#‘Sure this is /my/ family… but it’s /the/ Family too.’

[wendichester]

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. sweet, oblivious, you²,

summary. dean likes you. sam likes you, too. lucky you, oblivious to it all.

pairing. dean winchester x reader x sam winchester  genre. smut ( mdni )

wordcount. 2263

notes / warnings. as requested by many families, here's the unholy part 2. i need to go confess myself now to the pope (my local priest isn't equipped enough) ✌🏻// explicit language, explicit sexual content ( sex on the kitchen table!!! ), just weird and kinda hot??

ᯓ★ read part 1

It starts to change after that night.

Not in any big way, not all at once. It’s not like Dean drops to one knee or Sam starts reading you poetry by firelight (though honestly, neither would be completely off-brand at this point). No, it shifts in the quiet ways. The subtle ones. The ways that feel like they’re nothing — until suddenly, they’re everything.

Like how Dean now insists on sitting next to you at every meal. Not across, not diagonally. Right next to you. Close enough that your elbows brush when you cut into your food. Close enough that his arm accidentally finds the back of your chair more often than not, his fingers ghosting over your shoulder, like he just needs to rest his arm somewhere. Totally innocent.

Sure, Dean.

Sam counters with morning coffee.

You don’t even remember telling him how you like it, but one day it’s just there — your exact brew, perfect amount of sugar, that one creamer you love but keep forgetting to buy.

“You didn’t have to—” you start, blinking sleepily.

He shrugs, easy and casual, but there’s that gleam in his eye. “Didn’t mind.”

Dean starts walking into the kitchen shirtless.

Because of course he does.

“Too hot to wear a shirt, sweetheart,” he says one morning, voice husky with sleep, like it’s a suffering he’s graciously enduring for your benefit.

Your brain hiccups for a second. Sam drops his knife against the counter with a little too much force.

It’s war.

You just sip your coffee and try not to combust.

Training sessions become the next battleground.

Dean offers to “spot” you during strength drills. And by spot, he means stand behind you, one hand on your lower back, one guiding your wrist, voice low in your ear, breath brushing your neck like he’s trying to reprogram your nervous system.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, just a little too close. “Keep that form tight, yeah? Just like that.”

Meanwhile, Sam’s out here playing the long game — patience and precision. He takes you through defensive maneuvers, calm and steady. But his hand lingers when he helps you up off the mat. His body presses just a second too long when you crash into his chest. And his praise?

Way more dangerous than Dean’s.

“You’re a fast learner,” he says one afternoon, gaze locked on yours, his thumb brushing your cheekbone after a sweaty match. “I like that.”

You freeze. Swallow hard. Laugh it off.

They both see it.

They both want more.

One night, Dean finds you in the library, legs curled under you, hoodie slouching off one shoulder. You’re so into whatever lore you’re reading that you don’t hear him until he drops onto the couch beside you, legs spread wide, knee bumping yours.

“Whatcha readin’?” he asks, all easy charm.

You hold up the book without looking. “Something about Norse possession rituals. Kinda creepy. Kinda cool.”

Dean watches you over the rim of his beer. “You’re kinda cool.”

You blink at him. “What?”

He grins. “Nothin’. Just sayin’. It’s… cool. That you’re into that stuff.”

You stare at him, a little amused. A little suspicious. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy.” He throws his arm across the back of the couch — again, purely accidental — and lets his fingers brush your shoulder. “You cold? You can borrow my hoodie if you want.”

You’re wearing a hoodie. His hoodie.

He knows. He gave it to you last week and hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

You’re about to make a joke when Sam walks in, sees you two curled up, and stalls.

Something flashes behind his eyes. Something dark and determined.

He says nothing. Just walks over, grabs a book from the shelf — and drops it in your lap.

“You should read this one next,” he says smoothly, ignoring Dean completely. “It ties into that ritual text. Same demon class. More dangerous, though.”

Your fingers brush when he hands it to you. His touch is warm and deliberate. You feel it all the way down.

Dean clocks it.

His jaw ticks.

Game on.

Later that night, you’re walking down the hall toward your room, yawning. Dean’s voice calls out behind you.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You turn — and he’s there, way too close, one hand braced on the wall beside your head.

His smirk is soft, but it’s hiding something sharp underneath. Something hungry.

“You got plans tomorrow?” he asks, voice honey-slick and low. “Thinkin’ about takin’ you for a drive. Just us. Sunset. You know. Mood lighting.”

Your heart skips a beat. “Oh. Um. Yeah? That sounds nice.”

He leans in — just slightly — enough that your breath catches.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

Before you can answer, a door opens behind you.

“Hey,” Sam says, voice calm but cool. He steps into the hall, barefoot, shirt rumpled, like he’s been pacing. “Didn’t know you were still up. I was about to make tea. You want some?”

Dean doesn’t move. Sam doesn’t blink.

You’re caught between them, flushed and wide-eyed, every cell in your body screaming that something’s happening, even if you don’t know what exactly it is.

You laugh — nervous, flustered — and nod. “Sure! Tea sounds great.”

Sam’s eyes flicker to Dean. “Coming?”

Dean peels himself off the wall with a lazy roll of his shoulders. “Nah,” he says, but the look in his eyes promises blood. “I’ve got other things on my mind.”

And then he walks off, all swagger and smirk, leaving you and Sam standing in the hall like the first scene of a very slow, very dangerous fire.

Sam turns to you, gentle again. “Chamomile okay?”

You nod, suddenly short of breath.

He smiles, soft and devastating. “Good.”

⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

It starts with a look.

One look, too long. Too loaded. Too everything.

You’re in the kitchen again. Nothing special — tank top, sleep shorts, mug in hand. It’s late. You can’t sleep. The bunker hums with quiet and warmth. You’re barefoot on cold tile, staring into the fridge like it holds answers to questions you haven’t asked yet.

And then Dean’s there.

Leaning against the counter like he was born to brood, beer bottle dangling from two fingers, jaw shadowed with stubble and sleep. His eyes drag over you, slow and simmering, and for once?

He doesn’t look away.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low and sandpapery.

You shake your head. “Nope. Thought warm milk might help.”

He smirks. “Old school. Cute.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, grandpa.”

But your heart ticks faster.

He doesn’t laugh. Just watches you, like he’s trying to memorize something.

You go to the stove. Pour milk into a saucepan. And then?

You feel him behind you.

Not close — not inappropriate — but present. Solid heat. Quiet intensity. You stir the milk and try not to notice the way your breath shortens. The way you’re aware of him in a way you weren’t before.

Dean doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

He’s just there. Waiting.

And then Sam enters — quieter than usual, in joggers and a soft black tee, hair mussed, eyes unreadable.

You expect things to ease.

They don’t.

He sees you.

Sees Dean.

And something shifts in him too.

He walks over to you — not Dean. To you. And places a hand lightly on the small of your back, fingers splayed.

“Everything okay?” he murmurs, voice soft but loaded with that same heat Dean’s carrying. A different flavor — gentler, deeper — but no less intense.

Your mouth goes dry.

Dean watches Sam’s hand. His jaw flexes once.

And suddenly… something clicks.

You freeze, spoon mid-stir.

They aren’t just being friendly.

They haven’t been for weeks.

The lingering touches. The quiet glances. The midnight coffees and training sessions that feel like something out of a dream you’re not sure you should be having. The way Dean’s hand finds your waist when you pass too close. The way Sam’s voice drops when he calls you by name, like he’s saying something sacred.

Holy shit.

You’ve been so dumb.

You look up — Sam on one side, Dean on the other — and finally, finally see it.

They want you.

Both of them.

The room tilts.

The milk starts to boil.

Dean moves first — reaches over you, kills the burner with one flick of the wrist. His body brushes yours, solid and hot, and you gasp just slightly when you feel his chest at your back.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he murmurs, mouth just behind your ear.

You nod. Lie. “Fine.”

Sam’s hand still hasn’t moved.

Dean’s breath ghosts down your neck. “You sure?”

You should say yes.

You should say you’re going back to bed, thanks for the weird vibe, have a good night—

But instead?

You turn.

Right between them.

Your eyes flick from one brother to the other, and for the first time, you don’t play dumb. You don’t look away.

You look back.

Sam swallows hard. Dean licks his lips. You feel the air crackle.

“Tell me,” you say, voice shaking slightly. “Tell me what this is.”

Dean tilts his head, watching you like a lion would a lamb that just bared her throat. “What do you want it to be?”

Sam’s voice cuts in, soft but certain. “We want you.”

Dean nods. “We’ve wanted you.”

The words slam into your stomach like heat lightning.

You blink.

“Both of you?”

Sam steps closer. “Yeah.”

Dean moves in, too. “We know it’s… different. But we’re not gonna lie to you. Not tonight.”

Your pulse hammers. “You’re serious.”

Dean’s fingers lift to your jaw. “Sweetheart. Do I look like I’m fuckin’ around?”

You open your mouth — to argue, to ask more, to do something — but then Sam kisses you.

Just like that.

Big hand curling around the back of your neck, mouth warm and sure, and it’s like your brain short-circuits. You melt against him instinctively, fingers curling in his shirt, lips parting under his with a helpless, startled noise.

And then Dean’s mouth is on your throat.

Not kissing. Tasting.

His tongue flicks along the line of your neck, rough stubble scraping gently, and your knees almost give out.

Sam pulls back just enough to breathe. “You okay?”

You nod. Whisper, “Please.”

That’s all it takes.

Dean lifts you like you weigh nothing. Hands under your thighs, mouth crashing into yours now — hot and filthy, tongue sweeping past your lips like he’s trying to ruin you from the inside out.

Sam follows, fast and quiet, hand sliding under your shirt, warm palm skimming your waist.

“Bed,” you gasp between kisses.

Dean growls against your mouth. “Didn’t plan on making it that far, sweetheart.”

They lay you out on the kitchen table.

Dean strips your shorts off in one smooth tug, kneeling to drag his mouth up your thigh, slow and reverent. Sam kneels opposite him, pressing soft, lingering kisses up the other.

You stare at the ceiling, panting, heart trying to escape your ribs.

This is real.

This is happening.

Dean hooks his arms under your knees, spreads you wide. “You still with us?”

You nod frantically. “Yes. God, yes—”

Sam’s mouth replaces your answer.

Warm. Wet. Perfect.

He eats you like it’s worship.

Dean groans at the sight, lips brushing your inner thigh. “Fuck, Sammy. That’s not fair.”

Sam pulls back just enough to smirk. “She tastes like heaven.”

Dean doesn’t wait — he takes the other side, tongue flicking over your clit as Sam pushes two fingers inside you, curling just right, deep and slow.

You scream.

They hold you down gently, murmuring filth like a prayer.

“Look at you,” Dean groans. “So fuckin’ pretty when you fall apart.”

“She’s shaking,” Sam says, awed.

They devour you.

And when you come — because of course you do — it’s not quiet. It’s not graceful. It’s violent. Ripping through you like fire, hips arching, fists gripping Dean’s hair while Sam strokes you through it with something dangerously close to reverence.

When you finally breathe again, Dean’s standing, mouth wet, unbuttoning his jeans.

“You want more, sweetheart?” he pants, eyes blown wide.

You nod, half-drunk on bliss.

Sam kisses your shoulder. “You sure?”

You pull him down by the shirt and kiss him hard. “Yes.”

Clothes vanish — you’re not sure how. You’re all hands and mouths and noise. Dean presses inside you slowly, groaning so deep it shakes the table. He fills you like he was made for it, rocking into you with slow, brutal thrusts that make you keen.

Sam kisses your lips, your throat, your chest, whispering praise against your skin.

When Dean pulls out to let Sam take his place, your whole body trembles. Sam’s slower — deeper. He kisses your temple when he bottoms out, hands holding your thighs like you might disappear.

They trade you.

Again.

And again.

And when they both finish — one groaning against your neck, the other gasping into your mouth — you lie there, boneless and wrecked, caught in the heat and scent and feel of them.

You’re not sure who moves first.

Dean brushes your hair back. Sam kisses your knuckles. You curl between them, blinking up at the ceiling, heartbeat finally slowing.

Dean grins. “Still think we’re just bein’ friendly?”

You snort, dazed. “You two are the least friendly people I’ve ever met.”

Sam chuckles, breath warm against your shoulder. “Guess we’ll have to prove otherwise.”

Dean presses a kiss to your temple.

And for once, you don’t feel like the prize.

You feel like the winner.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[bloomseishiro]

Hi! Can I request some BLLK drabbles (with whichever BLLK characters you like) where the boys see the reader in tight clothes for the first time? Like, the reader usually wears baggy clothing or stuff that hides their curves/body figure, so it’s a total surprise! It doesn’t have to be a dress—tight shorts and crop tops work too!

Anyways, I love you and your fics! You’re doing amazing, hunny! 💕 Keep doing what you’re doing—your stories make me smile and feel the thrill!! 💓🩷💗

what a surprise — he sees you in tight clothes for the first time

౨ৎ ft. nagi seishiro, itoshi sae, itoshi rin

a/n. THANK YOU SWEET ANON FOR THE REQUEST!! i had sm fun writing this and ur kind words def made my day ^-^ i chose the three characters i’m most comfy with heh one day i will expand!! >.>

contents. fluff, pre-relationship, timeskip/pro soccer player bllk boys, reader wears a tight dress for rin and nagi’s + crop top/short shorts for sae’s, these are suggestive so rated 16+ pls ! 

NAGI SEISHIRO

Nagi isn’t one to go to parties often. But this one was for Reo’s birthday and you were begging him to go. 

He thought it would be less of a hassle to simply agree with you and make an appearance. Besides, he could always bring his phone and hide in the corner of the room, if needed. 

But when Nagi sees the dress you’re wearing to the party, he decides maybe agreeing to come wasn’t such a bad idea after all. 

“Does this dress make my butt look big?” you ask from his room, popping your head out of the doorframe. 

The two of you are getting ready at Nagi’s apartment, mainly so he can’t flake at the last minute, and he had stepped out earlier to give you privacy while changing. 

At your question, Nagi looks around lazily before his eyes widen slightly at the sight of you. The dress on your body is short and tight, leaving nothing to the imagination when it comes to the shape of your waist and hips. 

Nagi swallows with uncertainty. It’s different from your usual attire, that much even he could recognize. 

“Yes,” he manages to answer your question honestly. 

You beam as if that's just the response you’re looking for. “Great! I was going to wear my usual clothes, but Reo said we should dress nice since his family invited some celebrities.”

Nagi nods in acknowledgment. “Your dress is nice. But your usual clothes are nice, too.”

Hiding a giggle, you tug the dress down so it covers more of your thighs. Nagi can’t help but notice how shiny and supple your skin looks there. 

“Do you like one more than the other?” you ask playfully. 

He shakes his head hesitantly and he feels heat rise to his cheeks. “I like…both.”

“I’ll make sure to mix it up sometimes, then.”

ITOSHI SAE

Sae isn’t a saint. He’s never claimed nor pretended to be. While his focus has always been on soccer, he wasn’t one to turn down one night stands so long as they were conveniently timed for him. 

All that to say, he’s seen plenty of minimally-clad bodies before. But he’s never felt the dryness in his throat that he does now. All from seeing you in those denim booty shorts and cropped baby tee. 

Of course, the ridiculous shirt has, “Make Men Cry” written across your chest, only accentuating the curves you normally kept hidden even more. You may very well be able to reach that goal if you keep walking around like that. 

His face is neutral; only Sae himself feels the slight clench of his jaw as his eyes trail across your figure. 

“Do I look bad?” you blurt hesitantly, tugging at the hem of your shirt that landed just above your belly-button. Your fidgeting only serves to draw more attention to the exposed, soft skin on your stomach. 

Sae blinks slowly. “No. Who said that?”

“No one, but you just keep staring at me…” 

“Not because you look bad,” he corrects. “It’s because you look hot.”

“You think?” you ask shyly, peering up at him through your lashes. “My friend and I went on a shopping spree and I wanted to change up my wardrobe. Just sometimes, at least.”

Sae makes a mental note to thank your friend. “Well, if you need more clothes, you can use my card.”

“I’ll make sure to get more of these cropped tops. Since you seem to like it so much,” you tease.

“For whatever reason, only on you.”

ITOSHI RIN

Awestruck doesn’t begin to describe how Rin feels when he sees you in a silk dress that gracefully falls against all your curves. 

Galas are a pain, a stupid event he would skip if not for his PR team’s incessant prodding, but at least he managed to drag you along with him for this one. 

He didn’t, however, actually expect you to dress the part. He would’ve been fine if you had shown up in the oversized shirts and baggy pants you typically wore, but he was completely caught off guard at the sight of you now.

“Can you help me tighten the back?” you ask bashfully, turning around to reveal the almost-backless dress that held itself together by a few measly strings. “I don’t want it to fall off at the gala…”

Rin’s ears heat up and he mentally slaps himself for picturing that. “Yeah. C’mere.”

You aren’t one to wear revealing clothes often, and this is the most skin he’s seen since he ever met you. His fingers ghost the back of your spine as he fastens the strings into a little bow. His fingers jerk as he skims the softness of your skin and he clears his throat to distract himself. 

“Is this good?” he asks hoarsely. 

You tug at the straps to make sure it’s secure and nod brightly. “Yep! Thanks, Rin. Do you need help with anything? I can tie your tie in return!”

Panicked, he shakes his head and quickly fastens his tie himself. It’s the fastest Rin has ever gotten it done. Once finished, he catches you staring at him with a funny look. 

“You’re acting silly,” you say, sticking your tongue out.

“Sorry. I know. I’m just not used to you looking like that.”

Your gaze meets the floor as you shuffle your weight from foot to foot. “Is it weird?”

“It’s unfamiliar. But you look…” he trails off, cheeks a bright pink. “You look really pretty.”

You blink in surprise and an equally embarrassed look graces your features. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he coughs. “Not that you’re not always pretty. Just…it’s different.”

“Yeah,” you repeat, giggling through the shyness. “Well, if you want to see me like this more often, I guess you have to invite me as your plus one to more of these events.”

“Do you want to attend more of these with me?” asks Rin in surprise. 

“Not particularly,” you admit and Rin scoffs. “But maybe it’s worth it to see your cute reactions.”

His face heats up once more. “Shut up.” 

You laugh at him, placing your hand on your hips and only drawing more attention to your curves. Maybe Rin doesn’t hate galas, after all.

[midniqhtt]

robert (bob) reynolds

masterlist • marvel • 05/14/25

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs

𑣲 xerox pt2 pt3 I @ichorai

you had one last job before you were free. no more splitting, no more deaths. unfortunately, that job seemed to rope in four other assassins and a... a man in hospital-wear?

𑣲 the fling I @sacredsorceress

bob finds out that you had a one night stand with bucky a few years earlier and feelings bubble to the surface.

𑣲 therapy I @/sacredsorceress

𑣲 mocha I @/sacredsorceress

yelena decides to make it her mission to set up bob with her close friend.

𑣲 let go I @sunskisser

bob avoided you, and you had no idea why — till the night you help him out of a frenzy.

𑣲 the woes of bowties and missing puzzle pieces I @websterss

One day Bob having a rough day and void jumps out, creating quite a chaos. She tries to talk him through it but void being void thinking she’s a liability for them, he “consumed” her. Few moments after that he turns back into Bob & other people came back from void but not her.

𑣲 i see you I @cocastyle

𑣲 sneaking around I @callsign-swan

Bob doesn't mean to be sneaking around. But he can't help it. He's got a secret, and he wants to keep it that way. Too bad he's best friends with Yelena Belova.

𑣲 alone together I @/callsign-swan

For the last few years, Tony's daughter has been living out in the tower basement. She doesn't realise when Valentina buys the tower, not until she's being choked out by Sentry (turns out Sentry is a really sweet guy called Bob, who knew?)

𑣲 picnic day I @roanofarcc

when rain threatens a thunderbolts team bonding outing, per the request of Alexei, they turn to their resident weather-controlling team member to save their plans. 

𑣲 a bunch of teenagers I @mallory524

Bob has really started to like you, but he assumes you don’t feel the same way about him. You do though, and everyone seems to know that except Bob… and apparently also Walker, who really thought he had a chance

𑣲 in my arms I @woantohae

The Thunderbolts are constantly on missions, busy trying to do good and save whoever they can. One of them was Bob Reynolds, the defenseless yet powerful man who is part of this team and family. However, he doesn't participate in these missions so he can continue practicing controlling his powers. Despite telling them he's capable, the team prefers to give him more time to get used to them, until one mission, when a member of the team is injured. And all Bob can think about is the fury he feels when he hears Y/N being hurt. And how much he wants revenge on whoever did it.

𑣲 shadow I @/woantohae

Y/N loved the darkness because she could see the stars better. Void does everything in his power to make sure she can gaze at the starry sky, even if it means turning everything into darkness.

𑣲 like real people do I @froggibus

Bob seeks you out following a bad dream

𑣲 misunderstanding I @strkly

you and bob were inseparable. until he begins to ignore you and you have no clue why. when you’re injured after a mission gone wrong you’re finally able to find out why.

𑣲 darling I @fireinmoonshot

You always call Bob darling in private... until you accidentally slip up and use the nickname in front of the rest of the Thunderbolts.

𑣲 lethal touch I @hearts4johnwick

while training, all goes well until a move bob makes changes your concentration as you begin to relive your worst memory.

𑣲 stay with me I @scarletmika

Bob wants to feel useful, to truly be part of the team, but the others don't think he's ready. You take it upon yourself to teach him control, to guide him through. But mistakes will be made, and it might not be possible to keep the darkness from creeping back in once more.

𑣲 destiny or not I @/scarletmika

As The Darkhold foretold Wanda Maximoff's destiny, The Book of Vishanti foretold your own. You just didn't know how much of that destiny was intertwined with Bob Reynolds, until the day you met him in the vault.

𑣲 request I @lovebugism

you like taking care of bob on his bad days. he isn't quite sure why

𑣲 stitches I @skeltnwrites

Bob learns how to stitch a wound

𑣲 plainclothes man pt2 I @em1i2a3

Everyone at the compound knows Bob has a massive crush on you–except you.

𑣲 carry the zero I @/em1i2a3

You and Bob are sharing a room while the Avengers Compound is under renovations, which brings on a slew of new things to learn about one another.

𑣲 cherry waves I @/em1i2a3

You’ve been sick for a few days, so while the rest of the team goes out to do a recon mission, you’re on your own watching over Bob. One morning he comes to your room with a weird request.

𑣲 sailor song I @/em1i2a3

Bob is in love with you, but you can’t be what he wants.

𑣲 i wanna get lost with you I @/em1i2a3

After a rough night, you find yourself with a rare day off–the one that you take on the same day every year in memoriam for the fallen. So you head into the city to spend your feelings away on the only thing that makes sense to you: gifts for your favourite team of scrappy anti-heros…And Bob.

𑣲 a little bit of jam I @violetrainbow412-blog

𑣲 archives room I @owastie

you’re tasked with searching through the archives room to find some information on a new threat

𑣲 oh, scaling all your shadows I @swordgrace

plagued by nightmares, bob takes comfort in the one person who’s pulled him from the shadows time and time again — you.

𑣲 so high school I @pagesfromthevoid

𑣲 walk through darkness I @/pagesfromthevoid

𑣲 unfamiliar feeling I @ang3ltine

Bob was asleep for God knows how long, now that he has the chance at a better life. Who better to show him than you?

𑣲 admiration I @/ang3ltine

Being recruited by Valentina as part of the new Avengers (z) team was never part of your list of agendas. Yet here you were, doting on an awkward brunette.

𑣲 look what the cat dragged in I @eyelessfaces

you get bob a cat for emotional support; the cat adopts you as parents and is undeniably bound to bring the two of you closer.

𑣲 how to kiss I @worstghost

teaching bob how to kiss and accidentally slipping into a 20 minute makeout session

𑣲 the good side I @cosmictheo

bob loves you so much that he slowly begins to transform into a house-husband for you. and he loves it.

𑣲 fur-evermore I @ofstarsandvibranium

Because you're Bucky's assistant, you, and your service dog, Juniper, head to the tower to give him some files as well as meet the rest of his new team...including a very cute and slightly awkward, Bob.

𑣲 mr. oblivious I @/ofstarsandvibranium

Bob is sometimes oblivious to the fact that people find him attractive and/or like him. One of those people includes you.

𑣲 i dream of you even when awake I @deakyjoe

Your gift makes sleep difficult. Luckily, Bob is there to guide you through it.

𑣲 something special I @blank-potato

You’ve been the live-in doctor at Avengers Tower for a year, and Bob wants to get you something special to celebrate. Unbeknownst to him, that something special turns out to be a sex plant. 

𑣲 drabble I @undyingdecay

𑣲 peace in the darkness I @theonewiththefanfics

Bob knows Y/N isn't one to go back on her words. So when she doesn't show up to go through with their plans, he starts to worry. Luckily for him, Yelena knows how to break-and-enter. And doesn't mind invading her personal space.

[acid-ixx]

— masterlist !

ngl imagine pulling up in a matching suit with clark kent, your affair partner, your cute, definitely not superpowered lap dog, to the function, being openly affectionate with him in public, allowing his to flirt with you in public as a huge middle finger to bruce wayne as revenge after he's neglected you. THEN removing the first button of your shirt, revealing love marks in front of him and yet never once batting an eye to him, instead choosing to proudly display your ravaged body like an artistic piece of work, as an even bigger FUCK you to him.

like yeah sure, he can sport a raging boner at your braveness, knowing your spiteful attitude paired with your softness to family is his type, but he also has to wear the hat of universal shame 'cause he's not even divorced to his own spouse yet and yet here they are in another person's arms. in clark kent, superman's arms.

bruce can already hear his children swearing at him up and down for how hard he legitimately fumbled. damian is SICK after watching the scene before him, fuming from jon being so sickeningly sweet towards you, careening from your attention like a damn prideful peacock. you're handfeeding jon all the pastries, kneeling before his level and coo'ing when he makes a disgusted face at the food he doesn't like. and damian hates jon's open childishness!!! (he wishes it was him).

steph's all like, "THIS COULD'VE BEEN MY FATHER/MOTHER FIGURE I ALWAYS WANTED IN MY LIFE?!" just watching conner totally, definitely not purposely being clumsy and spilling food all over himself, just for you to gently scold him and help clean off the mess with your handkerchief— tim's already planning a contingency on his best friend in the background, cass is ready to beat throw some hands after the gala.

jason keeps grumbling, swearing at bruce because in no way, shape or form was this man NOT madly in love with you from all your years of marriage! you're literally the perfect spouse material and bruce done fucked up sleeping with others while you both lived under the same roof. (as if he himself wasn't involved in the shared neglect they all had towards you, but he doesn't want to admit it, and he can't deny that it's also a great excuse to bash on the old man, too).

world's greatest detective? more like the world's greatest fumbler of the century. both in canon and in fanfiction and i'm never letting him live that role down.

☝️ this is basically the premise of my upcoming oneshot for a loving family, an unpalatable desire because i kinda wrote way too much words for a supposedly short drabble, and also because i'm excited for the new superman trailer!!! so think of this as my gift LMAO. i'm also trying to finish writing my other oneshots related to this series.

(i chose to make the reader wear a suit because one: suits are so perfect if you want to maintain an elegant vibe and still keep it neutral to the reader's gender. two, because i think bruce would find his own spouse in a suit hot. three: matching lapel pins with clark kent is way too adorable to me is all i can say).

[soulsforsales]

Jason Todd head canons

Because I love that man<3

Jason always sleeps on the side of the bed closest to the door because if danger ever arrives, he wants it to find him first.

He reads to you. A lot. Sometimes it's sweet, mostly it's to annoy you when you don't give him attention. (He would read something like, "And thus she disappeared into the dark abyss to find her lover", aloud just to add, "but my lover won't shut down their laptop for me." Insert a pout.)

He says the most romantic things at the most random moments. (You could be sitting across the room, reading, while he sits at the table cleaning his guns. He would stop, look up, and go, "I don't think my life truly began until I met you." Then go back to cleaning like nothing happened. )

He offers to buy you anything you even look at for too long. (You two could be on an evening walk, and while he shuffles for something in his pockets, he realizes you've been staring at someone's pet dog for a long while with a smile, and he just goes, "Do we want it?" Simple. Plain. You stare, "I am sure that's someone's pet, Jay." He smirks, "I could arrange something." You roll your eyes, laugh, "Shut up.")

When he says, "I'll do anything for you," he means it. And not just the big things. Not just "I would die for you," "I would live for you," "I would build a house from scratch for you." No, even the small ones. (Because the first time you ate a chocolate-dipped waffle, you looked like you'd just tasted heaven and won't stop gushing about how delicious it was. The next morning? Jason is learning how to cook the exact same thing from a YouTube video at 6 in the morning. And when you ask him "why," he shrugs nonchalantly and goes, "I just like to see you happy.")

Jason's utterly, loveably clueless of how devastatingly handsome he is. The most normal things he does are so attractive and turn you on, and he has absolutely no idea. (He hangs around the house shirtless with damp hair like it's no big deal while you're just dying inside. You could be climbing this man like a tree, and he still won't get it. You could be on top of him - so fucking gone - and he's like, "You really think I'm hot?" You're in disbelief. "Jason, I want to sit on your face." He blushes, blushes, "...Oh. Wow. Okay.")

Also, this reminds me. He blushes. Like, a lot more than anyone would expect from the seemingly cold, terrifying Red Hood. (He blushes when you compliment him. He blushes when you call him your boyfriend/husband/partner. He blushes when you talk proudly of him to your friends or his family. He blushes when you kiss him, give him coffee, remember his favorite books or things, or treat him with decent human kindness. He blushes the most when you call him pet names (Jay, Jaybird, baby, babe, pretty boy, honey), anything other than "Jason," and he's got pink ears and flushed cheeks. Just overall shy and loves you too much for his own good.)

This is it for now because I fear if I keep writing, I'll never stop.

Enjoy!! I love y'all<3

[keithyp00]

•·.·´`·.·•• You're Lying (and other things Sam won't stop saying) ••·.·´`·.·•

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: language, mild suggestiveness, comedy, romance, light-angst, found family, slow burn payoff, excessive teasing, established relationship, Sam being annoying

Trope: Everyone thinks you're not really dating. You are. No one believes you.

Word Count: 2.0K

Author Note: Guys this is just like my last one, this is to help me mentally prep for an AP exam tomorrow morning so if this is bad I am so sorry. But I hope you enjoy this nonetheless <3

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

You and Bucky were dating.

Like- really dating.

In the 'he's seen you at your absolute worst and still kisses your cheek like he doesn't look at you any differently' kind of way. The 'you keep an extra toothbrush at his place and he makes your coffee how you like it without asking' kind of way. The 'he pulls you into his lap during team movie nights and smiles against your shoulder, murmuring words into your ear like it's not the most dangerous thing he could do' kind of way.

And no one believed you.

Especially not Sam.

"Oh, come one," he said, flatly, as he walked in on you and Bucky curled up on the couch. "This again?"

You blinked. "We're watching Pretty Woman, Sam."

"You're spooning."

"We're affectionate."

"You're not even kissing! He's probably just cold. You know he runs cold. Like a cyborg space lizard or something."

Bucky growled. "Cyborg space-?!"

"Right," Sam interrupted. "Sure. Keep telling people you're dating. I'll be over here living in reality."

You buried your face into Bucky's neck. "I hate him," you mumbled.

"You love him," Bucky corrected with a sigh. "You just want him to validate our relationship."

"I want him to believe in our relationship. There's a difference."

Sam, in the kitchen, called out: "I don't!"

Bucky flipped him off without looking.

~~~~~

The problem wasn't that you and Bucky didn't act like a couple.

The problem was that you didn't act like a normal couple.

You didn't post mushy selfies. You didn't wear matching shirts. You didn't coo pet names across conference tables. You just... existed. Comfortable. Quietly in sync. The kind of romance that felt more like a heartbeat than a firework.

Too subtle for people like Sam Wilson, apparently.

"You didn't even kiss when you got back from that mission," Sam pointed out, a few weeks later. "She was gone for five days, man."

Bucky, polishing a knife, didn't look up. "I kissed her afterward. In private."

"See, that's the problem! You hide it. Makes it look fake."

"I'm sorry," you snapped. "I didn't realize our love life was for public broadcast. Want us to livestream the next one?"

Sam looked delighted. "That's a strong reaction. I hit a nerve. This is faker than Tony's allergy to gluten."

Tony called from down the hall: "It's real, you bastard!"

~~~~~

At first, it was funny.

Then it got exhausting.

You weren't insecure about your relationship- Bucky made sure of that, every day, in a dozen quiet ways. He cooked for you. Kissed your temple. Held your hand under tables. Brushed his thumb along your jaw like it was the most precious part of you.

But still. No one believed it.

Not Nat, who called it "convenient physical proximity."

No Clint, who claimed he'd never seen you kiss with tongue (as id that were a valid benchmark).

Not even Steve, who offered a gentle "Are you sure he's not just emotionally dependent on you?"

It all came to a head one night at a bar.

You'd just finished a mission and everyone was letting off steam. Sam leaned against the bar counter beside you, a shit-eating grin on his face.

"So," he started. "You and Barnes still 'dating'?"

You narrowed your eyes. "Yes."

"Hmm. Okay." He sipped his beer. "So if I leaned in and kissed you right now, he wouldn't deck me?"

You stared at him.

"Try it," Bucky said darkly from behind, voice like cracked gravel.

Sam smiled. "Still not proof."

Bucky grabbed your hand. "You want proof?"

"Bucky-" you warned.

"No, no. He wants a show. Let's give him one."

He yanked you flush against him, hand cupping your jaw, and kissed you.

You melted into it, clutched his shirt, kissed him back with something that sounded like a whimper because Jesus.

Not a polite kiss.

Not a we're-dating-I-swear kiss.

A I-know-every-inch-of-your-mouth-and-I-love-you kiss.

Hot. Possessive. Unapologetic.

When he pulled away, Sam blinked. "...Okay. Damn."

"Believe us now?" Bucky raised a brow.

Sam blinked again. "Not really."

You grabbed a pretzel stick and stabbed it into the foam of Sam's beer. "I hope you step on RedWing."

~~~~~

Even after that, the teasing didn't stop.

Because of course it didn't.

"You probably practiced that," Sam said a few days later.

"What?"

"That kiss. You planned it. Just to throw me off."

Bucky rubbed his temples. "You are the most annoying man I've ever met."

"You're just mad I cracked the code."

"There is no code!"

You yanked open the fridge, pulled out a tub of frosting, and started eating it with a spoon. "I actually cannot live like this."

Sam pointed at the spoon. "See? No real girlfriend would let her boyfriend see that."

"Bucky bought me this frosting."

Bucky looked like he was about to get up and beat the shit out of Sam if he didn't start walking away.

~~~~~

Eventually, you gave up.

Let them believe what they wanted.

You and Bucky still kissed behind closed doors, curled together on the couch, whispered sleepy confessions after long days.

Until-

One night, you got sick.

Really sick. The kind of body-aching, fever-drenched flu that turned you into a grumpy, sniffling, corpse with a bag full of used tissues beside your bed.

And Bucky took care of everything.

He brought you soup. Rubbed your back. Helped you shower when you were too weak to stand. Brushed your hair out of your face. Slept beside you even when you told him not to.

Sam stopped by to check on you and walked in on Bucky holding your hand while you slept, forehead pressed to your wrist like he was praying.

The next morning, there was a small gift basket on your nightstand.

He backed out slowly.

Didn't say anything.

Didn't tease.

Didn't breathe.

"Okay. You win. He loves you. I won't say another word. P.S. Please don't tell anyone I'm capable of this level of sincerity. I have a rep to protect."

From Sam.

With a card.

~~~~~

You- of course- showed Bucky the card.

He smirked. "About damn time."

You kissed him with a smile.

And this time, no one questioned it.

~~~~~

The peace lasted exactly five days.

Five beautiful, uninterrupted days.

No teasing, no smug side-eyes, no Sam accusing you of being part of an elaborate CIA cover operation. Just you, Bucky, some early morning kisses over coffee, and one blessed evening where you somehow convinced him to slow dance in the kitchen to 40s music.

And then Sam broke into your new apartment. One you thought would give you full time peace compared to the Avengers compound.

(he claimed he "used the spare key." You knew he just picked the lock.)

"Morning, lovebirds," he smiled brightly, leaning against the doorframe like this wasn't the worst intrusion since Ross kissed someone else while he and Rachel were on a break.

You stared at him over Bucky's shoulder, still wrapped in his hoodie with sleep-mussed hair and a mug of tea between your palms. "It's 7:13 a.m."

"I brought bagels."

"And chaos."

Sam strolled in. "And relationship advice."

Bucky looked up from the couch, dead-eyed. "Why?"

"Because now that I know you two are the real deal, I gotta make sure you stay real."

You rubbed your temples. "We're not a gas leak, Sam."

"No, but you're both stubborn and weirdly avoidant and emotionally repressed, and frankly, I'm impressed it took me this long to be needed."

Bucky mumbled, "I'd rather be waterboarded."

Sam ignored him and slapped a notebook onto the table. "Step one: scheduled communication check-ins."

"Oh my god-"

~~~~~

You tried ignoring him.

Didn't work.

("It's like Find My iPhone, but romantic," he said. Bucky installed it in twelve seconds.)

Because Sam became relentless. He started showing up with couple's quizzes.

Brought you a deck of 'relationship conversation starters.'

Installed an app on Bucky's phone called 'LoveTracker.'

And worst of all- he documented everything.

"Bucky," he'd say mid-mission, "when was the last time you complimented her non-physically?"

You stared at him. "Non-physically?"

"Yeah. Like her intelligence. Or her moral compass. Or how she hasn't murdered me yet."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "I call her my girl every morning."

"That's possessive endearment, not a compliment."

"I tell her she's smarter than Tony."

~~~~~

Somewhere around Week 3 of Sam's Unsolicited Couples Therapy, something unexpected happened.

But... he also started being kind of helpful.

He stopped being annoying.

(Okay, no. He was definitely still annoying.)

Like the night you and Bucky got into your first real fight.

It wasn't explosive. Just sharp. Quiet. Full of jagged silences.

You'd been on back-to-back missions, and Bucky had started pulling away. Fewer cuddles. More brooding. Less talking. You tried to be patient- God, you tried- but when he snapped at you for asking what was wrong, it all unraveled.

"I'm trying to help," you said, voice trembling.

"I didn't ask for it," he muttered.

The room froze.

You didn't cry.

You never cried in front of him.

But that night, you shut your bedroom door behind you and curled up alone.

But Sam came over first.

Bucky didn't come in.

Not until morning.

~~~~~

He found you on the balcony, hoodie pulled over your knees, cold tea forgotten beside you.

Then, quietly: "You know, when Sarah gets mad at me, I do this thing where I pretend I'm not scared I'll lose her. But I am. I always am."

He didn't say anything at first.

Just sat down next to you, offered a granola bar.

You looked over. "You think Bucky's scared?"

Sam tilted his head. "That man loved you like it's gonna be taken away from him. Like he's holding something he thinks he shouldn't have. So yeah. He's scared."

~~~~~

You didn't cry.

But you breathed.

And it helped.

Bucky apologized that afternoon.

He stood in the doorway, fists clenched, breathing hard like it took everything in him to walk in.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For being a coward. For making you feel like you weren't wanted when you're the only thing I ever want."

You looked at him.

He stepped closer. "I never learned how to let myself be... this happy. It scared the hell out of me. But not as much as losing you."

You opened your arms, and he came apart in them.

That night, Bucky fell asleep with his hand on your heart.

And you whispered, "You're safe with me."

~~~~~

The next morning, Sam dropped off muffins.

"I told you you'd fight eventually," he said smugly.

You grabbed the muffins and shut the door in his face with a smile.

~~~~~

Over time, you adapted.

You didn't expect Sam to be a normal friend, he didn't know how to do that. But you did start to appreciate him as a part of your life. Your weird, overinvolved, chaotic platonic marriage therapist.

One night, you all sat around a campfire during a retreat mission. Quiet stars. Crickets. Steve snoring faintly in the background.

He became your sounding board.

Your crisis texter.

Your sarcastic but loyal brother figure who threatened anyone who looked at you funny and called Bucky 'lover boy' just to watch him twitch.

Sam looked over at you both.

"You know," he said, voice softer than usual, "you're actually really good together."

Bucky looked at him. "Took you long enough."

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up. But I mean it. You make him more human," he said to you. Then, to Bucky: "And you make her feel protected without caging her."

Sam threw a marshmallow at you both. "Don't get soft on me. I'll revoke my own compliment."

You blinked.

Bucky squeezed your hand.

~~~~~

Months later...

You stood at the edge of a field after a joint mission, hair tousled, laughing with Bucky as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

You smiled to yourself.

Sam walked past, muttering into comms.

"She's in love, he's in denial, and I'm still unpaid for all their therapy."

Which honestly... was kind of perfect.

You were real.

You were loved.

And you had the most chaotic friend group in the world.

[vettelsvee]

ARGUMENTS AND UNWANTED SHARED SECRETS | Charles Leclerc

⋆ PAIRING: Dad!Charles Leclerc x Mum wife!Reader ⋆ SUMMARY: Charles is back home for summer break, and a message he receives from Lando to hang out in a club makes the two of you argue in front of your daughter because all you want is her to enjoy her dad... or maybe, is just your nervousness and hormones making you overthink a lot ⋆ WORD COUNT: 1462 ⋆ VEE'S NOTES: First ever fic i’m posting as a university graduate and officially a teacher, so I can say that apart from some exams my nightmare after 4 years is finally done! 🫡 I'd love to read your thoughts about this one, so feel free to comment and reblog, I'd appreciate it a lot! <3 ↳ TALK TO ME/MAKE YOUR REQUESTS! | FORMULA 1 MASTERLIST

The long-awaited summer break had arrived, and finally, Charles Leclerc could return to his beloved Monaco to spend three weeks with you, his wife, and your four-year-old daughter, Julia.

There was no doubt that traveling so much, and especially being separated from his little family for long periods of time, was exhausting emotionally and mentally for the Monegasque. Still, he knew he had to continue with his career if he wanted to achieve the goals his younger self had set for him: becoming a world champion. That's why videocalls with the women of his life, and the support of some of his mates, especially the newly dad on the grid, Max Verstappen, made the season more bearable.

That's why, even while having dinner in pajamas, talking about any topic that came up while enjoying a simple homemade dinner they had cooked together, Charles felt grateful.

"How's the season going so far, daddy?" your daughter asked, looking at your husband curiously as she held her glass of water.

Charles sighed, feeling a little uncomfortable. He didn't want to tellyou anything related to his disastrous season at Ferrari, especially not in front of your daughter.

"It's been tough so far," he replied as calmly as he could, "but we still have the second half ahead to fight. It’s not like we’re winning the championship, but we could still fight for some points."

The 6-year-old girl, sitting to Charles' left, looked saddened to hear her father's words.

"Why can't we go see daddy at a race?" she asked, looking at you, who tried to smile the best you could.

At that moment, the Monegasque was overwhelmed with love even your face said otherwise. It seemed like your daughter had read his mind as he was going to suggest it to you in the following days.

"Would you like us to come see you race, honey?"

"I wouldn't like it, I would honestly love it," Leclerc nodded enthusiastically. "Having you in the paddock, just like when you were pregnant with Julia, would be a dream."

The little girl was over the moon about the idea, kicking her little legs with enthusiasm.

"Does that mean we can go see daddy, mommy? I want to go see him race! And maybe I can see Lewis too!"

You savored your daughter's excitement.

"Of course, honey. We'll try to go to a few races if possible, of course."

Charles took another bite of his meal before speaking again.

"Oh, come on," your husband replied, taking another bite of dinner. "You just have to make sure that Juls wears sunscreen and drinks enough water."

Suddenly, Charles heard the ringing tone of his cellphone in the distance. With a soft apologise, he immediately got up to answer the call, thinking it might be some work-related issue requiring his attention. As he returned, you and little Julia were discussing which races you could attend to see her father.

"It was Lando," the driver commented. "He told me he’s going out tonight."

"And are you going?" you frowned, not getting any response from your husband. All he did was staying silence, as if he was hiding something from you, as if he was scared. You knew him all too well, and that’s exactly what he was doing. "Charles, I'm talking to you," you insisted. "I don’t mind you’re going, but… I don’t know, I thought having you here, with us, for the summer break, meant you were spending time with us."

Leclerc sighed.

“I just wanted to hang out with Lando and with you as well. You know, having some private time and trying to relax as much as possible without laying on the couch the whole day when I’m not at the gym.”

Julia sat quietly in her seat, sensing the tension between her parents filling the room even at her young age.

You stood up, abruptly dropping the fork she was eating with.

"It's not just about you relaxing or us having a good time," you shouted, a bit desperate, and immediately regretted it. "You’re… I don’t know, Charles, I feel like you’re always kinda prioritizing your career over our family. Plus, what are you going to do with your daughter tonight? Are you going to leave her alone? Or should we call your mother at nine thirty at night on a whim?"

"It's not fair for you to make me feel this way, you know?" Charles retorted, getting defensive. "I work hard to provide everything you need. Besides, you can stay here with Juls if you can't, or don’t, want to come."

"I work too, and I handle other chores as well," you said simply, trying not to stick to his words, which were definitely hurting you. "Oh, and I also take care of your daughter and try to make her see that her father still loves her despite not being there for her when she needs him the most."

The tension building up between you in the dining room could be cut with a knife, and your daughter’s cries were what snapped you out of your anger.

"Daddy, I don't want you to fight! I want us to be together and happy!"

"Juls," Charles approached his daughter slowly, "it's okay, mommy and I are just exchanging opinions..."

"What's going on, mommy?" the girl interrupted her father, still with tears in her eyes. "Why are you and daddy fighting? Are you going to divorce like Lily’s parents?"

Charles and you realized what you were doing. You weren't used to fighting this hard, especially not in front of your daughter. Immediately, they both sat on the couch, putting Julia between you both.

"We're sorry for yelling, sweetheart," you apologized to the little girl. "Dad and I are just having a disagreement because, sometimes, adults have different points of view on a particular issue."

Charles nodded, agreeing with you and, at the same time, trying to calm the situation:

"That's right, Julia. Sometimes people don't agree, but that doesn't mean mom and I don't love each other anymore!"

Julia nodded slowly, still confused and saddened by the argument she had witnessed.

"Are you going to be okay then? Are you not going to separate? Can we go see daddy at a race, mommy?"

You and Charles exchanged a quick glance, increasingly realizing that the argument had really hurt their daughter.

"Of course, princess," the driver replied, planting a kiss on her forehead while getting up from his seat. "Hey, why don't you go to our room and pick a movie?"

Julia smiled shyly and left the living room without saying anything, a sign that she had calmed down a bit.

"Hey. Come here, please."

Charles took your hand, seeing in your eyes a feeling he promised never to cause again every time you had an argument. 

Pain. Disappointment. The feeling of not being good enough. 

Overthinking it all.

"You're right, love," he said, wiping away the tears starting to fall from your face. "I'm so sorry for acting like a jerk, I just wanted us to have a good time and for you to be able to socialize with the guys like before Juls came into our lives."

"Don't worry, Charles," you tried to give him a niec smile, but it wasn’t really worth the try. "I got a bit intense too. I guess it's the hormones, they're changing every now and then and..."

You realized you messed up at that moment. Quickly, like a reflex movement, you put you right hand on your mouth, but it was already too late. 

Once again, you fucked up even it was supposed to be a surprise...

"What do you mean, hormones?"

"I'm pregnant," you whispered. "I know we weren't planning it, but..."

The Monegasque was speechless, and a broad smile began to spread across his face.

"That's incredible!" he exclaimed, hugging you affectionately. "We're going to be parents again. I mean, it’s not like I was expecting this news but honestly, I can't believe it..."

"Mommy! Daddy! When are you coming?"

Julia appeared again. Now, she was wearing her father's Ferrari cap which, despite being too big for her little head, she loved. Her face immediately covered with a smile as soon as she saw her parents hugging, quickly forgetting you two were talking more loudly than you should moments before.

"Great! We're all together and happy now!" she shouted down the hallway until she reached the bedroom Charles and you shared.

Once the growing family lay down on the bed and started watching Cars for the umpteenth time —because to Julia, Lightning McQueen reminded her of her father—, Charles couldn't help but think how lucky he was to have his family by his side, even he was far from stupid sometimes.

© VETTELSVEE (2025). please, do not steal, copy or translate my works. thanks for reading!

[mywritersmind]

fic idea: kimi x reader moments in his documentary... cute and .

.......maybe a lil steamy

CAUGHT ON CAMERA - KA12

listen up : some kissing. dry humping. steamy ish as requested! ty for the request!! super cutie

words : 1470

⋆｡‧˚⋆

The second Kimi told me over the phone, I ran out of my house. I was out of breath after the two minutes it took for me to run to his house. “You fucking did it!” I didn’t mean to swear in front of his family, something Maggie laughs loudly at as I wrap my arms around her brother.

“I did it.” He whispers into my ear, my body pressed against his as he holds me tighter. “Thank you.”

I have to laugh at my boyfriend. “Why are you thanking me?”

He smiles down at me, his hands still on me and his parents gone from the room. “You’re always there. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

I kiss him. Hard and excited with a smile still on my face.

“You deserve this so much, K.” I bring him closer to me again when he sniffles, I realize he’s crying. I cry too. He’s wanted this for longer than I've known him and I don’t think anyone deserves it more.

⋆༺

The camera zooms on Ollie as he laughs, “He knows practically every lap time he’s ever done.” I smile, leaning my head against Kimi’s bare shoulder.

“Barcelona Quali.” a man on his team says, smiling as Kimi scoffs as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“I did a 24.894.” Kimi says confidently as the man goes to search it. He doesn’t need to. Even I know he’s right.

“You have a photographic memory then?” The cameraman asks, panning to Kimi and I.

“Nah… If I did, I'd be out of school.” My boyfriend grins, “Some things just stick.”

“He remembers everything about me.” I say, not being able to hide my smile, “that’s how I know he loves me like he does racing.”

Kimi shakes his head but he’s still smiling, “I love you more than racing.”

⋆༺

I love watching Kimi race. I hate when his race ends before every lap is done.

This might be worse than watching him DNF in F2. He’s in the wall and i’m clutching the necklace he gave me as if it’s him. I know he’s okay, he’s out of the car, I know he’s okay.

I repeat those four words to myself as I watch him, his head down, his face hidden behind his helmet, exit the track.

I let him have his space. The trainer said he wanted to be alone and I let him be. A text came in and I snuck out of the garage, away from his crying mother, away from a sad Toto, away from everything and back to him.

I shut the cameraman out when I find him. He’s sitting on the floor of the trainors room, the light dim and his eyes shut. I realize he’s been crying when he speaks, his voice stuffy and race red, “On my debut.” He swallows, “In my future car.”

I don’t know what to say. I hate that I don’t know what to say. I sink down to my knees next to him, taking his head in my hands as he looks at me. His eyes are red, tired.

“It’s going to get better, Kimi. You have to know that. Next year is yours- and today sucked but when you’re in your car, not George's, it’ll be different.” He slides his legs out in front of him, a hand drifting to my waist as if he just wants to make sure I'm there.

“I’m sorry I scared you.” My hands are still shaking.

I shake my head, “I have a feeling that won’t stop anytime soon. You were flying, Kimi.” His face finally cracks into a smile.

“It felt like a dream.” His smile fades as I sit properly now, “then a nightmare.”

“It’s not either. It’s real life. It’s your life.” I run a hand through his hair, sweaty and messed up from his helmet.

“You're perfect.” he says, leaning in closer as his hand slides up and down my bare leg, “You know that?”

“For you.” I kiss him softly, but his hand meets the back of my neck and pulls me against him again.

“Just for me.” He whispers against my lips, kissing me again with more force.

When I realize he’s not thinking about stopping, I mumble, “Kimi-” but all he does is pull me onto his lap, straddling him.

“Please.” It’s practically a whine and one that I give into immediately. His body is warm, he changed back into a mercedes shirt and jeans that push against my thighs.

I instinctively grind into him, feeding that pressure between my legs as he breathes against me. His eyes are closed, his teeth tugging at my lip as I groan at the feeling of him under me.

“We shouldn’t.” I say, not fully lost to Kimi’s body yet and remembering that we’re on the floor of a medical room.

“I’ll stop if you tell me to.” He says, kissing me again. When I don’t say anything, he says, “Tell me to, Y/n.”

I don’t use my words to respond, instead moaning in his ear as I grow more turned on. He mumbles a curse and moves his hand to my ass, making me grind against him with more fuel to my fire.

Kimi’s fingers dig into my skin harder. When my head tilts back, his lips escape mine and find my jaw- my neck… my chest instead. I wouldn’t be caught dead with a hickey, but right now, nothing sounds hotter.

He’s hard against me, his jeans growing tighter as I roll my hips once again. I bite my lip and he makes a sort of strangled sound, saying my name.

He’s not smiling, it’s more of an open mouth smirk. His eyes are set on the thin fabric that’s rubbing against his pants, his hand tugs my skirt higher up.

When did he pull my skirt up? I don’t care.

His hand is on my bra now, under it. I can barely track the twin parts of his body that have such a hold on me. I’m too distracted by the overwhelming pleasure that brews beneath me.

Kimi is staring at me again, his eyes flickering to every part of me as if he doesn’t know where to look. His eyes are full of lust, a look I used to dream about.

“C’mon, love.” This almost takes me out, his voice is so gruff and it’s the hottest thing i’ve ever heard purely because I know i’m what’s making him like that. “So fucking good.”

“Kimi-” I force out, my legs starting to shake.

He’s just as breathless as I am when he says, “Say my name like that again. C’mon love, do it for me.”

⋆༺

Dinner is nice. It always is with Kimi’s family. His grandma made a cake to celebrate, his dad gave him a car keychain that had been passed down by his father.

I love seeing Kimi with his family, it reminds me of what our future could look like.

I stand next to him at the sink, a dish in hand as he splashes water onto me. I scoff and return the favor. “A formula one driver and you’re still slaving away over dishes.” I smile as he scrubs a plate, “So humble.”

He kisses my cheek quickly, “I’d do anything if it’s with you.” This makes me smile, rolling my eyes at the cheesiness but my cheeks going pink anyway.

“I’m really proud of you, Kimi. I know it’s a lot.” Everyone’s been so excited that I think it’s gone to Kimi’s head, making him a bit blind to what his life is about to look like.

He nods, “I know. But i’m excited- and really fucking happy. Especially since I have a wag.”

I laugh out loud, “A wag!?”

“Yeah, girlfriend.” He says to me sassily, making me laugh harder. He drys off his hands and pulls the bright yellow gloves off mine, kissing me on the lips this time.

I grin against him, my hands bracing myself on the sink edge as his find my waist. “I love calling you my girlfriend.” He whispers as he kisses me softly again. “Call me your boyfriend.”

I giggle as he presses a kiss against my jaw, “You’re all mine, K. My nerdy little boyfriend.”

He raises a brow at my words, his breath hot against me, “Nerdy? Little?”

I pat his head, winking. “Gotta fit in that car somehow.”

He laughs, his hands are on me again and he’s picking me up, “Netflix are you seeing this!?” I had forgotten about the camera in the doorframe, “My girlfriend is a bully!”

“At least i’m yours!” I laugh again, now over his shoulder and shaking my head at the lens.

[grey-crow-ramblings]

I struggled with this so much my whole life without the vocabulary to express it.

I always felt like my parents simply just didn't love me.

It wasn't that they were cruel to me, or abusive toward me. I was clothed, and fed, and housed in my own large bedroom that I had all to myself. My parents told me they loved me all the time, gave me physical affection, made sure I did lots of after school activities, cared about my grades (probably more than they should have), and so on. My parents bought me lots of things, and sent me to expensive schools and programs.

But I always, even as a kid, just had this weird undercurrent of understanding that my parents simply did not love me. I couldn't exactly explain why, I just knew it. It was a fact of life that I always understood. The grass is green, the sky is blue, and my parents only love the make believe fantasy version of me that we all collectively pretend is real.

I always felt like I was more of a... pet? Or, an accessory?

I was something my mother could brag about to other mothers. "My daughter gets straight As, my daughter got into a prestigious school, my daughter has this prestigious career," and so on and so on.

I knew that my parents put all this effort and money and time into me not out of unconditional parental love, but rather in exchange for a performance--the performance of being the daughter they wanted.

If I did not perform this role, they got confused and upset. "What did we do wrong? Why are you doing this? Why are you upset with us, when we give you so much and spend so much money on you? What do you mean you're sad? How can you be sad after all we've given you? Have we not bought you enough things? Have we not given you enough opportunities?"

Because of this sense of exchange, this sense of being some sort of purchased commodity, I was constantly haunted by this feeling that if I ever let the performance drop, everything could be taken away just as quickly. I felt like I had to act so that I could survive.

As a kid I would tell my parents that one day I'd pay them back for my schooling, and for everything they ever spent on me. They thought it was out of some sort of precocious gratitude, like I understood how much all that money and time was worth and was just so thankful for it.

Really, it was because I thought that if I finally just did everything for myself, they wouldn't have any leverage to make me pretend anymore.

Eventually, I did exactly that and got out from under their thumb.

I don't pretend any more, except for occasionally telling my mother I love her despite it being a lie. Trying to explain to her that the person she loved never existed at all is just... too far over her head for her to understand. My parents still seem to think that me being queer and trans is about them--that it's some sort of lingering teenage rebellion (I'm 31), or alt-left gender brainwashing that I'm succumbing to in order to assert my independence or something. They seem to think that their precious baby daughter is in there somewhere, just waiting to be freed if only they throw enough money at her, if only they wait patiently enough for her to return.

They still come offering gifts and money in exchange for my pretending, but these days, I usually don't accept it. Sometimes I do, and just still don't pretend.

They don't yell. They don't hit. They don't abuse. They don't even cut me off or abandon me. They just keep calling, day after day, waiting for me to go "back" to being a person I never was in the first place.

They will die still waiting.

In one sense, it breaks my heart. It's not their fault, really. They were raised to believe in a Right and a Wrong that doesn't exist. They were raised to never fight the system imposed on them, to just sit back and let it define them. I can see how much it hurts them, for me to be myself. But I will simply never be anyone else.

I used to resent them. I even used to hate them. But now, I mostly just pity them.

The family they made will be broken forever, and they will die still loving the ghosts of children they never had. They will never know what it feels like for their children to really love them back--only a strange, uncanny, money-driven doppelganger of affection that they can't quite tell apart from the real thing.

My friends always tell me that my parents are so nice, they don't understand how our relationship could be so fraught. This is why. So thank you for helping to contextualize this feeling I've had for so very long, and have never been able to quite explain.

Gendered parenting is so weird. As a little kid I was a total daddy's girl, I was told I would always try to sneak the garage, I was always very interested in everything he was doing and would follow him around while he was working, but while my family was never the type to outright say "you can't do that because you're a girl", they simply didn't entertain the idea that I could possibly be interested in cars. Then when my little brother was born, it was just assumed he would become a mechanic like our dad because he was a boy. Even though he, unlike me, didn't like being in the garage much and wasn't all that interested in what dad was doing. Once he got to a certain age, dad started making him help and would drag him away from his actual interests for it, which lead to a lot of arguing and not much actual learning.

Gendered expectations sort of create doubles of children. There's the real child with their actual personality, interests and behaviors, and then there's the Gender Child.

My real brother hated soccer and team sports. The Gender Child that existed only the minds of the adults in his life enjoyed playing soccer because that's what a Boy Child likes.

Growing up, I always felt like adults didn't actually know me as a person and they weren't interested in getting to know me. Because they felt they'd already learned everything there was to know about me when they were told "it's a girl".

When I talk about how I never got gifts I actually liked from my relatives (to this day I still don't like getting gifts that aren't something I picked out myself), it isn't actually about the gifts themselves. I don't even remember them. What I do remember is the feeling of being given gifts that were seemingly not bought with the real me in mind. They were for the Girl Child™️ version of me. The me that adults wanted me to be, not who I actually was.

[sweet-pea-channie]

In the silence, I found you

Azriel x female!reader

Summary: Azriel saves a mute fae woman left for dead after an ambush. Haunted by her silence, he finds himself drawn to her, not out of pity, but recognition. She reminds him of something he lost… and something he never thought he'd find again.

Warnings: Mentions of past abuse & torture (non-graphic but emotionally heavy), trauma responses including selective mutism, violence, aftermath of assault, PTSD, survivor's guilt, anxiety, grief and loss of family, slow emotional healing and intimate recovery scenes, soft angst + comfort

Word count: 12.6k

A/N: Hi! Thank you so much for reading 💛 English is my third language, so if you spot any grammar mistakes or odd phrasing, please be kind! I’m doing my best. Feedback is always welcome, especially if it's helpful and respectful. This fic is really close to my heart. It’s about healing, trust, and connection without words and I hope it speaks to you, even if it's quiet.

masterlist

Smoke still clung to the charred ruins of the village, curling through the early dusk air like ghostly fingers refusing to let go. The ground was slick with soot and blood, a patchwork of scorched cobblestones and scorched earth. The scent, acrid, raw, was more than just fire. It was despair, clinging to the bones of the place like a second skin.

Azriel stood beside Rhysand and Cassian at what had once been the village square, soldiers and warriors surrounding them. Now it was just rubble. A well had collapsed inward, blackened beams jutted from the earth like broken ribs, and half-burned furniture lay strewn about, a child’s wooden toy horse among them, snapped in half. It was quiet now, but not peaceful. Too quiet. The kind of silence that hummed with what had been done.

“They came through at night,” Rhysand informed everyone, his voice low and tightly leashed. “Wards were weak, barely held together. Half the villagers were Fae with lesser magic. Some couldn’t even defend themselves. The males who led the attack… they didn’t just want to kill.”

Cassian’s jaw flexed. His wings twitched, as if he couldn’t decide whether to fold them in or unfurl them in rage. “They weren’t just soldiers. They were predators.”

Azriel didn’t speak. His shadows slithered around his boots, darting in agitated wisps toward the edges of the square, as if still seeking out threats or witnesses. They found neither.

“The ones we caught,” Rhys continued, staring at the wreckage like it personally offended him, “are in chains. The rest… fled before we arrived. The survivors, the ones hiding, have been found. Healers are seeing to the injured. Children have been taken in by the temple elders from the northern hillside.”

Azriel’s shadows whispered again. A soft, mournful hum.

“It’s done,” Rhys said, scanning the hollowed shells of cottages and shattered windows. “Everything that can be done, has been. It’s over.”

But it didn’t feel over. Not to Azriel. Not with the metallic tang of blood still staining the air. Not with the look on that elderly female’s face when she had asked them, in a broken voice, “Why didn’t anyone come sooner?”

He hadn’t had an answer.

Rhysand glanced between Azriel and Cassian after the soldiers left, noting their silence. His own eyes, usually glowing with a spark of slyness, were dull. Exhausted. “You can rest now,” he said. “Or go home.”

Azriel looked past him, to the tree line beyond the village where the smoke thinned into mist. He caught a glimpse of a child sitting on a stone step, clutching a burned blanket, eyes hollow. The child didn’t cry. Just stared.

Rhys would return to Velaris. To Feyre. To warm arms and gentle laughter. To peace. But Azriel and Cassian… they had always found peace harder to carry. Harder to believe in.

“I’ll fly back in the morning,” Cassian said, rolling out his shoulders. “Want to make sure the families here have shelter. Food. Some of them don’t even have shoes.” He paused. “It still feels… raw.”

Azriel gave a quiet nod. “I'll stay here, too.”

Rhys hesitated, as if he wanted to protest, to pull rank. But then he just studied their faces and sighed.

“Fine. But rest, both of you. You're of no good use if you overstrain yourself,” he said softly. Then he was gone, winnowing in a shimmer of darkness and violet starlight.

The world felt heavier once he left.

Cassian turned toward a row of broken homes and muttered, “I’ll check the supply wagons again, make sure nothing’s gone missing.”

The village quieted further without him. Just the sound of crackling embers and murmuring healers in the distance. Cassian broke off to check the perimeter, but Azriel lingered by the outskirts, near the forest line.

The temporary camp had been set up just beyond the village outskirts, a collection of tents pitched beneath the shadow of the pines, where the smoke from the ruins thinned into something cleaner, but not quite peaceful. The sky had bled into twilight, bruised and streaked with orange. The smell of fire still lingered on the wind.

Azriel stepped into the tent he shared with Cassian, a canvas shelter thrown together more for function than comfort. His leathers creaked as he unbuckled his chest plate, his siphons clicking faintly as he set them down beside the low cot.

Cassian wasn’t there yet, probably still helping rebuild the central well, or lifting logs like they were made of kindling. Azriel rolled his shoulders and sat down heavily, stretching out his long legs and leaning back against the support pole. For a moment, he let the silence settle around him. He closed his eyes. Exhaled.

Then a shadow darted into the tent like a dagger. Fast. Sharp. Urgent.

Azriel’s eyes snapped open.

He didn’t need words. His shadows never spoke in them, not truly, but their intent thrummed through him like a pulse. There’s another. A survivor. Still out there. Still in pain.

He was already moving.

Armor forgotten, he strapped his siphons back on with swift, practiced movements and swept out of the tent without a word. No time to tell Cassian. No time to alert the others. His shadows were already leading the way, slithering ahead of him like smoke toward the trees.

The forest was dark, dense. Pines loomed like sentinels, and the path was barely a path at all, just loose soil and patches of moss tangled with roots. Azriel moved like a ghost, silent and fast, eyes trained ahead, shadows feeding him flashes of what they’d sensed.

Fae. Alive. Hurt. Alone.

He ran deeper, branches clawing at his shoulders and wings, the shadows growing sharper in their urgency. The quiet of the woods wasn’t peaceful, it was stifling. Suffocating. No animals moved. No birds cried.

Something clenched in his chest.

Then, a scent.

Blood. Faint, old. Human-like, but Fae.

His shadows curled tight around a cluster of trees, and Azriel slowed. Stepped carefully now. Each footfall deliberate. His siphons glowed faintly, casting a subtle blue hue against the undergrowth.

And then he saw her.

She was barely a shape in the gloom, slumped against the base of a thick pine, her body partially hidden by brush and shadow. A small Fae woman. Her wrists were bound cruelly above her head, tied to the tree with frayed rope that had cut deep into her skin. Her dress was torn, legs smeared with mud, face streaked with dried blood. One of her ankles looked swollen.

Her eyes were closed. Chest rising shallowly. Not asleep, not unconscious, just… still. Too still.

Azriel’s heart lurched. For a split second, he feared she was already gone.

He was beside her in a blink.

“Hey,” he said softly, dropping to one knee, his siphons dimming as he reached out. “Can you hear me?”

Nothing. Not even a flinch.

He hovered a hand near her cheek, not touching, not yet. “You’re safe now. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Slowly, slowly… her lashes fluttered.

She didn’t open her eyes, but her body tensed. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came.

Azriel felt it then, not just the physical damage, but the weight of something deeper. A silence that had settled into her bones. Not shock. Not in this moment. This silence was old. Familiar.

He reached for the ropes carefully, cutting through them with a dagger he pulled from his belt. The bindings snapped with a dry crack, and her arms slumped forward, too weak to catch herself. Azriel caught her gently, cradling her body with one arm as he sliced the rope from her wrists.

She didn’t try to pull away. But she didn’t relax either.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

She blinked again, just once, then lifted her hand weakly, her fingers twitching in the air.

Signing.

Clumsy. Slow. As if she hadn’t done it in years.

Azriel’s breath caught. He understood.

“Don’t hurt me.”

He remembered the signs from centuries ago. His throat worked around the knot forming there. He shook his head, voice a whisper. “Never.”

Another flicker of fingers.

“I couldn’t scream.”

She wasn’t just mute from pain. It was something older. Deeper. She hadn’t screamed because she couldn’t.

Azriel gently gathered her into his arms. She was light, too light. Starved and cold. Her fingers clutched weakly at the collar of his leathers as he stood.

“I’m taking you back,” he said, already moving through the trees. “You need to see a healer."

And though she didn’t speak, he felt it, a shiver in her body. Not of fear, but something near it. Not trust, not yet. But recognition. A thread, fraying and fragile, tying her to this moment.

To him.

His shadows twined around them both as he carried her toward the broken village, a silent promise echoing in the night: Never again. Never left behind.

Azriel moved quickly through the woods, his steps fast but careful as he cradled the small Fae female against his chest. Her weight was next to nothing. Too thin. Her head lolled weakly against his shoulder, but every now and then, he felt her tense-sharp flinches whenever his boots crunched too loud, or when a branch snapped somewhere nearby.

Trauma lived in every muscle of her body.

“You’re safe,” he murmured again, more for her than himself. “Just a little longer. The healers will take care of you.”

She didn’t respond, didn’t sign, didn’t lift her head, but he felt her heartbeat flutter like a bird’s wing, fast and erratic against his arm.

The treeline broke, and the village came back into view: still smoldering, still broken. Torches burned in a quiet perimeter around the camp. The night had deepened now, casting everything in a dull, aching gray.

Azriel descended the last rise toward the path leading to the camp when a familiar voice called out.

“Az?” Cassian emerged from around a pile of crates, brow furrowed. He froze mid-step as his eyes landed on the figure in Azriel’s arms. “What the hell?”

“She was in the woods,” Azriel said without slowing, his voice clipped but steady. “Tied to a tree. Alive. Barely.”

Cassian’s face darkened. “You’re serious?”

Azriel gave a sharp nod, eyes flicking down to the female in his arms. She kept her face turned inward, buried against his shoulder, as if the mere sight of another male might break her.

Cassian stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Where exactly did you find her?”

“Half a mile east of the perimeter,” Azriel said. “Tucked into a tree line past the ravine. They left her there.”

Cassian’s fists clenched. “Left her?”

Azriel didn’t miss the way her shoulders flinched again. He tightened his hold around her protectively.

Cassian’s expression softened just slightly as he crouched to her eye level. “Do you remember who did this to you?” he asked gently.

She stirred then. A hand moved hesitantly from Azriel’s chest, slow and trembling, as if even that effort cost her. Her fingers began to move, barely forming a sign before faltering.

“She can’t speak,” Azriel said quietly, his shadows curling around her like a shield. “She’s mute. I think she always has been.”

Cassian blinked, stunned. “Shit.”

“She couldn’t scream,” Azriel went on, his voice sharper now, more bitter. “That’s probably why they left her. Grew tired of her when she didn’t make enough noise while they—” He cut himself off, his jaw locking. “The marks on her body… they didn’t come from the ropes alone.”

Cassian swore under his breath, eyes flicking with a warrior’s rage and a male’s sorrow. “Monsters.”

Azriel looked down at her. “She needs a healer. Now.”

Cassian nodded immediately and moved aside, clearing the path ahead. “Go. I’ll make sure they know to expect you.”

Azriel strode past him, his steps swift as he made his way to the makeshift healer’s tent at the edge of the village. It was lit with soft blue faelight, quiet voices murmuring within. He ducked inside.

The healers, two older Fae females and a half-Illyrian male apprentice, looked up in surprise.

“She’s injured,” Azriel said. “Badly. Found her just now.”

One of the healers, a calm-eyed woman named Thera, stepped forward and motioned for him to lay the girl down on the cot. “Bring her here, carefully.”

Azriel hesitated only for a second. He turned to the girl in his arms, his voice soft. “You’re with healers now. No one will hurt you. I promise.”

She looked up at him, finally meeting his gaze.

There was nothing left in her eyes, no fight, no anger, not even fear. Just exhaustion. And behind it, buried deep, something older. A wound without a name.

He set her down gently. Her fingers twitched, but she didn’t pull away from his hand until the healer nudged him back.

“We’ll take it from here,” Thera said gently, already unfastening the remnants of the ropes from her wrists.

Azriel didn’t move far. He stayed just a few steps away, arms crossed, shadows flicking around him protectively like they were refusing to let go of her.

Cassian appeared in the tent’s entrance, arms crossed, watching her with the same quiet horror Azriel had swallowed down moments before.

“She’s lucky you found her,” Cassian said after a beat. “Another night out there and…”

Azriel didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed on her face, on the way she winced at every touch, even the gentle ones. “It’s not luck.”

His voice was low. Absolute.

“She was meant to survive.”

────────────

Warmth.

That was the first thing she noticed.

Not the cloying, suffocating heat of ropes cutting into her skin or the rank, sticky breath of her captors. No. This warmth was soft. Dry. Almost… clean.

A blanket. Someone had tucked a blanket around her.

She blinked her eyes open. Faint blue light bathed the room, soft and shifting like water. The ceiling above her was canvas, not sky. She was lying on a cot. Her arms, for once, were free.

Her throat tightened.

I'm not tied up.

But her wrists still ached. Her whole body felt stiff, like her bones had forgotten how to lie still without pain. The pressure at her ankle pulsed in slow waves, wrapped now in linen and balm. She smelled herbs. Clean ones. And something else, leather, faint smoke, a scent like fresh wind after a storm.

She turned her head. He was there. The male who had found her. The quiet one. The one made of shadows.

He sat just beyond the edge of the cot, wings tucked in tight, shadows flicking softly around his shoulders like living smoke. His siphons gleamed blue in the faint light. But he was sitting like a sentry, not a predator.

He was watching her without staring, his expression unreadable. Not cold. Not cruel. Just... steady. A pillar in the storm.

She tried to move her hand. It shook.

The blanket slipped off her shoulder and panic rose like bile in her throat. She flinched, curling slightly, waiting for the blow, for the sneer, for the voice that would growl “Don’t waste my time again, mute girl.”

But nothing came. The shadows stirred. Not toward her, around her.

A gentle breeze kissed her temple. Not wind, not air, shadow. It felt like someone brushing hair from her face.

Her vision blurred. She blinked fast.

The last thing she remembered clearly was the sound of boots. Loud. Heavy. She'd kept her eyes closed as the footsteps approached the tree, too exhausted to move, too broken to care. She had thought, truly, deeply, this is the end. The males who left her had no interest in finishing the job. They just didn’t want to look at her anymore. She hadn’t made enough noise for them.

She'd learned early: screams fed monsters. Silence bored them.

So she stayed silent. Even when it hurt. Even when the ropes cut skin. Even when she bled. And they’d left her. Forgotten. Until him.

She turned her head again. Looked at him. His shadows stilled. Not gone, never gone, but quiet. Curious.

She lifted her hand. Slow. Trembling.

Signed: “Thank you.”

His head tilted slightly, and to her shock… he understood. He nodded once, low and firm, and murmured, “You don’t have to thank me.”

She stared at him.

Another sign: “You know?”

A pause. Then: “I do. A long time ago.” His voice was a whisper. Rough and soft at once. “I used to know someone like you.”

The words made her throat burn. Something inside her cracked open a little, not wide enough to be a wound, but enough to let air in. Enough to breathe again.

Her hand fell slowly back to her chest, the simple motion of signing already exhausting.

But he didn’t look away.

Azriel’s shadows curled faintly, retreating to his shoulders like they were giving her space. His wings shifted slightly, and then, with a quiet rustle, he moved closer. Not looming. Not hovering. Just near enough that his voice could stay low.

“Do you have a house here?” he asked, careful and quiet, like he was afraid to press too hard. “I could check. See if anything’s left.”

She looked at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, painfully, her fingers began to move again.

“I saw it burn.”

Azriel’s breath caught, but he didn’t interrupt.

“My sister was inside. I couldn’t—”

Her hands trembled too much to finish. The signs faltered and fell apart, and her throat clenched in frustration. Not being able to scream was one thing. But not being able to say it, even now, made the grief coil tighter around her chest.

Azriel didn’t ask for more. Didn’t demand she finish.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead, his voice rough. He shifted again, closer but not touching, and added, “You’re sure you’re alone now?”

She nodded once. It was the hardest motion of all.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The healer’s faelight swirled around them, blue and soft. Outside, the quiet hum of the camp settled into the air — the distant sound of Cassian’s voice barking orders, wood being stacked, water poured.

And still Azriel sat with her.

Then he spoke again. “We’re going to rebuild the village. All of it. We’ll keep it safe. I promise you, this will never happen again.”

She looked at him, not with hope, not yet. But with a fragile thread of belief. Not because she trusted easily, or because his words were sweet. But because his eyes didn’t lie.

Because when he said we’ll rebuild, she knew he meant every stone, every broken family, every shattered soul, including hers.

And he wasn’t promising to fix her.

He was promising that she wouldn’t have to do it alone.

────────────

The war room in the House of Wind smelled of parchment, cedar, and the faintest trace of lavender, likely from something Feyre had left behind. Morning light streamed through the high windows, catching on the scattered maps and marked reports laid across the obsidian table.

Rhysand stood at the head, fingers steepled under his chin as his violet eyes swept over the latest reports.

“They’re calling it Emberon now,” he said at last, tapping a finger to the northern ridge of the map. “The villagers decided on it a few days ago. Said they wanted something that acknowledged the fire, but didn’t let it define them.”

“Emberon,” Cassian echoed, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. “Has a ring to it.”

“Poetic,” Azriel added, though his voice was low, contemplative. His eyes lingered on the spot on the map, far beyond the borders of Velaris. The smoke and ash had long since cleared, but the memory remained vivid, especially one particular memory.

Rhys nodded. “Most of the homes are rebuilt. They’ve started clearing out the western fields for planting again. The last supply drop from Velaris got there two days ago. But I want to see it myself.”

“You’re going?” Cassian asked.

“I’ll only stay for the day. Feyre’s painting again, and Nyx has been using my leathers as a canvas. But I want to speak to the village leaders in person. Make sure they have what they need.”

“I’ll come,” Cassian said immediately. “I want to see the families again. The way they bounced back from that mess…” He trailed off, eyes hardening. “They deserve everything we can give.”

Rhysand turned to Azriel. “You?”

Azriel didn’t answer right away. His shadows curled thoughtfully across his shoulders, stirred by something quieter than words.

In truth, he’d been thinking about that village for days. Ever since the last courier had brought back news of a functioning market square and newly laid stone paths, a thread of thought kept pulling at him.

The girl.

The one he’d found bound to a tree, all bone and silence, eyes hollow from more pain than any person should endure. She hadn’t spoken, couldn’t speak, but her hands had told him enough.

He never got her name.

She’d stayed in the healer’s tent the last time he saw her, still too weak to walk. When he and Cassian had flown back to Velaris days after the attack, she hadn’t woken to say goodbye.

He hadn't expected her to. But he had thought about her far more than he admitted, wondered if she had a roof again, if she still flinched in her sleep. If she still signed “thank you” with trembling hands.

Azriel looked up. “I’ll come.”

Cassian raised a brow. “Didn’t think you’d say yes. Thought you were brooding too hard in your tower lately.”

Azriel gave him a flat look. “I’ll be brooding in the skies today.”

Cassian grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

Rhysand just offered a small nod. “Then we leave within the hour. Bring warm gear, it still gets cold up in those hills.”

As Rhys vanished to prepare, Cassian stood and stretched with a dramatic groan. Azriel remained seated, tracing his gaze over the inked lines of Emberon on the map. It wasn’t just a village anymore, it was a scar turned to a seed.

He wondered if she was still there, among the rebuilding. If she had a home now. If her silence still felt like a prison, or if it had started to feel like power.

He didn’t know what he hoped for.

But he knew this: when he set foot in Emberon again, the first person he would look for was her.

The wind was brisk over the hills when they crested the last ridge and Emberon came into view.

It looked nothing like the place they’d left behind.

Where there had once been scorched timbers and the ghostly remains of shattered cottages, now stood a patchwork of new roofs, whitewashed stone, and garden plots with sprigs of green clawing their way through the thawing earth. Smoke curled from chimneys — not the smoke of ruin, but of hearths. Cooking fires. Blacksmith forges. Life.

Children ran between homes, their laughter carried on the wind. Baskets of bread and vegetables sat outside doors. Bright scraps of fabric fluttered on clotheslines like prayer flags.

A rough wooden sign greeted them at the edge of the road: Welcome to Emberon Forged by Fire - Reborn by Choice

Azriel’s shadows stilled around him as they landed at the edge of the main square. He wasn’t the only one surprised.

Cassian let out a low whistle. “They’ve done a gods-damned miracle here.”

Rhysand didn’t respond immediately, his violet gaze scanning every face, every movement. Then he gave a quiet, satisfied nod. “This is what rebuilding should look like.”

The square was buzzing with activity. A group of Fae elders spoke quietly at a stone table under a tree in bloom. Two younger males carried buckets from a well. And off to the side, a tall healer was speaking with a few villagers, nodding in approval at someone’s bandaged arm.

But Azriel wasn’t focused on any of them.

His shadows had stirred again. Not warning, guiding.

They pulled softly at the edge of his coat, brushing his neck and nudging his gaze toward the far side of the square. Toward a small communal garden fenced with woven branches.

And there she was.

Kneeling in the soil, sleeves rolled past her elbows, dark earth streaking her hands and forearms. A loose braid of hair hung over one shoulder, strands escaping to catch the sun. Her face was turned toward the raised bed, her expression hidden, but there was something different about her now.

Not fragile.

Focused.

She moved carefully, planting tiny seedlings into the soil with practiced care. Around her, several others worked, older women, a pair of teenagers, but even in the crowd, Azriel saw her as clearly as if she stood in a spotlight.

He felt it again, that thread, that invisible pull in his chest. It didn’t ache like it had before. Not grief. Not guilt.

Just a quiet, steady certainty.

She was alive.

He hadn’t imagined her resilience, her presence. She wasn’t still in a healer’s cot, curled into herself. She was here. Rooted.

Cassian followed his gaze, and a small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Is that her?”

Azriel didn’t answer.

Because in that moment, she looked up.

Her eyes met his across the square, not startled, not afraid, just still.

Recognition flickered there, followed by something gentler. Like the first breeze of spring brushing across old wounds.

She stood slowly, wiping her hands on her apron. And though she didn’t smile, didn’t wave, didn’t move toward him… she didn’t turn away either.

Azriel’s shadows curled like smoke around his boots. “She’s stronger,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

Cassian clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Looks like someone’s been taking care of her.”

Azriel nodded once. “Or maybe… she’s been taking care of herself.”

Across the square, she tilted her head, just slightly, and lifted one hand. The sign was small. Barely a motion.

Hello.

And for the first time in weeks, Azriel felt the corners of his mouth lift. Not a smile, exactly. But something close.

Hello, he signed back.

Azriel crossed the square with deliberate steps, not because he feared startling her, not anymore, but because he wasn’t sure how to approach her. Not because of any distance between them, but because he had grown used to watching her from a distance, giving her the space she needed to heal.

As he neared the low fence, she noticed him. She straightened, brushing her palms against her apron once again. There were faint traces of dirt on her cheeks, and her hair was loosely braided, a few strands escaping as she worked. She didn’t seem startled by his presence, but instead looked at him with quiet curiosity, the same way she had the first time he had found her in the woods.

When Azriel reached the edge of the garden, he stopped. He gave her the choice, as he always did, waiting to see what she would do next.

She tilted her head, just slightly, and then without a word, she stepped through the small gate, closing the space between them.

Azriel stood still for a moment, taking in the changes he could see in her. Her face had filled out with strength, the faint weariness in her eyes replaced by something more like calm determination. There was a quiet confidence in the way she held herself, the way she moved between the rows of plants, even as the shadow of her past still lingered in her gaze.

When she stood before him, she didn’t look away. There was no tension in her body, no unease, just an understanding that they were both in this moment together.

Her hands moved, slow but steady. “You came back.”

Azriel’s voice was soft, low. “I wanted to see the village. And see if you were still here.”

For a long moment, she didn’t respond. Then she signed again, more slowly this time, as though careful with her words. “I never left.”

Azriel’s chest tightened at her words. He didn’t know what he had expected, but there was something in her response that settled in him, a quiet kind of peace, maybe. That she had stayed. That she had found a way to stay.

She hesitated, fingers trembling ever so slightly before continuing. “You never asked for my name.”

Azriel felt a pang of realization. He hadn’t asked for her name, hadn’t thought to ask it before. The moment of crisis, of survival, had taken away the small things, the human things. He hadn’t asked, because there hadn’t been space to.

“I didn’t want to ask until you were ready,” he replied quietly.

She regarded him for a long moment, her eyes studying his face, then placed her hand gently over her chest.

“Y/N.”

Azriel repeated the name in his mind, letting it settle like a new melody in his thoughts. He nodded, though his voice was quiet when he spoke again. “Azriel.”

There was no smile, but her lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, a flicker of something there. Maybe it was acknowledgment. Maybe it was relief. Maybe it was both.

She then turned slightly, gesturing to the garden around them. “Do you want to see?”

Azriel nodded and followed her through the rows of plants. She led him from one raised bed to the next, pointing out herbs, vegetables, and flowers, thyme, rosemary, young lettuce, and the beginnings of carrots and squash. With every motion, she signed the name of the plant, and Azriel followed her hands, his gaze not on the plants but on the rhythm of her movements. The way her hands danced through the air as if she had been doing this all her life.

At one point, Y/N handed him a small wooden trowel, her expression one of quiet challenge. Azriel accepted it, and with a slow, deliberate motion, crouched beside her, taking his time as he began to dig gently into the earth. Together, in silence, they planted a row of small sprouts.

There was no rush. No expectation. Just the quiet work of two souls who, for this moment, shared something that wasn’t spoken aloud but was understood.

After some time, Y/N stood and wiped her hands on her apron. She didn’t look at Azriel immediately but glanced down at the garden, a small flicker of something passing over her face. When she finally did look back at him, there was no sadness in her expression. No fear.

Just quiet contentment.

Azriel’s shadows, which had settled low around him, shifted lightly at his feet, as if aware of the change in the air between them. The space between them felt less like distance, less like hesitation, and more like a soft, growing connection.

For the first time since he’d found her in the woods, Azriel allowed himself to believe in the possibility of what could come next, in the small, steady steps forward, and in the quiet trust that was beginning to blossom between them.

The village of Emberon was slowly coming back to life. The faint hum of hammers and chisels filled the air as more homes were rebuilt, children played in the dirt streets, and the scent of fresh bread wafted from a small bakery on the corner. Azriel walked beside Y/N, his shadows swirling at his heels, as she led him toward the place she had called home since her recovery. It was a modest house, but to her, it was a sanctuary. The early evening sun bathed the streets in golden light as they made their way through the village, Azriel glancing at the quiet houses and newly constructed buildings.

"I can't believe it's finally coming together," Azriel murmured quietly, his tone soft as he looked around at the rebuilding.

Y/N gave him a smile, though it was subtle, and motioned toward the direction of her house with a small wave of her hand. She signed quickly, and Azriel nodded, catching the gist of her words. "I’m proud of it. Of what’s been built here."

They had been walking in silence, and Azriel found comfort in the stillness, the sense of normalcy beginning to return to the village. His mind drifted as they walked, but it was broken by the sound of raised voices from down the street. His sharp eyes cut through the crowd, and he spotted Cassian and Rhysand talking to a tall fae male, a general from another region, right outside one of the shops. The conversation seemed to be heated, and Cassian’s boisterous voice was hard to miss even from a distance.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, then gestured for Azriel to follow her toward the group. She wanted to show him her new home, but there was no harm in saying hello. As they approached, Cassian turned and spotted them immediately, his grin widening at the sight of Y/N.

“Well, well, look who it is!” Cassian called, his voice booming across the street. He took a few steps forward, his eyes scanning her, noticing her calm but wary demeanor. “How are you?”

Azriel stood back a little, watching as Y/N stepped forward to respond. She raised her hands, signing rapidly, and Azriel moved closer to her side. His shadows drifted around her, a constant comfort, as he translated her words for Cassian.

“She says she’s doing better,” Azriel said softly. “She’s settling in.”

Cassian nodded, his expression softening. “That’s good to hear. You know, we’ve been working hard to help everyone here. You’ve got a good home now.”

Y/N signed again, this time more slowly, and Azriel watched as her hands moved fluidly. He translated for her again, the words flowing as she spoke.

“She’s thankful for everything that’s been done,” Azriel said, glancing back at Cassian. “But she still remembers everything. It’s hard to move past it all, even if she has a place of her own.”

Rhysand, who had been quiet up until now, stepped forward, his violet eyes locking with Y/N. The breeze shifted as the power of his Daemati abilities sparked in the air around him. Without a word, Rhysand reached out, connecting with her mind. Azriel’s brow furrowed as he watched, instinctively stepping back, sensing the power at play. He couldn’t hear their conversation, and neither could Cassian, but it was clear what was happening.

Y/N’s eyes softened as Rhysand’s voice entered her thoughts, and Azriel felt a strange mix of emotions as he watched her respond, her lips moving slightly, but not making a sound.

“You’ve helped so many here, Rhysand,” Y/N’s voice came, quiet but clear in Rhysand's mind. “Without you, and without Azriel and his shadows, I probably wouldn’t be here.”

Azriel felt the weight of their conversation in his chest, but he couldn’t hear what they said. He didn’t need to. The connection between the two of them, that subtle shift in her expression, told him everything he needed to know. There was a tenderness in the way Y/N held herself, a gratitude so deep that Azriel felt it resonate with his own heart.

Suddenly, Rhysand broke through the mental connection, his voice cutting through the air for all to hear, loud and firm.

“It’s our responsibility,” Rhysand said, his voice carrying over the conversation. “To protect, to help, and to make sure this never happens again. We will rebuild this place, just like we’ve rebuilt so many others.”

Azriel stood still, his eyes focused on Y/N’s reaction. She blinked, as though Rhysand’s words were just as powerful in her mind as they were in the air, and she gave a small nod. It was as though she had heard it all before, and yet, it still made a difference to her.

Y/N turned to face them, her hands moving again. She signed with slow, graceful gestures, her fingers weaving through the air as she asked Azriel to translate.

“She’s offering us food,” Azriel said with a small smile, his voice quieter now. “She wants us to come to her place. A quick meal.”

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “I’m not turning down a free meal,” he said, his voice teasing.

Azriel glanced at Y/N, who smiled at Cassian's words. Then, with a subtle nod, she turned toward her home, motioning for them to follow.

Rhysand’s eyes lingered on the village for a moment before he turned to follow them. “Lead the way, Y/N. We’ll be happy to join you.”

Azriel, trailing behind, allowed his shadows to flow around him like a cloak. He could feel the weight of the day lifting, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of the meal or because Y/N had invited them into her world. They had done what they could for her, for the village, but it was clear that her journey was far from over. Still, there was a small flicker of hope in the air, a belief that maybe, just maybe, she could begin again.

The inside of Y/N's house was simple, yet welcoming. The small kitchen area had a hearth where a pot of stew simmered on the flames, filling the air with a savory aroma. The furniture was modest but carefully placed, and the warmth of her home was a stark contrast to the cold, barren village Azriel had found her in all those weeks ago. The stone walls were lined with fresh herbs, and small touches of color from woven fabrics gave it a sense of life.

Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel stood near the entrance, surveying the space. Cassian was running his hand along the rough wooden shelves, his eyes scanning the room for anything that stood out. He noticed a few things still left unfinished, some shelves that weren’t fully mounted, a small pile of firewood in the corner that needed to be stacked.

Rhysand’s eyes were softer than usual as he observed the place. The High Lord of the Night Court was always in command, always exuding a certain distance, but here, in the quiet of Y/N’s home, something in him softened. He turned his attention to her, and his voice was gentle as he reached out to her mind.

“Y/N,” Rhysand’s voice was like a whisper in her thoughts. “Would you like us to help finish anything here? We could take care of the shelves or the firewood, whatever you need.”

Y/N paused for a moment, considering the offer, but then signed in a quick, dismissive motion as she shook her head. She wanted to refuse, her hands moving gracefully in the air as she said to Azriel, who translated for the group.

“She says she couldn’t possibly ask for the High Lord of the Night Court to do something like that,” Azriel said with a chuckle, his voice warm as he glanced toward Rhysand. “She’s too proud.”

Rhysand raised an eyebrow, letting out a soft laugh. “Don’t worry, Y/N,” he said aloud, his voice echoing in the small space. “I won’t put my hands on anything. But Cassian over here”, he grinned slyly, “he’ll do all the work.”

Cassian’s eyes widened in mock horror. “What?” he grumbled. “I don’t even know how to-”

Before Cassian could protest further, Rhysand just waved a hand dismissively, clearly enjoying the banter. Azriel couldn’t help but grin a little as he watched the two of them, but his attention soon shifted as Y/N turned back to the stove, checking on the stew.

Azriel gave the room one last sweep and noticed that Y/N had already begun setting the table for the meal. He could see the care she’d put into everything, but there was still a certain sense of unfinished business, the house wasn’t quite complete, and the simple details spoke volumes about how much she had left to do.

He moved toward her, not wanting to stand idle. “I’ll help with the stew,” Azriel offered quietly, his voice low but steady.

Y/N glanced at him, a smile playing at the corner of her lips before she nodded. She handed him the ladle to stir the pot, and Azriel did so with ease, his attention on the bubbling stew. He caught the faint scent of vegetables and spices, his mouth watering slightly. The sounds of Cassian and Rhysand’s conversation in the background faded as he focused on the simple task of preparing the meal.

Once the stew was ready, Y/N began ladling it into bowls with precise, careful movements, her hands flowing through the motions as if she had done it a thousand times. Azriel stood by, ready to help, and as she placed the bowls on the counter, he moved to take them and set them on the table.

But just as he was about to move, one of his shadows seemed to get in his way. It darted out from behind him, swirling in front of his hands like an unruly piece of cloth. He tried to move past it, but it lingered, twining in front of him like it had a mind of its own. His focus was split for just a moment, and before he realized it, the stew spilled over the edge of the bowl, splashing onto his hands.

Azriel cursed under his breath, grimacing as the hot liquid seared his skin. He jumped back, quickly wiping his hands on the towel he had nearby. The sting of the burn made his jaw tighten, but it wasn’t unbearable. He muttered a curse to himself, knowing it was his own fault for not being more mindful.

“Damn shadows,” he told them, low and to himself, not realizing how loud his thoughts were as he cursed.

But then, just as he was preparing to move the bowl again, a cold, wet cloth pressed gently to his hand. Azriel froze, his brow furrowing in confusion as he looked up to see Y/N, who had come to his side without him even realizing. She was focused, her hands working quickly to press the towel to his injured skin.

Azriel blinked in surprise. “How did you-”

Y/N’s gaze met his, and she tilted her head, her brow furrowed in concern. She seemed to sense his confusion and signed back to him, her hands moving slowly and deliberately as she explained.

“I heard you,” she signed carefully. “I could hear you talking to yourself. I thought... I thought you were in pain.”

Azriel’s breath hitched. He had been speaking to himself, yes, but there was no way she could have heard him. Wasn’t it just his internal thoughts? She couldn't have—

“Wait,” he asked, his voice a little unsure, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You... you heard me?”

Y/N nodded, a flicker of confusion in her own eyes. She signed again.

“You were talking to your shadows. I heard it. Are you okay?”

Azriel’s mouth went dry, and his mind raced. He had been speaking to his shadows, sure, but the fact that she could hear him... that was something else entirely. He had never imagined that someone who couldn’t speak could somehow hear his thoughts. It was impossible... but then again, this was Y/N.

Azriel paused for a moment, staring at her, trying to process everything. “Can you hear... my thoughts? Like how Rhysand can?”

Y/N’s brow furrowed even more in confusion, and she signed again, this time slower, as if trying to make sense of it herself.

“I don’t know. I just... I could hear you. In my mind. Can you hear me, too?”

Azriel blinked, feeling the faintest ripple of something he couldn’t explain, something new between them. “I... I think I can.”

He wasn’t sure how it worked, or why it was happening, but as he stood there, with the cold cloth still pressed to his hand, a strange connection started to form. He could hear her in his head, her thoughts were as clear as if she had spoken aloud.

Azriel’s mouth went dry as he turned to her, unsure whether to be thrilled or confused. “This... this is new.”

Y/N’s lips curled into a small, unsure smile. She signed once more.

“Maybe it’s something we share now. I’m not sure.”

Azriel smiled faintly, looking down at his hand, which no longer burned from the hot stew. His shadows had settled, and his mind was still spinning. But in that moment, he felt something shift between them, something tangible and warm.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said quietly, feeling more at ease than he had in weeks. “Together.”

Y/N nodded, and Azriel couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope rise in his chest. Maybe this was a new beginning, one where she didn’t have to remain silent anymore.

────────────

The sun had already dipped behind the hills, casting the village in soft lavender hues when Azriel knocked gently on Y/N’s door. A cool breeze stirred the leaves in the trees outside, rustling just loud enough to be noticed. Her home, tucked between two larger cottages near the outer edge of the rebuilt village, was bathed in the golden light of a few lanterns within.

Y/N opened the door before he could knock again, her expression neutral at first, but softening immediately at the sight of him. She stepped aside wordlessly, inviting him in.

Azriel stepped inside, the warmth of her home wrapping around him like a soft blanket. It smelled faintly of dried herbs, pinewood, and something sweet.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked him, speaking gently into his mind.

He nodded. “Sure. Whatever you’re having.”

A flicker of warmth crossed her face as she moved into the small kitchen area, setting a kettle on the iron stove. From a wooden drawer she pulled out a small tin and opened it, releasing the delicate fragrance of her favorite blend, peppermint, chamomile, and rose hip. The colors were beautiful in the low light: deep green leaves, pale yellow petals, rich crimson fruit. She dropped them into a small teapot and poured hot water over them.

Azriel watched her from a nearby chair, silent, but something about the domesticity of it, her careful movements, the quiet ritual of preparing something comforting, felt oddly intimate. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed this kind of quiet.

When the tea had steeped, she poured two cups and handed him one. Their fingers brushed briefly. He muttered a soft “thank you,” and she nodded, taking her seat by the hearth, gesturing for him to join her.

They sipped in silence for a few minutes, letting the warmth of the drink settle into their bones. Then, she looked up at him, her gaze sharp but kind.

“You’re troubled,” she said into his mind, gently, without judgment.

Azriel leaned back, his fingers wrapped around the cup, wings slightly hunched behind him. “I’ve been thinking. About… this. You and me. Whatever this is.”

She didn’t interrupt. Just waited, eyes steady on his.

“It’s not a mating bond,” he said slowly. “At least, I don’t think it is. I’ve read everything I could find on the subject over the years. I thought… I hoped I’d recognize it instantly, if it ever happened. I would know. But this...” He paused. “It feels different.”

Y/N’s eyes didn’t leave his. Her mental voice was quiet, steady. “It’s not a mating bond.”

Azriel stiffened, then nodded once. “You’re sure?”

“I had one once,” she said. The words slid gently into his thoughts, but their weight landed heavily. “A true mating bond. I rejected it.”

His brows drew together. He set the cup down, leaning forward. “Why?”

“Because he was cruel. Manipulative. He wanted to break me, not cherish me.” Her hands remained folded in her lap, but her voice in his head was calm. “The bond was there, yes. But I would rather walk alone than be bound to someone like him.”

Azriel’s chest ached. He shifted to sit across from her now, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “And yet,” he said, “you and I… we have something.”

“We do.”

“I can speak to you without sound. You can answer. It’s not like what you have with Rhys, I can’t do that with anyone else. And you can’t do it with anyone else, either, can you?”

She shook her head. “Only you. And Rhys, because of what he is. But with you… it’s different. Easier. Natural.”

He studied her face, her stillness, the way her shadows always seemed to draw nearer when he was near her. “Maybe it’s the shadows,” she offered softly. “They understand me. I’ve always felt like they listened when no one else could. Maybe they… carry me to you.”

Azriel looked down. His own shadows curled at his ankles, one brushing the hem of her skirt. They didn’t pull away. If anything, they seemed... content. Restful.

“You might be right,” he admitted. “I’ve never known them to behave like this before. They whisper to me, warn me, guide me… but they’ve never connected me to someone like this.”

She leaned forward slightly. “Do you think they’re giving you something you didn’t know you needed?”

The question was quiet, but it dug in deep. Azriel looked up, met her eyes, and for a moment, it felt like she’d peeled back every layer he spent a lifetime guarding.

“Maybe,” he said finally, his voice low even in his own mind. “Maybe they are.”

Y/N’s lips curved faintly, not quite a smile, but something just as kind. She reached for the teapot, poured them both another cup.

And as they sat there, in the fading evening light with the scent of peppermint and rose hip between them, neither spoke aloud.

They didn’t need to.

The air between them shifted, thick with unspoken words. The warmth from their tea had settled into the bones of the small cottage, but Azriel couldn’t shake the feeling that something heavy lingered in the space between them. He’d always known Y/N was a survivor, that there was more to her silence than met the eye, but he hadn’t pushed, until now.

The shadows at his feet coiled tighter, drawn to the quiet stillness of the room. He could feel them, just as he could feel the weight of her presence. She was stronger than she realized, but there were cracks in her walls. Azriel’s mind lingered on those cracks, and the realization hit him hard: She has a story. And I need to hear it.

“Y/N,” Azriel began, his voice quiet but steady, “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to, but... I need to ask. Were you always mute?”

She paused, her fingers gently tracing the edge of her teacup. Her eyes fell to her lap, and for a moment, he feared she would close off completely, retreating into herself. But then, slowly, she looked up at him. The silent communication between them was a delicate thread now, one she grasped without hesitation. And for a brief second, Azriel saw the rawness behind her calm facade.

“No,” she said, her mental voice soft, laced with pain. “I wasn’t always like this.”

Azriel leaned forward, sensing that this was the moment where the walls would either crumble or solidify. He said nothing more, allowing her the space to share her story on her terms.

She inhaled deeply before speaking again, her voice now shaking, though still only audible to him. “I was born into a family that was... never safe. My parents were good people, I think. But the world around us was always breaking, always trying to tear us apart. I was just a little girl, caught in the chaos.” Her mind drifted for a moment, eyes looking past him, as if seeing something Azriel couldn’t.

“When I was young, our village was attacked, too. They came at night, burning homes, ripping families apart. My parents were taken from me, pulled from my arms while I was screaming, too loud, too helpless. They told me to be quiet. They told me that if I made a sound, I would die like them.”

Azriel’s heart twisted painfully at her words, at the way she spoke with such quiet certainty of loss. But what struck him the most was the calmness in her voice, as though she had long ago resigned herself to the horrors she had lived through.

Her mind continued, and the weight of her trauma filled every thought. “After they... they killed them, the others came for me and my sister. They said they’d cut out my tongue if I ever screamed. They said I was worthless if I didn’t learn to obey, to shut up. And they made sure I understood by threatening to do it right there.”

Y/N’s eyes squeezed shut, the pain almost palpable even though it was confined within her mind. Azriel could see the shadows at her feet, as if they, too, felt her anguish. He reached for his own, needing the connection, needing to hold something tangible as her memories bled through their shared silence.

“They locked us away. Kept us in a room, chained to a wall. And every time I tried to make a sound, anything, there were punishments. Whips. Swords. It didn’t matter. The message was clear: Don’t speak. Don’t make a sound. And after a while... I couldn’t anymore. I was so terrified. Every time I tried, it felt like my voice was gone.”

She paused, the heaviness of her confession suffocating the air between them. Azriel could feel it, could see it in her eyes. The tears that had never fallen, the silent scream she could never release.

She looked at him now, her eyes full of something else, resignation, but also a quiet, unyielding strength. “It’s like my voice was stolen. It’s not just fear anymore. It’s like my body just... refuses. Even now, if I try to speak, nothing comes out. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

The silence that followed was deep, and Azriel felt like the room itself had stopped breathing. His hands clenched into fists, the sharp ache of helplessness pulling through his chest. What she had been through, what she still carried, was unimaginable. And yet, she was still here. Alive. Still fighting.

Azriel didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if there were words to make this right. Instead, he took a slow breath, pushing through the growing ache. “You don’t have to fix it, Y/N,” he said softly, his voice rougher than usual. “You don’t have to speak for me to understand you.”

Her eyes flickered with something like relief, but she didn’t respond. She just closed the space between them, a tentative touch to his arm, her hand resting there, silent but full of meaning.

“I just…” she thought, her mental voice hesitant, “I want to be heard. In my own way. To be understood.”

Azriel reached up slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. He didn’t need to speak aloud. He didn’t need to fill the silence with words. Instead, he let her know, through the bond they shared — through the shadows and his steady presence — that she was heard.

Azriel sat in stillness for a moment longer, watching the way her fingers curled around her teacup as if grounding herself through the warmth. The weight of her story still hung in the room, but there was something new now, a vulnerability she hadn’t shown before, and the trust it took to reveal it.

He shifted slightly, resting his arms on his knees. His voice came quiet, thoughtful, each word etched with a heaviness he didn’t try to hide.

“Aren’t you afraid,” he asked gently, “that something like that might happen again?”

Her head lifted at that, her eyes meeting his, not startled, not offended. Just honest. He hesitated, then continued.

“It happened again, Y/N. Just a few weeks ago. That night I found you... bound, bleeding. Alone.”

The shadows at his back flickered restlessly, echoing the unease he barely contained.

She was quiet for a long time before her voice slipped into his mind, soft and sure. “Yes. I’m afraid.”

She didn’t try to hide it. And the admission, simple as it was, carved deeper into Azriel than any scream ever could.

“But I trust Rhysand,” she added. “This village matters to him. To you. I believe he’ll keep us safe.”

Azriel’s jaw flexed as he looked at her, at the softness of her features, the hard-earned strength beneath. The shadows whispered against his skin, tugging at him, as if echoing what he was about to say.

He took a breath, ran a hand through his hair, and then asked what had been weighing on him since the day he left the village: “Would you come to Velaris?”

Y/N blinked, taken aback, her fingers going still against her cup.

“It’s safer there,” Azriel said quickly, before she could answer. “The city is protected. Guarded. No one would touch you. I could take you there. You’d be safe.”

He didn’t say I’d sleep better knowing you’re behind those wards. He didn’t say I think about you more than I should. But it was all there, in the way his voice dipped, the way his shadows hovered near her like they were drawn to her pain, her quiet strength.

Y/N’s thoughts reached him after a moment, hesitant but clear. “I can’t abandon them.”

Azriel frowned slightly, but said nothing as she continued.

“These people… they stayed. They rebuilt this place together. With blood on the ground and ash in their mouths, they still stood. I can’t leave them behind.”

He nodded slowly. He understood, more than she could know. Still, he leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “But you can’t scream for help.”

He hated the sound of that truth aloud. “If something were to happen again-”

“Then maybe,” she cut in gently, “you could teach me how to stay safe.”

Azriel blinked. Her eyes met his, unwavering. There was no fear in them now, only quiet determination.

The shadows stilled.

“You want me to train you?” he asked, surprise flickering through his voice.

She nodded. “I don’t want to be helpless again. I don’t want to rely on someone hearing me. I want to be able to protect myself… and others too.”

Azriel’s mouth curved — not quite a smile, but something close. “Alright.” His voice was gravel and warmth. “Then tomorrow, we begin.”

And even though she said nothing aloud, he felt the quiet warmth ripple across their bond, gratitude, fierce and radiant, and beneath it, something new: Hope.

────────────

The sun had just begun to dip behind the Sidra, painting Velaris in shades of gold and lavender as Starfall’s first shimmering streaks whispered across the sky.

At the House of Wind, laughter and warmth swirled through the grand dining hall like old music. Lanterns floated gently above the long table, casting soft hues of blue and violet over wine glasses and golden plates. The Inner Circle was gathered, every one of them dressed in star-kissed silks or tailored leathers, the room buzzing with anticipation, except for one lingering question.

“Why aren’t we eating?” Nesta asked, arms folded, her patience thinning as she eyed the untouched food on the table. She looked radiant tonight, as always, in midnight blue, like she belonged among the stars themselves.

Rhysand, lounging at the head of the table with Feyre nestled beside him, smiled with that infuriating calm of his. “Because,” he said smoothly, “Azriel is picking someone up.”

Cassian, who had just downed a sip of wine, leaned back in his chair and smirked. “You mean Azriel and his girlfriend.”

Mor nearly choked on her drink, eyes sparkling. “Wait, seriously? Are they…?”

She left the question open, eyebrows raised toward Rhysand.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he glanced toward the open balcony, where the night sky had begun to stir with faint threads of starlight. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, thoughtful. “I don’t know what to call it,” he said. “But I can feel it. Whatever is between them, it’s real. And different.”

Amren, perched near the end of the table, narrowed her silver eyes. “He shares something with her he doesn’t with any of us. That much is clear.”

Feyre nodded softly, brushing her fingers along the stem of her glass. “I’ve seen it, too. The way his shadows behave around her, like they’re part of her now.”

The conversation faded into a hush as a faint sound stirred from the hall, the rustle of boots on stone, the quiet press of wings folding behind them.

The door opened, and Azriel stepped inside, dressed in soft black, his Siphons gleaming like frozen stars on his hands and shoulders. At his side walked Y/N.

She wore deep forest green with a shimmer of silver woven into the fabric, nothing elaborate, but breathtaking in its simplicity. A small braid was pinned behind her ear, and her gaze moved over the Inner Circle with a calm steadiness that held no fear. Only curiosity. And quiet strength.

Azriel kept close beside her, a shadow brushing along her arm like it was anchoring her, or maybe the other way around.

Rhysand stood first, his smile genuine. “Welcome.”

Y/N bowed her head gently in greeting, and though she didn’t speak, she didn’t need to — the way her eyes met each of theirs, full of quiet warmth and gratitude, said enough.

“Thank you,” her voice echoed gently into Rhysand’s mind. “For letting me be here.”

Rhysand inclined his head with a smile, then turned toward the rest of the room. “Shall we eat now, Nesta?”

Nesta rolled her eyes, though a smirk played at her lips.

Cassian was already rising to his feet, nudging a chair out beside him. “Come sit, Az. And Y/N, we saved the good bread for you.”

Mor beamed as Y/N took a seat beside Azriel, the shadows around him curling like smoke in moonlight, peaceful for the first time in days.

And outside, the stars began to fall, like silver rain from the heavens, silent and endless.

Dinner was laughter, the clink of glasses, warm candlelight, and the shimmer of magic laced in the air.

Y/N sat quietly between Azriel and Feyre, a faint smile on her lips as she watched the easy rhythm of the Inner Circle, the way Cassian teased Mor with flicks of bread rolls, the way Amren rolled her eyes and muttered about “children,” even though the corners of her lips were quirked in amusement.

“Did Azriel tell you,” Cassian said mid-chew, gesturing toward Y/N with his fork, “that he threatened three construction workers last week for letting a hammer fall too close to your garden?”

Azriel, without looking up from his plate, said calmly, “I told them to be more careful.”

“You said,” Mor mimicked in a deadly-serious tone, “‘Drop that again and I’ll rip your arms off and bury them in the herb bed.’” She grinned at Y/N. “We were all there.”

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly in amusement, then her hands moved, quick, fluid gestures of her fingers.

Feyre laughed, translating instinctively, “She says the hammer didn’t even touch the ground.”

Azriel’s lip twitched.

“I told you,” Cassian said, pointing his fork again. “Absolutely whipped.”

Azriel didn’t argue. He just raised a brow and flicked a shadow toward Cassian’s wine, tipping the cup ever-so-slightly.

Y/N caught the movement and bit back a laugh, shaking her head as if to say boys.

The Inner Circle was basking in warmth, and Y/N felt the unfamiliar but comforting sensation of being part of something, even if she mostly listened. Still, she didn’t feel apart from them. Not tonight.

Azriel stayed close at her side, his shadows uncharacteristically calm. Every so often, he’d lean in, not out of necessity, but as if it was simply his instinct now.

When Cassian launched into another embellished story about Mor and a bakery brawl years ago, Y/N turned slightly toward Azriel and caught his eye.

“Are they always like this?” she asked in his mind, her tone dry, amused.

Azriel’s lips curved faintly. “This is tame. Wait until Cassian’s had three more glasses of wine and starts dancing.”

She laughed silently, a soft sparkle lighting her eyes.

“You’ve changed,” she added after a moment, more hesitantly now. “Since the night you found me. You seem… lighter.”

Azriel turned his head to her, searching her face in the flickering glow. “Maybe because you’re here. And safe. It’s easier to breathe when I know that.”

Across the table, a pair of sharp silver eyes were watching them closely.

Amren said nothing. She swirled the deep red wine in her goblet and observed the pair, the way they seemed to speak without a sound, how Azriel’s shoulders loosened when he was with Y/N, how Y/N’s expressions shifted as though full conversations were happening in silence.

There was something deeper there. Not a mating bond, she’d known enough of those to recognize it, but something… older. Stranger.

When dessert arrived, Amren stood without a word.

Feyre glanced over. “You’re not staying?”

“I have something to look into,” Amren replied, her tone clipped as always, though her eyes flicked once more to Azriel and Y/N before she turned. “Something I should’ve thought of sooner.”

And then she was gone, shadows slipping behind her as she vanished from the dining hall, no doubt heading toward the library’s oldest corners.

Back at the table, Y/N noticed Azriel watching Amren leave. She nudged his arm gently, tilting her head.

“Everything alright?”

He shook his head once. “With her, who knows.” But his eyes softened when he looked back at her. “You okay?”

Y/N nodded. “I’m more than okay. This is the first time in… years… that I feel like I’m not surviving. I’m just living.”

Azriel blinked slowly, something fierce and fragile sparking behind his eyes.

Then, almost without thinking, he reached under the table, just a brush of his pinky finger against hers, a quiet promise. She stilled, and then wrapped her fingers around his.

Later, when most of the Inner Circle had drifted to other corners of the House of Wind, some to sip wine by the fire, others to dance beneath the starlight, Azriel and Y/N slipped away to one of the balconies.

They said nothing for a while. They didn’t need to.

Y/N leaned against the stone railing, gazing up at the stars as they fell in slow, glowing streaks. The sky shimmered with ancient magic, vast and silver-blue and full of unspoken dreams. Her hair moved gently in the breeze, and Azriel, standing just behind her, watched as one of his shadows twined itself around her wrist like a ribbon, then flitted away as if shy.

She turned to him after a moment, her voice touching his mind in that soft, singular way.

“Is it always like this?”

Azriel shook his head. “Some years, the stars fall slower. Sometimes the wind carries them in spirals. This… this is rare.”

She smiled faintly, her eyes reflecting the light. “Then I’m glad I’m seeing it like this. With you.”

A pause.

He looked at her, really looked, as if this was the first time he could, uninterrupted by fear or pain or the weight of everything else they’d survived.

“I thought I knew what I was looking for,” Azriel murmured. “All these centuries. I thought I’d know the shape of it when it came.”

Her brows lifted, curious.

He stepped closer, slowly, giving her time, space, always.

“But this,” he said, voice lower now. “This wasn’t what I expected. It’s not a mating bond. It’s not fire. It’s… quiet. Like peace. Like my shadows finally have nothing to warn me about.”

She didn’t speak to his mind immediately. Instead, she reached out, just barely, and brushed her fingers against his.

Azriel’s eyes darkened as they held hers.

“Then maybe,” she said gently in his mind, “you weren’t looking for fire. Maybe you were always looking for quiet.”

The words landed like a balm across a scar.

Slowly, deliberately, Azriel lifted one hand and cupped her jaw. His thumb skimmed the curve of her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Her breath caught, eyes wide and shining.

When he leaned in, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t claimed. It was reverent.

Their lips met beneath the falling stars - soft, slow, warm.

Y/N exhaled into him, and Azriel breathed her in like he had waited a lifetime to do so.

Above them, a shooting star blazed past, brighter than the rest. And for a moment, time stilled.

When they parted, Y/N rested her forehead against his chest, her mind brushing his again with a whisper: “You make me feel safe.”

Azriel’s hands trembled just slightly where they held her.

“I will always keep you safe,” he murmured aloud. “No matter where you are.”

The stars were still falling when the soft click of the balcony door stirred them from their shared silence.

Azriel turned first, instinctively, his shadows twitching before settling as the figure stepped into view.

Amren.

She looked… different. Not in appearance, still timeless, still clothed in midnight silk and draped in something sharper than elegance, but there was an intensity in her silver eyes that hadn’t been there at dinner.

“I thought I’d find you two out here,” she said, folding her arms. “You’ve become rather inseparable.”

Y/N straightened slightly, unsure if she should step back from Azriel, but his hand remained gently over hers, grounding, not possessive. She didn’t move.

Amren strode to the balcony’s edge, glancing once at the sky, then at them again.

“I saw the way you were interacting tonight,” she said plainly. “The way you speak without sound, how your magic knows each other before you do. It reminded me of something I once read. A long, long time ago.”

Azriel narrowed his eyes. “You went to the library.”

Amren’s mouth twisted into something half-smirk, half-snarl. “Of course I did. I don’t like mysteries I can’t name. And what you two have-” she waved a hand vaguely between them, “-is not a mating bond.”

Y/N’s brows drew together. Amren turned her gaze to her.

“No, girl, it’s not a bond of body or desire. But it is powerful. And old.”

She paused, and for once, the silence was heavy.

“It’s called a thirren bond,” Amren said at last, voice quieter. “From a language lost before Velaris was even built. It only happens under very rare, specific circumstances. Two souls, both fractured, but not by fate, like mates. By experience. By grief. And sometimes, when the cracks align just so…”

Her gaze swept between them again, sharp and unreadable. “They fill each other.”

Azriel’s voice was low. “And what does that mean, exactly?”

Amren tilted her head. “It means you share more than thoughts. You share… knowing. Not just emotions or whispers. You don’t complete each other. You comprehend each other. There’s no hierarchy. No instinct to dominate or claim. It’s a conscious harmony. A chosen one.”

Y/N stared at her, mind gently spinning.

Azriel was quiet beside her, shadows curling slowly at his feet.

“But it’s rare,” Amren continued. “Rarer than any mating bond. Most fae don’t even believe in it anymore. Because it requires pain. It requires survival. And a willingness to connect that deeply without being compelled.”

She stepped back toward the door, her words falling like stones.

“So whatever this is between you,” she said, “don’t waste it trying to label it with something lesser.”

Then she turned and disappeared into the hallway, her scent fading with the soft click of the door.

Silence fell again.

Azriel looked over at Y/N.

Her eyes were distant, thoughtful.

“Do you believe her?” he asked gently, his mind brushing hers.

Y/N looked at him then, searching his face, the raw honesty in it, the care.

And she nodded once.

“I think we already knew. We just didn’t have a name for it.”

Azriel stepped closer, reaching for her hand again.

And this time, when their fingers laced together, it felt like confirmation. Not the beginning, not even the middle, but something ancient finally remembered.

The night air was cool, laced with starfall’s faint shimmer. They stood close, quiet in the wake of Amren’s revelation, both of them turning it over in their minds like a precious, fragile truth.

Y/N’s gaze lingered on the distant hills beyond Velaris, her expression thoughtful but unreadable. Then, finally, she turned to Azriel.

“What does this mean for us?” Her mental voice was soft, tentative. “This… thirren bond?”

Azriel looked at her for a long moment. His shadows were quiet now, as if they, too, were listening.

“I don’t know exactly,” he admitted, brushing his thumb gently across her knuckles. “But I know what it feels like.”

He searched her face, his voice a low murmur in her mind. “It feels like I’m not carrying the weight of the world alone anymore.”

A soft, trembling smile curved Y/N’s lips, and her eyes flicked down to their hands, still laced together.

“I feel that too,” she said. “But it’s not just the bond.”

Azriel’s head tilted, curiosity blooming in his features.

She looked up at him then, eyes lit with quiet fire.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” she said. “Not because of the connection. But because of you. Because of how gentle you are with me. How patient. How you see me without needing me to explain every broken piece.”

Azriel stilled, just for a breath, shadows curling gently at his shoulders, like they’d heard something sacred.

Then he stepped a fraction closer, his voice brushing against her mind with warmth.

“I’m falling too.”

Her breath caught as he reached up to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“I’ve been trying not to rush,” he whispered aloud this time. “Trying to give you space, especially after you said you didn’t want to leave the village.”

Y/N gave a small, almost sheepish smile — the kind that crinkled the corner of her eyes and made something bloom in his chest.

“Maybe I changed my mind,” she teased softly. “Maybe I want to come to Velaris. To be closer to you.”

Azriel’s heart stumbled.

“You do?”

She nodded, her smile widening just a little.

Azriel let out a breath, more like a laugh, really, one of disbelief and gratitude mingled, before he cupped her cheek in one hand and leaned in.

This kiss was slower than the one beneath the stars earlier. Deeper. A quiet promise shared under falling starlight, between two people who had once lived in silence and shadow, and now found peace in each other’s presence.

When they parted, their foreheads resting together, Azriel whispered, “You have no idea how happy that makes me.”

“I think I do,” Y/N whispered back into his mind, her fingers brushing his cheek.

They stayed like that a while longer, wrapped in each other, beneath the gentle rain of stars, knowing that whatever this bond was, it was theirs to define.

Together.

[blooddlusts]

MAKE A WISH⋆｡°✩ ot7

( I'LL GIVE YOU BIRTHDAY CAKE ) ── how they celebrate your birthday

enha x fem! reader (established relationship, fluff, kissing, them just being cuties as they celebrate your birthday)

word count: 1.47k

kiara yaps: sooo it's my birthday in case ya didn't guess hehe. thought it would be cool to make this little headcanon as a lil birthday post! turning 23 today (praying i get my hybe curse lmaoo)!!

LEE HEESEUNG

he would wake up and go about his day like your birthday was just another day on the calendar. and maybe he would play into the act a little too seriously when you tried to ask if there were any plans for the day. of course it stung for him to see you pout a little, but he had BIG plans and he couldn't spoil the surprise. especially because your friend (who you hadn't seen in ages) was coming into town to surprise you. of course, heeseung already was planning on throwing s surprise party but he needed to put his acting skills to the test and keep his poker face on for a while. even though you desperately were hoping that the place he took to lunch would bring a cake or a present or surprise, you were left with a little bit of disappointment touching your lips. that was, of course, until a grin touched his lips and he grabbed a silk blindfold out of his pocket. you were lead blindly, following his voice until he told you to stop. you took the blindfold off to reveal your best friend, your family and other close friends singing happy birthday as he brought a cake to you. heeseung quickly pulls you in for a kiss before walking with you to reunite with an old friend. there was nothing that made him happier than getting to see you smile and shine like the stars on your birthday.

PARK JAY

that man is literally wearing a "kiss the cook" apron, slaving away in the kitchen while you're asleep in bed. you're awakened to an aroma of delicious food as jay is carrying a tray of breakfast to your bed, grinning as he's singing you the happy birthday melody. he's already bringing you out a massive box which has a beautiful dress inside (specifically the one you were eyeing the last time you two went shopping) with a matching purse and shoes to complete the look. he's taking you out to eat at the nicest places, he's making sure that you're outshining the sun when you two sit outside and are eating lunch. more importantly, he's finding every minute to kiss you and remind you how much he's happy to be with you. at night, you're back at the apartment, he's already cooking up a dinner, there's a bouquet of roses waiting for you by the bed. and in comes ushering your friends and family through the door, holding a cake that jay custom ordered (specifically your favourite flavour) as they sing to you once more with his arms wrapped around your waist singing along. he couldn't be happier getting to spend this special day with you.

SIM JAKE

jake is literally shaking you as soon as it's your birthday morning. that boy is absolutely energetic when it comes to celebrating your birthday. you two went out to breakfast in your pjs because that's how excited he is that he gets to spend this day with you. he's taking you out to lunch, you two are just outside enjoying the sun while he sneaks in handwritten letters into your hands; smiling as you read them out loud while giving him a kiss. that boy is taking you out on drives to see the world around you, he's picking flowers from gardens and making you a bouquet in front of your eyes. he's picking strawberries and other fruits that he's secretly going to use as decorations for the cake he baked you that night. you're out spending your days in the sun with the boy that's making you smile. and when the sun is setting, when you both have returned to the apartment; you're greeted by your friends and family. they've come to bring presents, to wish you a happy birthday and they join jake in the happy chorus as he brings out the cake he worked so hard to make for you. when it's night, and you two are laying in bed —he brings out a box containing more trinkets, letters, and presents of the time you two have spent together. he will do anything to make you feel like the luckiest girl in the world. but he will be the one to make you the centre of the universe on your birthday.

PARK SUNGHOON

he's a simple, reserved guy when it comes to your birthday but he knows how to make you feel special. you will literally wake up and walk into the kitchen to see your go-to meal from your favourite brunch place plated out nicely, flowers on the counter with a handwritten card from sunghoon. and don't expect that to end there. he's going to be showering you with hugs from the back, kisses to your cheek and spending every second he can reminding you how lucky he is to have you in his life. he'll take you out to your favourite place to lunch and he'll make sure that you're looking absolutely stunning so that he can take you out to dinner. just the two of you sitting outside with a beautiful sunset painting the sky, as a birthday cake is ushered out while he sings the happy birthday melody to you. he'll gift you a simple necklace with a pendant that is meant to be significant between the two of you. it's the small and simple things that he does that are so sincere that make your day feel special.

KIM SUNOO

he's the absolute sweetest when it comes to your birthday. he's inviting your friends, he's inviting your family to the party later that night. but for the rest of the day, it's just you two spending what could possibly be one of your favourite birthdays ever. sunoo always knows how to make the day interesting, especially if it means taking on a little scavenger hunt to look for all of your birthday presents, having an outdoor picnic, and him showering you with kisses as he's so happy that he can spend this day with you. the final place is where the rest of your loved ones pop out with a homemade birthday cake that sunoo made for you with his love, sweat, and tears of absolute joy. his gifts are sincere in that they are key charms, homemade paper flowers, letters, and other trinkets of how much he loves you.

YANG JUNGWON

this boy had been worried, more like panicking in trying to make your day special. it started off with the reservation to lunch going wrong, finding out that the people had spelt the name wrong on your cake. this boy is internally panicking and he's apologizing for all of the tiny errors —but the smile on your face eases him from the worries. after that little moment of panic, it's him grabbing you by the hand and taking you out to enjoy the world around you. he's taking pictures of you, holding you in his arms, and placing kisses on your cheek. it's him giving you presents that he spent hours trying to decide what he wanted to give you, spinning you around in the fields as he gives you a bouquet of your favourite flowers. and it's him smiling across the table from you during the starry night as he's singing happy birthday to you as the candle illuminates your happy countenance. and for that moment, the world stops spinning as he is happy to have spent a day getting to share his love for you.

NISHIMURA RIKI

aside from the fact that your birthday sleep was interrupted by the fire alarm going off (niki was trying to make you breakfast in bed), niki does everything in his power to make you forget that event. you have to admit tho, the burnt crepes was a cute effort. so he orders you in your favourite breakfast meal so that the two of you can lounge on the couch and watch an episode of your favourite show before the rest of your birthday plans commence. he's taking you out, anything you set your hands on, he's buying it for you. but he's also treating you out to your favourite boba place, getting your favourite snacks, taking you out to the arcade, following you around as you point to beautiful paintings at an art museum —he's following you around as you have the full day to enjoy your birthday; and it's making him fall in love with you by the minute. at night, he takes you out close to the water. the two of you sitting on the ledge. he has a lighter in his pocket as he pulls out a cake that he snuck near the end of his adventures. you're watching the candle sparkle as he sings you happy birthday. placing a kiss on your lips as he's the luckiest boy to have spent this day cherishing you.

reblogs, feedback, comments & likes are appreciated!

[pinkpurplesunrises]

Where the sun meets the flower (you'll always be my girasol)

4000 words - the long story - Alexia Putellas x Reader - This may be heartbreaking but I promise you it'll be okay - Angst and Fluff - Mentions of Reader being sick. Please read with care.

Life can be cruel, so let's just be kind.

You first met her when you were seven.

It was the kind of summer where everything shimmered. Hot pavement under bare feet. The scent of rosemary and jasmine in the air, and the distant hum of children’s voices echoing down the narrow streets of Mollet del Vallès. You’d just moved there with your family. A blonde girl from a quieter town, your Catalan clumsy. Your smile shy but constant.

The first time she saw you, Alexia was sitting on the edge of the pavement. Her scraped knees stained with dirt, a half-deflated football at her side. She stared at you like you were something out of a storybook.

“You look like a girasol,” she said, casually, like it was obvious. Sunflower. You blinked. “Why?”

She shrugged, pushing her tangled hair from her face. “Because your hair’s like gold. And your smile....” She paused, thoughtful. “It looks at the world like it's sunlight.”

You’d never been called something so strange. So lovely.

From then on, you were girasol to her.

You became fast friends in the way only children can. Without questions or reservations. She showed you the best places to climb trees, the shortcut to the bakery that sold the softest ensaimadas, and how to trap lizards without hurting them.

She played football like she was born with it in her blood, and you used to sit cross-legged at the edge of the gravel pitch watching her with awe.

She was bold. Messy. Full of fight, joy and confidence.

You were quieter. Always watching. Always listening.

But she brought something out of you. Like the sun coaxes flowers to open. And when she laughed, she’d always look to see if you were laughing too.

You were still the quieter one, the one who sketched things more than said them out loud, but when Alexia was around, you lived a little louder. She had a way of making everything feel less heavy.

You’d laugh at her ridiculous impressions of your teachers. At the way she’d try to speak with an exaggerated Madrid accent just to annoy people in town. And when she laughed. She’d always glance your way, just to make sure you were laughing too.

That was the thing about Alexia. Even then, even as a child, she noticed you.

Really noticed you.

You were maybe nine the first time the sickness took hold in a way that scared everyone.

It started like a flu. Fever, chills, a cough. But it didn’t leave. Your body grew slower. Your limbs heavy. Days passed where you couldn’t get out of bed, your golden hair sticking to your skin with sweat. Your parents hovered in quiet worry, doctors came and went, and the house fell into a kind of stillness.

Except for Alexia.

She came anyway.

She'd show up at your door, sometimes muddy from training. Holding a small bunch of sunflowers in her hand. Often stolen from her mother's garden. Not always fresh, not always symmetrical but always bright.

“For my girasol,” she’d say with that stubborn smile. “So you don’t forget what you are.”

She’d sit beside your bed, unbothered by the silence or the tubes or the pale version of you lying there. Sometimes she’d talk about her matches. About school. About her sister messing up the TV remote. Other times, she’d bring a board game. Clue, Monopoly, once even Twister which made you laugh so hard it hurt.

And sometimes, she wouldn’t say anything at all. She’d just hold your hand, thumb running lightly over your knuckles as if to remind you she was real. That she was staying.

Even when your voice grew weak and your eyes stayed closed longer than they were open, Alexia still came.

You once asked her, hoarsely, “Why do you keep visiting me?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Because flowers still need sunlight. Even when they’re wilting.”

And even though you were the one laying in bed, it was her who made you feel warm.

The doctors never found a name for it.

Your illness was rare. Strange and shifting. It came and went like a tide, leaving you disoriented in its wake. Some weeks you were fine, more or less. You’d run in the fields behind your house, feel the sun on your skin, laugh without coughing. Other times it hit like a storm. Your body would ache with invisible bruises. Your chest tight, head pounding. Limbs refusing to move the way you wanted them to.

The uncertainty was the worst part.

Your parents kept charts. Specialists were called. Blood drawn. MRIs scanned. But none of it gave you something to point to. You weren’t dying, exactly. But you weren’t living the way a kid should.

And still... Alexia came.

Even when football took her across the city and school pulled her in different directions. Even when she got taller, sharper and the world began to expect more from her. She never stopped showing up. Not for birthdays. Not when you missed a week of school. Not when you were just tired of pretending you were okay.

She always knocked twice on your window before sneaking in, sunflower in hand. Sometimes it was a real one. Sometimes it was drawn in the corner of her notebook and torn out just for you.

“You’re still my girasol,” she’d say like that nickname could keep you warm even on the worst days.

You were sixteen when you told her.

It was a cool autumn afternoon. The sun hung low, casting long shadows over the park benches where you sat side by side. Knees barely touching. She was telling you about a match in Barcelona, her face flushed with excitement. You listened, nodded, smiled in the right places. But your chest was tight with something unsaid.

“I like you,” you blurted, heart thudding hard in your ribs. “More than just like. I mean... like the way people in our class like each other. Like how the girls talk about boys.”

Alexia froze.

For a moment, the world held its breath. You could feel your face flush with heat, your throat tight with fear.

“I know it’s probably weird,” you added, voice shrinking. “Everyone else at school talks about boys. No one ever says...” You looked down at your hands. “No one says this.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then: her fingers found yours.

“No,” she said quietly. “It’s not weird.”

You looked up.

Her voice was steady now. Soft, but sure.

“I think I’ve felt it too. For a long time. I just didn’t know if I was allowed to feel it.”

You could barely breathe.

She smiled. Timidly this time. Not like the bold, fearless girl who stole sunflower petals and tackled boys twice her size on the pitch.

“For my girasol,” she whispered. “Of course I feel it.”

And in that moment, the park, the school, the world. It all fell away. There was only the warmth of her palm in yours. Only the gentle golden light between you. Only two girls sitting shoulder to shoulder on a fading afternoon. Beginning to fall into something neither of you had words for yet, but that had always... always been there.

You were 18 when you’d been thinking about prom for weeks.

It felt silly, maybe, with everything else going on. Your illness creeping up again. School coming to an end. The constant ache in your ribs and knees, but still… you wanted it.

You wanted to wear the rose gold dress your mother had bought you back in March. The one with the soft shimmer and the off-shoulder neckline that made you feel like a version of yourself untouched by hospital rooms and missed classes. You wanted to feel normal, even for just one night.

But mostly, you wanted to go with her.

With Alexia.

You’d rehearsed the question over and over again in your head. How to ask her. How to not sound like your heart was beating too fast just at the thought.

You said it one afternoon after her training. The both of you walking down to the bakery, fingers brushing.

“Would you maybe... if you’re not busy... want to come to prom? With me?” You paused. Swallowed hard. “I mean… as my girlfriend.”

Alexia blinked. Then smiled, slow and wide. “Pensaba que nunca lo dirías. Of course I will.”

The week of prom, you got sick.

Not the kind of sick you could ignore. Not the kind that passed in a day or two. Your body ached so badly you couldn’t stand without trembling. Your fever burned high, eyes glassy, skin too hot then too cold. Your rose gold dress hung untouched in the closet. Tags still on.

You didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t want to ruin it. Didn’t want to admit the truth.

But Alexia always knew.

She came to your door that evening dressed in a tailored dark suit. No tie. Her hair loose around her shoulders. In one hand, she held a small bouquet of white sunflowers. In the other: your dress.

You blinked, barely able to sit up.

“I told you I was coming to prom with you,” she said softly, stepping inside. “I didn’t say it had to be their prom.”

While your parents quietly lit candles in the kitchen and brought out cold drinks and soft music, Alexia turned your living room into something out of a fairy tale.

String lights draped across the ceiling. A playlist of slow songs hummed from the speakers. A little banner with letters cut out by hand: GIRASOL’S PROM.

She helped you out of bed slowly, carefully, her arms strong around your waist. She let you rest your weight on her. No rush. No pressure. She brought you to the mirror and zipped up your dress gently. Brushing your hair back, eyes shimmering.

“You look like magic,” she whispered, her voice thick.

You tried to smile, even though your body felt like it might fold beneath you.

“I can’t dance much,” you said ashamed.

“That’s okay,” she said. Wrapping her arms around your waist. “I only need a little.”

So you swayed.

Slowly. Gently. Under the twinkle of string lights and the soft hum of your favorite song. Her arms around you, her chin resting on your shoulder. The warmth of her breath against your skin. The soft kisses on your lips.

And when your knees buckled. When your legs couldn’t take it anymore, she caught you. Without panic. Without a word.

She held you. Sat on the floor with you. Your dress crumpled, your body trembling. Her suit jacket around your shoulders.

“Still the most beautiful girl at prom,” she said, kissing your temple.

You closed your eyes against her, and for a moment, there was no pain. Only the weight of her hand in yours. The steady rhythm of her breathing. The love she never made you ask for.

And as the night slipped on, you leaned into her chest and whispered, voice breaking:

“Thank you for not giving up on me.”

She held you tighter.

“Nunca, my girasol. Nunca.”

You were twenty when you moved in with her.

It wasn’t some grand declaration. No dramatic scene of boxes and champagne and keys changing hands. It was slow, natural. Like everything between you and Alexia had always been.

You were spending most nights there anyway. Some mornings she’d wake up early to make you tea before training. Kissing your forehead and tucking the blankets tighter around you before slipping out the door in her cleats.

Other days, you’d be the one waiting at her kitchen table. Sketchbook in hand, while the sound of the front door closing signaled her return. Sweat still clinging to her collarbone, eyes lighting up the second they found you.

When she asked... when it finally became real, you were sitting on the couch with your legs tangled. Her arm around your shoulders. The sun melting through the blinds like syrup.

“I want you here,” she said simply, “for all the mornings. And the bad nights. And the good ones, too. I want to come home to my girasol.”

You looked at her. Eyes tired from another flare-up that week. Joints still sore. Heart heavy with fear of being a burden.

“You already have me,” you whispered. “Even when I’m hard to carry.”

She tucked her fingers under your chin. Her thumb brushing your cheek.

“You’re not a weight,” she said. “You’re home.”

So you packed slowly.

Your books. Your favorite oversized sweater. A mug she always stole when you weren’t looking. She cleared a drawer for your medicine, rearranged her bathroom shelf so your creams and balms and gentle soaps fit beside her perfume and hair ties.

There were good days. Whole stretches where your body forgot to hurt. Where you walked with her down to the bakery like old times. Where you danced in the kitchen with bare feet and no fear.

And then there were the other days.

The ones where your lungs felt tight. Where your skin buzzed with invisible pain. Where the whole world felt like it was pulling away from you, and you couldn’t get out of bed.

But now… you didn’t have to face them alone.

Now she was there.

Holding you through the pain. Reading aloud to you when your eyes ached too much to focus. Whispering, “T’estimo tant, girasol,” over and over until the trembling stopped.

On the worst days, you’d wake up convinced she deserved better. Someone healthier. Easier. Lighter.

But she never left. Never looked at you like you were broken.

Only like you were hers.

You were twenty-five when your body gave out in a way it hadn’t before.

The warning signs had been there. Fatigue that clung no matter how long you slept. Aches that bloomed into something deeper. Breathing that came in shallow, frightened bursts. But you tried to hide it. You always did.

Alexia was twenty-six then.

In the prime of her career. FC Barcelona’s golden girl. Captain with fire in her veins and her name chanted in stadiums loud enough to shake the sky. She was winning trophies, giving interviews, wearing the armband like it was stitched to her soul.

And still... she was by your side.

Every night. Every morning. Every hour she could steal.

The hospital room was sterile and quiet, but she made it feel like home.

She brought your sunflower mug. Your favorite lotion. And a blanket that still smelled like her. She taped drawings you’d made years ago to the white walls. A photo of the two of you smiling in the kitchen. Her hair wet from the rain. Your eyes sleepy but glowing.

You hated how small you looked in the bed. How the tubes curled out of your arm. How her eyes sometimes slipped over the monitors. Reading things she didn't want to understand.

She sat beside you in her Barça jacket, half-zipped, fingers curled around yours.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered once. You weren’t even sure why. For being here. For being sick. For not being the girl who danced in her living room anymore.

Alexia shook her head. Leaned in close until her forehead rested against yours.

“No,” she whispered, voice firm. “You don’t apologize for existing. You don’t ever do that, my girasol.”

You closed your eyes, the heat of her touch grounding you.

“They need you,” you said, weakly. “The team. Spain. Barça.”

Her fingers threaded through yours. “And I need you.”

She said it like it was the easiest truth in the world.

Like trophies could wait. Like nothing outside this room was more important than your hand in hers.

There were matches she couldn't skip. Champions League, El Clásico. But even then, she’d call you from the locker room. Her face flushed. Still breathing hard from the final whistle. She’d grin into the camera and say, “That goal? It was for you.”

She’d hold the phone up to the stadium noise, just so you could hear them chanting her name. And then, quieter: “One day they’ll say your name like that too, when they see your art. When they know your story.”

You tried to believe her.

Because when Alexia spoke, the world always seemed a little more possible.

Even from a hospital bed.

Even on May 25th, 2024. The afternoon of the Women’s Champions League final.

You weren’t doing well.

Your body was fragile in a way that frightened even the doctors. You hadn’t eaten properly in days. The machines were louder than usual. Your chest ached with every breath. The nurses came in gently, speaking in low voices. Their hands moving with practiced care.

Alexia hadn’t wanted to go. She’d sat by your bed the week before, her hand in yours, her eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.

“I won’t leave you,” she said.

“You have to,” you whispered. “You have to play.”

But she shook her head. “I’m benched anyway. Still not cleared fully from training. Some strain. Minor, but…”

“Then go,” you said. You gripped her hand. “And when they need you... and they will need you... you go out there and do what you always do.”

She pressed her forehead to yours, silent for a long time.

“Score for me,” you whispered. “If you can.”

Her voice cracked. “I’ll score for us.”

The TV buzzed softly at the foot of your bed, tuned to the final. Your parents sat nearby, quiet and still. The nurse dimmed the lights. Just enough so you could see the pitch glowing blue and white through tired eyes.

Barcelona. Lyon. On the winning end 1-0 in the 89th minute. But it was still nerve wracking. Anything could happen.

Your breathing was shallow. You could feel your heart working too hard. But your eyes stayed on the screen, even when it blurred.

And then...

90’+2: SUBSTITUTION – ALEXIA PUTELLAS ON.

Your chest fluttered.

There she was, pulling her jersey over her head. Armband tight on her sleeve. Her ponytail swaying with every stride. Jaw set with quiet fire.

The commentators barely had time to finish saying she was still recovering.

“Likely just a symbolic sub,” they said. “But what a symbol.”

They didn’t know her like you did.

90’+4.

A scramble in the box. A deflection. And suddenly, she was there.

Right place. Right time. One touch with her left. A second to steady. And then...

Goal.

A bullet into the top corner. The stadium exploded. So did you.

Something inside your chest lurched. Not from the goal, but from something deeper. Like your body had been waiting for that moment to let go. To release everything it had held for weeks. For Months.

The room tilted.

Your fingers trembled.

The sound of the commentators faded, replaced by the distant echo of your name being called. A monitor screaming. And then...

Stillness.

A long, cold nothing.

Somewhere. Far away. Alexia was on her knees, eyes lifted to the sky. Kissing the crest on her jersey. Hands forming a heart she pointed toward the camera. Toward you.

Because somehow, she felt it. The moment your heart stuttered. The moment it stopped.

Because you were hers.

And she was always listening for your heartbeat. Even across oceans of sound.

The darkness wasn’t black.

It was warm, at first. Soft. Like a room without corners. Like floating in something that didn't press or pull, just held you.

There was no pain here. No machines. No IVs. No body to ache in. Just quiet.

And then... A flicker. A breath of light. Not light like the sun, but something softer. Golden, like the reflection of it. Like something remembered.

You were in bed. Your bed, the one in the apartment with the slightly creaky frame and the cotton sheets you’d picked out together in a sleepy shop in Gràcia.

The window was open. The curtains billowing in the breeze, and Alexia was there. Naked under the sheets. Golden skin aglow in the late morning light. Her bare back to you, tracing idle circles on your thigh with her fingertips.

You knew this moment. Or maybe you dreamed it. One of those days after you’d made love and the world had felt bearable. Like your body might stay soft and whole forever.

She was talking, but her voice was distant. Like you were underwater. Trying to hear through the surface. And then it sharpened. “Girasol,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Please come back.”

She turned to you. Her eyes were wet, hair tangled from sleep, lips swollen from kissing. But her face... her face was terrified. Her hand came up to cup your cheek, and you felt it. Somehow, you felt it. The warmth of her palm. The tremble in her thumb.

“Please,” she said again, mouth pressed to your temple. “Come back to me. Just… one more minute. One more breath. That’s all I need.”

You wanted to answer. You tried. But your voice was nowhere.

Your body, nowhere.

Still, something in the way she held you. Desperate and reverent. Like you were something holy and disappearing. Cracked the silence open.

It hurt.

The ache of wanting her, of needing to move, to touch, to live... it burned through the soft dark like a flare in the night.

And then...

You remembered her goal. You remembered her eyes looking up after she scored, lips forming your name.

You remembered that you hadn’t said goodbye.

A sound.

Beeping.

A high-pitched, regular rhythm.

Then voices... Shouting... A rush of movement.

And for a while nothing for a long time.

Until a week later.

The light was soft when you opened your eyes. Not the glaring brightness of the hospital ceiling, but a golden kind of hush. Late afternoon sun filtering through the curtains. A vase of sunflowers on the windowsill.

You blinked slowly.

It felt like the air had thickened while you slept, like time had melted and reformed in your absence.

And then... her.

Alexia.

Curled up on the small hospital couch. Barely asleep, arms wrapped around her knees. She looked like she hadn’t moved in hours. Still in sweats, her hair pulled back, face hollowed by days of holding her breath for you.

You shifted, and the soft rustle of sheets was enough.

She was at your side in a second. Eyes wide, mouth open like she couldn’t believe it.

“Hey,” you rasped. Your throat was dry, but your smile was real. “You’re here.”

Her face crumpled. A single sob broke out of her chest as she dropped to her knees beside the bed. Her hands in yours. Her forehead against your arm.

“I didn’t... I wasn’t here,” she whispered. “I was on the pitch. When it happened. I was scoring a fucking goal, and you...” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “I should’ve been here.”

You brushed your thumb across her knuckles.

“It was a perfect goal,” you murmured.

She looked up at you. Wet lashes. Disbelief swimming in her eyes. “You saw it?”

“I saw you come on. I saw the pass. You didn’t even look, just hit it like you knew. Like you felt it.”

Alexia swallowed hard, nodding slowly.

“I did,” she said. “I felt… something. Like everything in me told me to turn and shoot. Like you were right there.”

“I was,” you whispered.

Her hands trembled around yours.

“It wasn’t just a goal,” you said, your voice barely above a breath. “You brought me back.”

Alexia leaned forward, pressing her lips to your temple, lingering there like a prayer. “Girasol… I would’ve traded that goal. All of it. Just to hear you say my name again.”

You turned to her slowly, cheeks damp with tears neither of you had noticed falling.

“But you didn’t have to,” you said. “Because I’m still here.”

And in that moment, she held you like you were the victory.

Not the medal.

Not the stadium.

You.

Her girasol.

[thereosheep]

You were born in the 2000s, so it was interesting to try and tinker with a computer that was even older than you. How fast would it run? What could it do?

Could it run Doom?

In a sense.

It did doom your entire worldview after all.

It used to belong to your mom. One of the few things you had access to now that you were of age and could fish around her storage unit.

Whoever used it, whoever had your name, used the file as a journal of sorts. They would write a date, Year-Month-Day, and then whatever their thoughts were on that day or other interesting stuff that happened.

At first it was pretty innocuous. A gentle hand still unsure of what they were doing.

1998-08-27 - Mom said I can use the computer for school work. I'm doing a journal too. Feeling rebellious :)

1998-08-28 - Saw a male Calico today. Pretty rare stuff :)

But each subsequent entry got more and more complex. Their thoughts more and more elaborate. And each one would bring in new insights about the author. Insights you were starting to find even weirder when taking into account the fact that you were the one reading them.

1998-09-7 - [...] Mom got me red shoes again. Even though I said I don't like them. She keeps insisting that I do no matter how many times I tell her otherwise. I wear them now because she starts crying when I continue to insist on it. [...]

1998-10-31 - [...] Mom got in a fight with Miss Huxley because I didn't get a main role in the Halloween play. Miss Huxley says I got no talent for acting. I think she's rude and has an ugly face.

Mom agrees with me for once. Says she wants to take me to a school that'll actually "appreciate my talents" [...].

1998-12-18 - Mom and I fought again today. She saw me giving Mike a goodbye hug since his family would be traveling the entire break. She asked me about him, but I don't think she likes him very much despite after telling her how great he is at soccer and how he's the strongest and most handsome boy in our class. She said she'd prefer if I was friends with someone like BELINDA GEORGE of all people! Snooty goody two shoes fake blonde and upturned nose Belinda George!

I could tell she was holding back tears as I told her that I'd NEVER be friends with someone like Belinda George.

She's been doing that more and more recently.

Those were all experiences that you've had with your mom growing up. The dates and names were wrong, sure, but it was all uncannily similar.

What really chilled you to your core, however, was the last note. The last thing someone so like you and yet so distant from who you were today.

1999-04-26 - Mom said we were gonna visit a farm today for my birthday. Seems a bit weird, but I get to leave school for the day ;)

Mike's gonna be so jealous.

She did the same for you, back during your 9th birthday.

Thing is, you never really reached that far because a car ran over a red light, hitting her side of the vehicle square on and killing her instantly.

And as you ponder the contents of the journal of a child who had an eerily similar life to yours, you wonder if you ever truly knew your mother.

And how many degrees were you separated from the "real you".

You’re visiting your parents at your childhood home and decide to do some Spring cleaning in the attic. Under a pile of dust, you discover your first 90’s PC and miraculously it still powers on. You check the documents folder. There’s only a single text file. It has your name on it.

[uss-butterscotch]

Part 4 is here!!!

I’m glad so many people are enjoying this :) I’ll probably have to come up with a real name for it now, huh

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

~

Thoroughly chastised, Eddie laid off on his investigation into the mystery behind Harrington and his unlikely friends for a few days. That’s not to say he wasn’t thinking about it. He had simply paused any needling of all involved parties until he had more information about how to continue without pissing everyone off. Something he wouldn’t really be worried about, if it didn’t mean he would never get to the bottom of things, which would eat at him until the end of time if never resolved.

The next time he found himself directly involved in Harrington affairs was in a place he never would have expected: his own driveway. Well, the driveway directly across from his, which in the trailer park, may as well have been his own driveway. Eddie had been minding his business, working on the lyrics for a new song, when the voices he could hear growing steadily louder outside finally caught his attention; shifting his focus from his notebook to the ongoing.. argument?

“Why do you even care?” A girl’s voice rang out.

Yeah, definitely an argument, though it wasn’t a voice he recognized as one of the frequent offenders of loud trailer park discussions. Using his incredible deduction skills from years of puzzle-based games, he guessed it was the red headed girl from the family that had just moved in across the driveway. Before he had time to think too much about that, a voice he did recognize answered her.

“Why do I-“ Harrington cut himself off with a scoff. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“You’re not my goddamn brother!” The girl, Eddie thought her name started with an M, Marie… Mandy..? shouted in response.

“Thank god for that.” Harrington shot back.

That must have had some sort of effect on the girl because it was silent for a beat. Eddie took the opportunity to move so he could peek out the window to watch them. Harrington and the girl stood next to his car, which was parked in front of the trailer Eddie knew to be where she lived. Harrington had his hands on his hips while the girl had her arms crossed and was glaring daggers at him.

“Max, I-” Right! That was her name.

Harrington sighed, a tired, defeated thing. “Things have been rough since… since Starcourt. For everyone. I want to make sure you’re ok. You shouldn’t… y’know, feel alone in this.”

“How could you possibly know how I fucking feel?” She spat back at him.

Harrington remained unintimidated, an impressive feat, if you asked Eddie, since Max was looking at him like she was trying to blow him up with her mind.

In response, he threw his hands up in the air, exasperated. “I guess I wouldn’t! Because you won’t talk to me! You won’t talk to Sinclair! You won’t talk to anyone!”

“None of you would understand! None of you-“

“What?” Harrington pushed, crossing his own arms. “You think you’re the only one who’s lost people? The only one who feels guilty about things that were out of our control?”

“I don’t feel guilty.” She nearly growled.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

This whole scene was really reminding Eddie of the bitchy figure of Steve Harrington that he remembered from school. Never knowing when to back off. Poking the sore spots. Eddie would almost be worried about Max, if Harrington wasn’t planted firmly in the same spot through the whole thing, and if she wasn’t giving as good as she took, looking more exasperated than anything.

When Max failed to reply, Harrington continued. “Look. I know how tempting it is to try to shut it all out and move on. That’s what Nancy and I tried to do the first time, and look where that got us.”

Eddie couldn’t really make out Harrington’s expression from this distance, but he almost sounded pleading. “I don’t wanna see you make the same mistakes I did. I don’t want you to ruin your friendships, or what you have with Lucas, because you’re too afraid to talk about it. I’ve been there, and it sucks. Hard.”

That seemed to be the final straw for Max. Eddie watched her turn abruptly around and storm into the trailer, whose lights were suspiciously dark for the time of evening it was.

“Hey!” Harrington called after her, making an aborted movement to follow her. “Mayfield!”

Harrington opened the door to the backseat of his car and pulled out what looked like a pizza box. He jogged up to the front door of the trailer and knocked. After a few moments of silence, he called into the house, “At least take the pizza!”

Eddie couldn’t hear what Max said in response but he watched Harrington shake his head and put the pizza down on the doorstep. Then, watched him all the way back to his car where he got in, looked back once more at Max’s trailer, then drove off.

A few minutes later Eddie saw one of the lights in the trailer turn on. He waited a few minutes to see if she would take the pizza now that Harrington was gone, but she never did.

Now, Eddie knew this was none of his business. He knew this was something he absolutely should not poke his sticky little fingers in. But there was something about the anger in Max’s eyes, her determination to be misunderstood, that struck Eddie. Reminded him of how he had been when he’d first been dropped off in this trailer park with his uncle after his whole life had been upended.

And maybe a part of him was also hungry for more crumbs of the Harrington conundrum, but maybe, he thought, if Max was going through something none of her friends could understand, maybe he might offer a different perspective.

He slipped out of his own trailer and made his way across the driveway to Max’s. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Almost immediately, Max’s voice returned.

“I thought I told you to fuck off, Steve!”

“Then, it has never been more convenient for me to not be Steve Harrington.” Eddie quipped.

He heard footsteps behind the door before it swung open harshly. Max eyed him up and down like she was trying ro figure out the best way to destroy him.

“You’re that guy that runs Lucas’ stupid club.” She eventually said.

Guess he had been right about her goal being to destroy him. He instinctively recoiled, gasping. “Hellfire is not stupid-“

“You sit in a dark room with a bunch of freshmen and pretend to kill monsters and save the world.” She interrupted before he could start his spiel.

Eddie narrowed his eyes at her, questioning why he even came over here in the first place. He decided to shelve this particular argument for a later date, and forged ahead.

“Whatever, I’m not here to discuss the merits of role playing games.” He waved a dismissive hand.

“Good. Because if you were, I would be telling you to fuck off.”

“Such harsh language.” Eddie mock-chastised.

Max rolled her eyes. “Why are you here, weirdo?”

Eddie shrugged. “Just overheard your little spat with Harrington, was wondering if I should be concerned about the safety of my new neighbor.”

Max scoffed. “Steve? Hurt me? He’d sonner wander into traffic.”

Of course Eddie didn’t really think Harrington would be the type to terrorize girls barely out of middle school. At least not now that he was a high school graduate.

Eddie put his hands up in surrender. “Just checking, you never know what bad actors might be lurking around this town.”

Max didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, you mean like the creepy super senior who waited until I was home alone to come talk to me.”

Eddie was really getting sick of her attitude, but also, had to respect her commitment to it. “You know you shouldn’t tell random people that you’re home alone. Stranger danger and all that.”

Max rolled her eyes yet again. “Did you actually want something other than to rag on Steve and piss me off?”

“I was actually wondering if you were gonna eat that?” He pointed to the pizza box.

For a split second Max looked like she wanted to say no and let him take it. Throw it in his face even. But then something else flashed behind her eyes. Something all too familiar to Eddie: Spite.

“I am, actually.” Quicker than Eddie could process her words, she flung a foot out and kicked the pizza box into the trailer and slammed the door.

“Do I need to say it, or do you get the idea?” She yelled through the door.

Eddie hummed theatrically, not willing to show he could be dissuaded so easily.

“Mmmm, I think I need to hear it one more time.”

He imagined her slightly shocked expression behind the door for the beat she took before yelling, “FUCK. OFF.”

Eddie saluted lazily, despite Max’s inability to see him. “Message received, Red.”

And with that, he hopped the steps down the porch of the Mayfield trailer and made his way back to his own, somehow with even more questions regarding his most recent fixation than before.

[fiastomatocheek]

ONLY IF IT’S YOU

pair: jack hughes x f!reader | part: 01 02 03 04 05

genre: angst, slow-burn romance, emotional reconciliation, domestic fluff.

warnings: mentions of past infidelity, emotional vulnerability, suggestive content, eventual smut (consensual), bittersweet moments, emotional crying, co-parenting themes, soft family dynamics.

summary: it’s mother’s day, and for once, you decide to let yourself feel like you deserve to be celebrated. jack invites you and lo to dinner, and though you’re hesitant, you agree if only because things have been… change lately. eversince that kiss. eversince you started to see how much jack has changed. tonight, jack brings back everything you once had, flowers, your favorite restaurant, and hope. by the end of the night, after lo is asleep and you and jack are alone, what started with a dinner ends with something more.

fia’s note: okay, so i’ve been thinking about the whole sammy situation and her presence like, the fact that she exists and the role she plays, even if it’s indirectly. i’m not totally sure how to feel about it yet, but i keep circling back to it in my head. her existence just adds this layer of emotional tension that’s hard to ignore, you know?. i guess i’m wondering what your thoughts are. like, do you think her being there whether physically or just in memory affects how things unfold between jack and reader? does it make the angst feel more real, or just more frustrating? i’m torn between appreciating the depth it brings and also wanting to pretend she doesn’t exist at all for the sake of peace. anyway, just curious what you think about her and how you process that part of the story. is she necessary? or just an added ache?

tagging team fia! — @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @dancerbailey3 @hopefulsuitcasemoneyzonk @kell9rs

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It’s been months since that dinner with Lukey.

Just a simple dinner, not even a date. But the way Jack looked at you that night when you dropped Lo off at his place, he didn’t even try to hide the jealousy. And when you returned later, he asked you to stay.

And then there was the kiss, like he knew he didn’t deserve it, but he also couldn’t live without it.

Since then, you hadn’t talked much about it. There were no dramatic declarations or official reconciliation. But the distance between you and Jack had changed. It was closer now. You didn’t flinch when he touched your hand. He made you tea when you came over and sometimes after she fell asleep you’d sit on his couch and talk for hours and hours.

Mother’s Day wasn’t something you ever celebrated. You never really had time, and honestly, you didn’t think you even deserved it. You were just doing what had to be done. Working hard, trying to keep your life steady for Lo. But eversince that dinner and eversince learning from Luke that Jack hadn’t even looked at another woman since the breakup you found yourself believing maybe, you were allowed to want something called ‘to be love’ again.

So when Jack texted that morning, inviting you to dinner, you hesitated. You weren’t sure if it was a date or just… Jack being Jack. But then you thought about the kiss, the way he still looked at you like you were everything in his life.

You said yes.

In the evening, you took your time getting ready. Not for Jack. Not even for the idea of romance. But for yourself.

You wore a long black bodycon dress, your makeup and hair done just the way you liked it. You needed to feel beautiful for yourself, for the mother you were, for the woman you were finally becoming again.

Lo was just as excited. She twirled in her soft pink dress, her high ponytail bouncing with every spin.

“Mommy, pwetty,”

She whispered when you helped her buckle her shoes.

You smiled. “You’re the prettiest, baby.”

Lo giggles. “You pwetti too.”

You kiss her forehead, feeling your heart tug. “You ready to see Daddy?”

Lo nods eagerly. “Daddy say he have fwowers!”

Just then, a knock sounds at the door. You scoop Lo into your arms and make your way over, heart already skipping.

Jack stood there in a sleek black suit, holding a bouquet of flowers and a small box wrapped in ribbon. He looked at you, then Lo, and the smile that stretched across his face made your knees wobble a little, just a little bit.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, just a little breathless.

“I stopped to pick these up for you.”

You smile, taken aback. “Jack…”

He grins softly and hands them over. “Happy Mother’s Day.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and say thank you, even as Lo squeals,

“Fwowers! Mommy got fwowers!”

Jack remembered, it was one of your favorite place. It was the place he always took you when he came back from road trips, the place you once celebrated your anniversary, the place where you’d cried in a booth and he kissed away every tear.

Lo was seated between you and Jack in a little booster. Her legs swung back and forth, her mouth stuffed with breadsticks, occasionally pointing at random things on the menu and saying,

“Dis one! me wanna try dis, Mommy!”

And Jack, he kept sneaking glances at you.

“So,” you say, sipping from your wine glass,

“What happened with that Rangers game? Looked like it got heated.”

Jack shrugs. “Luke pissed them off. I mostly just backed him up.”

Lo hums with her juice. “Dada go boom!”

Jack chuckles. “Yea, Lo. Daddy went boom.”

Eventually, as the food quiets everyone, you ask him something that’s been sitting on your chest for months.

“Jack… why didn’t you date anyone all these years?”

He blinked. “Why haven’t you?”

He looked at you for a long moment. “Because I screwed everything up. Because I was stupid. Because after what I did, I knew I didn’t deserve someone like you. I didn’t want anyone else. Not then. Not now.”

He tilts his head. “Why didn’t you?”

You hesitate. “I told myself I was too busy with Lo.”

Jack gives you a look.

“That’s not true, though.”

“No,” you admitted, quietly. “It’s not.”

Lo, without any warning, looked up at the two of you with innocent eyes.

“Mommy, Daddy, can I has… brudder?”

You and Jack both in ‘kinda don’t know what to do next’ position.

“A brother?” you asked gently.

“Or… sisser,” she said, nodding.

“I want baby! Wanna share toys.”

“You do?” you ask softly.

Lo nods, swinging her legs. “A baby. Wike me.”

Jack smiles but looks over at you, his eyes soft and unreadable.

“Maybe someday, sweetheart.”

By the time Jack parks in front of your place, Lorelei is out cold in her car seat. You glance at her, then at him.

“Wanna stay the night?” you ask softly.

Jack nods. “Yeah. If that’s okay.”

Inside, you tuck Lo into her bed, brushing the hair from her face. When you come out, you find Jack in the entryway, holding one of the framed photos on your hallway table.

It’s the one of you and Lo on her first birthday cake smeared everywhere, your smile wide, hers even wider.

“You look good,” he says, still staring at it.

“You look…like the mom I always imagined she’d have.”

You step closer. “What are you thinking?”

He exhales. “That you’re the best mother I’ve ever known. And the stupidest thing I ever did was not treat you like you were enough.”

He continues, voice quiet.

“There were nights after you left… I told Quinn I didn’t care if I died alone. I told Luke I’d never fall in love again if it wasn’t you. And I told my mom I didn’t deserve to be forgiven.”

Your chest at this moment already cracks open.

“I haven’t been with anyone,” he says, voice almost trembling.

“Because it’s always been you. Even when I couldn’t have you.”

You step into him slowly, your breath caught.

And this time, you… you are the one who kiss him first.

His hands come up to your waist, pulling you in carefully, so careful like he’s scared to ruin you. Your fingers slide into his hair, lips pressing again and again.

When you pull away, your forehead rests against his.

Then he kisses your temple.

You lead him to your room after that kiss with no words spoken, but everything said in the silence between your mouths and the hands that refuse to let go now. You and Jack stand in your doorway, your fingers still tremble a little when they reach for the zipper of your dress, but Jack catches your hand.

“Please let me,” he says gently.

He unzips you slowly, like it’s the first time all over again. Like he knows how delicate it is. The dress slips from your shoulders. He watches you like he’s afraid to breathe too loud and break whatever fragile thing is blooming between you.

When he leans in this time, it’s with more certainty. His lips find yours, long and aching. You can feel it the way he misses you. Still. Even standing this close. It’s like he’s trying to memorize your taste again.

“Are you sure?”

He asks between kisses, his forehead resting against yours, breath heavy but steady.

“Because if we do this, I don’t want it to be another memory I have to miss.”

You nod, eyes shining.

“I’m not ready to say I’m yours again,” you whisper honestly, your voice shaky.

“But I’m not scared to love you anymore.”

[hot-patootiee]

Part 3

part 2 here. I’m writing these like right after my Calc BC exam and I have a killer headache but fuck it we ball. Aka Steve is not the only one to obtain brain damage because of an ex.

Don’t worry about the headache, I’m having a special gummy and chilling.

…

Eddie wakes up to an empty bed. He finds a note on the nightstand.

Had to go to work, see you later

-Steve

An idea forms in his head on what to do to help apologize. Steve’s constant complaints about the big empty house he lived in. How he wished Robin or Eddie could stay forever.

Eddie was still a little unsure. It would be quite an assumption to make. He would probably have to talk to Robin during her break and see if she would also be on board and if she thought it was a good idea.

But, he knew Steve would be ecstatic to have people he cared about close by. Eddie couldn’t help but remember the nights he was woken up from Steve calling to make sure he was alive.

It would suck moving away from Wayne, but Eddie figured that taking the relationship too serious would be better than not taking it serious enough.

Eddie decided that despite just waking up at this unholy hour (11 am), he would go see Robin and brief her on his plan.

When he got to family video, luckily, Steve was working in the back and Robin sat at the desk.

She perked up as soon as she saw him.

“Eddie I messed up.” Robin stumbles out with a groan.

Eddie waits for her to continue.

“I didn’t know that Steve thought you two were dating. He’s been talking about you for weeks and I never noticed.” Robin whines again, head dropping shamefully.

“I have just the thing.” And just like that Robin is up again.

“Really?” Robin exclaimed, jumping on her toes as she leaned against the counter. Eddie personally didn’t think Robin could show this much emotion, but with Steve’s stories, it doesn’t really surprise him.

“Do you think Steve would be on board with us living with him?”

“He’s been asking me to forever, it’s just my parents give me crap for moving in with a single man.” Robin replied plainly, hints of resentment lacing her voice.

“Well you’re 18 and therefore you make your own decisions. Do you want to move in with him?” Eddie probes and Robin smiles at him in return.

She nods hard, making her hair bounce with the stiff jerks of her head.

“I want to do something else too.” Eddie mutters.

Robin seems a little suspicious as she says “Good idea, but why?”

“This is kinda both a burden and a blessing. Steve’s been wanting it for a while, but it ultimately gives him more work to do.” Eddie points ponders slowly. He rolls over potential actions in his mind, seeing how smoothly they work before coming to a conclusion.

“Maybe just a nice night. Steve gets headaches and weed might help him relax. Or He’s been talking about hosting a game night forever, we could take care of everything and just let him relax.” Eddie shrugs, thinking through different dinner options and possibilities of what Steve would like.

“Ask Steve if there’s anything you can do to make his life easier. He’s selfless by nature so there’s probably something you’ve been doing that he doesn’t like.” Robin replies coolly. She then winces. “I should probably stop putting my feet on his dash.” She murmurs in a guilty tone.

“That’s a good idea.” Eddie nods.

“I gotta pack my shit, I’ll help you pack yours, you help with mine?” Robin inquires. The way she bats her eyes might’ve seemed flirty to anyone else, but it was evidently just effective manipulation. Because Eddie knew unless he was throwing all his shit out the window, she would immediately get bored and ditch him for a German dictionary.

News flash: she did.

…

Steve surprisingly did not get impatient as time trudged on. Eddie searched his face for any mark of displeasure, but failed to find any.

But, apparently Eddie just wasn’t the one seeing it. Something about Steve had changed a little bit, instead of backing down when challenged, he just dug his heels in. It reminded Eddie of the Steve in the upside down.

Allegedly Steve had been driving all the kids down to the new diner. Mike had been skeptical about Steve’s directions and had started loudly declaring that he had gone the wrong way.

“It’s not like you’re the intellectual authority on anything Steve.”

The breaks were hit so fast that all the boys jerked forward with the sudden stop.

According to Dustin Steve then yelled “WELL I AM THE AUTHORITY OF THIS GODDAMN CAR, GET OUT IF YOU HAVE AN ISSUE!”

Steve waited a few beats and when nobody moved, put down the parking break and the engine whined slightly as Steve shifted into first a little too violently and pulled out.

Mike was scared so badly that he just sat there petrified for the rest of the ride.

So, Steve was evidently frustrated.

Eddie went to visit Steve immediately after hearing what happened. When he found him, Steve was grumbling on his bed. Obviously still peeved about earlier, every few seconds he would reflexively rub his temples.

Steve nearly jumped out of his skin when he noticed Eddie.

Eddie didn’t say anything, he just pulled out a joint and handed it to Steve, who took it apprehensively.

“It helps with headaches.” Eddie weakly justifies, but it seems to be enough to convince Steve, who then leans forward and sticks his hand in Eddie’s pocket and extracts a lighter.

He lights the joint with little fanfare, like he was just having his third daily cigarette. He breathes it in easily before expelling the smoke through his pursed lips.

“This is a little different.” Steve comments, slightly more relaxed at the promise of a high that the joint brought.

“I swapped seeds with Argyle, I had sativa, he had indica. What you’re smoking, just indica, apparently argyle is trying to get the hybrid strain.” Eddie says in a blasé tone as he climbs into Steve’s bed.

“What’s the difference?” Steve asked before taking another hit, longer this time.

“It’s supposed to relax you more. Less high, but more relaxing.” Eddie loosely explains.

Steve hogs the joint a little, but Eddie honestly thinks he deserves it. When Steve finally plops his head on Eddie’s lap, he gets an idea.

Eddie sinks his fingers into Steve’s hair and slowly begins to massage his head. Steve immediately melted into it, muscles straining occasionally when Eddie dragged his fingers especially hard at a tender spot.

Conversation became less frequent as Eddie pushed his fingers into Steve’s jaw and massaged the tense muscles there. Steve made the occasional noise, a grunt or a strange trill that he seemed to find incredibly funny.

The tension and brewing migraine seemed to have completely melted off Steve, leaving him tired and happy. He giggled through half lidded eyes and smiled impossibly wide when Eddie left and came back with reheated leftover pizza from Steve’s fridge.

Eddie struggled not to focus on Steve’s face, his gaze traced Steve’s wide smile and the sparkle in his dark eyes.

“Kis’me” the words came from Steve with a slight lisp. An unwavering smile still plastered on his face.

Eddie obliged because honestly how could he not?

The movement caused Eddie’s face to feel like firecrackers were going off on his skin. The tingling sensation danced across his skin, warmth blooming from where Steve and him met.

Eddie couldn’t focus, incredibly overwhelmed by the assault on his senses of different textures and pressures. The plushness of Steve’s lips contrasted with the lean muscle Eddie’s fingers dug into.

Eddie pulled away when his lungs went tingly from lack of air. He giggled as Steve and him stayed close, puffing out breaths of air right next to eachother.

“Wish you could stay all the t’me.” Steve yawned out, stretching his back slightly like a cat and dipping further into Eddie’s personal space.

“I can.” Eddie replies firmly.

“Really?” Steve is smiling again, so wide that Eddie was worried it might hurt from pulling his lips.

“How’d you like that? I move in with you, maybe Robin too.”

Steve trills, making soft stringy vocalizations at Eddie’s proposal. Steve nearly seems to glow at the proposition.

“Youu move ‘n tomorrow?” Steve’s muscles jump erratically in excitement, his knees tapping and jerking like he can’t control it.

“If you still want me to in the morning.” Eddie whispered, stroking Steve’s hair.

…

When morning came, Eddie woke gently, the after effects of the high still cradling him and making him relaxed.

Unfortunately it didn’t last long as he heard a shrill whistle and the telltale thump of something falling and Robin’s witchlike giggles. Eddie reluctantly pulled himself out of bed and found the hallway scattered with boxes. He turned the corner and Will and El were both there, but not to make things easier. El had a little whistle she was happily blowing whenever someone passed her. Will seemed conflicted on whether he found it funny or entirely too disrespectful for him to take part in.

Unfortunately, the first time El did this, it scared Robin so badly that she nearly threw a box of her own clothes down the stairs.

And there Robin was, clothes halfway out of the box and engulfing her upper body. Steve was laughing his socks off which promptly led to a fistful of clothes being thrown in his face.

Eddie quickly decided he wanted nothing to do with this and quietly made his way back to Steve’s room.

Best to act like he didn’t know them for a few more hours.

…

When Eddie finally arose at a normal time (11:30am) he found Robin setting up the room across from Steve with her stuff.

“Heya birdie.”

Robin glared at him.

“I talked it over with Steve, he’s apparently thrilled enough to forgive me only after I cook gnocchi.”

Eddie makes a half confused noise.

“Potato pasta.” Robin paused. “And you’re helping.” Robin asserts, making Eddie grumble.

Eddie leaves without seeing Steve, opting to also grab his shit to move to Steve’s house. Luckily, he and Robin had already boxed up a majority of the room.

It was probably a good thing he’s moving, Wayne’s back couldn’t take the couch springs much longer.

He packed his boxes into the van, the summer sun making his sweat so much he was forced to change into one of his sleeveless tops.

When he arrived back at Steve’s the kitchen had been fully commandeered by Robin who was peeling steaming potatoes with her fingers. Eddie didn’t get more of a glance as he began moving his stuff upstairs, abandoning it in the hallway because he was a little unsure what room Steve would want him in.

During one of his trips back down to his van, Steve finally appeared. He was sitting next to the counter and stealing potato bits from Robin as she worked. He looked at home in his own house for the first time in a while. His eyes traced Robin carefully as she worked as if she’d disappear. When Steve noticed Eddie, his eyes immediately flicked over to him.

“Which room should I move my stuff in?” Eddie asked with false casualness.

“Mine.”

Steve made no move to help, which was honestly something Eddie fully expected. Instead Steve bounced his feet on the floor with a smile and stuffed another crumbling bit of potato into his mouth. Eddie had apparently failed to realize the two little gremlins sitting in Steve’s shadow. Will and Eleven similarly shoving potato bits into their mouths.

Eddie couldn’t help but smile at Steve’s happiness.

…

Later that night, with boxes still artfully scattered around the second floor, a train of children entered the house. Each carried either a food item to contribute or a housewarming present.

Max grumbled as she handed Steve the Apple pie that had evidently been made by the Sinclairs, judging by the streak of flower on the back of Lucas’s shirt.

Eddie was setting up ‘a game of things’ which he knew from experience would always wonderfully devolve into Regan jokes and idiocy.

Steve got to sit and relax as Eddie and Robin hosted the party, letting him play with the kids and receive their guilty apologies. Since they were still kids, Steve forgave them. Heck, he was way more self absorbed and dickish at their age.

When Eddie finished, he dropped behind Steve, putting his hands on Steve’s shoulders and beginning to rub into the tense muscles. Steve twitched occasionally when Eddie hit a knot, but otherwise seemed pretty content.

“Your metal music gives me headaches.” Steve says suddenly. “You play it too loud and it hurts.”

“Then I’ll turn down the music. You’ll never get a headache from it again.” Eddie affirms.

Steve just hums.

“I forgive you.”

Steve paused for a moment.

“But that doesn’t mean you can stop massaging me.” Steve snapped, head lolling back until it met Eddie’s arms.

AN: have a head massage while high, it’s the best thing ever.

Also, I just don’t understand grand gestures of love, they never made me feel good. Like thanks for the stuffed animal and candies, kinda doesn’t make up for you being a dick about my dead dog. How about you instead like make something that takes time and actually shows you give a shit or go out of your way to give me a good night. I don’t understand the fall in love fast thing a lot of people do. I cultivate my love by the light of the hearth, not the light of a firecracker.

Ps. If you want me to do a follow up where Nancy and him talk. Just let me know. It’s just I didn’t really see her as central part of this story. Thought it would be better to highlight the kids, Robin, and Eddie.

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