#but some of this was promised to me too...

[mrspiastri]

✩ angel baby ?? 👼

pairing: lando norris x reader

cw: fluff, a little bit more fluff, tiny bit angsty nothing tooo bad

wc: 2.9k words

an: IM BACK BITCHES, based on this req!

When this debate had started, you could not remember, but now you were trying your best to not show how red your face looked as you laughed along with the rest of the table.

It was a regular post-race dinner, and Carlos was talking about how he couldn’t think of dating a fan of his.

“I just don’t think I could. I mean, what if they only like me for the fame, you know?”

You didn’t think much of it until your own boyfriend chimed in.

“Me too; it would weird me out, y’know?”

Now, you should have probably mentioned this to Lando at some point during the beginning of your relationship. But to be fair, he never asked, and you’d also only been dating for 8 months—so is it really such a crime to have not told him? You’d never found the chance to tell him you were a major fan of his prior to you meeting.

Of course, you recognised him when you first met—which was at a dinner party hosted in his honour for the company you worked at, who happened to be one of McLaren’s sponsors.

You internally tried your best to not lose your mind when you saw him, choosing to hide with your colleagues as they teased you for how worked up you seemed.

But what you hadn’t expected was for him to walk over to you with two flutes of champagne and then spend the entire night in conversation, with him even sneaking out early with you to get gelato and walk you home.

Ever the gentleman, he made sure to get you home safe and even waited till you reached your apartment—but not before getting your number and a promise that you’d meet him for lunch the next day.

You didn’t sleep a wink that night, too overwhelmed at the idea of going out to lunch with maybe your favourite male celebrity. And if there was a mini helmet of his from Silverstone 2024 on your bedside table, that was nobody’s business but your own.

Okay, maybe you weren’t a psycho stalker fangirl or whatever, but you did know your way around the fandom. You could list all his wins in chronological order, his podiums at each circuit, and could claim to be an owner of at least 4 (!) ln4 hoodies.

You never really admitted you used to be a fan because it was plainly embarrassing. Not to mention, it wasn’t like you actively hid it; you just didn’t care enough to remember.

Now, however, with him talking about not dating a fan, you couldn’t help but sip your wine a bit nervously as you nodded along. It was safe to say you and Lando were still in the honeymoon phase of your relationship, but honestly neither of you ever thought it would stop.

To say you were enamoured by each other was an understatement, especially with the man completely wrapped around your finger—you could ask him for the world, and he’d show up with it and the stars too.

But with this new revelation, you weren’t sure how to really bring up the topic.

🪻🪻🪻

The next morning, after Lando woke you up to the scent of eggs frying and coffee being brewed, you decided to bring your line of questioning forward. He placed your plate in front of you along with your morning latte, and in that moment you tried to bring up last night’s conversation as nonchalantly as possible.

“So, last night was kind of silly, huh?’

“Whaddya mean?” He replied through a mouthful of toast.

"You know, the whole 'I’d never date a fan' thing you and Carlos were talking about. ” You took a sip as you tried to not make eye contact.

“How was that silly?”

“Like, it’s a bit childish, no? What’s wrong with being with a fan?”

“It’s just weird; like, how do I know you’re not with me because of the fame and all that?” Lando argued.

You didn’t have a response to that without sounding weird for arguing over the subject, so you let it go.

Lando, however, didn’t.

He didn’t think much of it at first. He had just shrugged and continued eating, too focused on trying not to burn his tongue on the eggs he insisted on making for you every Saturday morning.

He found it kind of funny at first. The way you suddenly seemed defensive over the topic. He didn’t think too much of it in the moment, but after he kissed your cheek and cleared your plate, he caught himself thinking about it again as he stood at the sink, running water over your empty mug.

But later, while you were out on the balcony, curled up with your laptop and replying to emails, Lando stood in the kitchen drying a mug and thinking about what you’d said.

He played the memory back in his head more times than he’d admit, narrowing in on the way you fidgeted with your coffee spoon, how you didn’t meet his eyes. He didn’t like it when you looked unsure, especially not around him.

Still, life carried on. He flew off to another race weekend while you stayed back to finish a big work presentation, and your FaceTime calls stayed as sappy and full of inside jokes as ever. If anything, he only missed you more.

He didn’t bring up the fan thing again, not when he had you smiling sleepily at him over a video call at 1 am, wrapped in your fluffy robe with your hair still damp from a shower.

He didn’t even think about it when you sent him a care package to his hotel, with snacks and vitamins and a small note that said “you got this, superstar.” He even found himself re-reading that note like a lovesick idiot while sitting in the team garage between sessions.

You, on the other hand, were doing your absolute best not to spiral. The guilt wasn’t huge, but it was persistent, like a little pebble in your shoe. You’d been such a fan, not just a casual “oh yeah, he’s a good driver” kind of fan.

You were active on Twitter, defending him to the death, posting edits of him and liking every one of his photos that came on your timeline.

But you’d changed; that version of you had been real, but so was this one. The same girl who had Lando's toothbrush in her bathroom and who knew exactly how he liked his tea. You weren’t faking anything.

Still, something about admitting the truth just felt risky. What if he took it the wrong way? What if he thought the whole relationship was some long game, like you’d schemed your way into his life?

So you didn’t tell him. And time passed.

You watched more races, cheered from the sidelines or from the hotel room, always with your heart in your throat. You memorised his travel schedule better than your own. You kissed him good luck in the mornings and held him close at night when he was too tired to speak. And Lando just fell harder.

Every time he saw you waiting for him in the paddock, holding out your arms for a hug and smiling like he was the only one in the world, he swore he’d never get used to it. He was so gone for you.

🪻🪻🪻

“Don’t you get bored of me always talking about racing?” Lando questioned you as you shared a bowl of popcorn while watching some of his racing clips. He liked doing that sometimes; it was a way for him to check his mistakes while also being able to observe his victories.

“If I were bored of racing, I don’t think I’d be in a relationship with a racing driver, now would I?” You quipped, flicking his forehead affectionately.

He simply smiled at you, one of his signature cheesy grins, as he laid his head down on your lap.

You softly brushed your fingers through his curls, at the risk of him whining about you messing with the products he spent 20 minutes applying this morning.

The two of you were fixated on the screen, your eyes concentrated on his car zooming down the straights.

“Wait, which race are we watching again?” He questioned as he reached for the remote.

“Monaco 2022”. You replied deftly, popping a few kernels into your mouth.

Lando had a slightly amused look on his face, not expecting you to be so engrossed, but happy nonetheless.

“God, this one still makes me nervous,” you muttered, watching a particularly intense on-track battle.

Lando looked over at you, eyebrows raised. “Still?”

You froze. “I mean, it was a good race. Real classic, y’know?”

“You watched this live?”

You tried to smile casually. “Sure. With some friends.”

His eyes narrowed just a bit, suspicious but intrigued. “Wait, how do you even remember this overtake?”

You shrugged. “I guess I was into racing.”

“You were a fan.” He said it slowly, like the idea was just now clicking into place. “Of me.”

You didn’t say anything. Just pulled the blanket up higher and stared at the screen, hoping he’d move on. But he turned to face you fully, grinning now.

“No way. Wait, no. You were. That’s why you brought it up over breakfast months ago. You were embarrassed.”

“I wasn’t,” you mumbled, cheeks heating up. “I just didn’t think it was relevant.”

“You little liar!”

“I’m not!”

“Then why did you hide it?”

You shook your head, but the words were already rising in your throat. “I didn’t tell you because—I was scared.”

He frowned, tilting his head. “Scared of what?”

You played with the edge of the blanket between your fingers, not looking at him. “That you’d think I was with you for the wrong reasons. That I was just some fan trying to get her five minutes of attention or—or chasing after your money or your name or the whole WAG circus. I didn’t want you to look at me and wonder if it was all fake.”

Lando was quiet for a moment.

You could feel your heart in your ears.

“I know it sounds stupid,” you continued quickly, cheeks hot. “But you said you couldn’t date a fan, and it just stuck with me. I didn’t want to risk it. Things were too good. You were too good. I didn’t want to lose you over something so embarrassing.”

“You really thought I’d leave you over that?”

You tried to smile, but it faltered. “I just didn’t want you to think I was one of those people.”

Lando let out a breath, shaking his head. “God, you think so little of me.”

The words hit you like a slap, but before you could say anything, he reached for you. Gently, he pulled you over and settled you into his lap, your legs straddling his thighs as he held you close. His arms wrapped tight around your waist, like he needed to anchor you to him.

“Listen to me,” he said, voice steady now, no trace of laughter left. “I don’t care if you used to have posters of me on your wall. I don’t care if you knew all my stats or made edits or wrote fanfiction; for all I know. None of that matters. Youmatter. What we have now matters.”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you stayed quiet.

“I know you,” he whispered, fingertips tracing soft circles against your back. “You don’t care about the spotlight. You hate the cameras. You’ve never once bragged about us on social media or cared about being seen. You’re not here for the parties or the designer tags or the lifestyle. You’re here for me. And I see that every day.”

Your hands slid up to his jaw, your thumb brushing over the small scar on the bridge of his nose. He looked so serious, so impossibly sincere, it made your chest ache.

“I didn’t mean to lie,” you said softly. “I just didn’t want to ruin anything.”

He was still holding you, still cradling you in his lap like you were made of glass and something he’d never let slip through his fingers again. His hands were warm against your back, one resting at the base of your spine and the other slowly running up and down the curve of your side like he needed to remind himself you were real.

“I mean it,” he said again, voice low and sure, brushing his nose against yours. “I don’t care if you knew every stat I ever had. I don’t care if you had a shrine of mini helmets or screamed every time I got on the podium. You could’ve painted your walls neon yellow, and I’d still think you’re the most genuine person I’ve ever met.”

Your heart squeezed. “I didn’t paint my walls, but I did have a sticker on my laptop.”

He let out a soft laugh, eyes lighting up, but it was full of love now; that kind of warm, weightless love that made your skin feel sun-kissed even in the dim light of the living room.

“You’re ridiculous,” he whispered, and then leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours.

“And you’re in love with someone who once told off a stranger on Twitter for calling you overrated,” you whispered back.

“I am so in love with her,” he said with a grin that made your stomach flip.

Then he kissed you.

Slow at first, like he had all the time in the world, his lips brushing over yours in a way that made your heart stutter and your breath catch. He kissed you like it was something he hadn’t done in a while, like he was rediscovering you. His thumb traced your cheek, his hand sliding into your hair, holding you close without crowding you.

You kissed him back with everything you had.

All the fear you’d carried, all the silly embarrassment, melted into the way he tasted—a little like the popcorn he’d eaten earlier, a little like the mints he always kept in his pocket. It was soft and familiar and brand new all at once.

He pulled back only slightly, his nose brushing yours again. “You’re mine, yeah?”

You nodded, eyes a little glossy, mouth still tingling. “Always.”

And then he kissed you again, deeper this time. His hand slid up your back, pulling you closer, like even this much space between you was too much. You could feel the way he smiled into it, could feel the quiet little sigh he let out like he’d finally exhaled after holding his breath for months.

You curled your fingers in his hair and kissed him harder, laughing softly against his mouth when he let out a quiet, dazed ‘fuck’ under his breath.

All was well, until—

“Wait, you were on Twitter?”

“…Maybe,” you mumbled.

His eyes lit up. “Oh my god. You did. You tweeted about me. Find them. Show me.”

“I’m not showing you anything.”

Lando was already rolling off the couch and grabbing your phone. “C'mon. You have to. Please. I’ll never ask you for anything else in my life.”

“Maybe”, you mumbled.

His eyes lit up. “Oh my god. You did. You tweeted about me. Find them. Show me.”

“I’m not showing you anything.”

Lando was already rolling off the couch and grabbing your phone. “C'mon, you have to! Please. I’ll never ask you for anything else in my life.”

“That’s a lie, and you know it.”

“Okay, but this time I’m serious.”

Sighing dramatically, but secretly already giggling to yourself, you reached for your own phone. You opened the app and scrolled for a moment before finding it. The long-forgotten fan account: locked, dusty, and inactive for over two years.

You held it out wordlessly.

Lando took it, eager.

And then immediately burst into laughter.

“@ln4everangelbaby?! Are you kidding me?”

You snatched it back. “I was seventeen when I made that, Lando.”

He was already breathless, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “No, wait. I need a minute. Angel baby? What was that even supposed to mean?”

You covered your face with your hands. “You had these really cute photo from your debut year, and someone called you that on Tumblr, and I thought it was cute, okay?”

“Oh my god.” He leaned back, shaking with laughter. “This is better than I could have ever imagined.”

He tried to scroll, but the account was locked, and you weren’t about to log in and let him dig through the archives of your cringe era.

“Let me read some tweets,” he begged, tugging at your sleeve like a child.

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ll buy you dinner every night forever.”

“You already do that anyway.”

“I’ll take you to the Maldives for a week.”

“You’re kidding.”

But his face remained unmoved, completely serious.

“Make it two weeks.”

He hesitated. “Ten days.”

“Twelve.”

“Deal.”

You unlocked the account with the kind of grim resolve one might have before jumping into shark-infested waters and handed it back.

He kept reading out tweets in dramatic fashion, doing voices, quoting your old replies to trolls, and fake-crying when he got to a heartfelt race reaction.

You just curled up smaller and smaller on the couch, your face buried in a pillow while Lando had the time of his life dragging you, groaning occasionally at particular posts you didn’t even remember making.

When he finally calmed down, he tossed the phone gently onto the coffee table and pulled you into his arms, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“I think this might be my favourite thing about you.”

You blinked up at him, confused. “My terrible teenage Twitter?”

He smiled. “No. That you loved me then, even when I was just some kid in a fast car. And you love me now, even when I’m an idiot who makes fun of your old username.”

“You really can’t let that go, can you?”

“Angel baby,” he whispered, laughing again, and you groaned and buried your face into his chest as he wrapped his arms tighter around you.

DID U GUYS MISS ME (the only answer is yes) i missed writing so much im so happy i could put this out :DD enjoy! and im so sorry it’s so short i just am so drained with my first sem in college ! :(

[deadpoetskin]

DADDY, YOU DUMMY — II

SYNOPSIS: One moment, Wayne Manor is calm. The next, there’s a toddler standing in the dining room with a Red Robin plush, and a very familiar pair of blue eyes.

None of Bruce’s sons have children. Only one of them is even in a relationship.

And that is most definitely not Timothy Jackson Drake PAIRINGS: Tim Drake x Fem! Reader, Original Female Character TAGS: Time Travel, Slow burn, Strangers to Lovers

🜼 :: had to cut it short again 'cause it was getting too long but at least this time there's mentions of the reader. i think by next chapter she'll finally have a scene

🜼 :: lemme know if you wanna be tagged for part three

At some point during the early hours, Tim had resorted to Google.

what do you feed a four-year-old for breakfast 

how to talk to a kid who thinks you’re their dad 

time travel psychological trauma in toddlers

The results weren’t helpful. A few parenting blogs, some clickbait titles, one academic article about multiverse theory, and a Buzzfeed quiz titled Which Justice League Member Should Babysit Your Kid? (He got J’onn.)

He clicked none of them.

So now he sat there, elbows on his knees, his cold coffee abandoned on the nightstand, staring into the quiet stretch of morning as if it might offer answers.

The rustle of sheets pulled Tim out of his thoughts.

He turned just in time to see Gia stir, shifting beneath the covers. Her tiny brows scrunched first, nose wrinkling like something in her dream hadn’t gone her way. Then her fingers tightened briefly around the Red Robin plush before her eyes fluttered open.

Sleep-heavy and glassy, they blinked once.

Then again.

Her gaze scanned the unfamiliar room. The heavy curtains, the warm Gotham morning light peeking through cracks in the blinds, the shelves lined with books and tech Tim hadn’t moved in years. She looked up—and her eyes landed on him.

“Daddy?” she mumbled, voice rough and soft from crying and sleep.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m here.”

He stood and moved to the edge of the bed and sat beside her, careful not to crowd her. Tim instinctively leaned forward just as she threw herself at him, arms flinging around his neck.

“Do you want some breakfast?”

She considered this, lips pursing. “Only if it’s not green.”

He blinked. “Green?”

“Uncle Dickie made me ‘healthy pancakes’ once and they were green and yucky.”

Tim almost laughed. Almost.

“No green pancakes,” he promised.

“Okay.” She nodded, decisive. Then, after a pause—“Do you have work with Grampa already? Can you stay for breakfast?”

“…Yeah. Of course, I can.”

Gia had never let go of him.

She clung like ivy, one arm still around his neck even as Tim carefully stood up and carried her down the hallway. Her Red Robin plush dangled from her hand, bumping softly against his shoulder as they moved.

The manor was quiet in the early morning hush. Pale sunlight slipped through the tall windows, catching dust motes and the edges of picture frames on the walls.

Tim padded barefoot into the kitchen, and to no one’s surprise, Alfred was already there.

A full spread had been laid out. Pancakes, eggs, fruit, toast—classic comfort fare. There was even a mug waiting for Tim on the counter, the exact way he liked it. No one had to ask.

Gia perked up the moment the smell hit her nose. Her head lifted from Tim’s shoulder.

“Is that pancakes?” she asked sleepily, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

Alfred turned just slightly, a faint warm smile. “Indeed it is, Miss Gia.”

“Yay,” she whispered, like it was a secret only she got to enjoy.

Tim eased her into a chair at the table, where a small plate already waited—cut-up pancakes in tidy triangles, syrup in a ramekin on the side. A glass of milk stood next to it.

She beamed. “Grandpa Alfred, you remembered!”

Tim blinked. Alfred, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “Of course I did.”

Gia immediately dug in, humming around a mouthful.

Tim didn’t sit right away. He lingered by the counter, fingers wrapped tight around his coffee mug, watching her like the universe might yank her away at any second.

She was so at home. So certain.

“Daddy, sit with me,” she said suddenly, patting the seat beside her with a syrup-sticky hand.

He moved like gravity had called him.

“Okay,” he said softly. “I’m here.”

Tim had just taken a sip of his new coffee—finally warm—when he heard it:

Bare feet on hardwood. Light, casual, familiar.

A moment later, Dick stepped into the kitchen.

Hair still damp from a shower, his shirt barely on, he looked every bit like someone who’d woken up early but hadn’t quite decided to start the day yet.

And then he saw them.

Tim, hunched slightly over his coffee, still sleep-rumpled. Gia, swinging her legs and eating pancake triangles with both hands. And Alfred, calmly refilling the syrup dish like this was the most normal morning in the world.

“…Whoa,” Dick said, voice low. “Okay. It’s real.”

Gia looked up, her eyes lighting up instantly. “Uncle Dickie!”

“Hey, peanut,” he said, recovering quickly as he moved to ruffle her hair. “You sleep okay?”

She nodded, mouth full. “Had dreams about waffles.”

“Those are the best dreams,” he agreed seriously, then glanced at Tim. “You holding up?”

Tim didn’t answer immediately.

He looked exhausted. Eyes shadowed, hair a mess, posture just slightly caved in—as if the weight of this tiny, syrup-sticky girl had collapsed every wall he’d spent years building.

“I’m still...processing,” Tim muttered.

Dick sat across from them and grabbed a piece of toast from a platter. “Processing’s good. Just means your brain hasn’t caught up to your heart yet.”

Tim raised a brow. “That was dangerously close to being profound.”

Dick grinned. “I contain multitudes.”

Gia reached across the table suddenly, poking Dick’s sleeve with her fork. “Uncle Dickie?”

“Yeah, munchkin?”

“Can you show me cartwheels later? Mommy says you do the best ones.”

Tim stilled. Dick hesitated for half a second—but only half.

“You bet,” he said brightly. “Only if I get a high five first.”

Gia offered one without hesitation, syrup and all.

Dick slapped it with a mock wince. “Sticky. I love it.”

She giggled, proud of herself.

Tim watched them, something unreadable in his eyes.

His fingers curled slowly around the handle of his coffee mug. She was smiling now, already bouncing in her seat, reaching for a piece of fruit with the same fork she’d used to poke her uncle.

She looked so comfortable. Like she belonged here. Like she’d always belonged.

And Tim couldn’t stop wondering what else she knew

Gia, as it turned out, had quite the memory for a toddler.

She chattered between bites, lips sticky with syrup and cheeks round with food, recounting moments with the ease of someone who had lived them a dozen times over.

By then, the others had already joined them—drawn in by the scent of coffee and warm food, or more likely, by sheer curiosity.

Jason came first, holding a motorcycle helmet in one hand. He took one look at Gia and deadpanned, “So the tiny intruder’s still here. Cool.” He poured himself coffee like this was completely normal.

Bruce sat silent at the head of the table, still nursing a half-drunk cup of coffee, his expression unreadable—but his eyes never strayed far from the child.

Cass, notably, had shown no shock at all. She’d walked into the dining room, looked once at the small girl confidently seated, nodded like that made perfect sense, and joined her at the table. She didn’t speak. But Gia beamed at her like she’d been waiting for her to show up. She leaned into Cass’s side with the kind of ease that didn’t need permission—like she already knew she’d be welcome there.

None of them interrupted. They just listened as Gia spoke

She talked like they’d all been there—like every story she shared belonged to them too. About a greenhouse with Uncle Dickie and Aunt Star where they got stuck in the gift shop because of a thunderstorm. About Uncle Jason teaching her to sneak cookies without letting Grandpa Alfred know and failing cause Alfred always knows. 

The stories didn’t stop.

“Mommy said I could wear the sparkly boots to the concert even though Daddy said they were too shiny but then she said ‘let her shine, Tim’ so I did and I was the sparkliest one there!”

She swung her legs, stabbed strawberries with her fork, and kept her little voice bubbling on, as if none of them were blinking at her like she was some impossible dream they'd collectively conjured overnight.

Tim stirred his coffee absentmindedly, not realizing he hadn’t taken a sip during the whole time she was telling her story.

Dick looked over. “You alright, Tim?”

Tim blinked.

He didn’t respond at first. Not when his brain was still catching up.

Because these weren’t just made-up stories or wishful dreams. They were specific. Detailed. Real. Things that hadn’t happened yet—but could. Things that felt possible in a terrifying, time-looped kind of way.

Every word she said felt like a pin pushing into his chest.

He wasn’t just in her stories—he was the center of them. The axis of a life he didn’t remember living. One where he was a father. A partner. Someone whole.

He was watching her—watching the ease with which she existed, how she claimed space with all the confidence of someone raised here. Not a hint of fear. No trace of uncertainty.

Just this boundless, messy, syrup-covered confidence that she was loved and known.

It was both comforting and terrifying.

“No,” he said honestly. “Not even a little.”

Gia kept going. “And one time, Auntie Cass gave me sparkly bandaids even though I wasn’t bleeding. And Uncle Dami said I was faking but I wasn’t!”

“Do you remember anything else?” Tim asked finally, voice low. Careful. He kept his tone light, like he was trying not to spook her.

Gia nodded, mouth full. Then, after a beat, she added, “Lots of stuff. Like when you tried to make breakfast but you almost set the kitchen on fire ‘cause Mommy distracted you by kissing your nose.”

Gia licked a smear of syrup from her thumb and cheerfully reached for another strawberry.

“And then,” she continued, swinging her legs, “Mommy said we could go to the Grampa’s party in Grampa’s big building after your work but only if I wore the green dress, ‘cause the purple one had peanut butter on it—”

She popped the berry into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully, oblivious to the silence that had settled over the room like mist.

Dick blinked slowly. “Grampa’s big building,” he repeated under his breath, shooting Bruce a look.

Gia didn’t notice. She swallowed and kept going. “And I said I wanted the sparkly shoes too, but Mommy said they were too loud and they’d go click-clack click-clack on the floors and Grampa would do the forehead rub thing—”

She demonstrated with both hands pressed to her tiny forehead, dragging down her face in a perfect mimic of Bruce Wayne’s frustration.

Bruce blinked. Jason outright wheezed, slapping a hand over his mouth.

Tim cleared his throat. “Grampa’s party?”

“Uh-huh! With all the people and the music and the sparkly lights! And I got to dance with Uncle Dickie, and Uncle Jay said I was better than him.”

Jason blinked. “Well, that tracks.”

“Hey—” Dick began indignantly, but Gia was already chattering again, fork waving midair.

Bruce hadn’t said a word. Not since he’d walked in and taken his seat at the head of the table—coffee cooling untouched in front of him. He’d been still, observing her the way one might observe a threat, or a miracle. With precision. With care. With silence.

Until now.

“Gia,” he said evenly.

The little girl looked up immediately, bright-eyed. “Yes, Grampa?”

Bruce didn’t flinch at the name. Didn’t correct her. He only leaned forward, lacing his fingers together in front of him.

“You said your mother brought you to my building before,” he began carefully. “What else do you remember about that night?”

Gia tilted her head, lips pursed in thought. “Umm… It was cold. Mommy made me wear tights, and I don’t like tights ‘cause they itch. But she wore her shiny earrings. The dangly ones! And her green dress with the flowers.”

The others exchanged glances—but none of them interrupted.

Bruce nodded once. “ Do you remember what your mommy looked like that night, sweetheart?”

“Oh. Yes!” Gia lit up again. “She was really pretty. Daddy hated it ‘cause he said too many people were gonna stare and he’d have to deal with it all night.”

She furrowed her brows, lips pursed as she thought hard—really hard—like the memory was tucked somewhere behind her eyes and she just had to reach the right corner to find it. Her fingers tapped lightly against the edge of her plate, forgotten syrup smudging her skin as she swung her legs under the table in slow, distracted arcs.

Everyone stayed quiet. Watching.

The little girl’s eyes lit up. “Oh! I have a picture!”

Tim sat up straighter. So did everyone else.

“It’s kind of crumply,” Gia went on, setting her fork down and scooting toward the edge of her seat, stubby legs reaching for the floor. “But I keep it in my bag ‘cause Mommy says memories are treasures, and this one is my favorite.”

Her eyes scanned the room like she expected her bag to just be sitting there waiting.

“Grandpa Alfred?” she asked, already halfway down, voice small but sure. “Do you know where my bag is? It's black and small and Mommy says I’m not ‘posed to lose it ‘cause it has important stuff.”

Tim was already pushing back his chair to help, but Alfred, ever composed, stepped forward with a slight bow of the head. “Of course, Miss Gia. I’ll retrieve it for you.”

He turned without delay, his steps measured and quiet, shoes barely making a sound against the manor floor. She nodded, satisfied, and hopped fully to the ground with a small thud, bare feet pattering against the cold kitchen tile as she followed him out toward the hallway.

The rest of the family remained at the table—still, silent, watching.

The air in the room had shifted—expectant, tense—not like before when everything had been speculation. This felt like proof was about to walk back into the room.

Tim sat forward, elbows on the table now, eyes fixed on the doorway where she'd gone. His heart was beating too loud in his ears.

“That’s it?” Jason muttered, almost disbelieving. “All we had to do to get proof was ask her what her mom looked like?”

Damian scoffed softly, a sharp exhale through his nose. “Tt.”

But it was Dick who responded, quieter, more serious than usual. “She ended up crying when Tim asked her last night,” he said, eyes not leaving the empty doorway where Gia and Alfred had disappeared. “She thought her dad forgot her mom. We couldn’t have asked her then.”

They fell into silence again.

And then—footsteps.

They heard her before they saw her—Gia’s voice chiming softly, like a skipping stone over still water.

“—I told you, I didn’t lose it! Mommy says I’m very responsible now.”

Alfred’s gentle hum of agreement followed, along with the quiet rustle of something being held close.

Alfred returned, and beside him, Gia clutched a small, black bag to her chest like it was sacred.

“I found it!” she announced.

Technically, Alfred had—but no one corrected her.

She marched over to Tim first, standing in front of him with wide, expectant eyes. “Wanna see it now?”

He nodded, kneeling again to her level like he had the day before. “Yeah, sweetheart. Show me.”

She unzipped it with both hands, rummaging with syrup-sticky fingers. Tiny fingers fished past a red crayon, a lollipop, a bunch of stickers, and—finally—carefully, reverently, she pulled out a folded piece of paper.

The edges were worn, the glossy paper soft from how many times it had been handled.

“I showed it to Uncle Bart too,” she added proudly. “He said it was cute, but he’s a weirdo.”

She held the picture out.

Tim’s hand hovered. He didn’t even breathe as he took it.

Jason craned to look over his shoulder. Damian leaned closer. Dick and Cass watched like the moment might crack reality in half.

Tim unfolded the picture.

And stopped breathing entirely.

The image was unmistakable:

Tim Drake, older—maybe late thirties—hair slightly longer, wearing casual clothes and soft laugh lines around his eyes. One hand rested around the waist of a woman. She had a blinding smile, radiant even in a still image, and was kissing Tim on the cheek while their daughter stood between them, holding both their hands.

They looked happy. Tangled up in each other in that easy, familiar way that only comes with years of shared mornings and missed bedtimes and long conversations after the house is quiet.

Gia looked up and smiled brightly. “See?” she said proudly. “That’s Mommy. That’s you, Daddy. That’s me.”

Then Bruce, his voice quieter than expected. “May I?”

Gia blinked up at him, then carefully handed it over. “You have to hold it nice,” she warned. “It’s special.”

Bruce took the paper with the same care he’d use for an ancient artifact.

“Mommy’s the coolest,” Gia nodded proudly, as if that were the most obvious truth in the world.

“She’s got, like, a billion fans. She writes songs and yells at the camera people when they take pictures of me.”

Having handed off her photo like it was a royal decree, she turned and padded back toward the table. She got as far as standing in front of her chair before pausing, then turned around and lifted her arms.

Still a little stunned, Tim blinked once, then pushed out of his chair and lifted her gently back into hers. She nestled back into the seat, grabbing her half-eaten pancake like nothing life-changing had just occurred.

Gia had finished breakfast by then—her plate mostly empty, a few strawberries taken from Dick’s still clutched in one hand. She was now tucked into the corner of the room near the window, utterly engrossed in a stack of napkins she was folding and tearing with focused precision. Cass sat beside her on the floor, legs crossed and relaxed, watching her with a serene calm that somehow soothed the toddler’s endless energy into something more careful, more quiet. Every so often, Cass handed her a new napkin. Gia would accept it with a thank you.

At the table, the picture sat in the center. The boys had unconsciously huddled around it now, shoulders nearly touching as they leaned in over the image. 

Bruce stood just behind them, arms crossed, watching in silence. His brows were furrowed, eyes sharp—not skeptical, not yet—but calculating. Gathering.

Dick gave a low whistle as he leaned in for a better look. “She’s certainly pretty.”

“She looks loud,” Jason added. “And sparkly. You’ve got a type.”

Tim didn’t even argue.

Damian, however, remained glaring at the photo like it personally offended him. “That still doesn’t tell us who she actually is. Do you recognize her?”

There was a pause. Then Tim, still staring at the image, nodded slowly.

“I know her,” Tim said quietly.

The words dropped into the room like a stone in still water.

Everyone turned to look at him.

“What?” Dick asked, blinking. “How—?”

Tim didn’t take his eyes off the photo. “I mean… I know of her,” he amended, his voice low and careful. “She looks older here. A little different, but—I’m sure it’s her.”

He leaned in slightly, studying the image again, as if confirming it for himself a second time.

“We met a couple years ago—briefly—at a Wayne Entertainment event in Metropolis. It was just a passing moment. Polite conversation, nothing else. I wouldn’t have remembered it now if not for—” he hesitated, then looked toward the corner where Gia was playing. “If not for her.”

Jason blinked. “She’s a celebrity?”

Tim nodded slowly. “Singer. Songwriter. Definitely has fans. She’s kind of a rising name these days. Not a global household name yet, but she’s rising fast. And… she’s talented. I remember that.”

He didn’t add what he was thinking—that she’d seemed kind. Grounded, even in a room full of power suits and flashing cameras.

“She was different than the rest of the crowd that night,” he murmured. “And now… this.”

“She kinda does look familiar,” Dick said, frowning as he leaned in for a better look. “Kori might have mentioned her once.

“She’s one of the performers scheduled for the Martha Wayne Foundation benefit concert next weekend,” Bruce added. His voice was unreadable. “I remember reviewing the final list with Lucius.”

“Gia said her mom writes songs” Dick said slowly. “That tracks”

Jason leaned back in his chair, letting out a low whistle. “So let me get this straight—your mysterious maybe-future kid has a mom who’s a rising star that you only met once?”

Bruce spoke again, voice even. “I think by now it’s confirmed she’s from the future.”

Jason huffed. “Yeah, no kidding. Kid talks like she’s got a lifetime of memories, and none of 'em match our timeline.”

Dick exhaled. “Man, we really don’t get normal Tuesdays, do we?”

At the edge of the room, Gia giggled—still absorbed in her napkin-folding game with Cass, blissfully unaware of the small storm gathering around the table and the old photo that might just change everything.

ARCHIVE PART ONE | PART THREE

🜼 :: @tvnile @rainschnael @a-taken-url @federalprison78-4 @kopivm

divider: @enchanthings

[maeshoneyles]

trophy

pairing: alexia putellas x reader

wc: 3.1k

tags: 18+!!!! smut, sugar mommy alexia, mafia alexia, fingering (r receiving), mirror sex, cunnilingus (r receiving), alexia grinding on r, dirty talk, jealousy, possessiveness but the good kind, alexia threatens a guy, aftercare and fluff at the end

a/n: i love a good sugar mommy alexia dynamic and the mafia just adds the perfect touch to me lol hope you enjoy!

The restaurant felt like somewhere the characters from Succession would eat, which honestly probably wasn’t too far off. Alexia was across the small table, eyes darting across a wine menu like she was deciphering some ancient cipher instead. Her brow had certain quirk to it, her forehead wrinkled just so as she read through the list of foreign reds and whites. The soft candlelight only accentuated her soft features as you sat there, staring, unabashedly, like nothing else in the world mattered. At that moment, it didn’t. 

“Where did you say we were going after this, baby?”

“An event.” She said quickly, not looking up from the list.

“Do I get any more detail than that?” you said, batting your eyelashes in that way that always pissed Alexia off. Of course, it only made her mad because it made her melt for you.

“Stop that, and no. I told you everything you need to know.”

“All you said was to stay as close to you as possible, stay quiet, and look pretty.”

“Exactly, that is all you need to know.”

You sat back in your seat with a sigh and continued watching. The fabric of your dress was tight, but not too tight. The shoes were silver, and you honestly could not remember if this was a pair studded with real diamonds or not. You had too many too keep track. The necklace, though, those were definitely real. You remember Alexia coming home with the box on a random Wednesday a few months ago, almost giving you a heart attack in the living room when you saw the exquisite piece.

Alexia ordered the wine and the food, as usual. She liked to do everything short of actually chewing your food for you like a mama bird. And honestly, you wouldn’t put it past her. 

You really had no idea what you ate—there was no point wasting energy on even looking at the menu when Alexia decided everything. Not that you minded, of course. One less decision for you to make. You told her about your day, your internship, your coworker who had bought you coffee twice this week, and yeah, had you brought that up just to see her jaw clench and her pupils dilate? Maybe. “Princesa, you know you don’t have to work that silly job, right? If this man is bothering you…”

“Yes baby, I know. You’ve told me a million times. But I want to, okay? I would go crazy sitting at home all day waiting for you. And I promise he is not a big deal. He doesn’t matter. Don’t do anything stupid on his account, ‘kay?”

“Mmm…I make no promises when it comes to you.”

“Ale…” You smirked. Alexia flashed back her wolfish smile that never failed to make you squirm in your seat. God this meeting or event or whatever better not take too long. Maybe I can convince her to leave early.

Dinner was comfortable and quick, just the precursor to the rest of the evening.

“Come, the car is outside,” Alexia’s hand found it’s place at the small of your back, leading you through the dimly-lit restaurant, out into the crisp night air, and into the back of the unassuming black car she had hired. You couldn’t remember the last time you had driven anywhere. Would you even remember how if given the opportunity? You didn’t waste too much time on the thought, brought back to reality quickly by Alexia’s hand squeezing your thigh. “Remember princesa, stay close and quiet. Don’t move out of my sight. Let everyone drool over you and make sure they know who you go home with,” she husked.

“Is that it? I’m here so you can show me off on your arm and make these assholes jealous?” you smirked.

Alexia gave me an unimpressed look and sighed. “Don’t- I’m not-”

I chuckled, shutting her up with a kiss. “Shut up. I love when you show me off, I love being your trophy”

“I don’t want you to think that’s all I see you as.”

“Ale, I know. You love me,” you smirked, lips just millimeters from hers.

“Brat.”

“You loveee me,” you sing-songed, playfully pecking her lips over and over again, your lipstick tinting her lips in a soft pink that just made you want to keep going and going.

The black car pulled up to what looked to be some kind of event center or hotel, again, you couldn’t bother yourself with the details when you knew Alexia would take care of everything.

The security guard escorted us in, not hesitating to lower his head in respect when he saw Alexia. You clocked her facial expression as you both strutted into the event, the subtle changes to her posture, her eyes darkening, her jaw clenching in the same way it did earlier. You felt her energy shift from the car to now; this was no longer your Ale, your wife, your love. No, this was Alexia Putellas. This was La Reina. Everyone knew not to mess with her or they should face the consequences. You were grateful to be on her arm and not a face in the crowd. Even in a room of potential danger, you felt as safe as you could by her side.

The next several hours were a blur of Alexia talking to various associates about god-knows-what. Honestly, you were just focused on her. The feeling that was buzzing underneath your skin, combined with the several drinks Alexia had gotten you from the bar, was begging to get out of that stuffy room and back home. “Ale,” you whispered in between conversations.

“Yes, carinyo?”

“How much longer do we have to stay?” You batted your eyelashes, giving your best pouty look that you knew she could never resist.

You saw the mask slip, her tough exterior fade for just a moment. “Not long, I promise. Stop it with the eyes, brat.”

I smirked in victory and leaned my head onto her shoulder as she led us away to another man she needed to converse with. Only a short while later, I felt an unfamiliar touch on my shoulder. Flinching further into Alexia, I looked up to see a man in a suit looking down at me with hungry eyes. “Quién es esta linda chica, Putellas?” he said, his voice slimy and sending shivers down my spine.

“Aléjate de ella antes de que te corte la garganta, Javier,” Alexia said, low and full of anger. She tugged you closer to her.

“Veo que la reina tiene una mascota ahora?”

Alexia took a deep breath before speaking again. “Podría matarte aquí mismo, y nadie vendría corriendo a por ti. Cuida tus palabras.”

Your Spanish wasn’t perfect, far from it, but you knew enough to know the gist of what was going on. And you weren’t sure you wanted to hear the specifics of how she was threatening that man, anyway. Once she was done her threat, she dragged both of you away to the entrance, already on the phone with the driver, making demands in rapid Catalan.

You didn’t dare speak until the driver safely deposited us at Alexia’s house. “Are you okay, Ale?” you said softly, almost worried she would explode again.

“Yes, princesa. I despise those men, every one of them. Even the thought that one of them would make you uncomfortable, let alone touch you, fills me with rage. I needed to leave before I did something I would regret doing in front of you.”

You clocked her choice of words immediately. In front of you. She would have killed that man like he was an ant in the blink of an eye if you were not watching, you were sure of it. The thought that she was willing to do such a thing in the name of protecting you filled you with heat. 

“I’m okay, baby, I promise. Thank you for protecting me. I loved seeing you in your element tonight, by the way.”

“Yeah? You liked that? Liked seeing me boss everyone else around for a change? Not just you?” Alexia’s hands were all over you, running over the smooth silk of your dress.

“Mhm…loved seeing everyone scared of you..” Alexia’s lips were barely a breath away from yours, ghosting over them to tease you.

“Everyone there was staring at you, mi vida. I could tell. They all wanted you. But you come home with me? Don’t you?” she whispered against your skin.

“Y-yes…’m yours..” Alexia’s smirk came back, stopping for a moment before her grip on your waist tightened and her lips moved to attack your neck. “Fuck, Ale. Mark me, please.”

Alexia groaned against your neck as she sucked a bruise to the spot below your ear that made you squirm in her hold.

“Ale, please. Please- bed,” you moaned out after what felt like a lifetime of Alexia biting and sucking at your neck and collarbones.

“What? Your little pussy can’t handle a little kissing? You need more of me?”

“Y-yes! Yes baby, I need more.”

Without a word, Alexia scooped me into her arms and carried me into the large master bedroom, placing you down in front of the dresser and large mirror that sat on top of it. Alexia stood behind you and softly kissed the back of your neck as she took off your jewelry. Her large hands ran down the back of your legs as she knelt down to undo the buckles of your heels. Her fingers grasped the zipper at the top of the dress and paused. “Keep your eyes on the mirror, princesa.”

You whimpered softly, bracing yourself on the dresser with my forearms as Alexia freed your body from the sleeveless black silk. The dress puddled around your ankles on the hardwood floor, leaving you in nothing but the red lace panties Alexia had picked out for you hours ago. “Every time I am amazed at how beautiful you are, darling. So perfect, and all mine.”

“Yours.” You gasped out at Alexia’s hands began wandering, wrapping around your front to softly knead your breasts. She dragged her fingertips lightly around your nipples, the feather-light touch on the hardened buds making you squirm. You watched her hands work like magic against your body in the mirror. You could feel you wetness gathering between your thighs, desperation growing. You were always desperate for Alexia, but how could you blame yourself? 

You resisted. Resisted the urge to let you head fall forward and eyes flutter closed in ecstasy. Resisted the urge to push your hips back into Alexia’s, silently begging. Resisted the urge to slip your own hand between your legs and get some kind of relief.

“All this,” she spoke in your ear as she lazily dragged her hands around your chest, back, stomach, and thighs, “is mine.”

“Yes..yes it’s yours. All yours. Alexia please.”

“Do you need more, carinyo?”

“Yes. Please.”

Her hands drifted down to your hips and toyed with the waistband of your panties for what felt like an eternity. You squirmed and whined, dropping your head to hang between your arms, the feeling of need becoming close to too much. You immediately felt one of Alexia’s hands snap up and tangle itself in your hair, yanking hard forcing your head back up, forcing you to make eye contact with yourself. The sharp prickles of pain from your scalp sent sparks straight to your core. You moaned, and Alexia tightened her grip.

“If you want me to touch you, watch. I won’t ask again.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Ale please.”

“Shhh…I’m gonna take care of you. Just keep those pretty eyes up there.” You managed a nod and a whine as her hands released your hair and returned to your hips, one of them snaking around to feel through the thin fabric convering your pussy. She hummed in satisfaction at the wetness she found there. “What is this, princesa? All for me, hm?”

At this point you didn’t have words, turned on beyond belief and using every ounce of self-control to keep your eyes where she wanted them. Another sharp tung on your hair had you gasping into the suddenly too-hot air of your bedroom. “Words, mi vida.”

“Y-yes! Yes, it’s all for you Alexia!” you choked out. She took her time, gliding her fingertips through your silky folds like she was mapping them out in her mind even though you both knew she already had it memorized like the back of her own hand. The rough pad of her thumb made sudden, rough contact with your clit, causing you to gasp and buck your hips back towards the source of your pleasure. Your high was building quickly, the tension coiling in your lower stomach and threatening to break in what should be considered an embarrassingly short amount of time. “A-Ale..Ale I’m gonna-”

“Not until I give you permission, remember?” You glanced behind you in the mirror to see Alexia’s biting smirk looking down at you. You whimpered but nodded your head, biting your tongue until you tasted copper to try and starve off the climax begging to overtake your body. The visual stimulation of seeing yourself, seeing the desperation and pleasure in your eyes as Alexia played your body like she was in an orchestra kept you dangerously close to the edge. Alexia’s thumb slowed it’s circles around your clit and her middle and index finger were inside you before you could even whine in protest. “I love feeling you squeeze around me carinyo. Who’s pussy is this? Hm?”

“Y-yours! Yours, yours, yours!”

The uncontrollable facial expressions you watched yourself make were downright sinful. Alexia’s words, low and husked and laced with the Catalan accent that made you weak in the knees in a normal atmosphere, only added to the growing mess between your legs when combined with the current context.

“That’s it, baby. Watch yourself fall apart. Watch how you give yourself to me. God, you look so perfect like this, don’t you think? I should just keep you like all the time, dripping and begging for me. Would you like that? My perfect, slutty, little toy for whenever I want?”

All you could do was whimper and nod as Alexia’s talented fingers hammered against all of your most sensitive spots.

“Alexia-! I need- needa’..please” you babbled incoherent nonsense as Alexia pushed you just to edge and kept you dangled there for what seemed like decades. Tears filled your eyes, falling down your flushed cheeks as you blinked them out to regain your vision.

“Don’t you dare take your eyes off the mirror. Watch your perfect eyes when you come for me,” Alexia hissed against the shell of your ear, attacking your neck in bites as she finally pushed you over the edge. The sounds that ripped from your throat were completely feral and animalistic. Alexia continued her movements, not stopping until you were writhing from the overstimulation. Your head dropped onto the dresser as you attempted to catch your breath. But Alexia, obviously, was not done. Her strong hands wrapped around your hips and dragged you over the bed, laying you down and knocking your legs open. You swore you could see her mouth watering, even through your post-orgasm haze that hadn’t even begun to fade, your heart still racing and your skin covered in a thin layer of sweat. 

“So good for me, watching yourself like that, coming so hard for me. Let me clean my girl up, and then you can help me out, okay?” You only nodded and took a deep breath. Alexia’s soft lips kissed your pussy, still sensitive and slightly raw from before. “I’ll be gentle, I promise,” you could feel the smirk against your skin and knew she wasn’t being entirely truthful, but you couldn’t find it to mind.

Alexia lapped gently at the arousal pooled in your folds, drinking it up like she had been craving it for weeks. She focused the tip of her tongue on your clit, eliciting a gasp from you and your hips to buck up. Not one to allow you any kind of control, she tossed your legs over her shoulders and linked her fingers over your stomach, effectively trapping you exactly where she wanted you. 

She alternated between sucking on your clit, fucking you with her tongue, and flattening her tongue against your folds, slowly building your arousal again until you were a shaking mess beneath her. “Ale-!”

“Shh, you’ve been good tonight. Come when you feel it.”

“Mmm- thank you thank you-“

You babbled out thanks and nonsense as another wave of your arousal flooded her mouth. She drank it up with no complaint and moved up to kiss you, your slick still coating her mouth and chin. You moaned, tasting yourself on her. 

She slid her hips up until her bare cunt was rested against your abdomen. She used your gasp as an opportunity to slide her tongue into your mouth as she grinded her soaked pussy along your abdominal muscles. You loved being used by her like this, even after two orgasms it sent sparks straight to your core.

Unsurprisingly, Alexia came fast after getting to toy with you for so long. She collapsed onto the sheets beside you, fingers coming up to trail imaginary paths along your side. “You okay, amor?”

“More than okay,” you hummed, turning you body to tuck your face into her neck and cuddle into her side.

“Good. You want a bath?”

“Only if you get in with me.”

“Brat. Deal..” Alexia smirked and moved gingerly up from the bed, taking your hand and supporting most of your weight on the way to the bathroom. She ran the bath with the utmost care, triple-checking the water temperature and that she had the scent that you preferred in the soap. Although you really didn’t care about all that, as long as you were in a warm bath, back pressed against Alexia’s chest, you would be content.

You sighed in satisfaction at the feeling of the hot water on your over exerted muscles. Alexia slid in behind you, carefully holding you against her chest with her strong arms. Your head leaned back to her shoulder and her lips pressed against your temple gently. 

After some time soaking in the bathtub, Alexia spoke, her voice miles away from the confident and powerful woman that had stepped into the event hours ago or fucked you to tears just minutes ago. “I’m sorry that man made you uncomfortable. I should have been keeping a better eye on you, and on everyone else.”

“Not your fault Ale, it’s okay. Don’t tell me what you said to him after though, okay?”

“That was the plan mi vida. I love you.”

“I love you more. Every version of you.”

[dissociativewriter]

Crow Family- Earned Title

Young Luke and Kieran AU, Sylus x nonMC!Reader | fem reader, not proofread | 787 words | Crow Family Masterlist

author’s note: HEAVY cute aggression in this one yall (the twins are so cute i need to adopt them and smother them in hugs and kisses omg), this is very cute and fluffy and sappy

requests open for crow family shenanigans!

Bedtime at the Qin household was never easy, Sylus had warned you.

“I really hate to leave you alone with them for the night,” he explained apologetically. “I wouldn’t ask this of you if it wasn’t an emergency.”

You waved him off. “It’s no problem. I love spending time with them!”

“I know you do. They love spending time with you, too.” Sylus smiled.

It faded, though, as his brow drew together. “Remember, they do have a knack for disappearing, so try to keep an eye on them. Last time I lost them, Luke apparently jumped off the banister,” he sighed, flinching as he recounted the memory as if it hurt him. “And Luke likes the crust off his bread. Kieran says it’s fine, but he really doesn’t like the crust either. Oh, and! Kieran is probably going to ask you for a glass of warm milk before bed. He saw someone in a children’s book do it and… now he thinks it’s what people do.” Sylus shrugged helplessly before continuing with a serious tone. “Do not give it to him. He’ll be very hard to resist, he’ll give you puppy dog eyes and everything, but you have to stay strong! The milk upsets his stomach. If they ask you to—”

“Sylus!” you laughed, putting a hand on his arm. “You worry too much. The twins will be safe with me, I promise.”

His shoulders dropped as all his tension eased. “I know. I trust you, I do, it’s just…” A deep breath. “This is my first time leaving them with someone else. I’m a bit scared, to be honest,” he whispered.

You softened at his quiet admission. “That’s why you’re such a good dad to them,” you murmured. His gaze snapped to yours, a faint pink tinging his cheeks.

You furrowed your brow for a moment before huffing out a laugh. “Luke, Kieran, you can come out now.”

The twins shuffled out from behind the couch, heads down in shame. “How’d you know we were there?” Luke whined.

“I’m fine with the crusts,” Kieran muttered.

“No, you’re not! You hate them, too!” Luke accused.

“They’re fine! I’m not a baby anymore, I can handle the crusts,” he said.

“Are you calling me a baby?” Luke cried.

“I’m not the one that asks Sylus to cut the crusts off every time I want some bread!”

“Shush.” You shook your head. “Say goodbye to Sylus, then we’ll get some dinner.”

“Bye, Sylus!” Luke grinned.

“Be safe! I love you!” Kieran hugged his leg.

“Wait, I love you, too, Sylus!” Luke grabbed ahold of his other leg.

Sylus chuckled, patting both their heads. “I love you both. I’ll be there when you wake up.” Sylus leaned down, pressing a kiss to their foreheads.

The night with the twins passed about as you expected. You had to pull Luke off the banister twice, be the seeker in a game of hide and seek (which you lost), and deny Kieran some warm milk before bed (which was the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do).

Now, you were sat on the edge of Luke’s bed, tucking in the blankets as they both sleepily chatted about what they would do tomorrow. “Can’t we watch a movie tonight?” Luke asked.

“No, you both need to get some sleep,” you said firmly.

“I’m not tired!” Kieran grumbled.

You stared at him blankly. “You’re yawning and you can barely keep your eyes open.”

Luke sank back into his pillow in tandem with Kieran. “Can’t we at least wait for Papa to come home?” he asked slowly.

“Papa…?” you repeated.

“I want to see Papa,” Kieran agreed. “Papa… Sylus…”

You couldn’t help the smile that made its way onto your lips.

As it was nearing 10:30, Sylus came through the door, crimson eyes immediately finding yours where you were dozing off on the couch.

“How were they?” he asked.

“No casualties.” You shrugged.

Sylus breathed a sigh of relief.

“Something interesting happened…” you began, fighting off your smile as you walked towards him.

He stiffened instantly. “What happened?”

“They called you Papa,” you said softly.

Sylus was quiet for a moment, the words settling over him. “…they did?” he finally asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded. “Right before they fell asleep, they were asking for Papa.”

Sylus’s bottom lip quivered. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, turning away from you. “I need a moment.”

You put your hand on his trembling shoulder. “You are their father, you know.” You gave a small smile. “You take care of them, protect them, love them. And they love you, too,” you said simply.

Sylus looked back at you, eyes glossy. “They really are my boys,” he murmured. “My little crows.”

comments and reblogs appreciated and asks open! <3

masterlist

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[syrecjh]

There’s something sacred about Katsuki Bakugo’s back.

Not his arms—though they’re carved like a war god’s. Not his chest—though you’ve fallen asleep against it enough to know its rhythm like a hymn. No, it’s his back that undoes you. That broad stretch of strength and stillness, muscle and memory, sunlit skin rising and falling with each breath like the promise of another day.

Mornings with him are quiet wars lost to softness. You wake tangled in sheets, the scent of smoke and something clean curling through the cotton. He always sleeps shirtless—claims he gets too warm—but you think he just likes to show off, especially to you. Because when the sun filters through the blinds and hits him just right, your first view of the day is his back—bare and golden and just barely marred with scars he doesn’t try to hide anymore.

It’s a view that says: this is mine. All of it. The silence. The sinew. The man who breathes like a storm at rest.

Sometimes, when he’s lifting weights at home, sweat slicking down the ridge of his spine, you sit on the edge of the couch pretending to scroll your phone while your gaze tracks every twitch and pull of his muscles like scripture. The way his scapula shift. The line from shoulder to waist. It should be illegal, really, for someone to look that devastating from behind.

And when you're at the beach—hell—hell is watching every pair of eyes clock his every movement as he walks out of the water like some cinematic deity. Dripping, smirking, towel slung low on his hips. It’s not that you blame them. No. You’d ogle too if he wasn’t yours. But he is. He is. And sometimes, that possessive thread of pride wraps around your spine, firm and smug, because no matter how many heads he turns, it’s your name he says when he’s laughing, it’s your hand he reaches for, it’s your fingers he tangles into his hair when the night softens.

You remember once, a group of girls on the boardwalk whispered just a little too loud, one of them biting her lip and murmuring something about “that blonde with the monster body.” You’d nudged him, joking, “Think they’re talking about you or the guy behind you?”

He’d huffed, thrown an arm over your shoulder, and muttered low, for only you to hear, “Damn right they’re talkin’ about me. But this back?” He tapped it with his free hand. “Yours. Always has been.”

You rolled your eyes, but you smiled—couldn’t help it. Because when he says things like that, not for show, not to prove, but to ground you in the simple truth of it—of him—your heart does this quiet little spin.

So yeah, Katsuki Bakugo is all biceps and abs and sharp-jawed fire. But it’s his back—sturdy, scarred, and soft when it’s only for you—that you worship most.

And every time you wake to it, golden in the morning light, you think—

What a goddamn beautiful way to begin.

[barnesonly]

First Time

bucky barnes x reader

summary: you tell Bucky you’ve never had sex before and he makes it his mission to show you what it means to feel safe, wanted, and loved.

word count: 4,3k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. established relationship, curse words, first time, dirty talk, praising, fingering, PiV, unprotected sex, breeding.

The bar was warm with low amber lighting, the kind that made everyone look softer. You were curled into the corner of a booth, half a drink in front of you, half-listening to the hum of chatter and clinking glasses all around. Bucky was beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, fingers resting loosely along the back of your seat like they always did when he was comfortable. At ease.

He’d made some comment about 80s music—how it was too synth-heavy for his taste—and you’d rolled your eyes, laughing into the rim of your glass. “You still think Sinatra’s the peak of civilization, Barnes. Your opinion doesn’t count.”

He grinned, that lazy, lopsided thing he did when he was trying not to smile too much. “I just think music went downhill when people stopped writing love songs you could slow dance to.”

You tilted your head at him. “They didn’t stop. We could slow dance to this, you know.” The song playing was barely more than a mellow indie track, not at all meant for dancing, but you saw the flicker of amusement in his eyes. He didn’t challenge it. He just looked at you like he always did—quietly, like you were a question he wanted to take his time answering.

Conversation shifted the way it always did with him—effortless. Somewhere between funny stories and half-serious dreams about leaving the city for a week, you found yourself fidgeting with your straw, heartbeat starting to tick faster for no real reason except that you wanted to tell him something. Something real.

You hadn’t planned to say it. It just… slipped out. “I’ve never done it, you know? Sex, I mean.”

The words landed between you like a stone dropped into still water. Not loud, not dramatic—just there. You looked down immediately, as if you could take it back, embarrassed for reasons you couldn’t fully explain. But Bucky didn’t laugh. Didn’t say anything, not at first.

He turned his body slightly toward you, his hand slipping down from the booth to rest gently on the back of your neck—thumb brushing just beneath your hairline in a way that was so instinctive, so him.

“You’ve never?” he asked, voice low, cautious but not judgmental. Just surprised. Curious. “Is that something you meant to tell me tonight?”

You let out a breath, shaky but sure. “I just… I wanted to. I didn’t want you to think I was waiting for the perfect moment or anything. It’s not a big moral thing, or a promise I made. I’ve just never felt ready. Or safe. Not with anyone.”

That was when he moved his hand from your neck to your knee beneath the table, his palm warm through your jeans, grounding. He nodded slowly, like he’d made a silent vow to himself in that moment.

You swallowed, throat a little tight, heart a little loud in your ears. But it wasn’t nerves this time. Not fear. It was something steadier—like the quiet edge of a leap you’d already decided to take.

“I want to,” you said softly.

His eyes flicked back to yours, sharp but careful, like he was making sure he’d heard you right.

You wet your lips, not breaking the gaze. “I want to do it—with you. I trust you. And I’m… I’m ready.”

For a second, he just looked at you. Like he was cataloguing everything about this moment—your expression, your voice, the slight tremble in your fingers as they rested near your drink. You could feel the shift in him, subtle but powerful, like the way the air changes before rain. Like he’d been holding something back and now he didn’t have to anymore.

But even then, he didn’t rush it. He didn’t move closer or tighten his grip. His voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper. “You sure?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

He exhaled slowly, like he was holding back something he didn’t quite have words for. Then he gave you the softest smile—one that curved just a little at the corner, crinkled faintly near his eyes, and made your chest ache with something full and warm.

“Okay,” he said simply.

And the way he said it—it wasn’t just about sex. It was about you. About the kind of care that didn’t ask for permission once, but every step of the way.

He brushed his thumb over your knee, slow and tender, and then he leaned in just enough to rest his forehead lightly against yours. “Thank you for trusting me.”

———

The apartment was dark when you stepped inside, lit only by the soft spill of streetlight through the blinds. You slipped your shoes off by the door, the muffled thump of Bucky’s boots following close behind. Neither of you said anything right away. It didn’t feel like it needed words.

You moved through the space slowly, deliberately, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the calm that had settled between you. Bucky’s hand brushed the small of your back as you passed him, and it lingered for a moment longer than usual—just enough to make your breath catch.

When you turned to look at him, he was already watching you. His eyes were darker in the low light, softer too. You weren’t sure who moved first, but suddenly you were in front of him, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt as his hands rose—one settling against your waist, the other brushing your jaw.

“I want you to tell me,” he murmured. “Every step of the way. If you change your mind, we stop. If something feels wrong, we stop.”

You nodded, and your voice came out quiet but clear. “I’ll tell you.”

His hand slid up to cradle your cheek, thumb tracing the curve beneath your eye. Then he leaned in, slow and careful, and kissed you. Not hungrily. Not with any urgency. Just… tenderly. Like he meant to memorize it.

The kind of kiss that made everything else fade.

When he pulled back, your foreheads touched. His breath warmed your skin.

“Bedroom?” he asked softly.

You nodded again.

He didn’t rush you. He let you take his hand, let you guide him there. The room was dim, just the low glow of a lamp left on by the bedside. You stood together in the stillness for a moment, your hands resting over his heart.

“I’ve thought about this,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“Me too,” he said, and you could hear the emotion tucked behind it. “For a long time.”

You reached for the hem of your shirt, but his hands covered yours gently.

“Let me,” he said. “If that’s okay.”

You let him.

He undressed you slowly, reverently—like each piece of clothing was a layer of something sacred. And when you stood bare in front of him, you didn’t feel nervous. You felt seen.

Bucky’s eyes dragged over you, slow and hungry, but not in a way that made you feel exposed. In his gaze, you weren’t something to consume. You were something to cherish.

“Christ,” he murmured, voice thick. “Look at you…”

You felt heat bloom across your chest, your neck, down your stomach, but before the self-consciousness could settle in, his hands were on you again—gentle and grounding. He cupped your face first, tilting it up so your eyes met his.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, like it was a truth carved in stone. “You hear me?”

You nodded, but it wasn’t enough for him.

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to your lips—slow, but deeper this time. His tongue brushed yours just once, just enough to steal your breath before he broke away and trailed his mouth down your neck, nipping lightly at your skin until you gasped.

“I love you so much, baby,” he whispered against your throat. “All of you.”

One hand slid down your spine, the other cradling the curve of your waist as he lowered his head. His mouth found the swell of your breast and he kissed it—softly at first, then again, slower, more deliberate. His tongue flicked against your nipple and you let out a soft sound you hadn’t meant to make, and that made him groan low in his throat.

“Fuck,” he muttered, eyes flicking up to your face. “That sound—don’t hold it back. I wanna hear you.”

He took your nipple into his mouth then, sucking gently, one hand squeezing your hip like he was trying to stay grounded. The warmth of his tongue, the slight scrape of his teeth—it sent a sharp pulse of heat down between your thighs, and you shifted instinctively, pressing closer.

You felt his breath hitch against your skin. Felt the way his body reacted to yours—the tension in his grip, the hardness growing against the front of his boxers. He wanted you, badly, but he still held himself back, still moved slowly.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you again, lips wet and swollen.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly.

“I’m not scared,” you whispered.

He smiled at that. “Good.”

Then his hand slid down, gliding over the curve of your hip, across your thigh, and back up again—like he was mapping you, learning the lines of your body by touch alone. He leaned in and kissed your stomach, just below your navel, then a little lower, lips brushing hot against sensitive skin.

“You tell me when you want to stop, okay?” He murmured, breath warm against you. „I want to make you feel so good, baby.”

You felt his breath ghost lower, his lips barely brushing the inside of your thigh—and still, your heart was racing. Not from what he was doing. From what he wasn’t doing yet.

“Bucky…” you said, barely louder than a breath.

He lifted his head immediately, eyes searching yours. “You okay?”

You hesitated, your hand reaching out to touch his hair, his cheek—just to keep him close.

“I’m not scared of you,” you said, trying to explain. “It’s just… I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

His brow furrowed gently, fingers brushing soothingly along your hip. “That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

You swallowed hard. “I’ve never… I mean—” Your voice caught, but you forced it out. “I’ve never even touched myself before.”

You felt his breath hitch.

He blinked, stunned into stillness for just a second. “Never?”

You shook your head. “I Just—I didn’t know what to do. What I was supposed to feel. I didn’t want to do it just to…do it.”

His expression changed—something between disbelief and awe. His gaze swept over you again, slower now, deeper, like he was seeing you in a new light. Reverent. Almost wrecked by how much he wanted to be the first to show you any of this.

“Baby…” he whispered, and there was a rasp in his voice now, something thick with emotion. He leaned in, kissed you again—first your lips, then down your jaw, your neck, your chest—before murmuring against your skin, “Can I show you?”

Your breath caught and you nodded.

“I need to hear it,” he said softly, fingers brushing your thigh, inching inward. “Tell me I can touch you.”

“Yes,” you breathed, your voice trembling. “Please… I want you to.”

He groaned—quiet but guttural—and kissed your stomach as his hand slid between your thighs, parting them slowly, gently, like he was unwrapping something fragile and sacred. His touch was warm, callused, careful.

He cupped you first, his palm resting over your heat, not moving—just holding you there, letting you adjust to the weight of it. His thumb stroked lightly over your mound, and the touch sent a jolt through you—shocking in its softness.

“You’re already so warm,” he whispered, almost to himself. “So soft…”

Then his fingers moved lower, finding the slick wetness gathering there. He exhaled hard through his nose, groaning low. “Fuck, baby—this all for me?”

You whimpered, nodding.

He found your clit with the lightest touch of his thumb, barely circling it, just enough to make your hips twitch. He smiled against your skin when you gasped, kissed your thigh again as he worked slow, teasing little motions.

“Does that feel good?” he asked, voice rough, eyes never leaving your face.

“Y-Yeah,” you breathed, overwhelmed by the sensation.

“Good. I wanna make you feel even better.”

He slid one finger lower, gathering your slick before gently slipping it inside—just a little, just enough to make you moan softly. Then he pulled out, circled your clit again, watching your reactions like they were the most important thing in the world.

Your hips moved without thinking, chasing his touch as your body began to burn in places you hadn’t even known they could. His finger slipped in again, a little deeper this time, and he added another—a slow, careful stretch as his thumb resumed its tender circles on your clit.

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice wrecked with how much he wanted this for you. “So fucking good.”

Bucky worked his fingers in slow, careful strokes—just two of them, deep and curling gently, finding that spot inside you that made your breath stutter. His thumb never stopped circling your clit, just the lightest pressure, building something you hadn’t ever felt before.

You gasped, hips twitching as your thighs began to shake, but he kept you grounded—his body half draped over yours, his mouth near your ear, his hand steady between your legs like an anchor.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “You feel that? How close you are?”

You whimpered, nodding—eyes fluttering shut as pleasure pulsed tighter and tighter in your core. It was overwhelming and new and dizzying, like your whole body was being rewired under his touch.

“Don’t be scared of it,” he whispered, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear. “You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart. Just let go. Let me have it.”

Your hand gripped the sheets. The muscles in your thighs were trembling now, your breath hitching as his fingers moved faster—not rough, just sure. Perfect.

“You’re right there,” he coaxed, voice thick and low and soothing even as you writhed beneath him. “Come for me. I’ve got you. I won’t stop. Just feel it—don’t fight it.”

You didn’t even know what your body was doing anymore. Everything tightened at once, your belly curling in, your back arching, and then the heat snapped—a blinding wave crashing through you that left your mouth falling open in a broken cry.

Bucky didn’t stop. He slowed, softened, but didn’t pull away—his thumb still tracing slow, lazy circles as your orgasm rolled through you like a tide. His other hand cradled your cheek, grounding you through the aftershocks.

“That’s it,” he whispered, kissing your forehead. “That’s it, baby… fuck, you’re so beautiful like this.”

You were shaking—your thighs still twitching, chest heaving—but you’d never felt more cared for, more safe in your own skin. His touch, his voice, the way he looked at you like you’d just shown him something holy—it all made the moment feel bigger than just release.

He rested his forehead against yours.

“You did so well, baby,” he whispered, voice warm and a little breathless. “Did you like it?”

You nodded quickly, your voice caught somewhere in your throat. “Yeah… I—I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

A slow smile tugged at his lips, proud and reverent. He kissed your temple, then your cheek, and finally hovered just a breath from your mouth.

“You want more?” he murmured. “You want me now?”

Your breath hitched again—less from nerves this time and more from the deep, aching yes in your body. It pulsed through you, full of need and trust and that dizzying high he’d just given you.

You met his eyes, and your voice was quiet—but steady.

“I want you.”

He searched your face, checking one last time—his thumb brushing your cheek, his eyes soft but darkened with want. “You’re sure?”

You nodded. “I’ve never been more sure.”

And something in him melted. Or maybe snapped. His mouth was on yours in the next second, kissing you deep, like he needed to taste those words again. His body pressed flush against you, his skin so warm, his chest solid as your fingers slid over the ridges of muscle down his back.

You felt the hard line of him through his boxers—hot and thick and undeniable. It made you tremble all over again, but this time, it wasn’t fear. It was need. You wanted him, all of him, and you didn’t want to wait anymore.

Bucky pulled back just enough to whisper, “Lay back for me, sweetheart,” as he slid off the bed, only long enough to tug his boxers down and kick them aside.

You saw all of him then—broad shoulders, scarred skin, his cock flushed and heavy against his stomach. He was so beautiful and most of all—yours.

And he looked at you like you were everything.

He climbed back onto the bed slowly, settling between your legs with his hand sliding up your thigh, his lips brushing your jaw as he whispered, “We’ll go slow. You tell me if you need anything. If it’s too much, if you change your mind… anything. Okay?”

You nodded again, heart in your throat.

“I’ll take care of you,” he promised. “Every second.”

You reached for him, pulling him into a kiss as he lined himself up. You felt the head of his cock brush against your entrance—hot, firm, and so much—and you gasped, hips twitching involuntarily.

“Easy,” he whispered, kissing your cheek. “I’ve got you.”

He slid in slowly. Inch by inch. His jaw clenched, his brows furrowed, but his eyes stayed locked on yours the whole time. You felt the stretch—unfamiliar and thick and deep—but never painful, not with the way he held you, the way he kept whispering against your skin.

“You’re doing so good, baby. So fucking good—taking me so perfect…”

He bottomed out with a soft groan, burying his face in your neck as you wrapped your arms around him, holding him close.

“Just breathe,” he whispered. “We’ll stay right here. Let your body get used to it.”

And he didn’t move—not at first. He just held you, kissed your collarbone, brushed your hair back from your face. Let you feel the fullness of him inside you, the stretch slowly easing into something warm, something grounding.

Then, when your body began to relax around him—when your hips lifted slightly, seeking more—he pulled back just an inch and rolled his hips in slow, shallow thrusts.

You gasped. His name tumbled from your lips without thinking.

“That’s it,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You feel that? That’s us, baby.”

Each stroke was tender, deep, steady. He kissed you through it—your mouth, your jaw, your cheeks—like he couldn’t stop touching you, couldn’t stop feeling you.

Your fingers tangled in his hair. Your thighs wrapped around his waist. Every sound you made—every breathless moan, every whispered more—drove him closer to the edge, but he never lost control. He stayed right there with you.

“This is what you deserve,” he murmured, fucking you just a little deeper. “Every time. Every single time, I’m gonna love you like this.”

You arched beneath him, overwhelmed by the pleasure, the emotion, the connection. It wasn’t just sex. It was him. It was you. And it was everything you didn’t know you needed—wrapped up in sweat and whispered promises, and the soft sounds of your name on his lips.

Bucky was still moving slow, steady, like he had all the time in the world. Like he was afraid to break you, even as his hips rolled deeper, pressing into that spot inside you that made your legs tremble and your breath catch every time.

“Bucky—” you gasped, voice already wrecked.

He lifted his head, looked down at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. His hand slid between your bodies again, and his thumb found your clit—slick and swollen and so sensitive—rubbing soft circles in time with his thrusts.

Your back arched off the bed as a cry slipped from your lips.

“I know, baby,” he whispered. “You’re gonna come again, aren’t you?”

You nodded desperately, fingers digging into his shoulders. “It’s too much—I don’t know If I can—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice dropped, husky and warm and so gentle. “Let go for me. Just let it happen, I’ve got you.”

His thumb kept working, his cock hitting that perfect spot with every slow grind of his hips, and it built fast this time—tighter, hotter, your body clenching down around him as your climax rose like a wave you couldn’t outrun.

Your thighs squeezed around his waist. Your mouth fell open, but the sound came out broken, breathless, as the orgasm took over—ripping through you like heat and light, making you shake under him, every nerve set on fire.

Bucky groaned, loud, when he felt you come around him. “Fuck, that’s it—feel so good, sweetheart—so tight—so perfect—”

He kept thrusting through it, chasing the edge now, his control unraveling with every ragged breath. You were still fluttering around him, your body trembling, and he buried his face in your neck with a growl as his hips jerked one last time.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

You felt him stiffen, heard the deep, broken moan that tore from his throat as he spilled inside you—hot and deep, his cock twitching with every pulse. His hands gripped your waist like he didn’t want to let go. Like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And when it passed—when the air settled again and the world stopped spinning—he stayed right there. Buried inside you, chest pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard in the quiet.

He kissed your jaw. Your shoulder. The corner of your mouth. Then whispered, breathless and wrecked, “You okay?”

You nodded, still dazed, your fingers brushing back through his hair.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m really okay.”

He smiled against your skin. “You were incredible.”

“So were you.”

He pulled the blankets up around you both, still inside you, still holding you like you were something fragile and precious. His lips pressed one last kiss to your temple.

You weren’t sure when the room got quiet again. When the haze of your orgasm faded and your body finally relaxed into the bed. Bucky stayed close the entire time—still half over you, one arm around your waist, the other brushing tenderly through your hair.

He kissed your cheek, then your temple. His breathing was still uneven, but he was coming down too. Letting the moment settle. Letting you settle.

“You okay?” he asked softly, lips barely moving against your skin.

You nodded, but your voice came out faint. “Yeah. Just… processing, I think.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you—his hand still cupping the side of your face, thumb gently brushing under your eye. “Yeah?” he murmured. “Too much?”

You shook your head. “No. Not too much. It was good. Really good. Just… a lot.”

He gave a soft, breathy laugh at that, something between relief and affection. “Yeah. It was.”

You watched him for a second, then whispered, “You didn’t expect that, did you?”

His smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t expect you to trust me like that. But I’m really… really fucking honored you did.”

That made your chest ache. You reached out, fingertips brushing his jaw, still not used to the feeling of touching him like this.

“I didn’t know it could feel this…good,” you said.

He leaned in again, nose brushing yours, voice low. “You deserve to feel good. Always.”

You laid there for a while, breathing him in. Letting your body calm, your mind go quiet. He didn’t rush to clean up or move away. Just held you, skin against skin, his fingers tracing idle, soothing shapes along your arm and hip.

Eventually, he murmured, “Are you sore at all?”

“A little,” you admitted.

He nodded, pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Want me to grab a towel? Or water?”

You smiled, tired but soft. “Both?”

“Coming right up, sweetheart.”

He kissed your forehead before slipping out of bed. You watched him pad into the bathroom, moving quietly, like he didn’t want to disturb the quiet between you.

When he came back, he wiped you down gently with warm water, murmuring little apologies when you flinched, then handed you a glass of water.

You drank it slowly, still tucked into the covers. When he slid back into bed beside you, you turned into him without thinking.

His arm came around you easily. You laid your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Safe. Warm.

“Are you okay?” you asked, quieter now.

He looked down at you, brows lifting slightly. “Me?”

You nodded.

“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “I’m more than okay. I just don’t know if I deserve any of this.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just let your fingers trail over his skin, the scar near his ribs, the faint shiver that went through him when you touched it.

“You do,” you whispered. “I wouldn’t have let you this close if you didn’t.”

He looked at you for a long time then—eyes soft, unreadable. And then he pulled you in closer, pressing his forehead to yours.

„I love you,” Bucky whispered back. „More than anything in this stupid world.”

⋆⁺₊✧ MASTERLIST

💌 tag list: @iamthatonefangirl @buckytakethewheel @thatsbucknasty @buckybarneswife125 @peanutbutt3rcup @avengemepercy @gottareadthosefics2

[cryptic-doe]

𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲𝘀 𝗺𝗲 ❦

wc: 4,164

summary: life changes and more feelings arise, but that doesn't change you and sam

warnings: cursing, smut (mdni), heavy make out, dry humping, coming in pants, sub sam, just horny and in love teens

when you woke the next morning, sam was still asleep beside you. your thoughts drifted to his quiet admission of love to you last night, but you didn’t dwell on it for too long. fear that if you did, or even worse, asked him about it, it would only scare him away again. so, instead, you admired him as he slept, taking in all of him. he was so… beautiful. there was no other way for you to describe it, it was just a simple fact. he may have been as large as a moose, but he had the grace and beauty of a deer. you remembered that’s what you compared him to when you first met him. eyes as large and wide as a baby deer. it seems that aging a couple years didn’t take that from him. you hoped it never would. your eyes then dropped down to his lips that are slightly parted, soft breaths falling between them. while sam was gone, you never kissed another boy. didn’t let another boy touch you. to be fair, sam never touched you, either. at least, not the way you wanted him to. slowly, sam began to shift around in your bed, stirring awake. his head turned towards you, searching for your eyes. “good morning,” he said, voice laced with sleep. “morning,” you replied in a whisper. he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, trying his best to stretch in your small bed. “what do you wanna do today? celebrate your birthday early?” he questioned, pulling you closer. “today…? what about your dad? don’t you have to go back to him with dean?” you asked, eyebrows furrowed.

the boy just shrugged, as if not worried about the situation. “dean already knows about me staying with you for the day. besides, my dad doesn’t matter right now, bug. today’s all about you,” he said simply. “but-” you began, but he cut you off with a finger pressed against your lips. “no ‘buts’, okay? lemme do this for you. i wanna have at least today with you. and if he gets mad, fuck him.” his words make you smile, so similar to the ones marie had said to you all those months ago. his hazel eyes dance across your face, watching as you smile. “you’re so beautiful, you know that?” he muttered. you blush, hiding your head in his chest. “shut up.”

he laughs softly, running his fingers through your hair. “no, i’m serious. i didn’t think it was even possible, considering how pretty you looked when we were younger.” if you had told your fourteen year old self that sam winchester would be in her bed, complimenting her, and holding her close, she definitely would’ve looked at you like you were insane. you stayed close to his chest, breathing him in. he smelled like cinnamon and cedarwood, with just a hint of gunpowder. he tapped you on the shoulder. “c’mon, pretty girl. let’s go get some breakfast, yeah?” you nodded and sat up on your bed, stretching your limbs as he pulled you to stand.

he didn’t let go of your hand while the two of you walked down the stairs and to the kitchen. bobby sat at the table eyeing the two of you, but mostly sam. “you want cereal, bug?” sam asked. you just nodded, not straying far from him.

“you two didn’t do anything up there last night, did ya?” bobby suddenly asked. your eyes widened at his question, and sam nearly dropped the carton of milk. “bobby!” you exclaimed, but the older man just shrugged. “no, we went to you with a stern, but soft look in his eyes. “you doing okay?” he mouthed. you nodded, sending him a soft smile. “i’m okay. promise.”

you could tell he was still a bit wary, but some of his tension melted away. sam placed the cereal bowl in front of you, taking the seat beside you. bobby turned his attention from you to sam, sending him that stern, fatherly look. “i wanna talk to you, boy,” he said, standing up from his seat. sam knew better than to try and argue, so he stood and followed bobby out to the living room. they were just far enough that you couldn't hear much of their conversation.

“i could slap you upside your head, boy,” bobby muttered at sam. despite sam being over a head taller than the man, he felt like a little kid being scolded, again. “i can't believe that stunt you pulled. leaving her for nearly a whole damn year?”

“yeah, i… i know, bobby. i’m sorry,” sam said.

“what could have even possessed you to do something like that?”

sam then explained what he told you the night before. everything having to do with his dad, and him not allowing sam to call you anymore. by the end, bobby couldn’t wait until he would see the winchester father face to face to share some words. “if that ever happens again, sam, you call me. understand that? without you… she nearly lost herself. i can't see her like that again.”

sam nodded, jaw set and firm. “it won’t, bobby, i promise.”

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ ʚଓ་༘࿐

after breakfast, sam told you to get yourself ready. when you asked why, he just kissed your cheek and said that it was a surprise. you thumbed through all the clothes in your closet twice. nothing seemed to really call your name. until your eyes landed on the brown dress you bought last year. you hit a growth spurt since then, so you weren’t even sure if it would still fit you, but it wouldn’t hurt to try.

it fell just above your knees, so you slipped on a pair of low rise jeans under it. you recently saw on tv that it was the new fashion trend. you then quickly curled your hair and put on some mascara before grabbing your messenger bag and slipping on your converse. when you walked down the stairs, sam’s back was turned towards you, and you could see that he was wearing an old suit that bobby must've given him. bobby was muttering something about a “stupid tie” and how he “hasn’t done this in years. the sight caused you to stifle a small giggle, which made sam’s head turn towards you.

“wow…” he whispered, eyes wide as he watched you walk down the stairs. you blushed, ducking your head. he bent his head, trying to catch your eyes. “you ready to go?” you nodded. he headed towards the front door, opening it for you. before you followed, you turned to bobby, hugging him. he hugged you back, before pulling you away to look at you. “just like your mom. so beautiful.”

he pressed a kiss to your temple while squeezing your shoulders. “you have fun today, alright?”

“i will,” you promised, before stepping out with sam.

when you showed sam where your car was, he let out a small laugh. “just like dean, huh? you and your muscle cars. you shrugged, tossing him your keys. “they're badass.” he just shook his head and opened the passenger door for you. once you were inside, he hopped into the driver’s side. while he was adjusting everything, a small photo fell from the visor. he picked it up to read the date on the back. may 2nd, 1999. when he turned it over, it was faded picture of you and sam from his sixteenth birthday. even though it was only last year, it felt like the both of you had changed so much. grew older, looked different, matured, everything.

“i always kept it with me,” you admitted in a small whisper. “it’s the only picture i had with the two of us in it.”

“well, guess we’ll have to take a few more, huh?” he looked over at you with a smile.

“i guess so.” you smiled back at him. it was the most you had smiled in a while.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ ʚଓ་༘࿐

sam took you to a town about an hour away, assuring you he didn’t mind the drive. most of the drive was filled with the two of you talking about anything and everything. he told you how john was becoming angrier by the day, and drinking more by the night. you squeezed the hand he kept glued to your thigh in understanding. he also told you about all the different high schools he and dean had been to. you liked those stories the most. it was interesting to learn what a high school was like and the typical high school experiences from someone else and not from books or television. when he asked you about your schooling, you told him how you had finished earlier this year and he gently squeezed your thigh. “that’s amazing, bug! are you gonna go to college?” he asked, turning to look at you and then back at the road. “probably not,” you said. “i like staying at home and doing research on the monsters.” he nodded his head, but his eyes shifted and his body became tense, like there was something he was keeping to himself. “what about you?” you questioned. “do you plan on going to college after this year?”

he hesitated for a second, but then nodded his head. “uh, yeah, i’ve been looking into it. all my counselors and teachers say i could get into a really good school if i wanted to. but dean and my dad don’t know. they- they can’t know.”

“hey,” you said gently, grabbing his hand to hold it, “it’ll be between us. and, i’m happy for you. if you do decide to go.”

he opened his mouth to argue, but you silenced him. “sam, i’m serious. if going to college is what you want, then you should go. besides, they got really fancy computers there. i’m sure we can do video calls or something.” he laughed softly, deciding to drop it for now, even though he wanted to do anything but. he wasn’t gonna ruin your special day.

and just like he promised, the day was all about you. he took you to a record shop, buying you all the records you had chosen. he even attempted to buy all the ones you just touched, and you had to practically pry them away from him. “nothing is too much for you, pretty girl,” he tried to argue, but you ended up winning that argument. he then took you to a bookstore where you spent most of your time. following you around like a lost puppy, while he silently held all your books in his hands. afterwards, he took you to a small diner, ordering some food, and a large chocolate milkshake to share. the two of you silently ate your food, until he spoke up. “i don’t know if i told you, but i really like your dress. it’s pretty on you.”

“thanks,” you muttered shyly. “i actually bought it for my sixteenth birthday. i thought it matched… it reminded me of you. that’s why i bought.” he looked at you with that sad puppy gaze, sliding his hand across the table to grab yours. “i’m sorry, again. i should’ve been there for your sixteenth like you were there for mine.”

you squeezed his hand tighter, shaking off his apologies. “it’s okay, sam, really. you’re here now.” that’s all that matters.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ ʚଓ་༘࿐

it’s already dark outside when you and sam get back to your house. bobby seems to already be fast asleep, as there’s no lights on. sam carries all your bags as you pull out your house key from your purse. he brings them all the way up to your room, laying them on your bed. he turns towards you, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you close. “i had a really fun time with you today,” he whispered.

“i did too. thank you for all of this.”

“you deserve it, bug. all of it and more.” he swallows, taking a deep breath. “i’m sorry i have to leave tonight. i wanted to spend more time with you.”

“it’s okay, sammy. i understand, really. all of this was more than enough for me,” you assured, squeezing his biceps.

“then let me leave you with one more thing, okay?” he offered. you nodded as he started leaning down to kiss your lips. the kiss was sweet and slow, his hands gripping your hips tighter as he slowly began to kiss you with more passion. your hands trailed up his arms to hold the sides of his neck, feeling the smooth skin beneath your palms. you could feel him straining as if he was trying to hold himself back. you pull back just enough to talk, and he chases after your lips. “don’t,” you whispered.

“don’t what?” he asked, chest heaving.

“don't hold back.”

and those were all the words he needed. when he dove back in, it was more passion filled. as he kissed you, he walked you over to your bed until your knees hit the back of your frame. without breaking the kiss, you wrapped your fingers around the lapel of his jacket, tugging him onto the bed with you. you pulled away again, pushing at his jacket.

“off,” you commanded, and he immediately followed. he struggled to pull it off, but once he did, he threw it somewhere behind him.

he then dropped his head to your shoulder, pressing a small kiss to the junction of your neck. he then pressed another right under your ear, and then lightly kissed down your jaw. you tilted your head back, giving him more access. he gently bit down on the side of your neck, before licking the mark. you let out a moan at the unexpected feeling and slapped a hand over your mouth to quiet yourself. you could feel how the sound affected him as his bulge grew against the inside of your thigh. and you may have been inexperienced, but shit, did he feel big.

your hips uncontrollably jolt against his, and your core presses against his cock. the sensation of the pressure and clothing between you make you both shiver and moan. you grab ahold of his chin, and move his head up to kiss him. his hands hold up his weight and find their place beside the sides of your head. your nails drag down the sides of his neck, not enough to make him bleed, but enough to leave a mark. and sam winchester fucking whimpers when you do so.

the sound acts like a key to unlocking something inside you, as you wrap your legs around his hips, flipping him over. the kiss doesn’t stop once, and sam could’ve come from how assertive you seemed. the confidence then fell, causing you to pull away and breathe. “i’ve never… i’m a virgin,” you blurted.

“i am too,” he responded. “we don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

you shook your head. “no, no, i want to. i just… i don’t think i can go all the way.”

“that’s okay, pretty girl, that’s okay,” he assured. “here, let’s do this.” you slid off of him, watching as he moved up to sit against your head. he gestured for you to come closer, and you did, sitting down on his lap. his hands found their place on your waist. “this okay?” he asked, and you nodded.

when you began to kiss again, your hips slowly grinded down onto his bulge, making him moan into your mouth. the room feels warmer and it makes your clothes stick to your skin. a warm and buzzing feeling begins to grow in your belly, making your toes curl. you pulled back, looking him in the eyes. “i-i think i’m close,” you muttered.

“me too,” he huffed. he dropped his head to your neck, and you could feel his hot breath fanning against your skin. he let out a small mewl when you grinded harder against him. “god, y/n, i love you. i love you so fucking much.”

those words were all that you seemingly needed when you could feel the coil snap inside you, biting down hard on your bottom lip to quiet your moaning. sam followed shortly after, as he slowly grew limp against you. his bangs stuck to his forehead from all the sweat gathering there, and you pushed them back. his met yours and they seemed even softer than before. he looked at you like you hung the moon stars. like you were the answer to every question he ever had. like… like you were the love of his life.

“i love you too,” you admitted. “i think i’ve loved you ever since i met you.”

he smiled at that, holding the back of your neck to pull you down, and press your forehead against his. “me too, bug.”

“so… does this mean we’re boyfriend and girlfriend?” you asked softly.

“i think so,” he replied. “do you want us to be.”

“i’d like that a lot, baby.” the nickname falls from your lips accidentally, yet feels like it should’ve been there all along. it makes sam feel all tingly inside and he leans up to kiss you again when he hears a car horn beep twice.

you could feel your heart drop at the sound, knowing his visit was over. “i’ll walk you out,” you whispered, and he just solemnly nodded.

you bent down to grab his jacket, and slipped it on him. then fixing his tie and hair to make him look presentable. he does the same for you, combing his fingers through your hair. the walk down the hallway and stairs is silent. not out of guilt or regret, but in contentment. the acts committed changed everything, yet nothing at all. you guys didn't go all the way, yeah, but this was still something that the two of you shared and would treasure. once outside, you could see that it was only dean in the car, which you were grateful for.

you wouldn't want john to see sam like this, and you don’t think you could control your emotions if you ever faced the man. “give me one second,” you said, before walking in the house to grab a marker. you walked back over to him and grabbed his hand, writing your number on it. “there. that way you can text me when you miss me.”

he hugged you, holding you tight to his chest. “i love you, pretty girl,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. he reluctantly pulled away, looking at you longingly as he began to walk away.

“baby, wait,” you called out. he turned around. “yeah?”

you grabbed his hand and pulled him in for a real kiss. “i love you, too,” you said once you pulled away. “and stay safe.” he squeezed your hand three times. “i always do, pretty girl.”

you watched as he walked away from you, waving at him as he slipped into the passenger seat of the impala. you didn’t head back into the house until the car was completely out of sight, the only remnants left behind was the dust it kicked up. walking back up the stairs, it didn’t feel heavy like the last time he left. this time was different.

you didn’t even change out of your old clothes when you laid down on your bed. the room smelled of sam, and it calmed you down, already pulling you into sleep when a buzz came from your phone. rolling over, you grabbed it from your nightstand and opened the message. it was from an unknown number, but you knew exactly who it was.

“i miss you already, pretty girl :(”

you smiled as you texted back, “i miss you too, baby”

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ ʚଓ་༘࿐

as the year passes by, sam keeps his promise. he video calls you on your birthday, and blows out a candle on a cupcake that he bought for the occasion. after that, he calls and texts you almost every single day. sometimes it’s long conversations, while other times it’s just a simple ‘good morning’ and ‘good night.’ it doesn’t have to be a grand gesture, you just have to know that he’s still *here* and that he cares. when the old nightmares haunt you, you don’t have to deal with them alone. you can just call sam. it doesn’t matter what time it is, because he’ll pick up everytime.

he visited on his eighteenth birthday with dean, but it’s only for a few hours. it didn’t matter to you, though. because it was the first time you saw him since early october. you gift him another book for his birthday. this time, it’s an annotated book of frankenstein. “it’s my favorite, so i wanted you to carry a piece of me everywhere you go.” that same night, dean takes a new picture of the two of you. it’s sam laughing with cake smushed all over his face, while you’re kissing him on the cheek. you put that one in your car alongside the old one.

you don’t see him again until august, but this time, the visit’s unexpected.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ ʚଓ་༘࿐

when sam came to your home, it was almost eleven o’clock at night, and bobby was already sleeping. he doesn’t knock on your front door, he climbs up to your fucking window like some fairytale prince. when he knocks, it jolts and makes you reach for the knife under your pillow. but when you see that it’s sam, you turn down the volume of your fiona apple record and walk to open your window. “baby? what happened?” you asked. he doesn’t respond as he looks at you with those puppy dog eyes. you climb through your window, sitting down beside him on the roof. “do you wanna talk about it?”

he grabs your hand, rubbing his thumb across your scar. “it's my dad. he found out about the whole college thing. he didn't take it too well, and… well, he kicked me out. said if i wanted to leave, then i should stay gone,” he explained.

you shifted closer, knees touching. “oh, baby, i’m so sorry.”

he shrugged. “it’s no big deal. i figured he would react that way, it just, still kinda hurts, you know.” you nodded silently. “i hopped on the first bus i could to see you before i left. the school year starts soon and i have to travel all the way to california and i don’t know how long it’ll take me.”

“you can take my car,” you offered, but he shook his head.

“bug, i’m not taking your car. bobby built that for you, i’m not gonna take it from you.”

you moved closer, now resting your head on his shoulder. “i just want you to get there safely.”

he rubbed your arm to warm you, as you were only dressed in an oversized tee. “i know you do, but i’ll still be safe. i always am.”

“you know… you could come with me,” sam said after a few minutes. “i can find an apartment close to the campus, and we can live together.”

“sam… i would go with you. and you know that, but i can’t just leave bobby in the middle of the night like that. he’s done too much for me in my life for me to leave him like that.”

sam sighed, but didn’t argue. he knew you had a point, but he still wanted you to be close by. “besides, it’s only a day drive. i can drive to visit you on the weekends, or something,” you reassured.

“i’d like that,” he muttered. “hold on, wait here.”

you watch him go into your bedroom and grab something, before joining you back outside. he now has your digital camera in hand. “sam, what are you doing with that?”

“nothing, bug, just taking a picture of you.”

“a picture of me? for what?” you asked with a soft laugh. “to keep with me,” he replies, looking at you with a ‘duh’ expression.

you playfully rolled your eyes, but complied with what he wanted. you fixed your hair and smiled at the camera as the flash went off. “perfect,” he said, looking at the picture. “i’ll print it before i leave in the morning.”

you grab his hand, pulling towards your bedroom. “let’s lay down, okay?” he follows after you, laying down beside you. his hand rests on your hip, rubbing his thumb across the exposed skin of your thigh.

“i’m gonna miss you,” he whispered.

“i’m gonna miss you too, but you can always call me when you do.”

“you know that that’s gonna be everyday, right?” he asks with a laugh.

“yeah, i know. i’ll make sure to keep my phone charged, then.”

he laughs again, pulling you to his chest. he breathes in the smell of your lavender shampoo, savoring it until he can be with you again.

“i love you so much, pretty girl.”

“i love you too, smart boy.”

previous chapter | next chapter

a/n: omg, second to last chapter and i'm already feeling so emotional about this series. i just love them sm and i'm gonna cry when i stop writing for them. if the smut is bad.. i'm sorry. i'm so bad at writing it bro omg. but i hope you guys still love, and lmk if u want to be tagged in any of my works in the future !! <333

taglist: @sacr1ficialang3l @mostlymarvelgirl @hobiespick @iloveyou2mia

[yintual]

 ㅤ( 🍀 ) ㅤ O7.O9PM; ㅤ𝗹𝗶𝗯𝗿𝗮𝗿𝘆

jungwon thinks you need a break from studying 𖹭 749% > ﹏ <。 𝗰𝘄 # kisses ﾟ glasses bf ! won +PHYSICS mentioned

if there’s one singular flaw you have, yang jungwon finds himself thinking, it’s that you study a tad bit too much.

from his seat directly across you, he’s been watching you mumble about physics formulae for close to 3 hours. the library, too, is now almost completely empty save for the two of you. 

it’s not that he wants you to stop—jungwon’s more than aware of how important the assignment you’re working on is. so of course he wants to be supportive. which is why he’s tagged along with you in the first place, after all.

but hell, a guy gets tired of waiting, alright?

especially when his girlfriend just so happens to be sitting right across him—in hand holdable, and even, dare he say, kissable distance.

and you refuse to make it any easier on him with how cute you look when you pout at the page of numericals in front of you. it’s like you don’t even care about his sanity.

he rests his chin on his palm as he watches you furiously scribble something and erase it immediately after. 

tone flat, your boyfriend finally breaks the silence. “you know you’re looking at that worksheet like it personally offended you, right?” 

you answer without even sparing him a glance. “ugh, shut up. i got the sign convention messed up again. and i hate differentiation.”

“hmm. well maybe, and hear me out here ... what if … the universe is telling you to take a break.”

you don’t answer. he wonders if you even registered the words he’s just said.

“orrr …” jungwon leans forward, attempting to catch your eye to no avail, “maybe spare a glance towards your attention starved boyfriend? i promise he’s more interesting than electrostatics.”

that gets a giggle out of you, which admittedly does make him momentarily proud. but in mere seconds you’re back to locking in. he can’t help but mentally curse the education system for bringing him to this position. because god. this is tragic, really. 

with a sigh, he finally decides to take matters in his own hands. without a second’s hesitation, he’s pushing back his chair in favor of getting up and walking over to you.

“baby. i’m talking to you.” 

“alright, gosh, i’m—” but you apparently hadn’t taken into account the change in his position. you blink, confused, and realize after a minute that you feel a soft warmth behind you. 

and as you turn in your chair to face him, you find his arms caging you in against the table. 

“... i’m listening.”

jungwon leans in closer, his expression oddly smug. “don’t you think you’ve practiced enough questions for today?” 

“i just— there’s only a few more chapters i have left to go over ..” you’re not fully sure if it’s the close proximity that’s making you flustered.

“no. i think you’ve done enough.” 

you want to argue but the finality with which he speaks makes you reconsider your own words. 

“we don’t want you getting burnt out, yeah? you need some time away from physics.” 

you can barely think to formulate a reply to that as he dips his head down, placing a short kiss to your lips as if to emphasize his point. all you can do is smile into it, kissing him back with a hand resting on his chest to steady yourself.

“think we can both agree my idea was better, hm?” jungwon mumbles, peppering a few short peck along your jaw for good measure.

you pull back slightly, though, much to his displeasure. “well, mr. boyfriend, if you’ve had enough attention, then … i really do need to finish at least one more page.”

“... who said i’ve had enough?”

and then he’s taking off his glasses in one fluid motion before his lips are back on yours swallowing any protests you might have had. gone is the sweet, soft boyfriend who’d been giving you company all this while. 

(seriously, he picks the worst times to do these unfairly attractive things.)

the edge of the table digs into your back ever so slightly but you’re much more busy processing how sweet he tastes against you—of desperation. it’s a gorgeous color on him.

you vaguely think you hear his glasses fall to the floor with a soft clink. but with how intent your boyfriend seems upon robbing you of your coherence, you can’t say for sure. 

doing physics numericals is overrated anyway. you’d honestly rather just kiss your boyfriend, instead.

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        𝖤𝖷𝖳𝖱𝖠! [ <3 ] do we like layout. yes or yes. + gais i finally understand what timestamps are. its when u write a drabble and don't know what to call it!

ㅤㅤㅤ© YiNTUAL ♡ 2025

[flowergirl1243]

I had an idea 🍿: any driver you like and their partner sneaking into the f1 movie (like undercover with sunglasses, in sweats) to watch it again and roast all the inaccuracies 🤭 (because they definitely couldn’t do that watching it the first time at the premiere with all the cameras around lol)

(I have to admit I didn’t watch the movie so I’m not sure how good this works but I heart some stuff was really inaccurate regarding the fia rules or something- never mind the representation of women in the movie)

off the record

SUMMARY: A private night, a worn hoodie, and a running commentary that no cameras ever caught.

PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader

NOTE: I actually love this so much, thank you for suggesting this!!! I watched the F1 movie the other day, but I've already forgotten half of the parts that were inconsistent so I'm going off memory!

You’d pitched it like a heist.

“I’m talking sunglasses, hoodie, full incognito mode,” you’d whispered dramatically as Oscar brushed his teeth.

You were leaned up against the doorframe, arms crossed, the oversized t-shirt you’d stolen from his drawer hanging halfway down your thighs. The morning sun filtered lazily through the window, bouncing off the mirror as Oscar blinked blearily at your reflection. He had toothpaste foam at the corners of his mouth and a half-interested arch in his brow, just awake enough to entertain your nonsense, but not awake enough to stop you.

“I want us to slink in,” you continued, “sit at the back, and watch the F1 movie like two judgmental strangers. No one will know. We’ll be shadows.”

Oscar froze mid-brush, staring at you like you’d just suggested robbing a bank. “You want to go see the film again? The one I’m technically in for two seconds?”

You nodded with the kind of sincerity that made him love you and fear you in equal measure. “But this time I get to roast it in peace. No red carpet. No journalists. Just me, you, and my very strong opinions about how they butchered the strategy scenes.”

He spat into the sink, rinsed, and then reached for the towel hanging by the radiator. You padded over to stand beside him, still grinning, watching him through the mirror as he wiped his face.

“You're going to talk through the whole thing, aren’t you?” he asked flatly, though the corners of his mouth were already twitching.

“Respectfully,” you said, grabbing the towel when he dropped it over your head, “yes.”

He shook his head, eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You beamed, peeking out from under the towel. “And you’re lucky you love me enough to sneak into a movie you’re in just so I can critique it like a deranged film student.”

Oscar leaned down to press a toothpaste-minty kiss to your cheek. “Just promise you won’t yell when the front wing scene happens.”

“I make no promises,” you said solemnly.

He sighed. “We’re bringing snacks, right?”

“Obviously.”

You didn’t actually go at midnight, but it felt like it. The sky was dark, the streets were quiet, and the only place still buzzing was the neon-lit cinema tucked between a shut-down sushi place and a vape shop.

Inside, it was almost deserted, just a few teenagers arguing over whether to get Maltesers or M&Ms, a middle-aged man who looked deeply confused about what movie he’d just walked into, and a couple on what was very clearly a second or third date. The awkward body language, the too-loud laughter, it screamed, we follow each other on Instagram but haven’t seen each other cry yet.

Perfect.

You tugged your hoodie down low, pulling the drawstrings until only your nose and mouth were visible, and nudged Oscar in the ribs. He was already slouched down in his seat, baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses still perched on his nose despite it being very dark inside. You’d made him wear them.

“Do we look undercover?” you whispered, grinning.

He glanced sideways at you, unimpressed. “You look like you’re avoiding the police.”

You gave him a satisfied nod. “Even better.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound low and fond as he adjusted the hoodie you’d also made him wear. It was two sizes too big and looked like it belonged to someone with a skateboarding habit and too many opinions about oat milk.

“You look like you stole this off a teenager in 2014,” he muttered.

“You’re welcome,” you said, resting your cheek on his shoulder. “It’s part of the aesthetic. Mysterious, but approachable.”

“Or homeless,” he murmured, deadpan.

You kicked his foot lightly, but neither of you moved from the cozy sprawl you’d sunken into. His arm stayed slung around your shoulders, and your hand found his knee, tapping gently as the previews started.

A cheesy rom-com trailer blared across the screen. You tilted your head toward him.

“I’d watch that,” you whispered.

He hummed. “Yeah, but you’d just talk through the whole thing.”

“Exactly. Consistency.”

The lights dimmed further, and the theatre fell into a hush as the studio logo flickered to life.

You shifted upright, eyes bright under your hoodie. “Okay,” you breathed, dramatic and thrilled, “shh. Showtime.”

Oscar turned slightly, looked at you with that expression he always gave you when you were being ridiculous, half amusement, half awe, and entirely soft.

God help him, he thought, already bracing for your commentary.

And God help the movie.

It didn’t take long.

Ten minutes in, Brad Pitt’s character dove into the pit lane with dramatic music swelling, radio chatter building like a war scene, and then proceeded to sit there. And sit. And sit.

You narrowed your eyes.

“Why is he still in the box?” you whispered.

Oscar didn’t answer. He was too busy watching the timer tick past what had to be thirty seconds on screen, tyres being changed with the urgency of a Sunday picnic, the camera doing slow pans like this was art, not motorsport.

You leaned in, scandalised. “That was thirty full seconds. I could’ve made a sandwich in that time.”

Oscar gave a small shake of his head, clearly biting back a laugh. “And he still came out ahead of three other cars.”

“I’ve seen you drop five places for a three-second stop,” you whispered, outraged. “This man had a nap, a foot massage, and probably called his mum, and he somehow gained positions?”

Oscar whispered back, “Pit stop of the century.”

You gestured at the screen, arms flailing slightly under your hoodie. “What even is this timeline? Did they invent time travel for this team? Are they bending the laws of physics just because he’s Brad Pitt?”

Oscar smirked, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder. “You’re taking this very personally.”

“Because it’s an offence to logic.”

And just when you thought you’d recovered from that absurdity, Brad Pitt’s character went hot into another car and snapped his front wing clean off.

You straightened in your seat. “Okay. That’s one.”

Oscar hummed. “Racing incident.”

But then, ten minutes later, another divebomb. Another front wing shattered like it was made of cereal box cardboard.

“That’s two.” You turned, scandalised. “This man has no spatial awareness and zero consequences.”

Oscar tilted his head, eyes still on the screen. “Maybe he’s running a new aero package. Self-destructing wings.”

You snorted.

Then came the third.

Front wing shattered. Sparks everywhere. Still no penalty.

You threw your hands up. “THREE. That’s three broken front wings. And he’s still in the race! Where is Race Control? Where are the flags? Where is the accountability?”

Oscar looked like he was trying very hard not to burst out laughing. “He’s got plot armour.”

“That’s not a racing helmet,” you hissed. “That’s a narrative device.”

Oscar shook his head, clearly amused. “Must be nice being the main character.”

“You break a front wing and suddenly it's five seconds for causing a collision, please take responsibility, but this guy’s out here playing bumper cars and they’re just like, ‘Wow. He’s so passionate.’”

He smirked. “You sound bitter.”

“Bitter? No. Realistic? Yes.”

Oscar squeezed your hand in your lap, eyes still on the screen. “You’re just mad I don’t get three mulligans per race.”

“I’m mad that he’s got plot armour. That’s not a racing helmet, it’s a narrative device.”

He laughed quietly, trying not to disturb the half-asleep couple two rows down. “You’re so annoying.”

“But you love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, smug and vindicated. “Anyway. That’s three front wings and a miracle pit stop. Who is this man?”

Oscar sighed. “Someone with a very lenient race director.”

“And a script,” you added.

“Same thing.”

As the movie reached its very dramatic and completely inaccurate climax, you were at your peak.

Onscreen, Damson Idris’ character’s car suddenly launched off a curb like it had a rocket booster strapped to the back, soaring several metres high, like, defying physics high. It spun slowly through the air, framed perfectly against the sunset, every second of that flight stretched out like a car commercial gone wild.

You blinked. Then blinked again.

You slapped Oscar’s thigh, scandalised. “Nope. Absolutely not. There is no way any car should fly like that. That’s not a crash, that’s a bloody stunt show. Where’s the suspension? The aerodynamics? The laws of gravity?”

Oscar reached over, pressed a finger gently to your lips.

“Shhh,” he whispered, struggling not to laugh. “Let people have the fantasy.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

And then, just like that, you licked his finger.

He jerked back, scrunching his face like you’d just handed him a lemon.

“That’s foul,” he muttered, wiping his finger on his jeans.

You leaned in close, eyes sparkling under your hoodie, and whispered, “I am the fantasy.”

Oscar stared at you for a long, long beat, like he was reconsidering all his life choices, then exhaled sharply.

“God help me,” he said.

You grinned, triumphant, and nestled against his side.

Onscreen, the car crash ended with Brad Pitt’s character pulling the injured man out of the wreckage without a scratch, somehow still ready to win the next race.

You tilted your head. “Okay, but now this is just ridiculous.”

Oscar shook his head, his hoodie pulled up over his mouth as he tried to contain his laughter, still holding his slightly damp hand.

You grabbed the popcorn, victorious.

“The fantasy indeed.”

By the end of the film, the credits were rolling, and the lights in the cinema began to creep up. You sat back, arms crossed, already gathering your thoughts for the inevitable post-movie debrief.

Oscar glanced over at you with a half-smile. “Alright, love. Final review?”

You tilted your head thoughtfully, pretending to deliberate as if the fate of motorsport itself rested on your verdict. “Six out of ten. Stunning visuals, can’t argue with the shots of the cars slicing through the mist. Decent pacing. But the strategy? Absolute disaster. Way too much dramatic yelling, and nowhere near enough awkward post-race cool-down room energy.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You grinned, the corners of your mouth twitching with mischief. “Tell that to the poor souls I’ve converted in this cinema.” You turned toward the teenager sitting a few seats down, who was busy scrolling through their phone but gave you a confused, wide-eyed blink when you addressed them. “You’ll never watch a pit stop the same way again, will you?”

They blinked again, completely baffled, clearly having missed the whispered commentary marathon that had unfolded just behind them for the last two hours.

Oscar stood up, looping his fingers through yours with a gentle tug. “Alright, come on, film critic. Let’s get out of here before you start handing out audience scorecards and demanding director’s commentary.”

You stood, still grinning, and glanced back at the screen as the last of the credits rolled. “Honestly? I think I’d watch it again just for the commentary.”

He laughed, shaking his head fondly as you both headed toward the exit, stepping back into the cool night air.

“And I thought this was just a quiet movie night,” Oscar muttered.

“Never,” you said, squeezing his hand. “Never.”

As you stepped out into the cool night air, you slipped off your oversized sunglasses with a flourish, exhaling a slow, contented breath that mingled with the faint scent of fresh rain lingering on the pavement. The soft glow of street lamps spilled over the sidewalk, casting golden pools of light that shimmered like little promises.

“We should do this for every sports movie,” you said softly, voice low and warm, your breath creating tiny clouds in the crisp air. “Sneak in late, whisper through the whole thing, roast every ridiculous moment, and laugh so loud nobody knows it’s us.”

Oscar’s hand found yours again, fingers curling around yours like a gentle anchor. The warmth of his palm seeped into your skin, grounding you, steady and sure beneath the oversized hoodie that wrapped around you like a shared cocoon. You felt the soft cotton brush against your cheek, the faint, comforting scent of his cologne mixed with the comforting musk of well-worn fabric.

“Just…maybe not this hoodie again,” he murmured, voice low and rough with laughter. “It’s way too big. I'm basically wearing a blanket.”

You smiled, pressing your cheek against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the fabric, a steady rhythm that calmed and excited you all at once.

“That’s exactly what makes it perfect,” you whispered, voice thick with affection. “This ridiculous hoodie, the sunglasses, the whole secret mission vibe, it’s our little world.”

He dipped his head, brushing a soft, warm kiss across your forehead. His fingertips traced lazy patterns along your arm, the touch light enough to send little shivers down your spine.

“For two very niche, very adorable fugitives,” he murmured.

You laughed softly, the sound a gentle melody that mingled with the quiet hum of the night, cars passing in the distance, the rustle of leaves in a light breeze, the soft thud of your footsteps on the pavement.

His smile was like a soft sunrise, warm and full of promise. You felt your chest swell with that familiar ache of belonging, of home, in the space between you.

Together, wrapped in warmth and quiet laughter, you stepped forward, two silhouettes melting into the soft glow of the streetlights, slow and unhurried, utterly at peace.

Well, I hope this was everything you wanted! Thank you for the suggestion, I really enjoyed writing this one. As always, my requests are always open and thank you so much for your support!

[nightbornangel]

her honey, fuck me eyes ! 💋 ⊹܀˙

warnings: smut, pwop, sleazy!joel, joel is kind of a creep but reader is into it, dryhumping, degrading language, reader is called a whore in a few different ways, unprotected piv, reader has a bush (you guessed it!), spanking/slapping, slight hair pulling and choking, surprise tommy miller appearance.

joel was sat there all greying curls and furrowed brow behind the gas station counter, metal all busted in and rusted. he’d owned this shithole of a place for god near 20 years now when he had more of a spring in his step, now his knees cracked everytime he stood up and his back wailed in need of mercy. christ he was getting on. everyone knew joel as a sleazebag, ogling the pretty young girls who came in to pay for gas, bringing out bottles of liquor for the 19 year olds who bat their eyelashes prettily enough for him and promised him a favour. “drink it wisely, little lady.” he said, sending them away with a pat on their ass and a blow of cigarette smoke in their faces. “be on ya way now.” he always said before lighting another one up, he never gave a fuck.

the sickly fluorescent lights of the gas station buzzed overhead as he sat reading a beaten up playboy behind the counter, boots resting up on the surface as one of his signatures was pressed between his lips. the smoke curled up lazily towards the ceiling, his habit of smoking indoors was why the paint on the walls was yellowing, chipping off in chunks and leaving behind that ugly chipboard texture. he flipped the page of the magazine like he was reading the newspaper or something, staring at the guys cock for a beat too long and almost making him question himself. “what fuckin’ ever.” he grumbled, closing the magazine embarrassedly giving the station floor a quick scan, just to make sure no one had seen — not like they would’ve anyway. he ran a hand through his locks, sighing deeply. he was getting too damn old for this, the eyebags under his eyes couldn't possibly get any darker.

it was hot as fuck, you needed some fuel and the coldest can of coke you could find. you walked in looking as pretty as sin, tiniest shorts and skimpiest tank top, bright red lace of your bra peeking out of the white fabric. you bent down to pick up a few things you needed for your car, shorts riding up your ass. adjusting your shirt, you stood up and walked over to the register — joel miller was sat there, tall dark and handsome. you heard so much about him, seen so much about him but all you wondered was what that brooding and beautiful man was packing in his pants.

he was counting notes at the register, calluses on his hands scraping grossly against the paper when you walked in. jesus christ he had to do a double take. he thought he was fucking hallucinating, working so long in a shitty gas station fucked his brain up like that -- the god awful buzzing of the lights overhead and smell of gas really did get to his brain sometimes but no not this time, you were actually real. "pump 5 miller, make it quick." your voice turned his brain to melty taffy, causing him to just stare at you for a good minute. your makeup was all done, hair all pretty. jean shorts way too fucking short, plump little cheeks spilling out of the bottom, joel was already fighting a semi. "hello??" you snapped your fingers in his face, nails a bright red colour. he blinked hard, clearing his throat with a gulp. “yes doll, thas’ thirty-five dollars then.” he rasped, eyes sweeping over your form again. “i ain’t payin’ thirty-five dollars miller, y’takin’ advantage of a young lady here huh?” you rolled your eyes, twirling a silky strand of hair around your finger. joel’s adam’s apple bobbed again, shaking his head firmly. “i ain’t doin’ such’a thing lady, thas’ the rate.”

you bit your lip as you studied him for a second, maybe there was another way out. sure you had the money for it but you were damn stingy, forking out thirty-five bucks on fuel wasn’t ideal for your frugal life, the money oughta go on something important like a new pair of pretty red heels or a fresh new set. “y’sure we can’t work somethin’ out here, miller?” you said sweetly, you had the same texan drawl as him only yours much softer and a little sweet. “i can work anything out with you, sweet cheeks.” he rasped, suddenly gaining his confidence back. he cockily adjusted his belt, staring directly down your flimsy tank top — red bra, could see right through it a sweet little lacy number. “oh yeah? what’cha thinkin’?” you teased, knowing exactly what he was thinking but choosing to play around with him anyways. you wanted it as much as him actually, you knew he was an old fuckin’ dirtbag but those kinda men always excited you, they were always the big cock never mess around type.

he had heard stories about you, ‘miss holiday inn’ they called you. “that lil girl with them denim lil’ shorts and red nails she really gets around town y’know.” he had heard from his brother tommy. most of it wasn’t true of course, all just stupid rumours — you had a thing for older men, that part was true though. “you busy now?” you said to him, batting your lashes sweetly as you looked up at joel with those honey eyes of yours. “i can close up for a bit f’ya want, been pretty slow today.” joel practically grunted, striding over to the door to flip the sun-bleached ‘open’ sign to now say ‘closed’. fuck anyone who came now they could wait outside to pay for gas.

“bend over the counter, doll.” joel demanded as he lit up another cigarette cockily, thumb holding one of the belt loops on his battered jeans. you bit your lip playfully, pussy already throbbing in anticipation as you bent over the counter finally. you placed your hands flat on the cool metal surface, wiggling your ass slightly and showing off those sinfully short denim cutoffs, pretty red lace of your panties almost on show — no matter the time or weather you always had to wear pretty matching lingerie. joel audibly groaned at the sight, taking a long drag from his cigarette as he stalked towards you, eyes practically falling out of his head from how hard he was staring at your plump little cheeks. he grabbed a handful of your left asscheek with one hand, hips rutting against you. he was acting like a feral dog, a small whine leaving your lips as you pushed up against his crotch behind you. “knew you were a fuckin’ slut, y’know what they say about you don’cha?”.

he stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray next to you on the counter, your nails scratching slightly against the metal surface as he continued rutting his hips against your backside like a bitch in heat. “not everything i-is true y’know-mmmh..” you managed to get out, panting slightly before letting out a sharp yelp when joels hand cracked down on your ass. “yeah sure they aren’t, y’seem happy enough grindin’ up against my cock right now huh?" he said amusedly, cocking his head at you as you turned your head, and looked over your shoulder at him, eyes now all glassy and lips hanging open slightly. "mmf- you're the dirty perv who wanted me to." you half-moaned, half-sighed. joel chuckled amusedly before leaning over you to turn his old beaten up radio on, the shitty old speakers playing 'cover me' by bruce springsteen.

"if i can't wine and dine ya.." joel spun you around to face him, rough hands gripping your soft hips tightly. "at least let me have a dance." you don't know if you could've rolled your eyes harder at that moment but you went along with it, the absurdity of it all causing you to giggle. “whatever miller.” you said, rolling your eyes as you swayed your hips together, bumping and grinding up against each other. joel had enough after a while, his bulge beginning to twitch against his pants. he hauled you up onto the counter effortlessly, standing between your spread legs and giving your thigh a playful slap. “let’s see watcha workin’ with then babydoll.”

you lift your hips up for him as he pulled your shorts and panties down in one swift tug, his broad hands spreading your thighs delicately. “damn girl.” he whistled, taking in the sight of the wild curls framing your pussy. “good job i love a bush ain’t it.” he said with a smirk, causing you to blush. “fuck off.” you mumbled quietly. “that’s a real pretty pussy if i’ve ever seen one, and i’ve seen a few in my time babydoll.” he reached for his belt buckle and fumbled with it, your thighs trembling slightly in anticipation. and by god did your jaw drop when his cock sprang out, slapping against his worn grey shirt. long and veiny, thick as a beer can. “mm, you’re gonna fuck up my pussy.” you said, biting your lip and looking up at him. “damn right.” he grumbled, swiping the fat tip through your folds before he began pushing in.

“attagirl, big stretch.” he teased, thumb stroking your inner thighs in a (almost) tender gesture. you hooked your thighs around his hips and squirmed in his grip as he finally buried himself to the hilt, sticky tip kissing the pucker of your cervix. your walls squeezed tight around him and he had to fight not to bust his load right then and there. “quit squeezin’ now.” he said before beginning to thrust in and out of you, pussy making pathetically loud wet sounds. your cunt was drooling around him, eyes rolling back as his thrusts punched the air from your lungs and sent your mind reeling. joel miller showed no mercy with that huge cock in his pants, wiry hairs at his base tickling your inner thighs. “ohh fuuuck joel..” you moaned, pointed nails scratching him through the fabric of his shirt.

“yeah y’like it don’cha, slutted out where anyone can see.” he grunted, breathing heavy as his hands groped and squeezed your ass whilst he thrusted into you. “say y’not a whore but opening ya legs for any old man don’cha.” you only responded with a pathetic moan, nodding your head desperately as his pace picked up slightly. “mm-fuckyeah please!” you wailed, feeling his hand slap your inner thigh teasingly before he pushed to the hilt, grinding his pubic bone against your clit as he rutted pathetically against you. your hands scrambled to grip at his hair, crashing your lips together as your saliva mixed and you moaned into each others mouths. after a while of desperate humping and rutting joel pulled out and flipped you around, bending you over and giving your ass a firm spank, one, two and finally three times.

“yeahh.. fuckin’ dirty ain’t ya?” he growled and all you could do was nod before letting out a loud yelp as he thrust back into you, pulling your hair so your back met his chest. he wrapped a hand around your throat and began fucking into you wildly, the slapping of skin echoing through the dingy gas station. “nnghh! y-yes jooel.. s-slut for you.” your mind was fuzzy as you felt your orgasm building, hot and tingly throughout your whole body. “yeah you are, needa be fucked dumb on old man’s cock.” his balls slapped against your ass as your climax washed over you intensely, causing a long drawn out moan to leave your lips. your climax also sent joel over the edge, as he pulled out quickly and bent you over, hand splayed over your back as he jerked his cock, spilling his spend all over your asscheeks.

“ain’t that a fuckin filthy sight eh?” you turned your head to look back and giggle, playfully wiggling your ass which earned another slap from joel. “dirty girl.” he smirked, zipping himself back up covered in your creamy arousal. “you like fuckin’ holes like this huh?” you purred, spreading your asscheeks for him playfully. “too damn right babyd-“ the door swung open. tommy miller. his face streaked with motor oil and hair pulled back into a man bun. “well i told ya ain’t i joel? fiery one she is.” he drawled out. stalking towards the pair of you. all you did was giggle and reach to pull your shorts back on, not caring about joels spunk covering your ass.

“fuckin’ tommy.” joel muttered, giving him a playful shove. “whaddya say we share her eh?” he said nudging his brother. oh what a night you were in for.

pics are solely for vibes and have nothing to do with readers appearance!! lmk if you enjoyed and would possibly want a pt2 ;)) love u angels!

[xxtotalpeachxx]

For me for awhile it was hearing this in an interview

I cant find the interview anymore so i cant be sure if i didnt just cofabulate that with this image but its just that no matter how miserable you are theres always small joys. The wind on your face or a good sandwhich.

Ive had a few attempts brushed away by thinking about Emil Cioran's The Trouble With Being Born. Nobody does misery like that guy. Im a fuckin chump. The most susinct quote is probably when he said "it's not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late" like so right dude. Theres like a mythos around this guy. Alledgedly his mom told him "if i had known youd be so miserable i wouldve had you aborted" and he took great joy in that. Books recommended.

Its these two things life is pain yes but theres always still joy you can rob yourself of.

Now idk. Alot of it is just that theres no easy way. Worse every botched attempt is one that could leave me more disabled.

Did yall know those bolt guns like in no country for old men dont actually kill you? Theyre designed to keep an animals brain stem intact and heart pumping for easy exsanguination. Thats fucked for other reasons. But its what im talking about theres no good way and everythings like this in some way. With every failed promised box that advertises letting you pass on seamlessly or even lethal injection we cant even kill people painlessly.

To anybody abled id recommend getting a pet. A creature whose wellbeing depends on you. Itll feel selfish because it is but what isnt in a way. Youre alive, you take up space, and its not your fault for being born. That space is your birthright. I digress Itll be hard some days but i promise youll get to a point you want to keep taking care of it when you see it thrive. And if thats a promise broken maybe youll feel too guilty to go through with it which is also fine.

Its whatever mental gymnastics you can conjure you just gotta find your reason for you.

It’s so crazy that suicide prevention is just people going awwww don’t!! Awwww come on noooooooooo stopppppp

[abbotjack]

Ok this might seem super random but I feel like jack and the reader from the life we grew would be watching love island . Like I see all these couples watching them online and I just kept imagining them doing it . Like bam as soon as baby is down it’s time for love island . 😂 and jack can’t help himself making commentary at everything they’re doing . Jk this was just super random I felt like I had to share . You’re amazing and I love your blog it’s such a welcoming space , hope you’re doing well !

This idea made my whole day, it’s so perfect?? Jack Abbot, post night shift, fake hating love island while absolutely needing to know who got dumped?? You waiting to watch it until he’s up because you’re both secretly obsessed?? It’s so them. Also, thank you for being so kind. Your message was the sweetest and genuinely means so much to me. You made this space feel exactly how I hope it feels. 🤍

₊˚⊹ ୨୧ THE LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST

It’s 4:53 PM and the house is quiet.

Not the peaceful morning coffee kind of quiet. The other kind. The Bean is down for her nap, Duck is missing an eye again, and the twins have finally stopped treating your ribcage like a conga drum kind of quiet. The kind that only happens in a house that’s run on toddler chaos, shredded cheese, and the sacred 7PM–7AM shift rotation of Dr. Jack Abbot.

You’re on the couch, legs propped up, belly stretched tight under one of Jack’s old shirts. Your back hurts. You’re eighty five percent sure you dropped your phone somewhere between the couch cushions.

The TV’s paused on Love Island... waiting.

Jack’s finally up, the weight of another brutal night shift still clinging to him. This morning, he barely managed to kiss you, kiss Bean, and do his usual fridge check before crashing into bed like someone hit his off switch. You never wake him, unless the house is on fire. And even then, you’d probably just close the door and handle it yourself.

When he wakes on days like this, it’s always slow. Hair rumpled, eyes half lidded, moving like gravity’s still a little too heavy. Hungry in that very specific, I worked a trauma bay last night and now I’m eating shredded cheese straight from the bag kind of way.

Which is exactly what he’s doing now.

You hear the fridge open. Then the unmistakable rustle of the cheddar bag. A beat of silence. Then a tiny voice from the hallway.

“Dada… can I have some feelings cheese too?”

You smile.

Bean appears, Duck in hand. Jack comes closer to her, already holding out a fresh pinch of shredded cheddar like a holy offering.

“You promised Duck could have two pieces today,” Bean says solemnly.

“I did,” Jack nods. “And you held me accountable. That’s integrity, Bean.”

You watch them from the couch, heart already melting. This is how it started, the cheese thing. Not from you. You keep snacks in matching containers and label leftovers with the date. You were a federal compliance accountant, for God’s sake. Precision is your love language. But then Bean caught Jack one morning... half dead from back to back shifts, crouched in front of the fridge in his scrubs, eating shredded cheese straight from the bag. He didn’t even pretend to hide it. He just looked her in the eye and said: It’s feelings cheese. Helps with brain. She nodded like he’d told her a sacred truth.

And now here you are, living in a house where cheese is currency, comfort, and spiritual practice.

Jack finally plops down beside you on the couch, balancing the bag between you like it belongs there. “Tell me you didn’t watch it without me,” he says.

“I didn’t.”

He exhales. “Good. Because that would be emotional cheating.”

You grin. “You literally pretend to hate this show.”

He grabs the remote, unpauses it. “I do hate it. I also need to know if that one girl cried in the Beach Hut or just dramatically stared into the ocean again.”

You glance at him. “You know their names.”

He doesn’t look away from the screen. “I remember who’s dangerous.”

You laugh so hard your stomach aches. Onscreen, two new contestants make their entrance: one in overly crisp linen, the other introduced as a “crypto investor,” like that’s supposed to be reassuring. Jack squints. Then his voice softens. Still teasing. But quieter. More personal.

“I wonder what you were like then.”

You glance over.

“When?”

He nods toward the TV. “When you were that age. Twenty one. Just starting out. Probably had three highlighters in your bag and a five year plan on your desktop. Corrected people’s grammar in group projects. Said things like, ‘I just function better with a routine.’”

“I was insufferable.”

“You were dazzling and beautiful.”

You pause.

He looks at you, eyes gentle but tired. Like he’s still halfway in that night shift fog but would still find you in a crowd. “I think about it sometimes,” he continues. “What it would’ve been like. You back then. Me, too messed up to stay still. I wouldn’t have known how to love you yet. But I would’ve tried.”

You lean into his shoulder. “I think I would’ve scared you.”

“Oh, no doubt. You would've ruined me with your beautiful brain.”

You laugh into his clothes.

“But I would’ve shown up,” he says. “Even back then. Even if I didn’t know what to say. I think I would’ve made a mess of it. But I would’ve meant it.”

You curl your hand around his. His calluses. His pulse. The way he still smells like the hospital and somehow like home. “I would’ve followed you,” he adds, “even if I didn’t know why yet.”

You don’t say anything. You just rest your hand on your belly, and he places his over yours. There’s a kick. A shift. The twins are listening. On screen, someone shouts, I just want to be loved for me! and Jack doesn’t even look.

“She’s absolutely texted ‘lol okay’ as a breakup.”

You giggle. “You’re so mean.”

“I’m literally exhausted and emotionally available. That’s what women say they want.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth. Bean appears again, “Can Duck have one more sprinkle?”

Jack tosses her a pinch of cheese. “Only if Duck agrees to take responsibility for their actions in the villa.”

Bean nods. Confused, but serious. A deal’s a deal.

The living room smells faintly of baby shampoo and cheddar. A terrible dating show hums in the background. You’re very pregnant, sore in places you didn’t even know existed during your last pregnancy, and completely undone by this man who treats shredded cheese like currency and still looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.

And honestly?

You wouldn’t change a thing.

[nousporix]

back to being delusional about boy next door phainon.. (bnd!phainon??) who wears form-fitting shirts for better or for worse.

it's embarrassing to admit that you were watching him move in the whole time. you have a reputation amongst your neighbors for being quite the eager beaver, always volunteering your help whenever you see someone in need. you planned on doing the same for this newcomer too! but when you caught a glimpse of his face, you hesitated. hell, the mere size of the man was enough for you to reconsider your offer to help.

instead you decided to watch from afar. this new neighbor seems pretty capable; even from this distance, you could see his muscles rippling as he hoisted his furniture into his house with relative ease. (you have to pinch yourself for that thought.) how could you help someone like that?

after some deliberation, you decide that you could help him unwind. surely he'd be tired after all that hard work, so you prepare a refreshing drink and some light snacks to take over once the sun sets. that way, you get to help out and meet him all at the same time.

when the time comes, you find yourself at your new neighbor's doorstep, small tray of refreshments in hand. you raise your free hand to rap your knuckles on the door, but just before you can, it swings open. the sudden movement startles you and you nearly drop your gift. you scramble to recover but your neighbor is swift; he catches you with one hand and steadies your tray with the other, a small exclamation of surprise on his lips.

"i'm so sorry!" you can feel your skin heating up with embarrassment. "i-i just wanted to say hi since i noticed you moving in earlier. i wasn't expecting you to open the door. are you okay? did anything splash on you?"

as you're inspecting his white shirt, he chuckles quietly. the sound makes you freeze and in that instant, you finally start to process the person that you're standing in front of. he's much bigger up close — a fact that only makes your face burn hotter. his hair is almost as white as his shirt and his blue eyes, though bright, gaze at you warmly in spite of your fumbling.

maybe this was a mistake.

"it's alright," he assures you. once you're steady on your feet he takes a step back. you're not sure what expression you're wearing, but he suddenly looks apologetic. "i probably stink, don't i?" he chuckles awkwardly. "sorry."

his smile is so charming — too charming. you blink at him a few times. "some first impression this is, huh?" you joke. when he laughs, you feel the tension starting to leave your body. you introduce yourself and properly offer the refreshments. "i'm really sorry about all this. i'm not usually this clumsy, i promise."

"i wouldn't mind if you were," is his reply. you have to avert your eyes to avoid dwelling on the flirty undertone of his statement. he introduces himself as phainon; due to special circumstances, he was forced to move here from aedes elysiae, a small town several miles away.

"what made you move here in particular?" you can't help but ask.

phainon stares at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. "this place has a certain allure to it, i suppose. wouldn't you say so?"

it's too hot to think... god help me. i wanna write a fic like this or smth, idk..

[girl-lostconnection]

Hear me out on overprotective werewolf best friend Johnny. He is so used to being always with you, so used to you being his rock, his special girl, his partner in crime that he doesn’t realise when exactly he even fell for you. At times he thinks that maybe this love was always there.

Maybe it just took him long enough because loving you comes naturally and god, he knows you love him too. He isn’t sure if that’s the way he’d like it to be, but you smooch his cheeks and you hug him and you rub his back and you kiss his forehead. And he finds that it doesn’t really matter.

He will take whatever you give, he isn’t that greedy, he promises to himself.

He already has you and he knows you adore him just as much. What more can he wish for?

Apparently, for one more morsel when he finds out that there is a bloody competition on the horizon. And it doesn’t really matter that Johnny is always your favourite, that Johnny was there first, that Johnny loves you more than anyone ever could (gotta trust him on that, bon).

None of it really matters if one day you come back and there is a bruise on you. Bruise and a smell of another wolf.

One he didn’t remember you having when you left the shared flat.

So either the competition is better than Johnny is expected or some fuck out there is aching to have every bone in their body broken.

Either way, he is going out, he muses, passing you a cold pack and pressing a kiss to the crown for your head. What for? Just some take out, bon. And maybe a light jog for the night. He’s gotta get all his steps in, you know.

Where have you said you met the guy?

[oddlylovingaddiction]

Part 1: here , Part 2: here , Part 3: here , Part 4: here , Part 5: here

NO FORGIVENESS ENDING: Part 1: You’re here!

CW: Reader is pregnant BUT is gender neutral only being referred to as you, if you don't have the ability to get pregnant you do now (in this series). Neglected reader x (platonic.) bat family, Reader x Conner “Kon-El” Kent (romantic.). Reader is probably around in your 20s (21 - 25) and is the 5th(??) oldest

TW: Pregnancy, mentions of abuse

It’s been a month since the incident with the Wayne family, and you’re doing okay now. You think at least. You’re officially 8 months along and things have been silent. You’re not sure what’s going on with them but you don’t really want to know. It’ll take long to heal from it all because it was still such a violent shock you remember crying for the first couple of weeks, but you managed to schedule an appointment with a therapist you trust and you talk about it with Conner so it does get easier.

But there’s something that’s been making you excited, and that’s your future child on the way. It’s so close now that you’re kind of panicking about the whole giving birth thing so it takes your mind off all that stuff. You can’t wait to hold your child in your arms, Conner has been spending so much money on clothes for the kid that you have attached the joint credit card to the highest place in the house so he can’t get it (he still can, but he doesn’t just out of respect for you. But he does complain about it.)

“I didn’t even buy that much!” Conner whines dramatically while following you around as you both set up some paint cans to paint the kid’s room. Which you both didn’t finish because of your dramatic storm out over the paint colour a while ago which lead to the whole Wayne family thing.

“Three whole bags.” You glare.

“Listen when our little angel outgrows them we can give them to that shelter for parents we talked about!”

“That doesn’t matter if our child turns out the demon of greed because of your overindulgence!” You snap back, plus you doubt the baby’s wardrobe could fit that much…

“We could just save some when they have a little sibling.” Conner proudly teases, to which you turn around slightly amused and slightly shocked.

“I haven’t even gotten the first one out of me, what makes you think they’ll be a second?!” You playfully whack his back flustered and a big annoyed at his own teasing, As you hit him playfully he cackles devilishly.

“I’m kidding! I promise!” He laughs as he darts slightly away from your hits and towards the folded tarp to set it up, once he does he looks at the paint buckets. “Are we on the last bucket?”

“Yeah we are, I haven’t opened that one yet do you think you could open it?” You nod as you walk towards him.

The next thing you know you’re covered in paint. You barely blinked for a second.

You look over to a very confused Conner who’s also covered in paint.

“What… the hell just happened?” You ask still dazed, both of you staring at each other drenched in paint.

“I… I don’t know I was just opening it with my heat vision-“ he mutters confused

“CONNER!”

“What?!” He asks

“You’re meant to open paint cans with the can opener!”

“I thought it would be faster!”

You both stare at each other, his face completely covered in paint and his hair drenched. You try to hold it back you do but you instantly burst out laughing, the look on his face was too priceless to not. You laugh so hard you feel your knees go out, luckily Conner was watching you laugh at him so he instantly flew over and caught you.

When you looked up at him, he paused before beginning to laugh also and it wasn’t long before you both had to sit down because you both would’ve fallen over from how hard you were laughing.

“I think I got paint in my mouth.” He says as his laughter slows down.

“I’m just grateful I was wearing the clothes I hated, otherwise I would’ve had to wash paint out of them.” You chuckle.

Conner walks towards you before gently kneeling next to you and using the clean side of his long sleeve shirt to wipe some paint off your face. You smile softly and close your eyes as he gently wipes, there’s a slight pause making you open your eyes. You see him lovingly staring at you like you’re the most precious thing in the entire universe although to him you genuinely are, before you know it he gently leans in and kisses your lips lightly. Soft and gentle but passionate to the point you could never doubt his love for you.

“Now we both have paint in our mouth.” He teases pulling back smiling.

“Ugh! Conner!” You laugh before quickly using a clean corner of your shirt to clean the inside of your mouth, as you begin to stand up. “Okay I’m going to get a shower.”

He nods understanding but continues to sit as you walk towards the door.

“… Want to shower with me?” You smirk and with that Conner quickly stands up.

“If I ever pass that up that’s not me and someone else is wearing my skin.”

Meanwhile with the Wayne’s the chaos from the previous event has calmed down, and it’s settled into a depressive atmosphere.

Bruce usually won’t come out of his room except for missions, Tim is spending way more time on his computer than he normally does, Dick is pushing himself in missions and taking stupid risks he normally wouldn’t, Damian is… just not himself along with the rest of the family. Even the damn animals are feeling the energy of the house. Titus just lies down most days and whines while Damian lies with him.

But.

There’s a shift.

Although it’s all off, Bruce surprisingly has encouraged the family into therapy. Not for the whole superhero thing but for the situation right now. It’s working, slowly but working. If there’s one thing Bruce is good at it’s bringing justice. And what’s justice right now is making sure this never happens again. Trauma can’t be removed and it sticks to a person but making sure it never happens again, especially if you ever decide to come back to them (even though they never had you in the first place), is better than nothing.

Tim is taking the time to talk to the others, even when he doesn’t quite feel like it. He’s given about 60+ hugs to Damian alone (much to his complaint) and had several deep talks with family members he used to only give a quick nod in the hallway.

Dick, Cassandra and Damian have been reading every damn therapy book they can get their hands on, it’s actually started to piss Bruce off because they keep making him use “I feel” statements. But… it’s working, surprisingly.

And even Jason and the rest of the family have been making changes. It’s definitely not perfect but it’s working.

Everything has slowly started turning. It’s just a shame you had to remove your own cog to get things to shift. But it was never your fault and it never will be. Which is similar to what Alfred texted you weeks after the incident.

“I just want to let you know, you are in the right. It wasn’t your fault, you were just a kid in this. Please know that I’ll always love and care for you, even if I’m no longer in your life.”

You still can’t decide if that’s comforting or not, but it’s something.

Speaking of something… Barbara, Julia, Kate, Luke and Duke gather around the kitchen table. Where you were when you first came in, chatting about everything that’s happened so far.

“I’ve been meaning to ask how you all feel about this.” Barbara sips on her drink as Duke prepares his own lunch. Julia, Kate and Luke just choosing to hang out while they do their things.

“It made sense at the time, but now I can only see where we went wrong.” Duke sighs, finishing the last bit of making his sandwich. Luke nods in agreement.

“I don’t know it all feels blown out of proportion to me. But I’m kind of glad it happened anyways, because now things are improving… kind of.” Julia shrugs drumming her fingers on the counter.

“Shit always goes sideways and blown out of proportion in this family.” Kate replies, “I wouldn’t blame that kid.”

“I wasn’t blaming the kid, Kate I just mean it all seems much.” Julia mumbles and Kate nods in acknowledgment.

“I know I just meant we shouldn’t, don’t worry wasn’t saying you were.” Kate smiles softly before motioning Barbara to pour her some of the drink she’s sipping on too.

“Seemed implied to me.” Luke grins as he replies sarcastically causing Kate to glare at him before rolling her eyes. “Anyways, it was all our fault and this shit will keep happening if we don’t change. Luckily, we are. Even if it means I have to listen to Dick ask me ‘How does that make you feel?’ During arguments.” Everyone groans a bit before laughing, they’ve all been hit with the therapy speak from Dick.

“Oh by the way you’re never going to believe this.” Barbara interjects causing everyone to look at her. “But Damian… asked to hangout with me today.” Duke chokes on his sandwich at that and Kate spits out her drink.

“THE DAMIAN WAYNE?” Julia says shocked, Barbara nods quickly in reply.

“Yeah I had no idea that it would happen either! This whole thing truly has been affecting everyone, and hey I’m not complaining.” Barbara smiles quickly and Julia nods in agreement.

“Yeah. Just a shame we had to lose someone to learn it.” Luke mumbles and the room goes silent from guilt.

“Yeah. That’s why we gotta make sure it never happens again.” Kate whispers and everyone solemnly nods.

It’s weird for everyone, even the people that didn’t spend that much time with you during your short stay.

Truly, it will always be one of the Wayne’s shames, losing you before they even got to know you.

[velarisdusk]

The Silence You Built

Azriel x Reader

-> part 2 summary: You betrayed him once. He never let you forget it. Now you're on the same side again, bound by court politics, old grudges, and a mission that ends in blood. word count: 19,803 content: [ alcohol, arranged marriage, death, explicit language, explicit sexual content, killing in self-defense, murder, near-death experiences ] author's note: this IS a one shot i promise, but tumblr says 1000 blocks max per post so i am having to split it into two posts.....smh ANYWAY this concludes the 1k apothecary celebration!!! yay!! thank you everyone who sent in reqs and everyone who's been reading, i appreciate it immensely :") also dont focus too hard on the logistics and the ‘why’ just enjoy the ride. also also please know i wrote this exclusively between the hours of 12am – 5am oops ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ shadowed elixir infused with a dash of blaze enhanced with echo leaves & glimmer dust whirled THANK YOU @feerique FOR THE REQUEST AAAAAAA i loved writing this one, it was really hard to get started and planning drove me insane but im really happy with how it turned out and i think you will be too mwah thank u lyla love u mwah mwah mwah

The gown was Autumn Court red—more blood than flame. Gold embroidery stitched its bodice in curling tendrils, each thread tugging tight against your ribs like a reminder: this was not your court. This was not your choice. 

The formal engagement dinner was held in one of the Day Court’s lesser palaces, its golden spires catching the last light of sunset like spears. Helion had offered the venue as a gesture of neutrality—though everyone in the room knew where his loyalties leaned. Still, it was distant enough from Prythian’s eyes to serve its purpose. 

Neutral. As if anything in this room could be. 

You sat beside Eris Vanserra at the long obsidian table, a wine glass balanced delicately between your fingers. Eris’ fingers tapped the stem of his own glass in rhythm with the orchestra playing at the far end of the hall. Every movement he made was a performance: the amused tilt of his head, the lazy spread of his fingers on the table, the pointed glances he cast toward the Night Court’s High Lord. 

Rhysand sat across from you, dressed in midnight and stars, his expression unreadable. Feyre sat to his right, offering you a nod that felt too soft, too pitying. 

Cassian’s glare could have cleaved the table in two. Morrigan looked ready to break something lest she break herself. Azriel—

Azriel stood at the wall, half-shadow, half-sentry, his attention fixed anywhere but on you. His siphons glinted cold blue, and when Eris placed a hand on the back of your chair, Azriel’s eyes flicked over like a dagger drawn mid-step. 

You didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. 

“This is a rare thing,” Eris murmured near your ear. “A bridge forged from ash and bone.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t look at him. You sipped your wine instead, letting its sharpness anchor you. It tasted like Autumn: rich, biting, with the threat of fire. 

The political maneuvering was endless. Courtiers from both courts circled like hawks, each conversation another layer of performance. The betrothal was sold as a diplomatic triumph, a union to symbolize cooperation between once-hostile courts. But everyone knew what it really was: leverage. You were leverage.

You should be used to playing a role, Rhysand’s voice murmured in your mind, smooth and quiet as silk, when you stood to excuse yourself. 

You didn’t stop walking. Funny. Some people think I prefer masks.

His reply was a soft, almost regretful hum against your thoughts. But he let you go. 

The hallway beyond the dining chamber was cold, narrow, carved from the bones of the mountain itself. Your footsteps echoed. And then stopped. 

You weren’t alone. 

“That color doesn’t suit you.”

Azriel’s voice was a blade in the dark. He leaned against the wall near the archway, arms crossed. His shadows flickered like restless smoke. 

You met his gaze. “It’s tradition.”

“So is throwing yourself on the sword. Doesn’t make it noble.”

You turned away as he pushed off the wall. “Why?”

The question dropped between you like a gauntlet. You kept walking. 

He caught your arm.

His hand was calloused, scarred—burns trailing up like old ghosts. You stared at him. He didn’t let go. 

“You’re good at this,” he said. Voice low, rough. “I’ll give you that.”

You didn’t pull away. “And you’re good at pretending you didn’t help make me this way.”

His wings folded close, tense and coiled steel. “You don’t get to pin this on me.”

“Don’t I?”

“You didn’t even know who I was.”

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “Wish I had. Would’ve saved me a hell of a lot of trouble.”

The silence stretched. 

Then, softly, you told him:

“I didn’t ask you to take me there.”

He let go of your arm. Your skin burned where his fingers had been. 

“You didn’t have to, you knew I would. You were banking on it.” He turned back toward the dining hall. 

The sound of distant music bled faintly through the stone. 

You straightened your spine, took in a breath of fresh air, and walked back into the fire. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You hadn’t always belonged to Eris Vanserra.

Once—long before the wine-dark gown, before politics turned your spine to steel and your face to glass—you had belonged to no one. Hunted, half-starved, you’d clawed your way through frostbitten hills and timeworn protections until you reached the Night Court. 

Azriel found you there. 

Not in a meadow or a clearing, not wrapped in moonlight like some storybook waif. You were curled between the roots of an old spruce tree, blood smeared down your arm, one boot missing, breathing shallow. Your lips were cracked from the cold. You flinched from the light glinting off of his siphons. 

He watched you for a long moment, unreadable. Shadows coiled around him like wary dogs, uncertain whether to snarl or protect. 

He should have left you. 

You were nothing. No scent he recognized. No Court colors. No identifying insignia, not even in the lining of your tattered cloak. Just the ragged, wild-eyed tremble of someone who had fled through hell and hadn’t yet realized they’d made it out. 

He crouched beside you, unreadable. 

Your eyes fluttered open. Glanced at the midnight sky. Then at him. And you whispered, hoarse and cracked:

“Please… Please, don’t take me back. I can’t go back. They’ll find me.”

Azriel said nothing. 

“Please.”

You reached for him. Your fingers barely touched his leathers before falling away, but it was enough. 

He didn’t know who they were. But your terror wasn’t fake. And he’d seen enough in his life to recognize when someone had been hunted. 

So instead of doing the sensible thing and alerting Rhysand, instead of dragging you to the River House, he took you somewhere else. 

To the only place no sunlight touched. 

The Hewn City was not merciful, but then again, neither were you. 

Once your wounds healed—slowly, under Azriel’s careful regulation and disapproval—you didn’t waste time asking why he’d helped you.

You didn’t ask when he would send you back. Only if.

The others living underneath that godsforsaken mountain watched you with thinly veiled hunger. Curiosity. Disdain.

But they didn’t touch you. Because the shadowsinger had brought you.

He visited irregularly, always from the shadows. Spoke in clipped sentences. Never stayed long.

But you remembered the first time you asked him a question:

“Who do they think I am?”

He didn’t answer. Not really.

“They think what you let them.”

And you—feral thing that you were—learned to adapt, to survive, to become something they wouldn’t dare touch. You sharpened your tongue, practiced stillness. Learned the power in saying nothing at all. 

You danced with courtiers and whispered truths like poison into the right ears. You clawed your way into the inner circle—not a power, not a threat, but a presence. One Keir allowed to linger in the background of his court. You played the game. 

And Azriel—he watched it happen over the years. His visits grew colder. Shorter. 

Eventually, you spoke.

Eventually, you smiled. Not kindly. Not ever.

You never told him what you were running from. But you told him what you remembered. You told him how pain nests in bone. How fear rewires the mind. How cruelty speaks in lullabies and lessons and leashes.

And he listened.

Azriel, who said almost nothing and felt far too much, who watched the world like it owed him blood—he listened to you.

Maybe that’s when it started.

Maybe that’s when everything went wrong.

Because what bloomed in that darkness wasn’t love. It was need. Mutual. Messy. Ugly.

The way he stared too long when you called him by name. The way you touched his shoulder when he turned to go. The way you both let silence stretch, like it could hold something sacred. You never kissed, never undressed, never asked. But the knowing was there.

Just not the kind that offered answers. Whether you were a loose end or a long play. A liability or a choice he still regretted making. And you never asked Azriel why he’d left you there. Maybe it was mercy. Maybe it was a mistake. 

When the supply caravans came—laden with wine and medicinal tinctures—you learned when to disappear. 

Ten minutes at most. Ten minutes in the trees before your absence became suspicious.

Your contact never told you who they worked for. You didn’t ask. You only knew what they wanted: names, movements, conversations. Details of the Night Court’s power. Of Rhysand’s visits. Of Keir’s ambitions. 

You only needed ten minutes. 

But you took eleven. 

By the time you returned, heart still hammering from the sprint through wet leaves and root-tangled earth, the caravan wagons were already groaning back through the canyon mouth, the mountain and wards closing behind them with a sound like bones grinding beneath the earth.

You froze just beyond the treeline, caked in soil and sweat, your lungs clawing for air. Too far to be seen—but close enough to know you’d been shut out. 

The Hewn City would take your absence as treason. Keir would make a spectacle of your punishment and subsequent execution. And there was no one left to cover for you. Not after what you’d just done. 

So you ran. 

Not south, not toward the border—the patrols were tighter there. You knew that from the meetings you’d sat in on. You went deeper. 

Past the wild rivers and night-blooming groves, past the reach of mapped terrain. You ran until your boots bled, until the cold sank into your marrow and every cracked branch sounded like pursuit. 

You slept in tree hollows and between boulders. You drank from puddles that tasted like rot. 

And when the shadows came, you thought they were phantoms of your own exhaustion. 

Until they weren’t. 

You woke the next morning to the smell of smoke—low and bitter, like burnt pine—and the press of a blade at your throat.

He didn’t speak, not at first.

Just knelt in front of you in the snow, his wings half-furled, the morning mist clinging to him like armor.

Azriel.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t beg.

You only looked at him and said, hoarse and raw, “It’s too late.”

Something flickered in his face—recognition, maybe. Or fury. But the knife withdrew.

You wouldn’t learn until much later that Rhysand had spoken to him in that way only he can. That Rhysand had ordered him not to touch you. That the information you’d shared had quickly gotten people killed. 

Azriel’s eyes bore into yours, and he said, low and quiet, “Get up.”

You didn’t argue.

Didn’t flinch when his shadows slithered closer, cold and damp against your skin. You only rose—slow, unsteady—and followed him in silence through the forest, their chill coiling tight around your limbs like shackles half-formed from smoke. 

The journey back took less than an hour. You’d wandered in a panic, looped in circles, maybe. Or maybe he’d known exactly where to find you all along.

The mountain loomed, silent and cavernous, its sealed threshold parting at his approach. 

You didn’t expect a warm welcome, but you also didn’t expect that.

No words. No accusations. Not even from Morrigan, who looked at you like she’d seen a ghost and then walked away.

Rhysand only looked at you once, cool and unreadable, before nodding to two guards.

“Solitary,” he said. “She doesn’t speak to anyone.”

Azriel stepped forward, grip on you tight as ever. “She killed—”

“That’s an order.”

A pause. Heavy, cutting. Azriel didn’t look at you, but the air around him felt as dark as the blade he hadn’t put down since he found you.

They locked you in the farthest cell in the lower wards. No torchlight. No contact. You weren’t even questioned.

Time frayed. Days unspooled into weeks, into months—into something that stopped mattering. 

They gave you food, barely. No one spoke. No one came—until Rhysand had. 

Not until the bruises healed. Not until your nails grew back, after splitting down to the quick. Not until your voice recovered from the croak it became through night after night spent screaming. Not until that croak became one from disuse. 

Then he appeared one night, without warning. No guards. Just him and that damned velvet darkness curling behind his shoulders. 

“Interesting,” he said, surveying your wrecked form. “I expected you to break.”

You didn’t answer. What would’ve been the point?

He stood outside the bars, hands folded behind his back like this was a court meeting, not a prison cell. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said lightly. “You’re going to tell me what you know. I’m not asking for everything. Just enough. And in return… you get out.”

Still, you said nothing.

You knew how this worked. 

“A room. Food. Warm clothes. And your life.” A smile, thin and sharp. “For now.”

Your voice was raw when you spoke. 

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“Don’t you?” Rhysand disappeared into the curling darkness, which slithered through bars of your cell. Slowly, he reappeared in front of you, crouched down on a knee. “I kept my spymaster from breaking your legs. Worse, likely, considering that your choices that night cost the lives of some good males.”

You laughed—a rasping, broken sound you hadn’t made in quite some time. “He wouldn’t.”

Rhysand only looked at you. 

And that’s when you realized that, yes, he absolutely would have. 

You’d stolen something from him. From all of them. 

“You’ll work for me,” Rhysand said. “Not openly. Not as part of the court. But I’ll call on you when I need eyes where mine can’t go.”

His gaze raked over you, assessing. 

“You’re good at slipping between cracks. I need someone no one will recognize. You’re already halfway gone.”

“And if I say no?”

Rhysand’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Then Azriel gets what he’s been waiting for these last eight years.”

Rhysand was true to his word. 

He found you a cabin tucked so deep in the mountains you sometimes wondered if even he could find it again. It sat nestled among wind-bent pines and snow-worn strone, far from any road or trail. There was no village nearby. No neighbors. Just the howl of wind across slate and the hush of drifting snow. 

You kept to yourself. Hunted, grew what little you could. Rhysand sent care packages every week—always enough food, always quietly extravagant in the details. Wine from Velaris. Salted meats. Books, when you dared to read again. New boots when your old ones began to tear. 

It should’ve felt like exile. But after the lower wards, the sounds of nature were a mercy. The solitude, once sharp and echoing, dulled into stillness. Predictable. Painless. Better than stone walls and screaming. Better than the dark. And in time, it became something close to peace. 

You didn’t speak aloud for months. Didn’t hear your name for longer. 

It was years before you were called on again. 

Not often. Not publicly. 

A coded letter. A knock at your door. A job that looked nothing like a job. Just names. Observations. A slip of information overheard in the right alley. Those were the only times you ventured into the city, Velaris, he’d called it. 

Azriel didn’t come to see you. Didn’t speak to you at the odd meeting you attended. But you felt him watching—when Rhysand spoke your name in strategy sessions, when your intel proved true, when the court called the job finished and Azriel still tracked the trail for weeks after. 

The resentment simmered. Not just for what you’d done, but for the fact that Rhysand had chosen you again. 

Rhysand trusted you with the cracks Azriel couldn’t squeeze through, though his shadows were entirely capable. 

And Azriel—Azriel—who bled and killed and fought for the court, had to listen to his brother say:

“She gets results.”

He didn’t speak to you, but once—months after your first assignment ended, after you’d ghosted through the Palace of Bone and Salt and returned with names Rhysand hadn’t even asked for—Azriel passed you in the hall.

His voice was quiet. 

“You think this makes you loyal?”

You didn’t look at him. And you didn’t answer. 

Because even now—especially now—you still don’t know what he wants from you. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The hall hummed with low conversation, the scrape of fine dresses and sharp-edged laughter weaving between sips of wine and clinking glasses. You settled back into your seat, eyes trained on the flickering candlelight, the firelight playing across the obsidian surface of the table.

Eris’ smile was slow, sharp, predatory as he caught your slight hesitation before you sat. He leaned close, voice dripping with poison and amusement.

“So, you returned,” he said, eyes flicking toward Azriel, who remained unmoving at the wall. “I was beginning to worry that another of Rhysand’s Illyrian brutes had soiled my bride-to-be yet again.” His gaze landed deliberately on Morrigan across the table, who met it with a single, elegant middle finger—graceful somehow. 

The room’s atmosphere crackled, but no one dared speak the unspoken tension aloud.

“I must admit, I’m surprised,” Eris continued, voice quieter but no less venomous. “The Night Court’s High Lord, lending you to the Autumn Court’s cause.”

Cassian’s jaw clenched, Morrigan’s fingers curled, Feyre’s eyes flickered with unease. Even Rhysand’s mask of calm showed the faintest tightness.

Eris’ smile curved cruelly. “But I’m confident you’ll adapt. The Autumn Court has its own ways of… refining wild things. Turning them into something more palatable. With enough time, even embers learn to behave.”

You caught Rhysand’s gaze across the table then—a cold, steady lock of eyes that spoke volumes in silence. No words, no commands, just the faintest warning wrapped in concern: Hold steady.

You met his eyes and held them.

Cassian’s glare shifted to Eris, then back to you, his silent fury almost tangible. Morrigan’s hand tightened on her glass, her voice cool when she finally spoke. “Funny—males always think that. Right before they learn the hard way.”

Feyre’s nod was subtle but firm. “She’s not a pawn to be moved.”

Eris’ smirk faltered for a heartbeat, but he recovered quickly. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

The music swelled, a haunting melody threading through the tension as the night stretched onward. The players in this deadly game were all here, watching, waiting.

And you were no longer invisible.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Back at the River House the next day, the afternoon light shone through the tall windows of his office. The heavy curtains had been drawn back, but the chill in the air hadn’t lessened. Your head still buzzed from last night’s poisoned words and veiled threats, but the game had only just begun.

Rhysand stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the sun’s beams reflect off the Sidra. When he finally turned to face you, his expression was firm but tinged with something like frustration. 

“They’re insistent,” he said quietly. “No flights. No winnowing. You have to walk the entire way to Autumn. It’s their condition. Their way of testing you—or breaking you.”

You didn’t say anything. You’d expected nothing less.

He gestured toward the door, and before you could ask, Azriel stepped through. His presence was a silent storm, all tightly coiled muscles and simmering resentment.

“I’m sending him with you,” Rhysand said, voice low but steady. “Azriel will escort you. Keep you safe—or keep you in line.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Azriel’s eyes met yours—sharp, cold. 

Rhysand looked back at you, just for a moment. 

“Did you neglect to tell your hound you were sending him out?”

The insult earned you a look. “It wouldn’t have happened otherwise.”

That much was true. You had to bite back a laugh at Azriel’s reaction. 

“This isn’t how any of us wanted this to go,” he continued. “But it’s how it has to be.”

You held his gaze, unflinching. 

“You leave in two weeks,” he finished.

And you did. 

When he knocked on your cabin door the morning of the trek, you were already dressed, a worn pack slung over your shoulder, supplies carefully arranged inside. Azriel stood beside him, silent and still as ever, shadows coiling faintly as his boots like restless hounds. He didn’t speak, didn’t so much as glance your way. Just waited. The moment you stepped out and took his arm, Rhysand’s magic curled around the three of you like a shadowed cloak as the world blurred and twisted beneath your feet. In a blink, the moss-soft earth and pine-thick air of your cabin vanished—replaced by a quiet stretch of open land where the sky hung in a swirl of eternal dusk, smeared with the last blues of night and the first golds of day. 

You landed silently, boots pressing into damp, moss-softened earth. Azriel’s shadow flickered beside you, his wings half-furled, muscles taut and ready. The only sounds were the distant call of night-birds and the whisper of the wind threading through ancient trees.

Rhysand exhaled softly, the sky casting lavender shadows across his face. “This is where I leave you,” he said, not without gentleness. “There are wards along the path—through Day, at least—ones keyed to Az’s magic. They’ll know you. They’ll protect you.”

You glanced between them. “And after that?”

Rhysand’s mouth quirked. “Then you’re on your own.”

You tilted your head. “Comforting.”

For a moment, none of you moved. Then Rhysand stepped forward, adjusted the strap of your pack on your shoulder with a care that surprised you. “Try not to insult anyone too important.”

“I’ll do my best,” you said dryly. 

Azriel’s eyes locked on yours, sharp as ever. There was no warmth in them—only duty, and something like disdain.

The pop of Rhysand’s departure left a vacuum behind. The silence he’d abandoned was heavy, taut as a wire. You stood still for a moment, letting it settle—letting the full weight of what lay ahead press against your ribs.

Azriel adjusted the strap of his leathers. Already turning south. Already done with this.

You followed. Of course you did.

For the first mile, there was only the sound of boots over grass, the hush of wind combing through heavy, green-drenched branches. The sun filtered in patches—honeyed and slanting, more glow than heat. He didn’t speak, didn’t look at you, didn’t so much as glance to make sure you were keeping up.

So you tried, after another stretch of silence. Tried to breach the tension, if only to feel less like a prisoner being marched to the gallows.

“You miss them yet?” you asked lightly. “Your shadows.” Only one seemed to brave the sun today, creeping along behind him like it wasn’t sure it belonged here.. 

He didn’t slow. “No.”

“They miss you.”

“They’ll survive.”

You bit your lip, eyes narrowing. “Right. Because you’re known for your warm and chatty companionship.”

He stopped.

Just—stopped, so abruptly that you nearly collided into him.

Azriel turned, and when his eyes met yours, they were razor-edged. “I’m not here to entertain you.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” you shot back, heat licking your voice now. “Forgive me for trying to make this a little less miserable for the both of us.”

“I don’t care if you’re miserable.” His voice was low, steady. “I’m walking you to the Autumn Court. That’s it. That’s all.”

You stared at him. At the steel in his posture, the flatness in his tone. The calculation in every breath.

“Fine. Got it.”

He turned away again, already moving.

“And if the Mother loves me,” he said without looking back, “Eris will kill you before we make it to his gates so I don’t have to.”

It shouldn’t have surprised you—but the cruelty of it landed like a blade you’d half expected and still failed to dodge. 

You made it twenty miles that day, and your boots started to betray you. The pain had crept in slowly, like rot in damp wood, until every step throbbed with heat and raw friction. Azriel hadn’t looked back once. Not when you stumbled. Not when you bit back a wince. Not when you trailed behind, your pride dragging like a second shadow. 

By the time the sun dipped low, painting one of the many white-stoned Day Court cities in amber and rose, you’d stopped feeling your legs entirely. Just numbness and grit and the slow, cold curl of resentment in your chest. 

Azriel said nothing as he strode through the open gate. He didn’t ask for your opinion when he slipped the innkeeper a silver mark or when he took the single brass key and climbed the stairs ahead of you.

You expected him to disappear into the room and slam the door behind him, leaving you to find your own bed of hay and splinters. But instead, he opened the door. Waited. Let you step inside first.

It was a modest room, clean and plain, with sun-washed curtains and a washbasin in the corner. And one bed. Just one.

You stared at it. Then at him.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t frown. Just crossed his arms and said flatly, “I’ll go back and ask. You sleep there.” He nodded to the bed, then glanced toward the door like he already wanted to be through it. “Alone.”

“Oh, thank the Cauldron,” you muttered. “For a second, I thought you might make me sleep on the floor out of spite.”

Azriel didn’t blink. “Tempting.” Then he turned and left.

No slam. No hiss of shadows. Just the quiet click of the door.

You dug through your pack in silence, unwrapping a strip of dried meat and forcing down a few mouthfuls. It tasted like ash. Like the inside of your cheek, bitten raw

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“Absolutely not.”

“Azriel, come on–”

“Don’t–”

“It makes sense and you know it.”

“The hell I do!”

“We’d be halfway through Dawn by now!” you snapped, gesturing at the empty horizon like the open fields could argue for you. “We’ve been walking for four hours, my feet are shredded, and we’re wasting time because you’ve got some sort of martyr complex about actually walking the whole fucking way.”

His jaw clenched so tightly you heard the grind of his molars. 

“It would get me out of your hair faster.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I do,” you bit out, stepping closer, bracing. “If we keep this pace, I’ll make it to Autumn in pieces. Only one of us is a trained soldier here, and it obviously isn’t me. So unless you want to hand me over half-dead, grow up and fly us.”

Azriel’s wings twitched behind him. A warning. His shadows snapped tighter around his shoulders, jittering like they weren’t sure if they should’ve joined him today. 

You waited, chest heaving, sweat stinging your eyes as you stared him down.

Finally, he exhaled. It was a sound scraped from stone.

“Put your bag across your front,” he said, voice low and deadly calm. “Strap it tight.”

You did, fingers fumbling with the buckle, half-expecting him to change his mind. When you looked up again, his face was unreadable. Detached. Like this wasn’t happening to him.

He stepped toward you.

Then, without a word, he scooped you into his arms—fast, efficient, like hoisting a sack of grain. His hands were careful, impersonal. One under your knees, the other braced around your back, calloused fingers and scarred skin brushing your clothes like even that contact cost him. He avoided your skin like it might burn him.

You felt the tension in him, coiled and precise. Every muscle held in check. Like carrying you required more restraint than violence ever had.

“Don’t move,” he said tightly.

You didn’t dare.

And then the world dropped out from under you.

Air roared in your ears, whipping past in cold, sharp streams as Azriel launched into the sky. His wings beat with ruthless efficiency, each stroke sending you higher, faster, away from the dirt and blistered miles.

It was silent—except for the wind. Too loud for talking. Too much movement, too many things to hold onto. You didn’t dare wrap your arms around him, so you gripped the strap of your bag instead, knuckles bone-white as you pressed back against the unyielding wall of his chest.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t glance down, didn’t speak.

You weren’t sure what hurt more: the cold or the quiet.

The view was stunning. It was always stunning—the Day Court’s golden sprawl stretching out beneath you like scattered coins, gilded trees and glinting rooftops, rivers catching the sun and throwing it back tenfold. You might’ve said something about it. Once. A lifetime ago.

You kept your eyes on the horizon, not his arms, not the steady rhythm of his breathing or the strength beneath you. Pretending it was nothing. That this was nothing. That you weren’t half-curled against someone who hated you, who had no obligation to carry your weight. 

And still he had. 

You hadn’t seen him come out of any room at the inn, hadn’t heard him come back in, hadn’t heard a word. Had he slept outside? In silence with shadows for company?

You told yourself you didn’t care. 

You told yourself a lot of things these days. 

Still, after the first hour—when your pulse had steadied and your heart had stopped mistaking his proximity for threat—you tried.

“Your shadows are probably jealous,” you said, tilting your head toward his shoulder. “They’re missing all the fun.”

It wasn’t a great joke. You hadn’t really meant it to be. Just something to fill the air between you, something that might loosen the steel in his spine.

It didn’t.

Azriel’s jaw ticked. His eyes remained locked on the horizon.

“They’ll survive.”

You swallowed the next line. Let it dissolve on your tongue.

Right. 

You didn’t say another word for the rest of the flight. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“We’re stopping?”

Azriel didn’t respond right away. He landed hard, wings flaring wide to keep from toppling as he set you down on your feet.

“We’re walking from here.”

“Why?” You adjusted your bag, breath catching as you turned in a slow circle, realizing: the terrain ahead was…wrong. The trees grew in twisting patterns, roots curling over one another like veins. The sky was still blue, but the light felt off—too gold, too late, like sunset bled in where it didn't belong. And silent. Too silent.

He exhaled through his nose, gaze sweeping the horizon. “This is The Middle. It doesn’t answer to any court. Not even Rhys.”

“So?”

“So, there are wards. Old ones. Things that twist magic, turn wings to lead if it feels like, scramble your senses if you fly too high. Winnowing’s out of the question, too. You could end up inside a tree.”

A beat passed. Then, quieter: “We fly over it, we die in it. We walk.”

“That seems excessive.”

“The Middle doesn’t care what seems excessive.” He finally looked at you then, eyes shadow-slick and unreadable. “It isn’t a forest. It’s a graveyard that hasn’t made up its mind yet.” 

You swallowed. “And we’re walking into that?”

“Unless you want to turn around.”

You held his gaze for a beat longer than you usually could. “No.”

He nodded once. “Then stay close. No firelight. No loud voices. No touching anything that doesn’t want to be touched.”

“Sounds like traveling with you.”

Azriel didn’t smile. But his shoulders loosened by a hair’s breadth.

The ground was damp beneath your boots. Not muddy, not wet—just… damp. Like the earth hadn’t dried in centuries, like the land breathed out mist and rot and kept it curled close to the ground.

The Middle didn’t look like much. Not yet. A thick belt of trees, mountains, a breeze that didn’t match the direction of the clouds. But you could feel it in your chest, like a second pulse that didn’t belong to you. A watcher. An echo. A something.

You adjusted your bag straps quietly.

Azriel walked ahead, wings tucked tight, blades visible but quiet at his sides. His steps were nearly soundless. The only real noise came from your own boots snapping thin twigs, crushing brittle pine needles.

The trees grew stranger as you went. Bark in shades you didn’t have names for. A vine that shimmered like glass. A rock shaped exactly like a skull, and not old.

Azriel murmured, almost like he couldn’t stop himself, “Middle doesn’t care what side you’re on. Doesn’t care about courts or bloodlines. You enter, you play by its rules. Or it eats you.”

You swallowed, forcing your voice low. “You’ve been through it before?”

He nodded once.

“Alone?”

A pause. Then: “That was the first mistake.”

You didn’t ask for the rest. You wouldn’t get it anyway.

The quiet stretched again. But it wasn’t awkward now. Not quite. Just careful. Measured, like even your thoughts ought to walk in single file.

Eventually, you said—more breath than sound—

“You always like this when you travel with people?”

Azriel didn’t stop walking. “I don’t usually travel with people.”

You snorted, barely. “Lucky me.”

But he did glance at you then. Brief, unreadable.

“You’re not dead yet,” he said.

You smiled, but you didn’t feel smug about it.

A wind passed through the trees, colder than it should’ve been.

Azriel slowed slightly, motioning for you to walk closer to his side.

“Stay where I can grab you,” he muttered.

You didn’t have to be told twice.

And for a moment, just one, you thought you heard something breathing beneath the roots.

You shook it off.

It was probably just—

A rustle to your left.

You stilled.

Azriel kept walking.

Then—snap. A crunch, low to the ground. Fast.

You turned your head—

—and screamed.

It launched out of the underbrush like a dart—small, fast, furred but wrong, too many teeth in the wrong places. You stumbled back just as it leapt for your throat—

Steel caught it mid-air.

Azriel’s blade punched straight through its gut, pinning it to the moss-covered tree behind you with a sickening thud.

It gave one final spasm before going still.

You were breathing hard. Chest heaving. Hands half-raised in disbelief.

Azriel didn’t look at you.

He just withdrew the blade, and the thing’s corpse hit the ground with a wet, final thunk. He shook off the blood, and wiped it on a cloth from his belt. “Don’t scream,” he said evenly.

Your voice came out shaky. “It had teeth.”

“Everything here has teeth.”

You exhaled, still rattled, and brushed yourself off. You’d fallen back after your stumble. There were pine needles stuck to your pants, a smudge of dirt on your sleeve, something on your hand. Sticky. Unidentified. Fantastic. 

And just as you stood, Azriel reached over—without ceremony, without pause—and plucked two curled leaves from your hair.

His fingers were quick, impersonal. Like swiping lint from a jacket.

Then he turned and kept walking.

“Stay close,” he said again.

Not unkind. Not sharp. Just… matter-of-fact.

You caught up with him, still glancing back at the gnarled corpse slumped against the bark.

“What was that?” you asked, trying to sound more annoyed than embarrassed. You weren’t sure it worked.

Azriel didn’t glance your way. “Spinecrawler.”

You blinked. “Spinecrawler?”

“They like damp places. Dead things. Roots. Small birds, if they’re lucky.”

“That thing went for my throat.”

Now he looked at you—just a flick of his eyes, unreadable.

“They’re territorial,” he said. “But mostly harmless. They bluff a lot.”

You stared at him, still catching your breath. “You’re saying that was a bluff.”

Azriel’s mouth quirked.

“I’ve seen people take a dagger to the ribs without making that much noise,” he said mildly.

You bristled. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

His eyes returned to the path ahead, voice dry. “Clearly.”

You let out a breath—half a huff, half a laugh. “Asshole.”

But your voice wasn’t sharp, and for the first time in days, you weren’t just tired. 

He didn’t smile, but the silence that followed the next few minutes felt easier.

Quieter, in a different way.

You were about to ask how much farther when Azriel’s head snapped up.

He stilled—completely. Like a statue dropped mid-stride.

You stopped, too, one foot half-raised. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer.

Shadows curled off him like smoke.

“Run.”

The word was low. Sharp. Laced with command.

But you didn’t have time to obey.

A crimson-cloaked figure burst from the trees ahead—no warning, no sound. Just motion and steel and the glint of an Autumn crest burned into battered armor.

He lunged for you. Azriel was already moving. 

Steel met steel with a clash that rattled your bones. Azriel intercepted the blow mid-swing, blade sparking off blade. He shoved the attacker back with brutal force—but more were coming. 

Dozens.

Had Eris really…?

They stepped out from the trees like ghosts—nobles and guards and hardened veterans, their armor weathered, their eyes painted red. 

“They knew,” Azriel murmured, voice taut with fury. “They planned this.”

He reached for your arm. “We’re getting out—”

But two charged from behind before he could finish. You ducked instinctively—barely in time. Azriel whirled, one blade striking true, the other arm flung wide. 

Light burst forth from his palm.

It wasn’t a beam so much as a line of obliteration. 

The Autumn male behind you never screamed. The blast tore straight through him, then through the tree beyond—splintering bark, igniting rot, reducing it all to a searing smear of flame. 

Your ears rang, the males that had been closing in on you both faltered. 

Azriel didn’t hesitate. “Stay down!” he snapped, already stepping over the body to meet the next two. 

You scrambled behind a tree—useless, stupid, too slow. 

He was everywhere at once. Blades flashing, siphons flaring. A line of blue-white power burned a semicircle into the earth. One attacker caught in it crumpled with a smoking hole punched through his chest. 

You’d never seen anyone fight like this… Without restraint. 

There was something brutal about him like this—elemental.

Every movement was exact. Each strike landed with purpose, never wasted.

And the way his shadows moved with him—rising like a storm, lashing out where he could not reach fast enough—it was like watching a god descend.

Not just a warrior.

Not just a male.

Something more.

You didn’t realize you’d been staring until your eyes flicked to the next soldier—another Autumn male, burnt red cloak trailing, sword glinting. And another. And another.

Why?

You blinked hard.

Why was this happening?

You had helped Autumn. Years ago. You’d betrayed the Night Court for them. Risked your life to smuggle out intel to one of Eris’ contacts—given him the chance he needed. So why now? Why send soldiers after you like an enemy? Why—

A war cry split the air.

You spun just in time to see a male charging straight for you.

Eyes wild. Mouth twisted in rage.

His blade was raised and ready.

“For Beron!” he screamed.

… Beron?

You barely had time to gasp.

“Az—!”

The name tore from your throat as you stumbled back.

You couldn’t take your eyes off the male, couldn’t even think.

You flinched. Squeezed your eyes shut. Braced for pain. For steel.

But it didn’t come.

Instead—an arm wrapped tight around you, hauling you back.

And then the world split.

Not in light. Not in color.

In shadow.

You felt it like cold water crashing through your lungs, like being dropped into an abyss with no bottom.

But something was wrong.

This wasn’t how it had felt before. This was ripping.

Like being caught.

The grip on your waist vanished.

You landed hard—slammed into wet ground that stank of rot. And everything went dark.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

He felt it the moment she slipped. 

One heartbeat she was pressed to his side—warm, solid, if a bit shaky.

The next, she was gone. 

Yanked sideways by the wards’ interference—by something other. 

“NO—”

The snarl ripped from his chest as he twisted, shadows shrieking out of him in all directions. 

But he couldn’t find her. Couldn’t feel her. 

The trees screamed with light. His siphons flared uncontrolled.

Strong hands grabbed his arm—he threw them to the ground without looking.

Where was she?

Where was she?

Azriel hit the ground hard.

Shoulder-first. Mud splashed, cold and reeking of rot and old blood. The impact jarred up his spine, but he was already moving—already pushing to his feet, scanning.

No sound. No scent.

No (y/n).

His shadows whipped out like hounds, searching. Useless.

He turned in a slow circle.

Trees—twisted and wrong, their bark slick like bone marrow.

His jaw clenched. He inhaled once—deep, steadying. Then again, sharper. Shallower.

“… (Y/n),” he said. Low. Controlled. As if quiet might anchor reality. Might make her answer.

Nothing.

He started walking.

Then striding.

Then running.

Shadow after shadow shot out like flares—searching, reporting back with nothing but silence.

He winnowed once. Twice. The magic resisted like thick oil. The third time, he nearly retched. But still—he moved. Kept moving. Branches tore at his wings. His leathers. His face.

He called out again—louder this time, but still composed. Still hoping.

“(Y/N)!”

Still no answer.

His pace broke. He stopped. Listened.

Then louder—harder—because she should’ve answered by now.

“(Y/N)!”

Still nothing.

His breath was ragged now.

He turned in place again. Something in him—the part that always found people, that always knew—was blank.

“(Y/N)!”

The cry cracked out of him like thunder.

It echoed. Nothing answered.

“Fuck!”

His fist shot toward the nearest tree, stopping inches short. He ground his teeth, the bark rough against his skin. Restraint tasted like fire, but he held back. And started running again.

Before he knew it, the sun was low, skimming orange against the horizon, bleeding rust through the trees. 

He’d looped the same stretch of forest three times. Four. He didn’t know anymore.

The woods in the Middle didn’t repeat themselves, not truly, but they liked to pretend they did. Trees where they hadn’t been. Paths where there were none. Tracks gone the moment he turned his back.

Still no trace.

No sound. No voice.

Just trees. Just silence.

His jaw clenched hard enough to crack.

He was supposed to find people.

Even when no one else could. Especially then.

So where the fuck was she?

His heart slammed harder with every step. It had been hours. Too long.

Too quiet.

The shadows whispering around him had gone feral.

They knew something was wrong. They hissed through the trees like blades, fanned wide and searching, searching—coming up empty.

And now, despite himself, despite everything—

He was planning how he’d say it.

What he’d tell Rhys.

“I lost her.”

“I lost her, I—fuck, I don’t know how—”

“No, it wasn’t on purpose, I swear it wasn’t—”

Because Rhysand would ask. 

And he couldn’t answer.

He didn’t have an answer.

Just the rising certainty that something had taken her.

That she was gone.

That it was his fault.

His chest constricted. The air burned in his lungs.

She’d called him a hound. She wasn’t wrong.

But even hounds couldn’t track ghosts.

And gods, that’s what it felt like.

Like she was gone. Not just missing—gone.

No… Not dead. He would’ve known.

Wouldn’t he?

His pace stuttered. His vision blurred.

He turned in place again, dragging a hand through his hair, panting.

Nothing.

Still—nothing.

And then—

A flash of red.

Caught on a thorn, barely fluttering in the still air.

He went utterly still.

His shadows surged ahead like an extension of his panic—rippling down the path.

Blood.

Not much. Just a few dried flecks, but it was her.

He knew it was her.

And something inside him snapped.

“(Y/N)!”

He surged forward, feet pounding against the leaf-strewn earth. The forest seemed to close in around him, thorns clawing at his skin, roots threatening to trip him, but he refused to slow. Every instinct screamed that she was near.

“(Y/N)! FUCKING SAY SOMETHING! PLEASE!”

Nothing.

He nearly tore the forest apart.

Branches slapped across his face, brambles tore at his leathers, but he didn’t feel any of it. He sprinted now, wild and unthinking, shadows streaming ahead like black fire.

Then—

Then he saw her.

Crushed low in the underbrush. Barely there. Half-buried in leaves, tangled in thorns.

Still.

Too still.

A sound tore from his chest—raw, ragged, animal—and he was on his knees before he knew he’d fallen.

She was pale—so pale. Not dead. Not dead. Please, not dead.

He pressed his fingers to her neck.

Not dead.

He touched her shoulder—shaking, adrenaline surging—then dragged her against his heaving chest, like that might steady him.

His hands fisted in her torn shirt, arms wrapped so tightly around her body it could’ve broken them both.

And then he buried his face in her hair.

Not a word.

Not a breath.

Just that.

He inhaled like he’d been drowning. Like her scent might drag him to shore.

His mouth found her temple. His nose pressed to her scalp. His grip didn’t ease.

Not even when she stirred with a weak sound—a wince, a gasp, a breath that might’ve been his name.

Still, he said nothing.

He just held on.

And she—

She didn’t push him away.

She cried.

“I didn’t… I didn’t want to die alone, Azriel,” she whispered, voice thin and frayed. 

“You’re not going to die,” he said, voice rough—not detached, not controlled, but strained. Like the truth of it had to shove its way past the fear choking him. 

Her fingers twitched near his chest.

“Didn’t…” A sob cracked through her. “Didn’t think you’d come.”

“Shh…” He cradled her closer. “Shh, you’re okay. It’s okay. I’m here.”

His shadows curled protectively around them both, as if even they couldn’t stand the thought of losing her.

And though the forest still loomed—dark, ancient, watching—Azriel only held her tighter.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You awoke to warmth you didn’t feel. 

A thick quilt weighed down on your chest. Another was tucked tight around your legs. The mattress beneath you felt too soft to be real, and still—

Still, you were cold. 

Your body ached. Your skin felt like it didn’t quite fit right. Your mouth tasted like blood and dirt and something older. You didn’t want to think about it. 

You turned your head very slowly, every joint protesting. A dim room came into view—four walls, a low-burning hearth, a wooden chair—

Azriel. 

Slumped in it like a male who hadn’t meant to fall asleep, one wing draped awkwardly over the side, the other crammed too tight between the chair and the wall. His arms were folded across his chest, shadows curled lazily around his boots. His head tilted just enough to bare the sharp line of his throat.

He looked… peaceful.

Not serene. Not soft. But stripped of something.

That cold, impenetrable sternness he wore like armor was gone in sleep, carved away by exhaustion.

He looked—

Gods, he looked almost boyish.

You let your eyes wander. The scarred hands. The long legs splayed out in a graceless sprawl. The rise and fall of his chest. And his eyes—

They were open. 

Piercing. Alert. Fixed on you. 

You flinched so hard you nearly knocked one of the blankets off the bed. 

Azriel didn’t move.

His eyes stayed on you, unreadable in the firelight, and for a long moment the silence pressed in—so thick it felt like it might snap in two.

You swallowed against the dryness in your throat.

“Where… are we?”

His voice was low, rough with sleep or something heavier. “Healing center. Small one. Winter Court.”

Winter.

You blinked, tried to sit up—and failed. Your body gave a single trembling protest before settling back into the mattress.

He leaned forward slightly, just enough that the firelight brushed the edge of his face. “You passed out. I carried you out of the Middle during the night.” A pause. “You were freezing. As soon as we hit the border, I flew.”

You stared at him. His hands, resting on his knees. The faint soot-stain along the side of his jaw.

“I had to fly low,” he murmured. “You were so cold. Shaking in your sleep.”

Another pause.

“Had to cross the mountain range.”

Your brows pulled together. “You—flew over a mountain range in Winter? Are you alright?”

His mouth twisted slightly. Not a smile. Something tired.

“I found this town on the other side. Got lucky—they have a healer. She’s the one who patched you up.”

He didn’t add how long he must’ve flown. Or how hard it must’ve been, carrying your weight, flying in the cold, his wings nearly giving out.

But it was there. In his voice. In the look he gave you.

In the way his wings still hadn’t settled.

You didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know how to hold the weight of what he’d done.

“You flew over a mountain range,” you repeated softly. As if saying it again might make it make sense. Might ground you in the warmth of this unfamiliar bed, these too-many blankets, his unreadable stare.

Azriel only inclined his head. As if it had been nothing. And maybe for an Illyrian it was. As if he hadn't been pressing your frostbitten skin to his chest for miles of snowy sky.

You looked at him, really looked at him.

There was a tightness around his eyes he hadn’t had before. The circles beneath them were bruised-dark. His leathers were still streaked with dirt, his hands scraped, one of them bandaged at the knuckles.

“You saved my life,” you said. Voice raw. Disbelieving.

That made him shift. His eyes dropped to the floor. “Don’t make it sound like that.”

“But it was like that,” you whispered. “You—”

Your throat closed.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I did,” he said quietly, firmly. Still not looking at you. “I have somewhere to get you, in case you forgot.”

Something clenched in your chest. You stared at him—at the shadows writhing slowly along his shoulders, at the set of his jaw, at the tattered edge of your cloak still half-draped on the chair.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” you admitted, because it was the only thing that felt true.

His eyes lifted to yours again, piercing and unreadable.

“You don’t have to.”

But you did.

Somewhere inside, a door had opened. Quietly, without ceremony.

And you didn’t think it would ever fully close again.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The next two days were rough, a combination of flying and walking so Azriel could rest. His wings were stiff in the cold. He insisted he was fine, you insisted he shouldn’t risk tearing them. 

But you spoke all the way, as if words could hold off the chill burrowing into your bones.

The Autumn Court finally came into view when it was nearing sundown. 

The next two days were hard going.

A grueling rhythm of flying and walking, flying and walking—Azriel pushing himself until the cold stiffened his wings too much to continue, until you could see the strain in his shoulders no matter how tightly he gritted his jaw.

He claimed he was fine.

You called bullshit.

Neither of you backed down, but he let you walk beside him a little longer each time before taking to the skies again.

You kept talking. About nothing and everything. Filling the silence with rambling observations, old stories, things you weren’t sure you’d ever told anyone. Just to keep your teeth from chattering. Just to keep him present with you.

By the time the golden trees of the Autumn Court came into view, the sun was a red smear against the horizon.

You were both dragging your feet.

Azriel scanned the treeline, eyes narrowed like he was hunting ghosts. “We’re too close to the border to get a restful night’s sleep,” he muttered. “Let’s find shelter further in before it gets dark.”

The forest thickened as you moved, trees clawing overhead, the air still sharp. It wasn’t long before Azriel veered off the path entirely, leading you through thickets and brush until the terrain sloped into a narrow ravine. Half-hidden by vines and moss, there it was: a shallow cave dug into the ridge.

It wasn’t much. But it was dry. And hidden.

He checked it first, of course. Shadows sweeping the interior like a second pair of hands, silent and fast.

When he gave the all-clear, you staggered inside, teeth chattering, and sank to the ground like your legs had given up.

Azriel followed, wings hunched awkwardly to fit beneath the low stone ceiling.

“I’ll take first watch.”

But you didn’t want to sleep.

So you sat up and pulled your cloak tighter around your shoulders, legs stretched out in front of you, boots still caked in half-frozen mud.

Azriel settled across from you with a soft grunt, his back to the wall, one knee bent loosely. The mouth of the cave framed the forest beyond in deepening indigo. The wind outside hissed low through the trees.

You glanced over at him. “You think the cave’s full of spiders?”

His mouth twitched. “Probably.”

“Good. I was worried this was going too well.”

That earned a real smile. Brief, but warm.

For a while, there was only the rustle of wind and the distant creak of branches bowing under snow. His shadows slipped along the cave walls, slow and drowsy, curling like smoke around his shoulders.

“You ever camp out like this?” you asked eventually. “No fire. No tent. Just barely not freezing to death.”

He tipped his head back against the cool stone, throat bared, a quiet, gruff sound slipping past his lips—half sigh, half groan. “There was a stretch in the Steppes, centuries ago. I was tracking a defector. Went eleven nights without fire or light. Didn’t sleep more than ten minutes at a time.”

You winced. “Was it worth it?”

Azriel’s eyes met yours, steady. “Yeah.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense. Just tired. Heavy.

You shifted closer to the wall and tugged the blanket tighter. “I don’t know how you don’t fall asleep standing up.”

“I might,” he said. “You’ll know because I’ll fall on you.”

You huffed a laugh, your breath fogging in front of you.

He went quiet again. But this time it felt different. The stillness stretched—not companionable now, but thoughtful.

You didn’t look at him when he spoke again.

“Are you really okay with this?”

Your heart stuttered. “With what?”

He didn’t clarify. Just gave you a look that made it clear he didn’t need to.

You looked out at the woods beyond. “I don’t really have a choice.”

“You do.”

“Not one that matters.”

A pause. 

“Just say the word,” Azriel said, voice low, “I’ll take you back if that’s what you want. Right now. I’ll fly you straight to Velaris and we won’t look back.”

You blinked.

He held your gaze, steady and calm, like he wasn’t offering to burn his court’s entire future down for you. Like it was nothing.

“Even if it’s at the altar,” he said. “Even if it’s the last second. I’ll take you out of there.”

You stared at him.

Then scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not.”

“You can’t just—” You looked away, exhaling hard. “You don’t get to say that like it’s simple. Like I could just walk away and that would fix anything.”

“It would get you out,” he said quietly.

“It would start a war, Azriel.”

Azriel didn’t respond. His shadows were still.

You pressed your hands to your face, fingers digging into your temples. “You think I haven’t thought about that? About running? About saying no? What do you think I was thinking about every hour of those two weeks—after the dinner, before we left?”

“I didn’t say it would be easy.”

“No,” you dragged your hands down. “You just said you’d throw me over your shoulder mid-vow and fly me off into the fucking sunset.”

His expression didn’t waver. “If that’s what you wanted, yes.”

A laugh broke out of you—sharp and bitter. “You think you’re doing me a kindness, but it’s cruel. Don’t—don’t offer me choices I can’t afford to take.”

His jaw shifted. But he said nothing.

You looked away again, blinking hard at the cave wall. “I don’t need saving,” you muttered. “I need this to work.”

A beat of silence passed. His voice was even softer when he spoke.

“You don’t have to do it alone.”

You didn’t answer.

Not because you didn’t want to.

But because you couldn’t trust your voice not to break.

You just stood, stiff and silent, and crossed to the far side of the cave. Curled yourself up in the thin blanket you’d managed to cram into your bag, tugging it over your shoulders like it could shield you from more than just the cold.

Azriel watched you settle, his eyes shadowed.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” he said again—firmer this time, like he needed you to hear it differently. Believe it.

Still, you said nothing.

“We can figure something out.”

That did it.

You sat up, fast. “No, we can’t.”

Azriel blinked, taken aback by the snap in your voice.

You weren’t looking at him, jaw tight, gaze fixed on the stone just past his boots. “There’s nothing to figure out. This is the plan. It’s happening.”

“You don’t sound like someone who’s at peace with that.”

“I don’t need to be at peace with it,” you bit out. “I just need to get through it.”

His brow furrowed, a slow crease forming between his eyes. “Why are you—?”

“I’m not anything,” you cut in, too quickly.

He fell silent, watching you now with quiet caution, like he was re-evaluating everything he thought he understood about your choices.

You shifted back under the blanket, turned toward the cave wall to put an end to the conversation.

Azriel didn’t speak again.

But you could feel it—his eyes still on you. The weight of what he wasn’t saying pressing into your spine like a question you didn’t want to answer.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

-> part 2

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦