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honeyspence · 3 years

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a year in clueless love

the love story that is you and spencer reid. follows a year of the two of you being hopeless (and very stupid) romantics.

tw: teeniest bit of spice, mentions of canon typical violence and guns

a/n: doesn’t really follow a specific episode or case. kind of all over the place. also i picture like,, post prison reid in this? who’s a little more confident and up front but still terrified of losing you/ getting hurt. enjoy!! :)

In retrospect, it had been obvious. The way the two of you sought each other out in every room, like it was gravity. They way it didn’t matter if you were on the jet, on the field, or just at Quantico, the two of you were always touching each other. Thighs pushed together, hands brushing under the table, an arm around your shoulders, elbows bumping against each other; always touching. The way you were able to communicate by just looking at each other, which Garcia was convinced was simply telepathy. All in all, you probably didn’t do the best job at hiding whatever was going on with you and Spencer, and it didn’t exactly help that your family/ best friends/ colleagues were the FBI’s top profilers. They pretty much had it figured out before the two of you did.

In January, Morgan and Garcia decided to keep track. Keep track of the moments you and Spencer were so obviously, deliriously, stupidly falling in love. Morgan had to restrain Garcia from squealing every morning when Spencer brought you coffee and every evening when he walked you to your car. In January, the BAU took a case in Kansas; your first case on the field with the team. You tried your best to hide the nerves, but Spencer, of course, noticed as soon as you were on the jet.

“You okay?”

“Yup!” you say, a little too enthusiastically. Spencer raises an eyebrow. “You suck at lying.” It's a bit worrying, how you’ve only known each other for a couple months but he knows you oh so well already. You quirk a smile at him.

“I’m fine, really. I guess.. I’m just a little nervous. Wanna make a good impression.”

He laughs, and you wish you could replay it as soon as it’s over. “You’ll do great. Everyone already loves you- especially Hotch.” (This is true, Emily told you she hadn’t ever seen Hotch smile until the day you brought him his favorite coffee and a bagel on his birthday.) “Thanks Spence.” You nudge his shoulder with your own and try to ignore the butterflies in your stomach.

Of course, this exchange didn’t go unnoticed. Morgan, everso dedicated to his “make Spencer find love” mission, added it to his list and texted Garcia so fast you might’ve thought it was an emergency.

In February, Emily and JJ joined Morgan and Garcia in their list making, inspired by an exchange they had witnessed in the office. On a dreary Monday, you had brought a bag of M&Ms and were dropping handfuls in your team’s hands, rambling about how Monday was your favorite day because you got to see your team. When you arrived at Spencer’s desk, smiling broadly at him, hands outstretched with slightly melted, rainbow chocolate, how could he say no?

(He briefly remembered that he hated germs, but with you, he couldn’t bring himself to care.)

Emily’s jaw was practically on the floor.

“JJ,” she whisper-screeched. “Did you- Did you see Spence just-”

JJ is equally shocked. Spencer Reid didn’t even shake hands, much less take warm candy straight from someone’s hand. But of course, to him, you weren’t just someone. Garcia notices this quickly, and in minutes, the three of them are huddled with Morgan, who wastes no time in showing them his ever growing list.

In March, the team went to Chicago. The weather takes a bitter turn, and while you’re outside surveying a crime scene, a horrid wind hits. Spencer immediately noticed your gentle shivering, and without wasting a second, tugs his own jacket off and wraps you in it. His hands wrap around your own, warming your numb fingers without a second thought.

(Again, for a split second, he recalls that he hates germs and that your hands are probably sharing millions right now, but when he sees your grateful smile and feels your hands in his own, he can’t bring himself to give a damn.)

“Thank you Spence,” you sigh through chattering teeth, leaning slightly into him.

The cold turns the tip of Spencer’s nose pink, and it's all you can think about for the next week.

In April, the team had a particularly rough case. 5 children kidnapped, only 3 rescued. The parents of the two lost children’s reaction in front of the team was the worst part.

Rough cases affect everyone in different ways. Morgan gets broody and refuses to talk. Hotch writes in his notebook and facetimes Jack, reminding himself of the good things he has. Emily likes to sketch, says that the pattern of lines calms her. Rossi, believe it or not, chooses to meditate. JJ finds peace in baking, making enough to feed your team for days. Spencer, of course, turns to his books.

In April, Spencer learns that you get touchy. Of course, you already were, but after particularly bad cases, it’s a little more extreme. Hands constantly somewhere on someone (usually Spencer) whether it be hand holding, hair braiding, or cuddles. You just wanted to be near someone. In April, Spencer was that someone. A blanket wrapped around the two of you on the jet heading home, Spencer fighting a blush. Hands knotted together under the blanket, your thumb moving back and forth slowly on his hand. Your head on his shoulder, his head resting gently on top. His fingers thumbed at his book, but in all honesty he was too focused on you, already half asleep in his arms.

In May, Rossi has a birthday party. The team gathers at his home, where everyone enjoys his famous pasta and what is probably far too much wine for 4 in the afternoon.

Wine drunk FBI agents are a lot more fun than you ever expected. You spend the afternoon laughing far too hard at Rossi’s old stories and playing hide and seek with Jack and Henry. You also spend far too long avoiding Derek’s pointed looks everytime Spencer holds a door for you or pours you a drink or, in Derek’s thoughts, does something that proves Spencer is so clearly head over heels in love with you.

In May, as the evening dies down, Rossi plays music you’ve never even heard before. Some old classical stuff you had never cared for, but when you see Spencer’s eyes light up with joy at the opening notes, you make a beeline to Rossi because you would do anything, including make yourself listen to classical music, just to have a reason to make Spencer’s eyes shine with happiness like that again.

“What song is this?” you ask Rossi, who gives you an incredulous look.

“You spend all this time with boy wonder over there and you can’t recognize Beethoven?”

You swat at his arm. He laughs at you, tells you it’s Moonlight Sonata, and then winks at you.

He very much knows why you asked, and his suspicions are proven true because right after, you practically skip towards Spencer.

He elbows Hotch and whispers under his breath, “I think our blind love birds might finally have a moment here.” The two of them quietly move the rest of the team inside, and suddenly it’s just you and Spencer outside.

In May, Spencer thinks he drooled when you told him you loved Moonlight Sonata. In a moment of what he can’t decide was brilliance or utter stupidity, he says to you,

“Will you dance with me?”

You’re a blushing, stuttering mess immediately (although he’s not much better), but you manage to tell him yes, absolutely.

In May, as the sun sets slowly, he takes your hand and you dance. He’s wonderful at it, and you’re dreadful, but he couldn’t care less because he has the most beautiful girl on the planet dancing with him. He can hardly believe he’s not dreaming, even when you trip over his feet and apologize a million times, because all he can think about is how beautiful you are, how the pink and orange glow of the sky lights you up like a goddess.

He twirls you, holding your twinkling gaze and biting back his absolutely massive smile as your green dress flows around you over and over again, the white flowers on it dancing with you.

(He never realized how much he loved green until he sees you in it. Then again, he thinks he’d love a garbage bag on you too.)

The air smells like spring and his cologne and his smile makes the butterflies in your stomach flutter so. Damn. Hard.

He whispers to you, “You’re beautiful,” as you rest on his chest, still slowly swaying to the music.

In May, you both leave Rossi’s house with your hearts doing cartwheels.

In June, Owen from 2 levels down asks you to coffee. Tells you he thinks you’re beautiful and that he would love to get to know you. You say yes, trying to ignore the tiny voice telling you that you didn’t want Owen, you want someone else.

In June, Spencer realizes he is hopelessly, terribly, ragingly jealous. He sees you talking to Owen, the gentle touching between you two, the moments of quiet intimacy Spencer realized he wanted with you so. Damn. Bad.

In June, Spencer just wants to go back to May. The night you two danced to Moonlight Sonata, your feet tripping over his and your perfume surrounding him. He curses himself for not telling you right then that you were all he wanted. He desperately wishes he had had the damn guts to kiss you that night.

In June, you go on two dates with Owen before ending it. He was funny, sweet, kind. But he didn’t go on tangents about The Illustrated Man with you. He didn’t bring you coffee in the morning or wear cardigans to work.

In June, Spencer is quietly overjoyed when you tell him you ended things with Owen, that he just “wasn’t right for you.”

In July, he was terrified. A case gone horribly wrong ended with you in the ICU, a bullet lodged in your side. In the bathroom of the hospital, he cried, thinking about how desperately he wished it could have been him. Should’ve been him who took the bullet, should’ve been him in critical condition. How badly he wishes he told you how he felt about you the moment he saw you with Owen. When he comes out, Morgan wraps his arms around him and he is scared.

When the nurse comes out, he braces himself for the worst, pushing the panic down. The thought of losing you- he can’t bring himself to look up when she stands in front of him. When she says that you’re alright and resting, he nearly collapses with relief. When she says you can have visitors now, he is immediately on his feet and rushes until he is by your side.

You sleep as he sits on the chair next to you, far after the rest of the team leaves. Hotch had asked him to get back and get rest, but he refused, instead sitting on the hospital chair with his hand holding your own, like he had all those months ago when he gave you his coat in Chicago.

He watches your gentle breathing, thinking about how peaceful and happy you look in your sleep, despite your recent brush with death. And when you wake up, he presses your hand to his lips and tells you with teary eyes to never, ever scare him like that again.

“I’ll try,” you yawn. “You didn’t have to stay here, ya know. You need to sleep.”

“As if I can sleep when you’re here. Nope, no way. Idiot.” He says, and you hear how his voice is slightly choked up as he starts rambling about how having visitors in the hospital is statistically more beneficial. You can’t quite lift yourself up yet, but you grab his hand and bring it to your own lips as he had done, and press it there for a moment.

(He is blushing. So hard he trails off and stops talking, instead too focused on the way your lips on his hand are so soft. So pretty and gentle and pink and-)

“Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you for staying. I don’t know what I would do without you.” You say, your heart pounding.

The team comes back in the morning and finds both you and Spencer fast asleep, his head on your hospital bed, your hands knotted tightly. Morgan complains about how long his list has gotten.

In August, Spencer asked you on a date. Well, he doesn’t call it a date. He calls it “dinner with a friend.” But he desperately wants to call it a date. He picks you up from your apartment with a bouquet of pink tulips.

“Spencer! You didn’t have to do that,” you say, batting his arm while trying to hide your delight. (No one had ever bought you flowers on a date before.)

But Spencer is so busy staring at you, all dolled up in a little red dress you just knew he’d love.

“N-No- I mean yes, yes I did,” he stumbled. “I mean, you look… you look stunning.”

He takes you to a new Italian place, where you eat on the terrace under the stars and he absolutely refuses to let you touch the bill. He talks to you about his mom, about Mexico, and at the end of it all, he tells you that you make him feel safe. Like he can be himself and ramble on and on; like he can breathe. In August, Spencer drives you home and walks you to your doorstep with your arm looped through his own, your head on his shoulder.

In August, Spencer kissed you so gently, so carefully in front of your front door you think he feared you might break. He held you like a porcelain doll, delicately but oh-so tightly. His lips up against yours, timidly, softly, sweetly, and you felt yourself melt into a fucking puddle when he pulled away and rested his forehead on yours.

In September, you took him to your favorite bookstore. It was a tiny place with a flower garden in front and shelves lined with hundreds of books. It smelled like coffee and old books and lavender, and when you walked in, arm and arm with Spencer, you knew this was heaven. The two of you sat at a little table in the corner for hours, drinking coffee and sharing doughnuts and reading. So much reading. When you finally leave, he buys you the three books you had been reading (at his recommendation.)

“No- no Spence stop!” you say, trying to wrestle his arm away from the checkout. He just laughs at you and pays for them.

In September, Spencer asks you to be his girlfriend outside of the bookstore. He was a clumsy, nervous wreck, but he was finally your clumsy, nervous wreck.

In October, you and Spencer were a secret from the rest of your team. Work lives and personal lives just needed to stay separate, you decided.

(The irony of this was not lost on either of you.)

October was spent with kisses in quiet corners and sneaking into hotel rooms like high schoolers when you were traveling for cases. It was a month of countless movie marathons and Spencer falling asleep with you in his arms, countless mornings of driving each other to work and Spencer’s hand on your thigh. Longing stares at each other from across the office, little doodles and notes left on post-its on each other's desks. Hands knotted together under tables, quiet hugs whenever they seemed the least suspicious. Spencer bringing you flowers on every date, you kissing the tip of his nose in thanks and smiling when it always turns pink.

(He still says it’s from the cold. You’re starting to think you just have that effect on him.)

Of course, when you work with profilers, they tend to notice these things. Yet, none of them put together that you and Spencer were actually together. They just kept building their now massive list and watched the two of you fall even harder. Watched you take Garcia’s unicorn stickers and leave them on Spencer’s cheek, where he would leave it there for hours. Watched Spencer bring you a new book every Monday and then discuss it with you every Friday.

In October, Spencer had you pushed up against the wall of his apartment, his shirt halfway unbuttoned and yours already halfway off. Gentle kisses up and down your neck, hands wandering up and down your body. Pulled you into his room, stared at you with those warm brown eyes you absolutely adored. Your hands in his hair, his mouth on your own when someone knocks on the door.

“Maybe,” he pants breathlessly against you,”Maybe if we ignore them, they’ll just leave.” You’re in no position to argue; you have no desire to stop. You hum in agreement and pull him back to you when the knock gets harder and you hear, “Spencer! Open the door, it’s Garcia and Morgan!”

Your first instinct is to literally hide. The worst two people to find you like this, but here they were. Spencer convinces you this is a bad idea and throws you your clothes as the two of you scramble to look presentable and like you were absolutely not doing what you absolutely had been doing.

In October, you thought you managed to convince Morgan and Garcia that you two were just hanging out. They left Spencer’s apartment in a whirlwind of giggles and were elated. Needless to say, the rest of your team was alerted to your antics within the next 10 minutes.

In November, you had the “big confrontation.” Also known as Hotch pulling the two of you into his office with a stern look.

(Which he was actually struggling very hard to hold because he was so-very-happy-Spencer-was-happy and the-joy-radiating-off-the-two-of-you-was-quite- frankly-contagious.)

He tells you not to be all over each other in the office and to remain professional and blah blah blah, but Spencer swears that Hotch actually smiled when the two of you left his office.

In November, your team is overjoyed. Garcia tears up when you take Spencer’s hand in front of the team. Morgan and Rossi offer to throw a party the first time they watch Spencer kiss you on the cheek. JJ and Emily squeal when you sneak your arms around Spencer’s waist while he packs up. And Hotch, Hotch struggled to hide how goddamn happy he was. He was so thankful every time he saw you together, because you radiated smiles and happiness and joy, which was something he knew Spencer always needed more of. When Spencer fell asleep on the jet after a grueling case, his head on your shoulder and your head gently on his, Hotch couldn’t resist taking a picture.

For your 3 months, Spencer brings you a gift on your way to work. He’s a burning, blushing red when he hands you the package wrapped messily (and very sweetly) in pastel pink wrapping paper, your name scrawled across the top and decorated with hearts, making your own heart glow.

When you open it, you think your heart actually manages to burst. He bought the two of you fluffy gray cardigans, each with an embroidered pink heart on the right. He’s looking shyly at you, a hand rubbing the back of his neck, a blush still dancing on his cheeks, as if he can’t tell how much you absolutely adore it.

You make it obvious when you fling yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck, burying your head in the crook, and you can feel him exhale the nervous breath he had been holding. He smells like fresh laundry and old books and the cinnamon cake you made that morning. He holds you like you’re his lifeline, and you feel his smile against your head.

“I’m so glad you like it, I was so nervous and I- I didn’t know you’d think it was stupid-”

“Shut up.” You kiss him. He shuts up.

“I love it Spencer.”

In November, you learn Spencer gives the best presents and the best hugs.

In December, you have your first fight. It was stupid- you had been working a case and Spencer had asked you not to go to the suspects house with Emily because you resembled the unsub's type. You went anyways, and as Spencer feared, the unsub went ballistic when you tried to apprehend him and you were separated from the rest of the team.

He took you into his car and stole your gun. He pressed it to your temple and attempted to drive away with one hand, but Morgan saved you. Shot straight through the window and into the unsub’s head, his blood all over you. You stumbled out of the car where Morgan grabbed you and hugged you. Took you back to the team, where Spencer could barely look at you.

You reassured him you were fine afterwards nothing had even happened, but he didn’t care. He had asked you, and you had ignored. You were so close to leaving him. Forever. In December, Spencer left the jet and went to his apartment without saying goodbye to you for the first time. In December, you avoided each other for a whole week.

In December, you went to his apartment with a book in your hands. A peace offering. He answered the door in your favorite blue cardigan and you let it out. You apologized, pouring your heart out, and you said it. And to your absolute relief, he wrapped his arms around you and apologized as well. And he said it back.

In December, Spencer Reid told you that he couldn’t bear to lose you. That the thought of it had made him realize- he was head over heels in love with you.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #derek morgan #aaron hotchner #spencer read x reader #spencer reid gif #spencer reid blurb #mgg x y/n #mathew gray gubler #spencer reid story #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid x you

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avengersassemble-fics · 4 years

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New Perspective

Modern AU! Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: Life seems to be falling apart around you as your husband of three years suddenly reveals an affair, and seeks a divorce. Your perfect life is flipped upside down with his revelation and you have to learn how to be you again. An unforeseen friendship starts to bloom between you and your neighbors new lover, but will these late night rooftop rambles be enough to keep you from going completely batshit crazy in the turmoil of your life?

part 01/?? “no sunshine”

word count 4.2k

an: hehehehe...... this is vastly different than anything i’ve ever written. lemme know what you think ok :) also this is the song mentioned in the story. its beautiful. please listen to it. this song got me through some wicked times. but it sets the tone for where someones mind is at in this.

The only thing people dreaded more in the morning then running late, missing their bus, or possibly anything that could go wrong that early in the day is the sound of the alarm that rings through your phone. It’s scientifically proven that 53% of people feel absolute dread when the incesstuous beeping that comes out of the tiny device startles them awake. But there are people who wake up before it even starts, already anticipating that god awful sound to start their day. You were one of those people as of late.

Before the sun had risen over the building around you and peeked into your bedroom, you were awake. You honestly couldn’t say if you had fallen asleep or not. Your eyes felt exceptionally dry but that could have been from the crying rather than the lack of sleep. But still, you watched your screen illuminate the room and ring loudly to let you know it was 7 am. You had to drag your hand to cancel it, and laid on your side for a few moments after.

You weren’t ready to “conquer the day”. You wanted it to disappear and you along with it. Unfortunately, life wasn’t as graceful to you as you hoped. Or else none of this would even be happening. You wouldn’t be lying here in the dark having to accept the fact your husband of three years was having strangers come and move all his stuff out. You wouldn’t have to be living with the fact that he wants a divorce and instead wants to be with the woman he cheated on you with. No, life was a piece of shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.

You pushed yourself up and rubbed at your face to try and get any kind of feeling back into it, or maybe just back into you. You threw the cover off your body to get out of bed, and fixed it right back to where it was perfectly neat. You hovered for a moment, your eyes going over the unslept side of the bed that he used to sleep in. It was perfectly intact, his dent almost completely faded away by now. It broke your heart to look at so you got dressed as fast as you could and went to the living room.

His boxes littered every square inch of the apartment, it was like climbing mountains for you to reach the small kitchen to get some kind of caffeine in you. But when you finally popped that K-Cup into the machine and it made you a steaming hot cup of coffee, you let it warm every inch of your body. By the time you finished the cup of coffee there was a knock on your door, and you knew it was the movers. You placed the empty mug down into the sink and then trampled over a few more lines of boxes before you could throw the door open.

There stood about three men, and one handed you something to sign, and you did. Almost immediately after handing them back the clipboard they came in and got to work. You watch in silence as they take load after load of the boxes around the room, and out the door to the van outside. Each trip makes your heart break a little more, because the room gets more and more empty as they go. He had a lot more possessions than you thought. It was making the apartment look sad and empty. Not like the home it once was.

They went room by room until they made it to the bedroom. All there was in the boxes was his clothes, every last one of them. With each mountain of boxes that left, you saw the last and final one, with your wedding album sticking out the very top one. At least he was taking that with him. Maybe . . . Maybe he would look at it and just remember what you two had.

You watched them load that stack onto a dolly and felt prompted to follow them out. Though they took the elevator and you went for the stairs, you nearly met face to face near the entrance to the building. You trailed after the men and noticed the rain that was pouring outside, and then one of them suddenly stopped in front of you.

“He told us to make sure you held onto this,” the man said, and before you knew it he was shoving the wedding album in your arms. You grabbed it quickly since the man was pushing the dolly out into the rain. Your feet only brought you as far as the threshold, and you leaned against the doorway and watched them quickly back up those last few boxes. You felt your hand shaking before you, and tightened your grip on the album in your arms, watching as they loaded themselves in and drove away with the last remnants of your marriage.

You listened to the patter on the rain on the street as it sunk in for you that that was it. He didn’t want to work on it, he just wanted out. And now he was out. Gone. And you were alone. You peeled yourself off the doorway and took a step back into the building, and closed the door shut. Closed yourself in from the world. With the wedding album in your hand, you walked back up the stairs and to your apartment, letting the door close behind you.

Oh god it was so empty. The walls looked stripped without the photos that once decorated them; you could see the shadows that were once there. The couch that was in the living room looked lonely without the armchair he took with him, but it was so . . . just so barren.

You looked at the time on the microwave. 10:05. God, not even a lot of time passed by. What were you going to do all day? You couldn’t stay here. That was definitely not the answer. You walked back to your room and snatched your phone from the bedside table and dialed the only number you knew by heart (besides his), and it rang a few times. But once you heard the voice on the other end you relaxed your shoulders.

“I was wondering when you were going to call,” Natasha’s voice rang in your ear. You smiled a bit, though you were actively fighting tears back. “Did they leave already?”

“Yeah.” You nodded. “Yeah they’re gone. Everythings gone.”

“Did he-”

“No,” you cut her off, already knowing her question. “No, he didn't come.”

“Bastard,” she mumbled, and you rubbed your hand on your pants, “Well, Wanda and I were meeting for brunch. Want to meet us?”

“God yes,” you pleaded, already up and grabbing a jacket to wear. “Cafeteria?”

“Always,” Natasha answered and said her goodbyes and you were out the door. As you were locking your apartment you spun around and hit a body.

“Geez, I’m sorry-” you trailed off as you were met with the stare from your neighbor, Sharon.

“No worries,” she moved around you with an awful amount of bags, and seemed to struggle with her keys.

“Do you need help . . .?” You asked and she sighed but nodded her head. You quickly hopped over and grabbed her keys from her fingers, and jimmied her door open, and she was in quicker than you could pull the keys out. As she set her groceries down, she let out an exasperated sigh.

“Thanks,” she said and walked back over to her door.

“Yeah no-” before you could finish her door shut in your face and you blinked a couple times, -problem.”

Sharon and you didn’t necessarily get along, but who really did with their neighbors? She was a lot better than the old tenants who left their garbage out in the hallway. So you couldn’t really complain, right? You didn’t ponder too much about it as you were headed down the stairs and into the rain.

Cafeteria was one of the more bustling restaurants to meet for brunch in Chelsea. Lucky for your girl group, you had another friend who managed it. Getting a taxi in the rain was probably the hardest part of your journey, ignoring your life crisis of course, and luckily you were into the building fast enough that you weren’t completely soaked. You looked over the brunch crowd before spotting your friends and made your way over. Wanda was the first to see you as she sipped away on her mimosa, but let out a hum when you got closer to signal to Natasha, who stood to hug you.

You all exchanged heys as you settled into your chair and pushed your damp jacket off your arms. Natasha leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table, and watched you pensively.

“I’m surprised you aren’t weeping buckets of tears in your apartment right now,” Natasha said before leaning back in her chair and sipping on her drink. “Good for you though.”

“I’m so glad I can count on you for support, Nat,” you said, opting for water right now. You felt dehydrated with all the crying you’ve been doing recently . . . Last night . . . In the cab.

“He’s a sack of shit,” Nat said, earning a nod from Wanda. “I know you love him but holy fuck.”

“Nat,” you warned, but it only prompted her to set her drink down and move forward again, pointing at you and Wanda.

“No, don’t “Nat” me, okay. He is a sack of shit, and I can’t believe he’s doing this all because-”

“Nat,” you warned, a little more forceful this time. “Please. I know.”

She grumbled, sitting back in her chair like a pouting child. Wanada raised her brows, having been sipping on her drink during Natasha’s little tyraid.

“While I agree that he’s a sack of shit, I’m glad you came,” she said, placing a hand over yours. “It wouldn’t have been the same.”

“Thanks,” you managed with a forced smile.

“I should’ve known it was you three when they said I had friends needing a table,” Clint’s voice rang from behind. “Never come just to see me.”

Clint was the one running this joint for the last few years, and he was exceptionally good at it. He liked to brag about the fact that the service stayed “spectacular” even with the boost in numbers they were doing every week. Clint was the embodiment of a true business man, maybe that’s why him and Natasha got along so well. Even dressed for the part, he side hugged each woman at the table and saved you for last, engulfing you in his arms like he could protect you from everything in the world.

“Hey,” he murmured while placing a kiss on your head. You swatted him away and Clint chuckled, whacking you with the towel he had placed over his shoulder.

“This is technically coming to see you,” Natasha said, reaching for her menu. “But we might as well eat too while we’re at it.”

“Yeah whatever you freeloaders,” he joked, earning chuckles from everyone but you, the least you could offer was a smile. “Are we wanting our usuals?”

Each woman said yes and handed him their menu, and Clint was gone in a flash. Wanda and Natasha started talking about something you weren’t paying too much attention to, and your mind began to drift to the day your life started to fall to pieces.

Your marriage wasn’t horrible, in fact to you it had been perfect. You two never really fought, and it was as if the honeymoon phase never ended. He brought you flowers all the time, and when you were working he’d manage to sneak into your office and wrap his arms around you from behind. He always took great detail in the little things, and that’s why you were so fucking in love with him. And the sex? That was otherworldly too. He was otherworldly.

He got home a little late that night. Late enough to where you were already cooking dinner, and he came in fairly quietly. You remembered calling out to him but was only met with silence and the echo of his feet to the living room. The lack of response is what made you look over your shoulder at him and see him staring at a picture that was hung on the wall. A picture of the both of you. He held his tie in his fists and looked like he had seen a ghost.

That’s how he told you he had had an affair. In the middle of your home with you mid stir of the pot of food, he blurted it out so casually you could have missed it. Or well maybe not, not something that grand, that devastating.

“Here we go,” Clint’s voice brought you back to reality as he set food down in front of everyone.

Wanda sat up in her chair exceptionally giddy at the food before her, and Natasha had just finished her second mimosa. Clint told everyone to enjoy and was off again to do who knows what. The smell before you was deliciously pungent, and you realized you haven’t had a proper meal in days. Thank god for these people in your life.

“You zoned out there,” Natasha noted in between bitefuls. “You’re not thinking of him again, are you?”

“No, I’m thinking about how scary you look trying to fit all that in your mouth at once,” you joked. Natasha glared at you which only made you smile a bit. “I can’t help it Nat. I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“That’s what we’re here for,” Wanda chimed in, motioning around her plate with her fork. “To remind you he’s a sack of shit.”

“Exactly,” Natasha pointed to her friend before looking back at you. “And to get you to come out and forget about all of it.”

She wagged her eyebrow at you and you shook your head. “I don’t think I’m in a partying mood right now.”

“Well when you’re ready, we’ll gladly take you out for a night on the town,” Wanda smiled. “Like the old days.”

Like the old days.

Wanda’s words stuck with you for the rest of the day. You weren’t sure if that’s what made you finally crack with the realization that not only were you about to be divorced, but a whole chapter of your life was pretty much thrown out the goddamn window. Eight years of your life to be exact. Your college years all had traces of him in your memories, then the year you got engaged, and then the three years of marriage. He was all you knew for nearly a decade now. Oh this was officially all fucked.

Another thing that was fucked? Your neighbor. Apparently.

Here you were trying to drown yourself in vodka and sleep, and your neighbor was getting fucked. Literally. Even with the amount of alcohol you consumed and the fact it made your head whirl wasn’t enough to block out the incessant banging next door. You were suddenly very aware of the fact her bedroom lined perfectly up with yours. Uncomfortably aware. You blinked at your ceiling wondering if this is how she felt when your husband and you--

No. You quickly deleted that thought from your mind. No more talk of him.

With that you pushed your blanket off and stumbled out of bed. Wow, you had more than you thought tonight, but the fact only made you giggle humorously. You haven’t been this tipsy since. . . Hm. You couldn’t even remember when. How funny!

You carefully threw on your thin robe, spinning in a circle as you tried to push your arm through the other hole. Once covered you exited your bedroom and walked down the hall to the closed door that led to the roof. You could definitely make it up those stairs. So you padded over to the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of vodka you were working on earlier and went towards the door, stumbling over your feet only just a little.

This was one of the reasons you fell in love with this place. The access to the rooftop made your heart fill with something and your husband (should you call him that anymore?) could not talk you out of it. He said, and you quote this very accurately, “Anything for you.”

Haha! What a sack of shit. Just like Nat said.

You pushed the heavy metal door open and were met with the cool evening breeze. The chill sobered you up a bit for you to see the scene before you. As the heavy door shut behind you, you looked over the candles that were still burning and the food left out near your neighbor, Sharon’s, skylight entry. Hm, so that’s what all her groceries were for. Eh, whatever. You practically stumbled over to one of the patio sets and crawled on to an egg like daybed and settled in against the cushions. With your back against the cover you pulled out your phone from the pocket of your robe (thank you sober Y/N) and scrolled through your music.

You hummed and pushed play on one song and tossed the phone beside you, letting the piano melody and horns float through the air. You closed your eyes when the voice started to sing low to you. Just to you.

There’s no sunshine

This impossible year

Only black days, and sky grey

And clouds full of fear, and storms full of sorrow

That won’t disappear

Just typhoons and monsoons this impossible year

There’s no good times, this impossible year

Just a beachfront of bad blood

And a coast that’s unclear

All the guests at the party, they’re so insincere

They just intrude and extrude

This impossible year

There’s no you and me

This impossible year

Only heartache and heartbreak

And gin made of tears

The bitter pill I swallow

The scars souvenir

That tattoo, your last bruise

This impossible year

There’s never air to breathe, there’s never in-betweens

These nightmares always hang on past the dream

There’s no sunshine..

There’s no you and me..

There’s no good times..

This impossible year

You took another hard hit of the bottle and shook your head at the end of the song. The tears that had fallen you were quick to wipe away when the song changed to something more upbeat, but you couldn’t pay attention to the lyrics. Not anymore. There was a sound behind you, it sounded like glass had broken and you blinked to re-evaluate where you were. It didn’t come from the street below, so you carefully crawled to peer around the dome covering your spot, and your eyes landed on a casually dressed man. Definitely not familiar. It looked like he had picked up something from whatever your neighbor had left out, and then he looked up and noticed you.

You met his eyes only for a second before you retreated back under the dome and nestled the bottle of vodka in your lap. You tried to focus on the music playing through your tiny speakers and ignore the approaching footsteps. But- oh god his form came into view. He walked past your place but glanced you over, and then looked over the edge to the street.

“You aren’t planning on jumping, are you?” He asked.

You scoffed, “Nope.”

He turned around and leaned back against the siding of the roof, motioning to the bottle in your hand. “Whatcha got there?”

“None of your business, that’s what,” you practically slurred and took another sip of the alcohol. You didn’t even grimace at the taste before motioning to him with the half full bottle. “Who’re you?”

He watched you in amusement, a smile gracing his face as he took a step off the wall. “I’m Steve. Who’re you?”

“Are you Sharon’s boyfriend?” You asked instead. He was noticeably defensive, throwing his hands up.

“No no no. Nothing like that.” He motioned for a spot near the edge. “Can I join you?”

“Okay, Steve.” You shrugged. Steve took a seat on the edge of the cushions, relaxing his arms on his legs. He watched as you stared blankly at the next building, and took another swig from the bottle.

“Are you the neighbor Sharon was telling me about?” He asked nonchalantly. You couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped your lips.

“Oh that’s rich,” you mumbled and shrugged your shoulders. “Guess that’s me.”

“Did you move in recently?” He asked next and you blinked a couple times.

“Wha?”

“When she brought me up, I saw some empty moving boxes outside your door for grabs,” Steve explained and your gaze went back out to the sky. “Figured you must be new here. I just moved from-”

“I’m not new,” you blurted out, and Steve raised a brow at you. “No, no. I’ve been here two years? Maybe? I dunno.”

Steve slowly nodded and you took another sip from the bottle he could assume held vodka in it. “Well then whoever left those out-”

“My husband moved out today,” you mumbled. Steve’s mouth fell closed and watched as you smiled a bit to yourself and swished your bottle around. “Er, well he hasn’t lived here in a month. His stuff moved out today.”

Steve nodded a bit before motioning to the bottle in your hands. “Is that what this is all about?”

“Well,” you laughed a bit to yourself. “Maybe 90% him. 10% you guys keeping me up.”

Steve laughed this time. It was low and hearty, but it shook your position on the cushions. You blinked a bit as your vision struggled to level out. That’s when you saw him move closer and you straightened up a bit when his large hands grabbed the bottle and cap from your hands.

“Alright crazy let’s put the bottle down for a second,” he said, screwing the cap back on. You whimpered a bit reaching back for your bottle and he turned his back to you to close the cap full and put the bottle somewhere out of your reach.

“Hey that’s mine,” you said and Steve turned back to you, grabbing your hands and putting them to your side.

“Yeah I know angel,” he said and you chuckled.

“Angel,” you laughed again. “What the fuck is that?”

“Well you never shared your name,” Steve said as he forced you to sit back against the cushions once more. “So what should I call you?”

You pondered his question. “Mmm . . . (Y/N).”

You offered your hand for him and Steve glanced between you and your hand. You wiggled your fingers a bit at him and he laughed again before taking your hand in his and shaking it, though you felt like your whole arm shook with it.

“You’re drunk (Y/N),” he said while shaking your hand. Once he finally released your hand you sighed, pulling your legs up to your chest.

“I know,” you said and then shrugged your shoulders at him. “I wanted to be.”

Steve nodded. “Y’know a buddy of mine is going through a divorce-”

“Did he want it?” You asked him shortly.

“Well yeah-” Steve started and your face fell.

“I didn’t.”

It was a short and simple statement. The silence that filled the air was awkward and heavy, but Steve rubbed his hands together and nodded his head like he was actually curious to hear you speak.

“Were there problems?”

“I didn’t think so.” You scooted up to the edge and rested your hand on the cushion to steady yourself. “We never fought. He acted like he was completely devoted to me! He was perfect. We were perfect.”

Steve shrugged his shoulders, “Was he being fulfilled-”

“Sex was not a problem,” you cut him off, and ignored the glance of his eyes over you. “We had sex everyday-”

“Everyday?” Steve exclaimed and you nodded your head furiously at him.

“Oh yeah. More than once a day,” you confirmed.

“Fucking hell,” he mumbled, one of his hands on his knee and his close hand rested over yours. “What a fucking loser, then.”

“Sack of shit,” you corrected. “We call him a sack of shit.”

Steve threw his arms up in defense. “My bad. What a fucking sack of shit then.”

You both laughed a bit and when silence enveloped you again you took Steve’s appearance in. This stranger was fairly attractive, you couldn’t argue that. He was tall and built like a perfect man. Even his beard looked perfect. You were suddenly reminded of the sounds you heard from your neighbor’s room and his attractiveness went right out the window, as you shot up from your place and swayed a bit. Too fast, too furious. Steve was up and steadied you with his hands on your waist.

“Careful there, angel,” he warned as you regained your composure.

“(Y/N),” you reminded him. Steve smiled and removed his hands from your waist.

“I know,” he said with the same smile on his face. You studied him for a moment before you shook your head and patted his chest.

“Goodbye, Steve,” you said. You stepped around him and made your way back to the door to your apartment. Your hand went to tug on it when Steve spoke again, from the same spot.

“I’ll see you around, angel,” he said. You pulled your door open and looked at him, standing by the patio daybed with a wicked smile on his face. You squinted a bit and finally descended down your private stairs, letting the rooftop door close on Steve and your night.

#Steve Rogers #steve rogers x reader #Steve Rogers x you #captain america #captain america fic #modern au steve #steve rogers fic

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padfootagain · 4 years

Text

Girl Crush (XVII)

Chapter 17 : Before The Water Lilies

Here we go again for a new chapter!!! We stay in the very cute Christmas spirit in London for these two idiots pinning for each other like crazy... Warning for extreme fluffiness, side effects might include a lot of 'awwww' and some hearts melting, you've been warned!!!

I hope you like this chapter, tell me what you thought about it!

Word Count: 2603

Trafalgar Square exceeded your expectations.

There was someone dressed as Pikachu dancing to Staying Alive in front of the majestic National Gallery, people hurried to avoid the sharp cold moving around the tall column and the fountain. Many tourists took pictures in front of the black statues of lions. A little crowd had gathered around a man playing guitar. Traffic was loud and dense, red buses and dark cabs and random cars driving around the square and passing under the Admiralty Arch. A woman was drawing mountains on the pavement with chalks.

Your eyes glimmered with joy and awe and excitement, and Harry was grinning from ear to ear at the sight.

You were going to the National Gallery that morning, and you couldn't wait.

The sky was grey and seemed low above your heads, sign of imminent snow or rain. But a moody weather was far from enough to stop you from exploring the city.

"Are you ready?" Harry asked, guiding you across the square and towards the large museum.

You nodded, clapping your hands together in excitement, jumping a couple of times instead of walking, making him laugh.

"They have some of Monet's water lilies, you know?"

"I know. I've been there before."

"And some De Vinci…"

"They do."

"And Van Gogh!"

"Indeed."

"And Turner, and Cézanne!"

"Are we attempting to name all of the painters that have their paintings exposed in there or…?"

You swatted his arm playfully, rolling your eyes.

"Sorry, I'm just rambling," you mumbled, but he nudged you, making you look up at him.

"I was just teasing you. I like it when you ramble."

"You like it?"

"Yeah, it's cute."

"Cute?"

He shrugged, suddenly realizing the meaning of the words he was speaking out loud, and he thanked the cold for giving him a perfect excuse for his flushed cheeks.

"I mean… yeah…" he stuttered. "Come on, hurry up! I'm freezing out here, and I need a wee!"

You laughed at him, but let him escape for this time around, and hurried with him to seek shelter from the winter wind that seemed to be cutting through your cheekbones.

The entrance was set in a more modern hall that the famous columns overhanging the square, with a wall made of glass and a large boutique to buy souvenirs. You studied the map of the museum while waiting for Harry as he went to the bathroom, and when he came back, you had a plan for the visit, to which Harry didn't complain. As long as it kept this grin on your face, he was up for anything.

The halls themselves were as majestic as you could have imagined, large stairs of stone and pillars and high ceilings and cracking wooden floors. You made your way through the halls, travelling through time from De Vinci's and Michelangelo's sketches to the grave figures pictured on Flemish paintings to the stormy oceans painted by Turner and the weird shapes of Picasso's works.

Every hall offered surprises, little gems that you liked more than the rest. You walked with Harry never leaving your side, whispering to each other either to make stupid jokes and shushed giggles, or to comment on the paintings you admired.

You walked around and spend time revisiting your favourite paintings, and you settled on a bench in front of your absolute favourite: Monet's water lilies.

Harry was resting his head on your shoulder while you both stared at the paintings, studying the touches of paint and movements of the brush that seemed to have scared the colours across the canvas. People passed around you, sometimes blocking the view, but you didn't care. There was something peaceful in sitting in the art gallery, surrounded by these paintings that had taken so many hours to make, for sure; in the rhythm of the crowd moving all around you and the shushed voices speaking in many languages, most of them that you couldn’t understand and sometimes not even recognize. Life felt slower in there. People's movements were not rushed, they took only little steps to move through the room, stopping before each painting, taking pictures of their favourites.

And Monet's painting in itself was soothing as well. Green and blue and touches of white and pink and purple to paint the bridge crossing the little river covered with waterlilies, their tiny white shapes lost in their large leaves. It felt like you were there, almost. It felt peaceful, tender. A little haven in your busy and fast life. Crazy how the painting of a place you had never visited could echo through your chest, make your heart slow down, shush your thoughts, make your limb a little numb and your lips curve into a smile as you studied its beauty.

And there was also the fact that Harry was by your side. You had taken off some of your warm clothes and opened your coats. He held both your scarves in his hands, resting on his laps. His brown curls tickled your neck, his head heavy on your shoulder, the pressure reassuring, a welcomed weight to carry as if it had felt empty without it, as if his head was meant to rest there, fitting perfectly into the shape of your shoulder and neck. Your knee rested lightly against his bruised one, after the fall of the previous night while ice skating. Your two arms were pressed together, and you had to admit that you were eager for the contact, welcoming every new inch of his body touching yours. It felt reassuring, natural. Almost meant to be. You felt safe with him so close to you.

"Did you know that when Monet grew older, he couldn't see well anymore," you let out in a whisper. "He was sick, and he couldn't see clearly shapes and all the shades of blue and green."

"Really?" he asked, lifting his head just a little to tell you he was listening, but not enough to disconnect your two bodies in any way.

"Yeah. I don't remember the name of the disease but… he spent years and years and years going back to that same spot to paint this bridge. And as his vision deteriorated and yet he kept on painting, the shapes became less and less clear in his paintings, and all the shades of blue and green he painted red or purple instead."

"I didn't know that. It must be terrible though… You've spent your whole life painting, and then you get sick, and your vision falters. And you can't do the only thing you're good at anymore. What can you do then, if you can't do the only thing you have talent for?"

His voice grew quieter as he went on, and you wondered if he was still talking about Monet when he was done.

You shrugged.

"You find other things to live for. You find another purpose. You still have everything else: your family, your friends, the people who love you, other hobbies and places you've never explored to go to. You still have sunrises upon frozen rooftops and strawberry ice creams in June and ducks to feed at the park. So I guess… even if it's hard, you just keep on going, only, you bend your own path to fit your new life instead."

He slowly nodded, and the worry that had made him frown seemed to have melted and turned into a soft smile.

And perhaps it was because he was so relaxed looking at these paintings, or perhaps it was because all he could smell was your perfume to a point where he forgot any other scent he had ever breathed in, or maybe it was because of how his head rose and fell just the tiniest bit every time you breathed, or maybe it was because of how close the two of you were in general and he was too tired to stop it from blurring his mind… he wasn't sure why, but before he could think them, he had uttered words he might have wanted to keep for himself. Sometimes, the most earnest words were the hardest to keep quiet though.

"I hope you'll still be there when I'm old and can't sing anymore."

You rested your cheek on the top of his head, slowly nodding.

"I'll always be here, Harry. Don't you know that by now?"

He smiled, just like you did.

"You know what? I think I do."

You were sitting on a bench watching ducks paddle off down the pond.

It was cold, and the clouds were still white above your heads, and the more time passed, the more you were certain that they were about to break.

Saint James's Park was a cute little park. With trees and patches of grass and ponds and ducks, even though at this time of the year most trees had lost their foliage, and most flowers were still unborn. The grass wore white glitter made by the frost under the shade of bushes and trees, hidden places that the sun couldn't reach to make the ice melt. You watched a few sparrows flying around while you rubbed your bare hands together, punishment for forgetting your gloves at Harry's. And you felt sorry for the little birds, they must have been so cold without shelter…

"If I were a bird, I think I would like to be a swallow," you blurted out, making Harry turn his attention to you again instead of the ducks in the brownish water.

"Hmm?"

He had taken off his beanie, and the tip of his ears were made crimson by the biting cold. The tip of his nose had the same shade too, and you found him absolutely adorable this way.

"I mean, it's nice!" you went on in a dreamy tone. "You leave for the South when it becomes too cold around here, and then you come back when it's warm and sunny again. Plus, your return means that spring is coming, you carry lovely meanings in your flight."

Harry's lips curved in a tender smile, and he slowly nodded.

"You're right, it's nice."

"What bird would you like to be?"

"I don't want to be a bird," he shook his head, a playful glint alit in his eyes. "I'd rather be a fish."

"A fish?"

"You have the entire ocean as a playground, so many adventures ahead. Wouldn’t that be nice?"

You laughed, but nodded anyway.

"It would be nice indeed."

"So you can be a swallow, and I'll be a fish."

"What kind of fish?"

He shrugged.

"The kind that lives near swallows."

You couldn't refrain a barely noticeable gasp, before smiling at him in the softest of ways.

"Well then, let's do that for our next lives then. Harry the fish and Y/N the swallow."

"Sounds good to me."

Harry noticed how your kept on rubbing your palms together and moving your fingers, blowing puffs of air against them to warm your skin. He remembered then that you had forgotten your gloves at his place that morning.

So he took his own pair off, and took your hands one by one, putting his large gloves on you.

They were so warm after he had worn them for some time, it was reassuring, and your painful skin almost instantly felt like it was burning instead of freezing.

"You're gonna be cold," you protested, although you didn't stop him from taking your other hand in his, his long fingers oozing warmth through your skin. He wasn't wearing any of his rings today and his skin was gentle and soft against yours, just like his movements.

"We can share. For now, you're the one who's freezing. Better warm your hands up before your fingers start falling off."

"Ha ha ha! Very funny!" you crinkled your nose and rolled your eyes, making him laugh.

Harry was about to tease you some more when he was interrupted by the sensation of something tiny yet very cold touching the bridge of his nose. He squinted quite ungracefully, trying to see what had touched him, before rising his bare fingers to his face. His skin was a little wet.

But then he spotted a white snowflake caught on your scarf, just as your eyes grew wider as you realized what was happening.

"Harry! It's snowing!" you gasped, a grin splitting your cheeks and digging cute creases at the corner of your eyes.

You looked up at the sky with eyes glimmering with excitement while Harry looked at you instead. You were so happy and beautiful…

It was starting to snow harder and harder with each second ticking by, and Harry mindlessly reached for his phone. He barely thought about what he was doing as he captured your picture in this moment: you were laughing, your arms and hands extended before you to catch the snowflakes. You examined the crystals with a curiosity and joy that could have belonged to a child. And it made his heart feel warm and big and growing even more as if it were filled with sunshine and couldn't keep the light in…

As he checked the picture again, he reckoned that he had found his new lockscreen.

You giggled in the most adorable way as a couple of snowflakes made their way between your scarf and your collar, making you shiver as they landed at the base of your neck.

"Ha! It's cold!" you squealed between your giggles, making Harry burst out in laughter.

"Do you think it'll snow enough to cover the ground?" you asked him, but your friend could only shrug.

"I don't know. It wasn't even supposed to snow today."

"Well, they got it wrong."

"It's nice that they were wrong on that one though, don't you think?"

You nodded.

"Yeah, it's nice."

Harry grew quiet again, grinning and turning his face to the sky to feel the frozen droplets against his skin, closing his eyes and reaching to hold the sleeve of your warm coat, as if to make sure that you would stay close even if he wasn't looking. As if he were afraid you weren't truly here, and that if he let his eyelids fall, you would disappear in thin air or be carried away with the snowflakes. But you had no intention to go anywhere.

You watched him as he threw his head back, face towards the sky, enjoying the stinging cold of the snowflakes delicately fall onto his cheeks. His hair was already stained with snow, white dots caught in the mess of his brown curls, and a few of the ice crystals had been caught on his eyelashes as well. He didn't seem to mind though. He was smiling, beaming even. Your heart seemed to be growing in size, and your whole body felt relaxed and warm. A smile formed on your lips, tender and gentle, and there was no way for you to refrain it. You wished you could run your fingers through his hair and keep them there just like these snowflakes hanging at his curls.

You noticed every detail of his face, every crack at the corner of his eyes that came with smiling, how his dimples grew deeper, every tiny mark on his skin, and every barely noticeable freckle, and the tiny crack on his lips caused by the cold…

It was overwhelming, sometimes, the situation you were in.

And you wondered then if you would ever feel that way with Gareth too, because deep down you knew that one day, you would have to. Perhaps it was time to try harder to do so…

*******************************************

Tag list : @ponycake27 @horsesreign @xinyourdreamsx @jbluevelvet@notkeppeki @daynigt-dreamer-stuff @fudgeflyss @stuckupstucky@snek-shit @suchatinyinfinity@i-padfootblack-things @buckybsarmy @heyohheyitsgabi@jigsawlover10 @emyyjemyy @addictedtofictionalcharacters @staringmoony@madamrogers @cronias13 @stylesfics-xx @mellamolayla @mariaenchanted

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles series #harry styles imagine #imagine #writing #fanfiction #fanfic #series

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smuttymess · 4 years

Text

bts astro soulmate reading | for elliot

This reading is for Elliot, a very sweet Yoonjin bias who sometimes (often) finds himself thinking about Kim Taehyung. Can you blame him? Thank you so much for your patience, love. I hope you enjoy and are staying safe a well. <3

A Cancer Sun and Libra Moon makes for a very mysterious, contradictory personality, with Cancer existing on a highly emotional and reserved plane while Libra yearns to roam, explore and adapt to their surroundings. You are all at once highly sociable, deeply enjoying the company of others, and private - often swimming away on your own to escape the harsh realities of the world - enjoying a cozy night in with a good book or podcast almost as much as a delicious dinner out with a large group of friends and acquaintances. Those who don't know you well may accuse you of being a bit unsteady, seeing all the ways in which you adapt to your surrounding and feed off of others energies. Your close friends and family know that you are just water and air, constantly seeking balance and harmony in your relationships above all else. All three of your placements are geared towards security and balance, and at your core you crave stability and a strong foundation in your home that is calming, peaceful and without too much tension or unpleasantness. It is because of this that you are drawn to creative artistic pursuits, though you likely hold a more traditional full time job to ensure you are financially secure and comfortable. Those possessing your star placements are innately empathetic, nurturing of others and self-critical of self. While your Virgo rising lends itself to additional self-criticism, towards others you are incredibly soft, sentimental, and supportive - if only you showed more gentleness towards yourself! It is likely that you are loved by many, serving as a strong emotional refuge for family and friends alike, who admire your compassionate, trustworthy and purposeful nature.

A true lover of life's simple wonders, you are likely to gravitate towards the arts, spending your free time exploring museums, galleries, concerts, and any other large gathering around creative ideals. On one particular early fall afternoon while exploring an outdoor exhibit in the city with friends, your eyes gravitate towards a man playing a piano in the square. His presence is magnetic to you, your eyes immediately drawn to his slouched posture as his fingers stroke each key, his face covered by short, black hair and a black cap. The shadow of the mysterious figure piques your curiosity, enough for you to approach him to have a closer listen, the melody floating through the crisp air of the changing seasons. It is almost as if in that moment nobody else is in the square - just you, the music and the mysterious gentleman - until his fingers stop moving, as if breaking from a trance. Fully immersed in his own world, he doesn't notice you standing there until several minutes later, his dark eyes moving to meet yours in a moment of instant attraction, one that only two water signs could possess.

Imagine your surprise when you find out that the presumably down-and-out aspiring artist is actually the esteemed Min Yoongi, a fact that he conceals until you're on your second or third date.

Ever the optimist and hopeless romantic, your Cancer Sun lives to love and be loved, both platonically and romantically - longing for a partnership that is all encompassing. This is amplified by your Venus in Leo, which makes you a lover of big love (think grand displays of affection, gift giving, and passionate quality time.) You want to spoil a partner, seeing no reason to skimp or cut corners for the people you love and expecting the same adoration in return. This is especially true once you fall hard, as it often takes some time for people to get past the barriers of your outwardly serious Virgo rising and your impenetrable deeper Cancer shell. At first you will keep your feelings close, waiting for the other party to reveal themselves to be genuinely trustworthy and open before letting them into your inner world. Once in love, you want to pull out all the stops, becoming the most nurturing, adoring lover - almost as if making up for lost time of keeping your emotions reigned in for so long. Yoongi's Pisces is also cautious in love, but it does not take long for him to show the range of his emotions, his romantic energy and empathy all at once making you feel secure and understood in ways that you do not often experience with other signs - signaling that it is okay to open up and be vulnerable. You are drawn to Yoongi's artistry that flows out of him, the sparseness of his words that hold meaning in every syllable, and he adores your compassionate nature - thinking of you as a true friend and companion, though the connection is very much a romantic one. A Cancer and Pisces are likely to spend countless hours tangled up in their sheets, hands softly caressing every inch of each other before even becoming overtly sexual. This is a duo that is incredibly intimate, enjoying savoring each and every delicious moment in each other's company and romantic spirits. You could undoubtedly spend the rest of your life laying next to Yoongi as his fingers graze your hair, cheek and neck, sweet nothings pouring into your ear. You naturally connect on an innately intimate level, the tone of his voice enough to rile you up long before his long, skilled fingers even begin to move down past your neck, chest and belly button. In bed, Yoongi brings a gentleness alongside just the right amount of kink to set you on fire.

Your desire for romance cannot be outweighed, however, by stability and comfort. A Cancer, while a hopeless romantic, is not excited by the idea of a tumultuous, unpredictable love wherein.spontaneity reigns. While you are ruled by water as a Cancer, your Libra heart and Virgo moon crave balance and relative predictability - something that our Pisces Yoongi wants but often escapes him in his quest for greatness. Yoongi's Venus is in Aries, making his love is a bit more impulsive and spontaneous, Ultimately, after many nights in bed alone with your partner huddled in his studio, you realize that Yoongi's more free-flowing Pisces spirit proves to be a bit too fluid for your Cancer heart. The dissolution of this relationship is extremely challenging given your shared emotional depths, and there is surely a continuation of the relationship via long, late night phone calls and sentimental texts until one of you breaks it off to preserve your sanity and wellbeing. This is a pairing that makes a lifelong, profound impact on each other, likely prompting Yoongi to write some of his best work to date.

A Cancer Sun and Libra Moon is not likely to be single for too long, very much preferring the company of a romantic partner to single life. Luckily for you, people are inherently drawn to your warmth, which lies beneath the surface of your Virgo rising but is quickly detectable by some. You're happy to find yourself approached by a handsome stranger while browsing through an indie record shop downtown, his fingers floating across the top of the album you've taken interest in. That's a great album, are you a fan? You aren't sure how long you are in the shop chatting up the boy, who introduces himself as Kim Namjoon, before you're off to grab a coffee at a nearby cafe.

It takes many months of seeing Namjoon the Virgo - who would prefer to be alone with a good book than in the presence of bad company - to reveal a more emotional side of himself. Despite approaching you first, Namjoon is not exactly suave, his endearingly goofy mannerisms a result of his high level of independence and time spent in solitude away from prying eyes. This relationship begins as more of a friendship with two generally cautious people tiptoeing around their emotions, wondering who is going to take the risk of revealing their true self first. But after some time it becomes clear that his more business-like, stoic Virgo exterior does not stand much of a chance against the depths of your Cancer emotion and Libra charm. When partnered, you are your person's biggest cheerleader, and it is your emotional range and empathic powers that can successfully soften the coldest heart as you only see the good in others - never the bad. Early on, much of the relationship is spent with you intently listening to his ramblings or championing his many professional creative endeavors - his words like poetry to you as he workshops new lyrics, projects, or his dreams of the future that he will so clearly put into action as a result of his . The Virgo is happy to open his mind to you over countless walks along the river or through lush parks outside of the city, a bond forming from your desire to be needed and wanted if even as a supportive listener. He senses your genuine interest in his thoughts - not for his status as a celebrity but who he is as a person. Your empathic qualities, while natural to you, are also a form of protection against getting hurt: speak less frequently, and you won't need to reveal many of your insecurities around your own potential. More than anything, Namjoon wants you to open up and let him in to your world. your innate strengths and talents, bringing you away from all of your negative self-talk and doubt around your abilities - something he can relate to deeply as a Virgo Sun. Maybe it is the warmth of his brown eyes as he tells you how special you are, or the way the sun rays perfectly hit his brown hair, but you can't help but believe him.

Once you are able to move into understanding on a deeper level, you find that Namjoon is one of the most sentimental, loyal people you've ever known. Namjoon's Venus is in Scorpio, meaning that despite any hurt he has experienced in the past, he is a true romantic at his core, looking for his one true love and willing to devote it all to that special person. The Scorpio is notably possessive in love, which serves to both frustrate and excite you in just the right ways. While your Libra moon may be naturally flirtatious, Namjoon is the one that holds your heart, and you enjoy being consumed by his love through song and writing - with his Mercury in Libra, you are likely to be his muse in all things creative. This is a pairing that can spend endless hours nestled in bed reading a book, bouncing ideas off of each other, and exploring each other's hearts before diving into the physical. You, Cancer, are the sexual initiator, wanting to know him body and soul - exposing him to an entirely new emotional plane of sexual connection. For the Virgo man, sex is often just another thing to be skilled at, and you are able to expose the innately vulnerable, emotional, and outwardly animalistic nature of his sexuality. The sexual relationship between these two is almost transcendent, with you taking the reins as the boss to show him the ropes, allowing him to unlock a different side to himself and learn how to please you. As someone who gets off to the idea of learning and achieving, expect marathon sessions in each other's arms (and mouths).

Ultimately, Namjoon is the member best able to bring you the stability you crave alongside an unwavering emotional commitment, with an earthly ability to firmly ground you when you are lost at sea. He will allow you to swim into your solitude - as you need from time to time - but you can rest easily that he will always be there when you are ready to return to reality. More than anything Namjoon is a provider, his mind working over time to help you solve your problems and achieve your dreams with his quintessential Virgo intelligence and flare, likely pushing you to pursue your creative ideas full-time instead of shying away from your potential and making sure you have everything to feel secure. You are someone who becomes a better person when in love, flourishing under others affection, and with Namjoon you have a special opportunity to truly come into yourself and achieve more than you ever imagined. Meanwhile, you provide a level of nurturing that he so deeply desires and a softness that he so desperately needs and few others can provide. In this partnership, you are the caretaker of the physical and emotional realm, while he is a provider in a more literal sense: making sure you have everything you need financially to create a sanctuary home base curated for the two of you to create and restore yourselves when the day is done. This is a duo that is steadfast and secure, prioritizing home and family and partnership over frivolity and spontaneity, appreciating travel and gallery openings abroad but also knowing how to take comfort at home with nights in and a vinyl on a record player. It is in this secure, stable lifestyle that you are both stimulating and fulfilled. Overall, this astrological pairing is comprised of two very synchronized and amenable plane, existing on a very calm, comforting foundation that is impossible to shake.

#bts #bts astrology #horoscope #bangtan #bangtan astrology #bts fic #cancer #virgo #libra #pisces #love #compatibility #creative writing #kim namjoon #min yoongi

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7deadlycinderellas · 4 years

Text

The Ghost of the Red Keep, ch6

Ao3 link

Six and ten and all her years later, Arya will never forget the sight of Bran’s broken leg twisted and deformed. It’s the bone in his upper leg, close to his hip. Maester Pycelle says it may be well over a year until he can walk again, if ever.

He’d slammed his head into the ground as well. If he hadn’t still had his helm on then he could have died. As it was, he took a hard hit, and couldn’t say quite what had happened when he woke up.

“All I remember was riding Storm and then black,” Bran tells them when he finally wakes from the milk of the poppy induced sleep Pycelle had put him under while he set his leg. “I guess something spooked him, and he threw me.”

That’s horseshit, and Arya feels like Bran knows it. Storm was well trained, and had never so much as stumbled. It would take a great fright to even make him bolt, much less throw off his rider. And Bran’s leg…

Arya can’t quite remember what Maester Luwin had taught them what that bone was called, but she recalls that it was supposed to be one of the strongest bones in the body. A fall from a horse shouldn’t have been enough. Arya doesn’t think it was an accident, but she’s frightened to say so.

It will take ages for him to heal, and Ned insists that he shouldn’t have to do it in the capital. So in less than a fortnite, as soon as his condition stabilizes, Bran and Catelyn are loaded into the wheelhouse to return to Winterfell.

Bran is completely bereft when Arya sees him leave. This is basically the end of his dream.

Arya bids them a tearful farewell, and tries not to be too terribly jealous.

Everyone is walking on eggshells in the following weeks.

Arya manages to sneak around in the tunnels when the septas come to take Stan and Leo’s bodies away to the sept. There will be no funerals for them, the two bastard boys, but the least they could do, Arya thinks, is not cart them away in front of their mother.

She sees one’s hand sticking out of the cart, his skin pale with a strange, almost silvery sheen.

The plans for the tourney continue.

The next full moon is the second to last day of when the tourney is planned. Arya’s skin itches again. There’s danger all around her, and she can’t think of anything to do about it, she can feel it in her bones. She’s not sure if she should say anything to Ned about it, she’s not sure what she even could say, and all she wants to do is talk to Gendry.

She writes him what she can, but she’s not sure what’s safe to say. He writes her back, when he can, scrawled on the back of her letters in his still rough, He consoles her over Bran, understands how devastating it would have been. Tells her of another boy, an apprentice smith, who’d leaned too close to the fire and fell, burned his hands nearly to black. That boy wouldn’t smith anymore, he’d been on the mercy of the gods and the septas.

Arya’s so worried, she doesn’t even fight having her gown for the ball made and fitted. It is beautiful, silvery gray silk, the same shade as the rabbit fur in her cloak, even if the skirt is volominous and hard to run in.

Sansa finishes it up, her hand as steady and certain as any professional seamstress.

She twists, and bends over to grab something, and her rolled up sleeves ride up even further up her elbows, and Arya just barely catches a glimpse…

She grabs Sansa’s arm and forcefully pushes the sleeve upwards, ignoring her objections. The bruise is angry, purple with spots already turning yellow-brown. Sansa snatches her arm back before Arya can search any further.

“Did the prince give you that?” Arya demands.

Sansa looks away.

“It doesn’t matter. Soon we’ll be married, and I’ll only have to see him in public. I’ll have guards all around me…”

Her voice trails off and Arya has to stop herself from screaming. Screaming that those guards will likely be the king’s men, not hers. Screaming to Sansa that Joffrey’s not even a prince, but a rotten bastard. She has to use all her willpower to squeeze it down, to squash the urge. No one can know, Ned had said.

“Tommen told me he wanted to join the Kingsguard so he could protect me...Bran too, before... That’s what Ser Jamie did. He joined the Kingsguard so his sister wouldn’t be alone here...some good it did.”

Arya barely has time to acknowledge that yes, the Kingslayer did seem unsually close to his twin, before her brain starts screaming again.

“The queen knows this?”

Sansa snorts. Arya is astonished, she’s never heard Sansa make that noise before.

“I wonder if the queen knows much of anything anymore. She’s drunk on wine half the time, rambling on about things that don’t make sense. She said once that Robert’s struck her before...that made me feel bad, but then she laughed like it didn’t matter. She keeps going on and on about how she’ll show him…The things about Lord Baelish and Jon Arryn, and something about imports from Essos...I don’t know how her mind gets to where it does.

Sansa takes a deep breath before plastering a smile on her face.

“At least soon, I will be queen, and she won’t be able to make anyone else suffer.”

Arya thinks on that for a while. Once her son marries, Cersei’s power will be diminished. Once Robert dies, she might as well not be a royal anymore. Would she go home then, to Casterly Rock? Would that make her happy?

Arya thinks going home to Winterfell would make her happier than anything, but not without knowing her family and friends were safe.

The first day of the tourney comes. Arya smiles brightly and forces Sansa to the edge of the bench, on her one side, Ned on her other. No room for princes to force themselves. They’re not even wed yet, she insists.

She wants to enjoy the tourney. She would normally, would lap it up, would eagerly watch the riders and try to learn their tricks, pick a favorite and cross her fingers for them. Daydream about entering one herself. Aunt Lyanna had, she had said that the joust was nine-tenths horsemanship, and Arya could ride as well as a boy.

But everytime she looks at the horses, and the lance, her stomach sinks and she thinks of Bran.

No bone would break like that from a fall from a horse.

There’s a rush of stiff applause, and Arya watches the man they call the Mountain that Rides. He looks like he could break a man in two with just his pinky finger. He’s one of Cersei Lannister’s prized champions, or Tywin Lannister’s rabid dog, depending on who you asked.

She watches him holding the lance, and feels a chill on the back of her neck.

The next day, the melee, she begs off the festivities, claiming an upset stomach. She wonders at the empty seat beside Sansa, and her heart lifts when it ends up being taken by Edric Storm.

“My uncle is off seeking the maester, hoping to find a tea for my constitution,”

“Perhaps I should find him,” Arya interjects, “I’m feeling a bit out of sorts myself. I think we should both lay off the cherries.”

She tilts her head, and sees the very base of Edric’s hands. Marked with an ever so slight metallic sheen. Arya does her best to meet her father’s eyes, but she can’t be sure if he sees.

Sneaking into the kitchens is easy enough. The servants who can are outside watching the tourney, one of the bits of the entertainment there for all, those who aren’t are rushing about in early preperation for the feast that will end it.

Most of them pay her no mind. Lady Arya Stark never yelled or gave them trouble. Oh if they had known Arya Underfoot. She finds Mheagan easily enough, Barra sticking closely to her side. The little girl is bigger now, nearly five or six, though still quite small. Big enough to fetch and carry, but too small to stray from her mother’s side and be seen.

Today, she has a whining tone in her voice. Arya recognizes it, from Rickon, or shamefully, from her own voice on occasion.

“Mumma, I’m hungry,”

“Then you should have eaten your breakfast.”

“Don’t like cherries.”

Arya wrinkles her nose. There they are again, those cherries.

Something in her mind blinks to life. And that’s how Arya finds herself in the Red Keep library when there’s a tournament going on outside.

It’s not hard to find the book. She’d found it by accident before, it had been sitting on one of the tables when the Septa had been teaching her and Sansa their history. Arya had been admonished for reading it instead of listening, but she remembers.

Why a book on poisons had been so easily accessible had never occurred to her.

The joili nut, she read, was once a popular snack food in parts of Essos until it was discovered that consumption over time would cause poisons to build up in the eater’s body, causing weakness and stomach upset, eventually leading to vomiting, seizures, and death from too much.

They could be distinguished by the almondesque taste, at times almost tasting like ripe cherries, and the slight metallic look caused by the oils staining the skin.

Cherry tarts, is all Arya can think of. She smuggles the book out under her jerkin, and when Ned returns to the tower, she’s left it open to the correct page.

Early the next morning, Arya wakes to a note from Ned atop a pile of packages wrapped in burlap.

“Take the top to the kitchen, leave it behind the flour barrel. The middle to the stable, on the ladder above the saddle rack. The bottom is for Gendry, I trust you know where to leave it. Renly has Edric covered. We’re getting them out before this week is through.”

Being the ghost of the red keep has it’s benefits.

She saves Gendry’s package for last, and risks Ned’s wrath by sneakiing down to see him.

It’s early, only a tiny strip of sun, and he’s still asleep on his cot.

He sits up, blinking, when she flings the package at his chest.

“Hold onto those and listen. We’re sneaking you out, you and your siblings too. “

“What are you-”

Arya shushes him, sitting on the edge of his cot.

“The queen’s children are bastards. They aren’t the kings. We think she was keeping the rest of you around...poisoning the others, so she could have something to hold over King Robert’s head if he ever found out about her infidelity.”

Gendry laughs roughly. The golden children, flaunted in front of all of King’s Landing, bastards just like him. She doesn’t tell him the other bit, that other thing Ned confided in her. She had watched Jamie Lannister in the first days of the tournament, her stomach twisting each time in disgust. She hopes it’s not true, but Lord Renly has insisted that the rumours have persisted about the Queen and her twin for years.

“So your-”

“We’re sending Mheagan and Barra up north to Winterfell. You and Mya are going to the Riverlands, and Renly’s sneaking Edric back to Storm’s End right after the ball. “

She reaches out and squeezes Gendry’s hands tight. Her heart tugs. She would say that she wishes they could send him to Winterfell, but she’s not sure where she’s even going to end up when this is all done. If Ned’s accusations don’t go as planned...there could be war, and it’s better if they aren’t all in one place.

She hesitates, before handing him the other package she had grabbed when she brought Ned’s.

Gendry’s eyes go wide when he unwraps the sword.

“You’re giving me Needle?” he asks breatheless. Arya is similarly out of breath when she responds.

“You’ll need it more than me. I know you can make yourself a better sword, but on the road, until you get to where my father’s sending you…” her voice trails off, words rendered babbles, “Right now you need it more than me,” she steels her voice, “And when you see me again, you can give it back.”

She surges forward and kisses him, once, hard. She pulls back, his eyes are so incredibly blue.

“I’ll come and find you when it’s time to leave...please stay safe.”

Arya bounces on her heels for the rest of the tourney. Ned whispers more of his plans to her. All three groups will leave in the early morning, once the ball is officially over, when most of the castle will be too drunk or hungover to pay attention, and Arya must help them be ready.

He also tells her that he’s sending Sansa away with Renly and Edric.

“That will put her in danger too-” Arya tells him. Ned nods.

“But she will be far away from here, and I do trust Renly. He may not be the most brilliant or thoughtful of lords but he is not cruel and he is not duplicitious. He would bear her no ill will. And if she stays here, than she will be in danger too.”

The tourney and the ball will end, the ghosts will disappear into the night and the next day, Ned will levy his accusations at the queen. These accusations of adultery, treason and incest. Arya doesn’t ask what will happen to her, or what will happen to him.

At the suggestion of a visitor from the Reach, the ball will be a masquerade. That evening, Sansa and Arya prepare their masks. Sansa’s is simple, it barely covers her eyes.

Arya tsks at her while adding the fake fur to her wolf mask, that will go all the way over her head, like a helm.

“What’s the point of that, everyone will know it’s you.”

Sansa smiles sadly.

“Everyone will already know it’s me. They all do.”

Sansa’s gown is a gorgeous pale gold, enveloping her pale figure and making her look all the more regal, despite the anxious look on her face, and the filmy shawl hiding the marks on her arms. Arya’s heart tugs in her chest. She so desperately wants to tell her sister that everything will be okay, that she won’t have to marry that awful prince, but she knows how to keep mum, and she must.

The jousting ends, and the melee, and the archery contests, and Arya would be hard pressed to tell you the names of any of the winners. She doesn’t like this and hopes it ends soon.

Arya dresses for the feast and the ball, and tries not to let her worry show on her face. Sansa helps her lace up her gown and Arya places the wolf mask over her face, braids pinned neatly underneath.

Ned pauses outside when the handmaiden leaves, looking them both over. It’s been so long since he’s looked happy at all, that Arya beams.

“You look lovely,” he says, giving each girl a hug over their shoulders. “The both of you.”

When he hugs Arya, he slips her a bit of paper, which she tucks into her waist pocket. They’ve already discussed this, but she wanted it just in case.

“I’ll see you both at the feast.”

Arya and Sansa walk to the great hall arm in arm. Arya feels that her face must look preoccupied, because Sansa whispers to her,

“Thinking about your secret friend?”

Arya chuckles. She knew she was going to regret letting Myrcella call him that.

“One of these days, I’ll tell you all about him. But for tonight, I can’t.”

Sansa wiggles her eyebrows, and Arya realizes she’d never even let it slip before that Gendry was a “he”. Suddenly, she does wish she could tell Sansa all about him. As fun as it had been keeping him a secret all these years, suddenly, she just wants her sister’s advice.

The feast is lavish and rich. The centerpiece is what must be an entire roast auroch, with leeks and potatoes and huge boats of gravy. Smaller platters abound, rabbit in wine sauce, crispy fried duck, ocean fish wrapped in bacon. Arya barely has a tiny bit of each and she’s already nearly stuffed even before getting to the side dishes, the piles of oat breads, the parsnips and onions boiled in gravy, the little fried fishfingers. She barely even wants to look at the desserts, the gorgeous cream swans and piles of cakes, though she manages a single honey biscuit.

The spirits are flowing freely, and Arya watches as the king and queen at the high table make their way through what seems like it must be a whole barrel each. Sansa sips daintily at a single glass of Dornish red, while Arya slowly learns to appreciate her own cup of mead. No one else around them seems to be holding back.

By the time most of the dishes have been cleared, the music has started and the dancing begun, Arya is so full she feels like she can’t move. The nerves deep inside her don’t help. She can’t think that after tonight, she doesn’t know when (or even if) she’ll ever see Gendry again. Him being safe has to be the most important bit.

When the dancing begins, Sansa can’t refuse Joffrey’s offerred hand. He’d crossed all the way across the hall to ask of course, and this feast is in celebration of their upcoming marriage!

Everyone in the crowd are in masks. Some are as simple as Sansa’s (much as Arya said, the blue feathers do little to disguise her fair face and red hair), others are elaborate, more like headdresses than masks. Cersei herself is wearing a fringed golden mask, likely intended to resemble a lion. King Robert has apparently foregone the theme of the ball, and wears no mask.

Arya dances a few times. She’s not great, but as far as most of the expected ladies skills she was expected to gain, dancing is far from the most obnoxious, so she mostly sticks to the sidelines, watching.

King Robert is so drunk that he’s begun to slump over, though his mouth is still moving. Cersei’s back is ramrod straight, but her hand never leaves her wine glass, and it is never empty.

The night goes on, the crowd waxes and wanes, and Arya listens closely for the faraway sound of the time-keepers’ chimes. She’s waiting for twelve, the hour of the ghost.

Just when the night is beginning to drag on, and she hears the chimes go to eleven, Arya feels a tap on her shoulder.

The clothes he wears are simple, a wool tunic and leather breeches, but well made enough not to be out of place at the ball. He wears a simple black mask covering the upper part of his face, underneath the black iron helm, horns twisted to the front. All Arya has to see is his eyes before a grin sprouts on her face.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, excitedly, grasping both of Gendry’s hands in hers.

“Your father left a bit ago to go and rouse us all, so we could get ready,” he nods off to the edge of the ballroom, where Ned sits with a mug of ale, as though he’d never left. He’d only been wearing the simplest of black masks before, and is now bare-faced. “He gave me the mask, said he thought I might want to see you before we leave.”

Arya feels her face glow red, and she glances, embarrassed, towards where Ned sits.

“I’m glad he did.”

She reaches out and touches the helm. The metal is smooth, the horns well shaped.

“Is this-” she asks in awe.

Gendry nods.

“Your father went out, found Master Mott. He wanted to make sure I didn’t have any belongings I wanted to take with me.”

Arya swallows a lump in her throat. Of course Father thought of that.

“Have you ever been to the Riverlands?” Arya asks, choking back the emotion in her voice.

Gendry chuckles in response.

“I’ve never been out of King’s Landing.”

“Well it’s much nicer. I haven’t been many places there, but they’re all better than King’s Landing.” Arya assures him “Most places don’t stink like this.”

Inch by inch, the eleventh hour ticks by.

“Would you like to dance?” Arya asks at one point. Gendry quirks an eyebrow.

“This is a very rare offer, so I suggest you take me up on it.”

Gendry stands slowly, taking his hands in hers.

“I don’t really know how,” he admits.

Arya giggles.

“Don’t worry, neither do I.”

No one else on the dancefloor is paying any attention to them, the wine having flowed too freely. Arya hadn’t even finished her mead, but the butterflies in her stomach still take flight when Gendry places one hand on her shoulder and one on her waist like she shows him. As time keeps ticking, the butterflies turn to a body-wide sense of warmth. She rests her chin on his shoulder, and wonders if this was what all of Sansa’s breathless, giggly stories were trying to tell.

Their pleasant reverie is interrupted, by a sudden clamor and yelling. The two of them turn to find that King Robert, red-faced and full of rage. Cersei is standing, as red-faced as the king and shouting. Arya and Gendry are clear on the far side, and can’t hear what’s being said, but even from the distance, Arya would swear she sees the Queen’s lips stained silver.

Arya turns to Gendry, looks him up and down, and says,

“Let’s get out of here.”

She takes his hand and they slip out of the ballroom. The stairs outside that the walk following Ned’s direction twist around the outside, and when there’s a sudden loud noise, Arya can kneel and peer down through one of the balconies.

There’s another noise, more recognizable as a crash, and people start yelling in alarm, and milling about, and there’s someone on the floor, and Gendry tugs Arya’s hand and they leave it behind.

The path they follow comes out behind the stables. When they get there, there are already three horses saddled up, and one of the Stark’s men already in the saddle.

Mheagen holds Barra, who’s sleepy but not quite out, in her arms. She looks a little wane, and Arya suddenly wonders if she’d been eating any of the food left for her daughter and inadvertently consuming the poison. Gendry takes her from her, and lets Mheagen mount the light brown mare before handing her daughter back to her.

It gives Arya an odd feeling, seeing him hold a young child.

The two of them, and the guard, leave first, once they have their packs. Mheagen looks frightened, and Arya wishes deeply for their safety. She hopes Winterfell isn’t too much for them.

Mya is tall, nearly as tall as Sansa, and despite her diminished weight, the joili nut doesn’t seem to have taken much of an effect on her. Her and Gendry catch each other’s gaze, and Arya can’t quite name the emotion going through them.

Mya can mounts her horse easily, but Gendry’s never been on a horse in his life, and Arya has to show him how to step into the stirrup and swing his leg over.

“Let her do most of the work,” she tells him, still gripping his hand.

She doesn’t have time to even attempt a farewell, when they’re interrupted by the thumping of feet. Arya spins rapidly, expected Gold Cloaks. Instead she just sees Ned, holding a bundle, sweaty and frantic.

He shoves the bundle into Arya’s arms.

“Go,” he tells her.

“Father what-”

“It’s not safe,” his voice spills, “The king is dead, the queen too. Poison. Joffrey ordered the city closed off.”

Arya’s head swims, but Ned is already looking from Gendry to Mya.

“Keep her safe,” and they both nod solemnly.

He hugs Arya, whispering.

“You remember Harwin right?”

Arya’s head is still swimming.

“The master of horse from Winterfell-”

Ned runs a hand along the back of her head, unpinning her braids.

“He’s living in the Riverlands now. He’s loyal, you can trust him.”

He looks Arya up and down.

“Can you ride in that gown?”

This is real, Arya suddenly realizes.

“Umm, help me unlace,” she asks, turning her back. Ned pulls her laces on her gown, and laughs softly when she lets it drop to the ground, revealing the deerskin breeches she’d slipped on underneath. Old habits are hard to break.

Ned hands her the gown, folded up, along with the bundle.

“You should be able to sell that, but don’t right away. People might come looking.”

Arya mounts the horse in front of Gendry, clutching the bundles, and one of Ned’s hands.

“What about Sansa and Edric?” She asks, in a very small voice.

Ned sighs.

“I’ll do what I can for them,” he rubs the back of Arya’s hand, above her thumb. “Be safe, Little Wolf.”

Arya has to show Gendry how to kick to get the horse to move. It’s still pitch black as they leave the Red Keep behind, the lights from the celebration still shining in the distance.

Arya’s not even seven-and-ten yet, and she’s not sure where her life is going to go.

#game of thrones #A Song of Ice and Fire #fic #gendrya

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web-of-fics · 5 years

Text

Recovery

Requested by: anon (If youre comfortable writing that stuff, could you do a platonic tony x reader one where she is close friend of avengers and has a restrictive eating disorder and tony starts picking up signs about that and confronts her about it and comforts her and reassures he's gonna help her in her recovery? Thank you lots :)

Starring: Tony Stark x she/her reader; fellow Avengers

Fandom: MCU

Chronology: after The Avengers (2012) and Spider-Man Homecoming (2017)

Warnings: reader displays symptoms indicative of restrictive food intake/food avoidance--please read at your personal discretion or stop reading if at any point you find that this narrative does not serve your mental wellbeing

Summary: Reader pays her old friend Tony Stark a visit. He senses something is amiss and reaches out to her about it.

Writer’s note: Anon, I want to take a moment to thank you for submitting this request. You possess great courage for reaching out about something that can be a vulnerable topic and I hope I did it justice. :)

If there are elements of this prompt that resonate with you or anyone else reading this, please be kind to yourself during your personal recovery journey. Some are long and some are short, and some almost seem futile when they just keep going in circles, but no path ever goes in a straight line, and every step is progress.

I also want to mention that I happen to be in a counseling program now, so I will do my best to write an accurate portrayal for this character. However, it is based on my knowledge rather than experience and I am still learning. I do not claim to be an expert on anything and welcome this as an opportunity for constructive criticism as well.

If anyone reading this is in need of professional help, I encourage you to seek it out. You deserve it. Although I cannot provide therapeutic help for anyone on here, I am willing to branch into writing mental health-related fics for those who are interested. <3

Words: 1552

✎_____________________________________________________________________

“Y/n,” Tony said your name more like an announcement than a greeting as you entered the room. Moments before, he’d been addressing the rest of the Avengers about something or other related to impending doom. What else was new? You just hoped it it wasn’t more deep sea fish-looking alien spaceships causing mass destruction. Ever since that whole battle of New York you haven’t quite been the same.

You waved once in acknowledgment of everyone surrounding the expensive-looking lab equipment radiating a neon projection into thin air and made for the kitchen.

“Who is that?” said an unfamiliar voice belonging to an unfamiliar face as you passed by.

“Y/n,” Tony repeated before continuing his science talk.

“Is she an Avenger?”

“No,” Tony said mid-sentence.

“Then,” the person leaned forward from his seat on the couch, “what is she doing here?”

You opened the fridge and poured yourself a glass of the nearest open bottle, not bothering to see what it was. You swirled it mindlessly, watching the exchange like it was something mildly interesting on TV and you were too lazy to search for something more exciting.

Tony turned his full attention on the man.

“She’s a friend. She’s allowed in at her leisure. Open invitation.”

Tony’s mouth turned up in your direction as if laughing at a private joke between the two of you. He made eye contact briefly.

You brought the glass to your lips.

The new guy laughed in bemusement.

Tony took a step toward him. “What’s funny?”

“It took me years to be called an Avenger after we became friends but she can just... strut around our super secret complex whenever she likes?”

Soundlessly, you put the glass on the counter and draw your thick sweater tighter around yourself.

“Ah,” now Tony was smiling, but more in the sense of baring his teeth than enjoying himself. “I see your confusion.” He addressed the man directly. “We’re not friends. We,” he gestured between them, “are coworkers.”

He turned to a screen and waved his palm over it. “And I am giving a presentation. And you are listening to me with your mouth shut,” he enunciated every syllable by the end of his sentence, then shook off the interruption and continued lecturing about his discovery.

You turned away to hide a grin and strolled elsewhere in the complex to leave Tony to his business. You weren’t a fan of stopping in unexpectedly but it had been a particularly tough week. Tuesday had been your father’s birthday. Thursday had been your mother’s.

Outside, you ran into Pepper, exchanged congratulations about their recent engagement, and offered to help prepare for the ceremony if she needed it. She shared that she was on her way to pick up lunch and offered to pick up yours as well. You declined, telling her just ate but you’d take her up on the offer another time, and is she sure she doesn’t need help ordering flower arrangements?

“I’ll let you know,” she said, smiling and waving as she summoned one of the many Stark cars and peeled away.

You shivered in the breeze despite the shining sun helping to warm the earth. Lately it seemed like you were always cold.

You made for the library and decided to pass the time learning what you could from the first book you picked up. Unfortunately for any small talk you ever attempted to make with the Avengers, you were a professor of anthropology and not biochemistry or engineering. You flipped open the book in your hands and read the title page. Maybe learning the gist of quantum physics would help with that.

You were on page 150 when the door opened.

“Knock knock,” Tony said.

You marked your page and stood.

“Tony!”

“Thanks for stopping in,” he said warmly.

“Anytime,” you replied. You grinned. “Open invitation.”

“Always. And,” he added, “you’re invited to stay for dinner.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Am I? Are you sure I’m not intruding on an Avengers-only occasion?”

“He doesn’t know anything,” Tony said, catching your meaning immediately. “He’s new, you’ll have to excuse him. But if he even looks at you during dinner I promise I will kick him out. This is a purely social gathering. No shop talk allowed. You’ll fit right in.”

He walked over, placed his fingers on the book and shifted it slightly in his direction. He nodded once.

“You should sit next to Romanoff. Come on,” he nodded in the direction of the door, “you can help me cook.”

“I don’t remember saying I was available,” you said, following him anyway.

“I know,” he said, “but I also know that you are, in fact, available. I had Pepper check your schedule.”

You cross from one building to another in silence. He holds the door open for you as you reenter the kitchen together and adds, “she also told me you ate lunch when I know for a fact you strolled in here, poured that,” he pointed to the glass of orange juice, still filled and gathering condensation where you left it on the countertop, “and went to read up on a topic you know nothing about for several hours.”

You laughed and picked up the glass. “I knew I forgot something! I sat down with that book and couldn’t for the life of me remember what it was. And hey,” you pointed at him accusingly, “I knew nothing about quantum physics until several hours ago. Now I do know something about it.”

He raised his palms. “I wasn’t questioning your intellect.” He looked pointedly at the glass in your hand. “Your new eating habits, however, are what struck me as odd.”

You looked at him. “I didn’t realize making a sandwich and taking it to the library was considered odd around here.”

“Uh huh,” Tony said and opened the fridge. Every ingredient remained untouched.

You didn’t say anything. His look of concern now felt like the world’s most intense spotlight. You sipped the juice, deciding a few ounces wouldn’t do you any harm and the Vitamin C ultimately made the calories worthwhile.

“So what’s on the menu for tonight anyway? I’m famished and so incredibly curious to learn what someone like Thor considers an acceptable meal.”

Tony shut the fridge and gazed steadily at you.

“Are you? Famished?”

“I—yeah, sure,” you said, uncertain what answer he wanted and growing less sure your eating habits could still slip under his radar. Not that anything ever avoids his notice.

He started gathering ingredients and various pans from the cabinets.

“And not that I don’t appreciate the chance visit, but why drop in today? We haven’t talked in...”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Where were you when... that... all happened?” he asked.

You knew he was talking about the bizarre invasion that destroyed the city beyond anything you’d ever seen. Like many others, you lost your family that day. You still weren’t used to spending their birthdays mourning instead of celebrating.

You shared your experience of that day with Tony as he cooked up a Mediterranean dish and disclosed his own trauma of that day to you. You were shocked to learn he was still recovering from the effects, and his concerns were only mounting.

“New York will never be safe again, will it?” you said quietly.

“Hey,” Tony stopped stirring and held your face gently. “New York is protected as long as we’re around.”

He returned to stirring the sauce. “We can’t save everyone all the time, but helping even one person is always worthwhile.” He pointed the wooden spoon at you.

“Today that person is you.”

You sniffed--pretending you were interested in smelling food instead of fighting back tears--and stuck your tongue out to lick the spoon. It was warm and savory. For once, your mouth didn’t feel like cotton and recoil at the taste of sustenance. Maybe you could stomach this tonight. And maybe another meal after that.

Tony also tasted the spoon, nodded, and set it on the counter.

“I think it’s time we assembled for dinner,” he said.

- - - - - -

As dinner was served, you and Natasha excitedly caught up on recent developments in your lives--hers far more action-packed than yours--but she was just as genuinely interested in listening to you ramble about faculty drama and unruly students.

The new guy introduced himself to you and attempted to crack jokes as often as possible throughout the evening. He grew on you.

Thor ate three platefuls of whatever Tony had concocted--you still weren’t positive what the vegetable-heavy dish was called, but in the grand scheme of things it didn’t really matter.

And you were able to eat several forkfuls of food without resistance. You shrugged your sweater off and hung it on the back of your chair, accepting a cocktail from Tony as he brought a tray of them back to the table, stealing glances at you all the while and smiling to himself.

Although dining with the Avengers was only the first step back to engaging in your regular diet, you felt better knowing you didn’t have to walk that path alone as long as you had Tony Stark by your side. And you never knew him to be a man who abandons a friend in need.

_______________________________________________________________________

Just one more before bed? Click here for a masterlist of my fics!

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quentinsquill · 5 years

Text

Fic “Once More, With Fairies” (The Magicians)

Once More, With Fairies

Author: Lexalicious70

Fandom: The Magicians

Rating: Teen and up

Word Count: 3,726

Warnings: Mild show spoilers S1-3

Summary: A group of hedges cast a spell over Brakebills with stolen fairy magic, turning it into a fairytale land. Can our hero, Quentin Coldwater, (along with a familiar cast of characters,) decipher all the musical clues given to him as he quests across campus to save Prince Eliot, who has been spirited away and locked up in the bell tower?

Author’s Notes: This is for @whitespiresarmory’s Armory, Round 8, “Music.” I don’t own The Magicians, this is just for fun. Comments and kudos are magic, dear readers and, as always, enjoy!

Read it on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20694734

Once More, With Fairies

By Lexalicious70 (all-hale-eliot)

Once Upon a Time . . .

There was a magical place called Brakebills, where young people from all over the world came to practice magic. It was a wonderous place full of Poppers and potions, of daunting deeds and personal discoveries. Those who called it home protected its secrets ands guarded its borders. But alas, Brakebills was not impenetrable: a group of hedge witches, jealous of the magic given to the students of Brakebills, stole fairy magic and placed a curse on the land and on those who lived there.

Thus it was that Quentin Coldwater, magician, awoke from slumber and found himself at the center of a land that was no longer a place of learning, but a fairytale land of danger and mystery. As he rose from his bed and pulled back the curtain to reveal an expanse of land occupied by thick forests, a rambling hedge maze and, in the far distance, a lofty stone tower, its peak obscured by low clouds, he wished to understand his purpose in this place that seemed familiar yet was no longer his home. Music swelled from a place he couldn’t pinpoint and he began to sing:

O what is this, o’er my land there’s a curtain,

O yes of this, I’m quite certain,

But tell me, what can it be?

My magic, it seems, is still with me, Quentin sang as he raised his hands at chest level and created a mini sun, which revolved around his head as he continued his song, an expression of mild confusion in his dark eyes. But tell me, o Gods, I prithee, am I a hero or fool?

“You’ll be a flipping fool!” Margo broke in as she pushed his door open. She was dressed in a simple white homespun shirt, a brown leather vest, breeches, and leather boots. Her long hair streamed over her petite shoulders. “A flipping—a freakin’—oh Gods, don’t tell me I’m not allowed to swear? What the heavens—” She scowled and crossed the room and Quentin turned to her.

Margo can it be,

that everything we see, is not truly what is meant to be?

Margo’s scowl deepened even as she sang back to him.

Oh, something isn’t right,

We have to stand and fight!

It will do no good to flee . . .

She took Quentin’s hand and began to tug him out of the room, and Quentin blinked as he saw himself in the mirror. He wore a blue jerkin over a white cotton shirt, a long dark green cloak, knee-length trousers tucked into brown leather boots. His tawny hair was tied up in a cockernonnie at the base of his neck. More song bubbled up his throat and he swallowed them back down as Margo led him down the cottage stairs and out the door.

“Wait, where are we going?” He asked, and Margo motioned to two horses she had waiting there.

“Where do you think? To the Wizard Fogg! He may know a way to free Prince Eliot!” She swung up onto her horse, a prancing palomino, and Quentin felt compelled to follow. He climbed up onto his mount, a bay with four white stockings, and glanced back at the foreboding tower in the distance.

“Prince Eliot . . .”

“Yes! Prince Eliot the Forlorn, formerly the Prince of the Land of Brakebills!” Margo kneed her horse into a brisk walk. “We have to find a way to free him before the sun sets on the third day of his imprisonment, or we’ll all become slaves of the one who took him!”

Quentin settled himself in the saddle, experienced the unpleasant sensation of being strangled by his own cloak, then rose up long enough to pull it out from under himself as he adjusted its ties. His horse blew out in what almost sounded like amusement. Margo glanced over her shoulder.

“Come on! We don’t have much time!”

***

The Wizard Fogg lived in a cavern made of obsidian. Because he rarely saw the light, he wore dark glasses that shielded his eyes from all angles, the posts made of thin, curved metal. He stood inside the mouth of his glossy cavern, frowning as he watched Quentin and Margo approach.

“I knew you’d come,” he said to them as they left their horses in a nearby copse of trees. Quentin gave the stocky dark-skinned man a respectful bow.

“You know about the curse?”

“Any fool can see that things are not as they were.” Fogg led them into the cavern, where he consulted a large book that laid open on a glittering table. As he turned a page, Quentin saw the pages were made from thin sheets of obsidian. “Even a fool such as you.”

“That hardly seems fair,” Quentin muttered to Margo, who lifted a shoulder in weak solidarity. Fogg flipped another page and adjusted the leather hat he wore. The pointed tip sagged one way, then another, as he shifted it around on his bald pate.

“Sometimes a fool can be an unlikely hero!” Fogg looked up from the book as musical notes began to swirl from the pages. Margo groaned.

“Oh, bull dung, not again,” she said as a rather jaunty tune formed and Fogg began an impromptu dance, his hat nodding from side to side as he began to sing.

If you listen closely to my story,

You’re sure to find an allegory,

Cos that’s what fairy tales are all about!

Where a fool or a clumsy zero

Can transform into a shining hero! Fogg interrupted himself long enough to touch a willow wand to a lump of obsidian, which forms itself into a statue of Quentin in a heroic pose. Quentin reached out to touch it, only to have Fogg whack his wrist with the wand.

But this not be as easy as it seems . . . He led Quentin and Margo to the mouth of the cave and pointed toward the distant tower, where the low clouds began to flicker with blue light.

Mark that glow around the tower,

It comes from a terrible magic power!

Tis no dragon or hellhound sniffin’—no!

What guards the fair prince is a Niffin!

Be brave, young Fool, and face her icy stare . . .

“Wait what—me?” Quentin asked as Fogg pointed at him with one long finger. “It can’t be me! I’m a fool, not a hero! You said so yourself!”

The Wizard Fogg sighed and glanced over at Margo.

“Did I sing-stutter?” He asked before grasping a handful of Quentin’s hair and turning him back toward the obsidian statue. “This is what you can become, if you are brave enough to pursue it! Now go, across the Verdant Sea and into the hedge maze beyond. Seek out the Wise Woman, for only she can tell you how to defeat the Niffin!”

“Why can’t you tell me?” Quentin asked, and Fogg ushered them out of the cave.

“Sorry Quentin, only one expositional song per minor character.” A seal slammed shut behind him and Margo, and she scowled over her shoulder.

“I’m guessing that’s a fourth wall.” She put her hands on her hips. “So now what?”

“You heard Fogg. We have to ride through the Verdant Sea and into the hedge maze to find the wise woman.”

“How in a frog’s rear are we supposed to even know what she looks like?”

“Maybe we’ll just know.” Quentin brought their horses and he swung up into the saddle. “Sometimes even a fool like me gets lucky.”

***

“This isn’t much of a way to make a living.”

Penny the Thief glanced up as partner spoke. Kady the Highwayman was scowling over a small pot of gruel, a long, thin blade tucked into her belt catching the light as she added an anemic carrot to the mix. Penny scoffed.

“Course it’s not. No one ever comes through here. But since we’re as lost as anyone else here, might as well lay claim to it.”

Kady stood and stretched. Her linen breeches, leather boots and homespun shirt and vest did nothing to detract from her beauty. Wild, brunette curls broke over her shoulders like ocean waves on jagged rocks.

“There’s—” She paused and cocked her head. “Listen! Someone’s coming!” She leapt into the nearest hedge, dragging Penny with her. He made an indignant sound of protest but went silent as two riders came around the corner of the passageway.

“Look!” Quentin reined his horse to a stop. Margo frowned at the tiny soup pot bubbling away.

“It’s a little late to be introducing leprechauns into the story, isn’t it?”

“Halt!” Penny called as he emerged from the hedge with Kady, who drew her knife. Quentin’s horse tossed its head in offense and nearly knocked him senseless from his saddle with the arch of its neck. Quentin felt his forehead for signs of blood and blinked at the two thieves.

“We’re halted. Who are you?”

“We’re highwaymen! Hand over all your valuables!” Penny snapped. Margo scoffed.

“Do we look like we have any valuables? We’re not exactly traveling royalty.”

“Then we’ll take those horses,” Kady countered, and Quentin shook his head.

“I can’t let you do that. We’re on our way to the Stone Tower to free Prince Eliot and believe me, if you don’t let us go, you’re going to regret it. We’ll all be slaves of the Niffin who guards him if I don’t face her!”

“You?” Penny asked, his dark eyes narrowing before he snorted a laugh. “You look like you couldn’t find your chamber pot in broad daylight!”

“At least I’m not some thief cooking dirt soup in a hedge maze.”

“Wait, hold up,” Kady interrupted. “Are you serious? Will everyone in Brakebills become slaves if you don’t defeat the Niffin and free Prince Eliot?”

“We’re searching for the Wise Woman right now,” Quentin nodded. “Only she knows the Niffin’s weakness.”

“Better a thief than a slave,” Kady said to Penny, who rolled his eyes but nodded as she threw both arms in the air and then brought them down to point at Quentin and Margo as a hard-driving musical beat rose from the hedges around them and she began to sing:

The life of a thief, well it’s filled with pain!

Waiting on a score in the snow and the rain!

Scrabblin’ for a meal when your coppers are low,

And runnin’ from the law, the noose and the bow!

But let me tell you, boy, the price that we pay,

Means runnin’ our own lives and finding our way,

Free from the hoe, the axe and the plow,

Livin for the here, the day and the now!

So let’s make a trade, I swear I’ll be true!

I don’t wanna be slave, and neither do you.

The Wise Woman lives nearby, and I’ll take you there,

For the price of a pie, a roast or a hare!

Bring us some food and I’ll show you the way,

Cos we can’t live on this gruel another day!

Kady kicked over the pot as she sang the last word and it went spiraling off into the hedge. She looked up at Quentin, her green eyes flashing.

“Deal?” She asked, and Quentin hesitated.

“Do I have to sing my answer, or . . .”

“We’re all gonna be slaves,” Penny muttered, and Kady shook her head.

“Just yes or no.”

“Deal, yes,” Quentin replied. “We only have another day or so before all of this becomes permanent. Margo, will you go hunting while Kady takes me to the wise woman? Penny can catch you up after you bring them a deer or some hare.”

“Fine,” Margo replied as she unslung her crossbow and eyed Penny from her saddle. “You’re not going to sing at me, are you?”

“If I break out in song, just use that bow on me, please,” Penny replied as she pulled him up behind her and they trotted off in search of game. Quentin offered Kady his hand and she sprung up with almost no assistance. As they headed west, toward the setting sun, the blue lights at the crest of the Stone Tower grew brighter.

***

Julia the Wise was a petite, freckled woman with knowing, sad eyes that made Quentin homesick for a place he couldn’t recall or perhaps had only visited. She lived in a neat, two-room cottage on the far side of the hedge maze. A natural pond the size of a large wagon wheel occupied one corner of the main room of the cottage and, to Quentin’s bemusement, was occupied by a bespectacled talking koi fish that interrupted constantly until Julia tossed it chunks of fresh bread.

“The Niffin is all powerful and wishes to rule all of Brakebills,” Julia told Quentin and Kady as she sat cups of herbal tea in front of each of them. “But under that is a deeper spell, I fear. One I cannot quite touch.”

“The Wizard Fogg said you would know how to defeat the Niffin,” Quentin said, sipping his tea.

“Yes. There is an amulet that will make her human again.” Julia went to the cottage window and gazed across the land at the tower.

True love lies trapped on high, she sang,

Alone and frightened in the tower

And only you, Fool, have the power to set it free.

“True—what?” Quentin asked, but Julia continued her song.

“Prince Eliot is dreaming,

Bound in the Niffin’s spell,

Forlorn, his magic teeming

With hexes and dark magic rare . . .

As she sang, Julia crossed the room with measured, almost dancing steps and opened a cupboard that was well warded. She then withdrew a silver amulet from its depths, the edge gilded with blue crystal.

“This will bring the Niffin back to her human state. Inside is magic that she will not be able to resist. You must see that she touches it, Quentin. Only then will the spell come to life.” She touched his face.

“Do not deny what you feel,

For without it we are lost,

Bring Prince Eliot to life with your kiss,

Or our freedom is the cost.”

“And she doesn’t mean a kiss like you’re greeting your grannie!” The bespectacled koi chimed in. “Really lay one on him, taste him like you mean it—ooh!” The koi interrupted itself to nip at a few fresh chunks of bread Julia tossed it from her apron pocket. Quentin put the amulet around his neck and bowed to the wise woman even as his head spun with her revelation.

***

Penny and Margo rejoined Quentin and Kady outside the exit of the hedge maze, about half a day’s ride from the Stone Tower.

“I have to go alone from here,” Quentin told them. “The rest of the quest is mine to complete alone—only I can awaken Prince Eliot and turn the Niffin human.”

“You really are a fool,” Penny scoffed, but then his expression softened. “I hope you make it.”

Margo kissed him on the cheek. “Good luck—and please, fix this before I end marrying some tinker out of sheer boredom!”

“I’ll do my best.” Quentin swung up onto his horse and headed toward the tower. The unlikely trio watched him ride off, Margo’s horse loaded with fresh game for the thieves, and Margo sighed.

“We’ll all be bound to make the beast with two backs if that’s not good enough.”

***

The Stone Tower crackled with blue light that made the hair on Quentin’s arms stand at attention. His horse planted its feet as they reached the gates and Quentin swung down, frowning.

“Some hero’s horse you are! Fine . . . stay out here then!” He crossed the open gate’s threshold and a furious screech went up all around him. “Oh, dung balls,” Quentin muttered, touching the amulet as he ventured into the tower and began to climb the steps. The moaning and angry noises grew louder with each turn of the winding staircase, and then the blue light was all around him, twisting and curling like a furious snake. Quentin teetered on the edge of the narrow stone step he occupied as a face rose out of the light—a beautiful face framed with crackling blonde hair and furious eyes filled with a malignant topaz light. The mouth dropped open in a fierce shriek and Quentin willed himself not to cringe as he fumbled the amulet out from under his shirt.

“Niffin!” He called. “It is I, Quentin the Fool! I bring you a gift!”

“Pathetic worm!” The Niffin hissed, curling around him until Quentin could feel the untamed magic sparking against his skin. “I accept no gifts! I take what I want, when it pleases me!” The coil tightened. “I will crack your bones open and drink the magic from them as easily as you drain a cup of water!”

She’s going to kill me, Quentin thought as he lost half his air. I don’t have a chance, unless . . .

“It’s—just as well!” Quentin wheezed out. “The gift is a puzzle that I doubt you even have the skill to open!”

The Niffin paused and brought Quentin up to her eye level, her beautiful, awful visage filling his vision.

“What did you say, worm?”

“The gift!” He managed to get one hand free to hold up the amulet. “Only the wisest of creatures can reap its rewards. None yet have been able to open it, but if you don’t think you can either . . .” He began to drop the amulet back under his shirt when the Niffin ripped it free and dropped him on the stone steps.

“There is no magic I cannot control, Fool!” She snarled, closing her hands around the amulet. It lit up from the blue edges inward, light spiraling down toward the center until it broke open and showered the Niffin with a copious shower of hot, crispy bacon.

“The cured meat of the hog!” She cried even as she scooped sizzling pieces of it into her mouth. “No, I cannot resist . . . NOOOO!”

Quentin watched, his eyes wide, as the blue light faded from her form and she shrunk down into a pale blonde human. She blinked at him as she sagged down onto the tower’s steps.

“Where am I?” She murmured, and Quentin got to his feet.

“I’m not sure how to answer that. But, uhm—just stay here and—” Quentin gave a vague gesture as he bolted up the tower steps, leaving the girl to lick bacon grease off her fingers.

Quentin climbed three more floors before he found Prince Eliot laying on a plush couch, his dark, curly hair spread out across a white pillow embroidered with purple flowers. His chest rose and fell in even breaths, causing the gauzy aubergine shift he wore to give a mild flutter every few moments. Quentin’s heart answered that flutter.

“Do not deny what you feel . . . bring Prince Eliot to life with your kiss,” Quentin sang the line softly as he went to one knee and touched Eliot’s smooth cheek. His lips were parted just enough to make Quentin want to meet them with his own, as he’d wanted to—when? Another lifetime? Yes, one he could barely remember, yet the desire was still there. He lowered his head and claimed Eliot’s lips, kissing him with a firm, coaxing pressure until Eliot’s eyes fluttered open. Quentin pulled back, their lips parting with a soft pop, and light filled Eliot’s amber eyes as the fairytale spell collapsed all around them.

***

Two Days Later

“I still can’t believe we all had to sing to get out of that mess.”

Eliot looked up from the bar that ran along one side of the Physical Kids cottage as Margo spoke.

“You all got to sing!” He pouted as he mixed her a drink. “I was just the damsel in distress!”

“And a fine damsel you were.” Margo got to her feet and accepted her drink as Quentin came down the steps. She winked at Eliot. “Here comes your fool.” She vanished down the hall with her glass, and Quentin paused at the bottom of the stairs.

“Uhm . . . hey, El.”

“Hi. Want a drink?”

“Yeah—wine, I guess.” He sat down on the couch and watched Eliot fill two glasses, which he brought over.

“So . . .” he handed a glass of pink merlot to Quentin. “That whole spell issue. Fogg said it was cast by a group of hedges that had gotten hold of a chunk of fairy magic.” He sipped his wine. “Jealousy is such an ugly thing.”

“Well, we managed to work it out,” Quentin replied. Eliot nodded and swirled his wine around a moment.

“Q . . . you said Alice was a Niffin?”

“Yeah. She was the thing that guarded you in what I guess is the campus bell tower.”

“Why do you figure she was the guardian and not your damsel? Why . . . do you think it was me?”

Quentin considered this and then slid over until there was little space left between them. Eliot watched, his expression surprised but delighted underneath.

“That’s the thing about magic, El. Even when it turns reality upside down, there’s just some truths it can’t change.” He leaned in and touched his lip’s to Eliot’s, and Eliot’s sable eyelashes swept closed at the kiss. When Quentin pulled back, Eliot opened his eyes to find the younger magician smiling at him.

“What truth?” He asked, and Quentin kissed him again, his lips sticky sweet and delicious.

“That even curses understand ‘and they lived happily ever after.’”

FIN

#my fic #whitespiresarmory

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strifescloud · 7 years

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old broken hearts and wind chimes cid highwind/vincent valentine 3.5k words

Vincent’s hair was windswept, somehow even more dishevelled than usual, his cheeks visibly pink from the cold bite of wind against his unnaturally pale skin. He looked so beautiful and fuck, they had just flown, no ships needed, and that alone was enough to make Cid feel reckless.

His hands moved to Vincent’s face as he leaned up to kiss him.

(read on ao3)

The Highwind’s landing after the battle with Ultimate WEAPON was a cautious affair. Cid settled the airship as gently as possible on a nearby plateau, ignoring the sparks that flew out of multiple places of the bridge.

Ramming his ship directly into the WEAPON midair may not have been his brightest idea, but it had worked, damn it, and no one else’d had any fuckin’ suggestions.

Cid grumbled under his breath, giving a few sharp looks to the wary-looking pilots who seemed half-convinced that the whole thing was going to collapse on their heads. Too many damn naysayers on his crew these days, all of them undoubtedly ready with their 'I told you so’s and bitching about structural integrity.

As if his ship couldn't survive a couple of knocks.

The last rays of the setting sun streamed through the circular windows as Cid wandered through the empty ship, illuminating the narrow path to the engine room. The landscape around them seemed to have quietened to an eerie stillness, as though no battle had occurred there at all.

They had landed close enough to Cosmo Canyon that Cid had allowed his crew to head off for the evening, accompanying the rest of AVALANCHE to restock supplies and enjoy a brief respite in the wake of their near-deaths at the hands of the Planet’s guardians. Cid alone had stayed behind, determined to at least get some headway while he had the time to spare.

The engine room was quiet and dark when he entered, the absence of the ship’s usual roar and grinding of gears making his footsteps seem far too loud to his ears. There was something indescribably melancholy about a silenced engine, he mused as he set down his tools. Wasn’t right to have her on the ground for too long. He’d have her ready to fly soon enough, and once she was back where she belonged the rest of the repairs could be conducted in the air.

Settling on the cold floor, Cid began to work.

Despite his singleminded focus and the harsh sound of metal against metal ringing in his ears, he didn’t fail to notice the soft click of footsteps approaching the door.

Strange. Everyone else had already left.

The sound slowed to a stop just out of view.

“Y’can come in, it’s just me.” Cid said, projecting his voice to carry across the room.

“Chief.” A deep voice murmured, just loud enough for Cid to hear.

“Vincent!” Cid called back, a wide grin spreading across his face as he looked up. “Ain’t you goin’ out to the Canyon with the others?”

“I have all I need.” Vincent replied as he lifted himself up one of the large metal housings that were scattered about the engine room. He sat on the edge, clawed fingers skittering quietly across the metal, settling in to the darkened corner.

Cid wondered if Vincent had always had such an affinity for perching.

“I came looking for you, actually.” Vincent said finally, crimson gaze tracking every movement of Cid’s hands as they wrestled with a sparking component.

“For me?”

“Yes. I figured you’d be down here. The ship sustained a great deal of damage.”

“Yep, well, when you slam an old airship directly into one of the Planet’s guardians, you know, shit happens.” He lets Vincent steer the topic away from why he was looking for Cid in the first place.

Vincent had a reason for everything, but he was a damned cryptic bastard when he wanted to be - it was easier to just let him get to the point on his own terms.

Not that he didn't enjoy Vincent’s company, of course. Far from it.

He spent an awful lot of his time with Vincent, actually - they tended to share a room whenever AVALANCHE actually made it to an inn, and even when they didn't he tended to seek the other man out anyway. They had reached a quiet, comfortable understanding early on, unlikely as it had seemed.

Cid was hardly oblivious. He could be a damn abrasive bastard when he was of half a mind to be. He - and the rest of the group, probably - had been sure that Vincent would be clawing to get away from him at the first opportunity.

Cid was grateful, in a way, for Vincent’s patience with him. It was nice to have an ear to rant to, even if Vincent often gave off an air of being deeply amused by whatever grievance Cid had come across.

Vincent didn't have any room to be bitching anyway, Cid reasoned - he didn't say a damn word about any of Vincent’s fucking bizarre habits.

They knew each other well, Cid thought, though he was not foolish enough to pretend he knew Vincent half as well as Vincent knew him.

Vincent’s reticence was low on the list of oddities, so when he neglected to reply Cid simply let the silence grow comfortable between them.

“It’s too quiet when it's not running.” Vincent finally spoke, after what could have been minutes or hours as far as Cid knew.

“Sure is. It's kinda weird, but I guess I don't mind the peace every now and then. Engine noise I can handle, but sometimes the crew can get so damn rowdy, all yellin’ at each other and makin’ an awful racket. Makes it hard for a man to think.”

“I can’t imagine.” Vincent replied mildly, tone so deliberately dry that Cid had to look back up at him in outrage. The tiniest of smiles had crawled its way onto Vincent’s face, and despite his fleeting irritation Cid couldn’t help but feel absurdly victorious.

“Hey!” Cid began, unable to stop his answering smile, “What’s that supposed to-”

He cut himself off as Vincent turned slightly, curling into himself, the lower half of his face disappearing behind the oversized collar of his coat.

“Hey, now,” Cid began again, tone turning gentler, “y’got such a pretty smile, it’s a shame to hide it.”

Vincent was so damned beautiful all the time, to be fair - not that Cid was gonna say that out loud.

Vincent replied only with a pointed silence, staying still for a long moment before his metal claw rose to obligingly pull his collar down. He turned back to meet Cid’s gaze, the faintest traces of amusement still lingering on his face.

It was a good look on him, Cid decided. Planet knows he liked the guy well enough - perhaps more than he was willing to admit, given his status as the resident ornery bastard - but he was so fucking grim all the time. He had good reason to be, sure - Cid only knew half the story, but even that half sounded fucked up beyond all reason.

The thought flitted across his mind, suddenly, that he wanted to give Vincent more reasons to smile.

“Pass me that wrench, there.” He said instead, because it wasn't the first time he’d thought something along those lines, but he’d be damned before he says a word about it. Vincent had been fucked over enough, he reasoned, that he deserved better than some failed pilot past his prime.

Cid veered away from that train of thought. Ain’t the time for a self-pity parade.

Vincent left his perch to retrieve the nearby wrench, leaning forward as he held it out until it was just within Cid’s reach. Cid took it from his hand - the flesh and blood one, this time - cautiously avoiding brushing their fingers together like one of those cliché romance novels Shera used to leave all over the house.

Vincent was notoriously touchy about personal space, anyway, and Cid didn’t need to go behaving like a damn teenager.

Neither said a word as Cid bent towards the next broken part, Vincent returning to his seat, letting the silence stretch between them beneath the creaking sound of metal.

“Hey, Vince,” Cid spoke first, an unusual hint of caution in his tone. He could see Vincent notice it out of the corner of his eye, spine straightening as the crimson stare sharpened on Cid’s face.

“You don't have to answer this if you don't want to, but,” Cid began, trying to keep his voice even as he stared blankly at the gears before him, “what’s it like to fly?”

Silence.

“I know you gotta share it with your scary lookin’ all-powerful pal and all, but...you're still there, right? Nothin’ but sky above and earth below, wind rushin’ past your ears,” Cid rambled when the silence turned uncomfortable, still unwilling to look up, “not a tether to hold you down. Kinda imagined it to be...I don't know. Something.”

He still felt the ache in his chest, to have flown so close to the stars only to come crashing back to earth.

When he finally looked up at Vincent the other man was staring into space, a glazed look in his eyes. It melted away within a moment, replaced with a contemplative expression as he turned back to Cid.

“It is something.”

Cid leaned back against the wall.

“What kinda something?”

“We could show you, if you'd like.”

It was beyond strange to hear Vincent refer so openly to the demons that shared his body, but even that observation was drowned out by the way Cid’s heart suddenly thumped in his ears.

“What-”

“Chaos does not mind. It's very boring, I hear, to be trapped inside someone else's mind,” Vincent tilted his head, as though listening to something, “and I believe they appreciate your well-deserved fear and respect.”

Vincent’s expression shifted as their eyes met, somewhere between amused and fond, though Cid was not fool enough to believe it meant what he wanted it to.

“Vince, you don’t have t-”

“I would like to,” Vincent interrupted, quietly but firmly enough that Cid merely clamped his mouth shut, “and I confess, I do not often...fly around for fun.”

“Well, I, uh- thanks, Vincent,” Cid said, fumbling for words but with the sincerest tone he could muster, “I'll see if I can get the old girl in the air first, but-”

“Of course. I'll leave you to it.” Vincent hopped down from his perch, cloak rippling behind him gracefully as he moved towards the door.

“Yeah- uh, bye.” Cid called after him, not wanting him to leave but too off-balance to ask him to stay, and though it was quiet as a whisper he thought he heard thank you, Cid, as the red fabric trailed out of sight beyond the doorframe.

Somehow, the engine room instantly felt colder, darker, as though Vincent’s departure had taken some of the world’s light with it.

Cid leant his head back against the wall, eyes boring into the ceiling.

He was so fucked.

Cid, engineering genius that he was, had the ship back up in the air within hours.

Shinra had no idea what they'd let slip through their fingers.

The bitter tone of his thoughts matched the cold bite of the wind that swirled around him as he took a long inhale of his cigarette. There wasn't much of a view - whatever the time was, it was fuckin’ late, the dark cover of night shielding most of the landscape - but Cid stared blankly out to the East, illuminated only by the faint moonlight.

It was quiet again. The ship had briefly filled with life once more as the crew had returned, but everyone else seemed to be asleep save Cid, kept awake by the restless energy that had fuelled his dedicated repair to his ship.

He exhaled again, slower, wishing he could see the stars that hid behind the thick clouds.

“Cid.”

The cigarette dropped out of Cid’s fingers as he choked on air.

“Fuck, Vince,” Cid gasped as he whirled around, hand over his racing heart, “you scared the shit out of me.”

Vincent had the grace to look ever-so-slightly sheepish.

Cid grumbled to himself, turning back to the railing and lighting a new cigarette as he waited for Vincent to speak.

“She’s flying again. You work quickly.”

Cid kept his gaze averted, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Aw, hell, you know me. Nothin’ better to do except fix what’s broke.”

“An admirable passtime.” Vincent countered, and when Cid glanced back at him there was nothing but sincerity in his face.

Vincent stepped forward to join him, leaning against the railing and staring out into the clouded night sky. Cid allowed the silence to stretch onwards, comforted by its familiarity.

He had nearly finished his cigarette when Vincent spoke again.

“I came to fulfill my offer, if you're willing.”

“Ah. Now?” Honestly, Cid still hadn't thought he was entirely serious.

“Now. It’s a quiet night, and I would...prefer for this to remain between us.”

In a way, the trust given to him by a man so betrayed was humbling.

“If you're sure.”

“I’m a man of my word.”

Cid put out his cigarette on the railing, straightening and turning to face Vincent.

“I mean, uh, how do- what do I-” he stumbled over the words, suddenly feeling awkward in the face of Vincent’s inhuman elegance.

Vincent suddenly grinned, wider than Cid had ever seen, and under the moonlight he could see that the teeth were far sharper than usual.

“Hold on tight.” Vincent replied, only it may not have been only Vincent anymore as yellow eyes gleamed at him, black wings stretching towards the sky. Cid felt claws curl around his upper arms and suddenly-

He was flying. Not standing on the deck of an airship or trapped within the walls of a rocket - the cold air was rushing past his skin, feet dangling over the lethal drop to the canyon, no protection but for the cold press of Vincent’s claws.

They soared away from the Highwind, speeding over the dark crags and up, away from all the tethers of the earth.

They broke through the oppressive cover of clouds, and Cid’s breath caught in his throat.

There were the stars laid bare, as though he could reach out and touch them with only his mortal hands.

They soared higher, as far as was safe for an unprotected human form, and even though Cid knew the science, knew his limits, he almost begged Vincent to take him further, to the stars he had left behind.

Even as they descended Cid felt his heart lag behind his body, ever at home in the air.

Vincent set him gently down on the wooden floor of the balcony, releasing the vice grip he had kept on Cid’s arms.

Cid took one deep breath, then another.

Vincent’s boots clicked as he fluttered down behind him, wings audibly furling closed. Cid turned, meeting the glowing yellow eyes that stared impassively back.

“Thank you.” He said to Chaos, as clear and formal as he could make it sound.

The entity laughed, a hissing, grating sound that made Cid’s bones shudder, and in the time it took him to fight the instinctual rush of fear the sound brought the figure had already dissolved back into the familiar form of Vincent.

The rush of giddiness was back but Cid held it in, waiting for Vincent to adjust to his shifting bones.

Vincent exhaled once. Twice. Looked back up at Cid, expression inquisitive.

Everything Cid was holding in suddenly evaporated.

“Fuck, Vince, I- fuck, that was incredible,” he managed, still sounding breathless, mind racing, “is it always- shit, I thought I'd done all there was to do with flying, but that was-”

He cut himself off, distracted by the sudden thought of can I build it, I could do that every damn day, mind already filled with ideas and schematics that would likely never work but damned if he didn't want to try.

He reached out, putting both hands on Vincent’s shoulders.

“Thank you.” He said fervently, trying to impart even a fraction of the rush of energy that had reached his brain.

And something about that moment, staring into Vincent’s eyes on the deck of the Highwind as the sun just began to rise, made a strange feeling rise in Cid’s chest.

His hands moved to Vincent’s face as he leaned up to kiss him.

It was brief and chaste, fuelled half by the vibrant energy of the moment and half by the tension between them that had been building so subtly that Cid had barely noticed it.

It was, in Cid’s opinion, perfect.

He released Vincent almost as quickly as he had grabbed him, limbs near-trembling from the fading rush of adrenaline.

Vincent was inhumanly still, eyes downcast, and Cid suddenly felt very self-conscious.

Because it wasn't just the moment, was it? Because Cid, if he was honest with himself, really fucking liked Vincent, as a friend and maybe more, and he'd never forgive himself if he’d just fucked it up in a moment of adrenaline.

Shit.

“Shit,” Cid repeated aloud, “Vincent, I’m sorry, that was outta line.”

Vincent’s gaze flicked back up to meet his, expression contemplative.

“Yeah, I'll just uh- I’ll go. Thanks, again.”

He turned, preparing to flee to his room.

“Wait.” Vincent said quietly, just as he was about to leave.

Cid waited.

“I...didn't expect you to reciprocate.” Vincent began, uncharacteristically hesitant as he spoke. Cid pivoted immediately to face him, bewildered.

“You- wha-”

“ I have cared for someone before. It ended…” Vincent trailed off, metal hand curling into a fist, a hint of his usual grimness returning to his tone.

“Yeah, I understand. And look, you don't owe me nothin’, if you’re not ready or if- there’s a lot going on, I know.” Cid began rambling again, voice betraying his nerves only with a slight tremble.

“I’m willing to try.” Vincent said, oddly decisive - as though he spoke not just to Cid, but to the things that haunted him as well. “I slept for a long time. I dreamt so long of memories, an endless cycle of my own sins, that even now that I’m awake they follow me still.”

Vincent took a single step forward, bringing himself back into Cid’s space.

“They are quieter with you. That is enough reason to try.”

Cid put his hand out, an open invitation, and Vincent grasped it with his own.

“Y’always do that.” Cid mused aloud. Vincent narrowed his eyes in confusion.

“What?”

“Things, objects, you’ll use your left hand. For people, it’s always your right.” Cid nodded his head down at the golden claw that adorned Vincent’s left hand. The metal creaked as Vincent flexed the fingers, the limb retreating slightly from Cid’s gaze.

“It’s a monstrous thing. I’d imagined others prefer to be met with a human hand.”

“I think it’s beautiful,” and it was hardly a platitude, as Cid had longed to examine the masterful engineering of the piece since they had met, “just like the rest of you.”

Vincent took a long moment to look into Cid’s eyes, and found only sincerity.

He reached forward with his left hand, motion hesitant, and Cid still waited. It found the side of Cid’s face almost of its own volition, metal claws settling gently on the side of his cheek, and Cid did not flinch away.

Vincent leaned down to kiss him then, in answer.

The dawn’s light glinted off the metal as they pulled apart, Cid reaching up to take the hand into his own as he grinned.

“As much as this is turning out to be the best damn morning of my life, I haven’t slept in-” Cid’s eyes darted quickly to the rising sun, then back to Vincent’s face, as though they could barely stand to leave for a second,” -fuckin’ forever, and if I start napping on the bridge my crew’ll never let me live it down.”

Vincent gave him that elusive half-smile again, and Cid felt another surge of triumph.

“I believe it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“When did you see- ”

“Get some sleep, then. We’ll talk later.”

Vincent pressed another kiss to Cid’s lips, light as a ghost, and then he was gone.

Alone on the deck, Cid exhaled loudly and pulled out another cigarette.

“God damn.”

He was a lucky guy.

And if his crew looked alarmed by his cheerful whistling as he walked down the halls to his room, well, fuck ‘em.

They still had a lot to talk about - Vincent’s issues could fill a damn psychology journal, let alone Cid’s own - but that could wait until after he’d passed out in his bed.

He fell asleep the second his head hit the pillow, and dreamed of flying beneath the stars, Vincent’s hands holding him safely in the air.

#valenwind #vincent valentine #cid highwind #ffvii #strife writes

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