#oc hurt/comfort

[ramencat12]

Here's Melody comforting her feline partner

[exorcismist]

losing faith.

[reidmania]

KILL FOR YOU | spencer reid

summary ; one time Spencer wanted to propose and the one time he did.

warnings; fem reader, mentions of injuries, protective Spencer, reader gets hurt by an unsub, spencer beats said unsub, normal criminal minds stuff, angst if you drink vodka, hit ur head then squint a little. they are so in love

an; this was gonna be 2 times spencer wanted to propose and the one time he did but i couldnt be fucked writing it. NOT PROOF READ.

this gif is my fav ever bc he is so bloody cute oh my gosh

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!!!

“Hey spence.”

It rolled off your tongue simply, easily like nothing. Like it was made to leave your lips. The little nickname, the sweet tone so gentle without intention. Spencer had grown to love it more and more everyday.

Your hand fell gently on the top of his shoulders, Spencer could feel the indent of your rings over his sweater — the one he wore often after you mentioned it was one of your favourites on him.

“Hi honey” He turned in his chair to face you. You had been busy doing case work all day with Emily and unfortunately she deemed Spencer too much of a distraction to be around, so he was sent away sulking for the last three and a half hours.

His eyes met your face and his lips tugged up into a smile. How could he help it when you looked so beautiful. Your hair tied back into a ponytail, a simple fleece sweater of his folded upwards enough to look like it didn’t completely bag on you, over a simple black skirt. It stunned him how you made his home clothes look so professional and good. 

“I missed you” He said, taking ahold of your hand in his. Letting the warmth of your skin raise the heat in his own — although skin to skin contact from wasn’t necessary to raise his body temperature. Just you being around was enough. He would see you from across the room, laughing or smiling and his stomach would flush with warmth. It was inevitable.

You giggled — god he loved the sound. “Your hands are freezing.” You muttered as you interlaced your fingers from his, despite the comment you relished in the small contact you two shared. You tried to keep it professional at work as much as possible.

“Warm them up?” He suggested innocently tilting his head to the side as his gazed remained fixated on your face. He couldn’t pull his eyes away even if he wanted to — which he didn’t.

You smiled and squeeze your fingers around his hand. “I missed you too.” You said back — replying to his earlier comment. He adored that, how to often got sidetracked, over excited and distracted jumping from topic to topic without even realising you were doing it before finishing your sentence. He loved that about you, he watched and adored you every time, no matter what you were saying, or how much he sat there and listened to every word.

“How did you go?” He asked, he subconsciously swung your arms softly as he spoke, eyes locked onto yours. He didn’t needed to explain what he meant — he was talking about how you went getting on with the work. He knew you understood that.

You hummed, other hand straying to fidget and pick up things at his desk. Normally people touching his stuff and messing it about would annoy him — but it didn’t bother him the slightest when it came to you.

“It went good — once we were distraction free” You muttered before turning your head back to face him, he noticed the teasing smile on your face instantly.

He snorted, “Once you were distraction free. Emily was fine” He said.

You shook your head, “She was distracted by my distraction. You are very distracting Spencer Reid” You pointed out, hand leaving his desk to poke the top of his nose gently. Spencer scrunched up his face at the touch but the smile remained on his lips.

“Oh! I was thinking about dinner, maybe we could get take out tonight? I saw a new Chinese takeout spot on the way to work tod- I also saw the cutest puppy earlier, we should get a puppy spence, just a little one” You cut yourself off in the way he already expected you to.

“We can try it tonight” He said fondly, “And we can speak more about the dog thing later” He said. He loved animals but he didn’t know how he felt about having a dog in his house, the amount of germs they would track inside the house set an unsettling bundle of nerves in his stomach, but he knew if you wanted it there was nothing more he would do then get you it.

Your face lit up, he felt his chest swarm.

Yeah definitely worth the germs.

You audibly yay’d. Spencer felt his chest rise and fall as the all familiar thought ran through his head. His hand reached into his pocket to fiddle with the small box in his pocket. He knew deep down it was stupid to carry it around all the time but he couldn’t help it.

He didn’t want to plan the perfect moment — he wanted it to be the perfect moment. He wanted it to feel perfect when he proposed, not be made to feel perfect. Grand gestures weren’t him, and it wasn’t you. But he wanted it to feel right.

Right now, the look on your face, the feeling in his chest was one of those moments where he couldn’t get the idea out of his head, he couldn’t stop himself for thinking about how gorgeous you would look walking down the aisle towards him. He couldn’t stop picturing spending the rest of his life with you.

He said your name, causing you to look back at him from where your gazed was fixated on your intertwined hands. His tone was hesitant and nervous but you made every nerve worth it.

His fingertips wrapped the velvet box, “I-“ His hand paused when your head swung around at the sound of your name. Seeing Emily calling you.

“Emily!!” You said excitedly, “Me and Spence are getting a dog!” You cheered as you looked over at her, your smile bright and wide as you once again got distracted subconsciously.

The slight disappointment slipped away in moments as Spencer watched you smile excitedly. He knew you were probably playing the idea out in your head.

“Maybe.” He reminded — but he knew he would give in.

You rolled your eyes playfully as you looked back on him. “—Probably?” you negotiated, raising your eyebrow hopefully. He chuckled shaking his head before sighing. “Probably.” He agreed.

“I love you” You leant down to place a quick, simple and sweet kiss on his lips before you bounced away to continue your conversation with Emily as she reminded you that there was still more work to do.

Spencer tapped his fingers against the velvet material in his pocket, licking his lips chastely as he tried to push the thought from his mind. Turning back to face his computer screen he let out a soft sigh.

It would be perfect.

“Where is she?” Spencer pushed through a group of people, eyes wide and mind a completely and utter mess. The only thing he could focus on was you. He had zero regard for the people he shoved out of the way trying to get to Hotch.

His looked around — trying to find any glimpse of you possible as he stood in front of Hotch. He was scared — he was absolutely terrified and he couldn’t see you anywhere. “Where is she?” He repeated

He felt Hotch’s hand on his shoulder which normally he would find comforting but he flinched away from it. “Reid.” Hotch said, his tone gently but still holding the stern component that never seemed to leave.

He was trying to be respectful he really was but his mind was apanic. “Hotch, Where the fuck is she?” He hardly swore but it slipped out as he avoided holding eye contact with the older man, scared maybe he might burst into tears as his chest felt unbearably tight.

“Shes with the paramedics, she’s in a lot of pain— Reid.” Spencer didn’t stay to listen to the rest of what his boss had to say, instead walking off towards the ambulance through the crowd of people.

He was panicked beyond belief. His hands hadn’t stopped shaking his he heard that you were down. He was pissed that Emily and you decided to split up while searching around the house, only ending with you being grabbed from behind, pushing you so hard against the wall that when you hit it — you were knocked out.

The minute Emily found you around the other side she was telling everyone over her speaker, Spencer was rushing outside of the house he had been checking with Derek and his feet were moving faster than his brain could compute. His hands were shaking when he came in contact with the unsub, who immediately went for him.

Spencer was unable to help himself, his hands didn’t reach for his gun instead he pushed the man up against the wall, like the unsub previously had done to you — only his fist found their way to the unsubs face, over, and over, and over again until it was nothing more than a bloody mess.

He had little injury from the unsub, he endured a few hits to the face which did nothing more than leave his nose and lip bloody but he couldn’t of cared less about that when all his mind could think about was you.

He was pushed away by Derek, and the unsub taken into custody by Rossi and Emily after Emily had called the paramedics for you. He fought Derek briefly trying to get his hands back on the unsub.

“You could have had a murder charge” derek had said, finally somewhat calming Reid down once the Unsub was taken away. Spencer remembers thinking nothing more than how much he wanted that man dead — he had never really wished that on anyone.

“He should be dead.” Was all Spencer had replied before walking off.

His eyes landed on you, sitting with a blanket over your shoulders in the back of an ambulance, leaning on the side of it with your knees pulled up to your chest, hand held to the back of your head holding what he could only assume was an ice pack.

He called your name as his feet rushed towards you before they stopped right in front of you. You met his eyes and he could’ve swore his heart had shattered into a million different pieces at the sight of tears in your eyes.

“Oh baby” He cooed as his hands hovered slightly over your side. He was scared to touch you, scared to hurt you more than you had already been hurt. His chest was tightening more and more and he found it hard to breathe.

“Im okay” You pushed out, but your voice was contradicting your words as it cracked slightly. You almost lunged towards him letting your head bury itself in his chest, arms wrapping themselves around his waist. He took it as an okay to touch you, his arms immediately wrapping around you as he stood in-between your legs.

“Im sorry” He whispered, hand running up to your hair to smooth it out gently, hands careful over the bloody spot in your hair. You shook your head but stopped as it only sent a throbbing sensation throughout it. You pulled your head away and Spencer moved to sit beside you.

“You don’t have to apologise” You said softly, hand coming up to wipe a tear from your cheek. Spencer’s hand stayed on your back. “Im okay. Really.” You reassured.

“I should’ve been there, someone should’ve been there.” He said, shaking his head. He was holding back the urge to scold the stupidity it took to separate yourself and Emily in a situation but he knew deep down you were just doing what he thought was right — and he could hardly think about that when you were sitting here with that look in your eye.

“Wh- What the hell” you muttered as you looked over his face. For some reason the state of him didn’t register when you first saw him, maybe it was because of the tears blurring your vision or maybe the fact you were just in relief that he was there, but now you did as your entire chest fell.

“Im sorry” He apologised again. “I was so— I was so angry, I was scared” He said, He watches the way your face falls into something he can only explain as panic and guilt. He hated the way you looked guilty.

“Spence..” You sighed, grabbing ahold of his hand gently, thumb rubbing back and forth of his soft skin. He relished in your touch. His eyes closed as he tried to neglect the burning sensation in the back of his throat and bridge of his nose that came as a warning sign for the tears brewing in the back of his eyes.

“I wanted to kill him” Spencer said, his voice cracking as the lump grew in his throat. He despised the way it gave him away. He didn’t want to be in this position — he was supposed to be the one comforting you, not the other way around.

“That would only get you in trouble baby” You said gently. The headache subsided slightly as your head filled with nothing more than Spencer. An unfamiliar feeling filled your stomach as it dawned on you that Spencer would quite literally kill for you.

“He hurt you” Was the best Spencer could muster up. And to him it was enough of a reason.

An unfamiliar feeling filled your stomach as it dawned on you that Spencer would quite literally kill for you. Your hand tightened around his as you turned your body to face him more. Your hand leaving his to cup his face in your hands.

A frown tugged on your lips and Spencer groaned at the way tears ran down his cheeks. He tried to pull his face away from your hands in-order to hide it in his own, but yours stayed around his face.

“Oh baby.” Spencer’s chest tightened as your thumb dragged the softest against his cheeks wiping away stray tears. “It’s apart of the job baby. We both know that, theres always a risk of us getting hurt. But I’m right here yeah? Im okay.” You cooed gently.

It dawned on him in that moment at your words. Of course before he knew there was a risk — he was well aware of that but now he completely understood it. He understood how much he needed you, how much he would do for you.

He realised there was no life for him without you in it.

He said your name, his tone clear, you raised your eyebrow with a quick nod. You repeated his name but his mind was elsewhere unable to process it as he stared at your face.

Perfect or not. There wasn’t ever gonna be a moment where he felt like he needed to do this more. He needed to be your husband. He needed the future with you. He needed this and he needed this now.

“Marry me.” He said, it wasn’t how he wanted it to come out but his lips worked faster than his mind. He watched your eyes widen, your brows furrow in confusion as your lips parted before shutting again.

“W-What?” You muttered.

“Marry me.” He repeated, “Please. I don’t want to spend another day wondering if we will get a future together. I don’t ever want to endure this again without you being my wife. I want everyday with you, I want the arguments and the bad days, I want the long nights and the kids. I want you, today, tomorrow and every day after that. I want to marry you, I want to be your husband” He ranted.

Your eyes widened as he rambled on as tears rushed all the way back in your eyes from where they had subsided.

“I can’t lose you. I am so in love with you, it hurts. It hurts so please—“ He sighed, “Marry me.”

You were at a loss for words and Spencer almost expected that. This wasn’t how he wanted to do it, but he didn’t think he could go another day without asking you.

“Im sorry, I know this is probably the worse time possible” His fingers tugged at the box in his pocket, pulling it out. He used his other hand to open it. Your eyes fell from his onto the ring sitting inside the black velvet box. It was gorgeous. Absolutely stunning and so you.

“I wanted it to be perfect, I have been waiting but I cant w-”

“Yes.” You said, cutting him off as you pulled your eyes away from the ring back to his face. “God- Yes- Spencer” Your voice was quiet and breathy.

His eyes widened. “Wh- really?” He almost expected you to shut him down.

“Are you stupid?” He knew it wasn’t serious because everyone knew Spencer Reid was a lot of things — but he was not stupid.

“Of course I will marry you!” You lunged towards him, pressing your lips against his. Unable to even care about the headache beating against the back of your skull as all you could feel was him.

He smiled into the kiss, deepening it as his hands tugged against your waist, pulling you in closer to him. He pulled away for a moment to take the ring out of the box, grabbing ahold of your hand he slid the ring on — it fit perfectly.

“Are you okay?” He asked, gaze returning to your face as he remembered you were infact still injured.

You beamed at him, “Im happy. Spence Im really happy” You said, unable to focus on anything else.

Spencer smiled back. “I love you”

[queers-gambit]

Give Every Man Thy Ear, But Few Thy Voice

title citation: Hamlet

prompt: similar to Penelope Featherington, you overhear your best mate's choice words about you after dancing at a ball.

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x female!Tyrell!reader

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

collection masterlist: The Truth Will Out - coming soon collection masterlist: Clingy Baby

word count: 18.3k+

note: SLUTTY ANGST CLUB, COME GET Y'ALL JUICE!

warnings: not edited. heapings of angst, hurt and no comfort, fuck your feelings. tweaked timeline, cursing, Bridgerton influenced, Aemond's both a bestie and an outstanding, fucking asshole - so is this vilified Aemond? eavesdropping trope, nicknamed reader, insecurity, insults, betrayl, abundance of ye ol' misogyny, self destructive tendencies; a single, non-graphic line that alludes suicide as an unserious threat to convey displeasure. there's men being men, men being gossipy little bitches, and the most random Lord of the Rings quote that kinda breaks the fourth wall?

Bridgerton - available to watch on Netflix 🍒 this fic was written before season three premiered

Jacaerys Velaryon version: coming soon

Tonight was a celebration that echoed across the entire Realm. Lords and Ladies alike with their service maids, House guards, any available singletons flocked to King's Landing for the courting season. They did this annually. Three solid months for eligible singles to make a match and attempt to secure their bond in matrimony.

Ladies wore layers of multicolored fabrics. Lords dressed in embellished tunics. Ladies tied on tight corsets to push their breasts to their necks. Lords shaved their facial hair, appearing "cleaned up". Ladies smelt of exotic perfume and Lords stood in shiny boots. All wore sparkling, gaudy jewelry.

While the Starks of Winterfell and the Umbers of Last Hearth traveled over a month to reach the capital, your family, the Tyrells from Highgarden, had a much more comfortable commute. Greyjoys and Mormonts sailed in from the Iron Islands and Bear Island, Tullys from Riverrun, Royces and Arryns from the Eyrie. Single, available, eligible Hightowers returned under Queen Alicent's sponsorship, Lannisters prowled in from Lannisport, and select few Martells arrived in gorgeous, gloriously golden carriages from Dorne.

Everyone who was anyone descended onto the Red Keep, eager to earn King Viserys' stamp of approval - being that he only granted one couple his presence at their ceremony. It was the highest of honors, a prize to be won, a chance to show off and show out; giving the two bonded families bragging rights until the next season. Plus there's a superstition that all weddings the King attended were prosperous, healthy, and long lasting marriages. There was a buzz in the air, a static of excitement and mystery; tension brewing when the members of court arrived and sized each other up for that first week. You thought they were silly for this energy, akin to strutting peacocks, treating their own like competition, treating bloodlines like currency.

You never realized how many purists there were.

While the other Houses had to travel, you were most lucky to already host residence in the Red Keep. Your uncle, Evin Tyrell, had once been in line to assume lordship over Highgarden, but after losing his son to the War of the Stepstones, Evin turned away from his inherited responsibilities; forcing it onto your father's shoulders. You had several siblings, both younger and older, and eventually got lost in your bustling, busy, arguably large family. Evin had no more children, wife long departed from this life, and was excited by the prospect of being a guardian; insisting you come with him to King's Landing, where he accepted a tutoring position for the King's children and grandchildren.

You were absolutely romanced by the idea of existing among the royal family, telling your father it was your one chance at a decent, higher education - an opportunity to study under the Targaryens being once in a lifetime. Truth be told, you're not entirely sure Lord Tyrell even processed your words, approving with a distracted grunt and a wave; gone by the next morning without even breaking your fast with your family. Evin hooked both your beloved horse and one of your father's young stallions to a wooden cart you shared, using the journey to King's Landing to prepare you for the life you were soon to live.

You had always been a little wild child, so, Evin felt it necessary to remind you of your manners; brushing up on your etiquette, quizzing you on members of the Royal Family, explaining what would be expected of you now that you were a guest to the royals.

For well over a decade, you were the single wildflower blooming through dragon fire, earning the moniker Rose of the Realm; living under Queen Alicent's good grace. She seemed to like you well enough, going as far as to invite you to family events after noticing the bond between you and her openly favorite son, Prince Aemond. Years ago, when you were fresh and new to the Capital City, your uncle brought you to attend Lady Laena Velaryon's funeral on Driftmark at the King's invitation. You already had a friendship with the young royals; keeping Helaena company, trying to sneak Aegon's chalices of wine out of his grip, and when the time came, rushed off over the sandy dunes with your best mate after he told you his plan to lay claim on Lady Laena's dragon, Vhagar.

After the King's heir, Princess Rhaenyra's (rumored) bastard son, Lucerys, slashed Aemond's eye from his socket, you became incredibly close. Impossible close. Like unbelievably close; being thick as thieves, joined at the hip, magnetically pulled towards one another before clicking into tight place. You were his pillar of support, his anchor to reality; and he was your salvation.

You realized you were in love with him when you turned ten-and-six. It was something strange, the two of you studying together in the library and when you looked up from your book to meet his eyes, you just understood. Something in your brain clicked, heart cemented in knowing, guts twisting in sudden realization, words caught in your throat and only letting out an inaudible gasp. Ever since that day, you were acutely aware of anything the Prince did; from the way he would caress the back of your head at each embrace, to his eye darting to look at your lips during conversations. From how he took almost every meal with you, to the way he insisted upon your invitation to family, public, and / or royal events. From the way he absorbed your secrets and opinions, to the way he shared his own - getting back what you put forth, forever mutual.

Being friends - best mates, even - with Aemond was easy. So easy, in fact, that nobody ever batted an eye when they saw the two of you unchaperoned. Your friendship was wholesome, endearing, supportive, enlightening, and pleasurably challenging in the sense that Aemond liked pushing your envelope; testing your boundaries. He set new standards and helped lift you to meet those goals, made you think harder, consider new points of view, expand your humanity.

What more could anyone ask for?

About half way through the current season, your uncle sent for you to join him for afternoon tea in the gardens. "Do you recognize these?" He asked when you arrived at the pavilion he sought shade under, admiring the bushes of florals surrounding the bannister.

"Of course," you smirked, hands behind your back as you stood at his shoulder, "they're honeysuckle."

"Native to only Highgarden, just like I called you in your youth," Evin added, plucking a bloom to admire. "Do you know why they're planted here?"

"I imagine through pollination?"

"A sound guess, but no," your uncle handed you the flower. "These were imported years ago, but have only bloomed now."

You nodded, sucking the bud to extract its honey-sweet taste, asking through puckered lips, "Imported by whom?"

"Do you remember your 17th nameday?"

"Oh, yeah, I guess, it was only a few years ago. You weren't here, you were on some diplomatic matter, right?"

"Inna way. After I concluded my affairs, I returned to Highgarden. You see, Prince Aemond confided in me how he wished to do something special for your birthday and knew you missed home. He asked me to bring these seeds back."

"Aemond asked you to plant honeysuckle?"

"Specifically here," Elvin grinned, "so they were within easy reach."

"So why have they only just now bloomed?" You tried to keep the jittery excitement out of your voice; baffled yet giddy from hearing about Aemond's kind gesture.

"There's an old legend," Evin gestured you to the patio table and chairs that was dressed for your social visit. "It's said, when the honeysuckle is gifted from lover to lover, they will only bloom when love surrounds them. I believe they have come to life this season as a portent to an impending match to be made."

"You spend too much time with Otto, Uncle, you're starting to sound like him - veiling your words and talking in riddles. Tell me why you called me here, Uncle, I know it's not for a botany lesson. Out with it, please, for the sake of my sanity."

Evin chuckled, watching you lean forward to pour two mugs of tea. "I was wondering, sweet niece, what the nature of your relationship is to the Prince Aemond?"

"Oh," you blinked, adding a sugar cube to your brew before stirring in a bit of milk, "well, I hate to disappoint, but I don't know what to tell you, Uncle. We're friends, nothing more or less."

"You seem real chummy."

"We're close, yes."

"Romantic?"

You scoffed, "Uncle, please - "

"Tell me the truth of it."

"Nothing inappropriate or unseemly nor nefarious has occurred between us, Uncle, I promise you. The Prince and I are just friends."

Evin sipped his tea, nodding slowly, "Well, humor me. If I asked who you would marry, who would you choose?"

"Well, as of right now, I'd choose myself since I don't know the men at court yet, only rumors and whispers."

"And if the offer of marriage presented itself, would you marry the Prince?"

"I would do my duty to our House, no matter the suitor."

Evin nodded slowly, "If I said I had struck a pact with the Queen and Hand, what would you say?"

"That despite what I've just said, if you marry me off to Aegon, I'll pitch myself from a window."

Your uncle's head tilted back as he belted short laughter. "I would never condemn you to such a fate, honey girl! Have more faith in me. I speak of Prince Aemond - it's why I asked about him."

"Uncle, speak plainly. Have you attempted to make such a match between the Prince and I?"

"Pending a few logistics, the Crown's interested in the match."

The words echoed in your mind on an obnoxious repeat for the weeks to come, surely living a dream. The longer you dwelled on the impending match, the giddier you felt; a secret smile brightening your features, small spring in your step, an air of positivity hanging around you that even the tiresome Rogue Prince wouldn't be able to taint. The One-Eyed Prince has long been your best mate for a decade, surely, this match would've been offered sooner or later; it was a smart choice, the definition of compatibility.

Some might've referred to this elation as "cloud nine", though you'd say it was cloud 10, 11, 12, 100! You were flying high, feeling good, and mistakenly allowing your hopes to heighten while imagining what marrying your best friend would be like.

You prepared for that evening's courting session with a dreamy, dazed look in your eyes. Even your ladies-maid picked up on your joyful spirit; questioning through her smile, "What's got you so distracted, my Lady? You've been staring off into nothing with that smile for an hour now."

"Huh?" You met her eyes through the vanity mirror, the woman standing behind you to intricately braid your hair. "Oh, no, no, nothing, I'm only lost in thought."

"Which thought?"

"It doesn't matter, it's just a thought. When it becomes a notion, I'll tell you, my friend."

She repeated with a grin, "'Yeah? When's that? Are you expecting good news?"

"Perhaps."

"Fine, fine, keep your secrets," she playfully tugged your hair. "Do you know which dress you'd like to wear tonight?"

"The lilac one," you answered, lips stretching your smile.

"You mean the dress that matches Prince Aemond's eye perfectly?"

You both giggled girlishly.

When you arrived at the Throne Room, there was already more than 75% of guests in attendance; getting a jump on their mingling. You greeted several familiar faces, locating your best mate standing at the side with his arms crossed and shoulder leaning on a pillar. "Well, you certainly look happy to be here," you teased when at his side, leaning on the other side of the intricate column.

"It was Mother's idea, Rosie, you know I do not dance," he frowned. "She's not given up the hunt to make me a match. She's adamant this is the year."

"Perhaps if you participate, you could organically meet your future wife."

"Hmm," his eye rolled, thin lips quirking in a smirk; gaze turned on you, watching you scan the room.

There was another 20 minutes of mingling before dinner was called, laid out on tables that stretched the entire length of the Throne Room. Naturally, like every single day, you and Aemond took side-by-side seats together at a risen table that hosted the royal family which provided an incredible view of those in attendance this eve. With your elbow, you nudged Aemond's bicep, making him lean over instantly so you could speak in his ear quietly. "Looks like Lady Fell and Lord Blackwood are gonna jump each other's bones," you mused, smirking, adding, "though I heard she's already hiding a growing belly and is trying to nab herself someone more mature in age with the intent to trick the Lord into thinking she's having his baby."

"No," he scoffed in amusement.

"Yes!"

"That's diabolical. Blackwood's the father? Truly?"

"I'm pretty sure."

"Good for him, good for Blackwood - didn't know he had it in him." He paused to take a pull from his goblet of wine, continuing, "Hm! Look, look," he grinned coyly, "do you see what I see?"

"It's packed in here, so... No, I don't see whatever you're seeing."

He snickered, "Lady Mormont looks smitten with Lord Greyjoy, looks like she wants to eat him."

"I thought he was romancing Lady Redwyne?"

Aemond hummed in amusement, "Perhaps he is considering options, courting more than one lady. Are we taking bets this season, again?"

You grinned, "Of course."

"Lay out the criteria, what're the parameters?"

After thinking a moment, you answered, "The pairing and timeline of impending weddings?"

"The stakes?"

You just shrugged, "Bragging rights?"

"Oh, c'mon, Rosie," he tisked.

"Fine, uh, how about... 10 Gold Dragons?"

"Both our families have enough money."

"Then you decide the rewards."

He lowered his voice, ensuring his family couldn't eavesdrop, "If you win, I'll go to Highgarden with you next time you visit. But if I win, you have to come flying with me on Vha - "

"No," you snapped instantly.

Aemond smirked, "Those are the terms, my Lady. Do you accept? Or will the Rose of the Realm shy away from challenge?"

Well, when you put it that way...

"Fine," you relented. "You're eager to lose so bad, let's do it. Who do you think will couple first?"

"Does it count if I get at least one correct? Such as, if I predict Lord Umber and Lady Lannister, but Umber marries Lady Tully, does it count that I still predicted Umber?"

You mulled his idea over, humming, stabbing a piece of roast goose from your plate to place in your mouth and chew thoughtfully. "Hmm, no, no, you gotta get the couple completely correct."

Aemond nodded, accepting your terms, "You really don't wish to go flying, do you?"

"What gave me away?"

Sharing a chuckle, Aemond finished, "All right, Rosie, bring it on."

When dinner concluded, once more, patrons were allowed to mix and mingle; dancing to the live band, drink spiced wine to their heart's desires. Like the common wallflowers you were, you posted at the side of the room with Aemond, content to watch the sea of vying adults trying to establish and rush courtship. It was the most comfortable you could be at these events, being anxious in judgmental crowds and seeking salvation from Aemond's domineering aura.

"Lady Tyrell," Jason Lannister purred as he approached you with his chest puffed out, "I was hoping to hold your ear tonight. Your father was telling me about your love to ride horses."

"Oh, my father said that?"

"That's who he said he was - "

"My father's in Highgarden, my Lord," you corrected, knowing for fact that Evin always described himself as your uncle.

"Ah, well, right," Jason cleared his throat in embarrassment. Did this pompous arsehole just lie about talking to your father to give the illusion he was an honorable man? That your father approved of the golden headed Lannister? "Perhaps you would honor me with a dance?"

"Perhaps not," Aemond cut in sharply, bringing the tension to focus.

"My Lord," you distracted, on behalf of Aemond's anger, "uh, thank you for asking, that's very kind of you. Though I'm afraid, I'm all, uh, danced out. I won't be on my feet much longer."

"Means fuck off, Lannister," Aemond growled, appearing positively murderous at the honey blonde's audacity.

Jason eyed Aemond, stiffly bidding, "I see. My Prince, my Lady, enjoy your evening."

You bid the older widower the same, Aemond chuckling the moment the lion was swallowed by the crowd. "As if you'd ever dance with a Lannister, let alone court him," he mused, looking down at you. "But he had the right idea, you need to dance at least once. Shouldn't waste this dress standing on the side with me."

"I'm quite comfortable here with you," you shrugged off, seeing your uncle at the royal banquet table exchanging hushed words with King Viserys and his Queen, Alicent.

"C'mon," he held his hand in offer, palm up.

"What? No, no, Aemond, I'm not dancing - I've two left feet!"

"You can break every toe on my feet and I'd still ask you. Just one dance. With me, Lady Tyrell."

"You don't dance!"

"Perhaps the mood has taken me. C'mon, petal."

Your head turned from left to right as if looking for someone spying on you. The moment your hand laid daintily in his, you melted right there on the spot, not having any coherent recollection about how you ended up in the middle of the overzealous contenders. You realized you'd follow this man anywhere.

Beating off your immense anticipation and overwhelming excitement to join The One-Eyed Prince for an intimate activity, you kept your composure amongst everyone else. But, my Gods, did you want to scream in delight the moment he placed one hand on your waist and the other clasping yours to raise in the air at your side. But in this position, you could feel the ridges of his stomach - making you briefly feel embarrassed, wondering how you must've looked to the members of court.

"You sure about this?" You whispered nervously, but you had a feeling that was due to the intense concentration he pinned you with.

"We'll be fine, Rosie, just breathe and follow my lead. I got you."

So launched your dance with Prince Aemond Trgaryen, second son of King Viserys. You couldn't divert your gaze from his porcelain, angled face to save you from overthinking your dancing skill - or lack there of. A few times, he'd smirk and whisper how good you were doing, mind flashing to an image of you and he, married, tumbling in bed sheets together while he praises you. Everything he did became sinful to you; every touch, every glance, every smile, every private studying session setting your skin on fire and heart to beat rapidly.

It was a longer song, string instruments creating a pleasant, ideal, slow-paced, soft environment. Yet you couldn't hear the music, too focused on Aemond's single piercing eye and quirked lips. It was as if the two of you existed outside of time and reality, forgetting the people packed in the stuffy room. Aemond told you softly, "See? You're not so bad at dancing - you just need the right partner."

You wanted to be partnered every single dance from now until your death with Aemond.

"I thought you couldn't dance?" You coyly questioned.

"I said I don't dance, not that I couldn't."

To your idle shock, Aemond gave you a few twirls that made your hair and dress fan around you in an angelic motion. Dare you say it, you even laughed with mirth when you found yourself enjoying the courting season more than ever before - all thanks to your best friend and hopefully, soon-to-be intended. You were acutely aware of his hot and heavy hands holding your flesh, knowing this feeling would burn into your skin to remind you of his closer-than-close proximity. To remind you of his gentleness, to remind you of this dance and the way he gave you his complete and undivided attention.

When the musicians concluded the song, you were grinning authentically while joining in the applause to show appreciation towards the artists.

"Gods," you panted, "that nearly winded me. Think I'm out of shape."

"And you said you had two left feet," he mocked with a scoff, head shaking, but the smirk on his lips told you he wasn't serious. "You're a natural, Rosie."

"You're not such a bad dancer yourself, my Prince," you complimented, the applause subsiding as a new song began. "Though you'll have to excuse me while I get a drink."

You parted way in search of two empty goblets and one of the servants carrying decanters of spiced wine. After being served, you rocked on your toes to try and gaze over the heads populating the room. You were unsuccessful, so, you backed up to the edge of the crowd and moved around the involuntary empty loop along the wall, behind the pillars. There was no reason finding the white haired prince with an eyepatch would be this difficult, yet, you got more than halfway around the room before finally locating him.

Once again, he was leaning on a column, but he wasn't alone. No, there was a gaggle of Lords around him, all exchanging chatter about the Ladies they had to choose from this season.

"Well, c'mon, what about you, Aemond?" Cregan Stark pondered. "Things with The Rose look like they're escalating - congrats. Are wedding bells on the horizon?"

Hearing your name, you quickly scurried behind the same pillar, just out of sight but able to still listen. Look, eavesdropping was highly frowned upon, you knew it was bad manners, but if you heard men gossiping about your name, you would've done the exact same!

Aemond scoffed in pure amusement, "Come off it, Stark."

"No, c'mon, mate, I saw you two," Cregan continued, "dancing together, pressed all close."

"You two make a handsome match, logistically speaking," Paxtan Florant labeled. "Could marry someone abundantly worse, I think you two are quite the pair."

"Handsome and logical as it may look, there's no possibility I'd court the Lady Tyrell, let alone marry her," Aemond declared with a chuckle, your heart stalling and brows wrinkling together. "The Tyrells only just obtained their name in court, they're still too low born for a prince to entertain. Peasants like that are uneducated, prominently not intelligent enough to be my counterpart; uncultured, unwise, unable to retain most information we study during lessons."

You blinked in shock. If anything, you were Aemond's ONLY intellectual counterpart!

"So, she's not as smart as you, mate, so what?" Cregan cocked his head. "You don't need smart, you need fertile and capable."

Though he was attempting to defend you, Cregan's words made your skin prickle. How could they think you weren't intellectually on their level? Was it because you were a woman? You read the same books, attended the same tutoring sessions, was questioned on the same material they were and hardly ever answering incorrectly! And yet now you're reduced to your reproduction system?

The Prince scoffed, "Think about it, if I married a Tyrell, their lowly standing would taint the Targaryen bloodline."

"So, it was all an act?" Paxtan snickered, "C'mon, mate, you two looked dazed, all enamored with each other. Can't convince us there's nothing there, not after that."

Aemond chuckled, "You want the truth?"

"Lay it on us."

"I shared a single dance with her because I pity her. Don't any of you? The way she all but repels suitors? Surely, you've noted her dresses as well? They're terribly revealing, unlike anything a proper lady would don. No self respecting woman nor future princess of mine would wear something like that. It's as if she's so desperate for attention that she has to flaunt her flesh just to get a man to look at her since her personality surely doesn't reel suitors to her."

The men laughed, your mouth dropping open in offense. You're not chasing men away - look what happened with Jason Lannister! It was Aemond who told him to fuck off! After years of friendship, was this truly what Aemond thought of you? How did it come to this - the man you loved, the man you considered your best mate, slandering your name to any able ear willing to listen? How could he speak such calamities about you? Was this entire friendship a folly, just a cover for his pity? Was he only your 'friend' to entertain his own selfish boredom?

Was everything just in your head?

"I don't know, I like how she dresses," Tyler Lannister mused, the teenaged son of Tyland Lannister, Jason's twin brother.

"None the less, I find desperation unattractive in a woman," Aemond rejected, tears gathering in your eyes to silently stream down your cheeks. "Besides, Lady Tyrell isn't my type, she talks far too much. Truly, there's never a moment of silence, I cannot even hear my own thoughts when she's prattling - and it's never anything of substance, just useless nonsense. It's as I said, it was a pity dance, I felt sorry that she has little to no suitors."

"Seriously, mate, have you considered the reason she has no suitors might be because of her proximity to you? They might stay away because they feel threatened by your friendship, thinking she's spoken for - and trust me, no man here would dare compete against a prince for a lady's affection," Cregan scoffed, mildly disgusted by Aemond's choice words.

"The courts know there's no affection shared between Lady Tyrell and I. We are simply friends - no more or less - and that's as far as our relationship will ever progress."

Cregan hummed, nodding his head sarcastically. Then his curiosity questioned, "Answer this: are you attracted to her?"

"Truthfully, I just don't think she's... Attractive enough to be my wife. She's a pretty lass, I'll admit, but if she's called the Rose of the Realm, I fear to learn the appearance of other ladies from Highgarden." A few lads chuckled. "Additionally, there will be public outings I must attend, and as my wife, the people will expect to see someone alluring - someone qualified and fit for the position as a princess of the Realm. Someone stunning and worthy of the title, able to fulfill royal responsibilities."

"Gods, why're you so against this match? You're being terribly superficial, judgmental, and defensive - she's your friend, after all. Wouldn't this be a love-match? Do you know how rare those are?" Luras Arryn snarled, sounding genuinely distraught and jealous.

"And if you're so against her, why do you constantly escort her to formal events?" Arnas Blackwood tacked on. "It creates the illusion that you're courting, my Prince, surely you're aware of that."

"As I stated, her blood isn't pure, but she's also criminally clingy. She's always lingering around and I feel awkward not inviting her to royal events - since she's right there, all alone, in front of me. I only invite her out of obligation. Again, I take pity on the girl, knowing when she leaves the Red Keep, she'll never experience this life again."

"Well, if not the Rose of the Realm, who do you have your sights on?" Luras Arryn asked stiffly.

Aemond's smirk was clear as day, answering swiftly, "The Lady Floris Baratheon is appealing enough."

The lads obnoxiously cheered in supportive approval, directing the conversation in a new direction about how bloody gorgeous Floris was - one of them even mentioning she deserved the nickname, Rose of the Realm.

You heard enough, more than enough, more than you ever wanted to know in an entire lifetime; rightfully insulted past belief and violently nauseated, feeling cold and mechanical. As swiftly as you could, you rushed to set the goblets down and speed walk towards the doors, shoving past both individuals and couples; not wanting to linger where you're clearly not wanted. Where you were apparently not welcome. After making your inconspicuous getaway, tears fell faster than earlier, mind replaying Aemond's words while sprinting to your chambers.

Describing you as clingy, desperate, unattractive, not his type. Dubbing you an improper lady who lacked self respect. Thinking you talk too much - that you prattle nonsense. Labeling you unworthy and unqualified to be his wife or assume the title princess with all the relating responsibilities. How he pities you and doesn't ever want to be more than your friend; thinking you're uneducated, uncultured, unwise. Declaring House Tyrell peasants who would taint his family's pure bloodline. How you 'have' to flaunt your flesh to attract suitors - since your personality did you no favors. Marking you a friend out of obligation...

Were you even friends? Did you even understand the definition of a friend? Have you been operating in a delusion this whole time?

In the words of King Théoden: how did it come to this?

Feeling utterly humiliated, you ran away from your peers; lungs heaving, huffing and puffing, panic ready to overflow. You burst through the wooden door, fully sobbing by now, engaging the iron lock and dropping to lean your weight against it.

Most, if not all, of your insecurities were aired out like soiled bedsheets for all eligible bachelors to know. Aemond might as well have hung a painted wooden sign around your neck: DESPERATE AND CLINGY LOSER - DO NOT ENGAGE.

Nothing about this situation felt normal, it all felt terribly impossible; absolutely heartbreaking and vile, like it was some kind of bad dream. But everyone woke up from dreams. You'd never wake up from this, you'd be forced to remember and relive it day after day. Tonight would haunt you, cast a dark shadow around you as if a thick, temperamental, torrential storm. Yet every storm eventually breaks, but tonight, there was no remedy, no shelter, no protection - you had to weather this alone.

It felt foreign, enduring anything by yourself. For years, Aemond was your partner, always at your side, level headed, insightful and wise; supportive, protective, calming, and something like a safety net when you faced trouble. Now, he's left you devastatingly alone; where after tonight, the very idea of being in the same room as him made you nauseated and anxious, fearful and small.

In that moment, your brain screamed that you were no longer welcome in the Red Keep - Uncle Evin's position be damned.

You sat on the stone cold floor for the better part of half an hour before your bottom turned painfully numb. After sluggishly hiking up your dress skirt, you removed your shoes and tossed them aside, standing to swollen feet to unhook your jewelry and place everything in their safe and proper place. Then, a particular necklace made of red rubies set in a thinly crafted Valyrian Steel chain caught your eye and mocked you. It was Aemond's gift on your ten-and-eighth nameday, laid in a plush velvet case for adequate preservation. This simple piece of jewelry was your absolute favorite in your collection, a treasure beyond words of appreciation that you greatly admired, now rusting in salty tears.

Being gifted this necklace had once convinced you Aemond might've felt the same for you as you do him. You remember even trying to rationalize it as a sign that the One-Eyed Prince was at a loss and didn't know how to confess his feelings. That he was shy, perhaps afraid to ruin your friendship if you didn't feel the same.

Angry tears of betrayal fell like acid over your cheeks, gritting your teeth, clenching your jaw as you snapped the velvet box closed and with a barbaric grunt, hurled it (with impressive strength) across the room. You felt so confused, so lost; deceived, lied to, and puppeted - and then the anger flared again when you realized what family you were angry with.

Why bother being upset, emotional, distressed? You had no right because your feelings truly didn't matter - not in the grand scheme of things. Nobody cared about your trivial feelings! You were just a Tyrell and by comparison, a peasant nobody who never deserved, earned, warranted, or was bestowed respect. In fact, to the Targaryens up on their mounted pedestals, none of you mattered - not a citizen in all Seven Kingdoms.

In fact, it was almost treated as a curse to not be a Targaryen. Some kind of punishment for daring to exist amongst the privileged royals as a lowborn - which, despite your family's newly established status in court, you were still characterized as. In their eyes, anyone NOT a Targaryen was lowborn; deemed unworthy to the white haired bloodline, being merely tolerated for the sake of politics, strategy, and reproduction. It was a sick game, and the Targaryens always won.

They do what they want, when they want, with no consideration towards other people's safety, emotions, wellbeing, stability, or comfort. The Targaryens were always stationed above everyone because, after all, they were closer to Gods than men; entire family spoiled, entitled, narcissistic, holier than thou, avoidant of any and all consequence.

They're legendary. Untouchable and worshipped.

And you? You're just a Tyrell, the tiny beetle trampled under the God's boot. Beetles were essential to any ecosystem, similar to the Tyrell's providing to the Realm productions of wheat, grain, barley, and corn. Similar to your family, beetles are also disposable - meaning the Targaryens might tolerate you, but they never need respect you. They could stomp you into the ground whenever they wanted because where one beetle died, three more takes place. Where one House might falter and fall, become doomed, eradicated, or subcomes to tragedy, others step up in an effort to establish their usefulness; prove their House's necessity to the Realm's ecosystem, attempt to diminish the threat of being razed to the ground by dragon fire.

Why be so upset with the Targaryens when they can do no wrong? What right did you have? And how could you ever think a Prince of the Realm would remotely be romantically interested in you?

You felt delusional and pathetic, crying over a man who was never in your league. Yet betrayal gutted you like a fish, a bright reminder that your friend would expose you like that; offer loud disrespect, speaking hatefully, to finally voice hidden malcontent. It felt impossible to stomach that your first friend, your favorite person, secretly hated you.

Because how could he not? You did not love anyone you could speak so lowly of.

Sobbing harder, you yanked pins out of your hair, working at break-neck speed to strip from your gown, then freezing when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the vanity mirror. The reflection looked distraught with exhausted red eyes; glowing in defeat, in a desperate need for a long, hot soak in the washtub. With shaking hands, you tossed a spare blanket over the mirror, despising the sight of yourself as Aemond's words continued to ring on a loop in your ears.

Clingy, desperate, unattractive, not his type. Improper, lacks self respect, talks too much, lacks suitors. Unworthy, unqualified, pitiful, never desiring to bloom past friendship - which is constructed around obligation. Uneducated, uncultured, unwise. Unfit, tainted, lowborn blood with a lowly personality. Revealing, tempting dresses.

Your mind, heart, and head screamed that no matter how hard you hoped, prayed, and tried, you'd never have a place among the Targaryens. Yelled that Aemond's right: you're ugly on the inside and out; damaged goods, undesirable - all because you were not born amongst fire and blood. Bellowed about your lack of quality, purpose, contribution. Reminded you that the one person you trusted unconditionally never truly wanted to be your friend; that he spoke horrendously on your name when absent, didn't value who you were - and never did.

He took every insecurity you confided in him and weaponized it; used it against you, made it into a joke with people you didn't trust nor want to know about you...

You sunk into the bath water, submerging as if to hide from your own thoughts.

The knock at your chamber door didn't surprise you. Servants and your uncle had been coming and going since you first refused to leave the morning after the ball. You figured Aemond would come around eventually, too curious for his own good and still under the impression he had to play "friend", thinking his deceit was unknown to you.

Aemond called your name through the door, asking, "You awake? Could I come in?"

You didn't answer.

He sighed, "C'mon, I know you're there. You haven't been seen in four days, you have to eat. You should get some air, feel the sunshine."

Silence.

Aemond frowned, "When you're ready, come find me, petal. I'm worried about you."

You wiped the tears off your cheeks, pulling your knees to your chest. For four days, you couldn't stomach the idea of running into the Prince, just wanting to avoid anyone or anything that would remind you of what Aemond said. You understood there were several decisions left to be settled, lost in an endless rampage of confusing emotions, maids bring you full trays of food and removing them with more than half still left.

Humiliation knotted in your chest, the harrowing thought of punishing yourself for being so stupid something you couldn't fight. All you registered was the feeling of betrayal, something that inked into every single thought you had, but with it came sinking realization that you were done. Simple as that.

On the sixth night, you sat with Uncle Evin, forking through your full plate and blurting, "Don't do it."

He paused to finish the bite in his mouth, "Do what, honey girl?"

"Don't - Don't make a match with Alicent and Otto. Don't make the arrangement with Prince Aemond."

Evin nodded slowly, washing his bite down with a mouthful of wine. "There a reason for your change of heart, love? The Queen thinks it's a handsome pairing. Just before, you seemed content with the match - dare I say, you seemed pleased?"

"Things change, Uncle," you spoke evenly, "and I can't shoulder this responsibility. In fact, I... I do not think I'm capable of making my own match. I will be stepping away from courting for the time being."

Your eyes seemed distant and dark, proving serious. So Elvin agreed easily, allowing you to withdrawal from the current season officially. He understood something was deeply amiss and didn't want to make worse whatever turmoil you teetered in. He didn't want to upset you and make things worse - you obviously had enough going on.

Aemond knocked again the next day, "Petal? You awake?" But you didn't answer. He sighed, "You've been missing lessons, love, and I just... I brought you some books. Thought maybe you'd like to catch up?" When there was no answer, he ended, "I'll just leave them here for you, petal... I'm not sure what's wrong, but I hope you're all right in there... I miss you."

You scoffed quietly, wiping your tears.

Ten days after withdrawing from the courting season, you left your chambers for the first time. But it wasn't like anything changed - it was still as if you were invisible, like a ghost. Losing your best mate turned you silent, refusing to attend lessons and since Aemond was your source for solace, had turned to seeking shelter at the Sept. It was the easiest way to avoid everyone - mostly Aemond.

He had shunned the religion the older he got, though respected his mother's devotion to it in trying times. He couldn't remember the last time he was in the Sept... So, it was perfect for you; a safe space.

You were no longer seen in the library - a once daily occurrence. If you ever wanted to read, you sent your ladies maid to collect content for you; but the drive to learn and read had abandoned you as swiftly as Aemond's loyalty. The stables grew cold in your absence, refusing to ride; something that troubled your uncle gravely. No longer did you take meals with family or Aemond, always seeking solitude to eat alone in your room or the physical kitchens; the Red Keep growing dark over your lack of sunshine - that had shone so brightly in the previous weeks. Even then, when you ate, it was in small quantities to only sustain yourself; mostly feeling nauseous when food was put on your stomach.

The first time Aemond saw you, you were returning from the Sept in a dress that reached close to your pulse point of your neck. He tried to get to you, but you slipped through the cracks of the Keep and disappeared when he dodged around a set of Kingsguard. Yet it was still a comfort to him to know you had left your room finally.

He knocked on your door about half an hour later, but like usual, you didn't answer.

"Rosie?" Aemond called, sighing. "I know you've not been feeling yourself, but, uh, tomorrow's Helaena's nameday. We're having dinner for her on the terrace..." He waisted, not hearing a single thing from within your chamber. "You're invited, as usual, petal. Your uncle said he'd attend, wanted you to know you're always welcome at our table."

But you didn't show up, you couldn't bear to see any of them.

You didn't eat that night, you were far too anxious and spiteful against yourself that you refused to allow yourself to indulge in celebrating your companion.

Despite withdrawing, you still heard rumor of all the matches being made and the courtships established through your ladies maid. A cord struck in your gut when you heard the couples you had bet upon were public and engaged, but so were Aemonds... Which meant you both won; and if things were different, would mean a flight on Vhagar to visit Highgarden. On nights of merriment, you would sit alone in the Godswood sometimes; attempting to connect to the Old Gods, but they never spoke back. They never connected with you.

Tonight, you were under the blood red leaves in earnest curiosity; quiet, just as you had been since the day you found out Aemond's betrayal and discouraged your uncle from making a match. It was there Elvin found you, frowning as he took a seat beside you in the grass.

"The Old Gods do not speak to me," Elvin offered softly.

"Nor I," you whispered.

"Yet I always feel at peace here," he nodded, sighing deeply. "I must ask you something, honey girl."

"Hmm?"

"Do you... Do you wish to depart? From King's Landing, I mean?" He questioned. "I ask because I intend to ride for Highgarden, your father's nameday nears. Your mother intends to throw him a grand celebration, since turning 50 seems such a milestone."

"You ride for home?"

"Tomorrow morning."

You paused, then answered, "I would like that... There's nothing left for me here."

Aemond's words had done irreparable damage, making you feel worthless and alone. Bitter. Damaged and unworthy of any such match; forever worrying if your best friend could harbor such ill will and hatred for you, surely, a husband would as well. Yet you were not new to being a woman; you knew the role you were to play, how marriage was strategic and calculated. Political. You could be a wife, you were so sure of it; but would you ever feel worthy of love? You feared you never would.

"We will stay a few weeks."

"I don't know if I would like to return, Uncle."

He offered a sad smile, "I figured as much. But should you want to, feel able to, you may return. You, my sweetling, are always welcome at my side."

You leaned into his shoulder, sighing softly. "I should thank you," you whispered in the wind.

"For what?"

"For taking care of me all these years," you lifted off him to meet his eyes. "You didn't have to, but you wanted to... And you've shown me a father's love when I thought it gone from my life. Thank you, Uncle."

He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, humming, "Don't tell the others but you were always my favorite. I consider it a great pleasure to raise such a gorgeous young lady - and I mean that, honey girl. Inside and out. Now," he pulled back and found his feet, offering his hand to you, "come, we've packing to complete."

"Of course."

However, while in the midst of packing, you felt a jolt in your heart. This had been your home of a decade or more; these people were who you grew and learned with. Who influenced your life in the best and worst of ways; they did not deserve to read your praise and thanks for friendship in a letter... So, you swung a cloak on and ventured out of your room.

Otto was first since he was the easiest to say goodbye to. He was gracious of your parting words of thanks; telling him how much you appreciated his wisdom and riddles.

Aegon was next. He insisted you share a last goblet of wine together - since you did not intend to delay your parting. It turned into a bit of a drinking game with his mates, but you didn't mind; far too used to the company of these debaucherous lechers. Dare you say, you enjoyed yourself.

Helaena was after, your words harder to say as your emotions strangled you. She was a sweet girl, an endearing companion, constant and dependable, albeit a bit strange and unorthodox. But you loved her all the same and cried tears of sadness when hugging her tightly as a last ditch effort to convey your gratitude for her authentic and generous friendship.

You only offered Ser Criston Cole a soft, "Farewell."

Alicent was perhaps hardest to say goodbye to. After Aemond, you were probably closest with the matriarch and found her wisdom and lessons a privilege to learn. She was kind to you; usually with a stern hand, but that was because she could recognize the little girl you once were who missed her mother tremendously. She introduced you to religion, another common bond. She encouraged you, supportive and curious; sharing affinity for the histories, often reading to one another for moments of peace.

Saying goodbye to Alicent hurt. You both shed tears of sorrow, the Queen wishing you the very best and insisting you return for her nameday and other celebratory events. She told you to write, told you to keep in touch; insisting if and when a match was made, to invite her since she would love to attend your wedding. Truly, Alicent considered you one of her own and to know you were departing in pain wounded her.

King Viserys was last. He was already in bed, half-asleep, a Maester at his side; but still, he accepted your audience. You thanked him for his hospitality and kindness - especially to your uncle. You thanked him for hosting you, for allowing you residence at the Keep and the for the years living under royal privilege. You told him you'd not forget his generosity.

You returned to your chambers after that and finished packing. You didn't sleep.

When morning broke, you stood in the courtyard with Elvin; packing the wagon you would use, your horse tacked and waiting as you both intended to ride. Alicent and Helaena came to see you off, hugging you tightly one last time before the Queen offered you a handheld velveteen case. "Just a little something to remember us by," she smiled lightly.

"Oh, as if I'm in a hurry to forget you?" You mused. "My Queen, this is too much, I cannot accept."

"You have not opened it."

"I do not need to, I know you," you smirked. "Your leadership these years is enough gift, my Queen."

"I'm not taking it back, you might as well accept it," she insisted. "Helaena and I picked it out together..."

You lifted the case lid, blinking in shock and gasping lightly. There laid a gorgeous chain necklace of Valyrian Steel, a dragon pendant dangling from front with gems of bright emerald - surely a representation of the Hightower side.

"Thank you, Your Grace, my Princess," you breathed, closing the case and caressing it to your chest. "It's more generous than I deserve but will treasure for the decades to come."

Queen Alicent nodded and pecked your forehead, leaving you alone with Helaena to speak with Elvin. The moment her mother was gone, the Princess asked, "Did you say goodbye to Aemond? I'm surprised he's not here."

"No," you spoke softly, "I cannot, Helaena, it is too painful to even look at him - let alone share words of parting. I have nothing left to say, no more words for him."

She frowned, "You know... I don't think he meant what he said. He says things he does not mean when anxious or feeling as if he's cornered."

Your head cocked, "What? H-How do you know what's been said?"

"I saw it - in one of my dreams."

You sighed, "I know you mean well - "

"I just do not wish for you to think that is his honest opinion about you."

"If it wasn't, he would not have spoken so loudly for so many to hear. Your brother has never sounded so sure, Helaena, I do not wish to relive it."

She sighed and nodded, "Will you write?"

"Every week," you promised, the two of you meeting foreheads and breathing as one. "Take care of yourself, Helaena."

"You, too, Rosie," she smiled, letting you depart. Alicent clipped your new necklace in place and gvae you a final hug, watching you mount your horse, stare at the pair for a moment longer, then follow your Uncle Elvin out of the courtyard.

As you rode down the streets, Aemond came sprinting out of the Keep in a blind panic after running into Aegon in the hall. Normally, Aemond wouldn't have bat an eye at his hungover brother, but he had said something about you drinking him under the table and demanded to know what Aegon meant. Upon hearing you had "left", Aemond sprinted to your bed chambers and didn't even knock - just burst in.

Never before had the Prince felt such anger as when he learned you had left King's Landing without saying goodbye. Without a single word to him - as if the past decade+ hadn't meant anything! He needed to know, Aemond needed to see for himself the truth because surely, someone was mistaken. His brother, surely still drunk and misremembering because there was no possible way you could've left! Not without Aemond! Not without a word! He refused to believe it.

He panted, tears gathering in his eye, finding your room bare and stripped. Aemond's breathing picked up in panic, hands shaking as he stepped into your room; looking, desperately, for any sign of life. But there was nothing... Nothing, save for a letter addressed to him left on your table with the ruby necklace he gifted you for your 18th nameday.

Gingerly, Aemond reached out and plucked up the necklace. He frowned, petting the jewels in disbelief; noting the way a few were missing, some loose - evidence of your anger. Slowly, Aemond sunk into a chair and with the necklace still in hand and his heart hammering in his chest in a rattle, opened your letter.

Aemond ― I know you'll be the one to find this, of that, there's no doubt. Sooner or later, you will learn of my departure and come looking, and for that, for being unable to say anything in person, I am sorry. Though this might come as a shock, it shouldn't as I would hate to give you the satisfaction of being right by burdening you with a desperate goodbye. I would hate for you to think I am clingy, even after our friendship died. So, I figure a letter is better than nothing. Goodbye, Aemond. Though all a lie and dedicated ruse, thank you for the years of friendship. You made time in the Red Keep pleasant enough. ― Rosie

Aemond sprinted to the courtyard, flinging open doors and shoving past patrons; desperate to find you, understanding you overheard him all those weeks ago and needing to apologize. He needed to explain himself, the confirmation now that Aemond was the cause of your pain and reclusion? His heart was about to burst. He skidded to a halt in the dirt, turning left and right and in a circle as he realized the gates were open and you were not in sight.

"Aemond?" Helaena questioned softly, Alicent taking to her side. "Brother?"

"Wh-Where is she?" He panted. "Rose - Rose - Rosie, where is she? Where is she!?"

"She's gone, Aemond," Alicent frowned, shaking her head slowly; startled by his desperate tone, "gone with her uncle back to Highgarden."

"When? When? When did they leave!?"

"She's gone, brother," Helaena snipped, sending him a look of disappointment; ears ringing from her dream, repeating what he had said to you.

Aemond swallowed harshly, asking his sister, "She heard me, didn't she? I know you know, Helaena, please, tell me. She heard me?"

The Princess nodded and walked away, the One Eyed Prince turning to his mother in desperation and for the first time in 10 years, perhaps more, he collapsed in her arms. Emotion clawed at his chest and into his throat, starting to tremble, sniffing heatedly; his mother's arms tight and comforting.

"I love her," he whispered.

"I know," Alicent answered, "but she should've been the one you told." A pause and her hand lifted to caress the back of his head, just like when he was a child. "It's too late now, Aemond. She's gone."

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

does this count towards the Clingy Baby collection? since Aemond technically calls her clingy amongst other things?

[niofo]

writers be like, i can fix him! *gives him pneumonia* *has him lose a limb* *has him almost drowned* *has him barely avoid execution* here, fixed.

[loveisanimaginarydagger3000]

Angst Prompts/Dialogue that hurt

(Not all of these are my quotes. I found some of them over various platforms and just wanted to make a collection for writers to use, so if anyone knows where they are from please comment them so I can credit them) 

---

“I don’t think I could love anyone the way I loved you.” 

“And they smiled, maybe not at me but, after all this time they still smiled, so I’ll smile too.” 

“We tried so hard to not be torn apart. But, at the end of it all, we both wanted something different. I wanted you and you…You didn’t want them to know.” 

“It’s not like you ever understood me anyway.” 

“They were like the two sides of a coin. Forged together but never facing the same direction.” 

“I’m tired of being broken.” 

“Where did we go wrong?” 

“You’ve never loved me, have you? It’s always been them.” 

“I love you (Character name), I always will but I just don’t think we were meant to be.” 

“Maybe in another lifetime we’ll get our happy ending.” 

“You were the reason I stayed. It’s just a shame I wasn’t yours.” 

“I wonder how it’s possible to hurt so much when there’s nothing wrong.” 

“Take care of them for me, please?” 

“I love you-” “No, you don’t. Please stop lying to yourself.” 

“Is this goodbye?” 

Want a part 2?

[zordanna]

Yes teach I’m listening *proceeds to draw hurt comfort sketch*

[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

Keep Moving Forwards, Part 1

Azriel x Reader Fic

Summary: After finally deciding to leave your abusive and manipulative mate for good, you find unexpected companionship with Azriel, the Shadowsinger of the Night Court. As you navigate the aftermath of your traumatic relationship, you struggle to understand where the mating bond went wrong and contemplate your path forward, vowing never to return to the past.

Find other parts here: Master List

To follow this fic, follow that "Keep Moving Forwards Fic"

Content Warning: This story contains depictions of extreme emotional manipulation and abuse, mentions of physical abuse, loss of a child, and general trauma.

Word Count: 4.3k

Author's Note: This is the first part of what I anticipate will be a multi-part series. Unlike my previous works, this fanfiction delves deeper than just fluff, exploring complex emotional landscapes. As I navigate this new writing journey, I kindly ask for gentle feedback. The topics addressed are profoundly impactful, touching many lives with diverse experiences. Please be gentle with yourselves and others. Healing is a journey, and everyone processes it differently. Be kind to yourself. Take what resonates, and leave what doesn’t.

Please continue reading being aware of the above content warnings, ensuring you are in a healthy headspace. Give yourself time to process and be gentle with yourself.

Keep Moving Forwards, Part 1

There would be no going back. You had promised yourself that. As you stepped out of the cabin door, you vowed not to look back, not to turn around, not to wish for what was. You would move forward, one foot in front of the other, into the world. Yet, as you crested the first hill, your heart clenched, and tears welled in your eyes, a sudden and overwhelming loneliness gripping you. You shook your head, dismissing the thought. What could possibly bring you back to that place? A place where everything hurt constantly, and the only safe refuge was sleep—where even then, he invaded your subconscious.

You wouldn’t go back. Not this time. Not like the last time.

Pushing the tears down, you took another step forward. The companionship of the night, lit by the full moon, felt both lonely and liberating. You adjusted your pack and pulled your oversized, worn leather jacket tighter around your torso as you silently crept through the forest.

It wouldn’t be morning for a few more hours, and if you kept moving, you would cross the river while it was still dark. You had a plan and a general idea of where you were heading, but at the time you made this plan, your only thought was to get as far away as possible. To put as much distance as you could between yourself and the old, rotten cabin that had been your home for the past fifty-three years.

The moonlight made the trees seem farther apart, and you felt exposed. Glancing over your shoulder, despite the hill and the fallen trees and boulders between you and the cabin, you imagined you could still see smoke rising from the chimney. You quickened your pace.

You hoisted yourself over a fallen log, the moss soft and forgiving under your fingertips. The new spring air was beginning to overtake the cold of winter, and the damp scent of rain filled your nose. You had loved spring—or at least you used to, fifty-three years ago. Now, you couldn't remember what you loved or who you would be when you finally made it away. But you would make it away. You would not go back. Not for anything. No matter how much he begged, no matter how much he cried, no matter how much you ached to return.

Hours passed as you continued your trudge through the woods, your legs growing more tired with each step as you carefully descended the mountain. You lost your footing twice, but quickly regained your balance, careful not to make a sound. You wouldn’t stop moving, not until you had crossed the river.

As the night sky shifted from deep blue to purple, and the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, you heard the rushing of the river and quickened your pace.

When you reached the clear waters of the Highlawn River, you stopped, tossing your pack onto the pebbled shore, and leaned down to drink from the cold, clean water. You dipped your hands in greedily, cupping them to your lips, when you caught sight of your reflection glaring back at you. As you sipped, your eyes traced the cut on your cheekbone. What had once been a wound was now only a trace of dried blood, just like the gash on your forehead. You splashed water onto your face, scrubbing at the blood caked on your skin. You scrubbed the area raw and red, as if washing it away would also erase the memory of what caused the bleeding.

Kneeling there, your face burning slightly from the cold water, you took a deep breath and let yourself feel alive.

You pulled your jacket back over your shoulders, catching his scent, which made you recoil, your heart racing and your stomach dropping. But you reminded yourself you were alone. He was not with you. He would never be with you again. You grabbed your pack and hauled it back onto your shoulder, then turned and wandered down the shore of the river, searching for the shallow, rocky crossing. When you reached it, you carefully tiptoed across, taking care not to slip into the nearly freezing water.

Once on the other side, you turned and looked back up the mountain you had just descended, squinting to see the cabin's roof that sometimes poked out when the leaves were down. You couldn’t find it. Not that you wanted to, but you just couldn’t help yourself.

He would be getting up soon. He would find your note. Would he run from the house calling your name? Would he cry? Would he rage, swearing what he would do when he found you? Would he hunt you down, sending birds flying from trees and animals racing for their burrows? Or would he stand there in silence, reading the note, his green eyes calm and collected, before starting the kettle for his tea?

You hoped you would never find out. You turned again and walked farther into the deeper woods. You would not come back. You would live. You would live your life. You would survive this, just as you had survived the last fifty-three years.

As the early morning turned warmer and the sun rose higher, heating your hair and sending warmth radiating down your body, you removed your jacket, tying it around your waist. You continued wandering through the deeper woods, determined to reach the tavern, a day's walk away. Despite your legs burning and aching for rest, you kept moving forward. You would always keep moving forward.

The trees of the Night Court, now blooming with spring flowers, cast shadows on the forest floor. The sun's warmth on your face was both comforting and energizing. Morning shifted to afternoon, and afternoon into evening, and by the time you saw the tavern lights, you were nearly crawling with exhaustion. A renewed sense of energy hit you, and you made your way across the field, nearly running as you pushed open the creaky wooden door.

You peered around the lively room, searching for an open table. The crowd chattered animatedly, downing beers and spirits, guffawing with friends. You hadn't been around this many people in a very long time. Almost giddy with excitement, you chose a table near the back of the tavern. Settling into the booth, a waitress promptly placed a cold glass of water on the table, which you downed before she could introduce herself. You ordered a plate of chicken and potatoes and allowed yourself a moment to breathe. Leaning back in your chair, you felt your spine relax and the ache in your feet begin to subside.

When your dinner arrived, you scarfed it down as quickly as you had the water, the grease of the meat making your lips shine. You wiped your face with your sleeve, not caring if you looked like an animal. When you inquired about a room, the waitress informed you there was one left, but it was connected to another room already rented. You considered sleeping in the woods but knew you wouldn’t rest well and still had miles to travel. So, you pulled a satchel of coins from your bag, paid for the room, and gave the waitress a few extra coins, asking her to deny anyone who might come in asking about you.

When you made your way up the creaking steps, the lights in the other rooms had already been turned out for the night as the other travelers rested their weary bones. You found yourself at the end of the hall, the light under your door still lit. As you unlocked it, you were quickly taken aback by the sight of a man sitting in a chair across from you. His feet were propped up on an end table, and he leaned back comfortably in an oversized armchair, a book in one hand while the other hand lazily traced his lips. He looked up quickly, closing his book. He wore only a pair of black linen pants, his tanned skin covered in various whirling tattoos, and his black hair tousled as though he had been running his hands through it repeatedly.

“Sorry, I think you have the wrong room,” he said, quickly putting his feet back on the ground.

You paused, taking a tentative step back. “Um, no, actually, I rented this room. The owner said that someone else was staying in the adjoining one, but I can go to that one if you’ve taken this one.”

The man rose to his feet, and you suddenly noticed the large wings tucked behind him. He was much larger than he had looked when curled into that chair. “No, please,” he said, gesturing to the room and moving toward the adjoining door. “I was just using this as a sitting room.” He picked up his book, his bare feet padding across the floor. Opening the adjoining door, he ducked his head, turned back to you, wished you a goodnight, and quietly shut the door.

You didn’t move until the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears subsided. You hadn’t spoken to a man in decades, and the first one you see is half-dressed, and you walk in unannounced. Shaking your head, you muttered to yourself before walking in and shutting the door behind you, pressing your back against the wood, resting your head on it, and closing your eyes. You had worked so hard all day to keep the bond shut on your end, willing it closed while he pounded on the other side, screaming to be let in. You had given yourself a headache doing so.

You threw your pack down on the floor, pulling off your sweat-drenched shirt and pants from the hike and tossing them over the chair the man had been lounging in before flopping down onto the bed, your head pounding.

________________________________________________________

The sun beamed down onto your face as you squinted, eyes still shut as you rolled over in bed, groaning softly. You inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of the burning fire, the heavy wetness of the April woods, and the scent of spruce and sage. Your eyes opened, and you found yourself staring at the log wall, the window above it slightly open with sheer linen curtains fluttering in the wind. The quilt you had spent months making was balled at your feet, kicked away in the night as the pre-summer air seeped in through the open window. Your hair was plastered to the sides of your face with sweat.

You sat up, your cotton nightgown sticking to your torso, the lace scratching lightly at your skin as you rubbed your neck and eyes. The cabin air was slightly damp; it must have rained last night. Planting your feet on the hard wood floor, you looked across the room to see a small wooden cradle. Walking towards it, you tied your hair up with a ribbon from the window sill and leaned in to see your tiny babe, still sound asleep. You smiled down at them, brushing your fingers over their soft cheek as they softly gurgled. They were perfect, angelic, with your nose and lips, their tiny hands curled into loose fists beside their head as they slept on their back. Even in just their cloth diaper, the heat of the morning had made their cheeks red and their skin slightly damp as you continued to run soft lines down their face. Perfection. They were perfection.

The morning dove cooed its melody as the world around you seemed perfectly soft and hazy, as though all the colors were muted and edges somehow rounder. Then you heard it, the soft crying from the main room of the cabin. The babe stirred slightly but remained asleep as you looked through the open door to the living room. You glanced back at your perfect babe, still sound asleep, and then lightly stepped through the bedroom, trying to peek around the corner of the door without making the floorboards creak.

You stopped at the threshold, placing one hand delicately on the frame as you peered out. He was sitting there, on the couch he had carved for your 120th birthday, the blanket your mother gave you draped over the back. The window next to the front door was shattered in a moment of blind rage many months ago that he still hadn’t fixed.

He sat there, his head in his hands, sobbing quietly. The wet inhales and exhales formed a rock in your throat as you stood there, still as a deer. His head jerked up, and he turned to look over the back of the couch at you. His eyes were red, bloodshot, and he sniffled back another sob.

“Why would you do this?” he asked, his voice a breathless sob. “Why would you leave me?”

You said nothing, eyes wide in shock, seemingly frozen in place. The only movement in you was your heart, beating faster and faster. You worried he could hear it. Your hands and feet went numb, and you felt every twitch in your body as you tried to keep still. Your mouth parted slightly to speak, but before you could get a word out, he was standing, walking over to you, the heavy sound of his footsteps echoing in your head, pounding through the cabin until he stood in front of you. You took a step back, hands flying upwards to block the doorway.

He wrapped his arms around you, his large frame towering over yours as he sobbed into your neck. “We can fix this, baby,” he cooed into your ear, still sobbing. His height lifted you from the ground, rising to stand on your tiptoes as he continued to plead. “Just come home, baby. Come home. We can make this right.” Your arms slackened at your sides as he held you up. You swallowed the lump in your throat, unsure if you were going to scream or vomit as everything inside you burned. “Just come home,” he whispered again into your ear, his hot, wet breath streaming down your back as his tears glued your hair to your face. He pulled back to look at you, releasing you back to the floor. His green eyes peered into yours, searching for a response—the response he wanted. He leaned down to kiss you, and in a moment of bravery, you stepped back. He reached for your arm to pull you back, and you took another step backward, your hands behind you.

“Baby,” he managed to get out, but the sound of his voice, broken by sobs, no longer echoed through your mind. Instead, it was a warning. He took a step toward you, reaching out. He grabbed your wrist, which you tugged free. He took another step, reaching for you.

“No!” you shouted as he grabbed for you again. Your voice barely above a whisper, “I won’t come back.”

He stopped, his hand still extended toward you as his face twisted in anger. His mouth curved into a catlike smile, though his eyes darkened. “Where are you going to go, baby?”

You swallowed down the rock in your throat, your vision blurring as tears clouded your eyes. “I-I-” you stuttered.

He smiled at you again. “Where would you go?”

You took another tentative step back, your hands brushing the cradle, which rocked softly. Your babe cooed lightly, looking up at you with bright, brown eyes.

He peered over your shoulder at the babe in the cradle. “You want a baby? I can give you a baby,” he promised. “You just need to come home.”

You looked at him, your mouth hanging open, searching for words to shut him up. Words that would let you win. He reached for you again. “Where will you go where I can’t find you?”

You turned, grabbing the babe from the cradle, picking up their blanket with them. In the frantic motion, the babe let out a wail, but it didn’t stop you. You pushed past him, dashing through the living room, past the broken window, and down the steps. Your feet barely registered as you pounded through the front grass and headed into the woods, your babe pressed to your shoulder, crying out. As you hit the treeline, you turned to see him standing on the porch, his arms crossed, the catlike smile still inching across his face.

You tore through the woods, careful to hold your babe's head to your neck, trying not to trip over roots and branches, panting out wild breaths as the woods crashed around you.

As your babe let out another piercing wail, you found a hollowed out log that you crouched down in, trying to shush the screams. You rocked, hushed and pressed soft kisses into their temple as your heart continued to beat wildly in your ears. From behind you, you could hear branches and twigs snapping as he made his way towards you. Where would you run? Where could you go? Where can you go he wouldn’t find you? As your mind races you suddenly realize the babe has gone quiet and your arms are light, you look down and in your arms you hold an empty white blanket. A sob escapes you as you search around frantically for your babe, a wail crosses your lips as the sounds of the branches get louder and louder, you fall to the ground screaming as the sounds of him calling your name mixed with your pounding heart flood your head. It’s all gone. Everything is gone. 

________________________________________________________

“Hey! Hey!”

Your eyes shoot open, and the room around you is pitch black. You hurl in a heavy breath, wheezing out a cough, sweat pouring down your face and back as you scream, but no sound comes out. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you see moonlight streaming in from the window, tears blurring your vision, and the silhouette of someone yelling at you, their hands pressed onto your shoulders.

You rip their hands off, kicking back to ball up in the corner of the bed, pressed into the wall, ragged breaths tasting of iron in your lungs. You pull your legs into your chest, eyes wide and frantic. The figure in front of you is the male from earlier, sitting on his knees, his wings tucked behind him and his hands up, showing he means no harm.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, “It’s okay.” But it doesn’t feel okay. Everything is on fire.

You shake your head, snot running down your face, your lips quivering as you try to form words that won’t come.

He shushes you quietly, lowering himself from the bed onto the floor. He slides closer, reaching out a hand, his hazel eyes filled with concern. You look down at his hands, scarred and malformed. You try to let out another breath, but it gets caught in your throat as you cough. His extended hand covers your foot, and you continue to fight down sobs and screams. He hushes you again, “You’re safe. You’re here. You’re right here.” He squeezes your foot lightly, the pressure somehow grounding you. Your screams fade, but the tears continue to stream down your face as you cry silently. He runs his thumb up and down the top of your foot, his eyes never leaving you. After a minute, he reaches out his other hand, and you reach back. His hand engulfs yours, squeezing gently, kneeling beside your bed as if in prayer. “It’s okay.”

As if the reminder shatters something inside you, your tears fall heavy and full as your body relaxes. “Everything is,” you start, “it’s so loud.”

He lifts himself from the floor, and you curl away again, pulling your hand back. Realizing your response, he slowly lowers himself back to his knees, reaching out again. You take his hand, and he presses it between his palms so it disappears completely.

“There are clouds rolling in. I can smell the rain,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Between sharp intakes, you can smell it too. A storm is coming.

One hand stays with yours as he runs his other over the blanket. “This blanket,” he says, pressing your hand to it, “is scratchy and wool, too hot for this season.”

You nod slightly, unsure of what he’s doing. He glances at the clock. “It’s a little past two in the morning.” He looks back at you, your hand pressed into the bed, his hand over yours. 

“Can I stand?” he asks, still whispering.

You nod, unable to speak. Slowly, he rises from the floor, which creaks beneath him. His movements are deliberate, raising both hands as he gets to his feet. “Can I sit down?” he asks, gesturing to the bed.

You nod, and he turns to sit next to you, his back against the wooden wall. He holds out his scarred hand again, and to take it, you have to scoot away from the wall. He takes your hand and runs his thumb up and down the back, his face now calmer. “You’re okay,” he reminds you.

Finally able to breathe more steadily, you wipe your eyes with your free hand, never letting go of his. He never loosens his grip.

“I’m-” you start, your throat raw, “I’m so sorry.”

He smiles lightly at you. “It’s okay. I was already awake.”

You look around the room, everything as you left it when you went to sleep, but the bed is a mess. Pillows have been ripped, and the sheets are strewn about as though a tornado had passed through.

You glance back at him and suddenly become aware that you’re only wearing your underwear. You rush to pull the blankets up around yourself, the wool feeling immediately too warm. The male reaches for the armchair and hands you your shirt, which you gratefully pull over your head, pushing the blanket off of you.

He looks at you again, his hazel eyes scanning your incredibly red, puffy face. “Has this happened before?” he finally asks.

You swallow and nod, licking your cracked lips. In truth, it had happened many times before, whenever you had run. In sleep, when the bond opened up, he wormed his way back into your mind and tormented you. You had replayed this scene so many times: you and the babe you wished you had, sprinting through the woods to get away, only to find the babe missing. Normally, he made it all the way to you and brought you back to the cabin, finding your scent and coming for you. But not this time.

You wipe another rogue tear from your eye, pushing the snot from your face where it pooled above your lips. You sniffle as he takes your hand again, rubbing soothing circles into the back.

“I really am sorry,” you say, the words coming out broken.

He just shakes his head. “Like I said, I was already awake.” Then he smiles slightly at you. “Are you okay?” he asks.

You nod, trying desperately to clean your face.

“I’m going to grab you a wash rag, okay?” he offers.

You shake your head. “That’s okay. You can go back to bed. I’m alright.”

He gives you a tight-lipped smile. “I’ve heard less intense screaming on the battlefield.” You look down, shameful. “Let me at least get you a washcloth.” With that, he stands slowly and makes his way to the washbasin, running a rag through the water and bringing it back to you. You look up at him, your eyelashes clumping together from the tears as he props your chin up and runs the cloth delicately over your cheeks and eyes, giving you a soft smile. When he’s finished, and the cool water has soothed the burning on your skin, he pushes your hair back behind your ear.

He hands you the cloth as he takes his place next to you on the bed again. You run the cloth over your face and chest as he watches.

Your head feels heavy, your body like you’ve run miles. Everything feels sore. You let out a sigh, wiggling your nose slightly as it finally clears.

“I am genuinely sorry,” you say, looking down at the bed, hands in your lap.

“And I genuinely don’t want you to worry about it,” he responds, chuckling slightly. “It sounds like whatever’s going on in your head is much worse than losing a few hours of sleep, if I was sleeping at all.”

You chuckle slightly as well, then look up at him. His eyes meet yours. It’s so strange. This whole interaction is very strange.

“Thank you,” you finally say.

He smiles at you, a genuine smile, laced with a tinge of pity.

“I think I’m okay now.”

He nods, his smile fading slightly. “Are you going back to sleep?” he asks.

You nod, even though you’re sure you’ll spend the rest of the night with your eyes wide open, too afraid to let your guard down again.

He slowly stands, reaching out to take the wash rag, which he brings back to the basin to wring out. He turns, looking at you again, and opens his mouth as if to say something but stops himself. He makes his way to the door of the adjoining room, still flung open from when he crashed through earlier.

“If it’s alright with you, I’m just going to keep this cracked,” he says, one hand on the door.

You nod.

“Just in case you need anything,” he says again, “not that you do, but,” he pauses and smiles, “for my sake.”

You smile, the dried tears on your cheeks making your skin feel tight, and chuckle slightly, “Sure.”

With that, he closes the door to a crack. You hear him through the wall as he crosses his own room, the rustling of blankets being pulled back and the creak of the bed as he lies down. You wait until it goes quiet before pulling the sheets back up, resting your head on the last pillow that isn’t shredded, and stare at the window, waiting for the sun to come up.

[espresso-ships]

Comforting your f/o 🌧🫂

Yes, being comforted by your f/o is nice, but...

Imagine comforting them

Especially if they're usually "the strong one" and always there for you, and rarely show their own troubles

Maybe they never talk about their feelings? Instead, they keep it all inside - until they have a storm of emotions within. Until they can't keep it inside.

Imagine being the one they open up to Being the one your f/o trusts enough to let it out - To be vulnerable, and real.

Imagine hugging them, holding them close in your arms - And feeling them squeeze you closer, never wanting to let go.

Imagine telling them it's ok, and saying: "I'm here for you. Always" Feeling how they slowly relax in your embrace, calming down from your reassurance.

Imagine taking care of them - Loving them.

They trust you and love you, and they appreciate you being there for them. You're one of the people they trust the most, one of the few that they open up to. You're the one the dare be vulnerable with, the one who's arms they want to be in when everything feels overwheling.

Imagine being the shoulder they cry on - Being your f/o's rock, and them being yours.

[Pro-ships DNI.]

[temis-de-leon]

Replaced MC AU/AU - V. 1

Characters: demon brothers, Diavolo, fem!MC and high school crush! male! NES (MC x NES)

Intro – gn!MC , fem!MC x fem!NES (Part 1) , male!MC x male!NES (Part 1 , Part 2)

Masterlist , about the NESs

CW: unrequited love, rejection, insecure demons, i refuse to let MC be a doormat, lesson 16 mentioned, my interpretations of the pacts, suggestive (kinda? i dont know), MC is down bad for NES, golden retriever NES, both MC and NES are in their 20s

There were two songs during the writing of this part: Rock Lobster and Girl With One Eye; do with that information what you will

.

Diavolo liked NES. What a fine addition to the program he was! Invested in his studies, clearly interested in the new world he had been suddenly thrown to and cooperative as an advisor whenever MC was occupied with other matters. Charismatic, polite and respectful, still acting with naiveness, but quickly adapting to his surroundings.

No wonder MC used to be in love with him.

That was a surprise for everyone, although he’d be lying if he said it was a pleasant one. Solomon had laughed at the turn of events, stating how lucky MC was finding NES years later. In hell, no less! And while that made everything easier in terms of getting to know the Devildom from a familiar face, seeing MC smile with that bashfulness whenever she crossed paths with NES wasn’t something none of them were keen on. 

Sending him to Purgatory Hall despite MC’s protests was the obvious choice. The House of Lamentation was already crowded and having MC share her room was both unnecessary and unfair; at least, that’s what Lucifer said.

Both of the angels’ and Solomon’s reports were as positive as they could be. Luke thoroughly enjoyed baking with him, Simeon described his company as delightful and the sorcerer was ecstatic when he announced that NES tried every single one of his dishes, which just proved his bravery and resilience. 

Diavolo liked NES, yes, but he’d like him even more if MC liked him a little less.

.

.

“So those are pacts?”

MC stared at NES, mouth dry and words stuck in her throat. She needed to blink, but she didn’t know how to do that without looking weird. Of course NES’s eyes had to look like that under the light of the fireplace. 

“MC?”

“Yes?”

He laughed and her heart skipped a beat. There wasn’t an ounce of malice in his voice, making her wish his soft smile was born out of the intimate bubble encasing them. If she focused enough, she could swear NES had a blush in his cheeks. If only that wasn’t due to the heat.

“The pacts, MC”

“Oh, yeah”

Could the earth swallow her if she was already in hell?

“They’re bonds I share with the brothers. Kinda like…”

She didn’t know what to say then. That she could command the brothers and they had no other choice but to obey her? He'd discover the true meaning of the pacts if he asked the right people, mainly Solomon, but it still seemed like a fact too vulnerable to share.

“It means she’s part of the family” a voice behind them intervened. “That she belongs with us”

MC jumped and turned around at lightning speed, drowning in embarrassment at the realization that she’d completely forgotten about Satan’s presence in the library. However, something in his words irked her mind. Did he want to say that? Or rather that she belonged to them?

“That’s nice, right?” 

She looked at NES, who was smiling despite the heavy silence in the air. Satan scoffed, no doubt in a mocking tone, and MC wondered with sudden ire how far she could go.

“Well, these are just two of them”

Mammon’s, covering the tip of her fingers in pure black with golden swirls; and Beel’s, dripping out of her mouth down the length of her throat.

“And where are the others? They look really cool!”

“Come closer, I’ll show you Satan’s”

Said demon snapped his book close, turning around with glaring eyes. MC ignored him and opened her mouth, letting herself enjoy NES’s presence so close to her body. There was ink in her tongue, drawing hard edges in the shape of a very elaborated arrow. NES stared at it in amazement, unconsciously grabbing MC’s chin and moving it side to side, up and down, to admire the tattoo better.

“Do you want to see the others?”

NES took his hand away, discreetly looking at Satan out of the corner of his eye.

“Would you…?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary” 

The blond glared at them and MC stared him down with a silent warning.

“I don’t think that’s your decision to make”

The tension was thick once again and MC sighed when NES looked away in awkwardness, but she couldn’t let Satan spoil what she wanted to be a nice date.

“Come with me to my room, NES, I’ll show you the rest of them”

He didn’t need any reassurance, taking his DDD and MC’s blanket with him before following her out of the room. 

The fireplace was still lit, but Satan felt unusually cold. 

.

.

“She invited him to her room?!” Asmo clutched his chest before covering his annoyance in fake saccharine words. “How daring!”

“Lucifer will be furious!” cried Levi trying not to drop his DDD in his drink, finally letting it rest on the table and keeping his trembling hands inside his pockets.

“Why didn’t you stop them?” 

Satan looked at Mammon in disbelief, sneering at his brother’s furious expression. 

“Do you really think I didn’t want to? She wasn’t exactly happy with me at the moment!”

“Well, no wonder! You cock-blocked her!” 

Levi screeched at Asmo with a horrified look in his face, tears already in his eyes and fingers fidgeting with his jacket’s zipper.

“She’s raising their intimacy levels at ultimate speed! She’s taking the shortcut! There’s no way a yucky disgusting otaku could compete with that!”

Asmo rolled his eyes, patting the sobering demon’s back.

“None of us can compete with that, Levi”

Everyone looked at Mammon in surprise, but he was staring at his fingers, completely defeated. 

“As much as it pains me to say this, Mammon is right”

“Oi! Have some respect for your older brother!”

“Shut up, you moron! I’m taking your side” speaked Asmo once again. He sighed and crossed his arms, hugging himself with sadness. “MC already made her choice. The only thing we can do is slow the process”

“Then we’ll do that”

Satan seemed determined, rejecting Mammon’s supporting touch when he leaned over his chair to grasp his arm. He got up and started to grab his things, stopping only when he heard Levi’s nervous voice.

“She’s already mad at you, Satan. Like… bosslike mad at you.”

“Do you really want to risk that?”

He refused to meet his brothers’ eyes, nor their fear, their empathy or their dejectedness. Without saying another word, he stepped out of Café Lament and set foot to the House of Lamentation.

.

.

MC loved the brothers. They’d become family, even with the death threats, the broken wall and the murder. They knew what she liked to do and eat and wear and they were more than happy to indulge in her wishes. 

But if they interrupted her time with NES one more time, so help me God, she’d give Hell a whole new meaning.

First it was Satan, sitting next to her in every class and cutting every attempt at a conversation with NES short in the name of a proper education. Then followed Belphie, who slept on the floor by her bedroom door, locking her inside and forcing her to jump out of the window, which gave everyone a heart attack. 

Lucifer mildly scolded them for that, stating himself above the poor behavior they were displaying, but still found multiple reasons for MC to be in his office for hours on end. Same as Levi, who pulled three all-nighters in a row and left her half-dead for a week. 

Mammon and Beel had been more subtle, both inviting her to movie nights, cooking sessions and shopping sprees. She only put a stop to all of the nonsense when Mammon tried to intercept her when she was on her way to a date with NES, excusing himself with a poor idiotic story about some angry witches. 

Strangely, the only one not to have a stupid scheme against her crush was Asmo. She almost expected him to be the most obvious about it, but nothing happened. He still did her nails and he helped her choose her outfits whenever she had a date with NES, albeit with a harsher critical attitude. 

He quickly became the nicest one to be around and she had no qualms in saying so.

“Oh, MC! You always know how to make me happy!”

“But it is true! I don’t know what’s wrong with the others! They’ve been acting so weird…”

Asmo stopped rummaging through her closet, turning around to look at her with an unamused expression. He looked tired.

“Honey… Surely you know. You must know”

They stayed in silence for a few seconds, both knowing that MC knew what he was talking about. All seven brothers had been interested in her to some extent, claiming ownership over her soul on more than one occasion, and this was the first time she’d rejected all those statements in such an obvious way. 

“We miss you, MC” 

Not the whole truth, but something neither of them could deny. 

“I miss you too”, she assured him. 

She could’ve left it at that, ending the raw, vulnerable talk in a positive tone. Alas, things weren’t always that easy. 

“But I like him. So, so much”

MC didn’t want to cry, but she was close. The dejection in Asmo’s eyes lasted long enough for her to almost regret knowing NES for so many years. In the end, he hid himself amongst her pile of clothes and continued looking for a good outfit.

“I’ll find time for you, I swear. For all of you”

Asmo nodded without looking at her, ending the conversation when he threw some clothes in her direction and waited for the mandatory catwalk. 

It wouldn’t be enough, but it was the best the brothers could ever get. After all, if someone deserved to be happy and in love, it was her.

.

.

.

Taglist: @stfuchaase @k1-an @megs-wonderland @kkeromenoo @va109 @marvelous-maniac @cruzerforce4256 @blarsh @marathedemonoverlord @junni-berry @arylleb @b-a-m-2006

[tkwrites]

Can I Come See You? - Quinn Hughes x OFC

gif from gabelandeskog

Title: Can I Come See You?

Author: Tory / @tkwrites 

Relationship: Pre-established: Quinn Hughes x Sarah Roberts

Summary: After a rough game, Quinn seeks out comfort from Sarah. 

Warnings: some suggestive themes, swearing, other than that, it’s 98% fluff.

Word count: 4,600

Comments: I know I’ve been teasing the family reunion snapshot for a while now, but with all the heavy emotions September brings, I just haven’t been able to finish it. When this ask came in, I started writing right away, wanting some comfort myself. I’ve loved revisiting the beginning of Quinn & Sarah’s relationship while writing this Snapshot. 

Thank you, thank you, and thank you gain for your support and love! I have found such a lovely community here, and I’m so thankful. Even in this radio silence while I’ve been slogging through my grief, everyone has been so kind and supportive.  

If you enjoyed this Snapshot, please consider commenting, reblogging, or sending in an ask about it. I love seeing what you think of Quinn & Sarah’s latest adventures.

Anonymous asked: Quinn gives cuddler energy 1000000% After a game, especially when they played bad and lost/gave up a lead. Immediately wanting Sarah cuddles to make him feel better. Do you think he ever went to hers after a game, giving Eunice a heart attack in the early days. Or did they mostly hang at his?

Can I come see you? 

A Quinn & Sarah Snapshot

If it wasn’t a Friday night, he wouldn’t have even asked. But it was, and he knew Sarah didn’t have to be up early the next day. And they’d lost. Epically. 

Midway through the third, they’d given up a three goal lead. On a power play no less. He’d, thankfully, only been on the ice for one. He didn’t know what he’d do if he’d given up more than one short handed goal in a two-minute span.

There was another game the next day, the third in four days, and he knew he really should go home and go to sleep. But Toch had canceled practice the next morning, and he was upset and feeling restless and just wanted to see her. 

It had been a long time since he’d felt this longing to be with someone and actually had someone he could go to. He called his parents, but there was still a gap there, telling him something was still missing. He wanted a more physical kind of comfort.

It was a miserable night, and Quinn thought seeing Sarah might make him feel a little better. He’d never asked her something like this. Hoping she wouldn’t mind, he fired off a text.

Sarah was in her room after the game – after an awful game – when Quinn texted. 

Can I come see you? 

Her heart leapt into her throat.

Quinn had never sent a text like this before, and she wasn't totally sure what it meant.  

He wouldn't come here to initiate comfort sex, right? That would be crazy. Her roommates were home. 

Maybe he just wanted…she had no idea what he wanted, but he'd respected every boundary she'd thrown at him so far, so she responded. Sure. Let me know when you’re here, and I’ll come let you in. 

Though they hadn’t slept together yet, she was thinking about it a lot, and they'd made out. She'd even let him take off her bra a few days before. Just thinking about that night — the reverent way he'd touched her, like she was a priceless piece of art, and the croaked, pleasured noise he’d groaned into her neck when their dry humping culminated in him coming in his pants — still made her thoughts buzz.

He asked for her address. 

She’d forgotten he’d never been to her apartment before. Not inside, at least. He’d dropped her off several times, but it was always at the end of a date, and at least one of her roommates was usually home, so it’s not like she would invite him up. Also, it seemed silly to go from his lovely penthouse to inviting him up to her little apartment. If they were going to do anything, it wouldn’t be here. 

My roommates are home, just so you know, she sent, not wanting to set unrealistic expectations. 

He reacted with a thumbs up. 

Normally, she would warn them she was having someone over, but telling Eunice Quinn was coming over would only give her more time to wind herself up. So Sarah stayed in her room until he texted that he was downstairs and slipped by her roommates without giving an explanation. 

When she opened the large glass door to her building, he was standing off to the side, hands shoved in his pockets and his head hanging forward, as if it were just a little too heavy to hold up. 

“Hey,” she said quietly, not wanting to startle him.

He still jumped a little, but when he met her eyes, he smiled — genuinely — as if he was just glad to see her. 

Her heart fluttered.

“Come on in.” Taking his hand, she pulled him into the elevator, which was, thankfully, still on the ground floor. They only went up five levels before she got off and led him down the hall, and scanned through door 538. 

Her roommates were on the couch watching an episode of Friends. 

They looked over, and one of them yelped before slapping her hand over her mouth. She continued to make muffled noise, her wide eyes darting between Quinn and Sarah. 

“This is Quinn,” Sarah introduced, though it felt perfunctory. They both knew who he was. “And this is Eunice,” she said, gesturing to her, “she’s a big fan and a little bit excitable.” 

Quinn recognized her. She was the one who screamed when he’d knocked on the glass at Sarah’s first game. Her brown hair, which was more frizz than curl, was pushed back with a headband. She was still wearing a jersey – Petey’s, thankfully – from watching the game. 

“And this is Jane.” 

She was tall and willowy, with pale eyes and a thick, dark blonde braid. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Jane said, standing up and offering her hand to shake.

Quinn grasped it, managing to pull a smile onto one half of his mouth. 

Eunice stood and followed suit, though he got the distinct impression that were they anywhere else with anyone else, she would be asking for a hug. “I can’t believe you’re in our house right now.” Her voice actually squeaked when she said it. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” he said, not quite managing to pull full sincerity into his voice. Though he did feel it, he was too tired and too miserable to mask the disappointment. 

Eunice finally seemed to get over the shock of Quinn Hughes being in her living room. Leaning her butt on the armrest of the couch, she said, “tough break tonight.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. 

“Here, we can go in my room.” 

When Sarah’s hand slipped into his, his heart did an embarrassing little flutter. Hoping it didn’t show on his face, he followed her down the hall. 

He'd forgotten what it was like to move into a blank slate of an apartment. All the places he'd rented since moving to Vancouver were furnished, including curated, so-neutral-it-wasn’t-interesting artwork. Sarah’s apartment looked like a home - framed photos and unique paintings on the walls. 

Her room was simple. There was a full bed tucked under the window that overlooked the street and a desk. There wasn’t room for much else. A quark board above her desk was filled with photos of who he assumed was her family. Half a dozen babies with her same bright blue eyes or chocolate colored hair. He noticed the warm up puck he'd given her sitting on her desk, bracing the pages of a textbook open to an anatomical drawing of a seahorse. 

She sat on the bed. It was either the bed or her office chair, and they couldn't both fit on the chair.  

“What's up?” she asked after a minute or so of him looking around her room, his hands in his pockets. He was in his suit, a rain jacket over it against the wet, misty night, and had a knit hat pulled over his hair.

His eyes snapped to her. Something about seeing her in leggings and a loose t shirt, sitting on her blue and green patchwork quilt, made him ache. Longing bloomed in him to see her this comfortable somewhere where they could be together. Not together like this; together permanently. The thought stuck in his mind. Had he ever felt that way about someone before?

“I just wanted to see you,” he admitted, shoulders dropping.

“Oh.” The sincerity in his voice took her by surprise. The fact that he wanted to see her on a hard night sent a giddy, effervescent shiver through her. 

She patted the mattress, and relieved, he sunk down next to her. 

Sarah pulled his rain jacket off, throwing it over her office chair before asking, “this too?” as her fingers tucked under the collar of his suit coat. 

Usually, he would have shrugged it off as soon as he'd pulled away from the arena, but he'd been driving in the general direction of Yaletown, breathlessly waiting for Sarah’s reply.  

Nodding, he pushed his shoulders back so she could pull it off. 

She folded it much more deliberately than he usually did, matching the shoulders and making sure the arms were flat before draping it over his jacket. 

“You okay?” she asked, her hand traveling up and down his back. 

Her gentle touch and the sound of her voice sent a pang of relief through him. 

Experiencing Sarah sharing her emotions with him so openly somehow made it easier to reciprocate and trust she wasn't going to dismiss his or throw them back in his face later. 

He shook his head.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don't even want to think about it,” he said, leaning forward and raking his fingers into his hair.

Not quite sure what he meant, her hand paused on it’s journey smoothing over the soft material of his dress shirt. 

“Can we…” he glanced over at her. In the light from her desk lamp, his eyes were the color of cognac. “Can we lay down?”

Her lips pursed. It wasn’t that they hadn’t cuddled before. They had, but she still wasn’t exactly sure what it was that he wanted. 

“I just want to hold you,” he finally admitted. The vulnerability of saying it out loud knotted his stomach.

Her heart did a giddy little dance in her chest, and she barely held herself back from asking, really?  

“Sure,” she said instead, although it still came out a little breathy. “You've gotta take off your shoes, though.” 

As he toed off the sneakers, she scooted back, so she was laying nearest the window. 

He lay next to her. They stayed that way, side by side for a minute before Sarah asked, “how do you...?”

Extending his arm, he patted his side, inviting her to snuggle into him. She accepted readily, pressing her body to his. Really, he wanted her to hold him, but he felt a little too vulnerable to ask for that. 

A deep sigh let go as her hand rested on his chest. It had taken more than six months for him to feel this comfortable with June, for him to even think about asking her for comfort.  It was amazing to him that things with Sarah were so much easier. 

“What do you need?” she asked, tracing one of his buttons. 

Emotion threatened to choke his reply. Taking a moment to swallow it down, he tried to remember the last time someone had asked him that not related to improving his on-ice performance. Nothing immediately came to mind.

“Can you just talk?”

“About what?”

“Anything. Tell me about your roommates.”

“Well, Jane is a pediatric nurse. She works in the BC Children’s ER.” 

He let out a low whistle. 

“Yeah. It’s a rough gig sometimes, but she really loves it. She's actually headed to work in a few hours.”

He glanced at his watch, “at midnight?” 

“She works a lot of graveyards. 3 to 3 or midnight to noon. She coaches a youth lacrosse league on the weekends.”

“Really?” He felt Sarah nod. “My mom played lacrosse. She put all of us in it, too.” 

“Did you like it?” 

He shrugged, “I like hockey better.”

“Good thing you stuck with it, then.”

A breath of a laugh escaped through his nose.

“And Eunice is studying biomedical engineering. She’s on track to get her PhD.”

“Really?”

“Why are you so surprised?”

“I don't know,” he shrugged. “She just seems so…I mean, excitable like you said.”

“Oh, she's just dedicated to everything she does. She has a 4.0. I think it'd actually be higher if the scale didn't stop there. She does everything like that, you know? Doesn’t matter if it’s school or being a fan. She’s always 110% in. I don’t think she knows how to do anything halfway.” 

He hmm’d.

Falling into a companionable silence, Quinn sighed. He’d been looking for this his kind of comfort with another person his entire life. The first time he’d really felt it was on their first date, and it was a revelation. Each time it happened since then, it became a little less awkward. They might well be on their way to sharing the kind of quiet moments he used to see his parents have. Sitting together on the couch reading, or folding laundry together, or watching TV, just happy to be with each other. The idea of it made his chest feel buoyant enough to float away.

“How did you meet them?” 

“Eunice was advertising for someone new to move in on the school housing board. Their old roommate, Jenny, was getting married. So, I met them and saw the place, and it just worked out.” 

“Just like that?” 

“I guess?”

“I’ve never done that before.”

“What?” 

“Interviewed to be a roommate. I’ve always lived with teammates.”

“Not all of us have a built-in best friend squad.”

He snorted, and Sarah smiled. 

They eased into another quiet moment, and Quinn felt his eyelids grow heavy.

“Do you need anything?” she asked. 

“Hmm?” 

“Like, do you need anything to eat?” 

“I ate at the arena,” he said, “but I wouldn't mind something to drink.” 

As she pushed herself up and he resisted the urge to pull her back down. “What do you want? I have water, cranberry juice, or Ginger ale. I have some rum if you need something stronger, or I could make you some tea.” 

“I can't have caffeine this late. It’ll fuck up my sleep schedule.” Truth be told, it was probably already fucked just by him being here, but he didn’t want to inflict any more damage. 

She smiled, “I have peppermint, or a caffeine free maple that's really tasty as a latte.” 

“That sounds nice.”

“Okay. Do you want milk or almond milk?” 

“Almond, please.” 

“You got it.” As she crawled over him to get to the edge of the bed, she leaned down to press a gentle kiss to his lips. 

His mouth was still buzzing when she left the room. 

Eunice came into the kitchen as Sarah was filling the kettle. “What are you doing?” she whispered as if Quinn might hear them from down the hall. 

“Making tea,” Sarah said in her normal tone. 

She could tell Eunice wanted to start interrogating her and pointedly looked the other way. She’d be happy to talk, but not while he was still here. Getting Eunice started on a conversation like that required a certain amount of commitment, and Sarah wasn’t willing to rehash the night until it was over.

She stayed in the kitchen, watching Sarah start the kettle on the stove and pour milk into the frother. 

“I can bring this to you when it’s done.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“Yeah. Go be with Quinn. He looked like he needed some time with you. I’ll be in in a few.” 

“Okay.” 

As she walked back down the hall, she heard Eunice mutter something about getting Quinn to play better tomorrow.

Sarah winced, wondering if he was ever allowed to be human before being an athlete. 

Quinn looked up from his phone when Sarah came back in the room empty-handed. “No tea?” he asked, hoping his tone came off teasing. It was surprising to him she could start something and not finish it. 

Leaving the door cracked open, she got back on the bed and crawled over him, “Eunice offered to bring it in. It takes our stove ages to boil water.” 

He pulled her into him as soon as she got to his other side. As she bounced against him, she giggled, and it dissipated some of the angsty weight he’d been carrying around since the game ended. 

She snuggled up to him again, working her left arm under his back. He arched until her hand brushed his ribs.

“That’s okay?” he asked, settling back down. 

“Yeah.”

Though half of it was tied up, he threaded his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck, then ran them through the soft strands. She made a contented little noise, so he did it again, just glad to be touching her. 

“Thank you for this,” he said, voice quiet. 

“For what?” 

“For letting me come over. For,” he moved so he could wrap his arm around her, squeezing her a little bit closer. 

“Hey, if cuddling makes you feel better, I’m always down,” she said, nuzzling her cheek into his shoulder. This kind of casual affection was what she missed most every time she broke up with all of her exes. Not to mention, she got so little physical touch being away from her family.

He chuckled, and it ended in a sigh. 

His free hand found hers, and he slotted their fingers together. 

“I really like you, Sarah.” 

“I really like you, too, Quinn,” she said, tipping her head back so she could see his face. From this angle, his nose was more pronounced. She had to resist the urge to pull her hand from his so she could run her finger down the ridge of it to feel the prominent bump. 

Sensing her stare, he turned his head, bringing their lips dangerously close. It only took a bit of stretching on Sarah’s part to bring them together. 

When he felt Sarah strain toward him again, he rolled onto his side to shorten the distance between them. Her hand stayed on his chest, and their kisses remained sweet, though the adjusted position allowed for a little more tongue, which he wasn’t mad about.

This was much softer than anything they'd done so far. It was nice to know they could just be here: not rushing to get undressed or into something more intense and physical. 

She loved this kind of lazy, slow kissing, but found it didn’t usually come until much later in a relationship, after all the first physical stuff was out of the way. To be kissing - making out without really making out - like this before they’d even had sex felt like a gift. Feeling his fingers run into her hair, bringing her face just that little bit closer to his Sarah sighed.

The way her chin moved in and out as they kissed, matching the rhythm of her tongue brushing his, lulled his body into a state of deeper relaxation than he’d felt all evening.

Pulling away just enough, she whispered, “you’re a really good kisser.” 

A zing of pleasure shivered through his brain and all the way down Quinn's spine.

 “Thanks,” he breathed, easing back to see her face. 

He gazed into her eyes for a few moments longer, trying to calm his thoughts. Once he was over the initial daze her compliment brought on, he realized he should probably say something else. Instead of blurting out the, I like being good for you, that popped into his mind, he said, “you make it easy to be.”

When she shyly thanked him as her cheeks pinked, he felt like he'd swallowed the sun. 

Unable to resist anymore, Sarah reached up to trace her finger down the bridge of his nose. “How did you break it?” 

“The first time, Jack punched me in the face in an intense game of mini sticks.”

“Mini sticks?”

“It’s like…” How did he explain this to someone who’d never played? “It’s like indoor, carpet hockey. You use these little plastic sticks and a ball, usually. We used to play in the basement. My mom talks about how we played so hard, we would shake the whole house.”

“That’s some serious competition if you’re getting your nose broken.” 

A breath of a laugh huffed out of him. “I deserved it. I was goading him on pretty bad, and he didn’t really know his own strength. I can still see the horror on his face when the blood started pouring.” 

She resumed stroking, her touch feather light and gentle, “how many times have you broken it?” 

“Three.” Quinn never thought he’d like someone touching him like this, but with Sarah, he found it comforting instead of irritating. It was like she just wanted to know every part of him. “The other two were pucks to the face.”

She winced. “That sounds painful. Those pucks are way heavier than I thought.” 

“It’s not fun,” he said. “Thankfully, the adrenaline is still pumping, so it doesn’t really hurt until after the game is over.” 

“You kept playing with a broken nose?” 

Nodding, he laughed, “they strap on a full face shield, and send you back out there.” 

An incredulous, protective look took over her face that Quinn instantly loved. 

“Don’t worry. They do concussion testing and reset it if it needs it before.” 

“That’s just…really?” 

He nodded.

“I keep seeing all these memes about how tough hockey players are, and I always thought they were kind of exaggerated.” 

“It’s a tough sport,” he said. “My goal is always to be swift enough on my feet to not get involved with the harsh stuff, but sometimes a puck just redirects, and bam, your nose is broken again.” 

The kettle whistled. 

As if by an unspoken rule, they pulled back from each other. Sarah’s hand dropped back to his chest. 

A minute later, Eunice gently hipped open Sarah's door, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs and the whole milk frothing machine. “I figured it would be easier for you to froth in here,” she said, setting the tray down on Sarah's desk. 

As she backed out of the room, she widened her eyes and quirked her brows a few times, giving Sarah a look that plainly said, you have a cute, famous boy in your bed, and we're going to discuss everything as soon as he’s gone. 

“Thanks, Eunice,” Sarah said through a tight smile, hoping Quinn hadn’t seen. 

“Sure thing,” she said before softly clicking the door shut.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a tea latte,” Quinn said as he rolled onto his back so Sarah could crawl over him again. The urge to pull her on top of him by her hips was so strong that he had to curl his fingers into the quilt. 

“Really?” she asked, plugging the frother into the outlet by her nightstand. 

He shrugged. 

The machine whirred to life.

“It’s good. I like it at night. The warm milk kind of puts me to sleep.” 

When it was done, she divided the creamy concoction into the two mugs and brought one to Quinn. 

“This is okay?” he asked, gesturing to the bed. 

“Yeah.” There wasn’t anywhere else they could go. If he spilled tea on her sheets, she’d just have him help her change them. 

Sarah sat opposite him, knees bent, her bare feet between his socked ones. 

Their eyes met over their mugs, and Quinn smiled. “This is really good, thank you,” he said, gently tapping her leg with his toe. 

“You’re welcome. I’m glad you came over.” 

“Are you still up for the game tomorrow?” 

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m planning on it.”

“And you’ll stay so I can take you home?”

She nodded. “Are you flying out again after that?”

He sighed, “yeah. On Sunday. We fly out to Dallas, play them on Monday, and then go to Colorado to play on Wednesday, and then I’ll be home for a week on Thursday afternoon.”

“I’m glad it’s not too long this time.”

“Me too.” A yawn split his face. He apologized, holding a fist over his mouth.

Shaking her head, Sarah said, “you’ve had a long day.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, downing the rest of the tea. “I should probably get home and get to sleep.”

While he pulled on his sneakers, Sarah set her latte aside and slipped on some sandals. 

Rain was pounding against the glass fronted lobby when they got downstairs. Looking down at herself, Sarah said, “I’d walk you to your car, but I’m not really dressed for it.”

Half of his mouth lifted in an indulgent smile, “that’s okay.” Gathering her against him, he breathed in the smokey smell of her perfume to fortify himself for the dash into the rain and the drive home. “Thank you again.”

Her hands slid under his suit coat, pulling him more tightly against her, “you’re welcome. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, pulling back to look into his face. 

“Tomorrow,” he agreed, leaning down to kiss her. They were in public, so he knew he shouldn’t linger, but he did anyway, savoring her mouth as the last thing he’d taste that night. 

“Let me know when you get home, yeah?” she asked when they parted. 

He nodded, and she watched him jog away before heading back upstairs. 

Eunice was waiting in the entryway for her and immediately grabbed her hand. “Tell us everything,” she said, excitedly pulling Sarah down the hall to the bathroom where Jane was re-braiding her hair for work. 

Before she sat in the hallway outside the bathroom, Sarah got her unfinished tea. As she sipped, she explained how he ended up there. 

Both women awed when she recounted Quinn telling her he just wanted to hold her. Eunice broke in when Sarah got to the part about making tea.

“Jane, it was so cute. I walked by, and they’re cuddling. Then, when I came back, they were kissing. Like that soft movie kind of kissing - it looked so dreamy. Then when I walked by again –” 

“Why were you walking by so much?” Sarah demanded. 

Eunice didn't even blush, “I had to get my blanket.”

“And it took you two trips to do it?” 

“I forgot what I was getting the first time and had to come back to the living room to remember.” 

“Right,” Sarah deadpanned. 

“Anyway,” she said in an over-exaggerated tone, “when I walked by again, she was petting his nose.”

“Oh my god,” Sarah exclaimed, “I am never bringing him over here again. He’s going to think you’re some kind of psychopathic stocker for walking by all the time.”

“Oh, he had no idea I was even there,” Eunice said. “He was way too busy longingly gazing at you, Ms. Roberts. I don’t think he would have even noticed me if I was stomping down the hall like a t-rex.”

“He was pretty enraptured,” Jane said. 

“You too?” 

“I had to go to the bathroom. Mine was legitimate.”

“Oh my fucking hell,” Sarah moaned. 

“Why were you touching his nose?” 

“I asked him how he broke it.” Sarah smiled at the floor. “And I like his nose.”

Eunice snorted, “of course you do.” 

Cutting off Sarah’s incredulous look, Jane asked, “what was the best part?”

All of it, she wanted to say. The fact that he came over at all. That he just wanted to cuddle, the kissing… 

“He was really sweet. I told him he was a good kisser and he just looked into my eyes for a while before he goes, ‘you make it easy to be.’” 

“Oh my gosh,” Jane gushed, “really? That is such a good answer.”

“Will you just fuck him already?” 

Sarah let out a surprised cough, and Eunice continued, “I think he’s proven he’s not just in it for the sex.”

“I think I knew that from the start.”

“So why are you waiting so long to jump him?” 

“Eunice,” Jane admonished, “Sarah can take however long she likes to take that step.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eunice said dismissively, flapping her hands, “I just want to know what he’s like in bed.”

“Oh my god,” Sarah said, dropping her head into her hands. “I am never discussing my sex life with you.”

“Yes you will.” 

“No. I won't.” 

“You will,” Eunice said with a quirk of her brows. “You've told us everything else so far. I don't think you'll be able to resist.”

“You’re unhinged, you know that?” 

“That’s why you love me.”

Laughing, Sarah had to admit she was right.  

Want more Quinn & Sarah? Check out the Snapshots Masterlist

To read all my fics, check out the Fanfiction Masterlist

[the-midnight-blooms]

ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀᴛɪꜱᴛ'ꜱ ꜱᴛᴜᴅɪᴏ

pairing: painter!choi san x painter!reader

AU: historical au, joseon dynasty

word count: 10.5k

masterlist

I reach out to my lover, he’s trapped within a painting. The muse of a Renaissance artist- he’s so divine he may have even started the movement.

Her feet pattered down the cold floorboards, pushing through the salmun doors-the fabric of her purple hanbok bunched up in her palms. The midnight bloomed in the depth of the spring, where the cherry blossom trees roared with the wind. A captivating beam from the candle paved the way to the front doors, her heart lurching in her chest as she felt an enchanted soul beckoning her name; her vessel bowed in his essence as if the rapping of the door knocker was to the beat of her name, echoing every syllable. With her hand outstretched for the doors, she hauled it open finding a man whose eyes were squinting as the the coarse rain battered against his supple skin; his teeth chattering with the cold. With a brown leather bag sloped over the shoulder of his light yellow hanbok; hands gripped steely over the handle of his heavy cases. He was tall, with broad shoulders, she quickly discerned but his face almost seemed obscured by the dark clouds and the night slowly filtering into the star studded sky.

"Please, Miss, I'm here to see Mr Yim. I'm a new apprentice at the local government office." His voice was almost mellowed by the crash of thunder against the sky, which had them both flinching at its mercilessness. A surge of relief rested upon him as a slender arm in purple outstretched towards him; the warmth easing the shattering goosebumps bestowed upon his delicate skin. With a contented sigh, the figure in front raised the candle to his face; the soft glow illuminated his crescent eyes which bored into another's burgeoning with curiosity.

"Your name, Sir?" Her honey like voice, slid into his ears; lashes gently fluttering as he breathed in the sight before him the beaming light from the candle forging a halo around this angel. Her tight jaw and deadpan expression was immediately dissolved between the influx of enigma that flooded into her eyes.

"Choi San." Nodding diligently, she gesticulated for him to follow her to her father's study. The hallways of the Yim estate were particularly large, a few candelabras were perched on top of the drawers plastered across the panelled walls-the smoke infiltrating into the empty space. They graced the floor with minimal sound, as if there were ghosts traipsing the corridors rather than real people.

Stood outside the large door, she dipped her head in politeness as he gently caressed the lumber; soft knocks restituting off the walls. With the candle perched within a hand of his own, yet another door opened; the esteemed artist tumbled through the doorway into another life.

Just over two decades ago, on a winter night, where the trees were bare of crisp leaves and the ground was brazen with purest of snow; a couple sat by the fire in their bedroom: a new-born cherub encapsulated within her mother's arms. Mr Yim, the father of the child, was a member of a group of scholars who advocated the need for the government to foster commerce, industry, and technology. He was a part of one of the four schools of thought in Joseon that shifted from speculative theory to attending to more taxing socio-political issues. Therefore, despite being renown for his hard work, and steadfast nature, he was also known for being quite reserved- to put it nicely. There were no 'good mornings' or 'good afternoons' from Mr Yim. Nor were there dirty looks and unwelcoming mannerisms bestowed upon his acquaintances. He liked to keep to himself, Mrs Yim being the only woman in the world capable of seeing that man smile.

"Would you like to hold her, dear?" His wife called, the gentle babbling of his child sending a jolt of fear rushing through him. Eagerly, he dismissed the opportunity, to which Mrs Yim had sighed staring down at her beautiful daughter. "She is your daughter, too. You're going to have to hold her at one point."

"I'll hold her when she is a little older than what she is now."

"Before you know it, she will become a woman and you will reminisce all the opportunities you had to cuddle her when you could." Truthfully, Mr Yim was afraid of fatherhood; he never really understood the notion of it but if having a child would make his darling, Mrs Yim, happy then Mr Yim would give her all the children in the world. How could he raise a child when he was left to raise himself? What could he even teach except say to his daughter after every stumble, every mistake, every stutter, every cry for help but: 'find your way'?

Thus, his aloof nature extended to his daughter, who having been pinned by her mother's side until her unfortunate death, became wholly estranged from her father. He was no longer her mother's husband, but rather just a kind stranger who fed her, clothed her, kept her under his roof and gave her almost anything she wanted.

Miss Yim was rather bizarre.

Or at least, that's what the townspeople thought through her poignant introvertedness; maintaining scant friendships, rejecting all marriage prospects almost immediately preferring the confines of her large quarters-which in themselves were situated in the segregated division of the family home. Her rooms were not bright, but panelled with a dark wood that foremost created a dull atmosphere, there was minimal light other than what streamed in through the open doors and windows that overlooked the vast lawn. A porch ran around the whole building, where Miss Yim frequented, all year round, as she drew.

Oh! The most compelling thing about Miss Yim was that in contrast to her academic father, she had particularly excelled in the arts, often taking on commissions from local noblemen requesting venerated portraits of their wives. As well as the opportunity to put her skills to practise, she saw it as a way of putting a few extra pennies in her pocket. In alignment with her reserved nature, Miss Yim found that she preferred to draw using defined, darker mediums such as charcoal, ink and graphite pencils. There was something so true about the loneliness that could be felt from the intricate brushstrokes as the ink spilled across the page. As if the figurines were her, simply founded to be a mere prop in a large frame.

Smoothing down the hairs on her head, she snapped away her gaze from the mirror to the window overlooking the side of the garden, the silhouette of the hanok roofs, carving elegantly into the sky. The trees rocked and the grass rippled with the pending ferocity of the wind. Indeed, the storm would not subside within the next few days. The door to her bedroom slid open, the older maid stumbled in settling the tray upon her bench.

"Will I not be eating with my father today?" Ina looked up from where she was kneeled on the floor, settling the bowls onto the bench.

"Mr Yim is currently accompanied with Mr Choi. Your father requested that you eat by yourself for the duration of his stay, you know how it is." Nodding, she took her seat opposite Ina patiently awaiting for the maid to stop assembling her dishes in a neat line in front of her. Whilst women typically dined by themselves, her father had allowed her to eat with him almost daily; except when there were guests. Despite his neglect towards his daughter, he still valued her feminine dignity and did not trust the vulturous eyes of men that rested their predatory gaze upon her.

"Who is this, Mr Choi, and how is it that I wasn't aware of his arrival until he was knocking on our door?" She questioned, Ina's careful gaze flickered to her before staring out into the open space in contemplation.

"A new apprentice. He’s appointed here, on request of his father." Leaning forward, Ina's voice dropped an octave. "Apparently his father says he's been 'engaging in sin' so he's been estranged from his parents until he gets his act together." Raising a questioning brow, she looked down at her bowl.

"Is he a homosexual?" Immediately, she was wacked on the back of her head by the older maid who didn't miss a single second in scolding her. Her hand sped to the back, rubbing the jolt of pain that seared through her, a temporary look of irritation glazed over her eyes.

"You insolent girl! How could you say such thing, you know how disgraced that is!"

"You said ‘engaging in sin'. I can't think of anything more sinful other than fraternising with men or women." Ina's dirty look penetrated through her bones, provoking a sense of humiliation that would rattle through her in the depth of the night. Scowling at her mistress, she rolled her eyes before getting up from the floorboard.

“Hurry up and eat your food. You need to go to Mrs Kang’s today." Following Ina's orders she gulfed down her food, drowning out the maid's muttering about her being crude and dishonourable.

The light chatter from the front room fell deaf at her ears as she sauntered to the entrance, which the two kitchen maids scuttled in through. Bowing at their mistress, they made a fowl attempt at suppressing a fit of giggles as they subtly snuck a glance into the room. Following their gazes, she warily traipsed in, catching her father converse with their new guest.

"Ah, speak of the devil! Mr Choi, this is my daughter." He teared his gaze away from his mentor to draw his eyes across the room and find the infamous Miss Yim perched by the doorway, gripping onto her onto the full skirts of her dark blue hanbok.

It was hard to deny that Mr Choi was amiable. He was tall, well-built with a toned torso that was still perceptible through his uncreased peach coloured hanbok, dimples adorned his perfectly structured cheeks. He nodded with such elegant eagerness, at her father's command harbouring the position of an obedient son, almost leaving her wondering what was so 'sinful' about that man in the first place? What could he have possibly done so wrong that he had practically been disowned by his family?

"Miss Yim, it's nice to formally meet you." She gave him a polite nod, choosing to stay silent than say something and be met with her father's harsh stare.

"Mr Kang told me you've been over at his home, a few times." Her father spoke breaking the awkward meeting. A breath became lodged in her throat as she anticipated some sort of wrath, after all Mr Yim was supposed to be oblivious to her going out and painting other women for a light commission. She didn't exactly know how he would react to that. "He appreciates your help with Mrs Kang's pregnancy." Mrs Kang is pregnant? That would explain the engorging belly, the mood swings and the other number of odd behaviours that she was listing off in the past few weeks she had been challenged with drawing the difficult woman. At times, Miss Yim thought she ought to have more empathy, it wasn't that she lacked it, it was that she tended to not gift her empathetic abilities to the prejudiced. It was women like Ina, and the cooks that worked in the kitchen that deserved her compassion. Women who strived to be breadwinners, even if it was due to poor socio-economic circumstances. Because women like Mrs Kang were hypocrites to be preaching the old values, pre-Confucianism, when they neglected their own sex.

"Yes, she's been enjoying my company. I intend to go again to deliver herbs she’s asked from Ina’s garden.” She recalled glancing down the extensively large page, as Mrs Kang moaned and groaned when the servants were too late to serve her namul and kimchi.

"Red raspberry leaf, dandelions, echinacea." Grimacing, she looked over her sheet to give the woman a look. "You can just get this from the market, why do you need this from Ina's garden?" Mrs Kang simply pouted rubbing her belly. Now that she thought about it, how did it not occur to her that she was pregnant? Perhaps it was because they begged to slim down her figure in the painting.

"Fresh herbs are good for babies." Were the herbs from the market not fresh enough for her? “I need them picked before they’re here.”

"Perhaps I should add lemon balm to burn that fat." A discourse of exasperated gasps rippled over the room, Mrs Kang waddled out of the room wailing for her husband. It was ruthless and unkind, keeping the unsympathetic Miss Yim awake at night before she travelled back to the Kang estate to see a very unhappy couple.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Kang. You’re beautiful just the way you are, even more with the little belly.” The pregnant woman’s tight grip around her neck, as they hugged, almost choked her to death.

Mr Yim's eyes outcasted through the doorway, there was a light patter of rain yet the howl of the wind had subsided significantly. He let out a small hum before returning back to the young pair staring, ardently, back at him.

"I say Mr Choi, should be your chaperone. It's a little unsafe to be going out by yourself." Before she could open her mouth and argue, her father held out a hand to silence her thoughts. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she nodded once more, before dashing from the room to have a flustered Mr Choi following her.

Hitching up her skirts, she trudged through the field, the sun had filtered into the sky radiating its essence onto the young souls as they surpassed the reams of houses. Had it not been for the joyous discord of infantile laughter, it would have been quiet; San mustering the courage to initiate a conversation. He cleared his throat, she merely blinked at his futile attempt at grabbing her attention.

"Miss Yim, you must slow down I can't keep up with your pace." He declared, striding faster towards her, the tall grass brushing against his knees.

"I think you can cope, Sir. Your legs are longer than mine." Walking through the grass wasn't difficult but when her hanbok was floor length, lifting up the heavy fabric proved tiresome and not to mention her shoes were sinking into the muddy fields, squelching miserably under her heavy steps. Eventually, San matched her pace as they made their way up the steps to the Kang estate.

A shrill voice eructed into the airs, the domestic staff worked at a proficient speed as they amended the damages inflicted from the storm. As a group of servants raised the logs from the path, San ran to their aid significantly lightening their work load. His charity had left her silent contemplating her initial thoughts on his persona. There must be something impure under all that. Surely? There had to be some reason why his father practically disowned him.

Kang Yeosang stood by his front doors, watching as his staff worked the lawn and through the large home. He sought the enigmatic painter launch up the steps, with an unreadable look painted on her face.

“Good Morning, Miss Yim.”

“Morning, Yeosang.” She greeted, he laughed a little at her dull tone.

“I take it, there’s nothing particularly good about this morning.” He jeered, she huffed at his characteristically exuberant manner.

“Not when my father’s spy is here to be my chaperone.” She turned around on the steps, the pair looking down at San moving the heavy logs from the path, dirtying his robes at that. “He’s the new apprentice at the local office, Choi San, I think he said his name was.”

"Oh, the country boy." Country boy? "He's from Yangdong, have you not heard? His family is amongst the richest, they're both scholars and farmers, now." Across the country, Joseon farming techniques had taken a turn within the last few decades, especially with the establishment of irrigation and rice transplantation methods- bringing Joseon to a state of flourishment. It was safe to say, which farmer wasn't rich now? The admirable farm boy was pushed away by the servants, making his way up the steps. Leaving him with Yeosang, she made her way in the direction of the couples' shared quarters, Mrs Kang draped over her bed, her wrist dramatically resting on her forehead.

"Hello, Mrs Kang." The woman jolted up from her seat, an obnoxious groan emitted from her as she propped her back up against the wall. "I brought you your herbs."

"Thank you, my love. You left your paints, they're just on my dressing table." The herbs were exchanged from her paints, digging into the pockets of her hanbok. The older woman began to natter, the discordant tonality rattling in her ears. Mrs Kang loved to talk. Even if it was about absolutely nothing, that woman talked for the whole of Joseon.

I'm leaving this place with a headache.

She often wondered how it was that Yeosang put up with his insufferable wife. Was it love, or a promise that he had made to Mrs Kang's parents that he would never leave her? The thought made her sigh in pity- to be permanently bound to someone in matrimony seemed like too much effort at times. Perhaps the effort itself is what subdued her mother to misery, the poor Mrs Yim eagerly handing her soul to the Angel of Death. Or maybe Miss Yim had possessed a stone-cold heart frozen over by the neglect of life's intimate essence; overpowered by a sense of maturity held over by her mother's early death. She took it upon herself to make it clear that by the time she was thirty, if there was no proposal that had come around she was going to wholly abandon the idea of marriage and work herself to death.

"That man is so pretty." She spoke, dreamily, Miss Yim's eyes lazily fled in the direction of Mrs Kang's. Her head poked through the doorway where both Yeosang and San were travelling down, engaging in intelligent discourse. "Not Yeo, the other one." The pregnant woman clarified.

"He's ok, I suppose. Not bewitching enough to tempt me."

"That has to be the biggest lie I have ever heard."

"What is Miss Yim lying about now?" Yeosang provoked as both men entered the room. Both women shared a look before the painter slumped onto the dressing table chair. "I suppose you're awaiting your payment."

"Well, my services aren't free." She declared, pompously. Yeosang rolled his eyes before he moved to the opposite end of the room, San had almost drawn his body out of the bedroom, a little embarrassed as the pregnant Mrs Kang ogled her eyes at him. Stretching her limbs, she got up taking the velvet bag. "Thank you, Mr Kang. I'll visit when the baby arrives."

His perfection had her repleted with such distaste for him. Simply put, Miss Yim hated Choi San because he was loved by all. Her father loved him, Ina adored him, the maids were constantly drooling over him it shot her with a sense of annoyance. He quickly became a household name, spoken of when he was at the office with her father and even when he was at home. Everywhere she went it was just him, him and him. The worst thing was, was that he was even trying to be nice to her prevailing through her grim looks and hard words.

“San this, San that. Honestly, he’s not even as esteemed as everyone claims, Ina. He’s just a man, like every other man. And all men are the same. So what if he's good looking, does that suddenly make him god’s greatest gift?” Burying her face into the pillow, an exasperated huff escaped her lips. Ina fell onto her bed, reaching her arms out to stroke her mistress’ back. With a contented sigh, she felt her eyes drooping a little as the maid's soft caresses were gently lulling her to sleep. Her touch felt like that of her mother's, soothing the aches of her heart whilst simultaneously provoking the nostalgia of a mother's love. To have her mother again, to have that woman encircle her into her arms. Rock her back and forth. She longed for her mother's scent again, often chasing the whiff of her familiar saccharine redolence as one chased butterflies in an open field.

“Yet you think of him often. He occupies your thoughts as much as he occupies ours.”

“Hardly, I-,” She stammered in a desperate attempt to recollect her thoughts into a single ambience. “I envy him. How is that he steps into this home for a second and I see my father smile?” Ina’s face dropped, a breath caught in her throat as her mistress spoke aloud the forbidden words she denied her staff to even breathe. The older maid had been rendered silent for too long, giving Miss Yim all of the answers she needed to press forward with her wistful assumptions.

"Perhaps if you grew to understand him, you would know why your father has inhabited such emotions for him. Think of him like a son-in-law. He will love him but not as much as he loves you." The maid reasoned.

"Then that makes him my husband." She grumbled, pulling the duvet over her shoulders.

"Now is that so bad?” Ina teased, before pulling her weight off the bed. With no strength to argue, her eyes fluttered to a close; her soul being dissolved by the night.

The following morning, it was too cold to be even sitting on her porch and with eyes tired of the same dreary scene, she ventured out of her quarters, delving into parts of the home she had missed. By the kitchens, the late Mrs Yim had reserved herself a small room decorated with the tools of all her hobbies in order to enact time alone for herself, away from motherhood and social responsibility. The room was consistently cleaned but usually left empty having it being full of painful memories of the beloved mistress of the household. For the first time in a long time, Miss Yim had felt the drive to find the room again and read her mother's poetry she had spent hours pouring over in the rooms.

Yet it had been almost shot stone-cold dead when the door opened to find San sat by the window hands raised towards the canvas. The anger within her refused to simmer or boil, it was rather the smooth swaying of the soft waves lapping the crust of sand. Her hands feebly reached for the poetry book on the table.

"I didn't know you were a painter, Mr Choi." She proclaimed, her breath hitched in her throat as her eyes sought the intricate details on the canvas. Her eyes glossed over the colours, the succinct shapes, drawing on the brushstrokes herself with the sharp movements of her eyes. It moved her. When was the last time she had been left this breathless?

"You never asked, Miss Yim." Immediately she felt intimidated by his artwork, her own revered drawings felt meek in comparison to his. A mere apprentice in an important official’s presence. To even be this close to him was considered a blessing. "You can sit next to me. I don't bite." Tentatively, she drew closer seating herself on the floorboards next to him; the brush of their fabrics sending a tidal wave of timidness over her. Where was the bold, steadfast Mrs Yim? Long gone, lost to the large expanse of the sea. Drowning under the ocean of his perfection. She didn't even want call for help, allowing herself to be enveloped by his allure. You draw so beautifully, she wanted to say. It's perfect, like something-someone even.

"You should have been a royal painter." The remark was swallowed into a melancholic void within his heart. Sparing a glance, he dipped the tip of the paintbrush into the crevice of the cerulean blue paint before raising to illustrate the canvas.

"Don't say that to my father." She sought the gloom glossed over his brown eyes. Was he, too, held down by social responsibility and expectations? She didn't think it was possible for a man's dreams to be mauled over by society; for she saw it with her father who had the whole world at his feet-picking dreams as if he was picking daisies from a meadow. Dropping her book onto the floor, she rested her head on her knee, solicitude fulfilled the serene atmosphere. Her eyes fell over the fancy metallic pots situated around the easel, which she knew to be various colours of paint pigments. Resting her head on her knee, she tenderly rocked her body from side to side as she watched his hands elegantly work through the canvases.

"Did you ever consider pottery? That's supposed to be quite popular now." Her question breaking through the quiet airs, the delicacy of her voice startling San. It was devoid of boredom, or disinterest like he had always perceived. No lace of judgement like he was silently praying to be diminished from her soul.

"It'll grow out of popularity soon." He stated, resting the paintbrush down to exercise the tense muscles in his hands. "I heard this was the late Mrs Yim's room, I hope you don't mind me being here." It, too, came as a shock to her when she shook her head-with no care in the world that he had colonised the room that she was once sure was hers.

It was sunny for once, which was odd for this time of year-she thought throwing open the door to the porch finding San surrounded by a large number of logs and an axe.

"What's he doing outside?" She pondered, Ina folding up the washed bedsheets before tucking them away into the drawers.

"They stopped properly chopping up the logs so we can use them for the fire, so Mr Choi offered to help." Wandering out through the doors, a smooth current of air tousled her hair, a book held tightly against her chest.

God, he really was toned. Rolling up the sleeves of his hanbok all the way to his bulging biceps, the maids all stopped in their path to rest their elbows on the low garden wall overseeing the vast expanse of grass. Effortlessly he picked up the axe, raising it over his head to slice down the log of wood. She rolled her eyes at her maids, as they watched him with dreamy faces. They nattered in hushed tones, giggling amongst themselves unbeknownst that their mistress was stood behind them. Leaning down to where they were sat on the garden wall, she poked her head in between the sea of charmed maidens.

“What are we looking at?” They squeaked, jumping up from their seats upon sight of their mistress- flapping their hands as some rushed back into the kitchen and others tended to garden duties. “Well? I would like to know too.”

“You wouldn’t understand Miss Yim.” Yes, yes she was the narcissistic Miss Yim who harboured no feelings for men and couldn’t deduce their charming airs. She was the Miss Yim who rejected countless marriage proposals, not based on looks but merely because she found that no man possessed the kind quality in a man that she was seeking. No patience, no loyalty. They were not even ruled by a sense of ambition. So how could she be hypnotised by the sacred beauty of a man, specifically, Choi San.

“Yes, I don’t understand why you’re not doing the job that we’re paying for you to do. All of you, out of the garden, it’s already been tended to!” She shouted, in an instant all of the maids dispersed back into the home. Huffing, she slumped onto the garden wall, glazing her ink pen over the defined lines on the page. Occasionally, she’d peer her eyes over the pages at San, tending to the curve of his body, and the horrific cinching of his waist. When he looked to his side, she hastily returned back to her sketchbook, feeling a blush decorate her cheeks as his steady gaze burned into her skin.

“Very accurate, Miss Yim.” Jumping up from her seat, she screeched the pot of ink spilling onto his face and neck. Whoops.

“Oh goodness, I am so sorry. Ah.” She let out a pained sound, battling with her internal conflict as she grabbed his hand rushing them into the direction of the porch that led to her quarters. Powerfully, she slid the door open darting inside and towards the washroom. Hauling him down to his knees in front of the washing basin, with a soaked rag in hand, she scraped away the ink splashed across his face. “Take this off.” She ordered, signalling to his hanbok.

“W-what?” He stammered, his face heating red.

“Well you’ve got ink and dirt all over it. I can get a new one for you.”

“I can’t just return back to my quarters and change?”

“Well no because then my father will see you and he’ll know I stole his ink again.” An annoyed huff escaped from his lips as she handed him the rag to clean himself. “Here, I’ll go get you a spare set of clothes.” Jumping up from where she was kneeled, her foot slipped over a puddle of water his arms snapped out towards her waist. Gripping his shoulders for stability, a faint blush trickled over her face, their noses barely an inches distance.

"Be careful." Quickly unravelling her hands from his shoulders, Miss Yim ran out of the room towards his quarters. Slipping past the double doors, she rummaged through the drawers for his clothes-picking up a light green set.

"Mr Choi?" A maid's voice called out from behind the closed door. Discerning their shadow moving closer, she made a beeline through the open doors leading into the garden. Scuttling into her washroom, she practically launched the hanbok at him before hiding in her room.

A breath of relief had finally escaped from her when he left from her room, both of their faces burning red in the midst of this shameful meeting. Yet San seemed persistent to know her, feeling that there was still something beneath the stone-cold façade she had constructed; something emotional and raw that he had felt he had to know. And Miss Yim was too becoming more curious, by the day, as to what Choi San’s secret was and why his father perpetually hated him.

Ina had forced them to go on a walk together, she groaned, silently, as they left the home behind making their way down to the meadow. At first an odd tranquillity permeated the air, eventually she grew tired of the jarring dissonance of absolutely nothing.

“A penny for your thoughts?” She inquired.

“I’ll keep the penny. I almost feel you’d judge me for having thoughts.” San bemused, she rolled her eyes, a faint of a smile on her lips. Just the tiniest, but it was practically gone within the same second.

“I don’t judge you, Mr Choi. I do, however, envy you. You’ve taken the place I wanted in my father’s heart.” She confessed, he looked towards her sympathetically, with knowingness that she was indeed right and the Mr Yim, famous for being just as aloof as his daughter, had somehow softened a little upon his arrival. Perhaps it was a son that he had always wanted, not a daughter but the scholar was reserved; San being too terrified to pry.

“Your place is best occupied elsewhere. Somebody else has it, I’m sure. He keeps it safe with love that is too potent that even dreamers can’t feign.” Of course was reading her mother's poetry, she didn't think many could understand the abstract nature of her words; of course it was him out of all who admired her poetry as it was his own.

"I am not pretty enough for that." Miss Yim argued, looking down at her feet. After all, the marriage proposals were not because of her vague good looks, but mainly because Mr Yim claimed an abundance of wealth.

"I disagree with you on that." Her face heated with his affirmation.

"Well, I am no Jang Ok-Jeong."

"There are many beautiful women in Joseon, not all of them have ever been recorded."

"She caught the eye of the King, a man who has a kingdom at his feet, he is supposed to be too superior to even look at his subjects. And he looks at her? Is that not a beautiful woman?" They were both fuelled by this argument, the debate igniting a set of powerful emotions that roared within them. This, was what they both deeply felt conversations were supposed to be. Potent discourse about society, literature and art. Not idle chatter on the weather, marriage and the social laws that subdued them.

"A man is supposed to be ruled by his head, not emotions. I say if any man bestowed more than a single glance, on a woman, and his breath was taken away, then she is more gorgeous than Venus herself."

"Not that wretched painting. It's so...vulgar." San snickered, squeezing his eyes as he let out a melodious laughter. "It says so much about the male gaze." She spat out as they trudged through the fields back in the direction of her home.

“I wonder if you like any art, at all? Other than your own?” He questioned.

“Owon is good. Apart from the vulgarity of Renaissance paintings-,”

“Which I must say is the majority of the whole movement, pray, continue.” He teased, his pestering smirk seemed to stitch wings on her heart, for it fluttered at his amiability, his devoutness to mankind and all of its endearing qualities and his perseverance. Despite her uncompromising attitudes and distasteful demeanour, he seemed compliant with listening to her, talking to her, truly trying to understand her and not just turning a blind eye. Choi San truly wanted to know her, for her; and not follow some false allegation that she was devoid of a heart or soul. He commended she had both and they were wrought with an existentialist quality that he wanted nothing but to huddle in the corner of a library and read away his life until it dissolved under the cover of her persona.

"What about you?" She questioned, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her own ear. At once, San was drawn into the world of virtuosity describing each of his favourite pieces as if it could be encapsulated into a single globe. The sweet dissonance of his voice lugging her into a dreamscape as they gently glissaded through the empty hallways of the Yim estate. They sought their eyes over the panelled wall, following the intricate lines of carved wood. They could almost be called mad people loose from the dreaded ward. For their eyes did not see the same way a normal persons did. He saw the shimmer in the air, the light poring through the crevices, the faint blemishes on a skin unseen with a naked eye-too vague to be called a taint, a mark, a scar. And she would see what he saw, whether it was not there she could reach to the depths of her sanity and pour out the image before her eyes to satisfy him.

It became a wonder to her how they spent several nights, the light patter of her feet as she rushed to his quarters with fulfilling arguments over art pieces, sharing techniques, rifling through each other's sketchbooks. His style was a stark contrast to her own: luminous watercolours, velvety acrylic paints, oily crayons. His muses were full of life and wonder, the strokes brimming with fruition. It was if a single segment of his painting held more hope than what could exist in her whole being.

There was something about him, too. She could see it now, his compassion, his adoration. As the weeks spun by, she became less repulsed by his sincerity and opened up to it more, almost finding herself craving his attention. His affection was much welcomed; she often wondered what it would be like to be so loved by him.

In her mother's old drawing room, she found him again, his large hands drifting over the pages again. Peering over his shoulder, she softly blew into his ear; the warmth tickling him.

"What are you drawing?" Her eyes scanned over the cartridge sheet, its intimacy striking her. It looked like her. Every sketch line, every shade, every little detail, every little blemish on her face.

"You." He answered, he didn't dare tear his eyes away from her for her hair was falling down her face in perfect waves that lured him into uncharted depths.

"You drew me so pretty."

"I only drew what I saw." Her heart wavered in piety, his devotion provoking an arrangement of madness. He was going to drive her insane and she was content with it.

"I wonder, what was it that you were excommunicated for?" Her silence broke through the passionate airs, culminating the objectivity that fulfilled among them as his sins held heavy on his tongue.

"I am not a scholar, a farmer or a devout son. I am an artist, a man who sees the world despite all of its maliciousness. I see the world so raw, it almost disgusts me but I am not terrified by its honesty. I find it so beautiful, it belongs on a page: drawn." Her body swayed towards him, hypnotised by his delicate words drawn his intoxicating tenacity, filling her with such immitigable rage that within that severe moment all she wanted was him. "I was 'excommunicated' because I am not the man my father wants me to be. I return as soon as I am devoid of all the emotions he renders vile." Tentatively, her fingers curled through his hair his eyes fluttering shut under her gentle touch.

"What about you Miss Yim? Why are you so solitary?" He murmured, their quiet voices serenaded the room.

"I am not solitary by choice. It's been enforced upon me and I know nothing and no one else but myself." Her whispers, though full of hurt and pain, were seldom dulcet. He thrived himself upon her words alone, it was enough to send him into delirium but her whole unmatched beauty with her words? He was sure to be sent to the wretched institute.

With an envelope gripped in her hands, she made her way over to his quarters slipping into the warmth, his smile greeting her as she slumped onto the chair in front of him.

"Mrs Choi? Your mother?" She inquired, handing over the envelope. San snickered at her nosiness, rolling her eyes as he took the sheet from her grasp, ripping open the seal to reel his eyes down the page.

"Actually, it's my wife." He announced, sparing her a single glance as he continued to read the words sprawled across the page. A sharp pang penetrated through the barriers in her heart, she felt her feet slipping under the ground, the walls pulverising as they caved in on her. For some reason, the room felt much more smaller than it was. Her heart was beating faster than any poetic declaration he had bestowed upon her, any time he had made her feel as if she was truly a worthy soul of being loved. Her heart palpitated faster than when he made her feel she would not die from a cataclysmic loneliness.

"I didn't know you were married." She breathed out, gripping the sage green silk in hand; feeling almost disgusted with herself for fixating her whole being on a man who never belonged to her in the beginning.

"We'll be officially married when I return back home." With a teasing smile on his lips, he grabbed a clean sheet from his desk and began elegantly carving the characters onto the page. "I'll be sure to send you an invite, if you'll come?"

“Of course, I’ll come. You know, for the food.” She quipped, his dimpled smile shattering the months of pining she had set for this revered soul. “I’ll take your leave, San.”

She fled from the room her bare feet blessing the sweet earth, the velvety wisps of the wind taunting her as tears welled up in her eyes. With a breath hitched in her throat, she fell onto her bed; bottom lip quivering as pearl tears escaped from her eyes dribbling down her cheeks before splattering onto the bedsheets. Her painful howl terrorised the desolate quarters as she had done on several dispassionate nights, the skies mimicked her torment, the light patter of rain hit against the window as if it understood all her wretched emotions. As if it understood her anger, hatred and hurt. As if it understood how disgusting it felt be left vulnerable by a man who could never be hers.

Was it some false delusion that she had been seduced by? That he, who was carved from a sculpturers most wild emotions, by all of his tenacity and his violent rage that he wished to create a being made of light: could truly be hers? By his yearning and pent up sentiment, by his dying wish that this world was not at peace until some divine figure from a concealed land would touch her world? Her hands shook as she sought to remove the tears streaming endlessly down her face. After all it had now made sense to all of the sympathetic souls that had heard her be plunged through such pain, to read her tale and understand the reason for her aloof nature.

Up the walls went back up. Brick by brick.

Curse you, Choi San, for breaking them down in the first place.

San had not seen Miss Yim for the remainder of the week or the subsequent. Granted, he had been flooded with an overwhelming amount of work but such was to be expected with the incredible staff shortage and Mr Yim’s high expectations. Regardless, he missed the snarky comments and unrelenting stares from across the room. He missed her moodiness, how ever infuriating it was at times; he missed the sense of quietude she presented at his feet and its ability to render his mind numb. Overall, he missed her. Yet, she seemed to be nowhere in sight and in fact missing even under the cover of the night.

“Ina, do you know where I can find Miss Yim?” He questioned, the agony rupturing the sutures of his weak heart apart.

"In her room, Mr Choi. She's, specifically, requested not see anyone." Oh. His mood deflated after that concession, wracking his mind for all the things he had said in their last engagement; anything potentially hurtful or offensive but he didn’t recall anything particularly endangering. His quest to venture into her quarters, despite her ruthless commands which had the servants petrified over her uncharacteristic (but not abnormal) behaviour, had been cut short by Mr Yim’s desire to keep a tightened hold on the apprentice. He thought about bringing it up as he ate dinner with his mentor.

“How is Miss Yim? I heard she’s isolated herself in her quarters?” He raised, tentatively, as Mr Yim’s eyes scoured down the reports. Her father was a little too quick to dismiss her actions.

“Never mind her, that’s not something new. I was surprised she was even roaming around the house when you arrived…” Mr Yim trailed off as a thought infiltrated his mind, shutting the book close, his furrowed brows silenced the questions in San’s mind.

The moonlight spilt in through the window, the luminous shadows dancing with the light breeze. With dried tear tracks staining her puffy cheeks, she circulated her finger around the cotton sheets pulling up the heavy duvet over her shoulders, a trail of heat comforted her. The door to her room, silently, slid open; oblivious to the soft bustling of footsteps she stretched her limbs sitting up in her bed.

“Miss Yim?” Her head snapped up at the deep voice, its familiarity sending an agonising wave of heartache through her being. There he was, the perpetrator himself, settling in front of her with a teacup in his palms as if nothing had happened in the first place. “Are you ok? I know you don’t like echinacea, so I got you lemon and ginger tea.” Placing the tea cup on her night stand, he rested his palm against her forehead.

“What are you doing here, San?” Huffing, she fisted up the hair in her palms before sticking a dry paint brush through it to create a tight knot.

“You’re burning u- were you crying?” His finger lightly smoothed her damp skin, shaking her head she pushed his hand away from her face. God, she felt awful for his wife who had to endure his infidelity. “What’s wrong, jagiya, speak to me?” Biting down on her lower lip, Miss Yim threw her gaze out of her window, she sought the light shimmering as her vision blurred.

“Just leave, please.” There was no more hostility left in her tone, a coarse throat lacerated with the phlegm that built up from endless nights of sobbing herself to sleep. Tiredness gnawed at her, she just wanted to dissolve back into the covers. Pleading, begging she’d do whatever she could to force him to leave because if he didn’t then she would tear down the path to the Angel of Death and beg him to take her dwindling heart. On her knees she would go, for the mere sight of her lover crumbled the steadfast walls she had tried so hard to rebuild.

“Are you upset because I’m going home next week? If that’s the case-,”

“San, are you dense?” She interrupted. He was subjugated to silence, a look of hurt flashing over his face. “Leave means leave.” Adjusting her body so she could slide under the covers, she stridently hauled the fabric over her head, gripping her lips tight shut, so no more pitiful sobs escaped her and she was no more a servant to his cruel love.

The Yim estate was left with a melancholic air as the venerated bachelor made his preparations to leave the home. The maids were forlorn as they’d no longer have the privilege of seeing his striking face to bless their monotone days. Miss Yim had finally mustered the courage to take a stroll through the garden, avoiding San's quarters at that. Lingering by the flowers, she wrapped her arms around herself to manifest a sense of warmth that failed to prevail with the awful weather. She didn't notice her lover tear down the garden to her, his heart leaping within his own chest.

"Miss Yim?" Her body whipped around upon his words, her hands balled up into fists the anger displaced by fear. "Do you know how painful it has been for me to go days without seeing you? I am leaving for Yangdong, today, and god knows if I didn't even so much as see your face I would have gone feral."

"I- why?" She stuttered, at a desperate attempt to collect together her words and form a sentence. How and when did he culminate such passionate feelings for her?

"Why? Isn't it obvious? I am in love with you." He declared, she shook her head, profusely, at him.

"How can you say that?" Her voice raised an octave, parrying against the harsh winds that blew at them.

“If being in love with you is a deadly sin, then I am the greatest sinner there is. I will walk up to the gates of hell and open them myself. Hand over my arms and ask them to bound me to its greatest depths.” His chest heaved up and down, tears brimming at the front of her eyes. “I cannot live without you. I would not even do so much as breathe unless you asked me to. If you asked me to stop breathing, I would!”

“You’re a married man, San. Do you know how god awful that sounds?”

“I’m barely married but engaged. When I go back home, I will once again beg to not be wed off to her. I don’t love her, how can my father expect me to marry her? How can you expect me to marry her?”

“I don’t think you understand, San. I can’t love you.” His arms outstretched for her waist, hauling her towards him, the rain beating down on them both. With the gentle flick of his finger, her head tipped up to peer into his eyes.

“Look into my eyes and tell me you don’t love me, or even feel as much as a small emotion for me. One word from you, would silence me forever.” She bit furiously down on her lip as his vehement fixation tore through the borders of her soul. When did she fall so vulnerable in his conquest for her being?

“I don’t love you the same way you love me. I am incapable of doing so.” His own brown eyes fulfilled with hot tears, pouring soundlessly down his cheeks. Her heart wavered with misery as he ripped away his grip, stumbling backwards upon her untruth.

“I understand. Thank you, Miss Yim. For the first time in my life, someone saw me for who I really am and not who I am meant to be.” Once again, the thunder cracked against the sky as San turned his back on her striding back into the home. The maids ran out to shut the doors, summoning their mistress back in but she sunk to the floor erupting into a fit of sobs; a wave of shock rattling through them. Her heart burned with such pain, even as Ina cooed lifting her up from the floor to guide her back into the home. Melting into the older woman's arms, her ears drowned out the distant sound of her lover ambling far, far away from her to a land in which even its notion would never grace the depths of her mind.

Her father's office was warm, but not the comforting kind as the biting airs of Joseon persisted. It was more suffocating as they sat across from each other in his office, discussing the state of her future now that he had managed to complete some of burdening tasks at work. He had several proposals lined in front of her, some prospects from his workplace, some from Mr Kang and even Ina had managed to find one or two seemingly agreeable men within their social class. A sigh fulfilled her, it would be a lie to say that she didn't look for the smallest hint of San within them all.

"I'm sorry Father, I don't like any of these men." He closed his eyes in indignation, rubbing his face before collecting the sheets from in front of her and throwing them into the fire. The embers cackled in a slow, seething ferocity as he leaned back in his chair.

"I honestly don't know what to do with you anymore. You won't marry, you won't leave your quarters. You've stopped helping around the house. All you want to do is sit in your room all day and stare into space." He scolded, she shook her head before raising from her seat. "You are becoming a burden to me."

"Well if I am such a burden to you, then just get rid of me." She taunted. An animosity truanted through him at her discourtesy.

“What do you think I have been trying to do since your mother left us? It should have not been your mother that had died! It should have been you! I would trade my soul to have your mother in place of you.” He blurted, before quickly slapping the palm of his hand to his mouth, cursing him for the spoiled words that left it.

“I would trade my soul too, to have my mother where you stand. You are a poor excuse of a man and to call you my father is an insult to me.” She hissed through gritted teeth, the shock reverberating at Mr Yim’s core; the severity of her words pulsating through his blood.

“You shouldn’t have been a father if all I was going to be to you was a pretty doll in a picture. The truth was she didn’t die because she was ill, it was the heartbreak of carrying a whole marriage on her back. It was the fact that you didn’t care about her wants, but your own.”

"You are in no position to say that to me. I loved your mother like it was breathing, I loved her as if she was the greatest blessing, as if God had granted me mercy for all the times I had done him wrong." His chest suspired, brittle hands shaking as a heavy tension remained suspended in the air between them; Ina loitering outside afraid to walk into the war zone.

"But you didn't love me! It was my mother who loved me, and I wasn't allowed to have her! I wasn't my mother's daughter, or my father's. I was a daughter of a servant with my name merely attached to you." At the end of the day, she was the figure in those paintings. Trapped within a frame, four equidistant lines on a piece of cartridge paper, bound by brushstrokes, sketch lines, constricted and held down by the artist. Subservient and stuck to a position in which she could not move.

Mr Yim deserved the brutal honesty of those words, no matter how harsh it was, and with a pounding headache, she ran out of his office ignoring her father’s calls for her to return to his side. This was it, there was nothing and no one by her side now and she was now the destitute figure that she had feared she would become.

“What’s wrong my dear? What’s hurt you so much?” Ina’s soft voice dilapidated at her mistress’ gloom, one she had seen prolong within her late madam too. Squeezing her eyes shut, she summoned the courage to spill her heart to her maid. She told her of how much she adored him, how deeply she wanted him and the ways in which he had made her fall in love with him. And how he had hurt her too.

“So call me heartless and apathetic all you want but I couldn’t take another woman’s man from her.”

“My love.” Ina’s weak fingers travelled through her hair. “You are far from heartless and apathetic. A man who you love is your whole life, you gave your life away to another woman.” She looked over to Ina, falling into her motherly embrace, breathing in her scent. There it was. The same scent that her mother had, the scent she was dreaming to come back to her in the midst of the night, and her a fool to dismiss that it was in front of her the whole time.

“What should I do now?” Her weak inquiry, breaking her heart, sinking deeper into the void than she already was.

“Go back to him and tell him you love him. He is a gentleman who accepts despondency like a soldier. So you, his general, must go back and tell him to return home to you.”

“Ina-,”

“Do not deny yourself of what you deserve. Your mother did, I won’t see you walk the same path.”

“I will let time run its cycle. Time will tell if he is meant to be mine.” She declared, to which the maid rested her palm on her cheek.

Mrs Kang’s baby boy, Kang Minho, was indeed a beauty. His bedazzling little eyes stared up at her in wonder, babbling as she lightly drew the tip of her finger over his chubby cheeks. It was astonishing for Mrs Kang to see that it was merely a little baby that would eruct a smile out of the secluded Miss Yim. It had been about four months since San had left the estate, and a while it took for her to leave the confines of her quarters. Once again, she took requests after requests painting and painting until her hands became stiff and sore. And so even more marriage prospects came, and her eyes lingered slightly over a potential husband. Both Ina and her father were pleased when she stayed a little longer at the doorway of their home talking to one of the young apprentice’s at the office. He was tall, handsome and kind; perhaps it was flickers of San she saw within him that had her thinking that spending the rest of her life with this man: wouldn’t be particularly gruesome. Regardless, she made no firm decision but still, for her father this was significant progress.

“He likes you.” Mrs Kang chimed, grinning down at her baby. She hummed carefully, softly tickling his smooth cheeks.

“Maybe I like him too.” Her gaze lightly flickered to the elated mother. “Where is Yeosang? I didn’t see him on my way in?”

“Oh he’s in his office with San.” Her head snapped up from the baby at the sound of his name. Goodness, how long had it been since she had heard that single syllable name, forever it seemed it would merely reverberate inside her head. “Did you not know he was in town? He came to see Minho.” Shaking her head, she got up from the bed consoling herself.

“I- I think I’ll leave now. I’ll come visit another time.” She announced, before awkwardly patting Mrs Kang’s head; a poor endeavour at affection but for Mrs Kang this affection was whole-heartedly appreciated. Her footsteps sped down the hallways, she came to an abrupt halt at the exist of the Kang estate.

There he was, stood there with Yeosang conversing if they were age-old best friends her heart palpitated with anxiety, knowing that she’d have to walk past him again. The sight of him almost triggered her, she gripped onto her deep purple skirts, his own yellow hanbok beaming like the sun.

“Miss Yim! I didn’t know you had arrived, leaving so soon?” Mr Kang chirped from the door. She shook at her head at him.

“I’ve been here for over an hour and a half. I’ll visit another time, especially since Minho is the only tolerable person in this household.”

“Just say you love him.” A grumble erupted from her lips, she rolled her eyes- with a delicate playfulness- before squeezing past the pair of men. A pounding of footsteps travelled after her as she trudged back through the fields in the direction of her home.

“Miss Yim, allow me to accompany you.” San professed, breathlessly. With a diligent nod, she transgressed forwards ignoring his burning gaze into her skin. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been fine. What about you?” He responded he was great all the same, reporting that the weather in Yangdong was a little warmer than in her hometown.

“When is your wedding date? I’m still awaiting on an invite.” It was a joke, nonetheless, but one that didn't hesitate to puncture holes in her heart.

“We broke off the engagement, it was mutual really. She was in love with someone else.” With a breath lodged in her throat, her stare tore away from the fields piercing straight into his eyes. It was then she had realised how burdened he truly was. Where was the San that always smiled and joked, and was so full of love it seemed inhumane to have so much of it? They didn't need to say anything to each other in that moment, they stopped walking subsided to a silent, paralysed position. "I think I'll just take your leave." His voice quivered, sending a jolt of agony through her.

Hadn't she made him suffer enough? After all he was the same man who loved her as if she was the vessel that kept the blood running through his veins, his heart beating and his feet walking.

Go back to him and tell him you love him.

Tell him to return back home to you.

His body almost disappeared behind the vast expanse of buildings, when she raced down the fields, as fast as her legs could carry her, ignoring the vicious ache gnawing at her muscles and the agitated pounding of her heart against her chest. Tearing down the path towards him, in the chance that if she didn't run any faster she was going to lose her lover to the wind.

"San!" Her shout echoed in the breeze, but reached to his ears anyway, a tug at the weak strings that had barely held down his soul. He turned, so desperate that she would come to him like she had done in the dead of the night. Feeling his lover crawl into his arms, pledging that she would never leave from his side.

"Miss Yim, what's wrong?"

“I lied to you, when I said I didn’t love you. I really, really do, I almost feel disgusted by it. I never thought, that someone as ruthless and as cold as me would be privileged enough to fall in love but when you entered my life I felt like my mother.” She sucked in a deep breath, her lover making gentle steps toward her as the wind whipped their hair. “I felt like her when she said: ‘If he was the muse in a painting, to be an object, a fleck of paint, or even dust on it would be my greatest honour.’” Warm tears forged in his eyes, biting down his bottom lip to prevent them from escaping. She wanted to outstretch her arms towards him but it was too soon.

“So, Choi San, it’s an honour to be loved by you. I came back, because I had to tell you that. I hurt you so much. I was scared that being vulnerable to love would only hurt me but the only person who gave me such torment was myself.” Her confession disturbed her, yet it was the unspoken truth that only he was entitled to. A tense silence suffused the air as she pended his response, but all he could do was try to convince himself that it was not a dream and she really had said all of the words he had spent countless nights praying that she would declare.

“I love you, Miss Yim. I loved you yesterday, I love you today and I will love you for eternity. There is simply nothing that one can do to tear my heart away from yours, not even you.”

"Do you mean that?" It was a stupid question, but she could not help the words be spilled from her mouth. He nodded violently.

"I do. With my whole entity." Choking back on her sobs, her arms reached out for him throwing them around his neck. Nuzzling her face in the crook of his neck, her grip tightened as he ensnared his hands around her waist; breathing in her scent as if it was oxygen. "Come home with me my dear, come home and be mine."

•••

All Right Reserved © the-midnight-blooms

DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, REPURPOSE, OR PLAGISRISE ANY OF THE WORK HERE

'Yim' meaning light

A/N: the long awaited painter!san fic (with a twist 😏) that i've been waiting too long to put out. I hope you liked this one. :))

let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list for any future fics I post!

tags: @n0v4t33z @potatos-on-clouds @jjongwho

[pastadorable]

TW: Panic Attack

Please don’t let this flop it took what felt like 6 years to draw all them tattoos ☠️

Tattoos: Damon

Jewelry: Blu

[reidmania]

cedar | spencer reid

summary; breaking up on good terms and remaining friends is difficult, especially when you and spencer work together, its even harder when your life is put at risk and spencer is faced the possibility that he might really lose you.

warnings; exes who cannot stay exes, angst, fluff, they flirt w each other, fem reader, mentions of being stabbed, all cm minds things, happy ending, avoidant!reader, self sabotaging reader. BUT THERES SOOO MUCH FLUFF GUYS, they flirt and banter so much, reader is sarcastic and very playful, shes lowkey lorelai gilmore coded a little idk

an; cedar is my song. i love cedar, i love gracie abrams. thank u and goodnight. not proof read bc if i read it i probably wont post it. thank u so very muchly to @gghostwriter for all the advice on this fic and letting me yap about it.

‘Breaking up is funny, I forget you aren't mine, I forget you aren't mine. It's impossible to acclimate, every time we talk, we understate, how I know we both could die, we both could die. But you told me that you felt the same, when I told you how I needed space, but I think it was a lie, it was a lie’

“You know pointing is rude.” You mumbled, crossing your arms over your chest as you leant back in your chair. The room went silent as everyone turned their gaze to look at you. Was the timing of your statement the best? No, did you care? Also no. Hotch was in the middle of going on the details of the case you had traveled out to Louisiana for, he was pointing at the screen and the thought just slipped passed your lips before you could help it.

Spencer turned his gaze to you, eyebrow rasied, “Do you ever think before you speak?” He asked. Your lips parted before shutting again, then you let out an amused huff and shook your head, lips pulling into a half teasing smile.

“If I did that I’d lose my sense of humour— you all would be miserably bored.” You sighed back, the smiling pulling further on your lips as the messy haired brunette sitting opposite you raised his eyebrow further and let out a half hearted— almost sarcastic chuckle in return.

He tilted his head slightly, “Humour? Is that what we are calling it?” He asked. You nodded instantly, a wide, half proud smile taking over your features. He hummed, clearly amused.

“Why is pointing rude?” JJ spoke up, your eyes widened in almost excitement to be able to talk about why the thought had crossed your mind in the first place.

“Well when you point you kill all the fairies.” You replied, matter-of- factually. You knew it was technically silly but it was a sweet childish thought that had been engraved in your mind since you were younger and you heard it from a distant relative, probably as a way to you from stop pointing at someone (because that was rude but explaining that to a five year old would be useless so they settled on something more interesting for an adolescent)

Spencer let out an audible laugh, “You are a child.” He said, almost teasingly.

Your head turned away from JJ’s to meet his eyes, this time you sat up a little straighter, “What does that make you?” You teased back, raising your eyebrow at him.

Seemingly, that made his lips part then close, and he resigned, yet there was still a slightly amused smile on his lips, which he bit his lip to try to hide, as he turned his attention away, making your smile only widen as you settled back in place, slumped against your chair as you turned your attention back to Hotch. who was standing arms crossed, clearly unamused by the interruption.

You however just smiled widely at him, “You may continue now. Without pointing, don’t be a fairy murder.” You huffed out. Hotch stared at you for a moment, no emotion evident over his features before he shook his head, turning his attention back to the case at hand.

Your eyes caught Spencer’s for a moment. In those moments it was increasingly difficult to remember you weren’t together, it was further difficult to remember why you had broken up in the first place. The way you interacted, the looking for one another in a crowded room, the soft touches and the teasing taunts went against every breakup ‘rule’

The breakup wasn’t messy. Not really, Not at all. It wasn’t mean, there was no big argument, no mind changer, no feelings lost, it just.. happened. It started when you had admitted to Spencer you were getting overwhelmed with the fast pace of your relationship, and he agreed he was too. You both agreed to take space, time, to reevaluate on what you both needed at this point in time.

When the conversation finally happened, you told him you thought it would be better to end things now, while everything is good so theres no chance of things going bad. You explained your reasoning by saying you didn’t want to lose your friendship with him if that feeling in your chest never went away, you didn’t want things to be awkward at work.

He had agreed, and it was mutual. You both mutually agreed to end things out of the fear of things ending.

It had been a month since the breakup, there was no awkward phase between you two. There was no tension, bitterness. It instantly fell into the same rhythm that had always been there, playfulness, teasing, lingering glances. The only difference was now he didn’t steal kisses to cut off one of your dramatic rambles, or wrap his arms around your waist at the end of the work day to signal he was ready to go.

You hadn’t decided yet, if the breakup was the right thing to do, if keeping this close knit bond with Spencer stumped any chance of you moving on — not that you planned to right now.

The breakup wasn’t messy, but everything after, everything now and everything in your head was.

“Spencer” You poked at his arm as you approached where he was standing, leaning over a desk reading over something, you weren’t sure what it was, you didn’t really care. He didn’t look at you as he let out a hum of acknowledgment, making you smile. “Spencer” You repeated, poking his arm again, and then again, until he turned his head to look at you.

His raised eyebrow and the way his lips pulled into a tight thin line showed he was unamused, not annoyed. You smiled widely at him, “You’re in my way.” You said, something you could have told him when he was half paying attention, but that took all the fun out of it.

He stared at you blankly for a moment, before crossing his arms over his chest, leaning his body against the desk further, turning towards you. Which only further blocked your path. “Thats unfortunate.” He sighed, you squinted at him slightly.

“Can you move.” You huffed. No longer amused because it was less amusing when he was amused as well. Maybe that was silly but you couldn’t help it.

He raised an eyebrow, pretending to think about it for a moment, before looking back at you. You glared at him, crossing his arms over your chest before he spoke. “Whats the magic word?” He mumbled, tone laced with faux seriousness.

A huff left your lips, as you glared up at him, squinting your eyes slightly, “Chivalry is dead?” You suggested sarcastically.

He grinned, “No. And that’s a sentence. I said magic word”

“You know what? I will just go the other way.” You decided, turning on your heels to walk away. A laugh left his lips as he reached out to grab your wrist, stopping you from getting too far, he dragged you back to stand in front of him.

“Stubborn.” He mumbled, shaking his head as he looked down at you, you returned the gaze, tilting your head slightly as you looked up at him, trying to keep the smile threatening to make way onto your face.

“You just noticed?” You replied in the same tone. Although you knew he had known this for a while, he never failed to mention how stubborn you were throughout your relationship, whether it was playful or in the middle of an argument, he constantly reminded you just how stubborn you were.

He shook his head, not bothering to hide the amusement on his face. “No, No. Trust me you make it very known.” He said, emphasising his words to make it clear that not only he, but everyone was aware of your stubbornness.

You smiled, “Being stubborn isn’t a bad thing, you know.” You mumbled, gently pulling your wrist away from his hold, not because you didn’t enjoy the touch but more-so because you felt an undying urge to cross your arms.

He hummed, looking down at you, “I didn’t say it was.”

You tilted your head, the same entertained look in your eye that mirrored his, “You inferred it.” You said, matter-of-factually, although he didn’t, not really. He actually didn’t give any hint to what he meant by his words, but you were okay with that. It kept things lighthearted, easy.

“You assumed.” He said in the same tone. “I didn’t infer anything, I simply made an observation.” He said, raising his eyebrow as if he was trying to figure out how you were going to find a way to reply — he assumed something witty, dramatic.

“Can you observe from elsewhere.. you’re still in my way”

He let out an amused laugh, “Im still waiting on that magic word” He said, clearly enjoying this and the light hearted banter between the two of you.

You rolled your eyes, in a huff of frustration you ramble, “You are creating a hostile work environment. I feel unsafe. I feel targeted and threatened. How do you feel about yourself, after treating me such a way? You are a horrible evil person. Im going to take this to corporate.” You babbled off into a dramatic tangent which only furthered Spencer’s amusement of the current situation.

“I feel pretty great actually.” He shrugged, you glared at him, staying in place for a moment to see if he would move, he didn’t, instead he continued smirking slightly. You groaned dramatically before turning on your heels and walking away. You could hear his laughter as you walked around the opposite direction to get where you wanted to go in the first place.

“I hate when my job actually requires me to do my job.” You huffed out, shaking your head as you tightened the straps of your vest. It wasn’t true, you loved your job, you loved what you did and that wasn’t a question. It was just the dramatics and the emphasis on how tired you were today, although that didn’t stop killers from killing, or kidnappers from kidnapping.

Unfortunately this case was particularly tough, it had taken an abundance of days to just figure out the victimology and connection because of how random the killings were, then it took another day to figure out the MO, then the profile was completed, then the next day, today, you had finally gotten the location of where the unsub was keeping his victims.

“Yeah, Such a struggle, poor you” Spencer mumbled out as he came up behind you, readjusting the straps on the back of your vest to make sure it was on properly, his voice was laced with tease, you just hummed in acknowledgment.

“Make sure you’re careful, and cautious.” Hotch reminded you. You didn’t think much of it at the time, it was the same reminder as always when catching an unsub, don’t do anything unnecessarily dangerous, don’t split up unless necessary, don’t put yourself in a situation that you cant get yourself out of, the words you had heard probably a million times.

You wished you paid closer attention this time.

You and Spencer walked through the house, it had an ominous feel to it, the air in the house was colder than outside, and it wasn’t a particularly warm day — but it wasn’t the temperature that made the house feel as cold as it did.

Instead it was the guttual sobs you heard from underneath the floorboards that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand, and goosebumps to line your arms. They weren’t sobs of pain, instead just ache, a cry so loud begging for someone to hear. Before that you were about to whisper a stupid joke to Spencer, now you felt as if you couldn’t breath.

“Stay here.” He whispered to you. There was something unfamiliar about the look in his eyes and any wit you could muster up was thrown out the window at the sound of his voice. It was a stupid request, you couldn’t just stay here in the hallway while he wandered around. You had a job to do.

When he turned the corner, gun pointed protectively, his movements were calculated and careful, every step he took he knew what he was doing, You thought you did too. The first step you took was quiet and your gun was pointed, your finger hovering over the trigger.

Spencer moved towards the sound of the sobs, you moved towards the living room, trying to clear the downstairs area of the house. There was a pull in your stomach for a number of seconds, a twist of anxiety you pushed to the side to focus on the matter at hand.

That didn’t last. Ignoring the feeling in your stomach turned into gasping at the feeling. A gasp of pain leaving your parted lips as you stumbled forward, the gun left your hand and hit the ground, the sound of the contact blurring as a ringing swindling sound took over your sense of hearing.

You were stabbed. You could feel the metal, more than you wanted to admit, you could feel the way it pressed into your skin, the coldness of it against the warmth of you. A sob of pain left your lips before you could help it. There was someone holding you, wrapping a tight arm around your chest and a hand over your mouth to silence your cry.

The arms weren’t comforting, in any sort of way. They were too tight, too suffocating for the lack of air you were able to breath in between the hand covering your mouth and the pain in your stomach, you wished adrenaline would kick in but it seemed to dwindle out as your head spun, then the knife was ripped away from your stomach.

That hurt.

More than it did when it first went in.

Then you were released from the mans arms and your body collapsed in pain, eyes squeezing shut as your hands scrambled to press against the open wound now bleeding out. You didn’t know where the unsub was, you didn’t hear footsteps, you didn’t really hear anything. Everything seemed blurry, not your sight so much since your eyes were squeezed shut but you could feel your mind blurring with every second that passed, any first aid training you had learnt flew out the window.

You missed it at first, the sound of the door opening, the sound of back up coming in, Derek, Emily. They were in the house now but not in the living room, not where you were lying on the floor in a helpless pool of your own blood. You wanted to yell out, or sob but every sound got stuck in your throat.

Then you felt a larger hand pressing on top of yours, placing more pressure against the wound than your tired arms had allowed, you made out frantic talking but nothing your half conscious mind could string together coherently. It didn’t matter, you could recognise the roughness of the gentle hand anywhere.

“Spencer” You gasped out, panting.

Had you been holding your breath? You didn’t remember but you knew breathing was getting more and more difficult.

His hand pressed against yours, other hand coming to brush hairs out of your face. “Im here. Can you open your eyes for me?” He almost begged, his voice gentle and reassuring and laced with panic even though he tried his hardest to remain calm for your sake.

You didn’t reply, only letting out strangled gasps for air, eyes remaining shut, squeezed tightly, as if the harder you squeezed them shut, the more your pain decreased. Unfortunately thats not how anatomy works.

“Open your eyes for me angel, look at me.” He now did beg. If you were conscious you would’ve given him a look for the use of the term of endearment in your current broken up state, but you could hardly process anything else he was saying, and you were bleeding out so there was clearly more important things.

You struggled, but after a moment peeled your eyes open to look at him. Vision was blurry and fading in and out even few seconds even when your eyes remained open, you couldn’t make out his features, you couldn’t see the tears he was trying to hold back. God you wished you could see his face.

“Good, thats good. Keep looking at me, Okay? We’re getting you help, you’re gonna be okay” He reassured but it was more of a slight reassurance for himself, trying to convince himself as such. His voice became a ringing in your ears, along with every other sound around you.

“Wh- Where- Is—“ You words came out mumbled, muffled by gasps for air and whimpers of pain. “He.” You finished, trying to keep your eyes open, trying to focus, trying to stay alive.

Spencer spluttered for a moment because he didn’t know— He had no idea. Whether the unsub was right behind him or whether they were being taken into custody by Derek or Emily, whether he was lying dead on the floor somewhere. Spencer didn’t know. He couldn’t. How could he focus on anything else?

“I don’t know” He said.

“Go away” You mumbled, eyes now fluttering closed, even in the state of half consciousness you knew Spencer was still in danger, more danger by keeping his back to his surroundings and his focus on you. That was putting himself in an unnecessarily dangerous situation.

He shook his head. “Im not going anywhere. Keep your eyes open.” He repeated.

“Spencer” You huffed out a breath of air, your eyes remaining closed because you were so tired. “Go. You- You aren’t— You aren’t my boyfriend anymore” You huffed out the words that came across way harsher than what you intended them, “Staying- With.. Me isn’t your.. Responsibilty” Your words came out laboured along with the way your chest rose and fell, the breaths that left your lips.

“Don’t say that. Open your eyes.” He shook his head as his other hand trailed down to your neck, fingers pressing against your pulse point. You couldn’t feel it, every part of you and every inch of his touch felt like a lingering sensation over the numbness of your body, your eyes remained shut.

“If i die” You huffed out, your voice quieter, more rushed as you tried to get more air in, “Please” You started before you let out a gentle sob, not of pain, you weren’t in pain, not anymore. “Please don’t let them use a bad— photo of me.. at..- my funeral”

It was the most you things to say before you stopped replying, before your body tensed slightly. To joke, to be playful at a time like this. Spencer wondered if it was an attempt to calm him down, to relax his mind a little bit, to sooth the ache in his soul with the wit that was unforgettably you.

The cream coloured walls seemed taunting, they were warmly lit, contrasting how cold the space felt, how daunting it was. There was different people scattered around, some crying, and grieving, some reading newspapers, others celebrating. There was really no contrast of emotions quite like a hospital waiting room.

“She just got out of surgery. Shes in the ICU.” Hotch said as he stood in front of the few members of the team that were sitting by waiting. Everyone wanted to stay at the hospital and wait throughout the time of your lengthy surgery, not everybody could.

“Is she okay?” Emily asked, sitting up a little straighter as Hotch spoke, Spencer remained silent in place, every part of his body relying on the ache in his chest to keep his heart beating. He didn’t know if he could form words even if he wanted to, he didn’t know if he could speak without his voice breaking.

Hotch was silent for a moment, which caused Spencer’s head to snap towards him in nothing but pure dread. Hotch realised and shook his head. “Shes— Shes fine. Shes alive. Shes still asleep, they said it could be a few hours before she wakes up. The surgery went fine - She will be okay” Hotch sounded relived as his spoke, an unfamiliar sense of emotion in his voice.

“Can I see her?” Spencer spoke urgently before he had even fully understood what he was saying. If he had thought about it for a moment more, he wouldn’t have bothered asking. He wasn’t oblivious to the inner workings of a hospital. ICU. Family members only.

Hotch seemed to know that Spencer already knew what the answer was, “Reid..” It came out regretful, apologetic, empathetic. Spencer didn’t reply, instead re-slumped back in his seat in defeat.

There was hours. Hours before you were awake. In those hours Spencer was nothing short of a mess. He tried to work, reading over case files, trying to summarise what had happened and then the memory of your blood painting his hands came back and he was left in a state of overwhelming thought.

“You alright, pretty boy?” Derek asked, despite the playfulness of his words, his tone was serious. It wasn’t a secret how much you meant to Spencer, it wasn’t a secret how much he cared about you. Spencer looked up from the hospital seat, the room had grown more absent of life as the hours passed, families came and went, the crying stopped and started again, the celebrations happened and passed. Yet spencer never stopped feeling so lost.

He shook his head, saying he was fine would be a lost cause to the knowingness of his best friend, and his current state. He was so evidently not all right that saying so would be humorous. His cheeks were flushed, hair a mess from the amount of times he had run his hand through it, tugged on the strands stressfully.

“You know what she said to me?” Spencer mumbled out as he pulled his gaze away to look at his fiddling hands, “She was laying on the floor, dying, and she told me to go away because I wasn’t her boyfriend anymore” Spencer huffed out the memory.

Derek sighed, taking a seat next to the mess of his best friend. “I don’t think she meant it like that. The situation was still dangerous and you were putting yourself at risk.” Derek said. Spencer wanted to cry.

“I know— I know. She said ‘it’s not your responsibility to stay with me anymore’ — I don’t— I can’t—” Spencer couldn’t articulate the emotions swamping his mind. Everything was overwhelming, every time he closed his eyes he saw you on the floor in a puddle of deep red blood, anytime his fingers remained still for too long it was like he could still feel your pulse running flat against them.

“Breathe.” Derek reminded as Spencer got himself worked up.

“I lost her— I lost her.” Spencer shook his head as the words came out, his hands pulling to his face to rub over his eyes, maybe as to hide the way they’d begun to water, maybe to feel anything besides the heat of his cheeks.

Derek sat up a little straighter to rub Spencer’s shoulder, “Shes okay. They said she will be fine. They just want to look over her for a while. She was in a tough surgery, I don’t know much about hospitals but I’m pretty sure being in the ICU means shes getting all the care she needs to recover better, and faster.” Derek tried to comfort.

“Its- No- I already lost her Derek. I was an idiot and I didn’t say anything — I didn’t say anything because I was scared of losing her and i lost her anyways.” He rambled, an overwhelming force of regret lingering in every word he gasped out.

“Your breakup? I thought that was mutual?” Derek furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. Spencer wanted to laugh, because technically it was. Technically they had both agreed, technically this is what he wanted as well.

He just wanted you.

“She wanted space— I thought.. I thought everything would be okay. Then she suggested we break up while things are still good enough for us to end on good terms and be friends. I just — I didn’t want to lose her; I wanted her to be happy and in my life so I didn’t say anything.. I- I settled for being friends because it meant — I thought it meant i still had her” Spencer was a mess and it was evident in the stammer of his words in the midst of his ramble.

“You don’t think you do?” Derek asked, Spencer shook his head as he brought his hand down to rub gently over his chin and bottom lip, a shaky breath leaving his lip’s. “I think you do.. I mean everyone does. You two still act like you’re together.” Derek said, furrowing his eyebrows.

Spencer sighed, “Thats just— Thats how it was before we started dating. Sometimes it feel’s like we are still together.” Spencer mumbled, Derek opened his mouth to speak, but Spencer cut him off. “Shes going to wake up, alone. Her family is in a different state and I’m not allowed to see her? I- This is bullshit.”

“Just say you’re her husband” Emily said, catching both of the boys off guard, they hadn’t heard her approaching. Spencer lifted his gaze from the ground to look at her, eyebrows furrowed. Any other time, if it was for any other person he would probably go over how that went against so many rules, but he couldn’t find himself caring.

Not when it came to you.

He broke protocol. He wondered how many times that had happened today as he sat beside you, his hand on of yours, thumb gently running over your knuckles as you laid still unconscious on the bed. He paid attention to the beeping of the machine, the rhythm of your heartbeat, making sure it stayed consistent like his life depended on it — like your life depended on it.

You mumbled something, causing his gaze to break away from the screen to your face, watching it twist slightly. Your eyes remaining closed, then your hand twisted to interlink your fingers with his. You were evidently in pain.

“Hey- Hey don’t move too much. Do you want me to get your nurse? They can give you some different meds” Spencer ushered gently, leaning closer to the bed as you stirred awake. He wasn’t sure if your lengthy amount of time spent unconscious was purely because of the antiseptic leaving your system or also the need for sleep but he was glad you were awake.

“No” You rasped out. Whatever medicine they had been pumping you with since you got out of surgery did its job. You weren’t necessarily in pain, just uncomfortable. Even with your eyes closed you could feel the brightness of the white hospital lights. You knew where you were.

Spencer squeezed your hand gently, making you now very aware that he was holding your hand. “What the fuck happened?” You huffed out, voice groggy and full of confusion. You knew where you were, you knew it was something that happened on the case, you knew you were stabbed, but everything after the knife made contact with your abdomen was a blur in your memory.

“You were stabbed.” He stated. You opened your eyes to glare at him, “Yeah- Spencer, no shit.” You shook your head, he smiled. “I just— Is everyone else okay?” You asked.

He nodded. Derek and Emily had saved all the victims and the unsub was in custody, he explained that to you softly, mapping out every detail so you could make it out enough in your mind to satisfy your need to know what was going on.

“Next time can you tell him to do better? This bed sucks” You referenced to the unsub stabbing you, and leaving you alive and uncomfortable. It was a joke. You tried to move without causing yourself any pain over the uncomfortable thin mattress of the hospital bed. Spencer smiled and let out a breathy half hearted laugh.

“I’ll be sure to let him know” He returned your playful tone but it was heavier, quieter. It was filled with something more, something unsaid. His eyes dropped from your to back to your hands that were twined together, rubbing his thumb gently over the webbing of your own.

You tilted your head slightly, “What’s wrong?” You asked, it didn’t take a genius to read Spencer. You had memories the is and out’s of his head, or you thought you did. You knew enough.

“I thought I lost you.” He said, shaking his head slightly. His voice was so quiet and filled with guilt. “We broke up and.. because of what? Because we didn’t want to lose each other— I almost lost you.” His words held so much gravity it felt like it had all been taken from your surroundings and you were floating on everything left unsaid and unfinished.

“But you didn’t. Im alive.” You smiled playfully. He said your name, serious, showing he wasn’t playing around about this, that it went further than just this situation. You sighed, and shook your head. There were only so many jokes you could make to downplay the weight of the space between you.

“Okay. We broke up.” You mumbled, looking at him. “Because things were weird and it was too much and if things kept going then if we ended later it wouldn’t be on good terms and then we wouldn’t be able to be friends and thats horrible for everyone” You said, recapping your mutual decision to break up.

“Why do you do that?” He asked, squinting his eyes as he looked up at you.

You furrowed your eyebrows, “Do what?” There was a number of things he could pull you up on, your avoidance, your jokes, your way of downplaying everything and anything.

“Plan the end of things when they have hardly started. You were planning a breakup for a relationship that was doing perfectly fine. You needed space, I gave you space, then you decided you wanted to break up? Why?” He huffed out.

You furrowed your eyebrows further at his words, but he was right. Of course he was right. “You said you felt the same.” You mumbled, maybe if he had called you on your bullshit a month ago things would be different and you would’ve worked things out, you two would be together and maybe everything would be different. You also knew it wasn’t his responsibility to try and understand emotions you couldn’t comprehend or communicate to him.

“I didn’t want space, I didn’t want to break up — but I didn’t want to lose you all together.” He admitted. You suddenly felt the wind knock out of your chest. You wondered if the way your heart beat increased showed on the monitor, which seemed all too revealing.

“You didn’t say that.” You muttered.

He sat up a little straighter, not letting go of your hand, his fingers stayed tangled with your own. “Would it have changed anything if i did?” His voice was quiet, as if a question that didn’t need an answer.

“It was going.. too fast” You huffed. The relationship did go fast, but maybe it was because the two of you spent way too many years in this flirty banter phase before either of you actually made a move; maybe because you were both already so comfortable with one another.

“We could have slowed it down.” He said, rebutting.

“And if that didn’t work? If it was all just too much? Then we argue and we end on bad terms and then not only is it awkward for everyone at work but then we can’t even be friends” You repeated your point, the fear engraved in your mind.

“What if it did work?” He shut you up with his point, before he continued. “What if it did work and then everything was fine. What if you told me when things are getting too much or overwhelming you and we work together to fix those issues so we don’t end at all.”

“That’s optimistic.” You mumbled sarcastically. Everything he was saying made sense, everything he was saying was ideally how a relationship would go, but it wasn’t as simple as that for you. You couldn’t help the way your mind thought the worst.

Spencer huffed shaking his head, “You’re stubborn.” He said. And he never let you forget it.

“Im realistic.” You resorted, but you weren’t: You hyper fixated on everything that could go wrong and got yourself out of those situations before giving anything a chance to work out itself.

“You’re an idiot. And I love you.” Spencer exhaled. It wasn’t a crazy love confession because you knew this. He made it known everyday. Even everyday you were broken up. He didn’t need to hide it. “Can you give us a chance? A proper chance without planning our breakup before theres any actual reason for it, please.” He mumbled, half playfully and half so serious.

You considered his words. Honestly your last thought before falling unconscious was the fear that you would die without Spencer knowing how much you loved him, how much regret you lived with for the state you had got yourself into with him, the fear you had of not having him in some way, none of these thoughts you could voice aloud when dying.

“Okay.” You settled.

“Okay?” He asked, repeating it back as if he didn’t believe you. You nodded, repeating it again. He breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Okay good, because everyone on this floor thinks I’m your husband and it would’ve been really awkward if you just rejected me.”

[queers-gambit]

Damage Done

prompt: The Winter Soldier is activated and Bucky's lover is unlucky enough to be in proximity.

pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!Widow!reader

fandom masterlist: Marvel

word count: 5.4k+

note: oh, wow, Cherry wrote Bucky NOT in a Mafia AU?

warnings: takes place during Civil War, absolutely no plot - author just doesn't know how to shut the fuck up. cursing, violence, established relationship, small angst, injury, blood, hurt and comfort, Winter Soldier antics, choking, abrupt ending, maybe domestic violence? it's the WS.

it's really not that bad, it's not terribly descriptive but still tread carefully if triggered by these topics.

"Keep them together," Agent Everett Ross commanded, a little man with a raging Napoleon Complex, gesturing at you and Bucky; the latter held in mobile, restrictive captivity. "He doesn't play nice if he doesn't see her, or so it's said," his eyes rolled.

"You're making a huge mistake!" You barked, struggling in the restraints they had you wrapped in.

"No, I don't think so," he sneered, approaching you as Bucky's unit kept moving. "I think the mistake was letting you out of anyone's sight. Tell me, how long have you been in cahoots with the Winter Soldier?"

"He's not the Winter Soldier anymore, you jackass, he's a person! A real, live human being! His name's James but he prefers Bucky! He likes plums," you were yanked away, still snarling, "his favorite color is blue, likes motorcycles, he has real guilt over his past transgressions, and you've got the wrong guy!"

"Oh, right, like you're the best judge of character," Ross laughed.

"Natasha! Nat! Fucking tell him!" You pleaded, struggling in the hold of the men who kept iron clad restraint on you and were starting to drag you away. "You've got the wrong guy! Bucky didn't do this! I wouldn't lie - not to you, Natasha! Tell him!"

"That's touching, really sweet," Ross mocked, rolling his eyes as you were finally overpowered and lead away.

"Hang on a second," Nat muttered, sharing a look with Tony. "Was her DNA or facial recognition anywhere at the UN? Anywhere near where the bomb was set off?"

"What's that matter - "

"Since they met, they've not parted ways," Nat spelled out. "He won't go anywhere without her - you, yourself, are keeping them together for interrogation - "

"It's just easier," Ross scoffed.

"No, you know..." She blinked in confusion, "You know, Bucky won't talk unless she's there - you know he'll be ten times as difficult if she's not in the room."

"So?"

"So, in the past two years, have you heard about him without her? Have you seen her without him?"

"Nobody's seen or heard from either of them," Ross shook his head.

"Exactly," she nodded, lungs tightening with nerves. "If you can't find evidence of her being in Vienna... Bucky might not be your guy... Besides, they're both trained to avoid cameras - "

"Mistakes are made," Ross waved off.

"Not by two highly trained assassins like them," she snapped. "Check the files, go back - look! Actually look, run her scans through facial recognition - if you don't find her, it wasn't Bucky."

"You're so sure?" Tony asked skeptically.

"I know her," Natasha nodded, "better than anyone. She's as good as my sister, she's as good as blood. I know her. I know she wouldn't run this risk - "

"Then you also know she wouldn't get caught," Ross laughed.

"Neither would Bucky."

The silence stretched, but Ross was stubborn; sneering at the Avengers and taking his leave with his own plan of action in mind. He left Tony and Natasha to deal with Sam and Steve as he went to observe the interrogation. When he got before the monitors, he watched as it took four different men to restrain you enough to hoist your locks up the wall until they were clicked in place by ultra-strength magnets.

You jostled, feeling the full extent of your containment, grunting when the pipe you were connected to shocked your entire system into submission. Everett Ross smirked at your pain; watching your tongue swipe over your teeth, arms high above your head, readjusting your weight in your feet, but otherwise, not moving.

Ross heard Bucky ask quietly, his eyes watching you carefully from inside the reinforced cell, "You okay, doll?"

"Looks like they learned from last time," you grit, the cuffs around your wrists electrified; charring your skin, making you grimace slightly in a veiled attempt to hide your pain from your lover.

"Don't fight, you'll make it worse," he advised softly, frowning, eyes glassy from restrained emotion.

"They could've at least put me in a bit more comfortable position," you sneered, glaring up at one of the cameras, shaking your head as if in disappointment.

"I don't think they want to play nice, sweetheart."

"Yeah, could've guessed that from when they arrested us," you shook your head, puckering your lips to gather the blood in your mouth; spitting it to the floor. "You good, baby?" You asked as the men who restrained you moved to plug in the power cell caging Bucky.

He nodded silently at you, bowing his head and letting his long locks curtain his face. You frowned, shifting again as you blindly felt your cuffs and designed a way to get free; watching the men stoically as they exited the room to make way for the psychologist. Your jaw clenched, the air smelling foul - alerting you that something wasn't quite right.

"Hello, Mr. Barnes," the accented man greeted casually, standing at a single table in front of Bucky, you off to the side; chains rattling as your defenses flared. The psychologist smirked and greeted you, too, assuring your real identity was known - something that Natasha released to the world about two years ago when HYDRA sent Bucky after Cap in DC. You didn't fault her, in fact, you respected her move, and after getting out of the blown-to-shit base, you had run into the Winter Soldier... Beginning your epic love story, both of you on the run from authorities and higher powers.

You smuggled Bucky out of the country, using fake aliases that had yet to see the light of day and therefor, wasn't released in the files Nat published during her takedown of the compromised S.H.I.E.L.D. agency. He was appreciative, pondering how he was meant to go forward in a world he didn't know; so, you agreed to stick around for a bit to help settle him, and that bit turned into a couple of years - the two of you inseparable.

There was an incident in London that almost exposed you, but instead, it just shined a light on your new partnership. Captain American, Nat, Sam, shit - even Tony Stark himself was unable to catch up; your trail going cold, Nat knowing your Widow training was running the show and keeping you safe. Granted, she probably could've unraveled the web you had weaved - but the truth was, she didn't want to. So, she kept quiet. Leading you all here...

"I've been sent by the United Nations to evaluate you both," the man you'd come to know as Helmut Zemo continued; playing his part very well, but not well enough to convince you of his innocence. Something about the man rubbed you the wrong way. "Do you mind if I sit?" He asked politely, feigning like you two had a choice. When he did, Zemo continued, "Your first name is James?"

He noted the way Bucky and you shared a look, both remaining silent. Zemo tried to assure, "I'm not here to judge you - either of you. I just want to ask you a few questions. Do you know where you are, James?" Continued silence, your head subtly shaking - an act only Bucky clocked. "I can't help you if you don't talk to me, James."

"My name is Bucky," he croaked, your sigh echoing around the room.

"Hm," Zemo nodded, "I take it, she doesn't want you to talk?"

"She wants me safe," Bucky answered stiffly.

"That is admirable," the psychologist offered kindly, "a great display of love, is it not?"

"Jesus Christ," you shook your head, offering a glare, "you went through all that schooling to ask stupid fucking questions? Might wanna get your money back."

Zemo chuckled after humming, "I am merely trying to establish the connection you two share. I hear it is rare to find one without the other, that you two have become, uh, joined at the hip?"

"I protect her," Bucky offered, sharing a long look with you, "and she protects me."

"An equal partnership, would you say?"

"Yes."

"Buck," you warned, wrists twisting to hold the cuffs; being zapped, making your jaw clench and the veins in your neck to bulge.

"It's all right," his voice sounded like it was being put through a grater. "We're caught, doll, it's all right."

You huffed, eyeing Zemo as his eyes flickered between you two. He nodded, making a note in his little book, "I was warned that you would be unwilling to cooperate without her present. Why is that?"

"She keeps me safe."

Zemo hummed, "So you've said, and yet... Here you both are..." You were ready to lash out, but the doctor changed course, "Tell me, Bucky. You've seen a great deal, haven't you?"

"I don't wanna talk about it." Your restraints zapped you again when you jolted forward as if to physically silence Zemo, Bucky's head snapping over and his eyes drooping in sympathy. "Told you not to move, it'll only get worse," he told you softly.

"He's asking questions that will get him killed," you snarled, gritting your teeth as the electric currents seized most of your energy. But it was worth it, finding a little weak spot and letting your mind devise a specific plan.

"You fear," Zemo continued, "that if you open your mouth, the horrors might never stop. I feel it is safe to assume, uh, your lady is privy to your past experiences? Perhaps, you two have shared a couple?"

"Just leave her out of this," Bucky pleaded.

"Don't worry," he assured you both, tapping something on his tablet before looking back at Bucky with a sick recognition. "We only have to talk about one. One mission... That I know you," he nodded at you, "were not present for."

"Kinda game you playin', Doc?" You sneered. "Think anything he says will change my opinion about him?"

"No, no, I know your relationship is too strong for that," Zemo smiled. "So, it's not so much what he will say... But what he will do..."

"The fuck does that - "

But then, the lights went out; darkening the room save for the lights individual to Bucky's holding cell. You perked up, the electric currents halting as the cuffs died with the power and gave you an opportunity to begin working on your escape. As red panic lights flickered, Bucky questioned, "What the hell is this?"

"Why don't we discuss your home?" Zemo offered. "Not Romania. Certainly not Brooklyn, no," he reached into his satchel, revealing a red notebook the world thought long lost... Buried in snow... Forgotten in time. "I mean, your real home," Zemo removed his glasses as you frantically started working.

"No, no, no, no, no, hey, hey, hey, don't - fuck!" You grit, trying harder to free yourself. "Bucky - Bucky, don't listen - ah, Goddamnit!"

The man you now understood to be a fake psychologist stood with a little flashlight, opening the red notebook, and began repeating words in Russian that would activate the decommissioned Winter Soldier. Bucky had told you all about these words, begging you to provide a shield against them should they ever be uttered again; but you had prior knowledge, the Winter Soldier someone you had been debriefed on during your time with other secret agencies.

"Longing."

"No," Bucky whispered, head tilting back in panic as he felt his stomach curl in a familiar pattern.

"Bucky - don't fucking listen, please!" You begged, still working to free yourself.

"Rusted."

"Stop," Bucky pleaded, sounding in pain.

"Don't do this!" You pleaded to Zemo. "You're fucking hurting him, please, stop!"

"Seventeen."

"Stop!" Bucky barked, his vibranium hand clenching in anger and pain; the entire arm whirring from the flex of his muscle. He began to pant, a deep growl emitting above your panicked whimpers.

"Daybreak!"

"You have no idea what you're doing!" You raged, Bucky screaming in pain as his mind was forcibly sunk back into dark recesses of his past. "Don't - Bucky, baby, listen to me - don't fucking listen to him, please, please, baby, don't do this!"

He screamed, breaking free of the iron restraints that kept him seated in the reinforced, mobile cell. "Furnace!" Zemo continued, ignoring the pain and panic you and Bucky were both thrown into.

"Fucking stop, please! You don't understand!" You begged, freeing one hand and working in vain to unlatch the other. Bucky was out of his seat, anger coursing like a palpable rain over you all - him screaming as his metal arm worked to pound into the strengthened glass surrounding him.

"Nine!"

"Bucky, please, baby, please, don't do this!" You tried a new tactic, hoping you were enough to cut through the brainwashing - but how silly to imagine. Decades of trauma was washing over Bucky again and your little words couldn't cut through the barricades of his mind.

"Benign!"

"You stupid fucking little man!"

Zemo rounded around the cell, Bucky still pounding away at the glass. "Homecoming! One!"

"DON'T!"

"Freight car!"

You whimpered in fear when Bucky punched the entire door off the hinges, freeing him at last; but the words were spoken, the damage done. He crouched on the floor, Zemo pausing to take in the sight, slowly approaching Bucky as he stood upright; the jangling of your chains louder and more frantic as you tried to free your last wrist.

"Jesus Christ," you whispered, trying to divide focus between the two tasks of freeing yourself and protecting Bucky - but being terribly unsuccessful as you watched Zemo stand in front of your dead-eyed boyfriend.

What a ridiculous, mundane label to assign someone like Bucky.

In Russian, Zemo questioned, "Soldier?"

And in Russian, the man you loved answered, "Ready to comply."

Zemo demanded in English, "Mission report. December 16, 1991."

You whimpered in fear, listening to Bucky give the report that would haunt you for years to come. Just as he finished, you managed to get out of the cuffs, but the clanging of your freed restraints caught Zemo's attention - who smirked with abundant cruelty. "Don't," you warned, backing out of the room just as officers began to flood it.

It was a brutal fight, trying to stave off Bucky once in his Winter Soldier mindset. You grunted as he engaged you, men dead at your feet - the lucky ones just knocked out. You grit your teeth, trying to defend yourself as Bucky operated mechanically; doing what you could to protect yourself, but it wasn't enough.

Blows landed, punching and kicking one another in an equal match of strength and stamina.

"Seize her," Zemo demanded, and in the next moment, Bucky had you by the neck; an effort that made you wheeze and claw at his bionic hand.

"Bucky," you begged. "Baby - baby - it's me, it's me, please, don't, it's me! Don't do this, baby, please, come back to me. Come back!" You struggled in his grip, trying to pry his hand open, "Baby, please, please, come back to me," spit drooled from your lips as he squeezed tighter. "This isn't you!" You managed to squeeze out, tears surfacing. "Not anymore, don't let them win!"

"Shut her up, Solider," Zemo commanded in Russian, your eyes widening and trying to beg Bucky again before he was sending you into a wall. He marched up to you, grabbing your hair, and surging his balled up metal fist directly into the bridge of your nose, breaking it, head jolting backwards, and effectively knocking you out.

When you came back into consciousness, it was to Steve's worried face; his hands caressing your cheeks and begging, "You all right?"

"Fucking hell," you winced, reaching up to prod the tender spot on your head; revealing blood.

"Got your ass kicked, huh?" He frowned.

"Watch your language, Cap," you smirked, wincing when your face throbbed. "Shit, how bad is it?"

He looked you over, offering, "Definitely a broken nose."

"Goddamnit - where is he? Where's Bucky?"

"Help me," a voice pleaded from the next room, Zemo playing his part by splaying out on the floor like bait.

"Don't trust him, something ain't right about him, Steve," you whispered, waving him on as you sluggishly hoisted yourself up the wall to lean against it. "Kept asking about Siberia, asking about shit nobody should actually know."

"Get yourself safe," Steve told you swiftly, nodding at Sam; who was checking on the status of the other bodies around you.

"Just find him, Steve, he's lost in his own mind - a threat to himself," you panted, slowly standing.

"I know - "

"You don't know," you shook your head, wiping a trickle of blood from your temple, "but you're gonna have to do more than understand him right now, Steve."

"I've got this," he promised, watching you nod and limp away. You had just missed the action, Bucky overpowering both Sam and Steve; getting to a safety landing and running into Natasha, Tony, and Agent Sharon Carter.

"We'll hash our bullshit out later," you panted, "but for now - "

You heard a commotion behind you, flinching out of sight when Bucky made himself known and began taking down rogue agents unlucky enough to stand before the Winter Soldier.

"He have an off switch?" Nat asked.

"Not that I've found," you frowned. "Split up."

Tony tried to engage Bucky first, using a mobile Iron Man device he wore on his wrist that used sonics to disorient Bucky. It only worked to a small extent, the two exchanging a few blows, Bucky firing a bullet at Tony's face at pointblank range that was saved by his technologically advanced glasses. Bucky got the upper hand, sending Tony flying back, letting Sharon and Nat attack.

He disposed of them both easily, stumbling when you caught him off guard and wrapped your legs around him. Normally, you'd do anything to have your legs around him - but this wasn't one of those times. You exchanged several punches, blocking one another, going for disarming hits but being of equal challenge; leaving small cuts and blooming bruises on each other as if to prove the engagement. Natasha rejoined the fight, two Widows showing Bucky up on a few instances, but he was heaving her across the room as you swung onto his shoulders in an impressive acrobatic move.

You heaved your fists down in a repeated fashion on the top of his head, Bucky charging at one of the cafe tables; slamming you down and choking you again with his metal hand. Both your hands held his, legs up around his neck to try to keep him at a distance for relief on your windpipe.

Through a strangled breath, you managed, "You could at least recognize me!"

"Who said I don't?" He growled, reaching out to snap a piece of wood from a chair.

You tried to regain normal breath, wheezing, "This isn't you, baby, you are not this person anymore - you're not a psychotic, robot killer! You're a man - please!"

"You don't know a damn thing about me," he seethed.

"I know everything about you," you strangled, "and I know this isn't you. Come back to me, baby, please! Y-You can't let the demons win, Buck, please - fucking listen to me!" But he only raised the wooden shaft above his head. "BUCKY, DON'T!"

"Who the hell is Bucky?"

You cried out shrilly when he jabbed the sharp wood into your shoulder, staking you to the table just as King T'Challa rushed onto the scene and stole your brainwashed boyfriend's attention. You hissed in pain, trying to yank the wood free but being unsuccessful; resulting in blood to splatter onto the tiled floor.

Hearing someone pant your name, you caught a glimpse of red and knew it was Nat, her face worried over yours a moment later. "Where's Bucky?" You coughed and winced in pain.

"Goin' up by the looks of it," she informed, "now hang on, this is gonna hurt. Want a belt to bite?"

"No, just do it, get it done, please," you panted, bracing yourself, and suddenly, without warning, your companion heaved the piercing shaft free from your flesh. Naturally, you cried out, groaning and clenching your jaw so tight, it nearly crushed your teeth into dust.

"Hey, you seen..." Sam arrived on scene, taking in your injury, "Holy shit, you good?"

"Yeah," you grunted, stumbling to your feet as blood bloomed into a bigger, brighter blemish on your tactical shirt. "We gotta go, Sam, we should get outta here."

"Hang on," Nat paused you two, your opposite hand holding your wound; her hands occupied by a smart device, "looks like Bucky tried to highjack a helicopter. Steve stopped him, but it resulted in them all crashing in the river."

"Shit," Sam breathed. "We gotta go find them."

"We need to get outta here, you know, away from the cops and agents," your head shook. "Get somewhere safe, away from this catastrophe. We'll regroup with Steve."

"Go," Nat permitted, "I won't say a word."

"You're one of a kind, Nat," you praised, pecking her cheek. "Let's go, Sam. And grab that First Aid kit," you pointed to the wall where the white box was mounted. He agreed and you lead the way out of the facility.

Bucky groaned as he woke up, head lulling back before realizing he couldn't move his metal arm; finding it clamped in industrial weights. Sam called you both to attention, but while Steve jogged over, you remained in your place out of sheer distress.

You only vaguely listened to the conversation, hands trembling as your shoulder was bandaged to prevent further injury or infection. You did what you could to patch up any injury, and when you heard your name, you dialed in; Bucky asking, "Where is she? Is she okay?"

"You don't remember?" Sam sneered.

"No..."

"You stabbed her," the Falcon growled.

"What? N-No, I-I-I couldn't've - I wouldn't!"

"You did," Steve confirmed, pity coloring his words. "Punched her out pretty well, choked her, too. Broke her nose..."

"Please - Steve, please, tell me I didn't."

"I'm sorry, Buck."

"That why she's not here? She's in a hospital?"

"Actually, no," Sam trailed, "she's just in the other room."

"She didn't want to come here?"

Steve sighed as Sam informed, "Don't think she wants to see you right now, man."

"I didn't mean to hurt her."

"We know," Steve swiftly promised, nodding his head. "She knows it, too, you just have to give her some time."

Bucky looked utterly defeated, murmuring, "I scared her. Oh, my God, I scared her..."

"Gotta agree with you there."

"Sam," Steve reprimanded. "Look, Buck, she'll come around."

You waited until the two men left Bucky alone to regroup and stratify a new course of action. Slowly and almost sheepishly, you entered where Bucky was being kept, steps silent but he heard you anyways. His blue eyes flashed in concern as he met your gaze, mouth opening and closing as if words failed him.

"Doll," he finally breathed, "a-are you all right?"

"I'm okay."

"Don't bullshit me, how hard did I hit you? Steve said I broke your nose, I-I'm so sorry, doll, please believe me. What'd I do to your shoulder? Is that where I stabbed you?"

"Buck," you sighed, slowly squatting in front of him, "I need you to take a breath and know that I understand you were not in your right state of mind. You were forcibly triggered and sent back into that way of thinking, I know it wasn't you."

"I still hurt you, I still did it."

"Did you, though?" Your head cocked, eyes narrowing slightly, "Because I know my Bucky wouldn't hurt me, would never dare lay a hand on me - but the Winter Solider is a different story. You didn't do this, Buck, you weren't you."

"I can smell the fear on you."

"Well, yeah, it fuckin' scared me. I tried to stop that fake doctor, I tried to help, tried to save you and keep your safe. I'm sorry I was too slow, that I failed."

"You didn't fail anything, sweetheart... I-I failed you, I broke my promise to never hurt you."

"No, you didn't. The Winter Solider did all that, not my Bucky."

He frowned, repeating to ask softly, "Your Bucky?"

"My Bucky - the kind, charismatic, impossibly stubborn, kind hearted man I've loved the past couple of years who always gives me the crispiest fries, who has nightmares, who loves me unconditionally despite what I, too, have done in my past. And you know what I was doing out there while Sam and Steve talked to you?"

"What's that, doll?"

"Understanding that loving someone means loving their flaws, accepting them exactly as they are. So, while, yes, the Winter Solider scares the fuck outta me, he's still part of you and I can't authentically love you if I reject the Soldier."

His head shook "Your kindness is wasted on me."

"I think you should let me decide what's a waste and what's not when it comes to my own energy and emotion."

"I'm just gonna end up hurting you again. You're better off without me, baby, you and I both know you're better off keeping your distance. You should get out now while you still can."

"Not gonna happen. 'Cause you know what else I realized?" You reached up to caress his cheek, "I trust you beyond reasonable doubt, I trust you even if I'm afraid of the Winter Solider. I should've been faster, I should've helped you more, but I was powerless against that red notebook."

"You and I, both..."

You pet the cheek you were holding. "Buck, I know it was scary, I know how it must've felt being forced back into that mindset, but I want you to know that I'm in this for the long haul - you're not gonna scare me off. Because I love you, Bucky, and every single part of you - whether choking me out or not. Whether I earn a broken nose or not."

"I'm so sorry. I-I can't believe I did that, I'm so sorry, I hate that I hurt you. I'm so sorry, baby, I can't - I can't even put it in words how much I regret putting you in that position."

You smirked, "See? The Winter Soldier has no remorse, but my Bucky does." You gingerly reached out to curl his hair behind his ear. "My Bucky apologizes and takes accountability. There's no reason to not love that man - especially when he deserves it so much. Hey? Hear me? You deserve to be loved, too, Buck."

"And you deserve a man who doesn't run the risk of being turned into a psycho killing machine over a few measly words."

"I deserve to love my best friend, so let me do that. Say whatever you want, try to push me away - but I'm like a boomerang, baby, I'll just come right back."

"What kinda man puts his best girl in that kinda position? Who hurts the most important person in his life?"

"A man who endured decades of abuse," you laid your hands on either of his thighs, "a man who wasn't allowed control of his own mind. I can't - no, no, I won't fault you for that, Buck. Today wasn't your fault and I'll remind you of that as often as it takes. Don't you dare feel guilty because you didn't do this to me, okay? You didn't put me in any position - that fake fucking doctor did this, Agent Ross did this, special ops put us here. You, my sweet boy, didn't do anything to be at fault. You were trapped, but look at you now - freed, level headed, talking to me."

His eyes gleamed with a sheen of emotion, staring at the bloodied bandage wrapping your shoulder wound before his eyes danced over the bruising and other aftermath of your injuries. "I could've killed you," he muttered, tears filling his eyes.

"But you didn't - and surprisingly, neither did the Winter Soldier. Maybe there was a part of you still alive, wanting to refuse orders and not actually hurt me."

"Perhaps," he frowned. "I'm still so sorry, doll, I hate that I did this to you. It never should've happened."

Your head nodded, "I know, baby, and listen - I forgive you. Yeah? Hear me? I forgive you, this is in the past."

"Are you sure about me? You sure you wanna do this? Knowing I could flip a switch and hurt you - maybe even worse than today?"

"I'm sure about you, Buck," you agreed. "I don't wanna be without you, so, sign me up for whatever's to come."

"You might regret that."

"The only thing I could ever regret is abandoning you. I don't want to do this without you - I love our life together. In any world, in any lifetime, I'd still choose you. There's nothing that would make me regret you - regret being with you."

"You sure? I don't want to make you do anything out of your comfort."

"I love you, Bucky, yes, I'm sure. No matter what damage you think you might've caused, whatever damage has been done, I promise, that's not the truth. There's nothing about you that I could regret."

"Well, all that's left now is to get to Siberia, stop the other Winter Soldiers."

"And figure out a way to free your mind once and for all... It's what you deserve," you told him softly, rocking to your knees to meet his forehead with yours and caressing his cheek again. When you heard approaching footsteps, you sighed and pulled away from him to stand and turn, spying Sam and Steve. "C'mon, Cap, get him outta this. He's not gonna attack anyone," you requested, gesturing where your boyfriend was trapped.

"You sure?" Sam asked stiffly. "He did a real number on you alone. Not to mention all the other agents and cops he took out back there."

"He's good," you snapped, perking your brows at Steve, "and you two would do well not to throw what happened in his face, it wasn't his fault. So c'mon, free him, he's not a wild animal."

Steve agreed and lifted the machinery from Bucky's prosthetic, him instantly snatching it back and massaging where the joint met metal. Bucky stood with a set stare at Sam and Steve, as if anticipating them to lunge at him. His throat constricted, swelled with emotion when you stepped in front of him - posing barrier between the two Avengers and himself.

"You still got that phone on you?" Steve asked you softly.

"I do."

"Is it still unregistered?"

"You know it is. Who're we calling?"

"Reinforcements. We're gonna need help now that the Avengers will be looking for us. We gotta get to Siberia."

"Here," you agreed, unlocking the device and handing it over. "Who's first on your list?"

"Any Avenger who didn't sign the Sokovia Accords."

When he walked away with Sam again, you turned to face your lover directly; staring into swirling storms of baby blues. "You still with me?" You asked softly, reaching up to caress his hair again to push it behind his ear.

"Always. Got my six?"

"You know I do, baby," you smirked, stepping into his chest and wrapping your arms around his waist. "We'll figure this out, together."

"Together," he agreed, sighing deeply and returning your embrace tightly. His flesh hand rose to hold the back of your head, bringing his lips down to lay a chaste kiss on the top of your head. His voice rattled quietly, "Thank you..."

"Hmm? For what, handsome?"

"Believing in me. It's nice to think we can end this torment."

You smiled up at him, "You deserve freedom, Bucky, and to live without this haunting fear."

"I don't know about 'deserving' it, sweetheart. Done a lot of things that would argue against that."

"Maybe against the Winter Soldier, but Bucky deserves the world. Deserves kindness, accommodation, love and understanding. Now," you smirked and sniffled, giving his waist another squeeze before releasing and pulling back, "get your head outta this pit and focus, we've got a long day ahead of us."

He agreed, letting you take his hand and lace fleshy fingers together in a tether. Sam's face remained stoic and passive, but when Steve saw you two, he couldn't help but smile. Two years he hunted for Bucky and just today, he's learned his best friend's been shacked up with you - a warmth blooming in his chest over the idea of you two finding one another and loving each other.

requesting rules and masterlist

Marvel masterlist

[bedtimescenarios]

Comfort tropes I absolutely love

I don't normally write much comfort, instead preferring to focus on the hurt, but I may or may not have gotten some ideas from my Hunger Games oc:)

Whumpee showing up at Caretaker's door in the middle of the night. Hurt, disheveled, bleeding. When their eyes meet Caretaker's, they radiate pain. "I didn't know where else to go."

Whumpee breaking down in Caretaker's arms. Caretaker holds them tightly, their grip secure yet gentle, while Whumpee clutches onto them as if they'd dissappear if they let go. As Whumpee's tears dampen Caretaker's shirt, they simply caress their hair, shushing them and reassuring them that they're okay. They're safe now.

"I'm not going anywhere. You can rest."

Caretaker who has been through a situation similar to Whumpee's. So they understand. They're connected, in a way. And they make sure Whumpee is comforted in a way they never were, protected to an extent they never knew, and cared for in a way they never felt.

"This will never happen to you again. I'll make sure of it."

On that previous note, perhaps Caretaker and Whumpee's comfort isn't one-sided- they take care of each other. They both allow the other to be vulnerable around them, because they both know. And that creates a bond so deep that the constellations themselves could not transcend it.

"It's not your fault." Whumpee nods. "I know." Yet they don't believe it. So Caretaker cups their face, simultaneously firmly and carefully, and repeats it. "Listen to me. No, no- really listen. It's not your fault. It's not your fault." And they say it and say it until Whumpee's cheeks are wet with tears, because that's when they know that they understand.