#Emotional vulnerability

[aventurineswife]

I HAVE ANOTHER IDEA

AVENTURINE X READER THEY MARRIED THEY HAVE A CHILD (or children idk) AND LIKE YEAH ITS CHRISTMAS AS A FAMILY AND AVENTURINE GETS EMOTIONAL

A Family of Our Own

Summary: You and Aventurine, now married, are celebrating Christmas as a family. Your life together has evolved beyond the high-stakes gambles and manipulative games that once defined Aventurine’s world. As you enjoy the holiday with your child, Aventurine becomes unexpectedly emotional. He reflects on his past, his trauma, and the family he never thought he'd have. In the warmth of the holiday and the love of his family, he grapples with feelings of gratitude, guilt, and the realization that happiness may finally be within his reach.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Winter Special, Family Fluff, Christmas Celebration, Emotional Vulnerability, Hurt/Comfort, Character Development, Domestic Life, Love and Healing.

Warnings: Mentions of past trauma, Emotional moments, Brief references to violence in Aventurine’s past, Light angst (in Aventurine’s emotional struggles).

The flicker of golden lights from the Christmas tree cast a warm glow across the room, reflecting off the delicate glass ornaments. The soft hum of holiday music played in the background as your child giggled, unwrapping presents under the tree. Aventurine, dressed in a velvet green robe that matched the festive decor, sat on the couch, his usual confident smirk softened into a serene smile.

The air was filled with the scent of cinnamon and pine, a reminder that you had finally managed to convince Aventurine to let the holidays be about more than just the game of life he so often played. This year, it was different.

He leaned back, watching the scene unfold before him: your child holding up a glittering card-shaped ornament, exclaiming about how it was "just like Papa's lucky charm," and you, laughing softly as you adjusted the tree's golden star.

"Careful with that," he teased, his tone light but carrying a flicker of concern. "That ornament's as fragile as the odds in my favor when I first gambled on you."

You turned, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, you mean the safest bet you ever made?"

He chuckled, the sound warm and genuine, far removed from the sharp laugh he often wielded to mask his emotions. "Safe? Hardly. I was convinced I'd lose you the moment you realized what a mess I am."

Your child, curious and full of energy, interrupted with a wide-eyed question. "Papa, what's a gamble?"

Aventurine's eyes sparkled with amusement. "It's a game of chance, little one. Like when you open a present—you never know if it'll be something you love or something silly."

"Like socks?" they asked innocently.

"Exactly," he replied, his grin widening. "Except I don’t gamble on socks. I gamble on life. And your parent," he added, glancing at you, "was the highest-stakes game I've ever played."

You rolled your eyes playfully, settling beside him on the couch as your child became engrossed in their new toy. "And yet, you always seem to win."

His smile faltered for just a moment, his gaze growing distant as he reached for your hand. The weight of his past—the lies, the betrayals, the scars—lingered in the unspoken spaces between his words. "Not always," he murmured, his voice quieter now. "But this… this is a victory I never thought I'd have."

You squeezed his hand, grounding him. "You're here, Aventurine. With us. That's all that matters."

He exhaled slowly, his usual mask slipping away completely. "Do you know how terrifying it is? To love something so much, to have something to lose?"

Your child’s laughter filled the room again, and his eyes flickered toward them, shimmering with unshed tears. "I never thought I’d have this—a family, a home. It scares me, because it feels… fragile. Like if I blink, it’ll all disappear."

You rested your head on his shoulder, your voice steady and sure. "It’s real, Kakavasha. You’ve built this. We’ve built this. Together."

His name—his true name—spoken in your voice always unraveled him. He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "You’re too good to me," he whispered.

"And yet, here we are," you replied, smiling. "Aventurine, the great gambler, finally learning that not every win comes with a price."

The night unfolded with warmth and laughter, the three of you sharing stories, unwrapping gifts, and basking in the glow of the season. When your child finally fell asleep under the twinkling lights, Aventurine carried them to their room, his steps careful, his expression softer than you’d ever seen.

Later, as you sat together by the fireplace, his arm draped around your shoulders, he spoke again, his voice thick with emotion.

"Thank you," he said simply, his eyes meeting yours.

"For what?" you asked, leaning into him.

"For showing me that some gambles aren’t about winning or losing," he replied, his smile small but genuine. "They’re about what you’re willing to risk. And for this—for you, for them—I’d risk everything a thousand times over."

You smiled, brushing a hand through his hair. "Merry Christmas, Aventurine."

He kissed your hand, his voice soft but steady. "Merry Christmas, my love."

For once, Aventurine didn’t feel the need to chase the thrill of the unknown. This was enough. This was everything.

[small-z24]

Shadows of Fate 1

Summary:

Y/n, Cassian's shy and quiet sister, prefers to keep to the shadows. Unbeknownst to her, she is Azriel's mate. His shadows are inexplicably drawn to her, and as they grow closer, a slow-burn romance ensues. Cassian, ever protective of his sister, watches over her as the bond between Y/n and Azriel deepens.

Word Count: 1032

Warnings: None

Chapter 1: The Shadows Find Her

Y/n had always preferred the quiet corners of the Night Court. While Cassian thrived in the heart of every battle and social gathering, she found solace in the shadows, where she could observe without being observed. The grand halls and bustling rooms of the House of Wind often felt overwhelming to her, and she would retreat to the less frequented areas, finding peace in the stillness.

It was in these shadows that she first encountered Azriel.

She was tucked away in a dimly lit corner of the library, a book in hand, when she felt a curious sensation. It was as if the shadows themselves were reaching out to her, curling around her in a protective embrace. She looked up, her breath catching as she saw Azriel standing a few feet away, his intense hazel eyes locked onto hers.

"Hello, Y/n," he said softly, his voice a gentle caress.

"Hello, Azriel," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. She had always admired the Spymaster from afar, but his presence now was both comforting and unsettling.

Azriel took a step closer, his shadows swirling around him, almost as if they were drawn to her. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"No, not at all," Y/n said, closing her book. "I was just reading."

He nodded, his gaze lingering on her face. "I’ve seen you around here often. You seem to prefer the quiet places."

She smiled shyly. "I do. It's peaceful."

Azriel's shadows brushed against her, and she felt a strange sense of connection. "I understand. I find peace in the shadows too."

They spent the next hour talking quietly, sharing stories of their childhoods and their lives in the Night Court. Y/n found herself opening up to Azriel in a way she hadn’t with anyone else, not even Cassian.

The next few days saw Azriel and Y/n encountering each other more frequently. Every time Y/n sought out her quiet refuge, Azriel seemed to be there, as if the shadows themselves guided him to her. The connection between them grew stronger with each meeting, their conversations delving deeper into personal histories and shared dreams.

One afternoon, while Y/n was browsing through the ancient texts in the far corner of the library, she felt a familiar presence. She turned to see Azriel leaning against the doorway, watching her with a soft smile.

"You always manage to find the most secluded spots," he remarked, walking over to join her.

She laughed lightly, the sound musical and soothing. "It's a talent of mine."

Azriel’s smile widened. "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all," she replied, motioning to the chair beside her.

As they sat together, Azriel’s shadows began to playfully swirl around Y/n, almost like they were welcoming her. She reached out a hand, letting the shadows dance over her fingers, their cool touch sending shivers down her spine.

"Your shadows seem to like me," she observed, her eyes meeting his.

"They do," Azriel admitted, his voice tinged with something she couldn’t quite place. "They’re drawn to you, just like I am."

Y/n’s heart skipped a beat at his words. There was a depth to his gaze, an intensity that both excited and frightened her. She looked away, trying to calm her racing thoughts.

Azriel reached out, gently tilting her chin back towards him. "You don’t have to hide from me, Y/n. I see you."

Her breath caught in her throat, the vulnerability in his words breaking down her walls. "I’m not used to being seen," she whispered.

"Then let me be the one to see you," he replied softly, his thumb brushing over her cheek. "All of you."

Their encounters became a daily occurrence. Azriel would often find Y/n in the library, the garden, or some other quiet corner of the House of Wind. Each time, his shadows would eagerly greet her, wrapping around her like a protective cloak.

One evening, as the sun set over Velaris, Y/n found herself in the garden, tending to the flowers. She had always found solace in nature, the vibrant colors and delicate scents grounding her. She was lost in thought when she felt a familiar presence beside her.

"Beautiful evening," Azriel commented, his voice low and soothing.

"It is," she agreed, looking up at him with a smile. "I come here to clear my mind."

Azriel nodded, his eyes reflecting the golden light of the setting sun. "I understand. It’s one of my favorite places too."

They walked through the garden together, their conversation flowing effortlessly. Y/n found herself opening up about her hopes and fears, the dreams she had for the future. Azriel listened intently, his presence a comforting anchor.

As they reached a secluded bench, Azriel turned to her, his expression serious. "Y/n, there’s something I need to tell you."

She looked at him, her heart racing. "What is it?"

He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving hers. "I think... I think you might be my mate."

The world seemed to stop at his words. Y/n felt a whirlwind of emotions, fear, and hope battling within her. "Mate?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

Azriel nodded, his expression earnest. "I’ve felt a connection to you since the moment we met. My shadows are drawn to you, just as I am. I’ve never felt this way about anyone."

Y/n took a step back, her mind racing. "This is... a lot to take in."

"I know," Azriel said softly, reaching out to take her hand. "And we can take things as slowly as you need. But I want you to know that I’m here for you, always."

She looked into his eyes, seeing the sincerity and love there. Slowly, she nodded, a tentative smile forming on her lips. "Thank you, Azriel. I think... I think I feel the same way."

As they sat on the bench, the sun dipping below the horizon, Y/n felt a sense of peace she had never known before. She knew the journey ahead would be filled with challenges, but with Azriel by her side, she felt ready to face whatever came their way.

Author's Note: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this part. Feel free to leave a comment or send me prompts!

[follows-the-bees]

Single layers (and no shoes) represent Ed's emotional vulnerability/openness and self reflection.

It's a common symbolism device to either have characters put on tons of layers when they are feeling vulnerable (Dean Winchester I'm looking at you) or go down to single layer when they are opening up. Ed's clothing is no exception.

Season One

The first time we see Ed in single layers is when he switches clothes with Stede. While during this whole episode, Ed is opening up, he makes altering life decisions while in Stede's outfit. First, the whole scene in the crow's nest where he takes seriously Stede's proposal to continue learning about each other's lives, and second when he lies to Izzy about planning to kill Stede.

I think the choice of black and white, the classic good and bad trope, can be read into as well. Stede is in the black leathers of Blackbeard with lighter color jewelry around his neck, showing the heaviness of the Blackbeard role and crew, while Ed is wearing a white shirt with a black cravat, showing Stede's way of piracy giving him hope while having a bit of Blackbeard's heaviness still there.

In 1x7, This is Happening, Ed goes down to one layer — the t-shirt.) Ed drops his jacket and goes down to a single layer right before Lucius rips into him about Stede's feelings for him and he stays down in these layers as they eat the snake.

Ed's emotions are bare, at the forefront. He is not only realizing Stede's feelings for him, but also letting his feelings come out.

And his shirt is purple — symbolizing Ed's love for Stede. (Sidenote: I love that blue is Stede's color and red is Ed's and they combine for a beautiful purple throughout the show.)

Both Ed and Stede are in single layers the first time they kiss. Ed confesses his love (what makes Ed happy is you) while they sit next to each other on the beach. Both of them are vulnerable, open, especially Ed. They are both terrified, figuring themselves and each other out.

Ed continues to be in single layers as he sits on the dock waiting for Stede. The color theme of purple is once again used to represent Ed's emotional state.

The infamous breakup robe. While Ed has gone back to the Revenge, trying to be just Ed, back to the crew that allowed him to be himself (all but one person that is), he stays in the breakup robe, sans shirt, most of the time.

Until he has to put the mask and persona of Blackbeard back on, he is open, and emotional in front of Lucius and then the crew.

He is also shoeless during most of these scenes. While Ed being shoeless is more prevalent in season two, I think it ties into a deeper level of self reflection.

Season Two

Ed is down to only a black shirt and pants in the grav(e)y basket.

This time the t-shirt is black — symbolizing Ed's dark headspace. But once again, it's all about his emotions and Ed really feeling them. He is self-reflecting, looking into himself and realizing what he wants in life, what he thinks of himself, and finally deciding that ultimately, he wants to live.

There is the moment in Purgatory where Ed makes a shoe and puts it on, symbolizing one foot in the grave. But by the time Ed climbs to the cliff edge, he is back down to no shoes. This symbolizes two things: 1) he is no longer one foot in the grave (foreshadowing) 2) that he is about to do more self reflecting.

The combination of one-layer and no shoes is when Ed is most open emotionally. He now realizes his own feelings about himself, and when he hits the water, he decides to fight to live. Yes, mer!Stede is part of it, his love for Stede cannot be hidden, it is out in the open, the shining beacon of light and hope.

I've talked about it before but the editing of the MerStede scene is amazing. The last shot in the water as Ed sinks down is Ed in all black, surrounded by dark waters, his feet the most prominent in the shot. This cuts immediately to Stede's feet wading into the holds water, joining Ed in both worlds.

In all of 2x5, Ed is in the rice sack (and I'd be remiss not to mention the cat collar and bell.) He starts out wearing sandals: during the talks with the crew, Stede, the door, and Lucius. While Ed is trying to make up for everything, he is not fully committed emotionally to everything.

Not until two things happen: Lucius pushes him overboard into the water — the symbolism of water as rebirth, understanding, growth is very loud this season — and in the process knocks his shoes off. While it is a comedic beat and parallel to Lucius's shoes coming off when he pushes him overboard it has a deeper meaning.

Ed fully lets himself feel and tap into his emotions — sit with himself if you will — once he talks with Fang. He learns that something he did in the past that he thought was fun was actually hurtful to the other person. He genuinely apologizes for that (the opposite of the corporate apology from earlier.)

He then continues that openness and vulnerability with Stede on the deck. Telling Stede exactly what he needs — to take it slow — and knowing that Stede won't do the exact opposite (what happened constantly last season with a certain character cause they thought it was "best") but he knows Stede will listen to and respect him. This moment shows how Ed is not only legit apologizing and realizing his actions, but letting himself be open and vulnerable again.

The last scene I want to point out is the moment before and morning after they sleep together.

The last shot we see of them that night, Ed sits on the bed, his hair down, his jacket off — down to one layer — as he looks lovingly to Stede. We can read many emotions on his face as the two of them are surrounded by all of the colors that we know to represent the couple — yellow, red, and purple.

In a parallel to the night before, the next morning Stede is shirtless but covered from the waist down, while Ed is covered. He is wearing Stede's robe, wrapped in one layer of comfort. The outer layer is blue — both Stede's color and the color of the ocean (there's that rebirth and change symbolism again) — with purple inner lining.

Both of these moments contain physical, mental, and emotional vulnerability for Ed. Ed has never been shy about explaining himself, but he is now starting to understand himself and process these emotions.

When Ed is in single layers and no shoes, it is when he is at his most vulnerable, gets to feel and express his emotions the most.

When he's Ed.

I may have missed some moments but these are the ones that stuck out to me the most. I also didn't dive into Stede here, but that could be a whole other essay.

[a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all]

I Love You, But More Importantly, I Trust You (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Fandom: Marvel, Avengers, Bucky Barnes, Winter Soldier Word Count: 2911 Summary: It's Valentine's Day and Bucky isn't sure what to give you that will adequately express how he really feels. Finally, he decides to give you the one piece of himself he's been hiding all this time... TW: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Past Trauma, Emotional & Physical Scars, Description of Past Injuries, Undressing, Kissing Note: Happy Valentine's Day!!! I thought our favorite traumatized soldier needed some loving today (even if it involves some emotional vulnerability first)

“Hey, Buck. Are you all ready for tonight?”

Bucky glanced up from the television screen, one eyebrow raised slightly, to stare at his best friend as he walked into the room followed closely by Sam. “What’s tonight?”

“Umm, Valentine’s Day?” Sam said. “Damn, I know you’ve been on ice for the last 70 or so of them, but wasn’t that a thing back in the 40’s?”

Steve chuckled. “It was but back then Bucky…well, let’s just say he didn’t usually keep the same girl around for more than a few dates.”

Sinking into the couch cushion, Bucky muttered, “Steve was the romantic one. I was young and cocky and just looking for a good time, not something serious.”

Sam plopped down on the arm of the couch. “You better not let your girlfriend hear you say that or Tony’ll have to build you a new right arm to match that shiny left one.”

“What I have with her is nothing like those girls in the past!” Bucky snapped, but then his tone softened as he stared down at his hands. “I…I love her.” 

He had first whispered those words to you a few months ago when he asked you to share his quarters in the Tower with him, but it was still strange saying them in front of his friends. Neither of you were big on public displays of affection or grand romantic gestures so Bucky doubted either Steve or Sam realized how deeply he truly cared about you. To them, this might just seem like another fling or someone to keep his bed warm, but in reality, nothing could be farther from the truth.

As if reading his mind, Steve placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder and gave it a soft squeeze. “Well, today’s the day you’re supposed to prove that to her. Why don’t you buy her some flowers, a box of chocolate, a stuffed animal or two, and then take her out for a nice dinner? That’s what most people do. Just show her a good time and then let her know what she means to you. She’ll love it.”

Bucky nodded though he wasn’t so sure. That stuff might be fine for most girls, but you weren’t most girls. Far from it. You were unlike anyone he had ever met before and while he did want to do something special to show you how he felt, he knew fancy food and generic trinkets weren’t the way. He would have to find something else, something you would value more than the crap they were selling at all the local stores. 

And as much as the idea terrified him, he thought he knew just the thing.

Dragging yourself into your quarters as soon as the Quinjet landed, you flopped back onto the bed and draped your arm across your eyes. You loved your job and couldn’t imagine being anything other than a SHIELD agent, but weeks like this left you considering an early retirement. Globetrotting and tracking down rogue agents on less than a few hours of sleep had been the dream a few years ago. However, as you got older–and now actually had someone waiting for you when you came home–that life was losing some of its appeal.

You had just started to slip into unconsciousness when you heard a shuffling come to a stop at the edge of the room. Without moving your arm from its place over your eyes, you mumbled, “Hey, baby. Sorry I didn’t come find you but you weren’t around when I came in so I thought you might be out. However–” you said with a tired chuckle “–it would seem as though we’re both home.”

“How was it?”

Noting a slight tension in Bucky’s voice, you began to answer his question. “Ugh, just the same old, same old. Fury is all over my ass about this latest intel. I told him I can’t do anything else until he gives me–” 

You fell silent as you raised your head and got your first glimpse of your boyfriend. He was wearing your ratty, faded pink bathrobe that was stretched taut across his muscular shoulders and arms. The bottoms of the robe hung open and loose–revealing a glimpse of his boxers underneath–but at the top across his bare chest, he clutched the robe closed securely as if his life depended on it. His teeth were clenched tightly, his long hair grazing his pronounced jawline as it fell over his face. And even though his eyes were partially obscured and he was avoiding your gaze, it was impossible not to recognize the fear within them.

Sitting up, you softly asked, “Hey, Buck… what’s going on?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” he muttered bluntly as if that explained everything. 

Quietly, you cursed to yourself. You had never given a damn about Valentine’s Day, even as a little kid in school when you were supposed to pass out the cheap cards all the parents bought for everyone in class. And now as an adult, things haven't changed. In fact, until he mentioned it, the significance of the day had completely slipped your mind. But even now that you had been reminded, it didn’t explain why Bucky was wearing your robe.

“I guess it is. Did we…did we have plans? I can’t for the life of me remember us talking about it but you know how I tend to lose track of everything while I’m gone on a mission. I could–Well, it’s kind of late to get a reservation, but we could try to order in?” 

Bucky didn’t respond. Instead, he just continued to stand in the bedroom doorway, the knuckles on his right hand starting to turn white with how tightly he was clutching the sides of the robe shut. 

Afraid he might be having some sort of flashback and unsure of what to do, you slid to the edge of the bed until your feet rested on the floor. “Bucky? Baby, did something happen? Why are you wearing that?”

Taking a long, deep breath, Bucky muttered, “Steve and Sam said on Valentine’s Day people are supposed to give each other flowers and chocolates and crappy stuffed animals to show how much they care about each other. I started to go to the store to get you those things, but thinking about it, nothing felt right. I’m sure you would act like you loved it, but we both know you don’t care about that kind of shit. Plus, none of that would show you how I really feel about you. So, instead, I decided to give you me…All of me.”

As his grip on the robe slowly started to loosen, you inhaled sharply as it hit you what he was planning. Jumping from the bed, you crossed the room in three long strides and placed your hands over his, stopping the robe from falling open. “No, Buck, you don’t have to do that. I mean, it’s incredible that you thought to offer, but I don’t want you doing anything you’re not comfortable with just because of the date on the calendar.”

For the first time since you came home, Bucky lifted his head to look you straight in the eye. Fear still radiated from him–causing his blue eyes to seem even brighter than usual–but beyond that was a steely determination that you had only seen in the heat of battle. Gently, he removed your hands from his as he said in a strong, clear voice, “I want to. I love you, doll. And more importantly, I trust you.”

Tears began to blur your vision but you quickly blinked them away. Some people might have been slightly annoyed to hear him put trust over love, but you knew that to Bucky, trust was the most important thing in the world. He had been used, lied to, and betrayed so many times that he hadn’t been sure he could ever fully trust someone again.

He had told you as much just before the two of you had slept together for the first time. However, that night had just seemed like a one-time hook-up after an intense mission so as long as he gave you what you needed, you couldn’t give a fuck whether he trusted you or not. But when one time turned into two which turned into three which eventually turned into feelings developing on both sides, it became more of an issue. And while you knew at this point he trusted you more than almost anyone else, there was still one part of himself he hid from you. 

No one but a select few SHIELD doctors had ever seen the place where Bucky’s shoulder met his metal arm. In the locker rooms before missions, he would disappear into the bathroom stall to change into his uniform. He would join everyone at the pool or the beach but refused to go in the water or get wet enough to cause his shirt to cling tightly to his body. And when the two of you were alone and got intimate, he always left his shirt or jacket on the entire time. 

The only few times he had made an exception to this was after he bought a set of triple-layer blackout curtains for the bedroom, and even then it was a rare occurrence he would strip down completely. When he did, out of respect for him, you tried your best not to let your fingers brush against his shoulder in the darkness, but it had occasionally happened. Even without being able to see it, the feeling of the tough ridge of scar tissue abruptly shifting into cold, smooth metal painted enough of a mental image for you to have a vague idea of what it must be like. 

And you understood why he wanted to keep it hidden from view.

But now Bucky was standing before you in the middle of a fully lit room prepared to bare all. All he had to do was drop the robe.

Taking a step back, you nodded. “If this is what you want—if you think you’re ready to show me— then I’m ready. But, baby, don’t do this unless you are positive you’re not going to regret it.”

The smallest flicker of a smile flashed across Bucky’s face as his fingers tightened around the edges of the robe. “I told you…I trust you.”

And he let your robe drop to the floor.

It took everything in you not to react or burst into tears as you gazed at where his scarred, raised flesh melded into shiny metal. The way the arm was fused into his mangled skin made your stomach churn and bile burn in the back of your throat. But it wasn’t its appearance that made you on the edge of breaking down. No. It was the thought of how much pain and torture HYDRA had put Bucky through to do this. How these visible scars were just the beginning of the damage they inflicted on him and how even though he had broken free of their control, there were just as many scars left behind that you couldn’t see as there were on display before you right now.

Bucky’s eyes were laser-focused on your face, seemingly scanning it for any clue as to what you were thinking. Stepping closer to him once more, you wet your lips before asking, “Can… Can I touch it?” 

He nodded slightly but just before your fingers brushed against the metal, you drew your fingers back. “It won’t hurt you, will it?”

“Sometimes it still hurts,” he admitted, “but not when it’s touched. There’s just some leftover nerve damage that flares up from time to time. Hurts like hell, but even that’s nothing compared to how it was at first.”

He had never mentioned still having pain, but even more than that, he had never talked about the transition period from Bucky Barnes into the Winter Soldier, at least not to you. There was a file somewhere that contained all the information SHIELD had collected on him from various HYDRA bases they had raided as well as a SHIELD interview that had been conducted when Bucky first joined, but out of respect for Bucky, you had never sought it out. 

“You remember that? Wha–what they did to you?”

“I remember every second of it.” The venom in Bucky’s words caught you momentarily off guard, but you understood it wasn’t you that hatred was directed at. “They might have wiped most of my conscious memory, but the process never erased the pain. They didn’t want it to. It was left as a reminder of what they could do and as a promise of what would happen again if I didn’t follow their orders.”

“Baby, I’m so sorry.” Looking at his shoulder again, your own rage bubbled in your chest. “All those bastards who did this to you better be glad they’re dead because if I ever got my hands on them–”

Bucky chuckled softly. “If I remember correctly, you did get your hands on a few of them.”

“Yeah, but that was before I knew what they had done to you. If I had, I would have made them regret every scar and mark they left on your body.” 

But as disgusted as you were at what HYDRA had made Bucky endure, you knew your hatred wasn’t what he needed right now. So, placing one hand on the side of his face, you turned your thoughts to the gift he had given you instead. “But, hey, I know I can’t fix what they did. However, I hope you know seeing this doesn’t change how I feel about you. If anything, it makes me love you more.”

Taking his metal hand, you gently placed a kiss on his cold fingertips. Then you placed another on his knuckles. Then the back of his hand. Then his wrist. 

Slowly, you moved up his arm, peppering soft, feather-like kisses along the way. You knew despite its hard, steely appearance, the vibranium prosthetic was sensitive enough to detect the slightest changes in temperature or the lightest of pressures. And judging by the way Bucky’s eyes flickered closed as he leaned his head back with a peaceful sigh, he could feel each and every one of your kisses. 

You had done this many times before, especially on those nights he was wrestling with his past or consumed with feelings of guilt and remorse. It was always the same: you started at his fingertips and continued until you reached the red star on his shoulder. Each kiss was to remind him you loved him—all of him. 

However, this time, after you kissed the star, you didn’t stop. Bucky’s eyes flew open and his body went rigid as you placed a kiss on the top of his shoulder…one on the silver metal covering his chest…one on the place where skin and metal met. 

You could feel him shaking slightly and you peered up through your lashes to make sure he was still alright. When he caught you staring, he gave you the smallest of nods. With this reassurance, you placed another kiss on his scars and another. You moved diligently from the top of his shoulder down to the very bottom of the metal plating. Once there, you worked your way back up the same path. When you reached the top of his shoulder, you began moving up his neck and then across his jaw.

You only stopped when your lips were hovering a breath above his. Tears were glistening in both of your eyes as you whispered, “I know you thought this would change things or make me feel different about you, and it has.” Bucky’s face crumpled slightly and he tried to pull away, but you held his face firmly in your hand. As you smiled, you continued, “I thought I loved you this morning. But seeing how much I mean to you, how much you truly trust me…I’ve never loved anyone or felt as loved by them as I do right now. This is the greatest gift anyone has ever given me. Thank you, baby.”

You leaned forward slightly, pressing your lips against his as you tried to put all of your love and gratitude into the kiss so he knew what he meant to you. For just a second, he froze. But then Bucky melted into you as you felt the last of his walls crumble around you. He was standing before you as raw and as vulnerable as a person could be, it was the most breathtaking thing you had ever experienced.

Without breaking the kiss, you took his cold, hard hand in your warm, soft one and blindly began leading him to the bed. Once there, you turned so his back was to the mattress and you pressed forward, forcing him down onto his back. 

Finally breaking the kiss, you climbed onto the bed too, straddling his waist as you placed your hand over the damaged part of his arm he had shared with you. Rolling your hips slightly against his, you purred, “It’s still Valentine’s Day and though I don’t have anything half as special as the gift you gave me, I plan on spending the rest of the night showing you how much I love you.”

In one fluid motion, you removed your shirt and tossed it behind you where it landed on top of the discarded robe. 

[hotgarbagedumpsterfire]

Infinite Insomniac

Gojo X gender neutral reader fluff, hurt/comfort, nightmares, emotional vulnerability, gojo needs a hug, etc, etc

You had finally, finally convinced Gojo to properly spend the night and actually sleep with you. Unfortunately, you were also about to find out why the strongest sorcerer only slept about 2-3 hours at a time. He had always insisted that he didn't need a full 8 hours, he had RCT, but that was only half the truth.

The other half, as you were about to discover, was the plague of nightmares that caused him near infinite insomnia.

It was about 4:13am when you woke up to Gojo’s tossing and turning, murmuring in his sleep. 

“No… no,  please,” you heard him utter in apparent distress, “no, y/n don’t leave me. Don’t leave me like he did…”

You shifted and sat up. Concerned, you gently placed your hand on his shoulder.

“Satoru? Satoru, what’s wrong?”

A sob escaped his trembling lips.

“Satoru?”

You squeezed his shoulder and shook him a bit, hoping to wake him from whatever miserable scenario was occurring behind his eyelids.

He bolted upright at that, looking upset and confused.

“Satoru, it’s ok, I’m right here.”

“Oh,” he said, looking away.

“You were having a nightmare,” you continued, rubbing his back.

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Don’t worry about it,” you replied, then paused for a moment before asking, “do you want to talk about it?”

Gojo was silent for a while, staring down at his lap, refusing to look you in the face. You already knew he wasn’t good with feelings, and shouldn’t push him too much. But you also knew that whatever it was was obviously causing him pain.

So you settled for consoling him. 

“Whatever it is, I’m here for you, Satoru. And if you want to talk, I’ll listen.”

He sniffled and actually started crying then, tears streaming down his face.

You shifted again, turning your whole body to face him, and pulled him close.

He clung to your nightshirt and cried while you pet him, running your fingers through his soft white hair.

“I- I dreamed that you were leaving me, just like he did… just like Suguru.”

Thankfully he couldn’t see the complex expression that crossed your face at the mention of Suguru Geto. You knew a little bit about their shared past, and while at first it had made you jealous of their relationship and then furious with Geto, it mostly just made your heart ache for Satoru.

“I’m so sorry, Satoru. I promise, I’ll never leave you.”

He looked up at you through the tears stuck to his lashes, uncertain, silently asking for reassurance.

“I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere,” you said, sincerely, holding his cheek in the palm of your hand, using your thumb to wipe away his tears.

He swallowed thickly, adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to steady his breathing. He was trying so hard to be brave for you now, to feel like less of a burden, so it was time to switch tacks.

“You’re kinda stuck with me forever, I’m stubborn like that, you know,” you joked softly, hoping to ease the tension.

He smiled a little at that, and sniffled, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

“Hold me?”

“Of course, Satoru,” you said, pressing a kiss to his forehead, “anything for you.”

[jedigloomy]

Through Her Eyes - A BG3 One-Shot

Astarion hasn’t seen his reflection in centuries, a cruel reminder of everything he’s lost to his vampiric curse. When Alluna offers him the chance to see himself through her eyes, he’s faced with something he never expected: a glimpse of the man he used to be—and the hope of who he might become.

FANDOM: Baldur's Gate 3

PAIRING: Astarion/ Alluna (Tav)

WORD COUNT: 3,155

TRIGGER WARNINGS: This story contains themes of trauma, emotional vulnerability, and references to past abuse. Reader discretion is advised.

Alluna tilted her head back, her eyes tracing the sparkling stars overhead. Their beauty stole her breath and wrapped her in a rare, fragile peace. She drew her knees to her chest, a soft smile curling her lips as the fire’s crackling warmth eased the weariness in her bones. The day had been long and grueling—her body ached with the memory of countless battles. Exhaustion pressed heavy on her shoulders, but for a moment, as she gazed at the heavens, the weight lifted, and the night offered her a fleeting reprieve.

She inhaled deeply, the air carrying the faint tang of pine, the musk of earth, and the briny trace of the nearby stream. It was so different from Baldur’s Gate. The first night here had been jarring—not just because of the nautiloid’s crash or the alien tadpole burrowing into her brain, but because of the silence. The forest felt alive yet unnervingly still. No clamor of merchants or sharp laughter of drunkards. No constant hum of life. Just the snores of her companions, the crackle of the fire, and the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.

Her peace was interrupted by low, frustrated murmurs, breaking the soft crackle of the fire. Alluna turned, her gaze landing on Astarion. He stood just beyond the camp’s edge, a mirror in his hand, his brow furrowed as he tilted it this way and that, his movements sharp with irritation. For a moment, she thought he was fussing over a stray strand of hair, and a quiet snicker escaped her. With a sigh, she pulled herself to her feet and strolled toward him, intent on catching him off guard.

But before she could speak, his voice cut through the night. “Looking at something?” he asked, startling her.

She blinked, then frowned. “How did you know I was there?”

“The only benefit to a mirror when you have my… condition,” he replied, his tone flat as he continued inspecting the glass. “It doesn’t quite make up for the lack of a reflection, mind you.” His voice remained level, but the slump of his shoulders betrayed him.

The grin on Alluna’s face faded as realization dawned. He hadn’t seen his own face—not since the night he was turned. The thought struck her, sharp and sudden. She hesitated, unsure of what to say, before finally asking, “Do you miss it? Seeing your own face?”

“Preening in the looking glass? Petty vanity?” He turned to face her then, his eyes heavy, searching hers. “Of course I miss it.” He sighed, the mirror in his hand catching the firelight. “I’ve never seen this face. Not since it grew fangs and my eyes turned red…” His expression hardened, anger flashing across his features as he looked at her.

Alluna studied his face, her mind tracing over the sharp angles and hollow beauty of it, trying to imagine what he might have looked like before. “What colour were they before?” she asked softly, her voice a thread in the quiet.

“I…” His voice faltered, and for a moment, he seemed caught off guard by the question. His brow furrowed deeply as he turned inward, searching for a memory that remained stubbornly out of reach.

The rage in his eyes melted into confusion, then panic, and finally something far heavier. His grip tightened around the mirror, his knuckles pale against its ornate frame. “I…” he tried again, the words catching in his throat. His head tilted, his gaze darting to the ground, as though the answer might lie buried beneath the dirt.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, the words brittle, fragile. His crimson eyes met hers, unguarded and raw. “I can’t… I can’t remember.” The mirror slipped slightly in his grip, trembling in his hand. His expression grew distant, his eyes unfocused, as though the memory he sought had been stripped away entirely, leaving only a hollow ache behind.

The ache consumed him for a heartbeat—then burned away, replaced by a fiery inferno. “My face is just another dark shape in my past.” His voice shook with rage. With gritted teeth, he hurled the mirror into the dirt, where it shattered into glittering fragments.

Alluna’s heart grew heavy as she watched him. Thin tears lined his eyes, but they didn’t fall. Anger and shock wrestled for dominance in the lines of his face, his posture tense and fists clenching and unclenching as if he didn’t know whether to scream or collapse. This realization had rattled him to his very core, cracking the carefully curated mask he always wore.

Her fingers twitched at her side, her heart aching with the need to comfort him, to give him something—anything—to pull him from this pain. And then it struck her. Her eyes widened as the idea took root, tentative but insistent. She stepped closer to him, excitement flickering like a fragile ember.

He startled slightly at her sudden movement, his gaze snapping to hers. She hesitated, fearing he would shout at her, push her away. But she shook her head, banishing the thought. “Astarion, I might… have a solution,” she said, her voice trembling as nerves battled with resolve.

He tilted his head, confusion furrowing his brow. “What do you mean?” There was a whisper of hope in his voice, so faint it was barely there—but she saw it.

Alluna swallowed hard, chewing the inside of her lip as she raised a hand and pointed toward her temple. “The tadpole…” Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. She knew what she was asking of him: to relinquish control, to open his mind to her, to let someone breach the carefully constructed walls he’d built to protect himself.

Their bond was fragile, born of shared necessity but slowly blossoming into something more. It was terrifying in its newness, full of promise and peril. It could grow into a thorny rose, beautiful but dangerous, or a sunflower reaching for the light. She prayed it was enough to surpass his distrust.

A long, agonizing silence stretched between them. His expression remained unreadable, his thoughts racing behind his crimson eyes. Alluna’s resolve began to wither under the weight of it. Poisonous doubts whispered in her mind: she’d shattered their delicate bond, ruined everything by speaking this absurd idea aloud. He would regret trusting her, regret opening himself up even the smallest bit.

But then, before she could drown in her fears, his mask cracked again. Uncertainty rippled across his features, followed by something softer, more vulnerable. He met her gaze, and her breath hitched at the raw emotion she saw there. “How… How would the tadpole help me see myself?” His voice was small, hesitant, as though the words themselves were fragile.

Alluna smiled softly, careful not to lean too close. “I would lend you my eyes,” she said, her tone steady. “It would mean opening your mind to me, letting me in. But only to see what I see—nothing more.”

His brows furrowed, and he stepped back, a whirlwind of emotions flickering across his face. She didn’t press him, didn’t move closer, but simply waited. Astarion’s mind raced, the weight of her words colliding with the walls he’d built over centuries.

Trust her? Could he even do that?

He thought back to the moments they’d shared. At first, it had all been a game—a calculated play to ensnare her in his web, like so many others. But she was… different. It hadn’t felt like such a performance with her. The revulsion that usually curdled in his stomach afterward was quieter, subdued. She had a way of lying in his arms, her face alight with contentment, as though she saw something in him he couldn’t see himself. For a fleeting moment, he had almost believed it. Almost.

His gaze lifted to meet hers, and he saw nothing but sincerity. Still, the fear clung to him, gnawing at the edges of his resolve. “I… I don’t know…” He faltered, unsure how to finish the sentence. I don’t know if I trust you? I don’t know how to let you in?

Alluna seemed to sense the war raging behind his eyes. Her expression softened, and the smile she gave him made his heart ache in ways he couldn’t explain. “Astarion,” she said gently, her voice steady but warm, “this is your choice. If you’re not ready, that’s fine. If you need more time, take it. I won’t push you. I trust you to know what’s right for yourself—and I’ll be here if or when you decide.”

Her words washed over him, and for a moment, he felt himself slip back into the comfort of his mask. He forced a hollow smile and replied, “Time, darling? That’s a luxury we don’t exactly have. Death lurks around every corner—”

“Astarion.” Her voice stopped him short, soft but resolute. His breath hitched as her eyes met his, unwavering. “We have time,” she said again, quieter this time, but with unshakable certainty. “No tadpole, no mind flayer, no cultist—nothing will stop us. You have time to decide if this is something you truly want to do.”

For a moment, he said nothing, her words hanging heavy in the space between them. His mask threatened to crack, but he held it firm, unwilling to let her see just how much her words had shaken him—not in a negative way. She had given him something Cazador never had: a choice.

The concept felt alien, even though he knew he must have had it once, centuries ago, before chains of blood and pain stole it from him. At least, he thought he had. It was hard to tell anymore. The memories had been drowned beneath horrors so vast they poisoned his mind, erasing everything that made him who he once was.

But now, here she was, offering him the impossible. A piece of himself he thought lost forever. His face. The very thing that had been his best weapon, his greatest performance. Hundreds of conquests had whispered praises of his beauty before they met their grisly ends in Cazador’s chambers. Even his master had seemed taken with it—or obsessed with it. Why else would he linger over Astarion, why else would his screams be called “the sweetest”? That had to be the reason. The only reason.

A quivering breath escaped him, and he refocused on Alluna. The care in her gaze held him steady, anchoring him to the present. For the first time in centuries, he let himself want something, and the words fell from his lips like a confession. “I… I want to… see my face.” Her beaming smile overtook her features, and something inside him fluttered. How could a smile like that make him feel so light?

“Are you certain?” she asked gently, her tone steady despite the tremble of anticipation in her voice.

Astarion hesitated, his thoughts churning, but then he nodded. Her response was a quiet, affirming nod, and she raised a hand, gesturing toward her temple. “Alright. Let’s try this.”

It wasn’t easy. Alluna still struggled with harnessing the tadpole’s power, and her initial attempts were clumsy. Astarion flinched as her mind brushed his, the sensation as foreign and invasive as it was tender. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, pulling back instantly.

He shook his head, steadying himself. “No, just… slower.”

She adjusted, her presence featherlight as she pushed against the fragile wall in his mind. It wasn’t a barrier made of steel or stone; it was paper-thin, yet impossibly vast, stretching over centuries of memories too dark to look at. The fragility of it unnerved her. She moved with care, soft and steady, like tracing the edges of a broken mirror.

Astarion’s brows furrowed as he felt her again, her presence like the ghost of a lover’s touch—tentative, patient, and maddeningly gentle. The instinct to pull away screamed in him, but he held fast. Slowly, he let the gates open, just enough to let her through.

When her presence faltered, pressing too hard, he winced, and she immediately pulled back. “Sorry—”

“You’re fine,” he interrupted, his voice tight but resolute. “Just… let me guide you.”

It took time. His breathing was shallow, his entire body tense as he adjusted to the sensation of another person inside his mind. She didn’t prod or poke at his memories, as she had promised. She hovered, a patient presence, waiting for him to be ready.

When he finally nodded, the breath he let out was shuddering, his voice hoarse as he whispered, “Alright. Do it.”

Alluna projected her vision into him, and they both gasped. Their sight warped and contorted, the raw psionic power rushing through their minds threatening to buckle her resolve. She staggered, clutching her temple, but her tadpole greedily absorbed the energy, steadying her.

Astarion stumbled back a step, his hands shooting up to steady himself. His vision darkened, and panic clawed at him. He thought, for a terrifying moment, that they’d done something irreversible. But then the familiar, squirming presence of the tadpole seemed to lap up the excess energy, settling the chaos inside him.

And then, the darkness faded.

He blinked, his consciousness expanding beyond his body, and froze as his vision resolved into a figure. A stranger stared back at him—a pale face, sharp and angular, framed by silver-white hair. Crimson eyes glinted like rubies, hollowed with centuries of torment, yet achingly beautiful.

His breath hitched. “Is… Is that…”

The thought broke off as the shock hit him like a thunderclap, raw and overwhelming. Alluna felt it through their connection—a suffocating weight, cold and unrelenting, like drowning in ice water. Her chest tightened, her breath hitching as she realized these weren’t her emotions. Astarion’s grief and disbelief surged through her, raw and jagged, pulling her under.

A single tear slipped down his cheek, and before she could think, her hand moved on its own. She reached up and brushed it away, her fingers warm against his cool skin. Astarion shuddered under her touch, his eyes widening. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“N-No…” His voice broke, barely more than a whisper. His hand rose to cover hers, trembling as it settled over her fingers. “It’s… okay. I don’t mind.”

Her heart clenched at the fragility in his tone. She offered him a soft smile, stepping closer as her thumb brushed gently over his cheek.

His gaze returned to the vision before him, and slowly, the shock ebbed, replaced by something lighter, brighter. His lips parted in wonder. “It’s… me,” he whispered, the words trembling with disbelief.

A smile—genuine and unrestrained—spread across his face, growing until it overtook him like wildfire. “After all these years…” His voice wavered as he reached toward his face, his fingers brushing his cheek as though to confirm the image was real. “Hello again. Gods, I missed you.”

Alluna’s own tears welled and spilled as she watched him rediscover himself. It was the purest thing she’d ever witnessed, and her heart swelled with emotion. He moved his hands over his face, tracing every line and angle like he was trying to etch the image into his memory. She didn’t blame him. The tadpoles wouldn’t last forever. This was his only chance to see himself, and she resolved to give him all the time he needed.

If it took all night, she would hold the connection for him.

After a long, quiet moment, he let out a soft chuckle. “I am quite the handsome devil, aren’t I?”

Alluna laughed, her voice light and full of warmth. “Yes, you are, Astarion. But don’t forget—you’re so much more than that.”

His smile softened in a way that made him look years younger. “I’m beginning to see that,” he murmured, his voice carrying the faintest hint of hope.

They stayed like that for a while, Astarion inspecting every inch of his face. He even fiddled with his hair, grumbling about how those “damned goblins” had ruined it. Alluna couldn’t help but laugh at his rambling, her heart warm with affection she wasn’t ready to voice—not yet. For now, it was enough to give him this moment, this gift.

Eventually, Astarion pulled his consciousness away and gently coaxed her out of his mind. Alluna surrendered to the tender yet firm push, letting her vision become her own once more. The disorientation was brief, though it left them both momentarily off-balance.

As the world settled around them, they stood in comfortable silence. Astarion seemed lighter somehow, as though a piece of the weight he carried had fallen away. His smile reached his eyes now—genuine, warm, unguarded—and Alluna’s favourite part was how his gaze seemed brighter, more alive.

He had reclaimed a part of himself that had been buried beneath centuries of torment. To an outsider, it might have seemed insignificant, but to Astarion, it meant everything. He was no longer just a fragment of Cazador’s cruelty. He was his own person, with something worth fighting for: the memory of his face, his freedom, and perhaps… Alluna.

He glanced at her and caught her staring. A smirk spread across his face. “What are you smiling at?”

She chuckled, tilting her head. “It’s nice seeing you so happy. It suits you.”

“Yes, I’d imagine so,” he quipped, his voice playful. “Now that I know just how magnificent I am.” She laughed, shaking her head as he grinned. But then his expression softened, his gaze steady and sincere. “Thank you,” he whispered.

The words caught her off guard, and for a moment, she didn’t know how to respond. Then she smiled, her voice quiet but sure. “Of course, Astarion. I’m here for you, always.”

A warmth blossomed in his chest, spreading like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. He breathed in the cool night air, his gaze lifting toward the stars as though seeing them for the first time. “It’s strange,” he murmured, glancing at her. “For so long, I’ve been little more than a ghost. A shadow of a man. But now… I almost feel real again.” He chuckled, the sound light, almost bashful. “Thanks to you.”

Alluna smiled, her heart swelling at the sight of him. “You’ve always been real, Astarion. This just helped you see it for yourself.”

He tilted his head, studying her with a look she couldn’t quite place. For a moment, she thought he might say something profound or vulnerable. Instead, a familiar smirk crept across his lips. “Well,” he said with a playful lilt, “if this is what it feels like to be real, I must say—it’s rather exhausting.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “That sounds about right.”

His smile softened again, his blood-red eyes glowing faintly in the firelight. “Thank you, Alluna,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “For everything.” And as the silence settled between them, comfortable and warm, Astarion felt something he hadn’t dared to hope for in centuries: peace.

A/N: I had this idea sitting in my head for some time. I always wondered why Tav never showed Astarion what he looked like, so I figured I'd rewrite the Mirror Scene (though, the original is beautiful, and I absolutely adore it). Let me know what you thought of my story! Regardless of your thoughts, though, I hope you enjoyed. Thanks for reading!

[gummyyummyjam]

I'm home alone (you're God-knows-where)

In the shadow of Harry Potter’s endless departures and promises, Draco Malfoy learns the cost of loving someone who may never learn to stay.

The Slytherin common room was eerily quiet tonight. The greenish glow from the lake’s waters reflected through the windows, casting an otherworldly light on the plush furniture. It was a silence Draco Malfoy had grown accustomed to, though not one he particularly liked. His fingers toyed with the edges of a well-worn book on his lap, though he hadn’t turned a page in over twenty minutes. His thoughts were elsewhere, circling back to a certain messy-haired Gryffindor who had, once again, disappeared without explanation.

Harry bloody Potter.

Draco’s lips twitched into a wry smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He’d never imagined himself in this position: pining for the Golden Boy, waiting for scraps of his attention like some lovesick fool. It was ironic, really. He’d spent years hating Potter, envying him, and now… well, now he’d give anything for Harry to stay.

But Harry never stayed. Not really.

“The games you played were never fun,” Draco muttered to himself, voice low and bitter. The memory of Harry’s last departure lingered in his mind. The half-hearted promises, the fleeting kiss goodbye, and then… nothing. Days would pass, sometimes weeks, before Harry resurfaced, acting as though everything was fine, as though Draco wasn’t left behind to pick up the pieces.

Draco’s knuckles tightened around the book. He was tired of it. Tired of giving Harry what he wanted, of trying to be what Harry said he needed, only to be left torn apart when the Gryffindor inevitably walked away. It wasn’t fair, was it? No, Draco thought bitterly, it wasn’t fair at all.

The first time they’d kissed had been in the aftermath of a duel. A heated exchange of spells in an abandoned classroom had spiraled into something else entirely. The room had smelled of burnt parchment and dust, the air still crackling with residual magic. Draco could still remember the way Harry had looked at him—eyes blazing, cheeks flushed, and then, suddenly, lips pressed against his in a kiss that was more fire than finesse. It had been exhilarating, intoxicating, and utterly confusing.

Draco had pushed Harry away at first, his heart hammering in his chest. “What the hell was that?” he’d demanded, though the answer was clear in Harry’s eyes. Those damn green eyes… they always seemed to hold the truth Draco wasn’t ready to face.

Harry had shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. “Does it matter?”

And at the time, it hadn’t. The heat of the moment, the thrill of breaking every unspoken rule… it had been enough. But now, months later, it mattered more than Draco cared to admit. He’d fallen into something he couldn’t control, and the weight of it was starting to crush him.

Draco sighed and set the book aside, leaning back against the couch. His gaze drifted to the window, where he could just make out the faint outline of the squid gliding past. The room felt too big, too empty. “I don’t want any settled scores,” he whispered to the empty room. “I just want you to set me free.”

But Harry never did. He kept coming back, weaving himself into Draco’s life with a charm that was impossible to resist. And every time, Draco let him. He let Harry in, knowing full well that he’d leave again. Knowing that every return carried a ticking clock, counting down to the moment Harry would slip away once more.

It wasn’t that Draco was afraid of being alone. He’d faced more than his fair share of solitude over the years. It had been his constant companion in the shadowed corners of Malfoy Manor, during sleepless nights spent dreading his father’s wrath, and in the quiet moments when the weight of the war threatened to break him. But with Harry, it was different. With Harry, he’d tasted something he hadn’t realized he craved: a connection, a bond that felt real, even if it was fleeting.

“What makes you so sure you’re all I need?” Draco asked the empty room, his voice cracking slightly. He hated how vulnerable he felt, hated the way Harry’s absence left him feeling hollow and restless. It was like trying to breathe with half his lungs missing.

Draco's breath hitched as he stared into the flickering flames of the Slytherin common room’s hearth, his hands trembling ever so slightly. The quiet crackle of the fire was the only sound, but in his mind, Harry’s voice was loud, echoing with words that should have been comforting but had cut him instead.

“You knew what this was,” Harry had said. His tone had been even, almost apologetic, but not enough to disguise the indifference beneath. “Don’t make it more than it is, Draco.”

The words replayed in a loop, each iteration stabbing deeper into the fragile walls Draco had tried to build around his heart. He’d given everything to Harry, more than he thought he was capable of. And yet, it was never enough.

When Harry finally returned, it was well past midnight. Draco heard the telltale creak of the common room door and the soft shuffle of footsteps. The sound was almost tentative, as though Harry knew he wasn’t welcome, he was sneaking inside the supposed-to-be-enemy’s territory for Merlin’s sake, but hoped he might be forgiven anyway. Draco didn’t bother to turn around. Let Harry come to him for once.

“Good. You’re still awake,” Harry said softly, his voice laced with guilt.

Draco let out a humorless laugh. “What gave it away? The fact that I’m sitting here, wide-eyed, in the middle of the night? Yeah, it’s good too that no one hexed me yet, I could still brood and all.”

Harry winced and moved closer, perching on the armrest of the couch. He looked tired, his hair messier than usual, and there was a smudge of dirt on his cheek. Wherever he’d been, it hadn’t been easy. But Draco didn’t care. Not tonight.

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmured, reaching out to touch Draco’s shoulder. But Draco shrugged him off, his body stiff with tension.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Potter,” Draco snapped. His silver eyes burned with anger and something deeper, something more painful. “You can’t just… disappear and expect me to wait around like some loyal lapdog. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of you.”

Harry’s face fell, and for a moment, Draco thought he’d finally gotten through to him. But then Harry’s expression hardened. “You don’t mean that,” he said quietly.

“Don’t I?” Draco challenged, standing up and glaring at Harry. His hands trembled at his sides, but he clenched them into fists, willing himself to stay strong. “You’re teaching me to live without you, Potter. And guess what? I’m getting good at it.”

The words hung in the air like a curse, heavy and unforgiving. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Harry stood, his jaw clenched. “If that’s how you feel, maybe I should go.”

Draco’s heart clenched, but he refused to let it show. “Maybe you should.”

Harry left, slamming the door behind him, and Draco sank back onto the couch. He’d gotten what he wanted, hadn’t he? He was free. Free from the endless cycle of hope and disappointment. Free from Harry’s games.

So why did it feel like he’d just lost the only thing that had ever truly mattered?

The minutes stretched into hours, the silence growing heavier with each passing moment. Draco stared at the window, his reflection blurry in the glass. “I’m not afraid anymore,” he whispered, though the words felt hollow. “I’m not afraid.”

But as the night dragged on, and the first rays of dawn began to filter through the windows, Draco realized something he’d been avoiding for months.

He wasn’t afraid of being alone.

He was afraid of a life without Harry.

The days following Harry’s departure blurred together in a haze of monotony. Draco carried on, as one does, slipping into the carefully curated routines that masked his unraveling. Breakfast in the Great Hall, potions with Slughorn, study sessions in the library—each task performed with meticulous precision, each interaction scripted to perfection.

But the truth was glaring beneath the surface.

He was hollow.

The Slytherin common room, once a sanctuary of cold comfort, now felt suffocating. The greenish light of the lake had lost its hypnotic quality, replaced by a dull reminder of isolation. Even his dormitory, always a reprieve from the world, felt heavy with Harry’s absence. The spaces between Draco’s breaths were no longer filled with Harry’s reckless laughter, the way his presence seemed to electrify even the most mundane moments.

Draco had told himself he was teaching his heart to forget. But forgetting was harder than he’d anticipated.

A flashback, an unbidden memory, tugged at the corners of Draco's mind like a relentless tide. It was from the beginning, a long way before Harry had first kissed him, and their meetings—because of their so-called truce or friendship or whatever Harry was indicating— were still wrapped in the thrill of secrecy.  

It had been a rainy afternoon in the library, the sound of raindrops against the ancient windows a soothing backdrop. Harry had appeared out of nowhere, his tie loose, his hair damp, and that maddening smirk on his face.

“Can’t stay away, can you?” Harry had teased, leaning over Draco’s shoulder as if they were the closest of friends.

Draco had scowled, though the heat in his cheeks betrayed him. “Don’t flatter yourself, Potter. Some of us actually are here to study.”

But Harry had laughed, that low, infectious chuckle that made Draco’s stomach twist in ways he refused to acknowledge. He’d sat down across from Draco, close enough that their knees brushed under the table. It had been infuriating and intoxicating all at once. And so, he’d ignored Harry after that, burying himself in his work. But Harry’s presence was impossible to ignore. He lingered, leaning against the bookshelf, tossing casual remarks that disrupted Draco’s concentration.

“You’re so bloody predictable,” Harry had remarked again, his green eyes dancing. “Always pretending you’re above it all.”

Draco’s cheeks had burned, and his pride stung. He snapped his book shut, glaring, his voice rising despite the glares from Madam Pince. “And you’re insufferable. Why don’t you go bother someone else?”

Harry’s smile had faded, replaced by something unreadable. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Because I don’t want someone else.”

The air had shifted, charged, and heavy. Draco had frozen, his quill poised mid-air. He’d wanted to retort, to cut Harry down with words, but his throat had tightened. By the time he’d found his voice, Harry had suddenly walked away, leaving Draco with a swirl of confusion and an ache he couldn’t name. And for that moment, Draco had allowed himself to believe and believe, that maybe, just maybe, Harry meant it. 

One night, three days after Harry had walked out, Draco found himself back in the Astronomy Tower. He hadn’t intended to come here, but his feet had carried him almost of their own accord. The cool night air bit at his skin, and the stars above seemed distant and indifferent, much like Draco himself often pretended to be.

And then another memory rose up, it wasn’t nearly as soft. It came with the sharp sting of betrayal. It had been during one of those clandestine meetings in the Astronomy Tower, where they’d carved out a fragile world of their own . 

Harry had arrived late, his hair damp from the rain, his robes askew. Draco had paced the length of the tower, his frustration boiling over as soon as Harry entered.

“Do you think I have nothing better to do than wait for you?” Draco had hissed, his voice sharp enough to cut.

Harry had run a hand through his hair, looking both guilty and defensive. “I’m sorry, okay? Things got… complicated.”

“They’re always complicated with you,” Draco shot back, his silver eyes blazing. “You say you want this—us—but then you disappear for days, weeks. Do you even care?”

Harry’s face had darkened, his jaw tightening. “Of course, I care! But it’s not that simple, Draco. It’s not always easy to get away. You know that! You don’t understand—”

“Do I? No, I don’t understand!” Draco had interrupted, his voice cracking. “Because you won’t let me. You keep me at arm’s length like I’m some dirty little secret you’re ashamed of. And yet, all I know is that I’m always here, waiting, while you—” He’d paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. “While you treat me like an afterthought! Is that all I am to you?”

Harry had stepped closer, his expression softening. “That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair is giving you everything,” Draco had whispered, his voice trembling, “and getting nothing in return.”

Harry’s silence had been damning. He’d reached out, his hand hovering near Draco’s shoulder, but Draco had stepped back, his heart splintering.

“Don’t,” Draco had whispered, his voice trembling. “Don’t touch me if you don’t mean it.”

Harry had dropped his hand, his expression a mixture of regret and frustration. 

“I never asked you to…” Harry had muttered, his voice barely audible.

The words had hit Draco harder than any curse. He’d turned away, unwilling to let Harry see the tears that threatened to spill. And then, he felt Harry turned away too, and left without another word, leaving Draco alone in the cold, the wind biting at his skin.

Draco closed his eyes, the memory cutting sharper than any blade. He’d hated how Harry had made him feel so out of control, yet he’d craved it too. That wild, unpredictable spark that Harry carried—it had been intoxicating.

Now, it was a phantom pain.

Over and over, he tried to pinpoint the exact moment everything had unraveled. It wasn’t that Draco wanted Harry to suffer; that wasn’t it at all. What he wanted—what he had always wanted—was for Harry to understand. To see the cracks beneath the surface, the scars Draco carried from years of trying and failing to be enough. Enough for his family, enough for his housemates, and now, enough for Harry. But how could he make Harry see when he himself didn’t have the words?

But not all their moments were filled with pain. There were flashes of happiness, fleeting but bright enough to sear into Draco’s memory, as whatever the thing between them kept happening.

One winter evening, they’d found themselves in the Room of Requirement, where the fire crackled warmly, and the snow fell softly outside the enchanted windows as if the fiendfyre and its aftermath didn’t happen at all. They’d been arguing—as they always did—but it had dissolved into laughter when Harry had tripped over a pile of cushions and landed in an undignified heap.

Draco had smirked, leaning against the armrest of the couch. “Graceful as ever, Potter.”

Harry had thrown a cushion at him, his laughter infectious. “Shut up, Malfoy.”

Before Draco could respond, Harry had tackled him, pinning him to the couch. Their faces had been inches apart, their breaths mingling in the warm air.

“You’re insufferable,” Draco had muttered, though his voice lacked venom.

Harry had grinned, his eyes alight with mischief. “I already know that. What else?”

Draco had rolled his eyes, but he hadn’t pushed Harry away and instead pulled him closer. They stared deeply into each other’s eyes, their lips almost touching but not, and the tension between them had been soft and slow and filled with unspoken promises.

And another memory escaped, shifting the moments into something vile.

“Why do you always have to push me away?” Harry had asked, his voice raw.

Draco had laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Harry had looked at him then, really looked at him, and for a moment, Draco had thought he saw something real, something vulnerable in those emerald eyes. Harry had stepped closer, his hands framing Draco’s face.

“I’m trying,” Harry had whispered, his forehead resting against Draco’s. “I just… I don’t know how to do this.”

Draco had wanted to believe him. Merlin, he’d wanted to. And for a little while, he guessed he had.

As he sat alone in that tower, Draco closed his eyes against the sting of the memories, but they came anyway, brighter and more vivid than the firelight in his mind like a cruel montage. The good, the bad, the in-between—all of it a reminder of what he’d lost and what he still yearned for. Harry had been a storm in his life, unpredictable and consuming. And he’d loved Harry with a desperation that scared him, a love that he’d worn like armor even as it left him vulnerable. He’d have caught a grenade for Harry and jumped in front of the Killing Curse if it meant saving him. But Harry…

Harry had never been willing to do the same.

And now, in his absence, Draco was left with the quiet aftermath, wondering if he’d ever feel whole again.

One evening, as the common room grew colder with the approaching winter, Draco sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, staring into the fireplace. The flames flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the room. The embers reminded him of Harry—of the fire in his eyes, the warmth he carried even in his most infuriating moments.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” Pansy’s voice broke through the quiet, startling him. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her expression soft but tinged with frustration. She had always been perceptive, too much so for Draco’s comfort.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Draco said, though his voice lacked conviction.

Pansy sighed and sat down beside him, her presence steady and grounding. “You’re miserable, Draco. And we both know why.”

Draco didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The weight of her words settled over him, heavy and unyielding.

“He’s not worth this,” Pansy said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re tearing yourself apart for someone who doesn’t even see it.”

Draco flinched at her words, though he knew she wasn’t trying to hurt him. “It’s not that simple,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “He does see it. I think… I think that’s the problem.”

Pansy frowned, her brow furrowing in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Draco stared into the fire, searching for the right words. “Harry… he’s afraid of what this means. What we mean. Every time he gets close, he panics. He pulls away, and I—” He broke off, his throat tightening. “I let him.”

“Why?” Pansy’s voice was sharp now, demanding an answer.

“Because,” Draco said, his voice trembling, “I’d rather have pieces of him than nothing at all.”

The admission hung in the air, raw and unguarded. Pansy’s expression softened, and she squeezed his shoulder. “Draco, you deserve more than that. You deserve someone who stays.”

Draco didn’t respond. Deep down, he knew she was right. But knowing and believing were two entirely different things. He felt the weight of it all pressing down on him. He’d given Harry his heart, his soul, every piece of himself he could offer. But Harry had only ever taken, leaving Draco to pick up the shattered remains.

“I would have died for you,” Draco whispered into the empty room, his voice breaking. “But you wouldn’t even stay for me.”

The fire crackled on, indifferent to his pain, as Draco’s tears finally fell, silent and unrelenting.

The seventh day brought a letter.

It was tucked beneath Draco’s Charms textbook, folded haphazardly, as though whoever had delivered it hadn’t cared whether it reached him at all. Draco stared at the unfamiliar parchment for a long time, his pulse hammering in his ears. He didn’t need to see the messy handwriting to know it was from Harry.

His fingers trembled as he unfolded it.

Draco,

I don’t know how to start this. I never do. Words have never been my strong suit, not when it comes to this… to us. But I’ll try because you deserve that much.

Draco’s breath hitched.

I’ve always been rubbish at staying. I think you know that better than anyone. It’s not that I don’t care—it’s that I care too much. And sometimes that scares me. Being with you… it makes me feel things I don’t know how to handle. Like I’m standing on the edge of something I can’t see, and one wrong move will send me over.

Draco’s vision blurred, and he blinked furiously.

But walking away doesn’t make it easier. It doesn’t stop me from missing you, from wanting you. I thought if I left, I’d be doing us both a favor. That maybe you’d be better off without me. But now… I’m not so sure.

I’m sorry for the way I’ve treated you. For making you feel like you’re not enough when the truth is, you’re more than I ever deserved.

I want to fix this. If you’ll let me.

-Harry

Draco sat there for what felt like hours, the letter clutched tightly in his hands. He read it over and over, dissecting every word, every pause, every sentiment. It was messy and flawed and painfully honest—just like Harry.

He wanted to scream, to cry, to storm into Gryffindor Tower and hex Harry for being so infuriating. But more than that, he wanted to believe again .

Believe that Harry meant it. Again .

That this time would be different. Again .

The knock on the Slytherin common room door came late that night. Draco knew it was Harry before he even opened it. He could feel his presence, like a storm brewing just beyond the threshold.

When Draco finally pulled the door open, Harry stood there, looking as disheveled as ever. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looked like a man ready to beg for redemption.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Draco said quietly, his voice devoid of the sharp edges it usually carried.

Harry shrugged, his gaze flicking to the floor. “I had to try... and... I never really wanted to...  leave... you..."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then, finally, Draco stepped aside, allowing Harry to enter.

They sat by the fire, the warmth casting flickering shadows across their faces. Draco didn’t say a word as Harry poured out his heart—his fears, his regrets, his desperate hope for another chance.

“I know I’ve hurt you,” Harry admitted, his voice hoarse. But in Draco’s mind, You hurt me constantly, in every subtle and deliberate way imaginable.

“And I can’t promise I won’t mess up again. But I want to try, Draco. I want to be better—for you, for us.”

Draco studied him, his silver eyes unreadable. He wanted to believe Harry, all over again. But trust wasn’t something that could be rebuilt overnight.

“You’ve left me so many times,” Draco said, his voice barely above a whisper. “How do I know you won’t do it again?”

Harry’s gaze was steady, unwavering. “You don’t. All I can do is prove to you that I’m not going anywhere this time.”

“Why do you always leave, Harry?” Draco’s voice cracked, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

Harry hesitated, running a hand through his messy hair. “Because I’m scared,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared of what this means. Of what we could be.”

Draco’s chest tightened a mixture of anger and hope warring within him because he was right about Harry’s thoughts in the first place. “Do you think you’re the only one who’s scared?” he demanded. “Do you think I don’t feel the same way? But I’m here, Harry. I’m here, and you… you keep running.”

Harry moved closer, his expression filled with regret. “I know,” he said softly. “And I hate myself for it. But I can’t lose you, Draco. I can’t.”

Draco laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “You already have, Harry. Every time you walk away, you lose me a little more.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of unspoken truths pressing down on them. Then Harry did something Draco hadn’t expected. He dropped to his knees in front of him, his hands trembling as he reached for Draco’s.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Harry said, his voice firm despite the tears glistening in his eyes. “Not this time. I swear.”

Draco stared at him, searching his face for any sign of deception. But all he saw was sincerity, raw and unfiltered. Draco’s heart ached with the weight of it all. The love, the pain, the hope that had been buried beneath the rubble of their broken relationship. Even if it kills him—whether from the pain Harry causes or simply because he’s Harry Potter—Draco will always forgive and choose him, over and over again. Slowly, tentatively, he reaches out, his hand brushing against Harry’s.

“You’d better not,” Draco said quietly, his voice steady but his heart racing. “Because if you do, Harry, I won’t be here when you come back.” If you do it again, Harry, well fuck that because I will still be here, waiting… 

Harry nodded, his grip on Draco’s hands tightening. “I won’t leave. Not again.”

“Don’t make me regret this,” Draco said softly. Don’t make me choose you only to be hurt again in the end.

Harry’s fingers shifted, capturing Draco’s jaw with a trembling certainty, tilting his face upward until their eyes locked, the depth of emotion—a spark of something fragile and hopeful igniting between them.

“I won’t,” Harry promised.

Draco allowed himself to believe him, all over again . 

okayy, so this was a one-shot i posted in Ao3. I just wanna share it LOL. btw, FLASHBACKS are in Italics! and yep, this is somehow based on Billie Eilish's song BORED x Bruno Mars' GRENADE! honestly, idk what timeline in the book suit this plot, and so i thought maybe a post-war hogwarts timeline. but then, you could just imagine any timeline, which is which, cause honestly this is just a bit of draco's perspective when it comes to harry & their push and pull dynamics, and not about what's happening around them, whether they're in the same room or not.

[rebellenotes]

I hate being asked "how are you?"

It doesn't matter if it's just a greeting. It'll always make me look inwards and think, how am I, really?

The answer will always be somewhere on the "not good" side of the spectrum (whatever that spectrum is). I know the appropriate answer is "good," or "fine," because the person asking isn't really wanting to know how I am doing, but it physically pains me to lie and say I'm fine when I'm not. I can't do it.

I am a great liar, but I can't lie when someone asks me how I am. It feels too raw, too exposed, like opening a wound in front of someone who just expected a wave and a smile. But I can’t keep it all inside, either.

When someone asks me how I am, a part of me wants to answer honestly. I want to say, “Actually, I’m not okay.” I want them to know that I’m not coping, that my thoughts feel too heavy, that sometimes I can barely make it through the day without collapsing under the weight of it all. I need to tell someone—someone who isn’t the relentless voice in my head—that I’m struggling.

It’s not about wanting to burden them. That’s the last thing I want. I just need to hear the words out loud. I need to feel like someone else knows, like I’m not carrying this entirely on my own. Because the more I keep it in, the louder it gets in my mind, and the harder it becomes to convince myself that I’m okay.

So when someone asks “how are you?” I hesitate. I want to scream, “I’m not fine!” but I worry about their reaction. What if they don’t care? What if I scare them off? What if my honesty makes them uncomfortable? But then I think: maybe that’s not my problem. Maybe my honesty is exactly what I need, even if it’s messy, even if it makes someone else squirm.

Because sometimes just saying it—just admitting that I’m not okay—feels like a tiny victory. It feels like I’ve broken free of the silence, even if only for a moment. And maybe, just maybe, someone will hear me and say, “I get it. You’re not alone.”

And if they don’t? If they give me a quick “oh, I’m sorry to hear that” and move on? At least I didn’t lie. At least I didn’t pretend. At least I was honest about the fact that, right now, I’m not fine—and that has to count for something.

Why are we as a society so scared to honestly tell people how we're doing? If I'm the recipient of someone honestly answering the question "how are you," (because I am also a culprit of asking it), I don't feel burdened. I think "oh, thank god I'm not alone." We may not carry the same hardships or experiences, but I can empathise with them because I know the weight your thoughts and emotions can have over you.

And maybe that’s the whole point—we’re all carrying something, but we’ve collectively decided to bury it beneath polite smiles and scripted responses. It’s like we’ve created this unspoken rule that vulnerability is too messy for casual conversation. That sharing how we really feel is somehow selfish or inappropriate, as if admitting struggle makes us weak.

But what if it didn’t? What if answering “how are you?” with honesty made us feel seen instead of ashamed? What if it created connection instead of discomfort?

It’s a reminder that the chaos in my own head isn’t unique or isolating. Someone else has been there, is there, and maybe together we can feel a little less trapped in our own silences. When someone shares their truth with me, it feels like an invitation—not to fix them or offer empty platitudes, but just to sit with them in it. To acknowledge that being human is hard and complicated and not something any of us are meant to do entirely on our own.

I think the fear of answering honestly comes from not knowing how the other person will react. What if they dismiss it? What if they pity us? What if they get uncomfortable and change the subject? But maybe the fear goes deeper. Maybe it’s because once we say it out loud—once we admit that we’re struggling—it becomes real. And that’s terrifying.

But the thing is, it’s already real. It’s already there, weighing us down. Speaking it doesn’t create the weight—it lightens it. Even if only by a fraction. Even if only for a moment.

So maybe the next time someone asks me how I’m doing, I’ll take the risk. I’ll choose honesty, not just for myself but for them too. Because maybe they need to hear it. Maybe they need to know they’re not the only one walking through life with invisible battles. And maybe, just maybe, in sharing my truth, I can make space for someone else to share theirs.

[aventurineswife]

hmmmmmmm how about an aventurine x reader where like it’s an established relationship but like they’re still a new couple y’know and like reader surprises aventurine with like the perfect gift for him or like something homemade that’s super cute idk and he gets all emotional and all cause it’s like the first time he gets a special gift from someone for Christmas???

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

Summary: It's Aventurine's first Christmas in a relationship, and the season feels both exciting and unfamiliar. As someone who has always used charm and theatrics to mask his insecurities, he's unaccustomed to genuine displays of affection. You, his thoughtful and creative partner, surprise him with a heartfelt, homemade gift that reflects their deep understanding of him. For the first time, Aventurine is left speechless, overwhelmed by emotions he can no longer conceal. Amid the soft glow of winter lights, the couple shares a tender moment that brings Aventurine closer to the concept of vulnerability, warmth, and love.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Established Relationship, First Christmas Together, Gift Giving, Emotional Vulnerability, Fluff and Angst, Soft Aventurine, Romantic Gestures, Winter Special.

Warnings: Brief mentions of Aventurine's traumatic past, Emotional themes (processing unfamiliar feelings of love and gratitude), Mild angst with a happy and comforting ending.

The moonlight danced on the windows of the lavish penthouse, casting long shadows on the sleek furniture. The holiday season had arrived in full force, and despite the extravagant décor adorning every corner of the city, Aventurine found himself in a rare moment of peace. For once, he wasn't scheming or plotting. For once, he could almost pretend that everything was... fine.

He had spent most of the day in his usual flamboyant style, charming his way through holiday parties and meetings, but tonight was different. The festive atmosphere in the air felt more alive, as if something unexpected was about to unfold. And, of course, it did. But not in the way he thought.

"How do you feel about surprises?" your voice echoed from the doorway, breaking his thoughts as you stepped into the dimly lit room.

He turned, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "I thrive on them." he replied smoothly, his voice carrying that usual enigmatic quality.

You smiled, but there was something different in your eyes tonight—something tender and full of warmth. "Well, this one’s for you." you said softly, walking towards the small table where a beautifully wrapped box sat, tied with a delicate red ribbon.

Aventurine raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "For me? I must say, I’m intrigued." His tone was light, yet his eyes betrayed a flicker of uncertainty, a crack in his otherwise confident facade. He had never been one for receiving gifts—not because he didn’t want them, but because they reminded him of a past he had long buried. Still, he couldn’t resist. He picked up the gift, the wrapping smooth under his fingers.

"You didn’t have to," he murmured, but his voice lacked its usual flippancy, a subtle vulnerability hiding beneath his words.

"It's Christmas," you said, settling next to him, watching as he untied the ribbon and peeled back the wrapping to reveal a small wooden box. It was simple, unassuming, but the craftsmanship was evident. The box had intricate carvings, faint patterns that almost looked like a game board—spades, hearts, diamonds, and clubs, all etched with care. He traced his fingers over the delicate design, feeling the weight of the gesture.

Aventurine’s smile faltered for a moment, and he turned to you with a softened expression, his eyes a mix of confusion and something deeper. "What is this?"

Opening the box revealed a set of finely crafted playing cards—each card an artwork in itself, featuring symbols from his past, his journey, and the games he had played. There were intricate illustrations on each one, personalized to reflect his life: the destruction of Sigonia, his rise to power, and his inner turmoil. The Ace of Spades—the symbol of his Cornerstone—stood at the center, an ornate image of the desert, evoking the harshness of his origins.

"It's... perfect..." he whispered, his voice strained as if the weight of the gift had physically struck him.

You watched him, carefully noting the subtle way his gaze softened, how he looked at the cards as though they were a bridge to something deeper within himself.

"This is the first time anyone’s given me something so... personal," Aventurine admitted quietly, his usual swagger absent. The mask he so often wore was slipping, revealing the haunted man beneath. "You know, I’ve never been one to believe in fate or luck. But this... this feels like a sign."

A sudden vulnerability surfaced, one that even he couldn’t hide. His eyes flickered to you, the sharpness in them dulled, as if he was searching for reassurance. "It’s been a long time since someone... cared this much," he murmured, the words laced with an unfamiliar emotion. His voice cracked ever so slightly, a fleeting admission of the weight he carried alone.

You gently placed your hand over his, grounding him in the moment. "I care," you whispered, your voice soft and steady. "I know it’s not always easy to accept, but... I care about you. You deserve something real."

Aventurine’s breath hitched as he stared at you, his usual façade of control slipping away. His gaze lingered on your face, the sincerity in your eyes disarming him. He had been playing his own game for so long, but here, in the quiet of the room, he realized that this was a gamble he was willing to take.

He wasn’t sure when it happened, but somehow, in the midst of all the games and risks, you had become the most important prize.

"Thank you," he said, his voice low, almost reverent. "I don’t think I’ll ever be able to express how much this means."

In that moment, Aventurine, the master of manipulation, the calculating strategist, was just Kakavasha—a man who had found something far greater than any gamble he could ever win.

You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, a soft promise that no matter how many risks he took, he would never have to face the game of life alone again. The warmth of your embrace surrounded him, and for the first time in years, Aventurine allowed himself to believe that there was something more to life than just surviving.

As the night stretched on, the city lights twinkling outside, Aventurine—No, Kakavasha, the man who had mastered the art of risk—allowed himself to savor this one moment of peace, this one moment of real connection.

And, for the first time, he didn’t feel the need to gamble with fate.

[small-z24]

Shadows of Fate 2

Summary:

Y/n, Cassian's shy and quiet sister, prefers to keep to the shadows. Unbeknownst to her, she is Azriel's mate. His shadows are inexplicably drawn to her, and as they grow closer, a slow-burn romance ensues. Cassian, ever protective of his sister, watches over her as the bond between Y/n and Azriel deepens.

Chapter 2: Keeping Secrets

Cassian had always been protective of Y/n. As the older brother, he felt it was his duty to keep her safe from the world’s dangers. When their parents died, Cassian had taken on the role of both brother and protector, a role he took very seriously. So when he noticed Y/n spending more time with Azriel, his instincts kicked in.

One evening, Cassian stood on the training grounds, watching Azriel as he practiced his swordsmanship. The movements were fluid and precise, a testament to Azriel's skill. Cassian waited until Azriel finished his set before approaching.

"Az, can we talk?" Cassian’s voice was casual, but there was a seriousness in his eyes.

Azriel nodded, sheathing his sword. "Of course. What’s on your mind?"

Cassian motioned for them to walk, leading Azriel away from the others. "It's about Y/n," he began, glancing at Azriel to gauge his reaction.

Azriel’s expression remained calm, but there was a flicker of concern in his eyes. "Is she alright?"

"She's fine," Cassian replied quickly. "But I've noticed you two spending a lot of time together."

Azriel nodded slowly. "Yes, we have. We’ve been getting to know each other."

Cassian stopped walking and turned to face Azriel, his gaze intense. "Az, she’s my sister. She’s been through a lot, and I don’t want to see her get hurt."

"I understand," Azriel said, meeting Cassian’s gaze steadily. "And I care about her, Cassian. More than I can explain. I would never hurt her."

Cassian studied him for a long moment before sighing. "Alright. But just know, I’m watching. She means everything to me."

Azriel nodded, a solemn promise in his eyes. "I won’t let you down."

Cassian gave a curt nod before walking away, leaving Azriel standing alone with his thoughts. Azriel knew that gaining Cassian’s trust wouldn’t be easy, but he was determined to prove himself worthy of Y/n.

The next few days were filled with cautious interactions. Cassian kept a close eye on Y/n and Azriel, watching their every move. Y/n noticed her brother’s increased protectiveness but chose not to confront him, understanding his concerns. Meanwhile, she and Azriel had decided to keep the fact that they were mates a secret, at least for now. They didn’t want to stir up any trouble or cause Cassian unnecessary worry.

One evening, as Y/n was reading in the library, Cassian approached her. "Hey, can we talk?" he asked, his voice softer than usual.

Y/n looked up, setting her book aside. "Of course, Cass. What’s on your mind?"

Cassian sat down beside her, his expression serious. "I just want to make sure you’re alright. With Azriel, I mean."

Y/n smiled gently. "I’m alright, Cassian. Azriel has been nothing but kind and respectful. He makes me feel safe."

Cassian sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I know. I just... I worry about you."

"I know you do," Y/n said, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "And I appreciate it. But I need you to trust me. Trust that I can make my own decisions."

Cassian nodded slowly. "I do trust you, Y/n. And I’m trying to trust Azriel. It’s just... hard."

"It’s hard for me too," Y/n admitted. "But I think Azriel is worth it."

Cassian studied her face for a moment before nodding. "Alright. Just promise me you’ll be careful."

"I promise," Y/n said, giving him a reassuring smile.

****

Azriel felt the weight of Cassian’s scrutiny, but he remained patient, knowing that earning the warrior’s trust would take time. He continued to spend time with Y/n, their bond growing stronger with each passing day.

One evening, as they sat together in the garden, Azriel turned to Y/n. "How are you feeling about all of this?" he asked softly.

Y/n looked at him, her eyes reflecting the soft glow of the moonlight. "It’s a lot to take in," she admitted. "But I’m glad we’re taking it slow. I feel like I’m getting to know you, really know you."

Azriel smiled, his heart swelling with affection. "I feel the same way. And I want you to know that I’m here for you, no matter what."

"Thank you, Azriel," she said, reaching out to take his hand. "I appreciate that more than you know."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the night air filled with the scent of blooming flowers. Azriel’s shadows wrapped around them, creating a cocoon of intimacy and safety.

As they sat together in the garden, surrounded by the night’s embrace, Y/n felt a sense of peace and belonging she had never known before. She knew the journey ahead would be filled with challenges, but with Azriel by her side, she felt ready to face whatever came their way.

Despite the growing bond between Y/n and Azriel, Cassian remained wary. He watched them closely, his protective instincts on high alert.

One evening, after training, he cornered Azriel. "Az, we need to talk."

Azriel sighed inwardly but nodded. "Alright, Cassian. What is it?"

Cassian’s eyes were hard, his jaw set. "I know you care about Y/n. But I need to be sure that you understand what this means. She’s my sister. If you hurt her..."

"I won’t," Azriel interrupted, his voice firm. "I swear to you, Cassian, I will protect her with my life. I would never hurt her."

Cassian searched his eyes for any sign of deceit, finding none. Slowly, he nodded. "Alright. But just know, I’m trusting you with the most important person in my life."

Azriel nodded, a solemn promise in his eyes. "I won’t let you down."

As the weeks turned into months, the bond between Y/n and Azriel deepened. They spent countless hours together, talking, laughing, and simply enjoying each other’s presence. Y/n found herself falling for Azriel, her heart swelling with love for the quiet, shadowed warrior.

One evening, as they sat together on a secluded balcony, Azriel turned to her, his eyes filled with emotion. "Y/n, there’s something I need to tell you."

She looked at him, her heart skipping a beat. "What is it, Azriel?"

He took a deep breath, his hands trembling slightly. "I love you, Y/n. More than anything. You are my mate, my heart, my everything."

Tears filled her eyes as she reached out to cup his cheek. "I love you too, Azriel. With all my heart."

They shared a tender kiss, the world around them fading away. In that moment, Y/n knew that she had found her true home in Azriel’s arms.

Author's Note: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this continuation of Y/n and Azriel's story. Feel free to leave comments and let me know your thoughts!

[artmindlens]

Claude Monet, Chrysanthemums, 1881.

Psychological Themes: Vibrancy and Fragility

The intense red blooms at the forefront can be seen as a representation of passion, vitality, and even aggression. Red, in psychoanalytic theory, often evokes strong emotional responses, typically associated with desire, love, or anger. These flowers, while alive and in full bloom, are also fleeting—they symbolize the ephemeral nature of beauty and life, pointing toward the unconscious awareness of life's transience.

Monet’s use of brushstrokes creates a sense of movement and dynamism in what would normally be a static still life. This movement can be interpreted as emotional turbulence—the chaos that exists beneath the surface of everyday appearances. Despite the beauty of the flowers, the swirling strokes suggest an underlying tension, as if something more complex is brewing beneath the vivid colors.

The Symbolism of the Vase

The vase, solid and decorative, acts as a container for this burst of life and emotion. In a psychoanalytic context, it could symbolize the ego—the part of the psyche that contains and regulates our raw emotions (the id). The vase, beautifully decorated but also delicate, hints at the fragility of this containment. Just as the flowers rely on the vase to stand upright and organized, the individual relies on the ego’s defense mechanisms to maintain emotional control. However, the overwhelming red of the flowers spilling over the edge suggests that emotions are difficult to fully contain, and that passion may spill beyond the boundaries of control.

Unconscious Conflict: Beauty and Chaos

There is an unconscious conflict at play between the vibrant beauty of life and the chaos it can cause. The contrast between the delicacy of the flowers and the intense red hue draws attention to this tension. Beauty, while pleasurable, can be overwhelming, even destructive in its intensity. The flowers may symbolize an uncontainable desire for expression—a desire that, while beautiful, may lead to emotional or psychological disarray if not properly managed.

Emotional Impact: Subtle Anxiety

For the viewer, the painting may evoke a sense of subtle anxiety masked by beauty. The color red and the almost uncontrolled expansion of the flowers can stir feelings of excess, suggesting that too much of a good thing can lead to emotional instability. Yet, the painting also exudes abundance and life force, hinting at the inner drive for creativity and vitality that sometimes pushes us to our emotional limits.

Ideal Collector Profile: Strengths and Hidden Fears

A person drawn to this painting likely has a strong appreciation for beauty and intensity. They are someone who values expression and may feel a deep connection to passionate or vigorous emotions. However, this individual may also harbor fears of losing control over their emotions. The overwhelming red flowers could reflect a fear of being consumed by their own desires or passions, which they might keep carefully contained—like the flowers within the vase—but are always at risk of spilling over.

This person is likely an ambitious, emotionally driven leader, who thrives on energy and creativity, but struggles with managing their emotional boundaries. They may seek to project an image of power and vitality, while privately grappling with the fragility of their emotional control.

[beerealis]

OH HO

its over for you all actually ive finally gotten around to posting this

essentially Prowl initiates the conjunx ritus steps and Jazz is DENSE and doesnt realize it

[onceuponaweirdo]

[brainspiraling]

Once, I thought I had to prioritize you to truly love you, but the truth was that we needed to prioritize us, both together and independently—interdependently.

That's the love we needed and need—equal overall, though one of us may take priority at different times depending on the circumstances, our abilities and such.

I needed to feel prioritized, seen emotionally, too.

[annikamaja8-blog]

"where you can't seem to hold me, can't seem to let me go,

So I can't find surrender and I can't keep control"

-Big Thief vampire empire

[kindghostedheart]

They left without a word, a ghost in my life. Silence is louder than the words we never said. And here I am, holding a heart that once beat for someone who faded into nothing. The emptiness echoes in the spaces between memories, a place where love once lived. I’m learning to fill the silence with my own voice, but the void remains, a reminder of what was lost.

Healing isn’t a straight line. It’s the quiet acceptance of the spaces left behind. Slowly, I’m learning to breathe again, to exist without the weight of someone who chose to disappear.