#.I cannot shake this thought from my mind and fear it may drive me to madness

[teaboot]

Dear diary. Today I saw a man at the grocery store with a perfectly round bald spot that was the exact right size to slap a yarmulke over like a lid on a pot

[dearsnow]

Hello!

Could I request a Jon Snow x female reader, where she is a seamstress for the Stark family and they become friends and talk during her visits to Winterfell and slowly become lovers?

A PATCHWORK OF BLOOD AND BATTLES

- you are a fighter, and so seems to be the needle stuck in your thumb. and, of course, the man that unintentionally put it there (jon snow x fem!seamstress!reader ⚠️ mentions of blood and a needle-based injury).

word count: 1058

a/n - this took absolutely forever to finish i’m so sorry 😭 i think this request was from literal months ago, but here you are!! i love this concept so much, i hope you don’t mind my artistic liberties :)

You have fought for everything in your life. For your right to simply exist in the same world as the nobles, for your trade, and most importantly, you have fought for yourself. You have climbed the ranks of peasantry with chipped nails and a needle, asking for more and getting less. Now, you have won. At least, you have won as much as the earth beneath your feet will allow you to win. You are a seamstress for one of the most prominent families in Westeros, and as you patch a hole in a fancy evening dress, you can’t help but smile.

The night is dark, but you are not unfamiliar with the flicker of a candle flame. Snow falls lightly outside, and the wind rustles your hair as it sneaks through your open window. As you thread your needle through the lacy fabric, your door slams open.

Your eyes widen as the needle between your fingers is driven straight into your thumb, sending a shooting pain through your entire hand. You let out a sharp yelp, clutching your injury. Who in the gods’ good name was slamming doors at this hour? And why the hell didn’t they warn you?

The thumb clenched between your hand is throbbing and dripping red around the needle still stuck in the middle of it. You look up at the man who startled you, eyes burning with distaste.

It’s him. Lord Stark’s bastard child, the one that sits alone at feasts. And the one that comes to you with sword slashes in his vests.

“May I help you?” You ask. Your finger is still in burning hot pain.

In truth, you have grown to like him. He is also someone who has fought for his status, though his came with a lot more cushion. You recognize the burn in him, the drive that your own eyes carry. He will do great things someday; you’re sure of it.

He looks at you like your hand is made of dragonfire. “Sorry.”

You press your lips into a thin line. You need to keep him on your good side if you wish to keep your job.

You tuck your hand behind your back, hoping he just drops off whatever garment he needs repaired and leaves you to nurse your sores. Unluckily for you, he is a gentleman.

He moves to kneel beside you, dark curls almost glowing in the dim lighting. He looks positively angelic as he reaches for your hand.

“My lord?”

“Allow me to help.” He utters, voice as soft as the wind. He is an honorable man, you cannot deny it. You have seen him in the courtyards during your visits to the castle. He is always improving and always helping others do the same. He gets it from his father, you assume.

You comply with his urges, slightly in fear that you will lose your position if you do not. That worry is always in the back of your head. Will sewing this neckline a millimeter too short cost you your life? Is this cuff good enough for Lady Stark? Are you up to the task? Your thoughts almost consume you long enough to not notice Jon Snow pulling the needle out of your finger.

Almost. You feel a sharp sting of pain, but you bite your tongue. He swiftly wraps the undershirt in his hand around yours. For a brief moment, his rough hands brush the tip of your pinky finger. You have never felt anything so electrifying.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up like the angels have come for your body at long last. When he pulls away, your thumb shouts with new pain, but all you can focus on is the memory of his hand. You shake your head.

“Shall I call the maester?” He asks, ever the responsible one. You wave your good hand.

“I will be alright, my lord. I will wash and patch your shirt, if you wish.” You don’t exactly love the idea of taking the pressure off of your wound, but you must be willing to sacrifice your own comfort in this moment to assure your future.

He stands, and an owl outside hoots. His eyes flicker to the window, then back down to you. “Don’t worry about it. Keep the thing.”

This shocks you. It shouldn’t, but it does. He is being kind to you. For the first time in a long while, someone is being kind to you.

“I mustn’t, my lord.” You speak, hesitantly standing up next to him.

“It’s no trouble. I insist.” His voice is smooth, and the sound tickles your ears. You think you could hear him speak all night if you ever had the opportunity. Something in you wishes you did.

You nod slowly. It would be rude to further refuse it. That’s what you tell yourself, at least. You hope it is not the fact that you suddenly hope your finger never stops bleeding.

Jon turns to leave, exiting just as swiftly as he had come. You clutch his shirt, heart beating wildly in disbelief of what just happened. In that moment, you suddenly decide that you have another thing to fight for.

Gods, did you fight for it. You took every opportunity to see him, and it worked like a well-oiled hinge. From patching more sword slashes to custom-tailoring a pair of riding pants, you were able to take any of his sewing work off of your coworkers’ hands. And through that, you began to learn why exactly he was fighting.

He often sat in your quarters while you worked, and you were beyond glad for the company. Eventually, he began to open up as beautifully as a flower in spring.

He was neglected and outright hated by Lady Stark, as he was the bane of her married life. He wishes to take the black and become a watcher of the wall. Most importantly, he does everything possible to maintain what little honor he has in his family.

Like you, he is a fighter.

Sometimes, in the quiet night, words spill from his mouth like he has never held them back. You do the same. And every once in a while, very softly, he takes your hands in his larger ones and whispers that he will fight only for you.

comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!!

Taglist: @lovelyliliya @the-jess-life @hopelesswritergall @watercolorskyy @cecespizza01

[classicrocknlove]

~Jimmy Page Fanfiction~

Spread Your Wings

“I’m just looking for an angel with a broken wing…. But somehow, they always seem to fly, fly away…”

-

Chapter Five

July 27th, 1973.

Performance Day, Concert #1.

-

Cynthia’s P.O.V.

I wake up with a horrible migraine, drenched in sweat. I was so out of it last night, I had forgotten to turn on the portable air conditioner. New York’s sweltering heat radiated in my small bedroom and I felt as if I was going to get heat stroke. I hurried out of bed, looked at the clock, turned the air on in hopes that the room would be cooled down by the time I got out of the shower.

My clothes from last night laid thrown across my bedroom floor as I padded to my bathroom. I shook my head and looked in the mirror at the mess of a girl in front of me.

My dark eye makeup was sloppily smeared around my eyes, making me look a bit racoon-like, my face thick with shiny sweat and left-over makeup powder.

I groaned as my headache worsened by the bright sunshine seeping in through my curtains and throw myself into the shower, in fear of being late to the venue.

The band would be rehearsing again today before the first concert, and I was hoping to get an interview with Bonzo before they got on stage tonight.

My mind wavered quickly from the group to its lead guitarist.

As the hot shower water beat down on me, I couldn’t help but get goosebumps just thinking about Jimmy and I’s encounter last night.

Gosh, he is driving me insane. Just thinking about his words, how he said them, how he knew just where to touch, it was all too much. I didn’t even have to be around him to get that tingly jolt through my body. Thoughts of him were enough.

I didn’t understand why I particularly felt this way about him. There was this mystique about him, something inexplicable, and I craved more. I don’t even remember feeling this way about Jack, even when we first met and began dating. Granted I was very young, I was twenty-one, and a virgin may I add. Yes, the latest bloomer that has ever lived. So, for me to have these uncontrollable feelings… desires… thoughts about Jimmy, are abnormal for me.

I finish my shower, trying my best to push Jimmy out of thoughts for the time being. I cannot keep focusing on this. But, I decide I do need to talk to him about… everything. God, what do I even say? How will I even get a word out when speaking with him? He either makes me so flustered it’s hard to speak, or so angry that I run away. There hasn’t been a happy medium with him thus far.

I begin to think about what personality he will portray today as I get dressed for the day.

Who am I kidding, I cannot get him off of my mind! I am SCREWED!

I throw some wrangler jean short-shorts on, pairing those with a cropped pink tank top and a white cropped sweater, finishing with a pair of white keds, in case Manhattan’s morning air is crisp this morning.

I decide to just let my hair and makeup fling natural today, the interest of putting that effort into my look was absent today. Natural it is.

I take a small bag of a change of clothes, extra pens, my recorder, and any necessary items I may need. It’s going to be a long day and night.

I grab my writing pieces and pick up my clothes off the floor before hauling ass out of my apartment door and bounding down the flights of stairs to hail a cab.

I thought about calling Richard, or Peter to see if they set up alternate transportation for me, but I decided I’d rather just get the venue on my own time, with my own transportation. Anyway, I don’t think I’d be able to handle a surprise visit from Jimmy showing up in the limo anyway. That seems like something he’d do. Always a mystery.

I successfully land a cab that takes a screeching halt onto the curb of the pavement and I hop in and the old, bearded man operating the vehicle hurries off to Madison Square Garden making me clutch the vinyl clad back seat.

We finally reach the Garden and I’m shaking in boots as I walk up to the back doors of the arena.

I reach for handle of the back doors that lead to the backstage, and it’s locked. I look through the small crack of the door and see Richard down the corridor. I start to knock on the glass of the back door profusely, trying to get his attention. Luckily it does and he starts striding to the door, and lo and behold, Jimmy is trailing closely behind him. Oh God.

“Cynthia, we weren’t expecting you this early! We knew you had a… night.” Richard states with a slight smirk on his face. They’ve probably all been gossiping about it since this morning.

“Yes, well, better early than late.” I weakly smile and give Jimmy a glance. Richard looks between the two of us and starts to walk forward, leaving the two of us alone.

I figure Jimmy would start the dreaded conversation about what happened last night but he doesn’t. He gives me a look, a look I cannot quite decipher and turns on his heels to walk away.

“Jimmy?” I question and he turns back around.

“Cynthia.” He nods and I furrow my eyebrows. He has a different look on his face than usual, very nonchalant and avoidant. I think I am being introduced to another one of his personalities, among the thousand others I’ve met so far.

“Uhm, so… about last night-” I start and his eyes flash with a hint of awareness but he quickly masks his emotions and talks.

“What about it?” He asks, as if nothing happened.

“Erm, well, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for what I did, or didn’t do. Or said, or… didn’t say. It was all kind of a blur.” I tell him, my words stammering out. Why am I always so nervous around him?!

“Why are you sorry?” He asks, looking genuinely curious.

“Well, just, our, kiss, the bathroom. And just the whole night was a bit-“ I am explaining, but he interrupts me as usual.

“So, what about it?” He asks again, seeming impatient and disinterested with my confessions.

“Well, I just, I never do that, drink like that and then we kissed and I-“ the words are blubbering out faster than I can even think about them and Jimmy interrupts me, for the second time today.

“Cynthia, what are you on about? So what if we kissed. Everyone does. This shouldn’t change anything.” Oh.

He shrugs and is still looking at me with that unconcerned face. The hasty moment had been replaying in my head since last night, Jimmy’s lips and hands on me, whispering dirty things into my ear.

I had been thinking about him, dreaming about him, and he thinks of it, of me, as nothing. God I am so stupid. He is so stupid. What was I thinking even going last night?!

“I have to go rehearse. Is there anything else pressing?” He asks, his hand making gestures to match his words. I want to suddenly shrink down into a hole and hide from the world.

I shake my head and watch him walk away, his long, long legs carrying him down the long hallway toward backstage.

I mentally curse myself for even approaching the situation. Of course he wouldn’t care. Why would he? We kissed, everyone does, just like he said. It meant nothing, it is nothing.

He has a girlfriend, a child, back home, who’s apparently just left him, Cynthia. What are you thinking? He’s got bigger issues than worrying about a smitten journalist whom will be out of his life by the end of the week.

I walk along the rest of the hallway, past the dressing rooms I’m oh-so familiar with, and trudge to the backstage area where everyone is mingling, setting up for the rehearsal.

The bustling scene in front of me was no stranger to me, I had been around plenty of bands at their rehearsals, their crew, the roadies, constantly maneuvering, fixing, and straightening everything-musical. It seemed like a miserable job, being so close TO the band, but not WITH the band. It seemed as if the roadies had no real respect from everyone, just expected to do their jobs and that was it. I suppose I should start treating this job as such to. I got ahead of myself yesterday, last night, and I regret it now.

I start flipping through my notes and writing down little tidbits of the setting of Madison Square Garden when a hand touches my shoulder.

“Hey, you.” I hear… Robert.

“How are you feeling, darling? Rough patch last night?” Robert asks and I sigh. So, does everyone know about my drunken stupor? I wonder if they know about Jimmy and I’s covert rendezvous in the ladies restroom…

“Yes, I’m fine. Very excited for the show tonight. Have never seen you guys live.” I tell him and he smiles.

“Yes, it ought to be a great show. Sold out!” He informs me and I nod in amazement. They had really gotten huge in the last few years.

Just then, a roadie came by, seemingly looking for Robert, telling him he is demanded on stage right now.

Robert raises his eyes and eyebrows at me and says his goodbye before rushing off to the dim stage. I watch him and his skinny hips stroll away, his shirt is never long enough to cover them. But, the style works for him and I praise his confidence.

I turn around and spot the breakfast table, a few pieces of fruit and some scones scatter the table, I suppose what is left over from the early morning.

I make my way to it and place a few pieces of cantaloupe on a plate and listen to the rhythm of the music that begins to blare through the arena. I walk to the side of the stage and spot the four men.

I walk closer, almost standing side by side with a huge mound of amps, double my size in heighth, and watched in reverence at band as they played.

Robert’s beautiful wailing, Jonesy’s perfect rhythm, Bonzo’s perfect timing, I couldn’t help but to notice how perfect Jonesy and Bonzo flowed together.

But, my eyes became glued to him. Jimmy’s fast and strong hands, long pale fingers, working against the six string instrument had me in a daze. His body moved with the rhythm, his head bobbing at the tempo of each song. I noticed his slight grinding, his racy hips, moving with the beat and I couldn’t help myself but feel that heat between my legs again.

Suddenly, he looks over and gives me that familiar smirk and a wink, and now my body formed new sweat at the realization that he knew. He knew I was watching him and I couldn’t have been more perturbed at the thought of it.

He had just dismissed me, dismissed our actions of last night, now here I was, making his head even bigger by fawning over him and his playing.

I was lousy at hiding my attentiveness to him and decided to walk away and start on my story.

I remember Bonzo and I had made a pact to do an interview today, before the first show of course, and I was hoping he’d still be up for it after rehearsal.

As I sat on a slightly raised piece of wood on the floor, with my reading glasses low on the bridge of my nose, writing away, I didn’t notice that the strong vocals, raging bass, and twangy guitar strumming had ceased It was just Bonzo banging away at his drums like a madman.

I also didn’t notice HIS appearance behind me until I heard the clearing of a throat and I turned to look over my shoulder and there he was, damp and shiny and in all his glory.

“Anything spellbinding in there?” Jimmy pokes at me as he sits down on a chair, his body stationed higher above mine as I sat, barely lifted off the floor with my knees cradled to my chest, holding up my notebook.

“Nothing you’d be interested in.” I roll my eyes and he nods in agreement.

“Probably so. Come, let’s go somewhere.” He gets up abruptly, pulling my arm up with him and I protest.

“No! What do you think you are doing?” I ask him in disbelief. He drags me toward the long passageway that I have walked up and down for what seems like a hundred times in the past twenty four hours. I drop my pen in the interim and look back at it as if I was a young child who just dropped their favorite teddy.

“Jimmy, let go of me!” I tug against his strong hold on my arm but its no use. He is too powerful, his long fingers wrapped easily around my tiny wrist.

We finally reach the forced landing place, his dressing room, and I scowl at him as he pulls me into the space and closes the door.

I back away into the middle of the room, flashbacks of Jimmy pinning me to the wall yesterday keeping me on high alert, making certain I won’t be trapped again.

“What is this about?” I ask him sternly, my disturbed look never leaving my face. He has some damn nerve.

“Just wanted to go somewhere more private. You know, we haven’t really gotten to properly know each other yet. Wasn’t that your goal, anyway?” He apprises me as he casually pours himself a mix of orange juice and vodka, mostly vodka.

“You haven’t exactly made that easy for me to do.” I tell him, and I mean it. The last twenty four hours have been some of the most stressful hours of my life, but also some of the most exhilarating.

“Well, friendship isn’t always a walk in the park, Cynthia.” He says and I am now more confused than ever.

“Friendship?” I ask him, not knowing to whom and or what friendship he was referring to.

“Yes, friends. That is what I’d have to consider you to share even the slightest details to you for your little publication you’ll write about us- have been writing about us.” He advises me, staring at me intently from across the room, bringing his plastic cup to his lips, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Well, for starters, friends are supposed to be kind to one another.” I inform him, making it clear that I think he is a jerk. I also begin to wonder about the things we did, our kiss, the dirty words, is that how he treats all his “friends”? I’m disturbed by my thoughts of being grouped along with every other girl who has ever gotten naughty with Jimmy Page. His voice rips me away from my thoughts.

“Hm… I haven’t been proper with you thus far, Cynthia?” He asks, his crooked smirk spreading across his pink lips, knowing damn well he has NOT been- not even in the slightest.

“Not exactly.” I retort with a scoff. He is ready to strike again before I interrupt him.

“Look. I am here for one reason and one reason only. To do my job. That is to talk with you four, get to know you, get to know how the tour has been, maybe what projects you are setting your sights on next. I am not here to argue or burst into tears every time I come around. I just want to get through the next couple of days, and then I will be out of your hair…. Okay?” I ask him, out of breath from my slight rant. He narrows his eyes at me, a slight toothy smile popping from him.

“What had you bursting into tears, love?” He asks with an amused look and I roll my eyes. I said embarked all of that and that is what he decides to comment on?! I am embarrassed by my unfiltered confessional I had just indulged him in, making him aware about my crying episode yesterday after our altercation in his dressing room.

“Ugh, bye Jimmy. Let me know when you are ready to be serious about this.” I tell him and swiftly move around the couch he placed his white-jean clad butt on. He looks so desirable perched in his wide-legged white pants and black t-shirt that was sticking to him from his sweat. God, white is a nice color on him. How can he look so good… but be so BAD?

“That may take a while!” He exclaims before I could slam the door. I couldn’t get away from his dressing room door fast enough. I fast-walk back down the corridor toward the large backstage area and approach the band, who is now lingering around a freshly stocked brunch table, but were only hovering around the booze.

“Cynthia. Thought we may have had to poach you from wherever you disappeared to last night. Come, enjoy!” Jonesy exclaims and I smile and nod. I pick up a small scone and place it on a napkin, even though my appetite was completely gone and has been placed with hardened uncertainty of what may become of the next couple of days.

Bonzo tells me we may have time right before the show to do a quick rundown of questions I have for him and I agree, looking forward to speaking with him.

But my thoughts remain on Jimmy. I don’t see him even giving me the temperature outside if I asked him, let alone a damn interview. What was I going to do? Paul was counting on me and his voice began to echo in my head like nails on a chalkboard.

That reminds me, I need to call him. I nearly groan out loud of the idea of calling Paul and hearing his unabating, annoying voice. But, I told him I’d call him and I had to keep my word with Paul if I wanted to keep my job. It was around eleven now, I’m sure he is in the office by now.

I drag myself to the nearby phone that is in a secluded corner backstage and dial the office’s number.

—

A/N

Chapter five is here!

Hope everyone is enjoying this story so far. Chapter six will be coming shortly, with a bit of a twist for all of you…. I look forward to sharing it very soon!

Please feel free to show all your support. I really enjoy the responses and support to each chapter! Thank you❤️

[lokidokieokie]

Debt Paid | Chapter 1

Summary: A little backstory about that fateful night, and the paranoia that stems from it.

Warning(s): Loki being a little shit, reader being paranoid, mentions of supernatural activity...lemme know if I forgot anything :)

The sound of rain tapping against your window woke you up from your sleep. You groaned and rolled over, pulling the covers up to your chin. You knew you had to get up and start your day, but the thought of facing another day at work made you want to crawl back under the blankets and never come out.

As you lay there, staring at the ceiling, you couldn't help but think back to that strange encounter you had in the woods. It had been weeks since that night, but the memory of Loki's cold eyes and wicked smile still haunted you. You couldn't shake the feeling that he was still watching you, waiting to collect the debt you owed him.

With a groan, you got out of bed and went to the kitchen to make yourself a cup of coffee. As you waited for the coffee to brew, you thought back to how you ended up lost in the woods that fateful night.

You had been driving home from a late shift at work, tired and hungry. You decided to take a shortcut through the woods, hoping to save some time. But as you drove deeper into the forest, the road became more and more treacherous, until your car finally gave out.

You had no choice but to continue on foot, hoping to find help or at least a phone signal. But as you walked, the mist thickened, and the darkness closed in. It was then that you saw the figure in the distance, the one that would change your life forever.

You took a sip of your coffee and sighed. You had always been a skeptic when it came to the supernatural, but after that night, you couldn't deny that something otherworldly was at play.

You checked the time and realised you were running late. You quickly got dressed and headed out the door, ready to face another day at your wonderful dead-end job.

As you walked down the street, you noticed a figure in the distance, walking towards you. At first, you thought it was just another pedestrian, but as they got closer, you recognised the pale skin and dark, hooded cloak.

It was Loki.

Your posture tensed and heart raced as he approached you, his eyes locked onto yours.

"Greetings, mortal," he said, a sly grin forming on his lips. "It seems our paths cross once again."

You took a step back, unsure of what to do. "What do you want from me?" you asked, your voice trembling.

Loki chuckled. "Relax, my dear. I have no intention of collecting my debt just yet. I simply came to check on my investment."

"Investment?" you repeated, confused.

"Yes," Loki said, his grin widening. "You owe me a debt, mortal. But I see potential in you. A potential that could be of great use to me."

You frowned, not sure if you liked where this was going. "What kind of potential?"

Loki leaned in, his eyes burning with intensity. "The potential to see things that others cannot. The potential to serve a higher purpose. The potential to become something greater than yourself."

You took a step back, feeling a sense of dread wash over you. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Loki chuckled again. "You may not now, my dear, but you will. But for now, I must take my leave. Remember, mortal, your life is not your own. You owe me a debt, and I will collect it when the time is right."

With that, Loki disappeared into the mist, leaving you standing there, alone and afraid.

You walked the rest of the way to work, your mind racing with questions and fears.

A/N Chapter 1 lovelies, hope you enjoyed :)

🏷 @thewaithfuckingannoyme @evelyn-kingsley @moonlight-ee  @lokidbadguy @greep215 @huntress-artemiss @violethaze

[achillieus]

let you down. (sebastian stan x reader)

summary: it's a universal truth but it's worth repeating; feelings eat us raw. or just an actor and a girl falling in and out of love over the course of three months.

(this was inspired by sebastian's visit to greece for his movie, monday, and is based on that, so that means in the story we’re in 2018. also i have this posted on ao3 too but while i’m writing the last parts i thought of posting it here too)

pairing: sebastian stan x reader

warnings: alcohol, sexual references, implied depression, don’t kill me because of the ending, sebastian and reader are the definition of right person wrong time, it's kinda slowburn because i love the yearning, also this part has some funny moments but overall it’s a big SOB

part: 6/6 (there will also be an epilogue)

(other parts)   (masterlist)

This is how it ends: broken hearts from crashed dreams.

Sebastian holds you until his muscles ache and your lungs burn from the feeling of too little oxygen. It is cold and dark, almost midnight, too dark, a starless night.

No more stars for you and I.

“Here,” Voice hoarse, eyes heavy-lid and itching from almost crying. He gives you one of the rings he wore in the movie. “I want you to keep this.”

Keep it close to your heart. Forget me not.

He takes a breath and a step back, tries to regain all the strength he still has, steady feet and shoulders fixed. He digs his nails into his palms, red marks in his skin, air catching in his throat, he’s on the verge of falling but he stays standing.

He remembers tears glistening down his cheeks, maybe they were yours not his, and the cold autumn wind hitting his face and he remembers feeling like he’s dying.

And then he closes the door of Argyris’ car and looks at you.

And his heart stretches and stretches and stretches and then somehow splits in half.

/

It goes like this:

There’s a ghost that lives in your apartment from now on. In the living room. Sitting on the couch. And it has steel blue eyes and a familiar heart. And it whispers a love story, half-finished, and you cannot make it stop.

The ghost touches your collarbone and he’s gone but there’s a ring in a golden chain around your neck and a white shirt forgotten in your laundry. And it smells like him. The clinging scent of his aftershave sticking to your pores. Eucalyptus. And no matter how hard you try to wash it off, it still lingers.

How could I ever forget someone like you?

The ghost lives here, but the place is empty, so empty. And it’s hard not to cry.

/

Sebastian calls and texts a lot.

He tells you he’s tired but excited because he started filming a new movie. It’s very indie and experimental, I can’t wait for you to see it. He tells you he’s missing his days in Greece like hell and that one night he dreamt of you. Didn’t want to wake up. What he doesn’t tell you is that he’s coming back in a month, Argyris needs him for some extra scenes. It’s nearly killing him but he doesn’t tell you. He wants to surprise you, see the pure light in your eyes when they’ll meet his.

/

You try sexting. It doesn’t go very well.

23:50, sebastian: if you were here in my bed right now what would you be doing

06:51, you: probably falling asleep hahaha

06:51, you: oh fuck was i supposed to sext back

06:51, you: sorry seb i just woke up and i have a class in an hour, love you <3

23:52, sebastian: fuck timezones

/

(three weeks and 10 seconds later)

“I can’t believe she doesn’t know you’re here,” Argyris shakes his head as he’s driving home from the airport, “If I were her, I’d kill you.”

“Good thing I didn’t fall in love with you.”

Sebastian laughs and looks out of the car window. The stars. There are so many stars tonight. He holds his breath; he’s finally feeling whole again. His heart isn’t split in two anymore.

/

You don’t know how long you stand there at your door, staring at him, but it feels like a century before he grins, almost laughs, takes your hands in his and you start considering that perhaps this isn’t a hallucination. Perhaps it’s real.

“Surprise?”

Something inside of you bursts, your organs twitch. You can’t think, you can’t speak, but you can move. You don’t lose any more time, you take a step forward, attach your bodies, your face buried in his neck, your fingers clutching into the rough fabric of his jacket. You breathe him in like an antidote.

“How?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.”

You kiss him and it’s like poetry, like art, like honey and you can’t separate yourself from him, not even hours later.

/

(looking back, these were the golden days)

You pretending to be mad at him for not telling you he was coming back and him pressing his lips on your skin, drawing patterns on your naked shoulder. A feathery touch.

Sebastian always touches you like you’re something made of gold and porcelain, something cherished that constantly needs to be treasured. And nobody has done that before. And you love him for it.

You try to decorate your Christmas tree together. He messes with the lights for a while, eventually gives up and goes on to eat too many reindeer shaped cookies.

He massages your muscles when you write a boring essay for college.

You go with him when he has to shoot a “driving a motorcycle naked in the centre of Athens” scene and you bite the inside of your cheeks to stop smiling like an idiot.

He gives you a dress he bought for you in New York.  

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know, but I wanted to.”

He calls you sweetheart in the mornings, still half asleep and later joins you in the shower.

“Why are you so hot?”

“Climate change”

“Oh, shut up”

It’s tender and it’s soft and it’s human.

And that’s the saddest part.

/

Soon you realize that him leaving two months ago was merely a rehearsal and you still haven’t said your actual goodbyes. Your chest starts to feel as if it’s full of crushed glass.

And it’s ridiculous because you fell in love with Sebastian sometime between the first ten days you spent together.

Who falls in love in ten days?  

Ridiculous or not, you know you are in love with him just as you know that sooner or later, whatever he is feeling will fade and wither. Maybe it’ll be in a week, maybe it’ll be in a month, maybe in a year if you’re lucky. But there will definitely come a day when he will step out of a gala or a party or a fancy gym in New York with a beautiful model in his arms and two paparazzi’s following him around.

What will you be then?

A past small cameo in his life. A side character. Will he remember your name?

He is your whole world.

(a bottle of cheap prosecco helps you decide that)

He is your whole world.

And yet, there will come a day when he won’t even remember your name.

/

It was difficult. No, it was the most difficult thing you’ve ever done. Telling him how you think it’d be better if you didn’t talk after he leaves.

“I don’t agree with this.”

“Seb, it’s for the best.”

Your body doesn’t feel strong enough to carry your heart. And you’re certain it will only get worse once he’s away. The world around you will melt. You’ll obsess over a phone screen and his messages. You’ll start chasing ghosts again. You can’t handle that.

“Why?” He says urgently and his fingers dance over the flesh of your palms.

“Because this”, you motion your hand between the two of you, “is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had in my life and I don’t want it to become ugly.”

He nods, he understands.

“I love you, you know,” he says smiling and tugs you closer to him, “And I may not be here to show you but I think I’ll love you for a long time.”

Your hand grips his waist right to the bones and something flares in your eyes, something wild that wrenches you around.

“I know, I’ll love you the same.”

“Maybe we’ll meet again.”

“Only if I’m the luckiest girl on the planet.”

He laughs and you look at him, fully aware he’ll be ripped out of your life like a page from a cheap leather notebook. And when you kiss for the last time, there’s a hole forming in your soul.

And just because endings don’t leave visible scars to one’s body and soul, that doesn’t mean the scars don’t exist. You know they do, because you feel the aching pain of every single one of them.

/

(every night when you close your eyes you see him)

(every night you look at the stars and think of him)

/

A month passes and Argyris asks you if you miss him.

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”

“He said the exact same thing.”

You tell him not to mention Sebastian again.

Two months pass and you need to stop stalking his instagram profile.

Three months pass and you almost text him.

Four months pass and you go to watch Endgame with some friends and you cry. You cry when Black Widow sacrifices herself and when Iron Man smiles at his wife while dying, and when Bucky Barnes appears on screen.

The others don’t understand and you don’t blame them.

Five months pass and Argyris’ girlfriend wants you to meet someone. A charming boy your age with blonde hair and a lip piercing.

And he's cute but you compare him to Sebastian even before he has the chance to say his name. His eyes are not the right shade of blue and he doesn’t look at you like you’re made of the world’s finest jewel.

And he doesn’t know any constellation names.

And then more than a year passes in a second and you learn to not look for him. Not anymore.

/

It’s early March 2020 and despite the rising fear of the upcoming pandemic, you’re doing well. Scars are starting to fade. And after spending two weeks in Prague, your best friend being there with an exchange program, Sebastian Stan is the farthest thing from your mind.

Until he literally comes crashing into you. At the airport.

No, it can’t be him.

You have your suitcase on one hand and a bottle of antiseptic gel on the other. He has two bodyguards on his sides and a black hoodie on.  And while half of his face is hidden behind a mask, you can see his eyes perfectly. A frozen lake in December. You would know those eyes in your deathbed, at the end of the world.

Your vision gets blurry and suddenly you feel cold.

He won’t recognize me, he can’t.

But then he looks at you and every memory you had buried inside of you resurfaces.

He motions to his guards to wait for him and he starts walking towards you. You breathe slowly, one breath at a time. He takes his mask off and you hesitate to take yours, not sure if you truly want him to see you.

You exchange the typical and very awkward hi, how are you, i’m glad you’re doing okay and then he smiles and it feels comfortable. Familiar.

It’s the whiff of another time that you always kept around. A reminder that you were once loved by a god.

“What are you doing here?”

“Filming Falcon and the Winter Soldier”

If you hadn’t unfollowed him on instagram, you’d known.

“Ah yes I heard about that, congrats.”

He nods a thank you.

“And you? In Prague?”

“I was at a friend.”

He looks conflicted, hurt, turns his gaze to his shoes on the grey cement. You want to say something, but you feel like throwing up.

And then he laughs.

“I was right.”

You’re confused, he notices.

“Back in Greece,” he swallows, “I told you this would happen.”

“It would have been an airport, different gates for each of us, but same waiting hall. Or a Greek island, where we’d both be for the summer.”

“I would have found you.”

You remember and you cannot help but smile. He was right. He found you.

“I didn’t believe you then.”

I barely believe you now.

He touches your hair. And his touch is like a knife. And you want to cry. Magnolias under your tongue. A love long lost is whispering in your ears until it hurts to listen. He’s like a magnetic field and you feel yourself drowning in him.

“I bet they’ll ask me a hundred questions about you later.” He says and looks at the two men waiting for him.

“And what will you tell them?”

“That you’re most probably the love of my life.”

Don’t cry, don’t cry.

“There’s no way we’d meet here if you’re not.”

“Sebastian,” His name sounds like a prayer coming out of your lips and you're ready to tell him you love him and you can swear he looks like he’s ready to faint, “I-”

The guards yell his name. And it's the same feeling people have just before a car crash.

“I’m sorry, I have to go.”

One last look.

Don’t cry, don’t cry.

You repeat it over and over again. But you fail.

“No, don't cry” He smiles, one last smile, “Just look at the stars and wait for us to meet again, because we will.”

He caresses the back of your palm for a second and you think your ribcage is shattering but it’s only your heart drumming frantically. Pushing your fragile bones to break. 

You want to stop him, wrap your arms around his torso, never let him go. Not again. But you don’t.

You just watch him leave, one more time, your knees weak, your head heavy and dizzy. For the split of a moment he turns and glances at you but then he’s nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps it was all in your imagination. Perhaps it was nothing but a wonder.

You get into your plane and you silently sob.

/

And then it’s summer.

And you overhear he was seen with a girl, the day before your vacation starts and you find a picture of them together a week later, a pretty blonde girl clinging to his side with a colorful bikini somewhere in Spain. And he’s smiling. And you feel so ashamed. And so stupid.

They say time heals all wounds but they must be wrong because you can’t forget how he used to smile at you or how he used to call you the love of his life.

Was he joking when he said you'll meet again? You bet if you asked him now, he wouldn't even remember saying it.

I’ll love you for a long time.

So long for nothing.

/

i really appreciate feedback, it motivates me tons and also tell me if you’d like to be tagged :) also i’m really sorry if you asked me to tag you and i didn’t  but i lost a lot of asks and the urls of the people that sent them :( 

tagging: @lharrietg @awkward117 @dannaloureen @broccoligf @cutestfangirlvevo @caitdaniels @arymb @buckybarnesishot310 @roguesthetic @itsaliceheree @sara-1705 @dorothea-hwldr @freshfreakoaftrash @drinkfantasy @christinamcdonnell ​@partypoison00 ​ @90ssantiago

[troubatrain]

good for you - t. jost

a/n: one day it dawned at me that tyson jost really had just been hitting different lately, and so i just needed to write some filth about it. i'm thinking of making this a smut based mini series so let me know what you guys think :)

part two

warnings: it's smush time (smut)

I can’t believe you’re leaving me like this.

Mat Barzal was pouting, laying across your bedroom in your apartment whining about how you were heading off to Colorado and leaving him. It wasn’t by choice, you’d gotten into a grad program that was an amazing opportunity, separating you and your childhood best friend for the first time in ages. Mat was your friend by accident, a kid was picking on him and you got mad because only you’re allowed to do that and punched that kid square in the nose. Mat covered for you so you wouldn’t get suspended and you’d been inseparable ever since.

“This place is going to be too quiet without you,” Mat whines, dodging the book you’d thrown in his direction, “And not that I keep you to clean up after me but I do need you to teach me how to use the dishwasher.”

“How about you help me pack then?” You suggest, rolling your eyes at his inability to take care of himself. He’d always been like that, his own mother relieved when you moved in because it eased her worries about Mat burning his place down.

“You should give Tyson a call,” Mat hops up, grabbing a box and some stuff off your shelf, “Sure he’d be able to show you around.”

“Tyson Jost?” You furrow your brows, trying to clarify exactly who Mat was talking about. There wasn’t anything wrong with Tyson, that was the problem. Tyson was like sunshine in the summer and in another life, he’d be your dream man. He was kind and the way he talked about his mother made every one of your girlfriends swoon. Tyson had the kind of drive you respected and he just seemed so steady, “I thought we agreed I’d break him.”

“You agreed with yourself on that one not me,” Mat chuckles, shaking his head at your response. Mat couldn’t think of any one of his friends that he’d let date you besides Tyson. Tyson was an astronomically better person than Mat was, always the kind of kid his parents encouraged him to hang out with, “What if Tyson’s the best dick of your life and you don’t even give him a shot?”

“I’m not sleeping with Tyson, he’s too innocent,” It wasn’t an excuse, it was the truth. Everything about Tyson screamed that he’d get you off but it wouldn’t be all that exciting. Tyson was a relationship type, and you weren’t and aside from the obvious sexual incompatibility - he was Mat’s friend. Despite his efforts, you always swore that was a line you’d never cross. Besides, as kind and endearing as Tyson was, he was still a hockey player, he just got away with it better than most.

“Just promise me you’ll call him? Especially if something’s wrong,” Mat pleads, a soft expression on his face even if it was just for a second before you had a t-shirt tossed in your direction, “You can’t let him replace me though, I’m number one around here.”

“I cannot wait to live alone,” You tease, laughing when Mat’s middle finger is thrown in your direction. It was bittersweet, leaving the comfort of having Mat around to buy you ice cream when you were sad and to take care of his best friend duties and onto a new adventure.

“You won’t be alone Josty will be there,” Mat jokes, his laugh bouncing off the now barren walls of your bedroom, “I swear I’m done now.”

“You better be.”

“I give it two weeks before you fuck Josty though.”

***

Just swing by her place, please.

Mat was like a mother who just sent their first kid away for college, and he was panicking. So, yes, he was begging Tyson to just drop in on to make sure your move was going as smoothly as you made it sound on the phone. Tyson could have been doing anything else on a Friday night with no game, but he was getting closer and closer to giving in by the second.

Tyson could admit, he wanted to see you, and he was excited when Mat shared the news you were moving to Denver. He looked forward to seeing you in the summer, carefree and light and so far out of his league he’d never even try. You made Tyson fumble his words, and every time he saw you he would think with his dick and he couldn’t focus on anything else. Above all else, Tyson wanted you to know he was a phone call away, a promise he made to Mat that he’d be there if you needed anything that he was going to keep for his own selfish reasons.

So Tyson was off to your apartment, a bottle of wine in one hand and a case of Coors Light in the other. He lifted his hand to knock, taking a deep breath and just thinking to himself, don’t fuck this up.

You knew that familiar tuft of curls in your peephole anywhere, summers spent watching the way Tyson’s curls bounced against his forehead whenever he spoke. This had Mat written all over it, no doubt your best friend put Tyson up to his welcoming committee bit. You turn around, boxes piled everywhere with nothing set up in your place aside from your mattress in the middle of the floor and your tv in your living room. Unpacking had been a bit overwhelming, and you may have lied on the phone to Mat that you were doing just fine. You take one deep breath, holding your head up high and pretending like your place wasn’t a mess.

“Hi,” You smile, leaning against your doorframe and taking in the man in front of you. Did he get bigger? Maybe it’s the hair, it’s longer. No, the scruff. Whatever it was, your feet were glued to the floor because you were stunned by the fact that Tyson Jost had gotten hot.

“Welcome,” Tyson cheeses, holding up the beer and wine in his hands and shrugging his shoulders, “I hope it’s fine I stopped by, Mat called and-”

“Told you to come?” You finished his sentence, Tyson nodding at your question, “Well, I have no furniture because it won’t be here until tomorrow, but you’re more than welcome to come join in my sad empty apartment.”

“I’d love to,” Tyson chuckles, bumping his shoulder with yours when he walked into your place. It was definitely empty, Tyson wishing he’d known sooner you’d be without most of your stuff for another day so he could offer up his guest room. It didn’t matter to him, his mind focused more on the fact that you looked incredible, a too big Islanders shirt and a pair of shorts that were leaving little to the eye. You were digging through a box, a small aha leaving your mouth when you pulled out a mug, “Wine in a mug?”

“That’s how Mat used to pour me glasses when we first moved in together,” You admit, gripping the mug in your hand tightly. You may have stolen it from your former kitchen, but it was a memory you wanted to remember, “You can sit, I mean the only place is on my mattress but-”

“Sounds like a tradition then,” Tyson hums, sitting down and leaning against your pillows, taking a sip of his beer. You sat cross legged next to him, pouring yourself some of the wine he’d brought over in that silly I <3 New York mug Mat bought for your first place. You settled on a movie, thankful you at least had wi-fi and didn’t have to make awkward conversation with Tyson.

It’s only awkward because you’re making it awkward, you thought to yourself. Maybe Tyson was doing it on purpose, peacocking around your apartment because Mat told him he had this weird thing about you sleeping with him. He wouldn’t do that, remembering every other time Tyson’s ignored one of Mat’s grand schemes because they were bad ideas, “Excited for the season to start? A few more weeks right?”

“I’m excited for camp to be over,” Tyson groans, snuggling himself into

your mattress, “My entire body’s on fire.”

Yeah mine too. You watched the way Tyson rolled his shoulders, clear pain across his face, “Ty’s let me-”

You were usually bold, confident enough to make the first move without the fear of rejection. It could be from years of watching Mat, a true master at his craft of picking up women, and constantly encouraging you to do the same. That’s how a player plays the game Y/N. Tyson’s brows were raised at you, a blush on his neck while he let himself sit a bit. You slipped your fingers under the soft cotton of his t-shirt, digging them into the knots in his shoulder. Tyson let his eyes rest, embracing the relief you were giving him.

Of course your fingers felt like magic. Tyson was doing everything in his power to keep his cool, and not blow this one chance he’s had with you without Mat’s stupid antics in the middle of it. Just ask her out, she’ll probably reject you, but at least you’ll get laid. Mat was right, he had to be because he knew you better than anyone. It wasn’t just some claim he made either, you didn’t do relationships, never giving your heart to someone else, “How are you good at this?”

“Tito used to tell me I had a career in deep tissue massages in my future,” You joke, Tyson’s head falling back to look at you while he let out a laugh, “Sometimes I think he just wanted to save a trip to the rink…do you mind if I-?”

You were tugging at Tyson’s shirt, waiting for him to nod in response and grab it from the back and toss it off. You never took the time to look at Tyson like this, eyes scanning over his skin and taking him in. Scars on his skin, no doubt from his choice in sport and one from that time Mat took roughhousing too far over the summer. Your finger curled around a loose curl at the base of his neck, Tyson letting out a hum, “I like the curls grown out Tys.”

“Keep pulling on them,” Tyson grunts, the words falling through his lips before he could stop them. You let out a small giggle, Tyson thanking his lucky stars you didn’t just hit him. He turned around, a glimmer in his eyes that you’d seen dozens of times before. Your hand stayed in his hair, gripping his hair softly when Tyson’s lips finally landed on yours. It was slow at first, testing out the waters and Tyson waiting for the blow of rejection. His hand was on your waist, hand slipping under your shirt and rubbing your skin softly. His lips moved down your neck, scruff tickling your skin, “Been wanting this for a while…”

“Yeah?” You muse, tilting your head back while Tyson’s teeth sunk into them. His grip got tighter, your breath hitching in your throat.

“If you don’t count the years I spent wondering what the fuck you and Mat were, then every summer for the past four years,” Tyson’s eyes had gotten a shade darker, flipping you over so you were underneath him, “Don’t act like you don’t know you’re hot, or that I’ve been mentally undressing you for years.”

“Now’s your chance Tys, don’t blow it,” You chirp, waiting for Tyson’s laugh to follow, except it didn’t. Tyson’s hands pulled yours over your head, grip tight on your wrists. What if Tyson’s the best dick of your life and you don’t even give him a shot. Mat’s words were spinning your head, taunting you because there was a chance he was actually right.

“Don’t move them,” Tyson grits, his lips trailing down your neck, his hands pulled your shirt off slowly, stifling a groan when his suspicions about your lack of bra were true, “Be a good girl-”

“Or what?” You smirk, wondering how many buttons you could press before Tyson just railed you. This was new, welcome, and maybe you shouldn’t have assumed Tyson was the boring type behind closed doors.

“Or I’ll fuck you until you’re begging to cum, but I still won’t let you,” Tyson mutters, his lips pressed against your skin while his fingers hooked under your shorts, “So are you going to be good for me?”

Tyson waited for your answer, gaining himself a plus one in your book on consent and when you nodded, your shorts and panties came clean off. Tyson hooked your thighs over his shoulders and pressed a kiss to your clit lightly, “Don’t tease Tys.”

“Am I the first person who gets you like this?” Tyson groans, watching the way your hips were squirming every light kiss he pressed around your pussy. You were an alpha female, Mat’s words, never Tyson’s, and that meant that under most circumstances you were in charge.

“Yes,” You whimper, desperate for some sort of relief. Tyson had you wound up, in a position you were used to being in and you were eating up every bit of it. He finally gave in, Tyson’s well skilled tongue swirling around your clit, pulling a moan out of you that echoed through your empty apartment. You clasped your hands together, taking every bit of strength you had not to tug on Tyson’s curls, “Fuck, Tyson let me touch you.”

“Not what we agreed to, princess,” Tyson reminds you, his tongue teasing your entrance while his nose rubbed against your clit. His tongue slid up your folds, Tyson climbing back up your body and letting his spit slide down his tongue and into your mouth, “Taste yourself babe.”

You nod, obliging happily with Tyson, your eyes practically rolling to the back of your head at how fucking hot this was. His lips landed on yours, reminding you just how good you were being against your mouth. Tyson’s hand grabbed one of yours, intertwining your fingers with his, “Tyson, please I wanna cum so badly.”

“Where?” Tyson hums, sucking at your skin, undoubtedly leaving you a little gift to cover up for your first day of class.

“On your cock,” You bat your eyelashes, playing into Tyson’s game because you needed some release, “All over it, please-”

Tyson kicked off his boxers, taking his own cock in his hand and pumping it a few times. He tapped your clit the head, smirking when you moaned underneath him. This was better than he imagined, all of those unwanted dirty dreams about you that seemed to be more frequent over the summer. You let your free hand move, Tyson’s head thrown back when you lined his dick up your core, guiding him inside of you, “God, you feel so fucking good.”

Tyson dropped your hand, both of his large hands gripped your hips tightly while he slammed into you. Your legs with shaking from pleasure, “Fuck, right there, please I’m so close-”

Tyson wrapped one of your legs around his waist, hitting you deeper. His arms were on both sides of your head, his lips pressed up against your ears when he spoke, “Cum for me princess.”

Tyson’s deep groans sent you over the edge, your pussy fluttering around his cock while he fucked you through your orgasm. His lips parted, hips sputtering when he pulled out and came all over your stomach with a loud fuck. You both fell silent, the realization that you broke your own rule about Mat’s stupid friends washing over you. It wasn’t regret, it was something you couldn’t quite explain. Tyson finally fell next to you, pressing a kiss to the side of your head, letting his light kisses trail down your shoulder, “Let me get the shower ready for you.”

You nod, letting your eyes follow Tyson’s ass as he wandered through your place in search of your bathroom. An aftercare king too? Maybe you were biting off more than even you could chew with this one. You grab your phone, rolling your eyes at Mat’s unanswered texts complaining that you’d already replaced him with Tyson. Your fingers dance across the screen, typing up the text you’d been meaning to send since Tyson was at your front door.

You could’ve warned me Tyson got hot, you know?

You didn’t even last two weeks did you?

[sylverstorms]

Cassandra x Maiden----Anonymity Ch.4

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Since you started working in the castle, you’ve experienced many things.

You’ve seen other maids get slashed for nothing. You’ve seen the daughters lick a sickle covered in blood, break into a swarm of insects and then materialize someplace else. You’ve heard of the tormented wailing they cause in the dungeons.

They're things that you thought would haunt you, day and night, until you couldn’t function properly anymore. And yet. You found you could somehow still focus on your work despite it all.

How ironic is it that, in the end, it is a kiss that threatens to break your mind?

You used to think only of your survival before it, of studying routes for a potential escape. Now you can hardly focus on polishing a single goblet without getting distracted. You see her everywhere you turn, even when she’s not there. When you close your eyes at night, you can still feel her sigh against your lips.

It’s driving you crazy. She’s driving you to madness.

You don’t understand it. Any of it. It doesn’t make sense for your mind to be so stuck on someone you fear. Not unless a screw has gotten severely loose in your own head. A very possible scenario and one you don’t want to entertain.

The only semi logical explanation you’ve come up with –actually, the only one that lets you sleep at night– is that you’re subconsciously trying to humanize Cassandra. To see her as something you want rather than someone you despise, turn a negative into a positive, terror into desire. To make your life, what has become of it anyway, more bearable for you.

Yeah. You go with that.

At dinner, you keep your eyes down unless Lady Dimitrescu calls for more wine, but you can feel Cassandra’s piercing gaze on you almost like a physical touch. For two nights in a row you hear her graceful steps approach while you’re doing the dishes, but someone always calls for her before she reaches remotely near you.

And you’re glad for that.

Right?

On the third evening, while you’re tiredly walking back to your room after eight long hours of work, an arm shoots out of the shadows, grabs your wrist and pulls you off your path.

You nearly shout, but something soft, cold and unyielding covers your mouth. Your heart is giving painful kicks in your chest, your eyes are wide, frantically trying to adjust to the dark chamber. You start to calm only when you smell her perfume, but perhaps you shouldn’t.

“Relax, it’s me.” she says, like that's assuring.

You blink several times; your sight adjusts just enough to make out her hooded outline, thanks to the faint moonlight dispersing into the room from behind the nearest closed curtain.

Cassandra removes her hand from your lips once she’s sure you won’t scream.

“Hi.” she greets with what you guess is a smile.

It would perhaps be slightly endearing if she wasn’t your captor, hadn’t just startled you half to death and wasn’t dressed like the grim reaper in the pitch-black.

“H-hi.” you say back. It takes a ton of willpower not to curl in on yourself. You’re not even sure you succeed.

“Oh, come now. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark.” she teases, poking your shoulder. You want to tell her it’s mostly her that scares the shit out of you, but you’re not that courageous nor that stupid. “I thought you a little braver than that.”

Your lips fall open. “Why?” you speak before you think and there’s probably something in your expression that makes her giggle.

Cassandra zooms to the window and pushes the curtain to the side, slightly. “Better now, my scaredy-cat?”

“Yes, thank you.” you reply, trying hard to bypass the possessiveness in her remark and what it does to your stomach.

“Good because you need to stop shaking. I don’t have much time.” Cassandra huffs. Before you can even think to say anything, her gloved fingers tug on your shirt, a tad rough, then shove you into an armchair.

You yelp, the air momentarily knocked out of your lungs, but then her gentle weight settles into your lap and you freeze. A big part of your brain shuts down on the spot. Cassandra leans close and the angle allows the moonlight to caresses her face underneath the shadows of her hood. Its pale grace makes her look softer than usual, the gold of her eyes glowing like twin embers….

“You and I have things to discuss away from prying ears.” A thumb and pointer trap your chin in place. You're all too aware of the fact a squeeze from her is what it takes for you to never be able to talk again.

“Do you know how I wanted to get you alone like this, all to myself?” she husks, lightly biting the shell of your ear. The sting gets your blood rushing faster in your system but you aren’t cut. Yet. “Did you think about me?”

Cassandra, slow and methodical, moves further in. For a moment you think she’s going to kiss you, yet she grazes her lips against your jawline instead –it makes you shiver– until they’re right by your ear. Your knuckles curl white on the cushioned arms. Already you feel the hot caress of arousal pool low in your stomach.

And you hate it.

You don’t want to admit it out loud that you did. To either of you. Your silence seems to irk her, though, because a sharp nip comes at your pulse. “Ah! …I did.” The shameful truth instantly spills from your lips.

“Yes?” She pulls back until you’re eye to eye, lip to lip.

Having her like this on top of you now, eyes gleaming, mouth glistening and oh-so-inviting, you wonder why you ever thought you were strong enough to resist temptation.

“...Yes.”

Cassandra kisses you.

The sensation is every bit as thrilling as you remember. Rousing, like licking a double-edged knife and coming out of it uncut. It is all danger, suspension over fire, without knowing if you’ll end up warmed or burned.

The first kiss was a tiny taste of the forbidden fruit. This one is you delving right into its ripe flesh, accepting you’re already hooked. Yes, you may die. But you weren’t really living since you were brought into the castle, either.

Cassandra is busy sucking on your lower lip when her back tenses under your fingers. Begrudgingly, she pulls herself back, neck turned a tad to the right, listening in for something you cannot hope to hear.

You finally remember what it feels to be alive underneath her slippery lips and breathy little moans, her cold fingers that grip at your throat and clothes like they have yet to decide which of the two they want to rip off. You're sure bruises will be left in the morning.

"Ugh. Daniela is being impatient again." she huffs, borderline irritated. "Gotta go."

You can't exactly stop her. You're not even sure you'd want to, even if you could. "Okay." is about all you can really say.

"Dream of me." she smirks, fingers trailing over your chin as she rises. "I'll see you tomorrow."

She waves, full of charm, a nightmare that somehow shifted into a pleasant dream. Then she's gone, leaving you alone in the dark. Your body laments the loss but your nerves are wiser, finally easing.

For once, however, the prospect of tomorrow doesn't fill you with only dread.

[shirophantomvox]

How Illumi, Hisoka, and Chrollo would react to their S/O in the hospital

Hi, anon! You are welcome to join my Discord Server if you are a fan of Hxh, Voltron, or both! I promise this is a safe environment! This is an interesting topic for sure! To the other anon(s), I am working on your request! This will contain both fluff and angst. I forgot to include Leorio in this, so I’ll include him in the next HxH post. You’ll have to forgive me, I have 2 more requests in my inbox and I am not feeling the best. I just got my second Covid shot and it is hurting like hell. Nevertheless, I encourage you all to get your shot if you can. I will be on this site one and off and I should be on it for real next week. I have run out of ideas to write and I began to think I was annoying people with my HxH content (no one said this I just assumed). This post has 1974 words. After these requests are finished, I plan on doing a character analysis for Leorio.

Anyway, let’s get into the post!

We’ll start with Hisoka this time.

Hisoka

In all honesty, this man has heard of a hospital (since he sends a lot of people to it after fights) but has never been in one.

The signs, floors, staircase numbers, and elevators all confuse him. He has only been in one once when he was a kid and has never been again.

He isn’t a social butterfly in this setting because this is a professional establishment and not a college party. Asking for directions takes quite a toll on him because of his established pride. You know guys act when they want to find a destination on their own and will go miles out of the way instead of just asking for direction.

He doesn’t talk to anyone; all he wants to do is find you and make sure you are alright.

He is the tallest person in the freight elevator. So tall that everyone at turns to look at him at once for at least 10 seconds and turn back around surprised.

“How tall is he,” one of the nurses ask.

“Tall enough to be my house!”

This annoys him. He takes out the Joker card and lays it against his thigh but realizes he cannot make any hasty decisions. His bloodlust was activated merely out of irritation and not by threat. You were on his mind and destroying these worthless humans wasn’t an option for today.

He approached the guest desk and waited for about 2 minutes before he was acknowledged.

“May I help you,” a smug receptionist asked. Wow, these people do not know who they’re talking to.

“I’m here to see y/n.”

“Y/n is in room 345. Go down the hall and to the right all the way down.”

This man nearly ran with a quickness! His jester shoes somehow made the floor shake as he ran.

You were awake, eating the horrible food the hospital provided and watching TV. It seemed like you were doing ok, but you had just been in a car accident. Your arms and right leg were still sore. It was so bad that you’d be fine with Hisoka carrying you everywhere.

When you two are alone in serious public places, he doesn’t play games or tricks. He is often portrayed as a ruthless man, but in settings like this, he places the jokes and games aside for later. When he enters your room, he is silent for 30 seconds. Much too long. He was shocked; he walked around your hospital bed, pulled up a chair, and stared at your cast. It had many names written on it.

“Yes, I am ok.”

“I apologize for not being there for you,” he began to say.

“Shh… it’s ok. This is life. It hurts like hell, but I’m a trooper!”

Admiring your cast and its multiple fonts of handwriting and messages, he grabbed a sharpie marker, wrote his name, with a heart and spade next to it. Surprisingly, his cursive was very neat and legible.

“I didn’t know you knew how to write in cursive! Why don’t you write me letters?”

“I see you every day and it hurts my hand.”

The doctor wouldn’t be in for another 1 ½ hours, so Hisoka used your thigh as a pillow as he took a nap. He had been up for countless nights thinking about you. He was screwing up so bad, Chrollo let him leave early.

“As soon as your better, we will fight again. I won’t go easy on you. You won’t be in the hospital but you get the jest.”

Illumi

Illumi isn’t the type of man to overreact in these types of situations. When you both agreed to date each other, you knew you all were tough cookies. You were aware of the dangers of dating an assassin and he knew about the dangers of dating a bounty hunter. People hated you both and you targeted.

One night you both were caught in a vulnerable state. While you both enjoyed chocolate milkshakes at a laid-back 1950’s styled diner, two men were previously thrown out for fighting. While your back was turned one of those men shot your arm, causing you to carelessly throw your body to the ground due to impact.

While everyone else was screaming, Illumi jumped to the ground and tied his hair tie around your arm to temporarily stop the bleeding.

“Illu, why does it feel cold in here,” you managed to breathe out.

His heart dropped to his stomach for the first time in history.

“Don’t say things like that!”

Illumi is already horrible at displaying emotions, but all he could do is frown in fear. Once the EMS came barling in, he demanded that he ride with you.

Illumi hadn’t experienced anything like this since Killua had been injured when he fell from a tree.

You and he were separated when you were rushed into surgery leaving him alone in the waiting room.

When Illumi is stressed and cannot properly display how he feels, he tends to act in “odd” ways.

He begins to furiously turn pages in magazines or bother the receptions every 2 minutes about the status of your surgery. When the woman finally says that you’re still alive, he tones it down a little.

Illumi is open to conforming advice from strangers; he has been receiving it secretly from strangers. Since Silva was busy abusing him, he often found comfort from “the streets”.

He has a bad habit of pacing back and forth and fidgeting in his seat while horrific images fill his mind. All he has seen is pain and even though he was used to it, he didn’t want you to go through it as well.

While sitting in his seat (finally!) and head in his lap, doubled over indescribable sorrow, a little girl walks up to him with her hands folded and a doll under her arms. Illumi feels her presence and looks up. The girl’s curly hair covered her endearing eyes and her smile is wide.

“They’ll be alright. I just know they will,” turning around returning to her mother, the girl said with confidence.

On cue, Illumi placed his hand over his heart, smiling just a little.

He walked quickly to your room once you were out of surgery.

His speed walk mimics one of a soldier; his left arm in since with his right leg. His shoes echoed throughout the hall.

As soon as he enters the room, he shuts the door harder than usual and gives you a tight embrace. This surprises you! You’re lucky if he lays his head on your shoulder!

Illumi had been working out lately. He wanted to beat you in the “squish the melon” contest. He is very competitive and even if he lost, that doesn’t hurt his ego. Not in the slightest. Since it was just the both of you alone, he bends down to hug you tight, so tight that your face is squished against his.

This behavior is only surprising because he usually doesn’t coddle you even when you get hurt, but this time he realized that you could have died from the gunshot wound.

After that he kissed your forehead and almost simultaneously the doctor barreled in just missing the sweet moment between you and your beau.

Chrollo

When Chrollo is holding meetings with the Phantom Troupe, he always appears to be neutral. That is very important. A leader has to show strength even through the worst/hurtful times of their lives.

Chrollo had gotten a call from Nobunaga that you had gotten hurt on a mission and had actually gotten captured by the enemy. Phinks was able to get you back but you suffered horrible injuries.

This is protocol; they do this for any of the members. The troupe was oblivious to the fact that you and Chrollo were dating. They thought you were here to replace Uvo.

In situations like this, he is calm on the outside but screaming on the inside. Common sense will tell you if you are startled by the news you’ve just received and you begin to drive, you could cause more harm on the way to your destination.

Chrollo is very silent; he doesn’t call to check on your status or anything; he would rather see it for himself.

You were a trooper! After all, you are dating a dangerous robber.

Chrollo already knew what room you were in so he just went.

“I knew I should have kept y/n by my side. Y/n insisted on doing my dirty work that they almost died! How foolish could I have been?” He constantly cursed himself for letting his guard down with you.

He always gave you room to think and complete your own tasks but he can’t help his protective nature; one he has for the troupe but times 10.

His childhood friends had been shot by law enforcers, his home was horrific, and the last thing he needed was for you to be gone. You were keeping him afloat in society.

When he opened the door, Phinks was sitting in a chair, one leg over the other, laughing at a TikTok video.

Nobunaga on the other hand was watching the world news and seemed invested that he didn’t hear Chrollo enter the room. Once they both saw, they stood to their feet.

“Y/n is ok boss. They suffered a few cuts and burns, but they're breathing.”

Chrollo’s straight face remained as he stared at you.

Chrollo’s silence is something the troupe has internalized as a sign of anger, rage, or both. When he didn’t speak and just stared, everyone knew that their next mission was going to be a brutal one.

Chrollo is a man that isn’t afraid to express how he feels. He could cry right now if he wanted to and no one would dare laugh at him or insult him. After all, Nobunaga cried when he realized Uvo was dead.

Nobunaga and Phinks excused themselves as they saw him place his hand over his mouth.

Once the door closed, He pulled up the chair, grabbed your hand, and gently squeezed it. His warmth woke you up instantly and you turned your head. You winced in pain causing Chrollo to jump from his seat, moving to your right side so you wouldn’t turn your head too much.

“I’m glad you're alive, darling. What were you doing putting yourself in danger? Feitan could have handled the beast!”

He isn’t trying to doubt your ability to fight, he’s just concerned for your safety. Even so, why would he insist that you join the spiders?

A tear dropped from his face as he silently kissed your hand three times. You smiled warmly and placed your right left hand on top of his.

“I am fine, boss. You need not worry. I’m a trooper, remember?”

He placed your hand against his dry cheek and continued to kiss it. You were his lifeline and he wanted to spend every moment with you.

[danielxricciardo]

Cheater III

Summary: You found out Max cheated on you part 3.

Warnings: angst and fluff by the end

Word count: 2.5k

Part 1 and Part 2

Cheating in a relationship is the saddest thing. It can kill the personality from the inside. Bring changes a lot mentally. These situations turn into you to be good or bad. Some may be helpful to be stronger.

It feels bad when our loved one cheated, cause we are well connected to our partners. We had a lot of plans for that person to spend a most valuable time of ours. When it isn't going to happen then it feels unsuccessful or bad. Expecting something from another person is common in humans. When it turns down we feel such pain, like stabbing with words, The words have the power to kill or to give life to the opponent's mind. The reason why people say 'think before you talk'.

True love doesn't involve multiple people... You knew that.

When you are in love with someone, you don't cheat and you're not talking about just finding others attractive. You just don't desire to be sexually intimate with other people when you are truly "in love" with one person. You're not talking about caring for someone or loving in general.

You're talking about the head over heels, you're soulmates, the stars have aligned and nobody else has what you have, a type of love that consumes your whole being and makes you want to give that person the world. And that includes giving them the greatest physical pleasure that they can possibly experience. Cheating takes that away from you and that is why it hurts.

The person you are in love with and desire, who you thought felt the same way is revealing to you that intimacy with you is meaningless when you thought it was special. They do not desire you in the same way that you desire them. They are not "in love" with you in the way that you thought. All of your love is in vain.

“Why do we feel bad, even horrible, when our partner cheats on us?"

A trust, expectation, a promise was broken. This type of violation hits you closer to the heart because you have let that person through all your external defenses. Because you fear the loneliness that you are going to face. Nobody wants to end alone. When you put in so much for your relationship, you want it to last. But when your partner cheats you think that you would end alone, gradually realize this happens and life doesn't end here and someone else is going to come into your life.

Why do guys cheat on girls?

Both men and women cheat. In some cases, the reasons are simple: humans are animals with sex drives. We are biologically programmed to "spread our seeds." We have other instincts, such as loyalty, honesty, and guilt feelings. Those drives duke it out with lust in our brains. Sometimes, lust wins. It's more complicated than that because we tend to associate sex with so many other things: youth, freedom, adventure, personal attractiveness, you name it.

You know people make all sorts of excuses like, “I wasn’t happy in my relationship” or “I didn’t know what I was doing” or “I don’t find my partner attractive anymore” or “someone convinced me to do it.” You’ve heard these. But it’s funny to you.

A cheater can never have any excuse. They do not deserve to have that say after cheating on someone.

If you weren’t happy in the relationship, then why didn’t you break up first and had sex with someone else? Why didn’t you say that you needed a break and then had sex? Also, how can someone even convince you to cheat on your partner? It’s nonsense.

Some people will even go as far as to say that the other person made them feel loved, so they got swayed away. If you are not feeling loved by your partner and someone else is doing that job, then aren’t you supposed to figure out your feelings first, maybe break up with your partner and then be with someone else? That’s common sense.

Nobody deserves to be cheated on. The blame is ALWAYS on the cheater. Nowadays people even try to justify cheaters. It’s insane. To you, all the answers to “why” are simply just excuses trying to justify their unacceptable behavior. You know, how they always say that a person who cheats once will cheat again.

Since you found out that Max cheated on you and until this moment, so many months have passed that you have the impression that you have started to heal. You were with a man who made you feel fulfilled, happy, and loved. There were days in a row when you didn't think about Max, but even when you thought, you had in mind only the beautiful moments. Like when, for your first date, he rented your entire favorite restaurant and he cooked for both of you, even though he didn't know how to cook more than just one egg. Or when you first visited him at a Grand Prix for the first time and he won and came to you and kissed you in front of all the cameras, telling everyone that you are his lucky talisman. Or, your favorite memory, when you were at his house after you met his family and heard him talking to his father about you. Sure, you didn't understand a word they said, but Victoria translated to you what was most important about that conversation: Max loves you so much and if he doesn't get to marry you, he'll never marry anyone else.

As dear as your last memory may be, it is also painful because it is like a slap in the face to the fact that there was a time in your life when you were in love and now you were no longer together.

When you told your family that you started seeing another man, more than 6 months after you and Max broke up, your mother asked you how you could get into a relationship so quickly. relationship.

To be honest, you weren't ready yet. You were damn scared but Stephen, your boyfriend now, went after you a lot and you decided that if you don't give him a chance now it will be many years before you think about going on a date with someone else. You knew it wasn't going to be a long relationship. You didn't have much in common with Stephen, but he was a good, sweet boy, and you needed someone who wouldn't make you hate all the men in the world.

"Look, I'm not saying you didn't go through something traumatic, but it's been almost a year since then and I think it's time to come and show everyone that you're not afraid of anyone or anything," says Anthony who called you on facetime one Sunday night after the race.

"But I'm afraid."

"Just shut up, no one needs to know. You just come here, you smile, you laugh, you act friendly with everyone and you're going to look like you're better of without him."

You sigh and get out of bed, and go to the kitchen to get a pill for your headache.

"But he will be there..."

"Okay, so? Who cares about him? I'll always be by your side, I promise he won't talk to you."

"Can I come with Stephen?"

"You know I can't stand him, Y/N. Take him with you to the next Grand Prix, I don't feel like seeing him now, okay?"

"I'll think about it."

You have decided, however, to go to the last Grand Prix of the season, in Abu Dhabi. No one but Anthony knew you were coming to the race.

You forgot what a busy atmosphere it was on Sunday. However, everyone who saw you came to you to talk a little and to tell you that you missed them. You smiled and answered that you missed them as well.

The road to Red Bull Racing was long and short at the same time.

"Do my eyes see well? Y/F/N Y/L/N!" says Christian Horner, who comes to you and hugs you.

You first see Sergio Perez who waves at you, happy to see you, then you see Max who comes from somewhere in the back. Had he just heard your name?

"Hey, guys! I'm so glad to see you again. I missed you all."

"And we missed you, Y/N!" Christian answers on behalf of all Red Bull Racing employees. "Welcome home."

You giggle.

"Thank you."

In less than 10 minutes since you got there, Anthony broke his promise. He promised not to leave you alone so that Max could not come and talk to you.

"Hey," Max says softly, coming behind you.

You shivered at his voice, a voice you've dreamed of every night since you broke up. You turn to him and analyze his facial features. He was the way you remembered him, maybe even more handsome.

You look left and right for Anthony but you can't see him.

"Hey." You answer Max and your heart starts beating much harder.

"I'm so glad to see you... I missed you."

The desire to take him in your arms and kiss him was so strong that you felt dizzy. You couldn't focus on anything, not even a few words to say.

"Do you think that we... We could see each other after the race to... Talk?" he asks, moving his weight from one foot to the other.

"Okay," you say and regret it the next second.

"How stupid am I for wanting to get back together with Max after he cheated on me?" you asked Anthony.

"First of all, you're not stupid for wanting to get back with your boyfriend. Relationships are the most real things anyone can experience. We're growing while we're together. As we grow, we also go through many different behaviors in life. Behavior does not make that person. Behaviors come and go as we grow into who we are. No one is perfect. You cannot name one person you know to be 100% perfect, right?" you shake your head and he continues. "We all grow organically, and the best thing about being in a relationship is that you get to watch each other grow. You get to experience the person you care about to develop. Relationships are like walking through a door that you don't know what's on the other side. But you go through the door without any fear, doubt, or unbelief. Relationships are the livest-realest- life experience. He is a man. A man can only love once or twice. Just because Max has sex with a woman, doesn't mean he loves her. He just wanted to get his rocks off for a moment. When it is all said and done, he loves you. It may sound strange but just think of all the men you knew. Think about all the relationships you knew about. Think those who have been together for years on out. So, no you're not stupid for wanting to embrace your boyfriend's "only temporary behavior". You're smart for wanting to have the courage to walk through the next door. You're smart for being optimistic and knowing that things will get better with time. You realize the importance of maintaining a companion."

You blink several times.

"Why do I feel like you've practiced this speech in front of the mirror several times?"

He laughs and runs his arm over your shoulder.

"Maybe because that's what I did?"

You laugh and you hug him.

"Thank you for being my friend. So you're saying I should give Max another chance?"

"You don't have to give him a chance if you don't want to. But listen to your heart. Don't just do it because I'm saying so because you might regret it and you'll blame me. If you want to give him another chance, just do it. He's not the kind of man to cheat. I don't know what was on his mind when he did it with Kelly. But something tells me he regrets what he did and he will never cheat again."

"Hey, can we talk now?"

"Sure. Congrats on the win!"

"Yeah, thanks."

You both went to his room to talk. You were scared and your palms were sweating. You didn't want to start the conversation because you had different scenarios in mind, all different, depending on what Max would tell you the first time. You swallowed hard when you entered his room. The last time you were there, you two broke up.

“I’m truly sorry for hurting you.” he started saying after he closed the door behind you. "I care for you more than anything. I’m deeply sorry for hurting you… Hurting you is the most painful thing I have ever done. With a bruised heart and a deflated ego, with a sad soul and a head hung low, I apologize to you. An apology is nothing to what I’ve done; but still, I know you have a forgiving and understanding heart and won’t let resentment destroy our love. I have shown you what an idiot I can be by making that mistake. Now it is your turn to show me what a darling you can be by giving your anger a break. Without you I feel lonely, I never want to lose you in my life. I am sorry and I’ll work hard on changing my behavior. I know that I caused you a lot of pain. Whatever happens, remember that I am the guy, who will always be there for you in good and bad times. I know you’re angry now, but I want you to know that I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry for hurting you. I am ready to make amends. If I could, I would have wiped your memories about all the terrible things that I have caused you, but all I can do is to promise you that I’ll create only happy memories for you. I hope when you feel ready you can forgive me."

His words took you by surprise. You knew he would try to apologize, but in your mind, you weren't crying. You knew before you came to the room with him that you would forgive him.

"I forgive you. To be honest, I think I forgave you before we broke up but my ego was hurt and I couldn't forgive you so quickly. What you did was horrible and I hated you for so many months for making me feel so small and insignificant. But I love you. And I want to give ourselves another chance."

tag: hellolipoops, taina-eny

[malfoys-demigod]

Turn Me or Leave Me 2/2

1/2

Summary: Elijah makes his choice to find and return you to him with the help of Marcel.

A/N: It was really nice to see that people wanted a second part. This one's shorter but I hope you still enjoy it!

Word Count: 1.8k

Tagging: @puddinmistahj-blog @moon-child-writer @wanniiieeee @agent-anna @mysticalfallsss

“All I wanted was a happy ending. A happy ending to what I have caused on our special day.” Elijah said, expressing his guilt on a sunny morning. A day after the evening of when he learned that you, the love of his life, had chosen to leave, and adding to the misery, asked that your memories were to be erased. Every last one memory he and you shared for the past five years.

Marcel and Klaus, being his only two anchors who felt responsible to hold the honorable and noble Mikaelson standing, stood behind the still-sad Elijah, listening to him sulk around the compound.

Marcel felt highly accountable for putting Elijah in greater pain, confiding in him the truth that came along with nothing but distress. He also felt sorry that he had to tell them something that made you unsure of telling Marcel in the first place, despite not telling them exactly where you were headed… yet.

The right hand of Klaus had sighed, looking at the ground, getting Elijah to turn around and look at him with focus.

“I’ll have you know Marcellus that I completely feel regret in myself for giving her the choice to leave. I shouldn’t have referred to her as a wall when it came to discussing important matters as that. I feel entirely in the wrong as she was right in making that point of no difference between now or five years for me to turn her. I vowed that I’d do anything to make her happy and I denied a simple request that I could have given in a heartbeat. I am clearly spiraling down a whole of great depression and fear, on the brink of turning my humanity off knowing that I cannot attempt to get her back. Is that what you wanted out of me?” he asked, irritated and drained.

Marcel looked at Klaus, who seemed to have shrugged, signaling that this was not his floor for him to say anything since he wasn’t the one to have gotten Elijah’s attention. He then looked back at Elijah, who was breathing heavily from what he had just told Marcel.

“I’m sorry, Elijah, you must have misunderstood me,” Marcel stated, “You see, I wanted to honor the moment Y/N and I had together that night in the airport. In order for her to tell me where she was going, I told her that there was no use in feeling hesitant to tell me since there was an assumption that you’d back off and respect her wishes of leaving, staying here instead. I shouldn’t have done that now that I’m hoping you’d sweep her off her feet again and get her back. Before you snap my neck or anything, just know that I’m on your side now, I want you to get her back.”

Elijah used his super-speed to quickly appear in front of Marcel, looking at him with serious eyes, “Then kindly tell me where she is. I’d like to get my wife back.”

Marcel patted Elijah in the back, smirking with delight, “With pleasure, but there’s someone you should know with her over there who’ll be brought back as well.”

Elijah’s face turned to stone, as his excitement was abruptly brought to a pause. “Who?” he asked with worry.

--

“I’m so glad we could end today’s shopping at this wonderful restaurant’s seating choice, Rebekah.” you thanked your newly made friend.

The two of you were currently at Duke’s La Jolla, a Hawaiian-inspired restaurant known for its beautiful outdoor seatings, overlooking the ocean views San Diego had to offer. This was near La Jolla Cove, a place Rebekah had planned on taking you to see after.

Right now, Duke’s was the place to gather energy and restore appetite after today’s massive shopping care of Rebekah at The Shops, an unparalleled experience for shopping at the city. She surprisingly took care of all the expenses, managing you to not stress about the endless rolling of receipts. She said it was another warm way of welcoming you to the city.

“Of course, dear, Y/N,” Rebekah waved off, “I’ve befriended the chef quite some time ago and got us the best seats for today. He’s remarkably a talented chef I might say as our meals are on the house.”

You gasped at the fact that meals were also taken cared of, “First the shopping, now the meals? This clearly has to be a dream, Rebekah, I’m serious, nobody could be that lucky in one day.”

“I can assure you that the chef of Duke’s has his ways of welcoming newcomers to his city and giving out free meals on your first visit is one of his many ways,” said an masculine voice, interrupting the conversation.

You looked up to see an elegant and sophisticated man, wearing a black luxurious suit, smiling at you with such captivation in his eyes. He removed one of his hands that had been hiding in his pocket, lending it out for you to shake.

“I’m Elijah, Rebekah’s brother,” the man introduced himself to you.

You took out your hand, shaking it with a small, enchanted smile on your face as you were charmed by his presence, “It’s nice to meet you, Elijah, I’m Y/N.”

Elijah felt nothing but pure attractiveness in how refreshing you looked compared to how he saw you last time. He was feeling nervous but wonderful to see you as you felt and appeared so different.

He examined how different you looked in terms of fashion. Rebekah transformed you into this fresh West Coast beach girl, successfully rocking the sundress and denim jacket as your hair was flowing down in a wavy manner. Your smile, it really showed that you were compelled. You had no thoughts of the troubling life you had in New Orleans, especially during the last time you interacted with Elijah. You seemed to have had no thought on the supernatural events happening, as there was nothing but sunshine on your mind.

Marcel seemed to have noticed that Elijah was about to start fawning over you for a much longer time than he had expected, which caused him to nudge Elijah in the shoulder, bringing him back to reality.

Elijah, animated back to reality, turned to Marcel, who was smiling warmly at you, “This is Marcel, a friend of mine.”

“He’s also my boyfriend actually,” Rebekah stated, smiling at you and Elijah. Marcel extended his hand and chuckled at you, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Y/N.”

You shook Marcel’s hand, gasping again at Rebekah, “Rebekah I didn’t even know about you having a brother, and now a boyfriend? You seem to be hiding lots of things from me,” you teased.

“Relax darling, I’ve only met you a few days ago, I can’t just talk you through my entire life,” Rebekah sarcastically replied, “No doubt that would take centuries,” she looked at Elijah with a smirk.

“Right, well I wouldn’t want to be rude anymore, Elijah, Marcel, would you like to join us? The view is to die for, and so is the food!” you proposed, inviting your two new friends to sit with you by the table.

Rebekah waved her hands at Elijah and Marcel who had begun nodding and gesturing to sit, “But would you look at the time? Y/N was meaning to be taken to La Jolla Cove and now seems to be the perfect time.”

You turned to Rebekah, narrowing your eyebrows in confusion. But before you had a say in it, Elijah took a step forward and pointed at his sister, “Yes well, perhaps you’ve forgotten that you and Marcel have matters to attend to by this hour, sister? Y/N shouldn’t be worried about cancelled plans on her end, I’d be delighted to take her for you, if that's alright with you, Y/N?” he asked, now looking at you.

You rapidly nodded in excitement, “Of course, I don’t see why not!”

Marcel clasped his hands together, rubbing it in successfully, “Well now that’s settled, I think it’s time to make a move now,” he offered, looking at the group with a big grin on his face. Rebekah pursed her lips in irritation, “Right, just fantastic…” she murmured, standing up and making her way beside Marcel.

Elijah took his hand out gracefully, which you took in response, standing up beside him with an elated smile on your face. “Well, thank you for lunch today, Rebekah, and of course shopping. I’ll see you at home later?”

“With good things to look forward to I hope,” Rebekah strangely replied, which somehow Elijah and Marcel knew what she meant, leaving Marcel and Rebekah to part ways after that, resulting in you and Elijah left alone again.

He looked at you with mesmerism for a quick second and then gestured his hand to the exit, “Shall we?”

--

Plans with the person taking you to La Jolla Cove may have been changed but something about Elijah taking you instead didn’t really bother you. He was nothing but a pleasure to be with at the moment. After multiple times of offering that you drive, you finally gave up when Elijah strongly insisted that he’d take the wheel and drive the two of you to your destination.

For some reason, the drive to the cove had been surprisingly quiet in a good way. Glances at each other were exchanged every so often, smiling at each other as if you two were an old and sweet married couple enjoying each other’s moments together.

While you were thinking about how kind and handsome your friend’s brother was, Elijah was feeling nothing but a breeze of happiness in his heart, seeing you smile as if nothing in the world was bothering you at the moment. He was a little sad that you weren’t aware anymore of the feud between you two, but he wanted to cherish this happy and silent moment the two of you were sharing, knowing it would come to an end later on as he intended of bringing your memories back.

Once you arrived at the cove, you quickly stepped out and breathed the fresh and sunny air in the small, picturesque cove and beach that was surrounded by cliffs. “Wow, I can see why this place is deeply loved by both tourists and locals.” you admitted, gazing at the waves and breathtaking sky.

You turned around, looking at Elijah, who seemed to have already made his way beside you, putting his hands back on his pocket. You noticed how elegantly perfect he looked in his suit, but it didn’t really suit the setting. “Can I be honest with you, Elijah?” you asked, getting his attention.

He gave a small smile and nod, gesturing for you to continue, “Of course.”

“No offense because I really like your whole get up and all but wearing a nice suit… on a beach?” you joked, laughing at what you said.

Elijah looked down at his whole look, grinning at your observation and started unbuttoning his jacket, “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I do hope though that folding up my shirt and trousers would suffice at the moment.”

“We could head back to the mall and get you some beach clothes if you want,” you offered, turning around to the car.

Elijah shook his head, and stopped you by grabbing your forearm, “That won’t be necessary, Y/N, I wouldn’t want you to miss out on spending more time in this lovely place.”

You nodded, showing a gesture of appreciation and looked back at the view of the beach, “It’s beautiful isn’t it? I’ve never seen such magnificent views like this. You see, I’m originally from New Orleans and I just moved here to the West Coast and I haven’t really had much exposure to things like this.”

Elijah, finished folding his shirt and trousers, looked at you with care, “Do you like it here so far?”

You nodded, showing eyes of hopes and dreams awaiting to be accomplished, “You bet. I don’t really see myself going back to New Orleans. I can’t explain how I’m feeling exactly but this place makes me feel free and at ease. Like nothing’s stopping me to live a carefree and happy life.”

Elijah displayed somewhat of a small smile, which to him was because he was relieved and happy that you were happy. The smile was small because he also felt unhappy that he was not able to provide you this happiness.

“What about you, Elijah?”

“Hm?” Elijah hummed in confusion.

“Are you living a carefree and happy life as well?” you prompted, asking innocently. “Perhaps there’s a special person in your life that’s giving you the additional happiness in your life?” There was something in your gut that wanted you to ask this, wanting to know if he had a significant other in his life.

Elijah chuckled to himself in a depressing way, looking down at the ground. “It’s quite a long story.”

“Ah,” you opened your mouth, happy that you understood what he was trying to say, “But do you love her?”

There seemed to be a quick and honest nod from Elijah, who seemed to be looking directly at the horizon, as if he was vividly thinking about his girl. “Words cannot express how much I love her.”

“So what happened?” you genuinely asked.

“One single yet vast mistake I made on my end. It ruined everything that we had together and I will never forget how much I regretted everything that led to her completely starting a new life without me. It broke my heart but I deserved that. She doesn’t deserve to have her heart broken because I wasn’t thinking things correctly.” he utterly confessed with grief.

You touched his shoulder out of pity, causing him to look at you with soft eyes, “Fight for her, Elijah. She has to be around here somewhere, hasn’t she? It isn’t too late to see if you have a chance to get her back and I know you will. I can help find her!” you supportingly said, trying to get his hopes up.

But it somehow failed. He sighed, shaking his head at you. His hand slowly touched yours, the one that held his shoulder. “Looking around for her won’t be necessary,” he replied, confusing you, “Because you’ve been standing alongside me today.”

You narrowed your eyes, wondering what he meant as this sounded strange to you. “I-I don’t follow, Elijah.”

Elijah placed both his hands on your shoulders firmly, looking you straight in the eye as he started compelling you.

“What we have just briefly discussed between us is considered a highlight of what I’m about to bring back to you,” he first said, “Recently, Marcel Gerard had compelled you to forget everything that happened to you in the last five years upon your request. The reason for this was because I denied you of becoming a vampire after being asked by you on our five year anniversary. With this, we had a massive quarrel, leaving you to have your memories erased and decide to start a new life here, away from New Orleans. Eventually you met again, Rebekah, but that doesn’t matter as much as what I’m about to say. I, Elijah Mikaelson, your husband, have travelled to see you, ending this compulsion to give you free will upon hearing what has been said.”

A few mere seconds had passed after Elijah’s compulsions and there you were, standing, and staring at someone who grew fondly familiar to you, bringing about tears slowly falling on your face as emotions were just attacking your body, hitting you right in the face with such clarity and impact.

Elijah only saw a tearful wife of his, narrowing her eyes with emotion as she didn’t know how to feel at the moment. He wanted to hug her and tell her everything was fine but he wanted her to make the first move, giving her the choice on how she wanted to react.

“E-Elijah,” your voice broke, causing you to just wrap your arms around his neck, breaking out to sob quietly. Elijah frowned in pity, hugging you back with such grip on his arms, wanting to not let you go. He gently rubbed your back, whispering sweet words and telling you to let it all out.

“My darling,” he whispered, “Just let it all out, it will be alright.”

Still embracing him, you shook your head, which he felt you do, “No,” you denied, “I’m so sorry, Elijah.”

This caused the heartwarming hug to stop from the two of you, as you simultaneously pulled out from each other. Elijah looked at you with slight confusion, after hearing you apologize. “Elijah,” you continued, “It was really wrong of me to lash out on you that night. I completely destroyed our anniversary night all because of one thing I kept going on about. Then I didn’t even let you know what choice I chose, leaving you to find out in a way you couldn’t imagine. I’m very, truly, sorry.”

Elijah gloomed, lowering his face with guilt, “No, Y/N,” he started with a low, sad voice, “It is I who is in the wrong, not you. You will never be in the wrong. What you asked for was something to do with what special thing we have. Of course it is my dream to live an eternal life with you, and when the situation appeared in front of me, I foolishly ignored it and words cannot express how wrong that was of me to do. I was a fool for doing so, for letting you go, and making you unhappy. It went to show how vapid I was as a husband and the guilt of that lives in me. It was I who destroyed our special day together, not you, but I. When you left without telling me, I deserved that as it gave me the time to reflect on how much of a mindless person I was that night. Knowing that you went here to start a life without me broke me. I never wanted to imagine what it was like to not have you in my life anymore and that fear arrived the moment we fought and I was trembling with such immense fear, knowing that life would crumble down without you by my side. I want you to know Y/N, that you are the love of my life always and forever. I am deeply apologetic for what I have done and I want you to know that I will do everything in my power to make things right, to make us right again, because all I want in my life is to make you happy and if you will, I would like to live an eternal life with you, for you are the light of my life.”

It didn’t take another second for you to think about it. Despite going through a lot on both your ends, he was still the love of your life. If there was one thing the Mikaelsons taught you, it was that no matter what happens, family will always come down as the number one thing in life, always and forever.

You nodded, starting to grow a smile on your face, followed along with giggles, which caused Elijah to tense down and return the smile, “Yes, Elijah,” you replied, “I will always love you with all my heart. You are after all, my husband, my lover, my favorite person in the entire world and I would never want things to end between us for you too are the light of my life.”

With that, Elijah cupped your face and connected his lips with yours, planting a passionate and heartwarming kiss to end the beautiful day in one of your favorite places with your favorite person. You returned to wrapping your arms around his neck, hoping to stay like this forever with him.

Perhaps the two of you could stay in this beautiful place for awhile, after all… It is your special week in the end.

[morganaspendragonss]

I hope that you are doing well! I love the your writing! If you are open to a Tarlos fic request: TK to Carlos after the doctor has told him Carlos might not make it through the next 48hrs "I cannot imagine life without you, please don't let me live my greatest fear. I won't survive."

Carlos has been working a case and it happens that he becomes a target. He starts getting messages at work, at home and becomes paranoid but doesn't tell TK, but TK can see that Carlos is on edge. Carlos picks a fight with TK so that he goes to stay with Owen for a while. Carlos does this to protect him, let him at least stay away so that if anything happens, TK is safe. Then one night, Carlos is alone at home and someone breaks in, torture ensues and he is barely clinging to life. He calls 911, Grace answers and he can barely get the words out "it's Carlos, send help". 📍

holly's august extravaganza day 10: i can't imagine my life without you

thank you!

ao3 | 1.9k | descriptions of torture, major character injury, angst, hopeful ending, open ending

TK knows he’s annoying people. The atmosphere in the ambulance is thick with tension whenever they’re out on a call, and it’s not much better back at the firehouse. He tries to keep his distance, occupying himself in the gym or aggressively doing chores, but he can’t avoid everyone forever and his bad mood is starting to spill over.

Like when he and Nancy fell back into their old pattern of snipping at each other, or when he nearly bit Paul’s head off when he asked what was wrong. It was less the question itself—though TK certainly doesn’t want to get into why he’s so out of it—and more the way Paul phrased it. Nobody likes to be asked ‘trouble in paradise?’, particularly when the answer is yes.

He just doesn’t understand. It had come completely out of left field—one minute everything was fine, the next Carlos had turned to him with guarded eyes and a clenched jaw, and said six words that sent TK’s whole world crashing down.

“I think we need a break.”

Carlos hadn’t explained why; when TK had tried to push, he’d turned it into a fight, until TK had no choice but to leave. He’s been staying with his dad for a week now and he desperately misses his boyfriend, torn between wanting to go over and check on him and wanting to give him space.

He’d settled on a text, a simple you okay?, which still felt woefully inadequate. Carlos had been on edge for weeks before the blow up and TK hadn’t been able to get a word out of him about why.

The text is still unanswered, though it’s been marked as Read.

TK huffs and hauls himself up into the ambulance to check stock. He knows Nancy has already done it and she’s going to be pissed if she catches him, but he needs to keep his mind occupied somehow, lest he start to spin out. But the peace he finds is short-lived, as not ten minutes after he starts, TK looks up from his clipboard to see Judd approaching, hands held out in a pacifying gesture.

It has the opposite effect, TK’s nerves becoming that bit more frayed at the spooked animal treatment he’s getting, but his pointed glare does nothing to deter Judd. Nor does turning his back and returning to work, as he finds out when Judd’s heavy footsteps stop behind the rig and don’t move away.

“TK,” Judd says, his voice suspiciously rough.

TK doesn’t bother turning around, hoping it will get the message across. “Fuck off, Judd,” he says, which would normally be a guarantee of riling him up enough to get him to either leave TK alone or engage in a more physical manner.

At this point, TK doesn’t really care which reaction he gets.

Unfortunately, he’s not in luck today. Which, honestly, tracks.

“I got a phone call,” Judd continues, undeterred, “from Grace. Now, I figure you’ll be getting a similar one soon enough, but we thought it might be better if you heard it from us first.”

TK sighs and hangs his head, reluctantly turning around. “What?” he snaps out. When Judd doesn’t react, not even with a raised eyebrow, a quiet dread begins to pool in his gut, a little voice in the back of his head telling him he already knows ‘what’.

He tries to push it down, but there are very few reasons why Grace would call Judd and ask to talk to him. TK takes the proffered phone in a shaking hand, his heart starting to pound as he lifts it to his ear.

“Grace?”

“Hey, TK.” Grace’s voice is gentle, as it always is, but there’s a soothing note to it now, and more of the pieces start to slot together in TK’s head. “Listen, honey, I’m at work and I just got a call come through. I’m… I’m so sorry, TK. It was Carlos.”

TK’s breath catches, tears pricking the back of his eyes. “What do you mean?” he demands, voice shaky. “What do you mean ‘you’re sorry’?”

“He was… I don’t know. He was barely able to talk, but it sounded real bad. EMS 122 were in the area at the time so I sent them out; they should have arrived at the hospital by now.”

And TK… TK doesn’t know what to say to that. He slumps back on the bench in the rig, breathing turning shallow as he imagines what could have happened to Carlos. The last time they’d seen each other—the last time they’d spoken—it had ended with them throwing insults across the kitchen island and with TK packing a bag and slamming the door behind him.

The thought that it might be the last memory they have together kills him inside.

He needs answers. Before he can face this new reality, he needs to know what happened, which means there’s only one thing he can do right now.

“Grace?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“I want to hear it.”

*

Judd has followed him up to the mercifully empty bunkroom, refusing to leave after both his and Grace’s attempts to dissuade him had failed. TK ignores him for the most part, but he does give in to his request to put the phone on speaker. Much as he wants to deal with this on his own, it is a kind of comfort to have Judd’s steady presence next to him.

“Are you sure about this, TK?” Grace asks for the millionth time. TK appreciates her concern, but he needs this. He needs to hear it for himself.

“I’m sure.”

“Alright then.”

He hears a few clicks and then the recording starts, Grace’s voice coming over the speaker.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

No response.

“Hello?”

The silence continues, broken only by static, and then what TK recognises as heavy, gasping breaths.

“Hello, is anyone there?”

A few more seconds pass, and then, “Grace.”

TK has to suppress a sob at the sound of his boyfriend’s voice—though, if he didn’t know for sure it was Carlos, he wouldn’t have recognised it. His words come out ragged and hoarse, riding on breaths that seem to be getting slower and more laboured by the second. TK clutches the phone tighter in his hand, biting down hard on his lip.

“It’s… It’s Carlos. I… Send help. Please.”

“Carlos, can you tell me what’s wrong?”

But Grace goes unanswered, and TK suddenly notices that he can no longer hear the sound of Carlos breathing. His own breaths hitch, his lungs refusing to expand properly, and his vision blurs with tears as he curls in on himself, hands braced on the edge of the bed and gripping tightly onto the covers.

He doesn’t notice Judd taking the phone back, nor is he aware of him moving to sit next to him until he’s being pulled into a strong embrace, TK’s head cradled against Judd’s chest. Judd whispers things TK doesn’t hear as his hands gently rub his back, the touch grounding him as he loses himself to tears and the overwhelming pain in his heart.

Five minutes later, TK’s phone rings.

Fifteen minutes after that, they arrive at the hospital.

*

“Please,” TK whispers, clutching onto the hand in both of his. “Please don’t make me do this. I don’t… I don’t want to live a life without you in it. I can’t, you understand me? I can’t. If you leave, I won’t survive it, so you just hang on for me, alright? Forget what the doctor thinks, you keep fighting, and come back to me. Please, Carlos. Please.”

TK looks up, hoping to see Carlos’s beautiful brown eyes staring right back at him, but of course they’re not. He might never see them again, which is something TK is still trying to wrap his head around. That’s not the only thing either; Carlos has so many injuries that he’s struggling to remember them all—the only thing he does remember with horrific clarity is the doctor’s words when he’d asked to speak to TK privately.

“We’ve done what we can, but I’m afraid Officer Reyes’s wounds are grave and there is a significant possibility that he may not make it beyond the next 48 hours. If he does, then we will re-evaluate, but currently his chances of recovery are slim. I’m truly sorry.”

TK wipes away a stray tear and presses a kiss to Carlos’s bruised knuckles. His other hand is completely shattered, and TK can barely stand to look at his face; it’s been beaten to a pulp, there’s a patch over one eye, and whoever attacked him even went so far as to rip out some of his teeth.

It’s grim, and that’s to say nothing of the rest of his body. Torture is the only word to describe what happened to Carlos—brutal, savage, and without mercy, somebody tortured him in their home.

And he was alone.

*

“Son, you didn't know.”

“That’s no excuse. I left him.”

“Carlos pushed you away. He was trying to protect you.”

“And where was I when he needed protection?��

“TK—”

“Don’t, Dad.”

*

“TK, I really shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Please, Mitchell. I need to know. Carlos knew something was going to happen but he chose to drive me away instead of letting me in. I just… I just want answers.”

“...I’ll see what I can do.”

*

Carlos makes it through the 48 hours, but not without incident. Somewhere around hour 32, the machines had started going haywire, summoning an army of doctors who shoved TK out of the room, leaving him to stare in through the blinds as they worked to save Carlos’s life.

They’d done it, but it had taken TK hours to come down from the resulting panic attack.

*

“Oh my god.”

Mitchell is standing at his shoulder, watching him warily as he flips through the file she brought him from the station. She keeps looking around anxiously, as if her sergeant is going to appear and arrest her for misconduct at any moment, but TK only has eyes for the images and words in front of him.

“Did you know about this?” he asks, gesturing to the myriad of threatening messages they’d apparently found in Carlos’s desk.

She shakes her head. “We noticed he’d been acting weird, but we figured something was going on between you two. He never said a word to anyone that I know of.” She pauses and sighs shakily, placing a comforting hand on TK’s shoulder. “We, um. We found some at your house, too. In Carlos’s nightstand.”

TK stares, first at Mitchell, then at the file, then at Carlos, still just as silent and motionless as he’s been since the day all this happened. “Why?” he breathes, and he doesn’t know which one of them he’s addressing the question to.

*

The doctors are amazed when they get to a week and Carlos’s heart is still beating. He still has a ventilator breathing for him and there’s still been no sign of him waking up, but he’s not giving up.

TK wants to say that he never doubted him, but he can’t ignore his paramedic training. He’d heard how badly Carlos was injured; he’d seen the crime scene photos and all the blood coating their bedroom.

(He’d needed several minutes in the bathroom to recover from that sight)

Much as he didn’t want to admit it, all the signs pointed to Carlos not making it.

But he’s still here. Still fighting. And TK can’t help but let that little bit of hope into his heart.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Onions Among the Roses

“What in the world do two completely different plants have to do with this?”

“... ‘Onions’ can only make you stronger--so do not be ashamed to cut them.”

Yes, that is apparently a real thing that people do.

***Spoilers for Riddle’s childhood, Ghost Marriage Riddle’s home screen lines, and chapter 1 of the main story!***

***CONTENT WARNING: this piece mentions a dysfunctional family and emotional abuse!***

Imagine this...

The stillness of the kitchen was near stifling. Quiet, save for the sounds of ingredients being prepared for plating--the soft gurgle of simmering water, the methodical cut of knives against a wooden board or vegetable flesh.

Riddle sucked in a breath through his teeth, careful to not breathe in the noxious fumes of his half-cut onion. Instead, the oppressive atmosphere slipped in, and he almost gagged.

Small talk, he suggested to himself, make some small talk to drive this horridness away.

“So,” the Heartslabyul dorm leader began, trying to sound casual, “how are you finding the Master Chef course to be so far, Silver?”

“It has been a fascinating experience. I am pleased with the progress that I am making.” He spoke seriously as he whittled away at a potato, forming one continuous ribbon of skin. His iridescent eyes beheld a subtle glow to them--thoughtful. “Father has been pleased as well. He praised the Chicken with Tomato Sauce that I prepared last night.”

Riddle’s knife froze midair. “Your father has visited Night Raven College?”

“Well, more or less,” Silver confessed with a shrug. “He’s always around, always keeping an eye on me, some way or another.”

“I... I see.” Riddle’s eyes turned slightly downcast. “I have not yet had the honor of presenting my cooking to anyone, let alone my father.”

“I’m sure that he would love your food.” Silver reassured him. He set down his neatly peeled potato and started on a new one, the blade of his knife pressed firmly against the grain.

“I’m not so certain,” the redhead replied, a hint of bitterness in his tone. He brought his knife down, cleaving slices from his onion’s bulbous body. “I am not particularly close to either one of my parents. They are not intimate with one another, either.”

Riddle remembered them well: long afternoons and evenings, stretching into bouts of silence, punctured only by the clinking of silverware. His mother and father staring into their own dishes, refusing to address one another. A ‘dessert’ placed before him, tasting of limp cardboard and sadness.

No smiles or joy to be had.

“A Rosehearts family meal is not one you would wish to be invited to,” he declared with the shake of his head.

“Oh.” Silver’s hands came to a stop, his potato peel dangling precariously by his hip. “I’m sorry to hear that, Riddle.”

“Don’t be,” he insisted--a bit too quickly, perhaps. “I may not enjoy it, but I have come to accept it for what it is: my reality. I must hold my head high and continue to advance, regardless of that.”

“Your dedication is admirable,” Silver nodded stiffly, “but even if it is your reality, that does it does not make the blows you’ve been dealt any less painful. Wounds of the body and wounds of the heart can hurt equally.”

“... I suppose so.” Again and again, Riddle’s knife came down mercilessly upon the onion. His motions had gotten smoother with time and repetition, but his dices were still not even in size.

They settled back into silence, each boy tending to their own mise en place. Simmering. Chopping. Discomfort seeped in and filled the space between them.

Silver cleared his throat. “... How are you finding the Master Chef course?”

“Ah... The instruction has been very informative, but I fear I still have a long way to go when it comes to putting lecture material to practice.” Riddle eyed Silver’s knife. “You seem to be quite skilled in some regards already.”

“Swordplay is my specialty,” he replied. “I have been training since I was young. The same goes for Sebek.”

“Practical skills will serve you well.” Riddle flinched as the odor of onions tickled his nostrils. He sucked in another breath through his teeth.

He had once thought of wielding a whisk or a spatula, of whipping cream and flipping patties. He had wanted to make mud pies and set up a lemonade stand. Dreamt of colors and textures and shapes and flavors. To mold them with his own hands, to taste them with his own tongue.

“The only things you need to worry about are your grades--your grades, and following the rules,” his mother had told him, plucking the butter knife out of his hands. Over and over and over. “Go back to your books.”

His dreams laid in shards upon the floor.

“I’ve had a very privileged, but sheltered, upbringing,” Riddle said with a weak laugh, “so I am afraid that when it comes to hands-on exercises such as this... I may very well underperform.”

“It’s fine. No one is perfect at everything.”

“I must be.”

Silver cast his classmate a puzzled look. 

“I must,” Riddle repeated, tightening his grip on the handle of his knife, “if I wish to live independently. I cannot always rely on Trey to prepare tea, or Che’nya to yank me outdoors.”

“Riddle...”

How mad his mother had been when she had discovered him missing, when she had discovered the sugar dusting his lips. The strawberry tart had tasted sweet, yet fleeting. She had screeched like a banshee, forbidden him from playing with the other children ever again.

And how livid she had been when he had confronted her over winter break.

“You are my son. You are a Rosehearts. You will not defy me--you will not defy the rules!” she had roared. “Who has been planting these poisonous thoughts in your mind? I want to speak to them!!”

He inhaled shakily and shoved the memories of her shouting out of his mind.

“I need to start making strides on my own--and this is the first step towards that. I cannot allow myself to fail, no matter what.” The redhead pressed the tip of his blade into the onion--the hand curled atop the vegetable, trembling. His expression, solemn.

Silver set down his knife and potato, briskly walked over to Riddle’s workspace, and grasped his wrists. “Stop. You’re shaking all over. It’s not safe to cut it like that.”

“But the onion--”

“Forget the onion. Take a bre--” Silver came to a full pause when he saw Riddle’s face. “... You’re crying.”

And so he was.

Fat tears rolled down his face, his cheeks bloated and rosy. The Heartslabyul dorm leader shook, furiously rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hands. He sniffled loudly, but managed to choke something semi-comprehendible out.

“Th-The onions must be making my eyes water.”

“Of course. Let me get you a towel.”

It took only a few moments for Silver to retrieve a warm, wet cloth. He offered it to Riddle, who immediately pressed the cloth to his eyes.

“I’m... I’m sorry. You shouldn’t see me in such a pathetic state.”

“As I have said before, you are fine,” Silver said patiently. “No man is able to take down a beast by himself. It takes the backing of an entire village to ensure that he is prepared for his quest.”

“But crying at my age... It is unfitting, especially for a dorm leader.”

“Falling and losing your footing are all normal in the learning process. I stumbled a lot as well when I was training with the sword. What matters is that you are able to pick yourself up afterwards. Never losing sight of your goal.”

Silver folded his arms. “To be both the best student, and the best chef. To gain independence for yourself. That is why you fight, and why you shed your tears.”

Riddle slowly lowered the towel from his eyes. His wet gaze met Silver’s. “Are tears truly something to be proud of?”

"... There are many roses in the Valley of Thorns. And, sometimes, onions are planted alongside them. It is said that when they are grouped together, onions can enhance the fragrant aroma of roses." 

“What in the world do two completely different plants have to do with this?”

"... 'Onions' can only make you stronger--so do not be ashamed to cut them.” Silver plucked a fresh bulb from a basket and handed it to his peer. “Rest, and reflect on it. When you are ready, you can return to your ingredients.”

He turned and started to walk back to his own work station, but paused midstride.

“Riddle.”

“Yes?”

“You should come over sometime, and join us for a meal. Fath...” Silver caught himself and rushed to correct his phrasing. “Ah, I mean... you should come over to Diasomnia. Malleus-sama and Lilia-sama would be happy to host you.”

Riddle gave the smallest of smiles. “I would like that very much.”

[heartcal]

distant; c.h. (pt. ii)

i am so happy that a lot of you liked the first part!!! the feedback i got turned me into a puddle of happiness :^D

i got requests for a part two and so i am delivering!

it is longer than the first (and than i expected it to be), and i do feel like i rushed it so story progression may be moving a bit too fast. nonetheless, i hope this mends the hearts i broke with part one! 🤪

if there are any mistakes, do not hesitate to tell me!

pairing: calum hood x reader

summary: you feel like the relationship is deteriorating because he’s gotten distant. you want to bring it up with him, but how can you when he doesn’t realize something is wrong? and why does it invoke a hurtful argument when you voice your feelings?

warnings: just some swears, that’s about it

genre: angst, fluff

wc: 3,590 words (wOw)

part one | my masterlist!

Adjusting to life without Calum is hard. Seeing the pictures on your wall and your nightstand, along with the photos on your phone, mock you. The obvious thing to do would be to delete the images on your phone and take the pictures down move on, but you cannot bring yourself to do so.

His favorite mug he used when he came over is still in the cupboard, on the highest shelf that you can’t reach, so it stays there, taunting you when you reach for your mug. The magnets he got you when he toured were still on your fridge, holding some documents and reminders. Even the pair of sunglasses he always forgot to take with him sits collecting dust next to the coffee maker.

You need to move on, but all the little things around the house that you can’t get rid of is making it hard.

Days after he walked out, you moped around your apartment. You snacked on some foods but haven’t had full meals. You’re sure your utility bills will be lower than usual this month since you only shower when you start smelling yourself (luckily you were able to work from home), and you tend to stay in your room, so you don’t use much electricity.

Your friends know about what happened – your best friend was worried about you missing their calls and social media messages and came to visit you – but no matter how hard they’ve tried, they can’t get you to come out. Outings get turned down, video or audio calls get rejected, video game invites get ignored, and invitations to visit you get thrown out. They’re worried, you know they are, but you need time to yourself.

But how long will it be before it gets too much? All this time alone could just push you further down the wallowing hole?

It’s week three now. You took some time off from work to work from home due to your state. You didn’t want your coworkers questioning your dark circles and puffy eyes, nor did you have the energy to commute. Now that some time has passed, your boss has called you back in for a meeting (which you just have to sit through and you can head back home).

It feels weird being out in public. Your relationship wasn’t ‘out there’ like the other guys, but it was known to the public. You were worried about fans coming up to you in the street alone, but with Calum, it wasn’t nerve-wracking. So now that you’re on your own, you worry that a fan will walk up to you, knowing that your relationship is over with him, you fear you’ll be chastised for breaking his heart.

After the meeting, you plan to head straight home, wanting nothing but to lay in bed snuggled into your comforter with your laptop playing a random Netflix movie. That is your plan, but it falls through when your phone starts ringing with a familiar name.

It’s Calum.

Sitting in your car, you stare at the device as it continues to ring. Do you answer it? Do you let it ring?

It’s the first time either of you tried contacting the other since the fight. You won’t lie: you did try to text Calum the next day and call him a few days later, but your finger never pressed send either time. The idea of getting ignored weighed heavily on you since it was what initiated the argument.

So with that in mind, you let it ring as you tossed it onto the passenger seat and started your car.

Your phone rang two more times on the drive home, and you ignored those as well, but once you parked in your spot outside your apartment it rang again.

You were annoyed, reaching for it to shut it off entirely, but this time, there was a new name on the screen. Ashton.

You contemplated answering the call. If you answer, you risk Calum being on the line and you’re not interested in talking to him just yet. But maybe it is Ashton, possibly calling to check on you and see how you’re doing. It can’t hurt to answer the phone.

Turning off the ignition, you answer the phone and felt relief when you heard Ashton’s voice.

“Hey,” he sighs out, and you can hear his relief mixed with worry in his tone.

“Hi, Ash,” you smile slightly.

“How have you been?” you hear him moving around as if he was sitting on the couch or in bed.

You inhale, wondering what exactly it is you should say. You cannot say that you’re doing well; it’s a lie whether or not he can see you. Saying that you’re fine would suffice since it’s not an exact ‘good,’ but it’s up on the line of lies with good.

“You know,” you exhale with a shrug of your shoulders, “just hanging in there, I guess.”

It’s silent on his end. You know he wants to say something but he’s holding back. Nerves creep up on you, fearing he’ll bring up what happened and while it’s a good thing to talk to someone, you don’t feel up for it.

“Listen-,” he starts but you cut him off.

“Ashton, if you’re going to bring up what happened a few weeks ago, don’t.”

“All I’m gonna say is, you two need to talk.”

Your eyes shut, stinging as you hold back tears. You mumble his name in an attempt to stop him from continuing, but he continues.

“I don’t know the full extent of what happened since Calum won’t open up—,” another sigh falls from him, “—but whatever did happen, you two need to fix it. Leaving things as they are right now is going to get neither of you anywhere.”

Ashton’s right. He’s absolutely right and you know it. Many questions need asking, and many have been left unanswered. If you two left things as they are right now, it’ll only make it hard to move on. You deserve closure.

“Alright,” you swallow the urge to cry, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“He’s called you today—before I did.”

“I know.”

Ashton’s silent again, and you hear more shuffling as if he’s walking around. His voice lowers, “He’s really not doing well. I don’t even recognize him; I don’t even know if this person is Calum.”

You bite your tongue, wanting to tell Ashton that Calum did this to himself, but you want to end the conversation and head inside.

“I have to go, Ash.”

He hums in response and bids you goodbye. You hang up and step out of your car, your shoulders feeling lighter hearing that Calum is doing terrible and maybe even worse than you.

Once inside your apartment, it hits you. You now have to talk to Calum (you don’t want to lie to Ashton or break a promise with him), and the atmosphere is just like it was three weeks ago.

The candle you had lit at that time has since burned out, but it still sits on the coffee table with a mocking glare from the sunset outside. The weather outside is nice: not many clouds yet the clouds that are there are reflecting the sun’s light, a light pink hue mixed with the harsh yellow.

You sit in the same spot, yet again thinking of what you should say to him.

Why did he act the way he did? Why was he so distant? Why was he dead-set on breaking your heart?

You gathered your thoughts for over an hour. You even wrote down your questions because you don’t want a repeat of last time. However, you weren’t ready to call him.

You made dinner first, wanting a distraction (and some fuel so you can stand your ground) before you had to make the call. You pushed away any intrusive thoughts, thoughts that would make you second guess calling Calum, or that would hurt you entirely. You wanted to be ready, with a strong front and both feet planted firmly on the ground.

However, your plan to call him is gone as your phone rings in the living room. You stand frozen in front of your sink, a sponge in one hand and a dish in the other, as the phone blares the annoying tone.

With a gulp, you put the items down in the sink and then dry your hands off with the tea towel hanging on the handle of the stove. You mutter words of encouragement to yourself as you approach the sound, and you can only hope you keep your resolve.

You grab your phone, and his name brings your nerves straight up. Your thumb shakes over the green button, and you know you have a couple of rings left before it goes to voicemail. You want to be the bigger person and talk to him, and you gain control over your shaky thumb and answer the call.

The phone is at your ear, and before you can give your greeting, he speaks up first.

“Hey,” he breathes out. His voice is soft, hesitant and unsure.

“Hi, Calum,” your tone mirrors his.

He stumbles over his words, not able to form a complete sentence, let alone a word. He has so many things he wants to tell you, but they slip his mind as fast as they enter.

“We need to talk—,”

“Can I come up and talk?” he cuts you off with his request that has your eyes bulging.

“What—you’re here?” you rush towards the window to see if you can look down at the parking lot, trying to find his car in disbelief.

He’s quiet, realizing how weird it was of him to show up unannounced. “Yeah,” his voice is starting to shake, “I’m here.”

Your resolve falls, a wave of emotions starts to fall over you and you bring a hand to cover your mouth.

He hears your breathing change. He knows you’re about to cry and he hates it. “Please, can I come up there? I…I want to fix this.”

Your eyes have tears threatening to spill as you stare blankly out the window. The memory of the last time Calum was here reopens the scars, but if this is going to be the way you get the closure, you’ll do it.

“Door’s unlocked,” you whisper, turning to head for the front door to unlock it.

He thanks you and hangs up, and you only have about two minutes before he’s walking through that door.

Your mind is racing with thoughts of his appearance, and how he will view you. Was Ashton telling the truth when he was describing Calum?

You wanted to prove to him that you were doing better. Your eyes dart to the photos on the wall, and immediately you start for the first one your eyes see.

It’s a photo from the first time you joined him on tour. He was ecstatic, a bright smile on his face as he holds you close to him—practically smooshed up against him—and in the background stood the others, giving a thumbs up. It was his lock screen for months.

The one to the left was a collage. It was a gift given to you and Calum from the tour you joined him entirely on. It had photos of you, of him, and you two together taken by the crew and the rest of the band. Calum had his own, and you recall seeing it hang proudly in the entryway at his place.

Every photo on your wall had a story, a fond memory, and taking them down is painful. You don’t stop the tears from falling as you take down the first two, putting them on the TV stand before reaching for more.

Replaying the memories as you take the frames off the wall, you fail to hear the knocking on the door and eventually the door opening.

Calum stands at the door, watching you take down the photos and he’s happy you don’t notice him yet. It’s a knife in the heart, and each picture you take down twists the knife.

He clears his throat and calls your name, making you jump and abruptly turn towards him. In your hands was a photo he cherished the most: you and him sitting together, on the beach, and he was staring fondly at you while you read a funny portion of the book you were reading. He told you once, that that photo was evidence of him falling for you, that you can see it happening. But with the abrupt turn, it flies out of your hands, the frame cracking and the glass shattering as it hit the edge of the coffee table.

Shit.

“Hi,” you stand shocked as you greet him. That was the last thing you wanted to do with that photo.

“Uh,” he swallows, “hi, um, do you need help?”

You shake your head fervently, “No, no, no. Well, maybe?”

He only nods as you instruct him to grab the broom near the door. He takes the attached dustpan off as you carefully lift the photo from the mess. It’s not damaged, but the sight of it is painful to look at. Placing it on the coffee table, you ask Calum for the broom and for him to hold the dustpan.

It’s silent as you clean, and it’s uncomfortable. The elephant in the room is stomping around and demanding attention. Once it’s clean, you invite him to sit down and offer a drink.

“Just some water,” he tries to offer a smile, but it fails to show.

Calum sits down as you take the dustpan to the kitchen to empty it. He looks around your living room, noting the photos you didn’t take down and the ones you did. The ones that had the most meaning were taken down, leaving odd spaces on the wall between the pictures that are still up.

He hears you coming back and he graciously takes the cup of water from your hand, taking a sip before setting it on the coaster on the coffee table.

You sit on a living chair, one that does not match the couch but you found endearing.

Calum plays with his hands while you play with a loose thread on a throw pillow from the couch.

Not wanting to sit in silence anymore, Calum speaks up, “How have you been?”

A scoff falls out of your mouth before you can stop it. “Really?” you ask, your eyes staying on the pillow, “Let’s not do the small talk, Calum.”

“Right,” he frowns, nodding his head in agreement before it falls silent again.

He has a reason for why he acted the way he did that night. It’s not the best way to approach a situation, but in his mind, that was the easiest.

“Why did you do it?”

Your voice shakes him out of his thoughts. He looks at you, and you’re actively avoiding his eyes by playing with the thread that has come off the pillow from your constant picking.

He sighs, eyes shut as he leans back. “The truth—,” he sits up straight, running his hands down his face, “—I’m sorry. The way I behaved, my actions, words…I regret every single thing.”

His eyes are on you as you slowly lift your eyes towards his. He tries to lock eyes, his pleading ones staring into your stern ones, but you look away.

He continues, “The way my mind worked that night was inexcusable. I had all these thoughts that, in hindsight, weren’t good. But at that time, it was easier for me. I felt that if I hurt you enough, you’d dump me and move on. But I couldn’t bear hearing you say those words, so I did it myself.”

“You’re still not answering the question,” you strain, eyes lifting from the frameless photo on the coffee table to his red ones, “why, Calum?”

The need to lock eyes disappears from him. It pains him, hearing the emotion in your tone and seeing your puffy eyes.

“Calum, you said some pretty hurtful things. You said I was clingy—,”

“I didn’t mean it—,” he cuts you off but you jump right back in.

“I’m not done!” you stand, tossing the pillow onto the chair, “You said I was clingy, said I was overreacting when I was worried about our relationship and ended things instead of talking to me.”

“I—,” he stutters, bring fists to his eyes to stop the onslaught of tears, “—You deserve better.”

“Even if I do, Calum, I want you. Just you.”

His tears slip through and a sob escapes him. His emotions come crashing down with no control over them.

You kneel in front of him, gently grabbing his arms to move his hands away from his face. He doesn’t budge, rather he uses his strength to keep his arms from moving. You sighed, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

He shakes his head, a sniffle and a hiccup coming from him as he tries to compose himself.

You want to hug him, knowing that when he gets like this he shuts everyone out. You stand, moving to sit next to him but keeping a safe distance, just enough to rub his back. “Please,” you whisper, “open up.”

He begins to steady his breathing, relaxing as you rub his back. He sniffles a few more times before taking a deep breath, slowly moving his hands away from his face.

“In my mind,” he starts, his voice raspy and just above a whisper, “I thought that me being gone a lot wasn’t fair for you. You either stay at home and wait for me, or you have to take time off work or be able to work from home; I know it takes a lot out of you. I thought you deserved someone who was always here for you, who wasn’t constantly away because it was their job. I was a dick because I wanted you to hate me so the break-up wouldn’t be hard for you.”

“You’re so stupid,” you mutter.

“I know.”

“Calum,” you sigh, leaning back into the couch but keeping your hand on his back, “you’re so selfish. Why did you think that? I want to make decisions in this relationship.”

He sniffles again, biting his lip as he nods his head in understanding.

“You need to be open with me—talk to me, Cal,” you scoot closer to him, your hand moving from his back to his shoulder to give it a reassuring squeeze.

He leans into your touch, “I didn’t want to break-up. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I thought that it was what’s best.”

“You were so distant,” you mention, and he turns to look at you, grabbing your free hand with both of his.

“I know I’m distant after tour,” his eyes bore into yours as you bring the hand on his shoulder to land on top of his, “I feel drained and I am so appreciative that you give me space. But during this past tour, I—I just couldn’t face the fact that you’re alone and wait for me. I love you, so much, but I thought someone else can love you more than I can.”

You swallow a sob and lunge forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. His arms wrap around your waist and pull you close, his head nestling in between your neck and shoulder as he released more tears. He mumbles multiple apologies into your neck, fisting your shirt in his hands.

You stay holding each other for a while, relishing in each other’s company. Once he’s calmed down enough, he pulls away and holds your face in his hands, wiping away the tear stains and remaining tears.

“I don’t want this relationship to end.”

“I don’t either,” you agree as you rest your hands atop his.

“Will you take me back?” he asks, his red, puffy eyes now devoid of sorrow, rather holding hope.

“As long as you promise to talk to me about how you feel,” you lean your forehead against his with a smile, “if you can promise me that, then yes.”

He mirrors your smile, closing his eyes and moving to touch his lips with yours.

You smile into the kiss and pull away to give him another hug.

“One more thing,” your tone is light as you pull away.

“What’s that?”

“Your shoes—,” you point down at his feet, “—need to be off in here.”

He looks down at his feet and chuckles, “Sorry about that,” he stands and heads to the front door, removing his sneakers before making his way back to you.

You open your arms and he gladly lays into them, the two you spooning on the couch.

“I mean it,” he whispers into your chest, “I love you so much.”

“I’m sorry about the picture,” your apologetic tone makes him lift his head and he looks to where your thumb is pointing.

He shakes his head, “Don’t worry, I know you didn’t mean it.”

You nod, bringing your hand to his head, running it lightly through his hair as you begin to drift off to sleep.

Calum hears your heartbeat slow down, and all the worry from the past three weeks seem to dissipate. He knows all the things he said are going to be hard to forget, and he’ll spend the rest of his life making it up to you if it means he can be yours.

[midautumnnightdream]

Family

For Cosette Appreciation Week

*

Cosette doesn’t remember much of the day her father died.

She has no idea how long she spent kneeling on the bare floor, her cheek pressed against the rough fabric, her hands clasping a larger one, that only recently had been stroking her head. She vaguely recalls Marius speaking to the portress. The doctor had been called back, though for what purpose, she couldn’t say. When Marius helped her to her feet, she could hardly stand without support.

Upon re-entering No. 6 Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, she had gone straight to her chambers, leaving Marius to explain matters to his aunt and grandfather. He had followed her soon, in a state of great agitation: Cosette had watched him marching back and forth, filling the air with rambling, disjointed explanations that she barely listened to, and understood even less. The flood of broken self-recriminations surrounded her like an ocean, and she knew that she should care, but her papa was gone, and she felt cold and helpless and so very alone.

At some point, Marius had turned to her, and whatever he had seen in her face had stopped him short. There was something indescribable in his expression, an odd mix of realisation and dismay. He had reached out his hand, as if to touch her, and glanced at the door, as if to flee. In the end he had done neither, instead perching on the edge of the bed, several feet away from her. They sat together in silence for a long time.

Grandfather Gillenormand had been full of effusive sympathy and condolences. He had offered to take care of the funeral arrangements, but Marius had corralled him with great care, and had cited the wishes of the deceased, that a minimal fuss should be made. In the end, the funeral party had consisted only of the four members of the household, joined by Toussaint, whom Marius had invited on Cosette's behalf. It had also been Marius, who encouraged the rest of their party to say their farewells after the church service, leaving the young couple in their privacy at the graveside; and it was Marius, who had penned the odd little verse on the otherwise unmarked gravestone. Cosette had stood silent and numb, all the words she wished she could say threatened to choke her. Only tears flowed.

The morning after the funeral, Marius had finally explained it all; slow and hesitant in a way that carried nothing of his earlier agitation. In brief words he had explained the nature of her papa’s best kept secret, the confession he had made and the facts he had left out. Without sparing a single detail, he had described Jean Valjean's actions in saving his life, and his own actions in driving him away. At times, the familiar tone of self-recrimination would seep into his voice again, but then he would break off mid-sentence, seeming more ashamed of that bitter flood of guilt than the actions themselves. Cosette couldn’t say she wasn’t relieved: she was quite sure she didn’t have it in her to reassure him.

She should be angry, she knew. At Marius, certainly, probably even at papa. Marius certainly seemed to expect it from her, but she didn’t have it in her to conform to his expectations either. Perhaps she was angry, but her heart was heavy with exhaustion and grief, and she desperately didn’t want to be alone. When Marius placed a tentative hand on her wrist, she turned, wrapped her arms around him and wept.

Marius walks on eggshells around her after that day. Where before he would declaim expansively on any and all topics with an air of authority, he now seems to hesitate on every word, his eyes searching hers for approval. He’s attentive to her every mood, fidgeting around her like a great dark guardian, and yet disappearing instantly when she gives the slightest indication of wanting to be alone. She has no idea where he goes when he leaves her. He seems lost. It is both a relief and a concern.

Right at this moment, he’s doing a poor job of pretending to read a newspaper, his gaze flickering over to Cosette in her window seat and to the long forgotten needlework in her lap. Cosette can feel the weight of his eyes on her, distracting her from her reverie.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks eventually, his voice painfully hesitant. Cosette sighs and tears her gaze away from the window.

“My mother,” she answers honestly.

“Oh?” Cautious, encouraging.

“Papa used to talk to me about her when I was little. Then he stopped. I suppose he thought once I was older, I might start asking questions he couldn’t answer.”

“Do you remember her at all?” Marius asks.

Cosette shakes her head. “I don’t remember much of my childhood. I think I remember being held and I know it must have been my mother, who sang to me and rocked me to sleep. After...” She hesitates. “I was fostered, I think, or maybe just left behind. I was terribly unhappy there. Then  papa came and took me away.” It was so strange and dark and confusing, that part of her life, filled with bizarre recollections, many of which must have surely been just nightmares of her childish mind. She had never liked thinking about it and papa hadn’t liked talking about it. Now, she supposes she will never know.

“I don’t remember my mother either,” Marius says suddenly. “At least not well. I remember what she looked like, but that might be just her picture on grandfather’s mantelpiece.” He’s lost in thought for several moments, before continuing. “I remember her illness, and being taken to her bedchamber to say goodbye. We were staying with grandfather then; my father was away in the war. Afterwards, grandfather wouldn’t let him see me, and told me he had abandoned me. And then he died. My father died alone, because my grandfather lied to me and kept me away. I hated him for this. I walked out of his house, left him behind and hated him for many years. And now I’ve done the same –” His jaw snaps shut. “But this isn’t about me.”

Cosette would like nothing more than to close the subject, to turn away and let their wounds heal in peace, until such time would come when she is ready to soothe them away. She had done the same with her papa, countless times – and look how that had turned out. Every instinct tells her they are on the cusp of something that may yet define the rest of their life together. She suppresses her fear.

“Marius. What are you saying?”

The look in Marius’ eyes is full of anguish and uncertainty. “This isn’t about me,” he repeats, his voice holding a cadence of a mantra. “Your grief for your father, the relationship the two of you shared, the memories you still hold dear – none of this has anything to do with me at all, does it? My guilt and my fervent regret for how things turned out are superfluous to the issue at hand.” He hesitates, as if trying to explain some great revelation he doesn’t quite have the words for. “Your grief matters more than my experience of it. I’ve been in your place, but now I’m not. What matters is how you feel.”

Cosette doesn’t reply, unsure of what to say. She’s never heard Marius speak like that, isn’t quite sure she understands all that he’s trying to communicate.

He does that sometimes, thinking and brooding about an issue for so long that when he resurfaces, he’s bringing with him conclusions that are so profoundly simple as to be self-evident at the first glance, despite the layers of meaning visible only to him. Yet his usual ruminations tend towards the greater social questions and his own views on them. This? This feels different.

Something of her thoughts must have reflected on her face, for Marius expression grows rueful. “I suppose what I am trying to say is that I've never been very good at listening, at paying attention. I see what I expect to see, hear what I expect to hear and discard the rest. But bemoaning my foibles doesn’t help – the important thing is to do better. I will do better, for you.”

Cosette takes a deep breath. “Do you promise not to lie to me any more?”

“I promise!” Marius answers instantly, then hesitates. “I gave him my word to keep his secret before I even knew what it was.”

“You also promised he could visit,” Cosette replies quietly. “Why keep one promise and not the other?”

Marius has no reply to that.

“I swear I will not lie to you again,” is all he says.

“And you will not keep from me anything that has to do with me?”

“I swear,” Marius says. After a moment he adds. “I know it is a paltry excuse, but hurting you was the last thing that either of us wished to do. We were trying to protect you from suffering, and in doing that, we made the wrong choices. I made the wrong choices, because I failed to keep your feelings in mind, and that is something I can never make up for.”

For a long moment, the young couple sits in silence.

“Perhaps,” Cosette says eventually. “There was no good choice you could have made, because the choice wasn’t yours to make in the first place.”

“I’m your husband,” Marius says, grieved. “If I cannot do right by you, what’s the use of me?”

“Marius,” says Cosette. “Do we not, in this house, live in a republic?”

Marius huffs out a laugh. “I believe Monsieur Louis-Philippe would have something to say about that.”

“Do we not agree that it is no good, one person making all the decisions?” Cosette continues, unperturbed. “Your grandfather has made some terrible choices, both for you and for your aunt. My papa chose badly, in leaving me. I do not wish for any children of ours to live like we did, alone in their grief and helpless in their ignorance.”

“Never,” Marius assures vehemently. Cosette doesn’t meet his gaze, but she can see his expression growing horrified. “You do not believe me.”

“Marius,” Cosette answers, equal parts fond and exasperated, and perhaps just a bit resentful. “I think I need you to know, that before anything else, you are my family. The only family I have left. Do you know what that means to me, an orphan several times over, registered in my marriage documents under the surname given to me through kindness of strangers? I love you.”

“You say that you love me and I believe you,” Marius replies quietly. “But you won’t say that you trust me.”

“Marius,” Cosette says. “Do you trust me?”

“Always,” Marius replies instantly, the grows quiet under the weight of the promise.

Cosette takes his hand in hers. “Then, as long as you keep trusting me, I endeavour to trust you. How does that sound?”

Marius remains quiet and pensive for a long minute. Then, for the first time in weeks, he smiles.

“That, I believe, is what my friend Bahorel would have called a treaty.”

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Not You (500 Celebration)

500 Celebration Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Prompt: From the Quotes category: “You are shaking fists and trembling teeth. I know: you did not mean to be cruel. That does not mean you were kind.”  

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: Ivar (he is a warning, idk what to tell u). Angst. Graphic descriptions of violence. Blood. Death. My shitty writing.

A/N: I’m slowly getting back to writing, I’ll try to get to the requests and challenge entries soon. I am so so sorry for being so slow lately. Thank you for being patient, and for your support!

Also, this isn’t very good (I was in between two paths to take with this, and fitting the quote into it was tricky lol) so I apologize in advance, I just really need to push forward w/writing, so you’ll have to bear with me with some shittier than usual stuff for a while lol. Love ya!

There’s something you have learned a while ago, long ago enough that you cannot recall when it was that the realization dawned on you.

You’ve learned there are countless different ways Ivar tells you he loves you.

He tells you quietly, a whisper against your lips, as he prepares to leave for the spring, as he leaves behind your home to lands unexplored, as he leaves your embraces for battles to fight. You savor those times with the bittersweetness of goodbye, with the promise of yet another reunion; and each time he promises one last I love you, barely audible over the winds of the coast, you taste the salt of the sea on your lips and save your words, the silent order to return to you if he wishes to hear it back. He always does.

He tells you fervently, words stumbling over one another, as you make each promise he asks of you, as you promise to be by his side for as long as the Gods let you, as you promise to become his wife before the Gods and any who may be present. You can almost hear the same promise of his own being made as he repeats those three words; and each time he vows his love in between starved and frantic kisses broken by words and too-wide smiles, you still the fervor with but a touch as you always did, promising the same love with the lowest of voices, hoping he can hear. He always does.

He tells you hoarsely, a litany accompanied by your name as his voice gives out, as your hands and lips trace over every inch you wish to and remind him of what hunger feels like, as you put him at your mercy and remind him of what being yours feels like. You feel power running through your veins like lightning with each of those prayers in the shape of your name, in the cadence of an I love you; and with each breathed truth and each jagged moan that speaks without words what you already know, you press yourself as close as you can to him, and promise the same with reverent kisses over fever-warm skin, with sighs of his name, with the certainty he can understand, can see it in your eyes, how much you love him. He always does.

He tells you hesitantly, with the sudden fear of who jumps not really certain there will be a safe spot to land on, as a years-old certainty is dragged to the front of his mind and happiness is nothing is a truth more than your love for him could ever be, as the self-loathing that still surprises and catches you off guard makes itself known in his voice and in the blue of his eyes. You always feel your heart break a bit more at each of those times, at each admission that love like this after a lifetime of pain can only mean that it will leave -and you hear the words he doesn’t say, you will leave- and bring forth agony when it does; yet you still promise your love and pray he believes you. He always does.

There are countless different ways he tells you he loves you.

The door to your rooms opens, and your hands clench into fists in the rose-colored water you were washing them on. You don’t turn around, but the familiar sound of Ivar’s steps stopping a fair distance away from you tells you that he knows you are aware of his presence.

You refuse to look at him until you can get the blood of your hands, though. For a moment you are afraid you never will be able to wash off the stain.

Emir’s words, accusing, biting, true, “You look at a monster like him and you choose to love him, at all the monstrous things he does and you choose to love him despite them. You are worse than he is.”

With the dark eyes of the man you were once married to set on you, you didn’t feel anything other than anger, than the familiar ire and drive to defend the man you love. And even now, with the evidence of the monstrous things the man you love does still staining your hands, you don’t feel any regret, any shame.

You shake the water off your hands, and the instinctual movement to dry them haphazardly on the front of your dress is jarringly stopped when you notice the blood still staining the sleeves of it. You grab a linen instead, and count your breaths before you turn around.

Ivar is sitting near the door, head turned to the side as he watches his thumb run over and over, almost compulsively, over a ridge on the top of his crutch. You linger for a few breaths watching him, the uncharacteristic nervousness of the man that killed without second thought and would again, the jarring humanity of someone capable of such cruel things, and the truth behind Emir’s words doesn’t bother you at all.

Ivar takes a breath, but doesn’t look at you, still following with his eyes the repetitive movement of his hand, when he says, “I love you.”

There are countless different ways he tells you he loves you, and now, now it sounds like an apology, like an apology and something else, something more fragile. Like a request, like a plea, but you don’t know what for.

Taking a deep breath, you step forward.

Big eyes look up at you as you approach, but he doesn’t move, he doesn’t say anything else. Heart heavy, you have to curl your hand into a fist to keep traitorous fingers from falling into the temptation of tracing the slight furrow of his brow, of soothing the lines of worry you see etched in the angles of his face, to follow the line of his jaw and remind him not to grit his teeth like that.

“I know you do,” You whisper quietly, and it isn’t the answer you usually give. Past the flare of anger in his eyes, you see something else, something that looks like fear and makes acid churn at your stomach. You swallow thickly, “Ivar, I-…”

“No, no, just…just-…you know I wasn’t thinking,” He interrupts, and though there’s a frantic edge to his words, it is quickly overshadowed by that anger particular to him, that anger at feeling unmoored, that resentment at being vulnerable. “Anger overcame me, it wasn’t-…what would you have done, hm?”

“What?”

“He was trying to take you away from me, he was trying to convince you to leave me. I know that.”

He doesn’t mind the look you give him, pushing forward, “When we were children you would risk punishment by stealing to feed the hunting dogs, remember? Now you help Ivar the Boneless raid our land, overthrow our King, your brother? You’d burn the world for a man like him?”

Your eyes fall closed, and all you can offer is a sigh that gets halfway stuck in your throat.

Ivar stays silent, mercifully. Or cruelly, maybe. You aren’t sure you know the difference anymore. You aren’t sure you care.

Emir and you parted ways a long time ago, a marriage of convenience that blossomed into friendship, but that once your parents and his guardian were dead had no reason to continue to be so. Seeing him earlier tonight on the feast was not something you were expecting, and not something you thought would end the way it did. And his presence, his absence, beg the question he asked last and you are afraid to answer, what would you be willing to do for him? What would you forgive, what would you condemn?

His hands settle on the sides of your hips, a grounding touch, you aren’t sure if for your benefit or his own. Ivar pushes on when you remain silent for maybe too long.

“I need to know you can forgive me. I can make it better, I can…I can do that,” You don’t know if he is reassuring you or himself, and at your silence Ivar lifts big eyes to you again. There’s no hiding the fear now. “I l-love you.”

The scream is caught on your throat as Emir drops to the ground, the axe grotesquely stuck on the base of his neck. Your hands tremble, your whole body does, as you try helplessly to stop the bleeding as he gasps and chokes on his own blood.

A few involuntary jerks of his body as death grips him, and you lift your eyes and find Ivar’s unwavering gaze. He doesn’t give away anything other than cold fury, just the ruthless glare of the man Emir saw and was killed for speaking against.

You squeeze your eyes shut, “Stop saying it.”

“It is true, you know that,” He says, swallowing once before attempting, “And you love me.”

“You killed him, Ivar.”

“I had to.” He insists, searching your gaze as he uses his hands on your hips to tentatively bring you closer.

“You didn’t have to, you chose to.”

He grits his teeth, and there’s the clear tell of anger, of stubborn affront; but he doesn’t argue. Instead, searching your gaze for a few breaths, he asks,

“Can you forgive me?”

And it is at his words, at the answer that you can so easily give, that a pit grows in your stomach and ice runs through your veins. You can. You have already.

By all the Gods, if Emir is right and Ivar is a monster…what does loving him make out of you? What does forgiving the horrible things he does make out of the girl that would steal to feed hungry dogs?

Maybe the answer is in all the ways he tells you he loves you, in all the ways he promises devotion and protection and love. Maybe the answer is in how it has only felt real, it has only felt true, when it is Ivar the one telling you he loves you.

Maybe because you are not something other than that girl by loving him, but just by who you are, by growing past the desire to keep the world and learning to choose to let it burn for the sake of those you love. Maybe because you love him because of who you made out of yourself, not the other way around.

The ghost Emir’s voice becomes one with your brother’s, who still lives but not for long -not when his head holds a crown you are interested in and the man you love is willing to grant you-, and at what you made out of yourself they ask if you are content with your decision.

Searching his gaze, you mutely nod your head, both to his question and the one your ghosts ask.

“I can’t lose you,” Ivar admits past the clear tell of gritted teeth. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. “Not you.”

Torturously slow, the tips of your fingers dance over the side of his face, tracing the scar on his cheekbone

“You won’t.”

At your promise Ivar sighs, the first deep breath you have heard from him in a while, as if he were holding his breath; and leans forward, burying his face against your stomach and holding you even closer.

“Tell me you love me.” He beseechs, no longer attempting to hide the need to hear you say it.

You are sure there are countless ways you tell him you love him too, you are sure in times like these you tell him you love him like a promise to never leave him, like the assurance that he won’t ever lose you; and he needs to hear you say it.

“I love you,” You promise him, your arms around his shoulders as best as you can. Your eyes fall closed and you wonder if the words should taste like shame when you offer yet another truth, “Nothing could change that.”

Quietly, so quietly you are half-convinced it is imagined, he whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“He was our enemy, he would have died in battle anyways.” You tell him, and it is true, and maybe worse. Emir would have died fighting against an invasion you are part of the reason for, he would have died defending a kingdom Ivar will claim because it was once your home, he would have died alongside an army whose weaknesses you whispered in Ivar’s ear a long time ago.

He would have died, and you would have been the reason why. And it would have mattered to you as much as it does now.

But Ivar shakes his head, “I’m sorry, for…for all that I do.”

You wonder absently if he apologizes now not for Emir’s murder but for something else, something more human. You wonder if he apologizes for craving your gentleness, for needing your reassurance, for asking for your love. You wouldn’t put it past those worst thoughts he has about himself to make him believe he ought to seek repentance for something as simple as humanity.

Your fingers tracing absently over the short hair at the nape of his neck, you take a deep breath, but say nothing, certain it isn’t words what he needs from you now.

After an eternity, or maybe a moment, Ivar speaks again.

Solemn, he promises, “I love you.”

There are countless different ways he tells you he loves you. Sometimes, sometimes an I love you is just that, an admission, a declaration. A truth.

Thank you for reading!

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[the-chick-of-the-air]

Ink On My Skin

Written for Jurdannet Roulette. Thank you to @jurdannet​ and @jurdannetrevels​ for hosting. Written in league with my revel/romantics anonymous group @acciomanorian @the-chick-of-the-air​ @ironicallyanemic

We used the prompts Soulmates, "I know you", and our own take on empath to come up with our own franken-prompt. It's a soulmate AU where whatever character A writes on their skin will appear on character B's skin and vice versa.

Beautiful Edit by @ironicallyanemic

Series: Part 1 of Ink On My Skin

Chapter 3

Cardan. Here?

I itch to grab a pen nub, a quill. Anything I can write with and start drawing on my skin, only to watch it vanish.

I think it might be foolish that it has become a sort of habit.

Rather, I grab the tray out of the servant’s hands and storm my way into the study. Cardan may be here, he may be in part a ruler of these lands but this is my house. I have the power- however little- to get him tossed out.

I barge into the study only to stop short.

A Greenbriar, but not Cardan.

Dain.

I have made a mistake.

He remarks on my actions, how I must be in a rush. Fear is pricking at my senses and I have to hold back from grabbing the quill off the desk.

Foolish, foolish habit.

I sink into a low bow, hoping he finds me clumsy only. My thoughts race. Could his being here be Cardan’s doing?

My skin burns. I want it covered in ink.

I swallow my fear and stumble through an introduction, offering him the wine I’d taken from the servant. We exchange a few words. Conversation. He wants conversation. I want to scribble on my skin, watch it fade away like my body absorbs it. I can’t wonder about where it goes right now.

I rub at the missing tip of my finger instead.

When I tell Dain that, no, none of his brothers are causing me trouble, he finds me fascinating. Mortals can lie. He says. He’s never seen it up close, he says. He wants me to be his little liar. He doesn’t say.

But it’s what he wants.

When I ask him why he’s made an appearance, what he wants here, he answers my question with a question.

What do I want? Something I have always wanted, never dared speak.

I want to say “make me immortal” before I feel myself cringing. I don’t want to want that.

It occurs to me I could ask that whenever I write on my skin, it stays on my skin. For my words to finally be mine and mine alone. But then that would lead him to question who receives the runaway ink. I’m not stupid. Oriana told us what it was like to have a soulmate. I just don’t know who lurks on the other side.

I try to keep from recoiling when I ponder the fact that they might be dead. I’ve never received anything from them.

It might be worse if they’ve been ignoring me all this time.

Before I can let my thoughts spiral, before I lose control and throw myself at that quill, I say, “I want to be able to resist enchantment.”

It feels like it shouldn’t be this easy. A Prince has waltzed into my home and offered me my greatest desires and for what?

Ah. He wants a spy. My heart can sink through the floorboards but I won't let it show. He explains there will be room for growth, for freedom, for power once he is crowned High King.

Foolish habits. I clench my fists to keep from tracing letters on my skin.

I accept. What more could I want at the moment? At least now I’ll be going somewhere.

He grants me a Geas, awesome. With the catch that he can still enscroll me. Less awesome.

Dinner is a quiet and proper affair without Vivi there and by the time I am done arguing with Taryn on our way up to bed, I am ready to pour my feelings out onto my skin.

I remember the first time it happened. How I thought it was the potion in the bottle that made the marks disappear. I know better now. The day I revealed what the “magic ink” could do… I think that’s the closest I’ve ever seen Oriana come to happiness for me.

I throw myself down into the chair at my vanity. I pick up a quill and dip it in ink.

I doubt anyone is actually getting these notes, these messages. That is why I am so comfortable with bleeding my feelings out onto my skin as though I am a living diary to be filled. It makes me feel better, writing out my thoughts. And maybe the thought that there might be someone out there, sharing in my troubles, well…

I shake my head and put ink to skin.

~.~

I am now a spy for Prince Dain.

Knighthood was my dream, my future, my solidified place in this forsaken land. Losing it would have broken a lesser mind, and I could hardly stand the thought of having no clear path before me, but this…this power. This station within the court is the next best thing.

I cannot say what will come of this, and I cannot imagine what my first task will be, but it is a start to something.

I have sworn to be the greatest. So even in the shadows, I will outshine them all.

I can barely transcribe the letters fast enough. They are excited, nervous maybe, whoever they are.

“I have sworn to be the greatest” I know exactly who that sounds like but I dare not let myself even consider the possibility. It’s already too much. My every thought, action, dream and nightmare. They are already filled with her.

It’s nearly enough to make even me sick. I pride myself- secretly- on the fact that I am no infidel. Not when I have committed myself to someone.

When I was with Nicasia, I was hers alone, even though some part of me knew I… that there was…is someone on the other side of this soulmate bond.

Being with Nicasia had been a prize I had won. Somehow she had seen me and seen something in me she wanted for herself.

Her infidelity came as such a strong blow, I almost wondered if there was in fact a method to this soulmate madness. If Nicasia wasn’t mine to keep, if whoever was on the other side of these inked messages was the one I was supposed to be with…

I suppose, in a sense, I did feel like I was cheating someone, somehow, even if I was sure for the longest time that whoever had written that first message was long gone. Dead, most likely. But then the constant scribbling upon my arms and sometimes thighs would only serve as a striking reminder that whatever I’d had with the fish princess was never going to last.

I don’t know how I ended up deciding to make a habit of recording everything they wrote, but I can hardly stop now. It’s a daily routine, an addiction. Not unlike my taste for faerie wine and a certain pair of angry auburn eyes.

I want to rub the stress out of my eyes but then I might miss something being written. It’s the same everyday now. Whoever is on the other side ends their day with writing about it.

One would think I’d have enough information at this point to figure out who it is that’s writing all this, all so suddenly. But they have never given their name, their place, nothing.

Or perhaps they have and whatever cruel magic that drives these bonds has decided it would be funny to withhold such information from me.

They have stopped writing for the night. The ink fades away as quickly as it appeared and I am left with the copy I have made, drying in a thick parchment heavy book that I have used to record every sentence, every word for weeks now. I sigh as I shove it back into its place on my bookshelf next to my copy of Alice in Wonderland. I try not to think of the piece of parchment I have hidden in there, of what name is scratched out over and over again on it.

Madness. All of it.

Perhaps one day I will find who it is that lurks on the other side of our bond. Perhaps I might even come to like them. For now, I climb into bed and try not to grieve the fact that they are nothing more than ink on my skin.