the skeleton had been. The shallow depression in the sand was already beginning to fill with water again, as though the ocean meant to take her back.

And just before she looked away, she thought—no, she felt—the salt air shift. Like a whisper curling through her fur. Like a voice brushing her whiskers.

She didn’t understand the words.

But she was sure it had said her name.

That evening they buried the stranger as the sun touched the edge of the sea.

It was a quiet affair. No prayers, no names—just salt-soaked dirt, gentle paws, and the low hush of waves rolling in and out like breath below the cliff. By the time the last pawful was placed over the grave, dusk had begun to fall. The air felt thick with something unspoken, something unfinished.

Wolfstar didn’t speak on the walk home. Lynxdawn didn’t ask her to.

The camp was subdued when they returned, the scent of driftwood smoke lingering from the evening meal. No one asked what they’d found—not yet. For now, they let silence hold it.

The next morning, life continued. It always did.

Thistle was a model patient. She took her medication when told, rested while Lynxdawn worked, and diligently followed the exercises she’d been shown. Though she rarely spoke and never revealed much about her past, Lynxdawn considered her the best patient she’d ever cared for.

Over time, she found herself growing fond of the quiet molly. Thistle’s patience with the clan’s kits was particularly endearing. Coralpaw, in particular, had taken it upon herself to be Thistle’s personal ‘mentor,’ chattering endlessly about clan customs and the warrior code. Though Lynxdawn often had to step in to clarify, Thistle never turned the kit away. Whether she was truly interested or simply too polite to ignore Coralpaw, Lynxdawn couldn’t say. Still, she could see them becoming friends someday soon.

So it was disheartening to wake up to an empty nest. Thistle’s scent was still strong, fresh enough to suggest she had left just before dawn.

“I guess she decided it was time to leave,” Lynxdawn murmured to Wolfstar.

Wolfstar’s tail brushed gently against her back. “I’ll send Shadowdive and Otterpaw to make sure she’s left the territory safely.”

Before Lynxdawn could respond, movement in the clearing caught her eye. A shadow wavered in the growing morning light.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said.

Hobbling forward, unsteady but determined, Thistle carried a small black kit. Lynxdawn rushed to help, gently taking the tiny molly by the scruff and offering her patient support as they moved toward the cleric’s den. Thistle groaned as she was carefully laid down, exhaustion clear in her every movement.

“Where did this kit come from?” Wolfstar’s voice was a low hiss, wary of attracting attention. The clan was just beginning to stir; soon, curious eyes would be on them.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Thistle huffed, turning her face away as Lynxdawn set the tiny black tabby at her belly. “She’s my kit. That’s it.”

“You gave birth?” Lynxdawn asked, already checking her over, but Thistle curled her tail tightly around herself, ears pinned back.

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.” Her voice was hoarse, her exhaustion making it less of a growl and more of a plea.

Lynxdawn sighed. “You don’t have any milk yet.” She was already reaching for a jar of herbs.

Wolfstar watched the injured molly, eyes calculating. With all the tension in the clan, a loner keeping secrets would only add to the unease. She exhaled slowly and settled in a loaf position near the nest.

“You need to give me something, Thistle,” she reasoned. “We’re giving you care and shelter—”

Thistle’s fur bristled. “If you’re going to hold it over my head, then I’ll just leave!”

Wolfstar let the silence stretch, waiting for the outburst to pass. The kit mewed softly at her mother’s belly.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Wolfstar continued, her voice even. “But you left, then returned with a kit who clearly isn’t a newborn.”

Thistle set her chin on her paws, glowering at the white tabby.

“Please, Thistle,” Lynxdawn said gently, placing a bowl in front of her. “Just tell us about this morning.”

Thistle’s gaze softened slightly.

“I left last night… to have the kit. I didn’t plan on coming back, but I couldn’t move very well. Figured I may as well return.”

Wolfstar and Lynxdawn exchanged glances but remained silent, waiting.

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” Thistle murmured, shifting uncomfortably. “Don’t you have a rule about asking queens where their kits are from?”

Wolfstar held her gaze before giving a small nod.

“You’re right, we do.” Lynxdawn’s smile was strained, but her voice was soft. She pushed the bowl closer. “Rest up. You and your daughter are safe here.”

Wolfstar flicked her tail as she stood, the sounds of the waking clan filtering into the den. She gestured for Lynxdawn to follow.

Outside, they kept their voices low.

“You believe her?” Wolfstar asked.

Lynxdawn nearly laughed. “That she gave birth this morning? Not a chance.”

“But?”

“But without an exam, I can’t say she didn’t give birth a few days ago.” She sighed. “The poultice on her back masks any scents I could use to check, and she won’t let me examine her closely.”

Wolfstar was silent for a moment, her gaze drifting toward the kitchen where Mallowstripe was preparing food.

Her stomach growled.

“Could she have been pregnant when you found her?”

“Maybe? I was more focused on her back. Plus, she lays on her belly all the time.” Lynxdawn’s stomach growled, and she let out another sigh. “I can’t make heads or tails of this.”

Wolfstar’s tail brushed against her back in reassurance. “We’ll let it rest for now. Go check on the kit. I’ll bring food for both of you.”

“And tell the clan?” Lynxdawn asked hopefully.

Wolfstar chuckled, her tone dry. “Nope. We’ll do that together after the meal.”

Lynxdawn groaned but returned to the den nonetheless.

A few days after the reveal of Thistle’s kit, the clan settled. Though concerns lingered, Lynxdawn reassured everyone that neither Thistle nor her daughter matched the signs or dreams surrounding Lostclaw.

Nearly a half-moon later, the kit’s eyes began to open. That morning, Lynxdawn found herself chatting with Thistle over a warm bowl of tea.

“So, you never told me—what exactly is this?” Thistle prodded the bowl with a paw.

Lynxdawn grinned. “It’s a tea of blessed thistle, milk thistle, and fennel.”

Thistle huffed a laugh, taking a sip. “Two different thistles, huh?” A rusty purr rumbled in her chest. “It’s sweet.”

“Oh, I had to add a ton of honey.” Lynxdawn laughed. “Blessed thistle is really bitter. I had to go to the twoleg place with Shadowdive to find some, but it’s great for milk production.”

Thistle hummed at that, drinking deeply. “And the milk thistle?”

“That one’s more common. It grows near where I found you.” She retrieved a jar. “It also helps with milk production, but it’s good for appetite, too.”

Thistle chewed a dried flower head thoughtfully. “Of course you’re giving me fennel, too.”

Lynxdawn laughed. “It’s important! It helps with milk production, inflammation, digestion, appetite—”

Thistle shook her head playfully. “You’re making all that up. No way one herb does all that.”

They shared a quiet chuckle as Lynxdawn tidied her den. A tiny mew broke the peace as the kit stirred.

“Do you have a name for her?” Lynxdawn asked. “It’s about the time we name kits in the clan.”

Thistle gave the kit a few rough licks. “Yeah, you told me about fading kits guiding their litters.” She hesitated, glancing between Lynxdawn and her daughter. “But I’ve had a name for her since day one.”

Lynxdawn’s ears perked. “Are you ready to share?”

Thistle exhaled slowly. “Briarkit.”

Lynxdawn froze, eyes widening. “Does that mean…?”

“If I can… I’d like to stay in SaltClan.” Thistle’s voice was quiet, almost embarrassed.

Lynxdawn squealed and bumped their heads together. “Of course! Wolfstar wouldn’t turn you away! I’ll talk to her right now!”

With a burst of excitement, Lynxdawn darted from the den, leaving Thistle chuckling as she gazed down at Briarkit, fondness in her eyes.

Greenleaf was nears its end, but it still managed to claim Nightleap as a victim before it was over. The black molly was brought back from patrol by Coralpaw and Otterpaw, dizzy and babbling.

Lynxdawn sent the apprentices to find Snowspeckle, then set a pot to boil. She laid water soaked moss on the over heated Molly’s side and under legs, the cool water instantly soothing her babbles.

“Nightleap can you eat this for me?” Lynxdawn asked loudly and slowly, waiting for acknowledgment.

Nightleap grunted and tried to nod, her panting picked up.

Good enough, she thought and brought a small bowl of feverfew infused honey. Nightleap lapped at it easily, her muzzle sticky, but she was getting most of it.

Once the water was hot, she poured it over a bowl of sage and fennel to steep. From the corner Thistle clicked her tongue, brows raised.

“Wow that was impressive,” She said, Briarkit sleeping still at her belly despite the commotion. “You work fast.”

Lynxdawn flushed, she’d forgotten the queen was still there. Letting out a nervous purr she sniffed the tea, checking its temperature. “Thanks, I try.”

“Whe-where am I?” Nightleap mumbled, resting her chin in the now empty bowl.

“In the cleric’s den.” Lynxdawn assured her, gently licking her forehead. “Otterpaw and Coralpaw brought you here.”

The black molly grimaced, unfocused eyes scrunching. “Ugh Coralpaw. I didn’t ask for an apprentice.”

The den was silent, Lynxdawn could hear her heart beat in her ears. Nightleap didn’t notice the tension, continuing on.

“And gah she’s ann-annoying.” She slurred, shaking her head. “Like I- Like I know how to be a mediator.”

Lynxdawn sat back, taking a deep breath, from the corner she saw Thistle’s hackles rising.

Letting her patient mumble and chatter as she checked her ear temperature. She sent a quick look to Thistle, the queen’s jaw was set but she kept quiet.

Lynxdawn strained the tea but set it aside to cool, taking a moment to change the wet moss again. Being out of the sun, Nightleap settled down more, lying on the cool sand instead of the nests.

Once the molly was dozing, no longer trying to talk, Thistle cleared her throat. “You’re better than me, Lynxie. I would’ve whacked the shit outta her for saying that about my kit.”

Lynxdawn snorted. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

“She knows, she just doesn’t know who she’s saying it to.” She grumbled, narrowed eyes on the napping patient.

“Honestly I’m not surprised. I saw her face when she was called up to mentor.” Lynxdawn sighed. “I’ll speak with Wolfstar and Snowspeckle. Hopefully we can smooth this out.”

Thistle said nothing, just set her narrow eyes on the sleeping molly.

That night Lynxdawn slept in her nest, still unused to sleeping alone when she saw a little face poke through the curtain of leather and moss.

“Coralpaw.” Her voice low but stern. “You should be in the apprentice den.”

The gray molly just purred, eyes squinting fondly. Without a word she climbed into her mother’s nest, curling tightly against her flank.

With a tsk, Lynxdawn dragged her tongue over her daughter’s scruff before settling back down.

Sleep came easier with another body in her nest.

[meowssmer]

Summer Encroaches

caleb x mc | caleb x reader

Takes place in their childhood, before the entire main story. Caleb takes you deep into the forest near your home to show you something.

Fluff and angst, mentions of Caleb being mc's older brother so if you're uncomfortable with that please don't read.

He was always sparkling. Broken sunlight shattered by the green leaves pouring against his purple eyes. "Come here!" He'd wave you over deeper into the forest. Beckoning you as a drifting voice, floating farther and farther away. You'd follow the sound of his footsteps. He was always so difficult to follow, your older brother, always so far ahead. His life full of possibility and promises, you in comparison, felt worthless next to him. Yet, time and time again, he handed you things you didn't deserve: a hair tie, some candy, answers to your homework, a ribbon, his love.

You don't tell him because you're embarrassed by it, but you've kept everything he's given you in a small jar hidden in the back of your closet. A part of you thinks he already knows, but a lack of admission speaks louder than anything you could possibly confess.

Finally, you reach him with clunky steps and your panting breath. Quickly, he hushes you. His grin is huge and his eyes are squinting to make room for his smile. You're thrilled to see him like this. You hope you're the only one in the whole world that'll ever see him like this. Though you know it's not possible. He'll grow older. It's a truth that haunts you.

He points upwards to the trees blocking the Sun. At first, you don't understand. You're too busy admiring the swinging branches and the sound of the rustling wind. It smells like an endless summer. Caleb notices your unfocused gaze. "It's on your right." he whispers in your ear. You blush with how close he is and whip your head to avoid his observant gaze.

A bird flies into your sight. There's a dash of blue, but it's mainly made of black and white feathers. You blink. "It's a magpie!" he exclaims. He's so excited by the sight you almost feel guilty for not caring.

"They're pretty common, Caleb." you reply, monotone.

"Yeah, but this one is special." his eyes are glimmering. He looks so endearing like this. You can't help but to fall victim to his joy and play along with him.

"Yeah? Why?" you ask not really expecting a genuine answer. He doesn't answer you, he simply gives a tight lipped smile. Suddenly, you're annoyed again, but he urges you to look up once again. There's two of them now. Fluttering together in a dance. The Sun captures the brilliant blue every couple of seconds as they fly around each other. They look like pulsing stars.

"I wanna fly like that." Caleb confesses.

Dread stretches into your heart like a shadow. "You... want to fly? Become a pilot?" It's difficult to get the words out.

"Yeah," He looks over to you again. "I want to fly far, far away and see the whole world." He doesn't admit it, but he doesn't need to. What he really meant to say was: "I want to be free."

You feel like a rock plummeting into black water. Your body is heavier, your words hold a weight, you have to claw your voice out of your throat. "But I don't know how to fly."

Caleb looks shocked for a second, but soon begins laughing. You stare at him in disbelief. The dancing blue lights with black fluttering wings serve as both of yours foreground, forgotten. Your eyes tear up. "It's not funny!" You don't mean to scream, you don't mean to scare the stars away or quiet the forest, but the anger in you bursts.

There's a nervous tension now as his eyes grow concerned and the tears in your eyes fall towards the ground. "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry," he's panicking "you don't need to know how to fly." he gently pushes the tears off your cheeks "I'll take you everywhere. I'll be your wings. I'm sorry for laughing... I just... I would never imagine a world without you."

"You promise?" You force your eyes up to him, not realizing you've been looking down in shame the entire time. He looks pained. His irises look more like puddles. You can't help but feel pride over how much you've hurt him. Only I can give him this pain, you think.

"Of course I do." his smile never reaches his eyes. "Because I..." he wavers.

"Hm? I didn't hear you." You wipe your snot off with the back of your hand.

"Ah! Don't do that! You know I have tissues!"

"But this is just so much easier! Plus, you were talking and my nose was dripping. You told me to never interrupt when people are talking!"

"That's other people! You can always interrupt me! Especially when you need something."

"Well... I don't really need a tissue... look I can wipe it onto the grass."

"Now your hands are dirty! What if you get sick!"

"You can just feed me your snacks with your clean hands instead."

"Hah... ok... your good older brother will do everything for you. He'll fly you everywhere, feed you, and show you pretty things."

"Mhm. You promised!"

He sighs and shakes his head, "Silly girl." It's your turn to laugh at him, leftover snot dripping into your mouth. In a flash, he's wiping your nose with a tissue. You hold his hand after he's done and he leads you home, away from the two love birds' personal paradise.

“The feelings as soft as water,

the ecstatic moment unreal as a dream,

how can one have the heart to go back on the bridge made of magpies?”

[feinzleclerc]

𝗦𝗧𝗬𝗟𝗘 | CS55

.||✧ pairing ; carlos sainz x journalist!fem! reader

.||✧ summary ; Where you and Carlos have been broken up for more than two years, but suddenly you meet again on a random set to film a perfume commercial. After all, you never go out of style.

.||✧ warnings ; [main warning] English is not my first language

.||✧ word count ; 2.7k word

notes ; masterlist & sportify

Your heart froze, and you could barely believe what you saw before you. The set was chaotic—stylists rushing one way, makeup artists darting another. But the moment you spotted him standing just a few steps away, everything else faded, if only for a second.

Who would’ve thought the star of the commercial you’d been cast in would be Carlos Sainz —your ex-boyfriend, the man you hadn’t seen in two years?

And when he walked onto the set, impeccable in a beige blazer, hair deliberately tousled, gaze sharp yet unsettled, your heart skipped more beats than it already had. You saw the genuine surprise flash across his face, your own breath catching in your throat.

— Hey! — someone from production called out. — (Your name), please! Come with me!

A gentle hand touched your shoulder, guiding you to a nearby dressing room. Inside, a makeup artist waited. Sit down, sweetheart.

— I think I need water. — you muttered, your mouth dry.

— You’re pale! — the makeup artist handed you the bottle you’d asked for.

Then again, who wouldn’t go pale in this situation?

But… how could you even begin to explain your history with Sainz?

[FLASHBACK]

You’d met in Madrid, where you’d gone to interview a French football coach about to take over a major club. Your schedule was tight, your mind focused: interviews, deadlines, coffee, then home. No distractions. Until the Spanish embassy’s PR manager tipped you off:

— There’s a gala tonight. Sports crowd only. Great networking.

You almost said no. High heels sounded exhausting. But you went. After all, a little networking never killed anyone.

And that’s where you saw him for the first time.

Carlos wore a navy-blue tuxedo, his hair slightly messy, a smile that said, I know you recognize me.

You tried to ignore him. Focused on your wine, the menu, small talk with some retired defender-turned-commentator. But he noticed you.

He’d always been good with curves, whether on the track or in conversation.

— You’re the journalist who asked if Mbappé understands Brazilian football, right? — He appeared at your table when you least expected it.

You turned, startled.

— And you’re the driver who’s hopelessly in love with Real Madrid?

His grin was dazzling.

— Exactly, cariño.

That night became a turning point. Between jokes about football and Formula 1, between teasing and lingering glances, something sparked. An electric chemistry. A slow-burning flirtation. He asked you out for coffee the next day. You said it wouldn’t be professional. But Carlos wasn’t the type to give up easily, he spent the rest of the night inventing a thousand reasons why you had to go.

You went. And kept going. Again and again.

The relationship unfolded slowly but intensely. He’d text you right after races:

“Podium today. Would’ve been better if you were there."

You’d pretend not to smile, sitting through yet another press conference with grumpy coaches. He’d call you in the middle of the night, from the other side of the world, just to hear you say he was more than a pretty face and a pole position.

You traveled in secret. Hotel rooms with blackout curtains. Breakfast in bed, muffled laughter, fingers tangled under the sheets. No one could know.

For months, it worked. Then the first leaked photos surfaced, and the fans weren’t kind. The world wasn’t gentle, that much was a fact.

“She doesn’t match him.”

“This is a scam.”

“Carlos, open your eyes.”

You held on. For a while.He swore it would pass. That love was stronger. That it was just noise.

But the noise became silence. He stopped defending you publicly. Stopped including you in his victories.

On your last trip together, you argued in the hotel hallway. You said you were tired of hiding. He said he didn’t know how to handle it.

— I thought I loved you enough to wait for you to grow up. But I’m tired of being invisible.

He lowered his head. Said nothing. That night, you left before his flight. There was no explosive fight. Just a quiet surrender. What was supposed to last forever turned to silence.

Yet the world kept repeating both your names, like an echo that never faded. Because even apart, you never went out of style.

[PRESENT DAY]

Two years without a single message. Not even a sign. And now, you were about to play a couple on camera. A cruel twist of fate, or a tasteless joke by that eccentric director.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady the chaos inside. But it was impossible. Every part of you still recognized Carlos, the curve of his jaw, the way his brow furrowed when he was unsettled. And there he was. The makeup artist had just started on your face when you muttered.

— This is a nightmare.

— An ex? — you nodded.

— That’s a problem. A big one.

He kept murmuring, but you barely listened. Your mind had already dragged you back two years, to your last night together. The hotel in Barcelona. The smell of coffee in the room. His suitcase tossed on the sofa. Your toothbrush beside his in the glass.

And then… silence.

The absence.

That breakup wasn’t dramatic. No explosive fights, no words meant to wound. But the pain? That was sharp. Because you’d loved each other.

You just hadn’t known how to handle everything that came with it, the pressure, the fans, the judgment, the distance.

Carlos had pulled away slowly. And you’d retreated, refusing to beg for a place in his life.

Until one day, neither of you called. And no one answered anymore. Now, in the blink of an eye, you were ready—forced to leave the dressing room, step onto the set, and finally face Sainz.

If you’d survived losing him, you’d survive this reunion.

The set lights were brighter than you remembered from any other job. Carlos stood a few feet away, adjusting the collar of his white shirt while a stylist meticulously rolled up his sleeves.

You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears. Then, the director explained the first shot:

— You’ll meet on the terrace, elegant dinner, warm night, candles lit. The perfume is the invisible thread between you. I want restrained desire. A past that still weighs heavy, but also attraction. Lots of looks, minimal touch.

— Restrained desire. A past that still weighs heavy.

You bit your lip. The irony of this script practically screamed the truth no one here knew. Or maybe they did—and were pretending not to.

Carlos stepped closer. He walked the same way you remembered: confident, but with a hint of laziness.

A charm that always seemed effortless. And that always unraveled you. He stopped inches away.

His cologne invaded your space. But it was him that dominated the air, that mix of leather, wind, and something else you could never name. Only feel.

— I had no idea… — he murmured, barely moving his lips.

You didn’t answer. Just held his gaze. In that brief silence, time seemed to collapse.

Two years condensed into a single second.

— Scene one, take one… Action!

You turned slowly, as the script demanded. Your black dress fluttered slightly in the artificial breeze from the fans. When your eyes met his, as if for the first time, the world blurred around you.

Carlos held your stare, steady. But there was something else there. A faltering breath.

He was supposed to walk to you. Take your hand. Lead you to the table like the gentleman in the commercial. But instead, for a fraction of a second, he hesitated. And you saw it.

Carlos still remembered. The way you’d lace your fingers with his when you walked. The way you’d whisper *“good luck”* before his races.

The kiss you’d press to his shoulder when he returned exhausted from a Grand Prix weekend.

He took your hand gently, but his fingers took too long to settle. Like slipping into an old piece of clothing—familiar, but tighter with time.

You followed him to the table. Both of you sat.

Two wine glasses, candles, and the silence of people who’d said everything, yet left everything unfinished.

— Look at each other. — the director instructed.

You turned slowly, meeting Carlos’s gaze with an intensity that wasn’t acting. He matched it. And in that frozen moment, you knew:

He hadn’t moved on either.

And he hated still feeling it.

— Cut! — the director clapped. — Perfect! The tension was palpable. You two have insane chemistry.

“Insane chemistry.” Oh, if only he knew the price that chemistry had cost…

Carlos released your hand almost reverently. But his eyes—those damned brown eyes—didn’t look away. You stood, heat rising to your cheeks.

— Ready for the next scene? — someone from production asked.

But all you wanted was to run. Or maybe… to ask why he left. Why he never reached out.

Why, after all this time, one glance from him could still stop your world.

During the break, you leaned against the dressing room wall, clutching an iced coffee. Your fingers trembled. The scene had been quick, scripted, professional, but none of it felt like acting. And that was the problem.

The door creaked open slowly. You didn’t need to look to know it was him.

Carlos closed it quietly. He still wore the beige blazer, sleeves now rolled up, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead.

— Can I come in? — he asked. You nodded.

Silence.

— I swear I didn’t know. — he finally said.

— Me neither. If I had, I wouldn’t have taken this job. — Your voice was steady but low, a warning disguised as hurt.

— I thought you… didn’t even want to hear my name.

— I didn’t.

Carlos exhaled deeply. He sat across from you but kept his distance. His eyes traced yours, searching for a crack to slip back into.

— Are you still mad at me? — you let out a humorless laugh.

— That was two years ago. I’m not mad. Just… trying not to fall into the same trap.

He looked down.

— We were young. I messed up. You did too.

— You messed up more. — you fired back. — You cut me out like I meant nothing. One day I was the love of your life, the next you were ‘Carlos Sainz, F1’s most eligible bachelor.’ Easy as that.

[FLASHBACK — Monaco]

You were on a balcony overlooking the sea. Grand Prix night. You wore one of his dress shirts, hair damp from the shower, feet in his lap as his fingers traced idle patterns on your calf.

— Do you think the world would ever accept us? — you whispered.

— I don’t care about the world. — he said. — I care about you.

And that night, he made you believe it.

[PRESENT DAY]

You looked away.

— The fans never liked me. Remember? I was ‘the football girl,’ ‘Sainz’s distraction,’ ‘the one who knew nothing about cars.’ I read every comment.

— So did I. — his voice wavered.

You finally met his eyes. For the first time, he looked small. Fragile. Lost. As if only now realizing the depth of the scars.

— I ended it… because I thought I was protecting you. That if you stepped out of my shadow, my world, you could grow on your own. That it’d be better for you.

— You didn’t get to decide that for me.

He had no reply. The silence now was heavier. Not with anger. But with everything that never had the chance to unfold.

The door opened again. A producer glanced between you both with a strained smile.

— Sorry to interrupt, but we need you. Next scene’s the kiss.

Carlos looked at you. And for the first time in two years, asked:

— Can you do this?

— I don’t know.

[FLASHBACK — Six Months Before the Breakup]

You were on a small rooftop, sharing a cheap bottle of wine and laughing about absolutely nothing. Carlos tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear.

— You know, when I kiss you, it’s like time stops?

You laughed, thinking he was exaggerating. — I’m serious. — he said. — You’re my favorite kind of time.

[ — ]

— You okay? — he whispered, his nose almost brushing yours. You nodded, your throat dry. His hands slid up your back.

— Ready? — the director shouted.

Carlos held your gaze one last time, then slowly pressed his lips to yours. The first touch was cautious, hesitant, like stepping onto cracked ground. But when he felt you respond, the tension shattered. The kiss deepened. Grew urgent. And within seconds, you were just like before: as if you’d never been apart.

His hands gripped your waist like he was memorizing it. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly, something you always did when breathless, something he’d always laugh about afterward. But no one was laughing now.

It was just old desire. Pent-up hurt. Two years of swallowed screams pouring out in the most intimate way possible.

— Cut! — the director yelled. — Yes! Perfect! That was beautiful, that was real!

You pulled apart slowly. His eyes were red. Yours too. But neither of you spoke. Not yet.

Carlos wiped the corner of your mouth with his thumb, a slow, familiar gesture. Something silly and achingly old.

— Didn’t know it’d still hurt this much. — he admitted.

You swallowed hard. — Wait for me in the dressing room after. We need to talk. For real this time.

[4 MONTHS LATER]

The sky was shifting colors, bleeding into burnt gold and orange. The sea breeze tangled your hair and carried that salty scent only the beach could. Carlos sat beside you in the sand, legs stretched out, sunglasses pushed atop his head.

— Thought you’d have left straight for the hotel. —you remarked, tossing a pebble into the water.

— Thought you’d have called a taxi mid-shoot. — he shot back, the ghost of a smirk at his lips. You huffed a laugh.

— Been a while since you’ve been here? — you asked.

— Since last summer. The one with the chaotic race and those terrible tapas.

You side-eyed him. — The one where you swore you spoke Catalan?

Carlos feigned offense. — I do speak Catalan. I just chose not to—to impress you.

You shook your head, grinning.

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was easy. Nostalgic. The kind of quiet you only share with someone you’ve known long enough not to fill every space with words.

— The sunset’s pretty today. — you said, almost to yourself.

— Barcelona does sunsets right. — he agreed. — But you still win.

You scoffed, giving him your most unimpressed look.

— That was terrible, Sainz.

— Still got a smile. Mission accomplished.

The sun dipped lower, kissing the sea. A couple jogged past along the shore. A dog barked in the distance. The city’s lights began flickering to life.

— Y’know… I forget how good this feels. — you murmured, sifting sand through your fingers. — Just sitting here. Watching the water.

Carlos snapped his fingers. — We could make it a habit. Chance reunions, always by the sea. Next time, maybe Rome?

— Maybe. — you said, promising nothing.

As the sun faded, you thought that of all the ways to end a day, this was one of your favorites. Light. Quiet. Almost as if life wasn’t so messy after all.

[angel-writes-here]

Love You, Goodbye

Daesung x F! Reader Synopsis: How do lovers properly say goodbye? Warnings: SMUT, oral (both receiving) unprotected p in v (plz be smart) Angst A/N: If a part 2 is wanted, please comment and let me know💜 Requests are OPEN

You sat on the couch, nervously fidgeting with your rings on your fingers as the clocked ticked by slow as molasses. Daesung would be over after his show with a box of your things and then the two of you would officially say goodbye.

It wasn’t one person’s fault; you had just grown apart. Life got in the way as it often can and it just seemed that the two of you couldn’t find your way back.

You’re halfway to dream land when you hear a knock on your door. It’s a little after nine pm. You stand up, sighing as you go to open the door.

“Hey,” he said box in hand.

“Hi,” you purse your lips.

“You can uh, come in and I’ll grab your stuff,” your voice is quiet, solemn and defeated. He sets the box down on the table, little nic-knacks and a few picture frames sticking out of the top. Your feet pad down the hallway, every step feeling heavier and heavier as you get closer to the box.

Back in the kitchen, Daesung can’t hardly hold it together, as soon as your back turned he had to wipe a stray tear. Neither of you wanted this, but if you couldn’t find your way back, what was the point in chasing something that was already gone?

Daesung blinks back tears as he see’s you exist your room. He takes a deep breath. You hold the box out to him and he takes it. He glances inside it, noting some of his personal items like his hair brush and a couple of folded t shirts.

“Thanks,” his voice is the same as yours, weak, solemn and defeated.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly after a moment.

“’s ok.” You shrug but he can see it. He can see the desire in your eyes to fix it. The longing in them to try to keep something alive. But he turns to the door, the box under his arm as he’s about to turn the knob.

“Can I ask something of you?” He speaks just over his shoulder.

“Hm?” your voice cracks slightly.

“Would you dance with me one last time?” The request makes your heart swell, the two of you would always slow dance when you were together at his home or yours. It was your first date, having dinner at his house, and a soft, intimate dance in his living room where the two of you shared your first kiss.

“I’d like that,” you say quietly and he turns on his heel, placing his box down next to yours.

He turns on the stereo and a soft instrumental ballad plays.

He holds out his hand and you take it gently, his hand fit to yours like a glove. He pulls you to him, your bodies flush against one another, it’s not professional, hell its barely dancing. You more so sway to the beat with your arms wrapping around each other, holding each other for what feels the last time. Your head rests against his chest while his is on the top of your head. You feel a drop of something on the top of it and you hear the tiniest sniffle from him.

Instinctively, you hug him to you tighter before you look up at him, his eyes not yet puffy, but watery and you can see the stain from the tear on his cheek. He gives you the weakest smile you’ve ever seen. Another tear slips from his eye and your hand, as if it were muscle memory, goes to his face to catch it, wiping it away before it could fall from his face.

“You know,” he begins, voice soft and broken, “I had no idea the last time I kissed you,” he pauses for a brief moment, “would be the last time I kissed you.” You purse your lips into a thin line.

Slowly your hand goes to the back of his neck, and you softly tug him down, your lips connecting in a sweet kiss. Its slow at first, testing, until he deepens the kiss to a more intimate level. His lips are soft as satin on your mouth. His grip on your waist tightens and your hold on him is firm. Neither of you want to break away, because once you do, it’s over.

Your now breathing in between kisses, the ferocity of them becoming apparent.

“I want you,” he murmurs on your lips. You sigh from your nose in response.

“One last time, let me say goodbye properly,” he practically begs. You don’t say no, and he tests the waters by dipping his hands under your shirt, when you don’t move them, he continues.

“Wait,” you say finally having to pull apart from him.

“What?” he looks terrified that he’s done something wrong.

“Bedroom,” is all you say before you’re pulling him with you. He helps you remove your shirt, and you unbutton your pants as he discards his clothing, the two of you left in only your underwear. Your lips find their way back together and Daesung lays you down against the mattress.

He kisses down your body, slow, savoring and desperate. Its as if it’s an act of worship the way he runs his tongue over your skin. His tongue flicks over your nipples, each one getting its own personalized treatment. When one is in his mouth, the other is being rolled between his index finger and thumb. You writhe a little beneath him, his eyes are closed as he feels his cock strain against his pants. He leaves open mouth kisses down your torso, goosebumps popping up on your skin from his touch.

He kisses up your thighs, gently, patiently as you watch his every move. He places a kiss to your clothed pussy making you whimper softly. He smirks to himself as he hooks his fingers into the waist band of your underwear.

He pulls them off swiftly, tossing them behind him onto the floor. He looks over you in awe, his eyes tender and caring. Remorseful almost.

“Jagi,” he whispers as he takes in your bare frame. You blush under his gaze.

“God you’re so beautiful.” He says before he takes a finger and spreads your folds. His tongue flattens, hot and moist, slowly licking a stripe. You gasp at the contact, your eyes closing as the pleasure courses through you. He chuckles at you as his mouth attaches to you like you’re his last meal.

“Oh, fuck,” your hips jolt from the mattress as he adds two fingers into your wet hole.

“Oh God,” you gasp as he speeds his fingers up. You grind your hips against his face, wet sounds filling the room as he continues to mercilessly pump his two fingers in and out of you. Your hips are rolling meeting his fingers as they thrust.

“God you’re doing so well,” he groans as he watches how your body responds to him, his hips involuntarily rutting against the bed. He groans at the subtle shift on his cock. He feels your walls begin to clench around his fingers and he stick his tongue out and swirls it on your clit sending you over the edge.

“Oh fuck yes,” you moan out as you feel your orgasm take over your body. You pant, catching your breath as he slowly pulls his fingers out of you, licking them clean. You sit up, once you catch your breath, and kiss him passionately, your hands automatically going to the waist band in his pants.

You slowly begin to stroke him and he shutters, pleasure causing him to lose focus on your lips. His hips softly twitch forward into your hand and you smile, kissing his neck.

“Fuck,” he breathes out.

“Feel good?” you whisper before running your tongue along the shell of his ear.

“So fucking good,” he moans. You chuckle in his ear.

You remove his boxers, his cock springs out hard and leaking. You moan at the sight, causing his eyes to close at your noise.

“Be a good girl and wrap your pretty little mouth around it,” he whispers to you and you squeeze your thighs together at his words.

You kiss down his chest, fingers briefly ghosting over his nipples making his mouth hang open.

“Fuck, y/n,” he groans as you kiss his v-line.

Your tongue darts out to lick a stripe up each side before it does the same thing to the underneath of his cock. He chokes out a moan, as he feels your moist lips wrap around his head, the tip of your tongue teasing his slit and collecting his precum. His head pushes back against the pillow.

“Fuck,” he pants. He gathers your hair for you, helping you keep it out of the way. Your movements are slow as you sink your mouth down on him, wanting him to feel every single ounce of pleasure.

“Fuck baby,” he does his best to keep his hips still so he doesn’t make you gag, but he can’t help it, they shift forward, the sound muffled that comes from you.

“Fuck I’m sorry, but this,” he groans again as you slowly come up.

“Fuck this feels too good.” You pick up your speed, your head bobbing up and down repeatedly.

“Ah, fucking shit,” the pleasure in his body builds to a point where you can feel his thighs shake beneath your hands, his stomach muscles go taut and you see his face scrunch up and he lets out broken pants.

You go at a speed that you almost swear could break your neck and it’s not long before he unravels. His cum shoots down your throat, hot and warm.

“Fuck, he breathes out shakily. He stares at the ceiling for a moment, allowing the stars to disappear from his vision.

You swallow everything he gives you, gently kitten licking around his cock as to not overstimulate him too much, cleaning him up.

“Fuck,” he laughs breathlessly as he pulls you to him for another kiss. Your tongues mingle together, exploring each other’s mouths. He grabs a condom from the drawer.

“I want you, not that,” you whimper against his lips, your arousal already pooling in between your thighs again.

“Are you sure? We’ve never gone without one.”

“It’s our last time,” you say looking him in the eye, “I want to feel you, every long, thick inch.” You say and he takes a deep breath.

He sets the condom down on the table and obliges to your request, turning you on your back.

“You’re wish is my command,” he says before lining himself up at your entrance. Painfully slow he pushes in deep, letting you feel exactly what you said you wanted.

“Oh, fuck,” you groan as he fills you to the brim. The flesh to flesh contact warm, pleasant and exciting. He stills inside you, resting his forehead on yours. You feel him pulse inside you. He stares into your eyes for a moment, before lacing your fingers together, slow and deliberate strokes that cause your body to jolt upward on the mattress. Your eyes shut as your mouth hangs slightly agape from the feeling.

“Look at me,” he whispers as his hips speed up.

“Fuck,” you whisper as you force your eyes open.

“I want to see your eyes when you cum,” he tells you and you bite your lip as they roll back for a moment.

You whimper as he takes lets go of your hand. He puts it underneath one of your thighs, bringing it and your hip up slightly to give him better access while he still hovers over you.

“Oh God,” you whine as you feel it. Every thrust hits your g spot each time with precision.

“God, yes keep going,” he feels your walls clench around him and he whimpers at how tight it feels.

His curls start to bounce from the velocity of his movements, both of you feeling that familiar feeling in the pit of your stomach.

“Baby I’m close,” you whimper as your hand goes down to rub inconsistent circles on your clit.

“Me too,” he pants out and with another thrust you feel it, the euphoria bursts through you, your back arches off the bed and Daesung isn’t far behind. He cums inside you, filling you to the brim with every last drop. He pants desperately as he comes down from his delicious high. He tosses himself on his back, both of your bodies are covered in a layer of sweat.

That’s when you feel it, the feeling that things between you are done. Really done. This was the last time you’d have him like this, maybe ever. Tears prick your eyes and he hears your small sniffle.

“Jagi?” he raises up a little to notice a stray tear.

“Oh, baby,” he whispers and pulls you to his chest.

“I love you,” you sob into his chest. He kisses your forehead with the tips of his fingers rubbing down your arm.

“I love you too,” he says glumly against your skin.

“But I have to go,” he says and you nod, wiping your face free of tears.

“Yeah, I-I know.” He hugs you to him one last time before slowly getting up to get dressed. He helps you get cleaned up, still taking care of you, and helps you get dressed again.

You walk him to the front door.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” He murmurs. He dips his neck down one last time, your lips meeting for a sweet, intimate kiss. He sighs as he turns his back to you and walks down the hall.

“I love you,” you whisper as tears stream down your face.

Tags: @breakmeoff

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[colouredbyd]

The Nightingale VI: The Capitol Has Teeth

Regulus Black x fem!reader Hunger Games AU

summary: a wounded alliance begins to form. old memories resurface under the cover of night—constellations, names, and things left unsaid. the arena is changing, and the Capitol is already tightening its grip.

warnings: scenes of violence, characters death, graphic content, blood, emotional distress, violence, injury care, body horror (mild), themes of control and helplessness, mild language, intense fear, reflective of the brutal nature of the Hunger Games.

word count: 8.9k (totally didnt take 3 days to write)

authors note: i love this chapter so so much, ugh. ps. so many hidden easters in this chapter..

previous part series masterlist main masterlist

This is day two of the Games, and the Garden is changing.

The trees loom higher than they did yesterday—though maybe it’s not the trees that have grown. Maybe it’s me, shrinking by the hour, forgetting how to measure anything except the ache in my chest and the sound of my own heartbeat.

The canopy above is a patchwork of rust-colored leaves, their edges curled and blackened like they’ve been touched by fire. They drip something sticky onto the ground, sap or blood or something that smells too sweet to be natural. The earth beneath our feet shifts softly sometimes, like it's breathing. And in the corners of my vision, I keep catching flickers—ghosts of motion, glimmers of light that vanish when I try to focus. I turn my head and see nothing but bark. Stones that look like teeth. Vines that might’ve been ropes.

We don’t speak. There’s no need to. The silence between us is heavier than the air.

Regulus walks ahead, every step deliberate. That same quiet intensity he’s always carried—like he was carved from silence and taught how to move without making the world flinch. He reads the terrain with his eyes, his hands, the angle of his shoulders. Every few paces, his fingers lift to the back of his neck—light and quick, like a whisper he’s trying to chase away. I’ve seen him do it before. I didn’t think much of it then. But now, I see how often. How unconscious. Like a tether—his mind checking a leash only he can feel.

He hasn’t spoken since last night. Neither have I. There’s nothing left to say that wouldn’t come out as a prayer or a scream.

Yesterday there were three cannons. Three faces in the sky.

Emmeline Vance from District 4. Mundungus Fletcher from 12. Hestia Jones from 8.

I didn’t know them—not really. I remembered their faces at the Reaping, the slight tremble in Hestia’s hands, the way Emmeline had kept her chin raised too high, defiant even when her voice cracked. But names blur quickly out here. Still, I forced myself to look. To hold their eyes as long as the sky would let me. It felt like the only thing I could offer—acknowledgement. A witness. Something human.

My heart clenched, waiting for a fourth. Bracing for the face I wouldn’t survive seeing. But it didn’t come.

No Regulus.

And the relief that washed over me was sharp and selfish and so full of guilt I could barely stand it. Because part of me still thinks that as long as he’s alive, I can be too. Like if I can just keep him breathing, I won't become one of those faces. A name no one knew well enough to mourn. But maybe that’s a lie we tell ourselves to keep walking.

I glance at Regulus again and wonder, not for the first time, what it’s cost him to survive all this. What corners of himself he’s had to cut away to keep going. What softness he’s buried. What screams he’s swallowed.

His profile is turned to the trees now, neck long and throat bruised with old scrapes. There’s a sliver of dried blood along his collarbone—too thin to worry about but too stark to ignore. His hands hang loose at his sides, stained from the last time we dug through mud for shelter. Hands that used to tremble in the Capitol’s glare. Hands that no longer do.

The Capitol doesn’t need to kill you with blades or bombs. It just waits. Patient, calculating. Watching as the days chip away at you until there’s nothing left but instinct and ash. Until the war lives in your bones and mercy is a myth you no longer afford. It doesn’t pull the trigger—it hands you the weapon, then teaches you how to aim at yourself.

It silences you slowly. Hollowing out the soft parts first—grief, love, hope—until only survival remains. It makes memory sharp. Makes kindness dangerous. It turns every name you loved into a weakness, every soft moment into something that could get you killed. That’s the Capitol’s real talent: it doesn’t need to kill you. It teaches you how to do it on your own.

And Regulus—he carries every one of those lessons behind his eyes. He walks like someone who’s memorized loss. Like the air itself cuts him, and still he keeps moving. He doesn’t look back. Maybe because he can’t. Maybe because looking means remembering. And remembering means bleeding all over again.

But I do. I always do.

Because someone has to. Someone has to hold onto what we were before they renamed us tributes and strung us up like symbols. Someone has to remember that we were people once. That we had birthdays and favorite songs. That we laughed. That kindness wasn’t a liability.

I wonder if he remembers that, too. Or if he buried hope with the rest of the dead.

We keep walking, the Garden thick around us, the silence breathing down our necks. And still, I say nothing.

But gods, I want to.

I want to call his name and watch it settle on his skin like something warm. I want to press my hand to the curve of his spine and remind him that he doesn’t have to carry all of this alone.

I want him to look at me the way he used to—like I was something he couldn’t afford to lose.

Not here. Not in the Garden, where the trees eavesdrop and the wind keeps score. Here, tenderness is a trap. 

He doesn’t need to tell me why he’s quiet. I already know.

The longer we’re still, the louder the Garden gets. The wind carries laughter sometimes, or the sound of footsteps that don’t belong to either of us. Once I swore I heard my mother singing. The exact lullaby she used to hum when I couldn’t sleep. The notes hung between the branches like fruit.

Because we both knew the truth: the arena isn’t just a place.

It’s a mind.

It watches. It learns. It carves open your past and feeds it back to you with blood on its fingers. It waits until you forget you’re a tribute, and then it strikes. Not with teeth or claws, but with memories. With softness. With the illusion of something kind, until it becomes the thing that kills you.

I walk beside him now, watching the way he moves—controlled, deliberate, like he’s holding something back. Maybe rage. Maybe grief. Maybe something colder. There’s a part of me that wants to reach for him, to remind him I’m still here. That we’re not entirely gone yet. But I don’t.

I haven’t spoken since the camera shattered. I don’t think Regulus has either.

The Garden is quieter than it was yesterday. Not peaceful—never peaceful. Just… still. Like the calm that presses down on your chest right before a scream. Even the birds are gone, if they were ever real to begin with.

I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve blinked without seeing anything at all.

How many times I’ve heard my name, whispered low and sweet, threading through the trees like a secret—and turned to find nothing but bark and silence. The branches know my name now. They’ve learned how to say it with the same lilt my brother used to, the same pause my mother would make before pulling me into her arms.

I think I’m starting to forget what real sounds like. What true sounds like.

We were moving through a dense patch of undergrowth when something ahead caught the corner of my eye. It wasn’t a sound or a cry—just the faintest flicker of motion, too small to be a threat, too subtle to ignore. I stopped. My foot hovered above a root as my gaze dropped to the forest floor, sifting through the layers of leaves and dirt.

That’s when I saw him.

A boy, half-swallowed by the roots of an overturned tree—limbs tangled like he’d fallen from the sky and the forest had tried to claim him before he hit the ground. His body was twisted awkwardly, one leg bent beneath him, the other dragged out behind like he’d been running and never quite stopped. Dirt smudged his cheek, blood crusted at his temple, and his arm was curled protectively over his ribs, as if even unconscious, he was trying to shield something.

For a breathless second, I thought he was dead.

Then his fingers moved—just once. A faint tremble, barely there.

I stepped forward before I even realized it, breath catching in my throat.

“We can’t,” Regulus said. His voice was low.

I turned toward him, but he didn’t look at me. His eyes were locked on the boy, sharp and gleaming like the blade he kept hidden at his side. I could feel the tension coiled in him, the way his breath had shortened, how his grip on me tightened just slightly as the boy coughed again.

“What if it’s a setup?” Regulus muttered. “What if someone left him there to draw us out? We’re in the Garden. Nothing’s real here. Not pain. Not mercy. Not dying.”

His hand was still on my arm. The contact sent little aftershocks skimming through my nerves, but it was the way he said dying that made my stomach twist. Like he wasn’t afraid of it, just tired of watching it happen.

“I don’t think he’s pretending,” I said, softer now, but steady. “No one pretends to bleed like that.”

Regulus didn’t let go. He looked at me then, and for a moment, his expression faltered. Just enough for the mask to slip. Just enough for me to see what was beneath it—fear, maybe. Or something heavier.

“I can’t protect you if you walk into a trap.”

I swallowed hard. His fingers were still wrapped around my arm, thumb brushing against the inside of my wrist like he was trying to convince himself it was fine. That I was still breathing. That I was still warm. I could’ve told him I wasn’t the one who needed protecting, not from this, not now—but the words stayed in my throat.

“I’m going,” I said quietly. “You don’t have to come with me. But I’m not walking away.”

I moved toward the boy, lowering myself into a crouch until my knees met the damp, moss-covered earth. The scent of soil and something metallic filled my lungs as I leaned closer. His breathing was shallow and ragged, every rise of his chest uneven, as if each breath was a decision his body had to wrestle with. Blood had seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt, a deep maroon stain spreading across his side, dark and tacky. Most of it had dried, crusted in streaks where it had mingled with dirt and sweat, but fresh droplets still clung near the wound—bright enough to mean danger, slow enough to mean time was running out.

His body looked wrong somehow, too twisted to be resting, too still to be safe. One leg was curled beneath him in an unnatural position, the angle of it suggesting a break or worse. His arm had fallen across his ribs, bent awkwardly as if he'd collapsed mid-flight and never gotten the chance to move again. His face was pale beneath the grime, the sort of pallor that came with too many hours of pain left unattended. One eye was swollen shut, puffed and bruised, while the other remained barely open, glassy and confused. He blinked once, slowly, as if even that motion cost him something. His gaze didn’t quite find mine.

He couldn’t have been older than sixteen. There was something delicate about him, something unfinished, like he hadn’t been given enough time to grow into himself before being thrown into this place. His lips were cracked and flaking, the corners stained with blood and dust. I studied his features, searching for a name, a memory, anything to anchor him to the world outside this nightmare. 

He must have been one of the quiet ones during the interviews—the kind of tribute whose voice got lost beneath the roar of louder stories. The kind no one truly noticed until their portrait appeared in the sky, accompanied by that mournful anthem. He didn’t look like a killer. He didn’t look like he belonged in the Games. But then again, none of us did.

The heat coming off him was feverish, burning through the thin fabric of his shirt. It radiated from him in waves, pulsing with every weak breath, and I knew then that the wound had festered longer than it should have. His body was fighting a war it was already losing.

Behind me, I felt the shift of movement before I saw it—Regulus lowering himself into a crouch beside us. His expression was unreadable, all sharp lines and shadows. He didn’t speak. His eyes scanned the boy with clinical precision, taking in the damage, calculating the risk. One hand hovered near his knife, fingers ghosting the hilt like a reflex, like his body didn’t quite know how to be still without the comfort of a blade in reach. But he didn’t draw it. He stayed where he was, close but guarded, alert but not hostile.

The suspicion had not entirely left his features, but it had softened. Not into trust—Regulus didn’t give that freely—but into something quieter, something cautious and heavy with restraint. It was enough. For now.

“His leg’s broken,” he said, scanning the injury like it was a riddle. “Might be his ribs too.”

He stared at the boy a moment longer, then reached into his pack without a word.

That was the thing about him. He didn’t believe in softness, not out loud. But he still acted on it, always in the quietest ways.

Regulus took most of the weight, one of the boy’s arms draped across his shoulder, the other hanging lifeless at his side. I stayed close, supporting from behind, one hand steady on his back, the other ready to grab him if he collapsed. He was light—too light—and every step made him wince. He didn’t say a word. Just stumbled and clung on.

Regulus led the way, his pace steady but quick, each step a careful rhythm, as though he was trying to stay two steps ahead of danger. His eyes flicked over his shoulder frequently, watching the boy who staggered just behind, trying to keep pace. I saw the way his jaw tightened with each stumble, the way his grip on his knife never fully relaxed. He was wary, cautious, a man who had learned the hard way to trust no one. Not even someone in a condition like this boy’s.

The boy’s breathing was shallow, rattling in his chest like the prelude to something worse. He coughed, a wet, miserable sound that seemed to echo through the quiet woods, and muttered something I couldn’t catch. His voice was weak, barely a whisper, and when his head dropped forward, I felt a momentary surge of panic. For a moment, he looked like he might just collapse, crumple under his own weight, and we’d be left here with him, an easy target for whatever might be watching from the shadows.

I slowed my pace, moving closer to him, and whispered, my voice tight with worry. “We’re almost there,” I said, though it felt more like a promise to myself than to him. “Just hold on.”

I wasn’t sure if he even heard me. His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, and he swayed as if his body couldn’t quite keep up with the effort of standing. I could feel Regulus watching us, his gaze sharp and calculating. He was already thinking two steps ahead, thinking about the next danger we might face. Even here, in this moment, we weren’t safe.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of winding through the underbrush, we emerged into a small clearing. The trees opened up just enough to give us a breath, the weight of the forest lifting slightly, as if the earth itself had parted to let us pass. The ground beneath us was soft, covered in thick, spongy moss that swallowed the sound of our footsteps, offering a temporary reprieve from the harshness of the forest.

Regulus moved swiftly, lowering the boy to the ground, his movements more tender than I would have expected, more careful than he probably intended to show. I knelt beside the boy, brushing the damp curls from his forehead, feeling the heat radiating off his skin. It was too much warmth, too much for someone so young, someone who had already been through so much.

His breaths came in short, labored gasps, each one sounding like it took all the effort he had left. I could feel the weight of his fever in the tremors of his body, the way his skin was flushed, slick with sweat despite the coolness of the night. I gently pressed my fingers to his wrist, trying to find his pulse, but it was weak, barely there.

I didn’t know how long he could last like this. The wound he’d sustained was bad, worse than I had first thought, and there was nothing we could do for him right now except wait. Wait and watch, hoping it wasn’t too late.

The air around us seemed to hold its breath, the quiet of the forest pressing in from all sides. For a moment, the world felt impossibly still, as if the trees themselves had paused to witness what was happening here.

Regulus moved behind me, his presence a quiet shadow at my back. He didn’t say anything, but I could feel his gaze on the boy, feel the tension in the way he stood, watchful and poised. He wasn’t ready to let go of the boy, not yet. I understood that—this was dangerous, and we couldn’t afford to trust anyone fully, not in the Garden.

 But as I looked at the boy, his chest rising and falling too slowly, his body trembling with fever, I knew one thing for certain: he wasn’t going to last long unless we did something

I reached for the canteen with steady hands, though inside, I felt anything but calm. The metal was cool against my skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth radiating from the boy’s fevered body. I tilted it carefully toward his mouth, trying to find the balance between urgency and gentleness. “Can you drink?” I asked, my voice quiet, measured, like I was afraid the sound itself might scare him back into unconsciousness.

His eyes fluttered open, bloodshot and rimmed with dirt, glassy with pain and exhaustion. They looked too old for someone his age—haunted, like he had already seen too much. He blinked up at me slowly, uncomprehending, and his cracked lips parted as if to respond, but no words came. Only a thin rasp of air, dry and broken. I tilted the canteen again, just enough to let a trickle of water touch his mouth.

He flinched slightly at first, then swallowed—a small, effortful motion that looked like it took everything out of him. A second later, he coughed, the sound low and grating, each breath catching in his throat like it was scraping against gravel. I steadied his shoulder, trying to keep him upright as his body shook. His skin was far too warm beneath my fingers, and his pulse fluttered weakly like a moth against glass.

Behind me, Regulus stood motionless, arms folded tightly across his chest, his frame half-shadowed by the last light filtering through the trees. His face was a mask—neutral, unreadable—but I knew better than to think he was at ease. His eyes didn’t leave the boy, not for a second. Every twitch of movement, every inhale, every subtle flicker in the boy’s expression was caught in his gaze. He wasn’t just watching—he was assessing. Calculating. Always preparing for the moment things might turn.

The boy stirred a little more, his head turning slightly as his eyes squinted against the light. I leaned closer, my tone softening into something gentler, something I hoped he could anchor to. “Hey,” I murmured. “You’re okay. We found you in the woods. You were hurt, but you’re safe now.”

His gaze darted between us, unfocused and flickering. I saw the fear begin to rise in his eyes—not wild panic, not the kind that screamed or thrashed, but the quieter kind, the kind that sank its teeth in slowly. It was buried beneath layers of exhaustion and pain, but it was there, tightening his expression, making his breath catch as he tried to place where he was and who we were.

“We need to know your name,” I said, more gently now, as though coaxing it out of him could unravel some of the fear. “Just your name, that’s all.”

He didn’t answer right away. His attention snapped to Regulus, narrowed in on him like he sensed something dangerous beneath the silence. I followed his gaze and saw what he did—Regulus hadn’t moved, hadn’t even blinked, but the stillness of his posture was deceptive. He was coiled beneath it, ready. There was a tension in his stance, like the entire forest could shift and he’d still be the first to react. Something in the boy recognized that. He wasn’t just looking at a stranger. He was looking at a threat.

Finally, after another strained pause, the boy swallowed and whispered, “Evan.”

His voice was paper-thin and frayed at the edges. The name hung between us for a moment, fragile and weightless. I turned to Regulus, catching his eyes for a brief second.

I looked back at the boy and nodded. “Okay, Evan,” I said softly, like his name was something sacred, something I didn’t want to break. “We’re going to help you. That wound—it needs care, but you’re not alone anymore. We’ll take care of it, and we’ll figure the rest out together.”

Evan’s gaze didn’t waver, but something inside it dimmed slightly, like he didn’t quite believe me, like he’d already seen too much to think anything here could be safe. “There’s no such thing,” he murmured, his words barely audible, worn thin from pain. “Safe doesn’t exist here.”

I didn’t argue. He wasn’t wrong.

Regulus finally moved, crouching low beside us, his knees brushing the moss, and his shadow stretched long and dark over the clearing. His presence was grounding, solid, but it brought with it the weight of reality. This wasn’t just an act of kindness. It was a decision with consequences.

His voice, when it came, was quiet but firm. “Are you alone?”

Evan’s head dipped in the faintest of nods. “I don’t know where my district partner is,” he said, voice rough. “We got separated.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full of possibilities. Regulus glanced at me, and for a second, I saw the flicker again. He was thinking. Calculating how this changed things. How long we could afford to care.

“When?” Regulus pressed.

“Since the bloodbath,” Evan said. “I tried to climb a tree after. I Thought I saw movement. I fell. Think I broke something.” He winced as he tried to shift. “Been there since. Two days, maybe.”

I reached for the first aid kit, pulling out a strip of clean cloth and the last of our antiseptic. The gash on his side had bled through his shirt. It was ragged and deep, but not too wide—if we kept it clean, he might have a chance.

“This’ll sting,” I warned, my voice low, almost apologetic as I prepared the antiseptic.

Evan didn’t flinch at my words. He just nodded, his fingers digging into the moss beneath him like it might anchor him to something solid, something real. The tremble of his hand was faint, almost imperceptible, but I saw it—saw the effort it took for him to hold himself still. His skin was already raw, burned with the fever he’d been running, and I knew this was going to make it worse.

I dabbed the cloth across his wound, and a sharp hiss escaped him, his breath a shallow, quick intake, but he didn’t cry out. He didn’t pull away. He just endured it. The sound of his breath was the only thing I could hear, ragged and unsteady.

I focused on the task, moving carefully. The world around us felt distant, like everything else had slowed down in that moment. The air was thick, heavy with the tension between us. Regulus remained quiet, his gaze fixed on Evan with a mix of watchfulness and something else—something unreadable. He handed me what I needed without a word, his movements precise and fluid, like he had already decided he would do what was necessary, whether he wanted to or not.

The silence stretched, a fragile thread that might snap at any moment, but it held. We worked in synchrony, each of us trapped in our own thoughts, the weight of what was happening pressing against us, unspoken but shared. The moment felt like it was balanced on the edge of something unnamed, something too complex to voice.

When I finished, I leaned back slightly, wiping my hands on my pants, suddenly aware of how still the air had become, how heavy my own breath felt.“You need rest,” I said, trying to make the words sound like a command, but it came out more like a suggestion—a plea. His body was barely holding itself together, and I could see how exhausted he was. He needed sleep more than anything else. 

Evan blinked slowly, his gaze drifting between us. I could see the questions in his eyes—too many to count, and none of them answered yet. “Why are you helping me?” he asked, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper.

I opened my mouth to answer, but the words felt like they were stuck. I didn’t have a good answer. Not one that would make sense to him, or to me, for that matter. But before I could speak, Regulus answered, his tone low but firm, like he was stating a simple fact.

“We’re not sure we are.”

His words hung in the air, sharp, blunt. There was no malice in his voice—just the quiet honesty of someone who had learned the hard way not to promise things he wasn’t sure he could keep. I felt the weight of it, the honesty of it, even though part of me wanted to argue. Wanted to say that we were helping, that there was something between us that demanded it. But Regulus had said it. And in that moment, I couldn’t deny it. 

I glanced at him sharply, but his face didn’t shift. There was no anger, no bitterness, just an unwavering calm.

Evan’s eyelids fluttered shut as if the effort of staying awake had finally become too much. His voice came in a soft rasp, as fragile as his breath. “Fair enough.”

The acceptance in his words struck me more deeply than I expected. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t pleading. He was just... resigned. Maybe it was the fever, or the pain, or just the weight of everything that had happened, but in that moment, his voice was quiet, but there was a sort of strength in it too. The kind of strength that didn’t come from fighting back, but from accepting the world as it was—however hard that might be.

And as he lay there, silent, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, I felt something shift. Something delicate, but undeniable. It wasn’t that I understood Evan, not fully. But in that moment, with his simple admission, I felt connected to him in a way I hadn’t expected.

I looked back at Regulus, catching the fleeting glance he gave me—brief, unreadable—but I could sense it. Whatever had brought us here, whatever decision had been made when we chose to help him, it wasn’t just about the boy on the ground. It was about us. And whatever was happening between us, unspoken but felt, was just beginning to unfold.

Regulus stood again and moved to the fire pit, kneeling to strike the flint. I stayed by Evan’s side, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way his lips moved soundlessly—like he was whispering something to himself in sleep. Maybe a name. Maybe a prayer.

Across the clearing, sparks jumped from stone to kindling. The fire began to catch. Regulus didn’t look at me, but I could feel the tension still radiating from him like heat.

He didn’t trust Evan. But he’d carried him here.

And something about that mattered more than either of us could admit.

It's been a few hours since Evan fell asleep. I tried to sleep. I really did, but I couldn't take my eyes off the horizon above me. The sky above isn’t real—too static, too perfect, as if someone painted it from memory and forgot that stars are supposed to flicker. The air smells like damp earth and something artificial beneath it, the Capitol’s idea of what a forest should be. It’s close but never quite right, like a lullaby sung off-key.

Beside me, Regulus lies just barely within reach. Our arms aren’t touching, but he’s close enough that I can feel the heat of him radiating in the space between us. I can sense the rhythm of his breathing in the rise and fall of the silence, the way the air stirs gently whenever he exhales. It’s the kind of silence that isn’t empty—it’s thick with the weight of unspoken things, of years that passed without permission, of names we don’t call each other anymore.

I don’t know when I started watching him instead of the sky.

The years haven’t changed the shape of him, not really. He’s still all edges and quiet restraint, still wears silence like armor. But in the dim blue light, with the trees casting soft shadows across his face, he looks younger. Softer. Like the boy I used to know before the world asked him to become someone else.

( i highly recommend playing Space Song by Beach House here)

My gaze lifts to the stars, or the simulation of them, and a thought drifts through my mind before I can catch it.

“I used to draw stars on you.” I say.

The words slip out quieter than I expect, drifting into the dark like breath on glass. They hang there for a moment, fragile and unclaimed. My voice barely belongs to me—it sounds younger somehow, like it was pulled from another version of myself. I don’t even know if I meant to say it aloud. Maybe it’s just a memory trying to make itself real again.

But he hears. Of course he does.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just breathes. The rhythm of it is steady, but there’s something underneath it now—something old and aching. Then, after a pause that feels too full, he murmurs, “On my wrist.”

His voice is rough, like it had to scrape its way up from somewhere deep.

Another pause. Longer, softer.

“My arm. My collarbone, once,” he adds, as though he’s cataloging each place with care, brushing dust from the bones of the past. “You got bolder every year.”

A smile finds me, faint and slow and a little sad. It hurts to hold it, but I let it bloom anyway. “You always moved before the ink dried.”

“You always scolded me when it smudged.”

“I didn’t scold,” I whisper, the corners of my voice tugged by something tender. “I just… hated when they stopped looking like stars.”

He turns his head, just enough that I can see the side of his face in the blue-dark hush. The sharp line of his jaw, the gentle curve of his mouth. There’s a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there earlier, something raw and open that I recognize, even after all this time.

“They looked like stars to me,” he says. His voice is steady now, quieter than the night, but clearer somehow. “Always.”

I close my eyes for a second and let myself slip backward, into a different time.

I used to steal ink from the shops when no one was watching. A cracked bottle, a stolen brush, a piece of charcoal snapped in half and hidden beneath my coat. We’d sneak into our hideout—our haven in the woods behind the lumber mill, where the branches reached toward the sky like they were trying to remember it—and I’d press his hand flat against the floorboards, the skin of his wrist pale and waiting.

He was always so still for me. Not for anyone else. Not even for himself. But for me—he let me paint on him like he was a blank space meant to be filled. Only for me.

Never for anyone else. Not for the world. Not for the Capitol. Not even for himself. But when I touched him, when I painted him, he became quiet in a way that felt like surrender, or maybe trust. He let me draw constellations on his skin like I was writing a language only the two of us could read.

He’d watch me with those storm-colored eyes—eyes that never gave anything away unless you knew where to look. Half-curious, half-somewhere-else. Eyes that carried entire winters in their silence.

I always began with Altair. The lead star. Three dots in a line—clean, sharp, deliberate. A shape with direction. Then I’d connect it to Vega, to Deneb, tracing faint arcs across his forearm, letting the brush kiss the contours of his bones. I’d mark Orion’s belt along his wrist. Sketch Canis Major where his veins ran faintly blue beneath the surface. Each stroke was careful, slow, reverent. A sky unfolding. A map no one else could see.

Sometimes, when I was finished, he’d flex his fingers slightly, and the stars would shimmer. Smudge. Shift. And I’d scowl like I didn’t expect it, even though I always did.

But other times, he’d just let them sit there—those tiny galaxies drawn down the pathways of his hands—like he knew they weren’t really stars. Like he knew they were promises.

And like he needed them anyway.

“I learned constellations just so I could give them to you,” I say now. “I didn’t have anything else. Not really. No money. No gifts. Just ink and time and my hands.”

“You gave me more than that,” he says quietly. “You gave me a map.”

My chest pulls tight. I don’t answer.

“You said it would help me find my way back,” he continues, the words hesitant now, like he’s stepping over glass. “Even if I got lost. Even if I was taken away.”

I turn my head toward him. His profile is made of angles and shadows, but I see him. I see the boy he used to be beneath the man the Capitol sculpted. I see the softness he buried.

“I didn’t think you’d ever really leave.” I whisper.

He’s silent for a long time. Too long.

“I didn’t think I’d have to,” he says finally, and his voice cracks like something old breaking open again.

The ache between us spreads like ink in water.

I reach out before I can stop myself. My fingers brush against his wrist, finding the place I used to start with. That delicate patch of skin beneath the bones, where his pulse beats like it remembers me. I press there, gently. My thumb moves in a slow, absent circle. My body remembers the motion of drawing.

“I always started with Altair.” I whisper.

His breath catches. “You did.”

“Three dots. A line.”

“You were always so careful about it,” he says, his voice low, almost tender. “So precise. You’d tilt your head when you worked, like you were trying to see the stars from a different angle. Bite the inside of your cheek when you were focused. You got ink on your nose half the time.”

A laugh escapes me, soft and slightly stunned by the memory. It catches in my throat, but it’s real—like it came from somewhere deep and untouched by the passing years. “And you never told me.”

His silence lingers for a moment, and then the faintest smile touches his lips, but it’s more in the way his eyes soften than anything else. “I liked watching you forget the world.”

The air feels thicker between us now, heavier with the weight of something unspoken, something raw. It’s an intimacy that feels familiar, but different, like we’re seeing each other in a light we haven’t allowed ourselves to look at in far too long.

I trace the memory of Altair now, just the lightest touch of my fingertip across his skin. No ink. No need for it. The shape is still there, imprinted beneath the surface, burned into both of us. A constellation we never erased. A story neither of us stopped carrying, no matter how much time has passed or how much we tried to forget.

His voice is quieter now, almost reverent when he speaks. “Why Altair?”

I pause, my finger hovering for just a second longer. The air around us feels thick with the weight of his question, as if the answer means more than I ever realized. I exhale slowly before speaking, my words soft but sure. “It was the first star I learned. It means the flying bird in Arabic.”

He’s quiet for a long time, the kind of silence that feels like it could stretch on forever if we let it. I keep tracing, my finger moving along his skin like it’s the only thing tethering me to the past.

“You were so angry, back then,” I murmur, more to myself than to him, though I know he hears me. “And quiet. Like you didn’t trust the world not to hurt you, so you stayed locked up tight. I think… I wanted to give you something gentle. Something that didn’t take. Something that didn’t demand anything.”

Regulus randomly flinched, one hand shooting up to the back of his neck. He pressed his palm there for a beat too long, like he was trying to smother a sudden sting.

“Something I could hold,” he says, the words fragile, like they might slip away if he doesn’t let them go now.

I nod, my throat tight, and keep tracing, my hand steady despite the trembling inside me. “Something you could follow.” I whisper back, the words tasting bittersweet on my tongue. It’s the truth, and maybe that’s what makes it hurt the most.

He shifts. His wrist turns under mine, his fingers brushing my palm. The contact is so slight, but it feels like gravity.

“That’s when you started calling me Starling,” I say softly, watching him through the dark.

But he shakes his head, slow and certain. “That’s when I understood why.”

I blink. “What?”

He exhales, like the words cost something to carry. “The first time you sang to me, I called you Starling. I think I was twelve. Maybe younger. But I didn’t understand the name then. Not really.” His voice drops lower now, like he’s peeling something open inside himself—something delicate, something hidden. “Not until you started tracing constellations on my arms with your fingers. Not until I saw how you looked at the night—like you could read it.”

I stay quiet. There’s something sacred about his voice right now. Like if I speak too soon, it’ll break the spell.

“You didn’t just look up at the stars,” he says. “You pulled them down. Wove them into songs. Hid them in your laugh. In the way you moved. I started calling you Starling because I thought it sounded small and beautiful. Something fragile, something soft.”

He pauses, and I feel it more than I hear it—that moment when something shifts in him.

“But then I saw you,” he continues, quieter now. “Really saw you. And I realized… you were never small.”

His voice hitches, just slightly, like the truth is scraping its way out of him.

“You made me feel like you were reachable,” he says. “And that terrified me.”

My breath stutters.

I want to tell him he was the only one I ever drew stars for—that no one else’s skin ever felt sacred enough to hold a sky. That I memorized the way his veins curved just so I could map the constellations with more care on his pale skin. That I sometimes woke up at night with ink-stained fingers, reaching out for a boy who was already fading into headlines and hollow eyes.

Instead, I just look at him.

“You always smudged them,” I say.

He closes his eyes. “I know. But I remembered every single one.”

It happens so fast, I almost don’t have time to understand it. One moment, I’m lying there beside him, my fingers gliding over his skin, tracing the shapes of constellations that feel almost sacred—quiet, intimate. The moment is soft, and time feels still, a fleeting sense of peace that I cling to like a lifeline.

But then, without warning, everything shifts. It’s not like the breathless panic I’ve felt before, the kind you get when you're running, heart pounding, lungs gasping for air. No, this is something entirely different. 

This is fire. It burns through me, flooding my chest with heat so sharp it feels like it could tear me apart from the inside. It steals my breath in one agonizing, violent wave. My ribs feel like they’re closing in, the air choking on its way out, and I can’t do anything but gasp in frantic desperation.

A scream claws its way up my throat, raw and strangled, as if it wants to rip through me, but it doesn’t come out right. It’s twisted—broken. 

It’s not even a scream anymore. It’s just agony, squeezing the air out of my lungs, twisting it into something unrecognizable. I claw at my throat, desperate for some relief, for just a single breath. But the fire inside only grows, the pain consuming everything until all I know is the burning in my chest. The stars I was tracing, the peace I felt only moments before, seem like distant memories now. The world tilts, spins, and I can’t find my footing. Everything goes dark at the edges of my vision.

Regulus is there, though—his hands on me, pulling me toward him, but even his voice feels far away. I hear his name, his frantic shouts, but they don’t make sense. It’s like I’m drowning in this fire, trapped in a nightmare I can’t escape. The world around me starts to blur, a thick haze of panic and pain. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I can do is claw at my chest, trying to get air, trying to fight the fire that’s burning through me.

“Reg—” I try to say his name, but it comes out cracked and broken.

My fingers twitch, then seize. My whole body is shaking, twisting with something I can’t name. It feels like my insides are folding in on themselves, like they’re being turned to ash from the inside out.

Regulus is on his feet in an instant.

And then I feel it. A cold pressure on my neck, Regulus’s hands—frantic, shaking as he tries to steady me. His fingers are everywhere, his voice breaking through the fog of panic, but none of it matters. Nothing matters except for the suffocating burn that fills every inch of me. Every part of my body wants to scream again, but nothing comes out. Only the fire. Only the suffocating weight of it.

Regulus was on me in seconds. “What is it? What’s wrong?” His voice cracked. “Tell me where it hurts—tell me what’s happening—”

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t even find the air to scream. My throat burned. My vision blurred. It felt like something was crawling inside me, twisting up through my spine, dragging barbed wires through my veins. I hit the dirt, shaking.

“Reg—Regulus—” I choked out, barely managing the sound. “I—I can’t—”

He caught me before I collapsed fully, hands gripping my shoulders like he could hold my body together through force alone. “No, no, no—stay with me. Look at me. Breathe.” His voice was wild now, breaking in places. “Breathe, please. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

I dropped to the forest floor like a puppet with cut strings, convulsing, nails digging into the dirt. My insides felt like they were tearing, every nerve lit up with flame. “Can’t—breathe,” I gasped. “It—it hurts—inside—”

“Where?” Regulus dropped beside me, eyes wild. “Where does it hurt? Starling—look at me.”

My hand flew to my ribs, fingers twitching violently. Regulus followed the motion, his hands already on me, searching, trying to stop the shaking. I could feel the panic building in him, in his breath, in the sharpness of his voice. “What is this? What did this?”

Evan stumbled out from behind the trees, his face pale, eyes wide with confusion. He looked between Regulus and me, his breath shallow and quick. "What’s going on?" His voice cracked, the panic seeping through with every word.

Regulus's voice was tight, his eyes frantic as they flicked over me. “She’s hurt.” His words were clipped, jagged. “She was fine—just a second ago—”

I tried to speak, to tell them I was fine, but the words wouldn’t come. My throat constricted, and I choked again, a violent, desperate gasp of air that scraped through me. The pain was crawling up my chest now, sharper, more intense with each passing second. It was a fire, biting at my insides, and it felt like I was being torn apart from the inside out.

Regulus was still watching me closely, his hands trembling at his sides. Then, in an instant, his gaze snapped down to my shirt. His eyes locked on the blood, barely visible at first, just a thin red line starting to stain the fabric beneath my ribs.

His breath hitched, and I heard him mutter, almost to himself, "A cut." Then, louder, with a growing urgency, “There. A thorn. A branch must’ve scratched her—”

I wanted to shake my head, to tell them it wasn’t that, that it wasn’t just a scratch, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. The pain was suffocating, pulling me deeper into something I couldn’t escape. 

Evan stepped closer, his expression stark with fear. “She barely moved,” he said, his voice trembling. His gaze flicked from me to Regulus, looking for answers.

Regulus's fingers brushed over my skin, just above the wound. I felt the slightest touch, and I screamed again, the sound tearing through me like a jagged, broken thing. The pain intensified, the fire spreading through my chest and down my limbs, as if the poison was winding its way through every part of me.

Regulus's face went pale, the reality of the situation sinking in. “It’s poisoned,” he said, his voice low, dark with the weight of the truth. 

“Fast-acting. It must’ve been one of the plants.” His words were grim, carrying the knowledge of something far worse than a simple wound. The poison was already inside me, coursing through my veins, and I could feel it.

He moved quickly, grabbing cloth from the first-aid kit and pressing it against the wound, hard, as though trying to stop the poison from spreading. I barely registered the motion, my head swimming with the overwhelming sensation of burning, of being torn apart from the inside out.

“Stay with me,” Regulus’s voice cut through the haze, hoarse and desperate. His eyes were locked onto mine, his face drawn tight with fear, but his hands were steady, pressing the cloth harder against my side. “Look at me. Breathe, Starling. Please.”

The world started to fade. The edges of my vision blurred, the colors and shapes melting into a dull, dark haze. My limbs felt distant, almost foreign, as though I couldn’t feel them at all. There was ringing in my ears, a high-pitched whine that clawed at my mind, and I thought—I thought—I might lose myself in it.

Regulus’s hand gripped mine, his voice low but firm. “Stay with me, (Y/N), I need you to fight this. Please.”

I wanted to tell him I couldn’t. I wanted to tell him it was too much, that I was already slipping away, but the words wouldn’t form.

And then, as if the world itself had decided to turn against us, I felt the ground shudder beneath us.

 At first, it was just a tremor, a soft shake that could’ve been mistaken for a gust of wind, but then it intensified. The trees around us creaked and groaned, their trunks bending unnaturally as though they were being pulled by an invisible force. The leaves rustled, a low, eerie whisper carried by the wind.

 The ground beneath our feet shifted again, a deep, unsettling rumble like the earth itself was alive and angry.

Regulus’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with panic. “The arena... it’s changing.”

The trees began to move. Not just sway in the wind, but move. Their branches twisted, reaching down like fingers grasping for something to hold, something to claim. The ground beneath us seemed to shift, warping and rippling in ways that defied logic. It was as if the earth itself was trying to consume us, to pull us deeper into its hungry depths.

Regulus pulled me up, his hands shaking as he dragged me to my feet. “We need to get out of here. Now!”

Evan was already moving, his face a mixture of disbelief and terror. “What’s going on? What the hell is happening?”

“There’s no time!” Regulus shouted, urgency flooding his voice as he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes frantic. “The trees—look at the trees!”

I could barely keep up, each step feeling like a battle against the poison coursing through my veins, my limbs weak and unresponsive. But I could hear it—the snap of branches, the groan of the earth, the sudden, unnatural stillness that filled the air. Something was coming.

And then, we saw them.

Through the trees, coming toward us, two figures emerged. 

Caradoc Dearborn and Charity Burbage, both from District 10.

Their weapons drawn, their faces grim. They didn’t see us at first. Their focus was elsewhere—on the shifting ground, the movement in the trees, the unsettling sounds of the arena alive with fury.

But then, they stepped too close.

Charity took another step forward, her eyes still scanning the shifting landscape, her footsteps heavy against the uneven ground. The wind was picking up, howling through the trees as the air grew thicker, heavier. The world felt off balance, like something had tipped and we were all about to fall into its chaos.

She didn’t notice it at first, the ground beneath her feet moving, the soil rippling like water disturbed by a pebble. She took another step—and then, with a sickening crack, the earth buckled beneath her. 

Her foot sank into the ground like it was soft mud, but there was no give, no escape. She tried to pull it out, but the ground around her was shifting, curling around her ankle like a viper’s grip.

Charity’s scream rang out, but the earth didn’t let her escape. She tried to pull her leg free, but the ground twisted around her, thick roots and vines wrapping around her like serpents. Her hands scraped at the soil, but it was no use—the earth had claimed her.

Caradoc rushed forward, his face pale with fear, but before he could reach her, the ground opened wide beneath his feet. His body jerked as he fell, his hands flailing for something—anything—but the roots shot out like claws, dragging him under.

His eyes locked onto mine, wide with terror, as the earth swallowed him whole. He struggled, his body convulsing, but the soil was stronger, crushing him until there was nothing left but an empty hole where he had been.

The arena stood still for a moment, as if savoring the silence it had created. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. The echoes of their deaths reverberated in my chest, the horror of what the arena could do to us settling like a cold stone in my gut.

The forest was trying to eat us.

My breath came in short, ragged bursts against Regulus’s neck. I could feel his heart pounding like a war drum.

Regulus had me in his arms before I fully understood I couldn't walk. My legs had gone limp, a dull weight dragging behind the panic in my chest. I could feel my fingers twitching against his shoulder, but I couldn't lift them. The pain had shifted—no longer sharp, just heavy. Like something inside me was curling inward, fading.

“I’ve got you, love” Regulus murmured, voice close to my ear. I could feel the strain in it, the tightness, like he was fighting to keep it from cracking. “Just hold on. Please.”

The nickname made me want to cry.

Evan was ahead, hacking at a wall of thick vines that had grown impossibly fast, curling over the path we’d come from. The ground shook beneath us—roots bulging and splitting the earth, trees bending low like giants being pulled from the sky. 

The Garden wasn’t just alive. It was hunting.

“Faster,” Evan called back, his voice wild with terror. “It’s closing!”

My breath hitched again. Regulus faltered, feeling it.

“(Y/N)?” he asked, stopping just for a second. His eyes met mine, desperate. “Stay awake. Stay with me. Just a little longer, alright?”

I wanted to answer. I wanted to tell him I was trying. That I didn’t mean to be slipping. But my lips were too heavy.

“I don’t want to go.” I finally managed, my voice barely a breath.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said fiercely. “You don’t get to leave me. Not again. Not like this.”

A branch snapped behind us. The ground moaned as if something deep beneath it had begun to stir.

Regulus turned and ran, gripping me tighter against his chest. I could feel the pounding of his heart, fast and wild. For a moment, I imagined I was the star again—drawn on his skin, clinging to the lines of his pulse.

Behind us, the trees twisted inward, forming a wall of writhing limbs and screaming bark. The last glimpse I caught was a blood-red moon above the canopy, blinking like an eye.

Evan screamed again—something about the path—but all I could hear now was Regulus’s breathing. Harsh. Panicked. Real.

The world was shaking. The earth howled. And through it all, Regulus ran.

I wanted to tell him thank you. I wanted to say his name. I wanted to scream.

But all I could do was close my eyes and hope the forest didn't get there first.

They are watching us, always.

It is only day two, and already the Garden is trying to chew through our bones.

The Capitol has teeth.

taglist: @fadingcollectivenightmare @spidermansfangirl   @foulwaterss @slaybestieslay946 @aelinwya @yvessentials @sickly-afraid @urfunnyvalentin3 @hufflebubble53

[sunschay]

A House of Lies || Natasha Romanoff x Reader

After months of suspicion and distrust while waiting for her, you discover that Natasha is cheating on you with Steve.

Warnings: Angst, cheating, mentions of sex, Nat is a bit manipulative. No use of pronouns for the Reader.

Word count: 2,675 words.

Your nights used to be peaceful a few months ago. You'd have a simple snack, because you weren't always in the mood for a full dinner, take a warm bath to soothe your sore muscles from several heavy training sessions and go to bed with your girlfriend, Natasha. Natasha Romanoff was one of the world's greatest spy assassins. She was everything you could want. Although at first she was cold, distant and closed off – because the Red Room created her precisely to repress emotions and feelings – little by little she let herself be taken in by your clumsy charm, nerdy jokes and her completely attentive and caring manner that made her feel like she had a home. You were her home.

At least, that's what it felt like.

You didn't want to believe that things had cooled down between you and Natasha. But they had.

With the severe pneumonia you'd picked up from a trip to your naturally icy country, Kazakhstan, you couldn't go out as much on missions with the team and had to rest at home for a while. Of course, you grew up and adapted to the radical temperature of your country, but something changed and you just had the bad luck to fall ill.

It happened to the most focused people.

Natasha, on the other hand, made sure that you spent all your time taking your medication and eating well, as well as wearing so many clothes to keep yourself warm that it was suffocating. But she was still going on the "missions" required as soon as the population and the city needed the Avengers.

This didn't seem like a problem at first, because you trusted Natasha blindly.

She was the love of your life. She was even more than that. She was like... the air you breathed, the warmth that lit up your skin when she touched you or simply whispered the sweetest, most loving words into your ear, showing you how much she loved you.

But as I said, things between you and Natasha have cooled down.

As the days and weeks went by, she became more and more distant, although she still checked to see if your medication was finished or if there was dinner for you before she left.

The more difficult or dangerous the missions were supposed to be, the later Natasha got home. She usually arrived after you had gone to sleep, which seemed strange because the Natasha you knew hated spending as much time away from you as possible, she always tried to get back as soon as possible. Now she came through the door with silent steps, as if she were breaking into her own house. Romanoff also arrived with bruises.

You preferred not to listen to your intuition because you thought it was paranoid to think that her bruises and injuries looked more like hickeys and love bites on her body than bruises brought back from missions.

The first thing Natasha did when she got home from the missions was shower. Which wasn't unusual because she had always been a very hygienic person and smelled extremely sweet and pleasant.

But this also continued to disturb your suspicions in some way.

Another strange habit was that Natasha only used telephones in emergencies, especially because you were ill in your current state, but also simply because she wanted to feel as close to you as possible.

Now, Romanoff was glued to her cell phone. She would wake up looking for her phone, go to bed late with her eyes fixed on her phone, take a shower with her phone in the bathroom (literally) and continue to treat her phone as if it were part of her own body.

Sometimes she gave the excuse that she would eat something on the street, usually dismissing the fact that even if you were ill, you could use your efforts to cook for her as soon as she got home. You were beginning to think that Natasha thought you were miserable or that she despised you because her behavior was getting more and more suspicious every day, and distrusting the person you love the most was hurting you deeply.

Night had fallen once again. You hadn't slept for a few days, dark circles under your eyes, your skin very pale and completely chilled by your ill state. Your eyes were fixed on the computer. You didn't want to be the toxic, manipulative partner, but Natasha was giving you too many reasons to distrust her. If she really was the same amazing, honest woman you fell in love with, it wouldn't be a problem for you to have completely cloned her messages, location and data, right?

It's not as if Natasha wouldn't do that for you too, she's always been very possessive of what belongs to her.

Since you were a teenager you had the incredible gift of being able to steal any data and information from any phone and device. Being called a hacker seemed like a compliment, but with each passing year, you got deeper into your technological skills.

So you promised yourself that you would only look at her recent messages to check that everything was all right and, of course, try to calm your paranoia and your anxious heart. While the cloning system was finishing capturing Romanoff's data from her messaging app, you got up, grabbed the soup you had heated in the microwave and took a spoon, placing the blue pot with starry details on the table.

As you warmed up with a few spoonfuls of the salty white bean soup with chicken stock, shredded chicken and a dozen vegetables in between, you didn't want to discover that Natasha was probably lying to you under your nose.

Your Nat? Your kind, gentle, if reserved, but patient and caring Natasha?

No, you just needed to calm down and trust that your suspicions were just paranoia about her job and nothing more.

She would never do anything to break your heart, she loved you.

The faint beep coming from the computer made you wince in your chair, the taste of the delicious soup that was your favorite and that your beloved had left for you to eat quickly turned into a bitter plastic taste. You put the spoon away, quickly slid your fingers over the side of the computer, gripped the mouse tightly and stared at the screen.

At the top of the messages was Steve's contact and very familiar number.

You wouldn't have noticed if it had been a while ago, although you felt extremely jealous of the fact that he was too close to Natasha, always following her everywhere.

But there were his messages. Natasha had left at 7:35 in the evening. Rogers sent her three messages at 7:29, seemingly well ahead of schedule.

There was no message from any other Avenger indicating that Natasha had gone on a mission with the team, giving away the fact that this was already her first lie.

The first message read:

"Natasha, you know I'm completely crazy about you. Let's just go to the motel I told you about in Manhattan and spend the night. I know they're probably too sick to miss you, so we should enjoy it."

The second said:

"I loved the black lingerie you wore that day over the weekend. You were such a hot mess, Nat."

The lingerie he mentioned had been given to Natasha as a little dating present, given to her by none other than you.

The third message read:

"Okay, I'm right here in front of the Complex. Just meet me at the entrance, the car is parked next to it."

Your stomach churned, wanting to spit out all the soup you hadn't even finished eating. It was all true. The whole meaning of the story came out. It wasn't paranoia... your suspicions and mistrust were right. Natasha was cheating on you with her fucking smug face friend. For how long? It didn't matter, not anymore.

She made you look crazy.

The argument a little while ago, caused precisely on that day of the 'black lingerie' whole thing, was because you woke up in the middle of the night to her coming home apparently drunk and smelling of alcohol and trying to make the excuse that she was on a mission. You got angry and upset, saying that she had clearly lied to you and she tried to get around it, saying that you were confusing things and that you were too ill to say anything.

That night you preferred to sleep on your cramped two-seater sofa than in bed with her.

You already knew that. Your heart already knew. And yet you decided to ignore it all.

She cheated on you, she had crushed your heart in the most cruel and deceitful way.

You threw off the blanket around your body, repulsed at the smell of her there, and forced yourself to swallow that soup she had prepared for you, you having always hated wasted food. When you'd finished, you washed the dishes and slowly started to want to freak out, but you left your computer connected to her messages, expecting even more shit while you waited for her to return.

This time you weren't going to sleep. This time you weren't going to ignore your instincts and your alertness.

You were going to confront her. She should hear some nasty things for being such a bitch to you.

You slipped into your warm, comfortable pyjamas and opened your drinks cabinet. You've had problems with alcohol for most of your life, but thanks to years of therapy, talks at addiction groups and Natasha's support, you've managed to overcome all the shit that drinking has caused you. Still, you tried to drink casually, to keep the alcohol on your tongue on specific days.

Now, you needed at least a little alcohol in your blood to try and stand up to your lying girlfriend when she got home.

The clock struck nine forty-eight in the evening. Natasha had finally arrived.

You heard her footsteps on the carpet of your house, and the way she always fumbled to guess the main key from the bunch of keys on the door. Soon, she forced the handle and entered, carrying a small black leather bag that was already familiar to you, and wearing everything but the outfit she wore to go on missions. Natasha was wearing a long black dress, finished just at the thighs and clinging to her body, highlighting every incredible and fascinating curve she had, and high heels.

But no, she deserved anything but your admiration right now.

“Hey, my love, what are you doing up at this hour-” She asked, stopping in her tracks when she saw you with a glass of whisky in your hand, and your computer turned towards the door with Steve's messages on the screen.

“Did you have a good time on the mission with Rogers, Natalia?” You smiled cynically, the tip of your tongue dripping with venom, even though your heart was pounding with pain and disgust for her.

Natasha knew that when you called her by her real name, she had fucked up.

She froze in place, her hair standing on end and a knot quickly forming in her throat. Rogers' messages were there, especially the recent ones where he said he wanted to meet her again next week for another "special mission". She couldn't face your watery eyes or your expression of disappointment and disgust, but she quickly wanted to stand up for herself to try and convince you that she hadn't done anything wrong.

“Y/n. That's not what it looks like.” She swallowed, hearing your dark laugh.

“It's not what it looks like, there's been a mistake here, listen love bla bla bla. Tell me another fucking joke, Romanoff. Admit it. You're fucking Rogers behind my back! While I'm here rotting with sickness and worry for you!” You exclaimed, a solitary tear escaping your eye.

“That's not what's happening, it could never be! He only offered me a ride after the mission and-” She finished the sentence, almost tripping over her own feet.

“He gave you a ride on his popsicle stick. Yes, I see. From your crumpled clothes, your sweaty, red face, your body full of bites and hickeys from months, you'd just as soon come home naked!” You continued to scream, wanting to take all your pain out on her.

You wondered why it hadn't been enough for her. You didn't want to blame yourself, obviously not, but hadn't you given her the attention she wanted? The love and affection she needed? Yes, you had given her everything and more. Why did she have to look for that in Steve? Maybe he was better looking? Because of the pathetic serum that had transformed his genetics into something else. That was ridiculous, you thought.

Natasha remained silent, although her lips parted several times, probably searching for words to try to deny the shit she had done. She wanted to look like the victim, but she was guilty. Even more guilty than Steve himself. She was a liar, manipulative, repulsive and poisonous woman.

“You cheated on me, Natasha. You're a liar. You've cheated on me and slept with him while I was ill, you've lied right under my nose as if I were nothing. You're a lying, selfish bitch.” You cried, trying not to sob, because she didn't even deserve that from you.

“I'm really sorry, my love, this shouldn't have happened. It was a terrible mistake and I have to make it right, please listen to me.” She clung to your right arm.

You pushed her away as quickly as possible, trying not to let her get close to you. You smelled a strong, woody odour on her. The smell of him. You clenched your jaw tightly, unable to hold back the sea of tears.

“You've cloned my phone, how could you do that! Why don't you trust me, Y/n?” she exclaimed, her green eyes glistening with tears.

“You cheat on me and still cry? You still have the gall to ask me why I don't trust you.” You laughed between your tears, feeling your head ache deeply.

“My darling, please.” She pleaded, her hand touching your shoulder and you pushed her away without force.

“Don't touch me. Don't you fucking dare touch me. I want you out, do you hear me? Out of my house. Now, Romanoff.” You ordered, your chest heavy and your breathing starting to become unregulated.

“Forgive me. Please forgive me. I promise to fix this mistake, love.” She begged, still crying as you opened the door and slowly pushed her out.

“I forgive you. Because, after all, forgiveness is necessary sometimes. But I want you away from me, Romanoff. And out of my house. Make the most of your stay with your popsicle man. Now get out of here, have a good night.” You growled, closing the door in her face.

When you closed the door, your world fell apart.

Natasha cheated on you for months, it didn't even take you an hour and a half to find out. She cheated on you with her best friend, who was always picking on her and that made things more obvious. You didn't listen to your intuition and Natasha used that to her advantage.

You felt useless, even more so because you had been sick for so long, but deep down, you knew that you didn't cause this, you just tried so hard for her and gave everything you had to the woman you loved the most only to find out that she had been sleeping with another man for a long time.

You suddenly hated this house, it was still your home, but Natasha turned it into a House of Lies. And she made your world fall apart when she made your home your greatest enemy.

Natasha Romanoff was now your most painful memory, trying to be forgotten in the back of your mind.

[slutforwoo]

☆7.I can be your dd☆

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After a quick 15-minute car ride, you find yourself in front of Yunhos's apartment, texting him a quick “I’m here” as you adjust your lipstick and hair. Never did you think you’d be sitting outside a man’s apartment making sure you looked presentable? But you guys were simply friends, nothing more or less, so why did you care about looking good in front of him?

You weren’t given much time to think as the passenger door opened, revealing Yunho dressed in black baggy jeans, a white button-up with the top buttons undone, a black leather jacket, and his docs. God did he look so good.

“Y/n? Do you want me to drive? I promise you can trust me to drive your car” He says as he leans down a bit to look at you without getting into the car.

“Are you sure? I can totally drive” You question putting on your own black leather jacket that was on the seat.

“Of course, plus I'm not drinking so I can be your dd” He smiles closing the passenger door, and making his way to the driver's side. He opened up the door, offering his hand for you to step out.

“If you insist Yunho,” You say as you unbuckle your seatbelt and take his hand getting out of the car. Fixing your skirt quickly as you make your way to the passenger side and get in.

He settles in, adjusting the seat and mirrors to his liking. Quickly typing in the address of the club before she starts to drive. Your music was still on the soft melody of Cigarettes After Sex playing in the comfortable silence.

“I passed my exams,” You say breaking the silence.

“I knew you could do it y/n, you seem like a smart girl. You just needed some help. Admin called me in the other day” He replies, not taking his eyes off the busy roads of downtown.

“They did?”You say in a panic, nervous as to why they wanted to talk to him. Yes, the school knew he was your tutor, considering they wanted the contact of your tutor once you found one.

“No need to worry, it wasn’t anything bad. They called me in to ask how the study sessions were going since your marks have improved the last month” He says in a reassuring tone. “They want me to continue to tutor you til the end of next semester. To make sure you stay on track”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding in. Relief washing over you for the first time since the beginning of this year. For once you weren’t wondering where the money for your rent or tuition was coming from or if you were even going to pass your classes due to the inability to focus on school. You were making good money finally. Did it suck you had to sell your body for it? Yea, it did but for once you didn’t feel tense, angry, and stressed.

“That’s all they wanted?”

“Yup, I confirmed to them we had already agreed to keep the study sessions going til the end of the year,” He said as he came to a stop at a red light. Turning to look at you and giving you a smile.

“Thank you, Yunho. You don’t understand how much help you’ve actually been. I appreciate it so so much and I promise to pay you back more than what I’ve been paying you.” You smile and kiss his cheek. “I’m really glad I met you.”

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