#but the comforting hand on your shoulder is gone | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vunblr · 1 day ago

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The Trouble With Saturdays -Puesto-

Pairing: Thunderbolts! Bucky Barnes x Curvy! Female Reader

Tags: Fluff. Slight sprinkle of angst if you squint. Pinning.

Summary: Life at the Thunderbolts Tower is loud, chaotic, and full of questionable moral choices. Bucky’s used to keeping to himself, until one night, after one of those questionable moral choices was made, the guys got him high.

Word Count: About 7.6k.

They didn’t recruit her for the violence.

The Thunderbolts had enough of that. More than enough, actually. Three supersoldiers, a walking quantum anomaly, a man with literal god-tier potential buried beneath trauma, and Yelena, who didn’t need powers to make anyone cry.

No, she was brought in to patch what was left behind.

Civilians mostly. Collateral damage.

The ones caught in the debris cloud of a botched extraction, or buried under the wrong side of a knocked-over building. She’d move between the screams and the smoke, crouch in the rubble with her hands pressed to scorched skin or crushed lungs, and pull people back. Not metaphorically. Literally.

She didn’t stop death, but she slowed it. Called it off. Reversed it in some cases. No one liked to use the word resurrect, not even her, but she knew what it looked like when a rib cage stopped collapsing under its own weight, when air found its way back into lungs that had already forgotten how to breathe.

It didn’t take long for the team to realize she wasn’t there for them.

Mostly.

The first time Bucky came to her, it wasn’t after a mission.

It was late, the tower was in that in-between time when most of the team had gone to bed or passed out somewhere inconvenient. The common room was only lit by the flat screen, where Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth danced around each other in the 1995 Pride and Prejudice adaptation. She had a blanket over her knees and a mug in her hands. The night was ordinary. Unremarkable.

Then she felt him.

She didn’t startle, just looked up to find him standing by the edge of the couch. His eyes weren’t on her, but on the TV, and his arms were folded too tightly across his chest.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said.

“You didn’t.”

A pause. Then, quietly. “Could I… borrow your time?”

She tilted her head, studying him. He wasn’t bruised. No dried blood, no marred tac suit. But his posture was wrong. His left shoulder sat higher than the right, tensed and pulling across his collarbone.

“Is your back?” she asked softly, setting down her mug.

He gave the barest nod. “Shoulder and neck are acting up. Pulls when I use the arm too much. Been pushing it. And that strains my back, too.”

“Sit.”

He obeyed without question, sitting on the rug in front of the couch with a faint wince. She shifted to sit behind him, spreading her legs on each side of his shoulders.

When she laid her hands over the thick knot of muscle at his trapezius, he didn’t flinch but he tensed, just slightly. Then he exhaled. The heat under her palms was sharp and wrong, deep where metal met skin. She let the current of healing rise gently from her hands, coaxing away the ache like drawing poison from a wound. It wasn’t dramatic -there was no holy glow, no divine wind- just a flush of cool relief that sank slowly into his muscles. His eyes closed as he relaxed.

“Sorry to bug you so late,” he murmured after a while.

“You’re not.”

“I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d wait it out, but…” He trailed off, shrugged with his good shoulder. “Saw the glow of the tv. Damn, this helps.”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “I’m glad.”

“I love it,” she said. “It’s my comfort watch, wouldn’t trade it for any other version.”

He was quiet for a while. Let her work, let himself rest a little. Then, after a long pause-

“You like this series? I think there is a more recent movie.”

He hummed.

She smiled, pressing a little deeper into the heat at his shoulder. He made a sound then -not a groan, not quite- but something close. She felt him soften beneath her palms.

When she finished, he didn’t move right away. Just sat there, with his head bowed.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“You’re welcome.”

He stood up a moment later, with his shoulder visibly lower, freer, and his arm hanging loose again at his side. He looked at her then and nodded, padding back to his room.

----

She got along with all of them eventually. Yelena dragged her into a chaotic kind of sisterhood almost immediately; Alexei insisted on teaching her Russian phrases she didn’t ask for; Bob started helping her when she baked and apologized whenever he accidentally thew something panicked with the blender’s noise; Ava didn’t speak much, but once left a book outside her door with the title underlined in black. John well… he was an asshole, but a tolerable one.

But with Bucky… it was different. There was something in him that calmed her when he was near. She couldn’t tell. He kept a certain distance, like it were policy. She never took it personally. Still, there were moments.

Moments when he stood too close to her while scanning for exits, like he’d throw her over his shoulder if a ceiling caved in.

Moments like the night he sat on the other end of the couch, halfway through Pride and Prejudice, and watched in silence, asking questions with real interest, even when John heckled him for it, something about finally a period older than him.

Like the time he set aside a tupperware for her when she got back late, grunting something about how the “jackals already circled the kitchen.”

Like how he always lurked just close enough when she healed others, as if assessing what it might cost her.

That’s why she asked him.

One night, after a debrief, while everyone else argued over takeout orders and Bob tried to fix the busted kitchen fan by staring at it too hard, she leaned in at the counter beside Bucky and- “Teach me how to shoot.”

“No.” He didn’t even look up.

She raised a brow. “You don’t even want to know why?”

“Don’t care.”

“Bucky-”

“You already help people,” he said, clenching his fingers around the cheap ceramic mug with Yelena’s printed face. “You do enough. Let us manage the other part of the job.”

She didn’t argue. Not out loud. Just stood there, with heat crawling up her neck, unsure if it was from frustration or the way he said it.

----

The next morning, she didn’t bring it up again.

Bucky had said no, flat and final, with a tone like he was trying to crush the idea before it had a chance to grow legs. She wasn’t one to beg, so she thought of an alternative and left him alone.

So there she was, helping Yelena to repot the herbs Alexei kept murdering by accident in the kitchen.

Feet away, Bucky and Alexei sat in the common area. A soccer match was running on the TV. Bucky leaned back, with socked feet up on the coffee table, silent as ever. Alexei was cracking sunflower seeds and muttering something in a mix of Russian and fatherly disappointment.

Then came the voice.

“So! Guess who I’m gonna teach shooting after lunch?” John swaggered over, like he’d invented testosterone. “As a hint,” he added, wagging a finger, “it’s not the guinea pig.”

Bucky’s face soured instantly. His jaw ticked. “The hell does that mean?”

Alexei perked up. “Bob? Oho! I knew the kid would want to jump into heroic deeds instead of making waffles!”

“Nope.” John popped the p with relish. “Our group’s walking panacea.”

Alexei blinked. “Her? Da. Makes sense. She’s not bad with her hands. Has calm eyes, like assassin nun. I approve.”

John grinned like he’d just won a bet at someone else’s expense.

“I’m the only one here who thinks it’s a bad idea?” Bucky asked, frowning. “She doesn’t need to learn that,” he muttered.

“Uh, yeah, she does?” John scoffed, raising his brows like it hurt to explain. “Let’s face it, she’s super cool with the healing mumbo jumbo, but couldn’t reduce-”

“That’s not her role.” Bucky’s voice cut him promptly.

He stood slowly in all his height, his shadow stretching over the rug. “She doesn’t go on heavy missions. She takes care of us. She assists when we’re with civilians. That’s what she does.”

“And what happens,” Walker shot back, closing the gape, “when none of us are there to save her ass, huh? What happens the day it costs her life, or fucks up a mission because we’re too busy babysitting her?”

The room went still. Even the TV dulled down, like it knew something ugly was about to happen.

Bucky’s fists closed. “You’re not teaching her.”

John took a step forward. “Oh yeah? And what- what assembly named you the fucking leader, Bucky?”

No answer.

“I don’t take orders from you. She asked me. She’s a grown-ass woman who wants to learn, so, fuck off.”

Bucky moved.

Quick. Sharp. Enough menace in that single step that John instinctively squared his shoulders. But before anything snapped, Alexei clomped forward, stuffing himself between them in his garish yellow AvengerZ tracksuit like a human foam wall.

“Look, mister soldier,” he sighed, hands up like he was negotiating hostage terms. “He has a point, da? And she did ask. Haven’t you heard about women’s rights and determination?” He wagged a seed-covered finger. “Maybe in your time -and I’m not saying it was wrong- women belong in the kitchen, but-”

Bucky stopped listening.

She’d asked John.

She wanted this.

And clearly, she wasn’t going to let him stop her.

He shut his eyes. Counted to three. Didn’t make it to two.

“She’s not learning from you,” he told Walker, calmly. “If someone’s teaching her, it’s gonna be me.”

“Oh yeah?” John tilted his head, smiling all wolfish teeth. “And why’s that?”

Bucky snapped the case on the remote shut.

“Because I’m the fucking Winter Soldier.”

----

The tracksuit didn’t fit.

Or more specifically, the zipper refused to participate in any fantasy where it might slide up over her chest without protest. She wrestled with it anyway, with stubborn fingers pulling and tugging, trying to wedge the metal teeth up over her sports bra and the too-tight cotton clinging to her skin.

Her breathing had picked up. The top gaped open, exposing the rise of cleavage as she tried to smoosh herself flat enough to force the zipper into cooperation.

A quiet mutter escaped her lips. “Goddamn tits…”

Across the room, the door opened.

Bucky froze just inside the threshold.

There was a second -a full second- where all conscious thought left his brain.

He'd been expecting a shooting lesson.

What he got instead was the kind of image that used to be currency in the field. Back in the war, a photograph like that -wide hips, full breasts straining against cheap blue polyester- could’ve bought a man a whole week of smokes. Maybe two, if she smiled.

She wasn’t smiling now.

She was squishing herself with both arms, muttering curses, oblivious to his presence. He couldn’t move. His brain short-circuited somewhere between don’t stare and holy shit.

She heard the footsteps, finally.

Didn’t look up.

She thought it was John. For some reason she couldn’t picture, he told her they were going to start with rifles.

“Hey there, teach,” she called, still focused on the zipper. “Ready to show me your long gun?”

Silence.

It hit like a brick.

She looked up slowly, dragging her eyes from boots to black pants to the unmistakable slope of a broad chest under a grey Henley. Metal arm. Stubbled jaw. And that face. Oh god. That face.

Not stupid John.

“Bucky,” she breathed. The horror crept up her neck in a heatwave.

He blinked.

She scrambled to yank the zipper up in panic, gave up when it snagged under her chest, then crossed her arms to hide the worst of it, which only shoved her tits higher and made everything worse.

“I- uh- ” she stammered, backing toward the bench like she might vanish into the wall if she just concentrated hard enough.

Bucky’s voice came late. Gravel rough. “You’re not learning from Walker.”

She blinked.

“What?”

He stepped in, closing the door behind him. His jaw clenched once. “I’m teaching you.”

Silence again.

She wanted to die.

He hadn’t even blinked at her joke. No snort. No teasing comeback. Just that serious scowl and the ghost of something unreadable behind his eyes.

“I thought you said-” she started, still not daring to lower her arms.

“I changed my mind.”

Another beat.

Then, under his breath, almost too low to catch: “He’s not careful enough with you.”

Her heart kicked.

He didn’t look away. Just moved to the weapon rack methodically, like nothing had just happened. Like he hadn’t walked in on a living pin-up girl wrestling her zipper, talking about his long gun.

But his ears were red.

She exhaled through her nose and quietly regretted waking up at all that morning.

----

He handed her the rifle like it was made of glass.

“Start with the stance,” he instructed.

She nodded, lifting the long weapon with both hands. It was heavier than it looked, and she nearly tilted forward trying to keep it level. Her elbows wobbled. Feet shuffled on the mat. Then, squinting down the barrel, she bent her knees and leaned forward the way she’d seen in action movies.

Bucky made a noise.

Not a word.

Not a breath.

A noise.

His lips pressed into a line. He looked like someone who’d just bitten into a lemon and was trying to hide it. She was too focused to notice. Which was good. Because from behind, the way she bent into the stance, with her hips back, thick thighs under the stretch of her track pants, spine arched just enough to lift her ass like an offering, was testing his military-grade self-control.

He cleared his throat and walked forward like he wasn’t dying inside.

“Okay- no. You’re compensating too much.”

“What?”

“You’re sticking your ass out,” he said flatly.

She looked at him, half mortified, half amused. “Oh, so that’s your professional assessment, Sergeant Barnes?”

His ears turned red. “I’m just correcting your form.”

“Right.”

“Look,” he muttered, stepping behind her. “Feet shoulder-width. Hips square. Don’t tilt forward like that unless you wanna throw your back out.”

She smirked but followed directions. He reached out, -hesitated- then touched her shoulders very lightly to guide them back. She tensed under his hands. Not from discomfort, but something else. Awareness. Warm and prickly.

“Better,” he said, stepping to her side. His metal hand touched her wrist now. “Elbow up. Relax your grip. You’re not strangling the thing.”

“I didn’t know rifles were so delicate,” she murmured, still hyper-aware of him in her personal space.

He didn’t reply.

Because the sight of her shoulders pulled back, chest forward, arms braced in that stance, it was just too much.

In his head, he was screaming.

Professional. Stay professional. She’s trusting you. She’s trying. You’re a trainer. You’re a sandbag with instructions. Do not look down. Do not-

He looked down.

Her chest, barely contained by the track jacket, rose with each breath. A single drop of sweat slid down between her breasts and disappeared under the zipper that still refused to close fully.

He stepped back.

Farther than necessary.

“I’ll, uh. I’ll get the smaller rifle. That one’s… too much.”

He turned on his heel and walked off, jaw clenched, neck red, pretending he wasn’t about to re-evaluate every decision that led him to this exact moment.

They trained three times a week after that.

She was better than he expected, quick to learn, surprisingly capable once she stopped overthinking every movement. He still didn’t like it. Hated it, actually. But the touch-starved part of him -the one that had been pining for months- thrived under the excuse of proximity. Guiding her hand to the trigger. Adjusting her shoulders. Watching the way her eyes narrowed when she focused, the way she grinned when she nailed a shot. He got to stand close. He got to see her.

And she let him.

It was enough.

Until it wasn’t.

Like every other Saturday, he was chewing through a leg of an aggressively over-roasted chicken, sitting sideways on the kitchen bench with his legs stretched out and one boot hooked on the rung. Bob was mid-scrubbing dishes, with his sleeves rolled up and humming some offbeat tune under his breath.

Then came the death sentence.

“You know, it’s cool Yelena’s taking Y/n out tonight,” Bob said casually, flicking soap off his fingers. “It’s good they get to chill. She deserves it.”

Bucky didn’t look up.

Didn’t blink.

Just kept chewing.

Harder.

The meat turned to ash in his mouth.

Bob, kept going, oblivious. “I think they’re hitting that new place near the pier. The one with the neon sign that looks like a melting martini. Or a fish. Dunno.”

Across the room, something cracked.

The chicken bone, under Bucky’s grip.

“Right,” he said, voice like gravel. “Great.”

John didn’t miss a thing. He leaned back in his chair, with his arms crossed, smirking like a wolf catching scent of blood. “What? Don’t like your girlfriend going out?”

Alexei perked up like a dog hearing a squirrel. “Oh? You sly fox! Had it all covered up! So it wasn’t shooting lessons, eh?” He gave Bucky’s shoulder a hearty slap. “Were other kind of action? Da? Oh, Mister Soldier, you are so cool.”

Bucky threw him a sideways glare sharp enough to skin bark.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said flatly. “And I don’t know what the hell you're talking about.”

Nonchalance didn’t suit him, his jaw was too tight, his voice too frayed. The tension sat around him like a storm cloud in a leather jacket.

John made a wheezing sound and shook his head. “God, you are so emotionally constipated, Bucky. One day you’re gonna blow up and take half the damn tower with you.”

Alexei blinked. “Ima… I am missing something in translation. Constipation and feelings do not go well in same sentence.”

Bucky’s eye twitched. His glare swept across both of them like a loaded weapon.

“I’m going out.”

No further explanation.

He dropped the bone-scarred plate in the sink with a loud clang and left the kitchen without a backward glance.

----

The kitchen fell silent.

“God, it’s painful seeing him like this,” John muttered, rubbing his face. “It’s not even fun anymore.”

“Da. I say, what if we do our Men’s Night here!” Alexei declared, triumphant like he’d cracked the formula for world peace.

“What?” John wrinkled his nose.

“We drink! We bond! We order from that new shawarma place with the 2-for-1 coupons I got as a special gift!”

“They give those to everyone. They hand them out on the street.” Walker muttered.

“They recognized me,” Alexei said, offended.

John gave him a look. “I’m not wasting my Saturday with you losers. Bucky brooding in a corner, Bob vacuuming in sweatpants, and you doing… whatever it is you do on Weekends.”

Alexei stared at him, unimpressed. “Oh, because you sure have a lot going on tonight, American Bachelor. Come on. It will be fun. Do it for Mister Soldier!”

“He doesn’t even like me.”

“Da. But he would. After tonight, eh? Alcohol and food strengthen friendship!”

“You do know we’re supersoldiers, right? We can’t get drunk. Or high, for that matter.”

“Uh-” Bob’s voice floated in meekly from the sink, one squeaky-clean dish still clutched in his hand. “I’m not proud of this, but… I could help you with that.”

Both heads turned toward him.

“See, Ava found… well, a lot of Asgardian ale once. Inside a wall. Don’t ask. She never told anyone.”

Alexei blinked. “Inside a wall?”

“I saw her disappear into the surface and come back with a bottle,” Bob shrugged. “That’s how I know.”

John frowned. “What wall?”

Bob pointed.

Without another word, John walked over and punched straight through it.

Plaster rained down, dust curled into the air, and nestled like a hidden altar, six bottles gleamed behind cracked drywall.

Alexei gasped like he’d just witnessed a birth. “I told you! Men’s Night! It is fate!”

John coughed through the dust. “This is stupid.”

Bob set the dish down. “We’re doing it?”

“We’re doing it,” Alexei grinned. “For Mister Soldier.”

“What if he doesn’t drink?” John asked after a beat, crossing his arms as the dust started to settle.

“Oh, he will,” Alexei declared, solemn and sure. “He is so manly. So cool. Like brooding tiger in small kitchen-”

“God, stop worshipping that asshole,” John groaned. “He’s not in the mood. Might not even show up.”

“Well…”

Two pairs of eyes slowly turned toward Bob.

“What if,” Bob began, twisting his hands, “we give him special muffins?”

“Da!” Alexei clapped. “With sprinkles and that Nutella thing stuffing! You’re such a good boy.”

“No- I… I meant a muffin that could, uh… make him a little merrier,” Bob clarified, dropping his gaze.

“Well Nutella muffins do that,” Alexei reasoned, proud of himself.

John ran a hand down his face. “Oh my god. He’s talking about getting Bucky high. Drugged. Doped.”

There was a pause.

John straightened his back with a pleased smile.

“And I’m so in.”

It was late afternoon when Alexei thudded into the common room, with blind optimism. “Bucky! Tonight we bond. Men’s night. Like real men. With food. And feelings.”

Bucky didn’t even look up from where he sat, sharpening a knife that didn’t really need it. “No.”

Before Alexei could plead, Bob shuffled in, all wide eyes, hands tucked behind his back like he’d rehearsed this exact moment in the mirror. “It’d be nice to chill a little,” he said softly. “Just… hang out. Please?”

Bucky looked up, met the kicked-puppy eyes, and his jaw worked like he was chewing gravel. “I’ll… think about it,” he said finally, voice low. “I’m tired.”

“You told me you don’t get tired,” Alexei pointed out smugly.

Bucky muttered without meeting his eye, “Emotionally tired.”

Silence stretched uncomfortably.

Then Bob, eyes lighting up with now or never, reached behind his back and presented something small and innocent, cupped in his palms. “At least take one of these. Y/n made them earlier. John and Alexei almost emptied the tin.”

He didn’t even get through the sentence before Bucky’s hand reached out and snatched the muffin like it might vanish if he waited.

“She made them?” he repeated, already halfway through the wrapper.

He bit in fast, like someone might try to steal it back. The sponge was warm, soft, sugary- but with something odd underneath. Something behind the sweetness, bitter at the roof of his mouth.

He frowned.

But then he glanced at the supposedly empty tin on the table and got distracted, scowling harder. “Should’ve saved me more,” he muttered, licking a crumb off his thumb.

Bob and Alexei shared a look.

Showtime.

----

It was already dark when she stepped out of her room, one heel on, one still clutched in her hand, the dress tugged halfway down her thighs as she hobbled to the hallway mirror. Short black dress, modest enough by most standards, but the V neckline dipped just enough to remind her why she always paired it with the golden earrings, something to balance the look. She only found one.

“Yelena!” she called out flatly. She didn’t even have to elaborate.

“Maaaybe I borrowed them?” the younger woman called back from her own room, with no hint of guilt.

“Yelena.” She sighed.

“And maaaybe I lost one in the kitchen or somewhere near the couch while dancing. But in my defense, I looked very good with them.”

With another sigh, she slipped on her second heel and made her way toward the common room to check. If she were lucky, Bob might have found it while doing his usual nighttime sweep of crumbs and inexplicably misplaced socks.

But as she turned the corner, '90s music hit her ears, loud, obnoxious, unapologetically nostalgic. High laughter. Male voices, overlapping and hollering. Glasses clinking. A plastic thunk against a tabletop.

She blinked.

What the hell-

The sight made her stop short.

Bucky, John, Alexei, and Bob sat huddled around the coffee table, with a half-collapsed Risk board between beer bottles and empty snack bowls. Bob looked like a benign god of war, deploying his little plastic soldiers across Asia while sipping from a glass of water. John was mid-yell, stabbing a finger at the board. Alexei was roaring with laughter, slapping his thigh so hard the couch creaked.

But it was Bucky who made her forget why she’d come.

He was laughing.

Not a scoff, not a breathy exhale of amusement, but laughing. Open-mouthed, with his body leaning back against the couch like he hadn’t carried the world on his shoulders for years. He made a circle with one hand and penetrated it with his index finger toward John in an unmistakably rude gesture, still chuckling as he stole a red soldier from the board and hid it behind his ale bottle.

She almost tripped.

What the hell were they drinking?

The three supersoldiers were clearly tipsy. No other word for it. Pink-cheeked, all glassy-eyed, loose-limbed. Whatever they’d found had bypassed their enhanced metabolism. She would bet Bob had something to do with it, but couldn’t prove it. But there he was, the only one completely sober, amused, controlling half the world map without a single drink. Still, it was a responsible thing to do, since no one knew what could make the void peek through some crack in his mind.

But it wasn’t Bob’s fault she couldn’t take her eyes off Bucky.

God. He looked… relaxed. Warm. Happy in a way she hadn’t seen before. It panged her chest in the worst -best- way.

Don’t look at him. You're here for an earring. She focused on Bob. Nice, predictable, unenhanced Bob.

Bucky’s eyes tracked her every move. Every sway of her hips. Every sparkle of skin not covered by the dress. His mouth parted slightly. His back pressed against the back of the couch as if he were bracing himself for a blow.

She stopped at Bob’s side and leaned slightly over the table. “Hey,” she said softly, “you haven’t seen one of my earrings around here, have you? Yelena borrowed them and thinks she left one in the kitchen or something.”

Bob blinked, like waking from a gentle trance. “Uhh- n-no. But I’ll help you look. Maybe it rolled under something?”

John caught Bucky’s expression and elbowed him hard in the ribs.

"Dude, that's so uncool."

“What?” Bucky grunted, eyes not moving from her.

“Have some dignity, man. You're practically drooling.”

Bucky didn’t look at him. Just muttered, “I think it’s time to tell that cookie to take a powder and go cut some rugs.”

John stared at him like he’d finally lost it. “I don’t understand half a word you say. What powder? What rugs?”

Alexei slammed his pint down. “I think Mr. Soldier wants to invite her to dance.”

“No. No-no-no.” John’s voice lowered to a sharp hiss as he leaned toward Alexei. “As much as I love to see him crash and burn, I’m not letting him throw himself into the fire before he’ve even boarded the damn boat.”

He turned back to Bucky. “Maybe it’s not the best time, Buck. She’s going out. This is men’s night. You gonna ditch us?”

There was almost hurt there, buried deep under John's usual smugness, but there. Maybe seeing Bucky relaxed, laughing, not shadowed by silence or some kind of grief, had touched something vulnerable in him.

Bucky, still staring across the room, shrugged one shoulder lazily. “Well, yeah. Look at 'er. If someone’s gonna swag with her, it’s gonna be me.”

John reeled back. “What is this? His ‘40s casanova era? And what- don’t say swag. It sounds dirty. And old.”

But Bucky wasn’t listening. He was already shifting, gripping the armrest with one hand, the other adjusting the hem of his shirt. Calculating.

John reached out and gripped his wrist. “Don’t.”

“What?” Bucky finally turned to look at him. “You wanna make love to her too?”

John made a strangled sound. “Okay. Ew. Don’t say it like that. I’m not trying to fuck her, I just-”

“I think Mr. Soldier means… if you are interested in her, or like her. In that manly, old-timey way of speaking,” Alexei chimed in, grinning like a gossiping aunt.

Bucky raised a brow, slowly and deliberately. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business either way.”

And with that, he rose to his full height, adjusted the collar of his shirt, and turned toward her, toward the woman in black, who had just straightened, with her earrings forgotten, because now he was coming.

----

She looked at him like a doe caught in the road, because one thing was the usual Bucky: Serious, broody, dry, grumpy. But this?

This was something else.

This was Bucky Barnes with his hair tousled back in a calculated sweep, like he’d done it a thousand times in mirrors with lipstick on his collar. Like he knew he looked good, knew it with the finger-snap confidence of a man who used to leave dances with someone on his arm every single time.

And he was walking toward her like he owned every inch of the floor he stepped on. Chin up, loose shoulders. A sexy smirk blooming slowly across his face.

“The fellas tell me you’re steppin’ out with Yelena tonight?” he asked, his voice was velvet and low, laced in something that sounded far too close to a purr.

Her lips parted. Her throat forgot how to work.

Behind him, John made a dramatic groan and slapped a hand over his own eyes.

“Uh- yeah,” she managed, dragging her eyes away from the collarbone peeking out of Bucky’s shirt. “She’s taking me to some club I’ve never heard of. Girls’ night. More or less what you’ve got going here, but…”

“But more high-tone?” he cut in, lifting one brow like he already knew the answer.

“A little,” she conceded, suddenly very aware of her bare shoulders and the heat of his gaze. He was looking at her like a man who knew all her tells.

He tipped his head, just slightly. “Well, sweetheart, you show up in a swell little number like that, and those clubs’ll be thick with chiselers tryin’ to make time.”

She blinked. “With what?”

“Chiselers,” he repeated, solemn as a preacher. “Sharp-dressed fellas with quick grins and slick intentions.”

Behind him, John groaned again. “Oh my god, he’s time-traveling. Somebody stop him.”

But Bucky wasn’t done. His voice dropped lower, the charm coming out his lips like it had never left. “Lucky for you, I’m around to keep those lounge lizards in line.”

She blinked. “So… you wanna come with us?” she asked, trying to keep her tone dry, unaffected, casual, though her voice pitched up at the end like it didn’t get the memo.

“More like with you, but yes,” Bucky said, straight-faced and warm-eyed, like he hadn’t just rearranged the atmosphere around them.

A flash of heat bloomed up her face. She opened her mouth, fumbled. “Uh- but Yelena…”

Bucky turned, scanning the room like a man surveying a poker table before placing a bet. His gaze landed on Bob, sitting primly with his water glass, a solitary yellow pawn in hand.

“Maybe…” Bucky drawled, one hand finding his hip, the other gesturing vaguely toward Bob without breaking eye contact, “Bob can come too. And we four can go have a little fun. What d’you say?”

Her stomach dipped. What.

This was definitely not the quiet man with a staring problem she secretly admired.

Asking her out? Softly trying to ditch Yelena? Proposing some sort of double date?

Her eyes dropped instinctively to his mouth, then to the Risk party behind him, as if the answer were hidden somewhere between the scattered pieces and unlabelled bottles.

He was too close. That was the problem. He smelled like leather and woodsmoke. His pupils were wide, swallowing up the blue like he'd stepped out of a memory and into a daze. He looked like he wanted to crawl under her dress and make himself useful there.

She narrowed her eyes, dropping her voice. “What did you do to him?”

“Nothing,” said everyone, far too quickly.

Alexei raised his glass like a shield. “Mr. Soldier here only wants to bond a little, eh? Have a nice ni-”

“Bucky, honey,” she said, turning back to him, her voice as gentle as her hand reaching up to fix the front of his shirt, “what did you drink? What did you take?”

“Maybe I wanna take you-,” he started, voice syrup-slow.

She pressed a finger to his lips before the rest of that sentence escaped his mouth. He went quiet instantly, grinning behind her touch like a smug idiot. His eyelashes fluttered. He looked drunk on her.

Fuck.

She spun toward the other two supersoldiers, stalked over, her heels clicking sharply across the floor. She leaned in close enough for Alexei’s eyes to widen and John to shift in his seat.

“Tell me what the hell is going on,” she whispered-hissed. “And don’t give me that ‘Asgardian ale’ crap.”

They both looked, for once, appropriately ashamed.

“Well…” Alexei rubbed the back of his neck.

John offered a shrug that could be described as some level of guilt. “Maybe… we kind of doped him?”

Her jaw dropped. “You what?!”

“Just to loosen him up!” John hissed. “Like- get him to chill a little! Maybe the combination of getting him high and drunk was a bit much, but hey- he’s smiling!”

“Oh my god,” she hissed, looking back at Bucky.

Who, by the way, was currently spinning her missing earring between his fingers like a prize he’d just won in a festival just for her, and winked when she caught him.

He Winked.

That’s why he’d cornered her with those warm, ruined eyes and soft, rakish confidence. It made sense now, so painfully obvious. It could’ve been her, Ava, Yelena, or a delivery person with the wrong timing. A warm body and a curious face.

She exhaled, slowly, willing down the disappointment. Right. Of course.

He was intoxicated. That was all this was.

She crossed the floor toward him, gently curling her hand around his wrist.

“Let’s get you some air,” she said quietly, tugging him away, ignoring how he let her lead him with that boyish smirk still playing at his lips.

She tossed a glare sharp enough to gut a man over her shoulder. The three still seated at the table winced like kids caught stealing candy.

Out on the balcony, the air was cool. Bucky leaned against the sliding glass door, running his hands through his hair, with a lazy grin stretching his mouth.

“Well, I wanted to dance,” he murmured, tilting his head toward her with a little shrug, “but I ain’t complainin’, dollface.”

“Bucky.” She kept her voice even.

“Hm?” he blinked slowly, eyes glossy and confident.

“You’re high.”

He scrunched his nose. “No, I’m not.”

“And drunk,” she added.

“Doll, you know I can’t.” His smile was crooked, defiant and soft.

“But you are,” she insisted. “So I’m going to sit with you a little, then see if I can purge it from your system. Yeah?”

“I’m not feelin’ bad.” He tipped his head back, eyes half-lidded as he looked at the sky. “In fact, I don’t remember feelin’ this good in decades.”

Her chest clenched.

That wasn’t fair. That made it worse. What was it to her if he wasn’t hurting anyone else? If he wasn’t hurting himself?

But he was. He was hurting someone. Her.

This -whatever he was doing- acting like he wanted something more with her, only now, only tonight, only when he was under some substance’s spell.

“Alright then,” she said carefully. “If you feel good… just stay with the guys, hm? I’ll go out with Yelena. Tomorrow you can tell me who won at Risk.”

He shifted visibly. His mouth fell open like he wanted to argue but couldn’t yet find the words. His brows drew together.

“If you don’t wanna go out,” he said slowly, “how ’bout a dance here?” His voice was soft again, tentative, hopeful. “Don’t make me beg, doll.”

Her heart stuttered.

“How about another day?” she said gently, stepping back just enough to put some air between them. “Trust me. You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

“For not acceptin’ a dance?” he asked. “You think I’m makin’ a fool outta myself?”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just-” she began.

“Today’s the sixth of July,” he interrupted her. His tone shifted, serious, deliberate. “This mornin’ Ava ate the last of Walker’s sugar cereal and he pissed in her apple juice's bottle outta spite. We trained after breakfast. I taught you how to shoot a movin’ target with a Beretta, and you gave me three cherry candies you swiped from Yelena’s stash ‘cause you know I like the red ones.”

He took a breath. Didn’t blink.

“We didn’t see each other at lunch,” he continued, “but I know you went out to buy heels ‘cause you don’t own a proper pair and you were nervous ‘bout tonight.”

His gaze softened again. “I ain’t impaired, doll. Just-“ he reached up, combing his fingers through his hair, tousling it further, “uninhibited.”

She froze.

“Maybe I’m sayin’ the first thing that pops in my head. Maybe I’m talkin’ like a radio host from a bygone decade ‘cause I don’t give two shakes about findin’ the modern way to tell you what’s spillin’ out.”

He stepped closer.

“Okay,” she muttered, trying to sound stern, and failing. “One dance. And that’s it. But you’ll have to guide me, because-”

She didn’t get to finish.

Bucky caught her hand like he’d been waiting all night for the excuse, and in one smooth pull, he brought her against him.

His vibranium arm slid around her waist protectively. But it was the other hand -the warm one- that pressed low on the small of her back with possessive pressure. She barely managed not to gasp.

“‘Course I was gonna guide you, sugar,” he murmured, with mischief. He grinned, a flash of something old -young- too self-assured for the Bucky she knew. She pressed her hands on his shoulders, and then he started to move.

There was no music playing on the balcony. Just city sounds. Wind. The buzz of far-off traffic. The flicker of neon on glass.

But he was hearing something. That much was obvious in the way his head tilted, his shoulders rocked, and the cadence of his steps moved like an echo from another decade. The rhythm was slow, nostalgic. Something big-band, maybe, soft horns and a crooner’s voice threading the moment together in his mind.

Through the glass behind him, John, Alexei, and Bob were stacked like dumbasses at the edge of the living room, jockeying for a better view, faces half-lit by the apartment’s glow, whisper-arguing like overgrown kids at a school dance.

She looked away from them. Looked up at Bucky instead.

He was humming now. Not to her. Not even aware he was doing it, maybe. Just lost in whatever old tune was spinning inside his head, something warm, velvet-smooth. He had a ballroom behind his closed eyelids.

“You did this often?” she managed.

“Almost all weekends,” he said, words slurred not by drink, but nostalgia. His palm shifted slightly on her back. “Used to cut a rug like nobody’s business.”

“I bet you did.”

“Won a jitterbug contest in ‘39,” he said seriously, then laughed like he surprised himself remembering that. “Didn’t even plan on enterin’. Some girl pulled me in off the floor and said, ‘You got legs, use ‘em.’”

She swallowed.

He was… different. And not just because of whatever he took.

The natural charm. The half-smirk. The way he looked at her like she was a sure thing, and he was still the kind of man who could offer something worth saying yes to.

She felt her eyes go wet. Damn.

Because tomorrow he’d wake up with a predictable headache and maybe beat the shit out of John just for sport. He’d lecture Bob with that kind exasperation he reserved for people he secretly cared about, barking something about “drugging someone without their consent isn’t quirky, it’s a felony.” And he’d ignore Alexei entirely because you could never win against that man’s stupid arguments about good intentions and “power of friendship.”

But above all, he might not remember any of this.

Or worse, he would. And it wouldn’t mean to him what it meant to her.

That part was the sharp edge. The one she couldn’t dull with a smile or a healing touch.

One thing was secretly pining for him. She could survive that. She has been surviving it. It was almost fun, in its own pathetic way, watching him when he taught her shooting, stealing hours of intimacy disguised as routine. A hand on his arm as she guided him through a breathing exercise. The quick flick of her thumb across his temple to soothe him after a flashback. Getting to touch his skin under the guise of professional concern when she healed him.

That was her safe little corner of yearning. Controlled.

This was something else. This was another tier entirely. Pressed against his chest. Held by him. Stared at like a woman and not a teammate or a responsibility.

And she knew -knew- that it was going to cost her.

Because you didn’t survive someone like Bucky Barnes looking at you like that and walked away unburned.

Their bodies moved slowly, barely more than a sway. His breath warmed her temple, and the weight of his metal hand was solid at her waist. He kept humming that soft tune that probably hadn’t been on any airwaves in eighty years, and for a moment, -God for a moment- she let herself pretend.

That they were somewhere else. Somewhen else.

Her fingers pressed gently on his shoulders.

She didn’t want it to end.

But it had to.

She drew back just enough to look up at him. His eyes were still too bright, pupils wide and swimming in the low light from the tower. His lips parted like he was going to say something devastating again, something pretty and unfiltered, something he’d never say sober.

So she shook her head softly before he could.

“We should go back in,” she said, her voice barely louder than the city breeze.

Bucky’s brow furrowed, confused. “Already?”

She nodded, squeezing his shoulders lightly before stepping back. “One dance. That was the deal.”

He followed her retreat with a small frown, stumbling half a step like he wanted to close the gap again. “I could walk you out. Or tag along. You, me, Yelena, Bob-”

A smile tugged at her mouth, bittersweet and careful. “Not tonight.”

She reached up, brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips.

“C’mon, sit down,” she said gently, nudging him toward the cushioned bench tucked against the balcony railing. He obeyed, blinking slowly, draping his metal arm over the backrest while his flesh hand reached to one of hers as she crouched in front of him.

“Tomorrow,” she murmured, maintaining his gaze, “you’re gonna hate them for what they did. You’re gonna yell at John, probably kick his ass. You’re gonna scold Bob. You’ll try to ignore Alexei, and fail.”

He gave a lopsided smile. “That sounds about right.”

“And, about this…” She hesitated, vaguely motioning her hand between them. “You’ll pretend that it was nothing.”

“That’s not fair to say,” he whispered.

She nodded, swallowing the ache. “No. It’s not. But it’s how this works, right?”

His fingers caressed hers. “You think I’m gonna forget?”

“No,” she murmured. “I think you’re gonna remember. And wish you hadn’t.”

She stood before he could answer, slipping her fingers from his. Her voice was quiet but firm as she added, “Stay out here a little. Cool off. I’ll go find Yelena.”

But his hand caught hers again. Not tightly, just enough to hold her there.

“What if I ask again tomorrow?” he murmured. A too sober question for someone that wasted.

She raised a brow, trying to match his tone with a smirk. “With a massive hangover and the outburst of vengeance in your heart, as Alexei would say?”

“Yeah.” He said it without blinking. He licked his bottom lip, not quite smirking now. “Even then.”

And then she turned, walked back toward the glass door, ignoring the frantic scramble of limbs as Bob and John tried to act casual, as if they hadn’t been spying through the window like gremlins. Alexei didn’t even pretend to feel guilty.

It stunned her for a second. Just a second. She held his gaze, then slipped her hand from his slowly. Didn’t step back yet. Just stood there, close enough for his knees to brush the hem of her dress. Then, with the gentlest smile on her mouth:

“If you ask tomorrow… you’ll find out.”

She didn’t care.

Bucky leant back on the bench once she disappeared, with the city wind tousling his hair, and still feeling the ghost of her touch on his skin.

He smiled. Slow and crooked.

Because it hadn’t been a no, she would’ve said so if it had.

This way… she stayed unexposed.

It was a careful maybe. A thread left loose for him to pull, if he wanted to.

Because saying yes tonight would cost her if he didn’t follow through tomorrow.

Unless he reached. Unless he asked.

Unless he remembered.

And he would.

What a coincidence to find you right here

Qué casualidad fue encontrarte justo acá

Me so high, you so alluring

Yo tan puesto, vos tan apuesta

How sophisticated it was to invite you to flirt

Qué sofisticado fue invitarte a coquetear

Me so slow, you so elegant

Yo tan lento, vos tan regia

You're beautiful, you're beautiful

Sos hermosa, sos hermosa

Taglist: @civilbucky @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan @sophiemass @alagalaska

Dividers by: @/enchanthings

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky x curvy!reader #bucky barnes/reader #thunderbolts!bucky

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gremlin-girly · 3 days ago

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Weighted Blanket

Part of the Sleepy!reader collection

Bob Reynolds x gn!reader ft. The Thunderbolts* (as a bonus)

Not beta'd. I do not give permission for my work to be reposted, copied, translated or put through an AI machine.

Tags/warnings: Fluff, cuddling, it can be platonic or romantic :)

Summary: You offer to share your blanket with Bob.

Word count: 816 words

A/N: This was a quick little drabble since one of the other fics I was meant to keep under 1k quickly became about 3. Oopsies.

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

Bob Reynolds Masterlist | Sleepy!reader Collection | Main Masterlist

You were as snug as a bug in a rug. An apt description for you being stuck under your horrendously large weighted blanket.

Most of the team were away which meant the tower was quiet and the TV in the main room was free. You'd put on an old favourite of yours and piled in snacks, not that you could reach them under the weight of the blanket, but you had at least two days of making the most of being a couch potato.

You weren't even ten minutes into your movie when your eyes started fluttering, the crushing comfort of the blanket forcing your body to remain relaxed. You're about to allow sleep to take you when you're startled by a sound behind you.

"This movie's pretty good."

You turn your head to see Bob standing near the kitchenette with an empty glass. His voice wobbles slightly, and it's clear he's upset about something. Your heart breaks. You feel a little guilty for forgetting he hadn't gone on this mission with the rest of the gang but you decide you can make it up to him.

"Wanna watch it with me?" You ask with a smile. "I've got snacks and my blanket that we can share."

Bob looks torn, eye flitting back in the direction of his room and then to you, swaying on the spot. For a moment you think he'll turn you down, however, he nods and makes his way towards the sofa.

You heave your blanket off to make space and once he's comfortably sat you drape it as gracefully as you can over him.

"Oof." Bob winces slightly as the heaviness hit him.

"Sorry." You apologise sheepishly. "Weighted blanket. I can get you another one?"

"No it's alright." Bob nods, sipping from his water and stretching his legs out onto the coffee table. "It's nice."

Twenty minutes after the addition of Bob on the couch, your eyes have closed and, unbeknownst to you, you're now bundled against him.

Bob felt a rush of happiness when your sleepy body had angled into him but he had to admit that the blanket was working it's magic on him too and fighting off sleep was becoming harder and harder.

Bob's head lolled lazily and he rested his cheek on your head. Your shampoo smelled like lavender which didn't help his sleepy state and he ran his fingers over the soft skin of your shoulder for a few minutes until his hand dropped back against the couch and he fell asleep.

Bob woke up first and felt refreshed, anxieties from the night before dwindled to manageable embers, made better by the fact that you were still curled against him (if not a little closer than last night).

When you woke up, since Bob decided he wouldn't wake you and let you sleep, you'd apologised for falling asleep so quickly the night before and hurriedly brushed away any remnants of drool from his shirt.

"I didn't last long either." Bob admits with pink cheeks. "I'd like to do it again sometime. I don't think I've ever slept so good."

"Me neither." You confess, sitting up slightly. "How's about we have a movie day? I don't have any errands to run but I can grab us breakfast and we could try to watch the movie this time?"

Bob grins at you, his heart doing backflips. "Sounds good. I'll get the coffee."

End

Bonus:

The Thunderbolts were never usually finished up missions early. Apparently, this one was the exception to the rule and when they entered to the main room and found you and Bob curled up on the giant sofa under your blanket with the TV lights flickering after a day of movies, they just about lost their minds.

"Aww," Alexei said tearfully, heart ready to burst. Yelena and Ava were busy trying to hold together fits of cuteness-aggression at the sight while Bucky and Walker sighed with attempted nonchalance.

Yelena silently crept over to take a space beside Bob, shushing Walker when he asked what she was doing. Ava went next, teleporting onto your side.

Then men left all shared a look. Alexei beamed as he dashed beside Yelena, picking up an extra blanket and almost tripping over the coffee table, and Bucky with a sigh (and a slight smile) joined the end, leaving Walker space to join Ava on the other side of the couch.

You stirred first, blinking up and seeing Ava's face next to yours.

"You're back?"

"We all are." John's voice echoes behind her and you crane your neck to the other side of the couch where Yelena, Alexei and Bucky's faces come into view all smiling. You try not to snort and wake Bob as you lean back into him.

"Sleepy heads." Yelena sighs happily, picking up the TV remote and flicking through the movie selection. "Now, what movie to watch..."

A/N: I missed the first round of avengers tower fics... I'm not missing these.

Taglist - add yourself here

@looking1016 @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @almostglitterybear @blackhawkfanatic @peaches1958

#gremlin girly writes #bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds x y/n #bob thunderbolts #robert reynolds #bob x reader #bob reynolds fluff #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*

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levigarden999 · 3 days ago

Text

♡︎ levi ackerman headcanons

fluffy , sweet headcanons about our tough softie ♡⋆˙

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*

୨୧ levi loves gardening. especially after the war when the world had changed to something more peaceful, he found new ways to enjoy his retirement and momentarily forget about the traumas he had gone through. he loves to see the results when he had pulled out the weeds and planted new flowers in the ground. of course, he uses gloves and mostly works only with his healthy hand, but he has noticed how a beautiful, clean backyard somehow puts his mind at ease.

୨୧ levi has poor peripheral circulation. that is manifested by his hands being cold all the time and his skin feeling cooler. even though levi has gotten used to feeling cold most of the time, he still enjoys warmth. that's why he always dresses up in long sleeved shirts and often wears a longer jacket on his shoulders (like in the season 2) if he needs to.

୨୧ related to the previous topic, levi also loves to sleep snuggled under the blanket. i know you would probably believe that levi is sort of a hyper-sensitive and neurotic person, that he would hate the feeling of being firmly tugged under the heat of a blanket. however, i think it's the other way around. because levi probably has the fear of being attacked during the night since he had always had a lot of enemies, especially back in his youth in the underground, he enjoys the feeling of safety during his sleep. that's why the blanket swaddling his whole body brings a sense of comfort and peace to him.

୨୧ in a relationship, levi would never judge you by your appearance. in his eyes, you’d be the most beautiful person in the whole world, no fucking matter what you looked like. he is a feminist and due his negative experiences with men, he feels more natural among women/nonbinary company.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*

#attack on titan #aot fanfiction #snk #aot levi #levi #levi attack on titan #aot #aot fluff #captain levi #levi fluff #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x female reader #levi ackerman #headcanon #levi headcanons #levi ackerman headcanons #aot headcanons #snk levi #snk fanfiction

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girllblogging777 · 2 days ago

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LET IT HAPPEN 𝜗𝜚

spencer reid x bau!worker reader (angst, comfort)

↳ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡 : 2.3k

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦 : spencer was always in control, until you. but when you walk away, he realises it might be too late to learn how to love you right.

spencer reid has a history of being in control.

of himself. of his emotions. of the way he exists in the world : quiet, precise, never asking for too much.

love, real love, has always been a theory to him. a concept. a case study. something he observes in others, like an astronomer watching stars he’d never reach.

and then there was you.

he didn’t know when it started. maybe the first time you called him spence like it was second nature, or when you leaned into his shoulder on the plane, barely awake. maybe when you took a bullet for a civilian without flinching, or when you cried in the elevator after losing a victim, and reached for his hand without thinking to find comfort.

all he knew was that one day, you’d become part of his routine and turned it all upside down. his rhythm. his sense of self.

and that scared the hell out of him.

so, he did what he always did. he kept it safe. kept you close, but not close enough. he memorized everything about you from a distance : favorite books, late-night snack choices, the exact cadence of your laugh, while never saying a word about the way his chest ached when you touched his arm.

until you walked away.

and now you weren’t beside him. and it was too quiet.

spencer sat alone in the BAU bullpen at 11:47 p.m., his tie loose around his neck and hair messy from running his hands through it too many times today. he felt numb, staring at the text you’d sent him four hours ago.

“i can’t do this anymore. not like this.”

“if you ever decide to let me in—“

“you know where to find me.”

he’d read it twenty two times, precisely. he couldn’t delete it. he couldn’t answer it either.

because the truth was that you were right. you’d waited long enough, more than anyone ever had for him.

spencer had spent so long pretending he didn’t feel what he felt. trying to fit your friendship into neat, manageable boxes. something he could file away like a solved case.

but love doesn’t work like that. you’d told him that once.

and now you were gone.

the elevator dinged behind him. he didn’t turn around. he didn’t have to.

because he knew it was you.

he knew it the way he knew the laws of physics. undeniable. inarguable. your presence had always rearranged the air around you.

“you didn’t answer,” you said quietly, observing him like you’d done too many times before.

your voice cracked something open in him. his hands clenched around his coffee cup. it had gone cold hours ago.

“I didn’t know what to say.”

you gave a small, sad laugh. “that’s the thing, spence. you know everything, but that you never do.”

he finally looked up at you.

you looked tired. beautiful. guarded.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know,” she said. “but you did.”

he nodded once. swallowed hard. “I’m not good at this.”

spencer stood slowly, like his body was remembering how to do it. his chair scraped back.

and then, finally “you know what hurts the most?”

he shook his head.

“that I’m not asking you to be perfect. I never want you to be anything other than exactly who you are. but you won’t even let me see you.”

he flinched.

“you let me get so close,” you said, softer now, like it hurt you to say it. “close enough to feel everything… and then you shut the door. like I’m something dangerous.”

“you’re not dangerous,” he whispered.

“then what am I?” your mouth was set, but your eyes… your eyes looked so goddamn sad. your arms folded across her chest. a defense mechanism. not angry. just tired. like you were bracing for more disappointment.

“real.”

you froze, spencer stepped around the desk slowly, like if he moved too fast, you’d vanish.

“you’re real,” he repeated carefully. “and that terrifies me.”

he didn’t even know how to stand. his arms hung awkwardly by his sides, fingers twitching like they wanted to reach for you and couldn’t figure out how.

“all my life, I’ve been able to explain things,” he says. “I can tell you the chemical composition of love. I can list every poem ever written about heartbreak. I can quote studies on attachment and trauma and how people leave.”

there’s a beat, before he continues “I thought if I understood it, I wouldn’t feel it.”

you couldn’t do anything but blink, eyes stinging.

“but then I met you,” he said. “and you’re soft, and stubborn, and brilliant, and so alive. you walked right past every defense I had like they weren’t even there.”

his voice cracks then. he presses a fist to his mouth, trying to ground himself. you just watch him, still frozen. breathing shallow.

“I thought I could keep it under control,” he admits, each word making him feel more stupid. “this… whatever this is. I thought if I could just… hold it in, keep it neat, I wouldn’t lose you. but all I did was push you away.”

silence. he forces himself to meet your eyes, something that usually pains him to do.

“I miss you. all the time. even when you’re right in front of me.”

and you don’t know what to say. so he keeps going like he always does, because if he stops now, he’d never say any of it again.

“I couldn’t tell you how I felt because I didn’t know what it was, it didn’t feel safe. and if it wasn’t safe, it wasn’t real. that’s what I told myself. that’s what I had to believe. because�� everyone I’ve ever loved has either died or left me.”

your mouth opened, but he held up a hand, begging. please let me finish.

“but you didn’t leave,” he said, “not until you absolutely had to. you gave me every chance. I wasted them. because I didn’t know how to be vulnerable and still survive.”

and the tears came before he could stop them. silent, stunned things sliding down his cheeks.

you stare at him like you don’t know whether to cry or reach for him or both. he looks so beautiful, so vulnerable.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I don’t want to keep hurting you just because I never learned how to let myself be loved.”

that breaks something in you. you take a step forward. and another. he stands before you, arms loose at his sides, face wet, chest heaving… looking every bit the baby deer in headlights you always say he is.

“I’m not asking you not to be afraid, spence…” you finally admit. “I’m asking you to let me be scared with you. that’s all I ever wanted.”

his lips tremble. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“then let’s figure it out.”

you reach up slowly, wiping a stray tear gently with your thumb. he simply leans into your touch like it’s the first time anyone has ever touched him softly and meant it.

“don’t go,” he whispers.

“I’m not trying to leave,” you whisper back. “I’m asking if you’d fight for me.”

he closes his eyes. “I let it happen,” he said. “I let myself fall in love with you. and I’m not going to pretend anymore.”

you step into him fully then, arms sliding around his neck, and Spencer folds like paper, wrapping himself around you like he’d been holding his breath for a year and just now remembered how to exhale.

and in the quiet of that almost-empty room, with his forehead pressed to yours and your hands in his hair, Spencer Reid finally gives up control.

and lets it happen.

a/n : inspired by the gracie abrams song !!first time writing something about my baby, i kinda hate this but a girl has got to start somewhere. give me requests if you’d like, and reblogs/comments are always appreciated <3

@xbluereid @gf2bellamy @iamgonnagetyouback

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knowinglewis · 2 days ago

Text

Fading Lines

Part one/Part Two

Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Summary: The lines between friendship and something more start to blur between you and Lewis when he invites you to his first race weekend with Ferrari.

Word Count: 8,035

Warnings: Jealousy, anxiety, overthinking, angst, and some FLUFF. No use of Y/N.

A/N: Firstly thank you all SO much for the love on part one! We're back with part two and those lines are starting to blur EVEN MORE! It's looking like this will be a 4 part series, because this would easily be a 30k words or more fic if it was just the one part! Again, thank you for reading and really hope you enjoy it, please let me know your thoughts!

Race day came fast, sunlight flowing through edges of the hotel curtains far too early for your liking. Isabella was already bouncing around the room in her Ferrari merch, her red crop top, slick ponytail, and a pair of sunglasses that cost more than your rent.

"Are you ready to go?" she grinned, tossing you a pair of passes with your name printed in glossy bold letters. "We're going full VIP again, babe."

You caught the pass mid-air and pulled it over your head. The laminate captured the light like a trophy, shiny and in perfect condition, but it’s not what set your pulse racing. You felt your stomach flip with nerves and excitement, as well as something else you didn’t feel like you could name yet.

You told yourself it was the energy of the upcoming race, the roar of the engines, the crowds surrounding the track, but that wasn’t the full truth. The full truth was draped over your arm: a black Louis Vuitton jacket that still smelled faintly like a woody, expensive cologne.

Lewis hadn’t said anything when he placed it over your shoulders, just a look that said don’t argue. You were shivering and he had noticed.

You told yourself you’d give it back today. That was the plan. Until you stepped outside the car and were met with a cool breeze. Wasn’t Australia meant to be warm this time of year? The grey clouds coating the sky told you otherwise, and so you slid your arms into the jacket. It felt natural, familiar. A little like a secret. Though, you knew you had to return it soon.

By the time you had arrived at the paddock, the rumble of engines was already alive. The scent of rubber and fuel clung to the humid air, mingling with the heat from the track. Cameras flashed from every angle, with fans scrambling to get to their seats to see the drivers, ponchos and umbrellas in hand. The energy was electric all around as you made your way to the Ferrari suite.

The suite buzzed with excitement, the thrum of conversation and glasses clinking over the broadcast playing on several sleek monitors. You were once again surrounded by groups of wealthy people and PR reps who chatted among themselves as the race start approached.

Isabella tugged you through the crowd with ease, throwing smiles at anyone who looked your way. She was in her element, always charming, relaxed, already waving at someone you half-recognised from a fashion campaign you’d come across. You smiled along and pulled the jacket tighter around you, the soft luxury of the fabric was a strange comfort against the backdrop of noise and movement.

“Good afternoon ladies,” a warm voice greeted the two of you from your left.

You turned to see Anthony Hamilton stepping toward you, dressed in a crisp black suit with a relaxed air that felt earned. His smile reached his brown eyes as he extended a hand toward you both.

“Welcome back,” he said kindly, then looked at you with a small nod. “Lewis was looking for you earlier, but you just missed him.”

You felt your heart skip once again as it had many times that weekend, taking your breath away for a moment. You opened your mouth to respond as you quickly gathered your thoughts, but he was waved over by a Ferrari team member before you could speak.

“I’ll see you ladies soon,” he said before ducking towards the exit.

Then he was gone, quickly swallowed by a wave of team members and executives slipping past the security cordon.

You stood still for a beat, letting the noise settle around you. He was looking for you? You wondered to yourself for a moment if maybe he just wanted his jacket back, or if he wanted to check in after last night. It wasn’t until Isabella elbowed you gently with a teasing grin that you exhaled.

“Your man was looking for you, huh?” She wiggled her eyebrows, all too aware of how you felt about Lewis and the growing connection between you.

You returned her cheeky look with a roll of your eyes, shaking your head as she began preparing her camera and phone. The two of you made your way across the suite before heading outside again, while Isabella panned her camera across the paddock.

Near the sheltered tables outside stood Raye, along with Miles, Spinz, and Lewis’ stepmother, Linda. Raye waved you over once you’d gotten closer, clutching her red handbag below her red and white outfit.

“Hello, darling!” She greeted along with the rest of the crew, who gave you a mix of small waves and nods.

You greeted the group in return, taking a seat at the table along with the rest. You slipped into the chair beside Raye, shaking the drizzle of rain off your sleeves and tucking your feet beneath the table.

“How are you feeling? Any better?” Raye asked with genuine concern, leaning towards you with a gentle steadiness.

“Yeah, much better today, thank you,” you replied, offering a small smile despite the brief embarrassment that dusted across your cheeks. “I feel bad for leaving early like that though.”

“No, no. Don’t feel bad at all,” she said quickly, brushing it off with a flick of her hand. “The day was pretty intense, so I don’t blame you. Plus…” Her eyes dipped briefly to the jacket wrapped snugly around your shoulders before giving you a wink, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “You’re clearly being taken care of.”

Your mouth opened for a second, but nothing came out. Heat spread across your cheeks, and you couldn’t tell if it was from the nearby patio heaters or the direct hit of her teasing tone, as you glanced down instinctively at the sleek black fabric. The designer jacket that wasn’t yours but still felt oddly like it belonged on you.

“He let me borrow it last night,” you explained casually, suddenly self-conscious as you thumbed the hem at the bottom corner of the jacket on your lap. “I was going to return it.”

Raye hummed in amusement and approval. “Well, it looks great on you.”

You thanked her shyly, pursing your lips, unable to hold back the smile that threatened to tug at your mouth.

The conversation drifted then to talk of the weather, of who was doing press rounds early, and how chaotic the rain had made logistics. Linda offered a few gracious insights, and Spinz shared a behind-the-scenes story that made the whole table laugh. You laughed where appropriate, nodded along, but your mind kept floating, not heavy like yesterday, just…lighter.

The jealousy that had gripped you before, clawing under your ribs like something wild, had softened into something quieter. You weren’t sure if it had faded completely or if you’d just gotten better at tucking it away. Or maybe it was also Lewis’ jacket still draped over your shoulders. It gave you a strange sort of confidence, like a secret you were wearing in plain sight.

Either way, the knot in your chest had loosened, replaced with a calmer lightness and the anticipation of seeing him.

Another moment passed before you noticed the heads of all at the table turned to the suite, where you saw Lewis jog past the outdoor terrace toward the suite entrance, raincoat flaring slightly with each step.

His race boots thudded against the stone in a familiar rhythm as he escaped the light drizzle of rain, a focused, excited look on his face.

Then, just before disappearing inside, he glanced over his shoulder toward your table.

His hand lifted in a brief wave, casual but warm. His gaze skimmed across the group and you locked eyes for a fleeting second.

It wasn’t much, not definitive, but there was something in the way his eyes hesitated before he ducked into the suite, like a skipped heartbeat.

“Must’ve come from the press tent,” Miles added, glancing at the time on his phone. “It’s chaos over there.”

You tried to pull your focus back to the conversation, even as your thoughts lingered elsewhere. That was until Isabella checked her own phone.

“Time to go do our thing.” She nodded towards the paddock. “Let’s make ourselves useful before they lock down the grid.”

The paddock pulsed with energy, crew members rushing past with headsets and clipboards, journalists angling for last-minute quotes, and fans pressed against barricades for one final glimpse. Isabella weaved through the chaos like she’d done it a hundred times, camera strapped over one shoulder, phone in hand.

“Can you grab the monopod from my bag?” Isabella asked without missing a step.

You complied, reaching into the side pocket of her tote and handing it over smoothly as you both moved between the garages. When she paused to frame a quick shot of a team huddle, you instinctively stepped behind her, shielding her from a stray crew member passing too close.

“Thanks,” she said breathlessly, glancing over her shoulder with a grateful grin. “You’re the best.”

She captured clips of Charles chatting with a couple of Ferrari crew members, as well as Lando and Oscar preparing to get into their cars.

Pausing near the corridor of the Ferrari garage, Isabella typed out a caption for her story. You were adjusting your lanyard when you caught sight of him.

Lewis stood alone further down the corridor, slipping his airpods back into their case. He always had them in as he prepared for the race. A soft thrum of nerves rippled through you and you debated whether you wanted to risk disturbing this moment of quiet for him.

Before you could move backwards to stay out of his way, his eyes spotted you and a smile immediately graced his handsome face. He stepped forward and you moved towards him as well, meeting him halfway along the empty corridor.

“Hey.” He reached out for a light hug, his calm aura was a balm to your nerves. “Are you feeling better?”

You nodded, smoothing your hand over his muscled back as his hand rested at your shoulder blade. “Yeah. Much better, thank you. How are you feeling?”

“I’m alright.” Lewis let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, as he mirrored your nod in return. “I’m hoping the rain throws things in our favour, starting eighth isn’t exactly where I wanted to be.”

“You’ve got this.” You assured him, dropping your hand reluctantly back to your side and nudging your toe gently against the ground.

His gaze held yours for a breath longer, an unreadable look in his eyes, like he was on the verge of saying more. The air between you shifted, thick with a quiet, yet gentle tension. “Thank you,” he said finally, voice low. “It means a lot to have you here.”

You felt the warmth of his words settling somewhere beneath your ribs, and weren’t sure what to do with it yet, or how to respond. So you offered him a small, grateful smile, unsure if it said too much or not enough.

Then you remembered. Your fingers moved to the zip at your collarbone, breaking the tension. “Oh, your jacket,” you noted, tugging lightly at the edge of the jacket. “Sorry, I meant to give it back. Thank you for letting me borrow it.”

“No, it’s okay,” Lewis said gently, lifting his hand up towards yours. “Keep it.”

Your breath caught in your throat, pausing your removal at his unexpected response. “Are you sure?”

“It looks good on you,” he shrugged, like it’s just a fact. Not flirty, not calculated. Just the truth. “I want you to have it.”

You just looked at him, really looked, unsure how to respond. Gratitude was written behind your eyes, for his generosity, for the calm steadiness of his voice, for the comfort of the jacket still clinging to your frame.

However, before you could find the right words, a sudden swell of movement nearby drew both your attention. The flurry of team personnel, mechanics, and press marked the countdown to the race starting.

“Looks like it’s time,” you remarked, glancing toward the mounting chaos on either end of the corridor.

Lewis nodded, following your observation of the garage corridor. It was as though neither of you wanted to leave your bubble in that hallway, where only the two of you existed, but you knew it would soon be flooded with people again.

You hesitated for a split second, then found his warm brown eyes that focused on yours intently. “Good luck, Lewis” you murmured, your voice softer and assuring. “You’ve got this.”

The look he gave you then was soft, his defined lips curving with gratitude, like the words had meant more than you realised. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

Your heart swelled with admiration, not just for his talent or how he carried himself, but for the way he could be so utterly sincere in the middle of an insane schedule. For a moment, the noise of the paddock blurred into the background, and all you could feel was the warmth of his gaze and the unguarded way he looked at you.

There was a tenderness in it that caught you off guard. Your pulse fluttered, not from nerves this time, but from the slow, dawning realisation that you really were falling under his spell. Not because he was Lewis Hamilton, the name stitched on many caps and Ferrari shirts around you, or the handsome face plastered across billboards, but because in moments like this, he was just him. Charming without trying, genuine, kind, and more disarming than you were ready for. It was nearly impossible not to fall for him.

“I’ll see you after.” He gave you a final nod, before he turned and disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the chaos of race day.

You stood for a moment longer, breathing in and out carefully, then headed off to find Isabella, your mind still reeling like you'd just walked out of a dream.

You found Isabella not long after, or rather, she had found you, dragging you by the wrist to the barrier in the Ferrari garage with a giddy, breathless energy that barely contained itself.

The sound of the engines roaring to life overpowered the focused engineers who spoke over their over headsets as screens flickered with timing data. The buzz in the air was palpable. Light rain still misted lightly over the track, making the asphalt glisten, making every moment feel sharpened at the edges.

You both held your own red headsets and shuffled around the barrier while the others flooded in, Raye and Miles taking an empty spot next to you along with Spinz.

“Okay,” Isabella breathed out, eyes wide as she leaned toward you, her camera slung precariously over one shoulder, “I know I said I came here for content, but I might be in love with a guy from the pit crew, and I think I’ve taken the internet with me.”

“Sorry, what?” You couldn’t help but laugh, tugging your new jacket tighter around your body when a breeze blew into the garage.

“Look at him.” She brought her phone screen into view, replaying the video she had posted.

You watched the man in question, tall, broad-shouldered, in his Ferrari shirt and gloved fingers which directed the team as they moved the car out. His dark hair was slightly windswept in the cool weather, sleeves rolled just enough to show off very defined forearms.

“Ooh, not bad.” You shared an impressed look with raised brows.

“Right? Look at those arms,” she said like it was obvious, before opening the comments and scrolling. “And apparently the internet agrees.”

You laughed again, reading some of the thirsty messages under the video. An air of adrenaline filled the room soon after as the time ticked down and the race began. You chatted briefly with Miles and Raye, making casual commentary on the grid positions, and jokingly offering a few predictions that didn’t pan out.

The wet conditions made the race even more thrilling and risky, with a few cars slipping and crashing into the barriers. For a couple of glorious laps, Lewis had made it up to P2, battling in the wet, looking fast and aggressive. Just the conditions he’d been hoping for to flip the race into his favour.

Hope sparked in your chest, heart racing as you watched his car eat up the track. You clutched Isabella’s hand tightly, both your eyes trained on the screens above. That was, until the McLarens quickly clawed their way back, and a pit stop pushed him down again.

You crossed your fingers, digging into your sleeves, wishing there was something you could do. Wishing you could send that fierce surge of belief you’d seen in him earlier right back through the screen, but it was clear that it was slipping away as you watched him struggle with the tyres and grip.

The final result: tenth.

Not what he’d wanted. Not what he’d deserved.

You didn’t see him right away afterward, he wasn’t among the crowd dispersing near the garage or standing with the team huddled in their post-race debrief. You scanned the blur of red uniforms, more out of habit than anything else, eyes drifting over the scene without really meaning to, waiting for a familiar stride, the flash of perfectly sectioned braids, anything that might settle the restlessness in your chest.

Then, Lewis passed through the garage, flanked by staff leading him toward the media area, helmet in hand and fireproofs tied around his waist. His braids were slightly damp, the markings of his helmet across his cheek, and jaw tight with exhaustion. Though the staff spoke low in his ear, clipboard in hand, he kept his calm demeanor, nodding along.

His eyes swept over the garage, and for the briefest second, they met yours.

You didn’t lift your hand, only offered a small smile, which he returned, but he didn’t break stride. He was gone within a short few seconds, already halfway into the press gauntlet.

You and Isabella lingered for a while after. She busied herself smugly rewatching her pit crew crush’s video and editing the next load of content she planned to post.

The energy in the space was changing, the high-pitched urgency of race day slowly winding down into a quiet pack up. Mechanics started rolling equipment back into storage, wiping down tools, checking over the cars. Engineers discussed data at a more subdued pace, the adrenaline fading into fatigue.

You waited just a little longer, but Lewis didn’t reappear. No glimpse, no stolen glance. He was somewhere inside, swallowed by debriefs, press duties, and the media machine that didn’t stop, even on bad days.

The garage and suites began to empty around you, the crowd thinning unti only essential personnel remained. A few stragglers from hospitality passed through, but it was clear things were wrapping up.

Then, movement at the far end of the corridor caught your eye. Lewis stood in his Ferrari shirt and loose pants, his cap covering the expression on his face. Beside him Raye stood close, one hand gesturing mid-story, the other brushing lightly against his arm. She laughed at something he said, to which he smiled softly, and it was the first time you’d seen his shoulders relax since before the race.

You didn’t move, your feet glued to the ground. You just watched as they lingered, speaking in low voices like there was no rush to be anywhere else. Then, they turned together, walking down the corridor and out of sight.

A sharp pinch tightened in your chest before you could stop it. Of course he was busy. Of course he had people to see, things to do. This was his world, after all. It was loud, fast, and always full of people who wanted his time. Still, the unwelcome sting of being forgotten, left behind, settled in anyway.

Your mind swirled with a million thoughts, mainly confusion, at the situation. Earlier, Raye had winked at you when she saw the jacket slung around your shoulders, teasing knowingly like she was in on a secret. Like she knew something, but now she was the one walking away with him. You didn’t want to admit it, but. the jacket began to feel heavier, like the weight of disappointment hanging from your body.

Maybe you had just misread everything. Again.

“Alright, I’m hungry.” Isabella’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts as took her gear apart, tucking them into her bag before slinging it over her shoulder.

“Yeah, me too.” You nodded slowly, grabbing your own bag and checking your phone for the time, noticing the way your stomach grumbled.

The two of you made your way out of the paddock, leaving behind the hum of machinery and the distant sound of equipment being packed away into containers for shipping, echoing through the corridors. No words. No messages. Just the quiet ache of being forgotten, along with not being able to check on Lewis after a difficult race still trailing behind you in the cool evening air. He’d said he’d see you after, but you knew that in this life, sometimes even the best intentions got swept up in the chaos.

The hotel room glowed in a soft amber light, you sat on the floor with your suitcase open, half-packed with folded clothes and your tangled chargers. Isabella lounged across the bed in an old hoodie and bike shorts, one leg bent, and the other lazily kicking at the air as she swiped through her camera roll.

“I’m depressed,” she announced suddenly with a dramatic sigh. “We haven’t even left yet and I’m already dreading going back to work.”

“Yeah, back to reality, I guess,” you muttered with a small sigh of your own, folding the pair of socks you’d chucked out of your bag while getting ready that morning. “I’m really not looking forward to it.”

“Tell me about it. I feel like we barely got to see much of Melbourne, I was really hoping to go to a beach or two,” Isabella groaned, flopping onto her front.

You rose to your feet, walking across to the bed to pack away your hair tools. Your phone had been sitting on your bedside table charging away, when the vibration caught your attention.

“Maybe we should just call in sick and spend a couple of extra days here,” Isabella mused, watching you pick up your phone.

“Should we?” You considered her idea, shooting her a mischievous look before your eyes fell onto the notification on your screen.

It was Lewis.

‘Hey, have you had dinner yet?’

It was such a simple question, but it still caught you off guard. Not did you eat, but have you had dinner yet, a present tense. Like maybe he’d meant to join you. Maybe he had planned to, or at least thought about it, before everything got swept up in the race.

You bit your lip, warmth blooming across your cheeks as you typed slowly:

‘Yeah I had some with Issy earlier. How about you?’

It only took a moment for the reply to come through, your phone buzzing in your hands.

‘Keen for dessert?’

The corner of your mouth lifted involuntarily as you read his reply. A part of you still felt the sting from earlier, from that moment in the corridor. And yet here he was. Reaching out. Your fingers hovered over the screen for a moment, the flutter in your stomach growing. Would it just be the two of you? Would the whole group be there? Surely he would tell you, or ask you to bring Isabella too if it was a group thing.

From the bed, Isabella didn’t miss a thing, catching the smile on your lips and the flush of your cheeks as the cogs turned in your mind.

“Lewis?” She grinned, sitting up to look nosily over your shoulder. “What’d he say?”

You turned your phone to show her the text, suddenly feeling shy as she read the messages.

“Oh my- you have to go,” she gasped, clutching your hand and shoving your phone towards you in excitement.

You paused for a second, not wanting to get ahead of yourself, but you couldn’t help the panic in your voice. “Do you think it’s like a group thing though? Maybe he’s already with the others, right? Probably with Raye…or…ugh I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever been alone with him like that before.”

“Okay firstly, if it was a group thing, he definitely would have mentioned it or put it in a group chat. He only texted you,” she reassured you, placing a hand on your forearm in support. “And second, why not just take a chance? You never know what will come from this!”

Isabella was the voice of reason you needed in that moment, your heart thudding louder as you glanced back at your phone. Maybe this would be the chance to clear things up properly. Your thumbs hung over the keyboard on the screen, your mind drawing a complete blank on your response. Would a simple ‘yes’ or ‘sure’ be too blunt? You didn’t want to come off too eager and put him off, but you didn’t want to make yourself sound uninterested either.

“Here.” Isabella reached over, sensing your hesitation and quickly typed a message for you. “Just send this. It’s cute and flirty, but you’re keeping it subtle.”

Before you could overthink it, you pressed the send button, letting out a breath you’d been holding in.

‘I could be convinced’

The two of you waited eagerly as the three blinking dots popped up in a bubble beneath your message. He didn’t type for long before his reply flashed onto your screen with another buzz.

‘Good. Come down, I’ll get the car brought around.’

Immediately, you turned to face Isabella, who already had her jaw on the floor in elation. She squealed excitedly, bouncing off the bed and shaking your arm.

“Go, now!” She began to push you towards the door while you were still collecting yourself.

“Okay, okay!” You moved out of her grip, giving yourself a once over in the mirror and smoothing your hair down.

You hadn’t changed out of your outfit from the day since you’d gotten so caught up with packing as soon as you’d gotten home, but you still looked well put together for a last minute dessert run. With a quick touch up and spritz of your perfume, you slipped his sleek jacket back on along with your shoes.

You took a deep breath, turning to face Isabella one last time before you head out the door.

“You look beautiful girl. Have fuuuun!” she sang, sending you a wink and wave as you disappeared into the hallway.

You made your way down towards the elevator, and jabbed the button for the lobby. The elevator doors slid closed with a soft sigh, and the quiet hum of descent only made the nerves in your stomach grow. It was a long ride down, giving you a momentary pause while you attempted to calm yourself.

It was just dessert. Just a friendly catch-up after a long day. However, your pulse didn’t seem to get the memo.

You glanced at your reflection in the mirrored wall, making some final adjustments to your look. Luckily, you had managed to avoid getting drenched in the rain that day, so your hair remained intact. The anticipation tugged at your chest, as the elevator slowed, and you swallowed once, steadying yourself before the doors slid open.

The hotel lobby was quiet this late, the marble floors echoing with the faint tap of your steps as you walked through towards the entrance. You spotted him instantly.

Lewis stood near the doors, adjusting one of his rings, looking freshly showered and re-energised. His head turned at the sound of your approach, and a warm smile spread across his face. The way his eyes sparkled at you made your knees weak.

“Hi,” he greeted, voice low and easy as he gave you a light hug.

“Hi,” you returned his smile, stepping back when he let you go.

A hotel staff member stepped up, holding out a pair of keys. Lewis took them with a quiet “cheers,” nodding in thanks before glancing back at you.

“This way,” he gestured towards the door, his smile widening just slightly.

You followed him through the front doors, that slid open for you, the air cool on your skin. A sleek black car waited just outside under the awning, headlights blinking as he unlocked it. The hotel staff moved to open the car doors for you, but he walked ahead and thanked them as the doors lifted open on their own.

Following his lead, you slid into your seat in the sleek car, which was already warm in the cold night. The doors closed with a thud and the engine purred to life. You pulled your seatbelt across your lap while Lewis rolled the car smoothly out into the night. You peered over at him as he drove, one hand on the wheel, the other relaxed over the gear shift. He looked at ease for the first time all weekend, his shoulders loosened and his sharp jaw no longer clenched with tension.

“So,” he started, cutting a quick look in your direction with a small, knowing smirk, “How about some ice cream?”

You blinked. “Ice cream? It’s a bit cold tonight, isn’t it?”

“That’s the point,” he laughed, eyes back on the road. “Best time to eat it. Something about it just makes it taste even better.”

“That sounds…a little insane,” you said, deadpan, which made him laugh again. A genuine, light sound that pulled a grin out of you before you could stop it.

“Trust me. I know a really good place that’s not too far,” he assured you, tapping the address into the screen in the middle to start the navigation.

“Alright, I trust you.” You rested back in your seat, letting your eyes trail out to the city around you.

The city lights of Melbourne flickered against the windows like soft confetti, and you could see crowds of people wandering the streets in groups still, enjoying their weekend before the reality of Monday set back in. The two of you fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that only settles between people who’ve already spent a lot of time in each other’s orbit.

You noticed a soft track playing low on the radio, a velvety voice layered with subtle beats that pulsed through the speakers. The song was unfamiliar, but you read the track name, ‘Weightless’ sitting on the bottom of the screen. There was no name for an artist beneath it and no photo on the side to give you an indication of where this song had come from.

Then, it finally clicked. You tilted your head slightly, catching a glimpse of Lewis in the dim lights, “Is this yours?”

His lips pursed, trying not to look smug as he gave a modest shrug. He was somehow even more handsome in the dim light when he wasn’t trying.

“Lewis, you sound amazing,” you breathed with an encouraging tone, unable to take your eyes off his cute expression.

“It’s just something I was messing around with,” he chuckled, shooting a quick look your way before returning to the road. “I haven’t really played it for anyone yet.”

You moved your gaze out the window quickly, heart stuttering just enough to make you feel like a teenager again with a crush at school. “I’m very lucky then.”

His reply came in the form of another quiet, breathy laugh, the kind that slipped out before he could stop it. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in rhythm with the beat, still playing softly through the car speakers. Your smile remained, as his melodic voice filled the silence between you.

A few minutes later, warm pale light spilled from a small gelateria tucked into the corner of a quiet street. He pulled into a spot out front and switched the engine off, the music fading into silence. You looked up at the shopfront, the name lit up in red across the sign, humming faintly behind the glass.

You exited the car at the same time as the doors lifted open, and walked side by side towards the shop. He moved ahead to hold the door open as a couple walked out, thanking him quickly, before the way cleared for you to walk through.

“After you.” Lewis motioned towards the inside of the shop, allowing you to enter and following behind you into the chilly space.

The inside of the shop smelled faintly of vanilla and citrus, warm and inviting even under the fluorescent lights. The tiles were a little worn, patterned in alternating a pastel green and white, just like something out of an old postcard. Along the back wall, a massive blackboard stretched almost the length of the room, plastered full of scoop flavours, including the classics of vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry, along with pistachio, burnt fig, and a few odd ones near the bottom like vanilla miso and olive oil lemon.

A curved glass freezer stood just below it, proudly displaying colourful rows of gelato in soft peaks, as if they’d been freshly smoothed only minutes ago. The creamy chocolate sat beside an earthy-looking brown swirl named Chestnut Espresso, and one Lewis pointed to immediately, labelled Strawberry Basil (vegan).

Behind the counter, an older man with thick glasses and a striped shirt glanced up as you both perused the selection. He gave a polite nod of welcome, his eyes lingering on Lewis for just a second too long. It wasn’t out of rudeness, but in the way when someone tries to figure out if they know you from somewhere. His brow furrowed slightly, the beginnings of recognition stirring, but he said nothing.

Lewis leaned casually against the counter as you continued to scan the flavours, the cool air from the freezer brushing your skin as the man behind the counter lifted the lid to scoop the Strawberry Basil ice cream into a cup for him.

“Interesting choice,” you remarked, raising an eyebrow at the green swirl through the shiny pink cream.

“Hey, I’ve heard good things. Gotta try something new,” Lewis frowned playfully, before asking for a scoop of lemon sorbet as well.

“You’re braver than I am,” you laughed in return, settling for a safe option with raspberry white chocolate flavour and a scoop of mango sorbet.

The man behind the counter loaded your cups with ease and handed them over as Lewis tapped his payment, along with a generous tip. His eyes widened as he noticed this on the receipt, likely confirming his suspicion on Lewis’ identity and he thanked him while handing over two wooden spoons.

“Thank you very much, have a good night.” Lewis gave the man a knowing smile, before pressing a finger to his lips in a silent shh with a quick wink.

He handed over your cup as you thanked the man too, and slipped out of the shop. The two of you entered the car, placing your gelato in the cup holders.

Lewis tapped on the screen of the car as it came to life, scrolling over the map and pointing at a nearby lake. “I’ll just drive around, I think over there should give us a nice view.”

“Perfect,” you agreed, sitting back in your seat while the car reversed out of the parking spot.

It only took a couple of minutes, and a gasp left your lips the moment you caught sight of the view from the lake. The water stretched out calmly ahead like liquid glass, the lights from the buildings glittering across the gentle ripples. Melbourne’s skyline looked like something out of a postcard, with sharp high rise buildings and different coloured lights painted in the horizon. The area was quiet once Lewis parked up and switched off the engine, except for the occasional chirp of cicadas or the rustle of a breeze slipping through the nearby trees.

“Wow. This is stunning,” you whispered, undoing your seatbelt and leaning forward to drink in the scenery.

“Really is.” Lewis nodded in agreement, picking up your gelato cup and holding it towards you.

The interior of the car felt warm and safe, lit softly by the streetlamp nearby. You both turned a little more toward each other, setting a napkin on your thighs and dipping your wooden spoons into your gelato. You started with the raspberry white chocolate, which was sweet and heavenly on your tongue, while Lewis scooped a small spoon of his strawberry basil flavour.

“How is it?” You asked, noticing the look on his face as the gelato melted in his mouth.

“It’s not bad actually.” He savoured the taste for a moment, before spooning another bite and bringing it to your lips. “Here, try some.”

You hesitated at first, raising an eyebrow in his direction, but chose to trust him and let him feed you. He watched you in anticipation as it melted on your tongue.

“Okay,” you nodded, identifying the flavour. “It’s definitely not bad, but it tastes like eating strawberries with the leaves.”

“You know what? That’s pretty accurate,” he laughed, going in for another spoon.

“Try this.” You dipped your spoon in the mango sorbet and lifted it to his mouth once he’d finished with his bite. “You can never go wrong with mango.”

The well kept scruff on his chin brushed against your finger as he leaned in to taste the sorbet off your spoon, humming in agreement. The soft light from the street lamp spilled into the car, catching on the edges of his long eyelashes, the curve of his cheekbones and the stud in his nose.

There was something about the calm in his expression that made your heart ache just a little, like you were witnessing a part of him few people got to see.

Your gaze lingered on the shape of his mouth, the faintest trace of a smile still tugging at the corner of it as he continued to eat his sweet treat. His braids were tied back, remaining perfectly intact despite his helmet earlier in the day, and for a second, the quiet admiration caught you completely off guard.

God, he was beautiful. In every way possible.

You chewed on your lower lip, feeling the flutter in your chest again, and quickly looked back down at your gelato like it might offer some kind of emotional cover, but the feeling didn’t go away.

You really liked him.

However, you had to get yourself out of this train of thought as soon as possible, when you caught a glimpse of Lewis licking a drop of melted gelato from his finger, making your heart race instantly.

You needed to say something. Anything.

You cleared your throat softly. “How are you feeling? After the race, I mean.”

He glanced over as he wiped his fingers with his napkin, as though he hadn’t expected the question. With a deep breath, he relaxed into his seat and stared out the window at the skyline.

“Disappointed, honestly,” he admitted, the honesty in his voice catching you slightly off guard. “It’s the first race, but I hoped to get more out of it. I’m still learning the car though. New team, new engine, it’s a lot to figure out. I won’t put it all on one race though, this is just the beginning.”

“That makes sense,” you murmured gently, following his line of sight out towards the horizon. “I believe in you though, it’s going to take some time, but I know you’ll get it.”

“I really appreciate that,” he replied, sincerity laced in his voice.

There was a pause, a softness in the air as you relished each other’s company silently.

Then he turned to face you. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to spend more time with you today. I wanted to, but after everything, it just… got hectic.”

You gave him a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “It’s okay. I know how this life is,” you shrugged before continuing. “I could see how busy it got for you.”

Placing your gelato back in the cup holder, you turned your body towards him, running your fingers along the leather of your seat. You knew what you wanted to say, but you found yourself struggling to get the words out, doubting if you should even bring it up at all. You also knew Lewis, and how important communication is to him.

“I just-” you hesitated, your voice quieter now, taking a breath before you continued. “I saw you talking to Raye. After the race.”

He watched you with understanding. “Yeah.”

You didn’t want to sound jealous. You weren’t even sure you had the right to. “I was hoping to see you and check on you after the race, but I just…noticed. It looked like you left together.”

“Yeah,” he spoke after a short moment, like he understood what you were hinting at. “We were working on some music. She wanted to run through a few things before flying out. I figured it’d be quieter back at the hotel.”

“Oh. I didn’t know you two were working together.” You suddenly felt heat build up your neck, slightly embarrassed of your assumption.

“Yeah, just a couple of tracks,” he explained. “She’s been helping me experiment with new ideas.”

You nodded slowly, the night air feeling thicker somehow. His words didn’t bring you much relief, the weight of your unspoken words heavy on your tongue.

“I get that these weekends are hectic and crazy,” you began again quietly, struggling to meet his eyes. “I really do. You’re being pulled everywhere, and I don’t expect you to be there with me every second, I just…” You hesitated again. “I guess I hoped we’d get a little more time. We haven’t seen each other in months.”

Lewis didn’t respond right away, but he kept his gaze on you with that steady intensity of his.

“Maybe that’s selfish,” you added with a weak laugh. “I don’t know.”

“It’s not selfish,” he assured you, his voice soft yet certain. “I feel the same, and I’m sorry. I should’ve made more time for you.”

You met his eyes, the tension in the car breaking into something warmer at the reassurance from him.

“I actually wanted to ask you…I know it’s a long shot, but do you have any plans next weekend?” He asked with what seemed to be an offer lingering on his tongue.

You shook your head as you recalled the reality you would be returning to tomorrow. “Not at the moment.”

“Good. Let me make it up to you.” His eyebrows relaxed, angling himself towards you. “Come to the next race in China with me.”

You didn’t answer right away. The idea of hopping on a plane to China so soon after Australia sounded wild… but maybe exactly what you needed. Then, the memory of earlier flashed into your mind, of standing there in the chaos while he disappeared down the corridor with someone else, eating away quietly at your confidence.

“Lewis, I don’t know. It’s not that easy, you know? Flights, time off work…” You sighed, considering all the logistics.

“I know, it’s a lot,” he began earnestly. “But I’ll take care of everything, you know that. I want more time with you, just us.”

You pressed your lips together as you considered his offer. Just the two of you? It was very likely you could end up in the same situation you had earlier today, but this time, it seemed as though he really did just want only you there. You weighed out the consequences with your job and reality back home, but surely you could make it work.

“Okay,” you breathed, making your decision. “Let me see what I can move around.”

Lewis beamed at you warmly, and you didn’t even need to look directly at him to feel it, it was like heat from a flame that had never gone out.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you giggled in response.

Soon after, you were on your way back to the hotel when his phone buzzed with a reminder of your early morning flights. The city lights flickered across the windshield as you moved through Melbourne’s sleeping streets, the hum of the engine in the background.

You stole a glance at Lewis every now and then, his hand resting loosely on the wheel, the other tucked near his mouth, rubbing his facial hair in thought.

When the hotel came into view, your heart sank a little. It felt almost irrational, but you weren’t ready for the night to end. Lewis pulled into the driveway, the car gliding to a soft stop. Neither of you moved.

“Thank you for tonight,” your voice was just above a whisper, not wanting to disturb the peaceful energy in the car.

He turned toward you slightly, his gaze lingering like it didn’t want to let go. “Thank you for coming.”

Your lips curved up in return, but still neither of you moved to open the door. It was like a thread held tightly in between you, not enough to break, not enough to pull you closer. The tension stirred in your stomach, as though the night would immediately end once you touched the door.

Then, suddenly, he moved, sliding out of the driver’s side and handing the keys to the valet, muttering a quick thank you. However, instead of heading for the doors, he circled around the front of the car, coming to your side.

The door raised open as you picked up your bag, turning to step out where you found Lewis standing with a hand held out for you.

A subtle gasp left your lips, a little surprised at his gesture. There was no grin this time, no flirty sparkle in his eye, just his calm intention.

You slipped your hand into his, supporting you as you lifted yourself out. His hand was warm and gentle, like he wasn’t ready to let go either. You silently hoped that he didn’t sense your racing heart and that your palms wouldn’t sweat in his.

Hand in hand, you walked together through the quiet hotel lobby, the soft carpet muffling the sound of your footsteps. The warmth inside contrasted with the crisp night air outside, but was the warmth between you that set your skin ablaze, electric.

You stepped into the elevator as the doors slid open, the space between you slowly shrinking. He pressed the button to your floor, then to his, and you felt the ground move beneath you.

Lewis used the soft grip on your hand to tug you close, your arms finding their way up, wrapping gently around the back of his neck and pulling him nearer.

His breath was warm against your cheek as his arms twined around your waist. You closed your eyes for just a second, savoring the closeness, the feeling of his strong chest and the scent of his cologne on his neck. Home.

The elevator hummed around you both, a small, suspended moment in time.

With a small ding of the bell, the doors opened again, and it felt like stepping back into reality, but something had shifted.

“Save travels tomorrow,” he whispers, his voice low and warm as you release each other from your embrace.

“You too. I’ll see you next week?” You slid your hand down from his neck, where he captured it in his hold again.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles, letting your fingers slip through his as his eyes followed your step back. “Next week. Can’t wait.”

“Goodnight, Lewis.” You moved towards the door, slowly turning towards the corridor as you made your way out.

“Goodnight,” he replied, his voice almost a whisper as he finished with your name.

The doors slid closed, leaving you with your head spinning as though you’d just been on a perfect first date. But it wasn’t a date.

Was it?

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton #f1 x reader #f1 x you #ferrari #lewis x you #lewis hamilton x you #lh44 x reader #f1 fanfic #formula 1 #lewis hamilton imagine #lh44 imagine #f1 #fading lines

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wingedhallows · 12 hours ago

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omg queen i might die if i don’t get more southern/cowboy!vi!! i would loveee to see either vi taking reader on like a trail ride or just like more of vi being protective over her wife maybe they’re out and about in the town??? idk i just love ur southern!vi works they make me kick my feet and giggle

𝐌𝐄𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋

ᯓᡣ𐭩 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 cowgirl!vi x sweet little housewife!reader / 0.6 k words ᯓᡣ𐭩 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 none ᯓᡣ𐭩 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 u ask and u shall recive ! i hope u like it (i love writing for cowgirl!vi)

♡︎ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ♡︎

The bar buzzes with noise — rowdy laughter, clinking bottles, the low hum of country music vibrating through the scuffed floorboards. The air is heavy with the scent of whiskey, fried food, and the kind of grease that sticks to your skin.

You’re tucked into the corner booth, warm and settled, Vi’s arm draped casually over the back of your chair. Her thumb traces slow, lazy circles into your shoulder while she sips her beer, all loose-limbed and comfortable.

Then Cole leans in. Smirking. Cocky. About three drinks past his limit and twice as bold as he ought to be. His eyes are glassy, his grin wide and sloppy.

“Bet your pretty little wife wouldn’t last five seconds on that bull.”

Your brows lift, surprise flickering across your face. Your lips part, but before you can get a single word out, Vi cuts in — sharp, clean.

“Ain’t her job to impress drunks.”

Cole chuckles, easy and loud. “I’m just sayin’ — she’s sweet, Vi. Nothin’ wrong with bein’ soft. But she wouldn’t hold on long.”

You glance between them, Vi already shaking her head, jaw set. Her easy calm is gone now, replaced by something low and bristling.

“Don’t even think about it, sugar,” she warns, voice taut with worry.

“That thing throws men twice your size clean off.”

But you’re already standing, that quiet little smile curling at the corner of your lips. Your dress swishes around your knees as you push your chair back, and Vi’s hand slips away from your shoulder like it doesn't want to let go.

“I’ll be careful,” you promise, sweet and soft and stubborn. “Just wanna try.”

Vi groans under her breath. “Lord help me.”

You cross the bar with your head high, the crowd parting around you. The mechanical bull looms in the center like a challenge, a dare with steel bones. You climb up with more grace than sense, settle into the seat like you belong there, and nod politely to the man at the controls.

Vi doesn’t sit. She stands rooted by the booth, hands braced on her hips, watching with her heart in her throat. Her eyes never leave you.

The bull lurches.

And you hold on.

One hand raised high, dress fluttering wild around your legs. The machine bucks hard beneath you, twisting, jerking — but you don’t flinch. You laugh, bright and reckless, like the whole world is yours and gravity’s just a suggestion. You grip with your legs, spine steady, smile wide.

The bar goes quiet, then erupts — whistles, cheers.

And still, you ride.

When the bull finally slows, easing into a stop, the whole place is roaring. People are on their feet, shouting, clapping, stunned.

Vi just stares. Her mouth parts, her breath catches — and then she grins, wide and smug and proud enough to knock someone over.

Cole whistles low. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Vi turns toward him slow, that grin sharpened into something dangerous.

“That’s my wife,” she says, voice cool as ice and sharp as a switchblade. “And if I were you, I’d think twice before callin’ her soft again.”

You hop down, cheeks flushed, heart still racing — and Vi’s already there, closing the space between you like she’s been holding her breath.

Her hands find your waist, fingers curling in tight, voice low in your ear.

“Goddamn, baby,” she murmurs. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

#vi arcane #hallow!asks #hallow!mail #violet fluff #vi arcane cowgirl #cowgirl #cowgirl!vi #cowgirl!au #violet arcane #vi fanfic #vi x reader #vi league of legends #vi x you #arcane #cowgirl!vi x reader #violet x you #violet x reader #vi lol #league of legends au

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joelmillers-wife · 22 hours ago

Text

take my hand (joel miller x f!reader) chapter nine

18+, MDNI series masterlist: here | please check this for complete series warnings and tags pairing: joel miller x f!reader chapter summary: fully recovered from your injury, you and joel go on a typical routine patrol that takes a sharp turn wc: 11.5k. buckle up rating: this story is 18+ (minors, do not interact), there will be eventual smut in later chapters chapter warnings and tags: cursing and tlou lore accurate outbreak content below, angst, graphic violence, gore, blood, TW: topics surrounding SA (nothing happens, it’s mainly just alluded to the subject but please be careful while reading and feel free to message me beforehand for specific details), hurt/comfort, trauma, small bits of fluff, reader has no description besides she has hair, jackson!joel, age difference: reader is in her 30s and joel is in his 50s, sloooow burn a/n: double update this weekend because i will be gone next weekend and won't be able to post until the last week of may. enjoy this long one (also as an apology for the last chapter being so short). be kind to yourselves. ao3 | follow @writtenbynic and turn on notifications for chapters! dividers made by: @saradika-graphics , check them out!

previous chapter | next chapter (coming soon)

IX. X&Y

I dive in at the deep end You become my best friend I want to love you but I don't know if I can I know something is broken And I'm trying to fix it Trying to repair it Any way I can

As you had assumed, your shoulder had healed well, courtesy of Joel’s fine stitching, and you soon were more than capable of returning to your usual routine. With the weeks that had gone by, the spring steadily unfolding into the welcoming heat of summer allowed you to become more appreciative of this season, considering the colder temperatures this city was capable of having.

Your continuing friendship and abundant amount of time spent with Joel had settled any previous anxieties you had—the two of you falling into a pattern of familiarity that made his presence comforting and one that you purposefully sought out.

One thing that had changed was Ellie, specifically in regards to Joel.

You hadn’t pushed, or even asked about it in the first place, but all you know is that things had been more… tense between them. A part of you chalked it up to her being so close to becoming an adult, and wanting more freedom. She was beginning patrol training soon, and the idea made Joel nervous with her being out there outside of his watch. Joel had asked Tommy to get her supervised shifts set up with the two brothers, you, or Jesse—the young man you had gone on patrol with the day your shoulder was injured, who had proven himself to be a good fit as an up-and-coming leader in Jackson.

The extent of what you had learned was that a certain patrol shift ended up with Joel and Ellie fighting off a decent sized group of infected when checking out a music store. Since that day, Ellie had been standoffish to Joel, and you could see the impact it left on him. He seemed more on edge and uncertain around her—a stark contrast to the easy understanding that usually flows between the two of them. It was a simmering tension that didn’t raise an eyebrow to all of Jackson, but you saw it.

The advice you had tried to give him was that she was a teenager who was growing and wanting her independence, but his reactions always gave off the impression something else had been going on—subconscious nods that told you your perspective on it wasn’t the full story. You had never, and would never, push the topic though. The most you’d been doing was hoping that Joel knew he could confide in you if needed.

To you, Ellie was changing—not just physically, but also with the people she surrounded herself with. You stopped hearing much about Cat, her close friend you have briefly spoken to occasionally, and seen Ellie around a newer friend of hers that she has been spending an increasing amount of time with. Dina. She was a sweet girl. Very vivacious and teasing—her energy making it difficult for her to not capture everyone’s heart. You understood why Ellie had gotten close to her, and the idea warmed your heart. Ellie seemed more comfortable around Dina—the girl bringing Ellie out of her shell just a bit. It was a reassuring feeling to know that, whatever was going on in Ellie’s life, she seemed to have others she was close to that she could rely on.

“You all set?”

You’re brought out of your thoughts when hearing a voice as you were locking your front door behind you, turning to see Joel standing at the end of your walkway as you lock your front door—the warm air hitting your skin telling you that patrol would be good today.

“Yup. All good,” you respond with a smile.

Joel gives you a warm look in response as you make your way over to him, the two of you falling into pace with each other seamlessly as you make your way through town and over to the stables. Reaching the area, you find that Jesse is posted out front, and feel pleased as he greets you with a kind smile the moment he sees you.

“Hey Jesse, how’s your mom been?” You ask.

You hadn’t spent so much time with the man at first, but ever since your injury, you had spent enough moments with him after that that you felt comfortable being friendly with him. He was polite enough to check on you after that day—occasionally stopping when he saw you around town to catch up and see how things were. Being one of the newer recruits, he was younger, probably early to mid twenties, but just as prepared as any of the others who went past the gates for patrol.

“She’s been alright. She told me Dina brought over some lemon cakes that were a recipe of yours she and Ellie made—it was amazing. Think she’d smack me if I didn’t pass along the compliment to you.”

A laugh bubbles out of your chest at his words, but your attention is cut off when you hear someone clear your throat behind you.

You look back to see Joel standing closer over your shoulder, glaring down at Jesse. You didn’t notice how, or when Joel had gotten so close to you, but his frame hovers over you and nearly engulfs you in his presence.

“Think we should head out now,” Joel says, a hint of bitterness in his tone.

Turning back to say goodbye to Jesse before heading out, you feel bad when you see the young man look down to the ground sheepishly. You assume that Jesse being with you when you were shot had made Joel act odd around him, at least when the topic revolved you. Joel was always fine with Jesse being around Ellie, even agreeing that Jesse has proved himself of his capabilities, but perhaps Joel didn’t like him when it came to your own safety.

Watching Jesse walk away, you and Joel mount your horses—a playful comment leaves your lips as you turn to him, prepared to make your way over to the gates. “Ready, partner?”

Your words seem to make Joel’s body relax from his previous tense state around Jesse, a half-smirk gracing his lips before shaking his head lightheartedly—his chest moving a bit as you see him try to suppress a laugh. “Sure am, darlin’,” he says, before tugging the reins of Callus to alert him to begin moving with you following them close behind.

The trek to your destination went quick and without any difficulty. Finished checking your designated area, Joel suggested the two of you venture a bit further into a neighboring city.

“Tommy told me ‘bout it. He said we could find some extra supplies in the area. Apparently he and Eugene had found it and said the area seemed mostly clear of infected. It’s a bit of a trip, but, I have the time if you feel up for it?”

You nod in agreement as the two of you ride your horses over to the city. As he said, it did take some time, but the two of you dismounted and tied up your horses before walking through the city, checking in and out of different stores for some items.

One store that you pass happens to be a coffee shop. The moment he notices the sign in the shop window with a faded coffee cup design, Joel lets out a half-sigh, half-groan—a vocal cue of nostalgia that makes you smirk.

“You know, you do have coffee at home. Like, so much.”

Joel makes a soft tsk sound. “Not the same, darlin’. S’good enough to make me pretend like it’s the real thing, but not the same.”

His words that end in a sigh have you breaking into a small laugh. “Ah, yes. Possibly the only thing worse than living with infected is not having Starbucks, huh?”

Joel catches the sarcasm in your town, side-eyeing you as you two continue to make your way in and out of the various shops along the street.

“Okay, little miss trouble, you tellin’ me you ain’t got nothin’ you’d kill to have again?”

The nickname he’s used for you more often causes your face to flush, making you look down at your feet to try and shove the feeling away as you think about his answer. You let out an exaggerated hum, tilting your head to the sky and squinting as you try to figure out your answer.

“Something for pleasure? Chocolate covered strawberries. Something practical? A silk pillowcase.

You turn to face Joel and see him give you an amused look. “Chocolate covered strawberries, huh?”

“Mhm. Chocolate covered strawberries were my favorite dessert.”

“Think you could make it?” Joel asks.

You ponder on the idea. “I think chocolate would be technically possible. Probably just wouldn’t taste as sweet as all those artificial things they threw in food. I know I seem to make good carrot cake and lemon cakes, but I’m not sure I even know what I would need to make chocolate.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Joel open his mouth to speak before he seems to quickly shake away the thought. Instead, he twists his face in confusion. “And a pillowcase? You have those?”

His tone makes you slightly laugh. “A silk one, Joel.” Your clarification only makes him roll his eyes playfully, none the wiser of the difference. “It’s gentler on your hair. Guess I just miss tiny things for self-care. I always slept with a silk pillowcase before. Made my hair softer or whatever.”

For some reason, the memory stings more than you had thought as you miss the simple luxuries of the world before. You swallow down the thought and sigh. “Now… that is something I have no idea how to get.” With a teasing, yet wishful sigh, you say, “I’ll live, though.”

Joel breathes out what sounds like a laugh. “Still, I’m sure it’d be nice to have.”

You look over at him to see him giving you a thoughtful look, the intensity of his gaze causing you to break eye contact and look forward.

The two of you continue roaming through the stores, only finding a few bits of supplies that could be taken back to Jackson.

“So,” Joel says, breaking the comfortable silence. “Jesse’s cute.”

You look over to him, a surprised look on your face at the sudden topic, when you see him with a firm look on his face.

“Didn’t know you swung that way, Miller.”

He laughs loudly, not expecting your response before clarifying. “I meant, like, for you or… somethin’.”

You scrunch up your face at that. “He’s kinda young isn’t he?”

“He’s around 23, I think… Not that far off from you.”

“I’m in my early thirties Joel,” you say while laughing awkwardly. “Not exactly the age range I’m looking for.”

“Closer to his age than mine. ‘Bout ten years is not much of a difference compared to the twenty-somethin’ year difference to mine.”

His persistence on the topic has you looking at him quizzically, only to find him looking straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with you as you see a muscle tick in his jaw.

Trying to ease the odd tension that’s built, you laugh and ask, “You implying my only options are between Jesse and you?”

Joel tenses up at the question briefly, a sight that doesn’t go unnoticed by you. The rigidness goes away as quickly as it came as he shrugs with no other response, his lips settling into a tight line and a frown appearing on his face.

The awkwardness that’s been created from your words has you biting the inside of your cheek while trying to come up with a response to redirect the topic. “I mean, I guess? He’s cute and all but… no. He’s not someone I see like that.”

Joel gives a thoughtful nod as you two cross onto the other side of the street. “Thought it might be an option for you, is all. Assuming you aren’t with anyone–”

You give him a deadpan look at the suggestion before he can finish. “Trust me, you’d be the first to know if that was the case. Plus, I don’t know… I’ve had people ‘flirt’ with me without knowing because I just didn’t even think to see them that way. Maria and Ellie always have to call it out when it happens because I’m apparently ‘too blind’.”

The memory makes you laugh before another thought comes to your mind. “How about you? Anyone around?”

The mere thought has Joel scoffing as he shakes his head. “Think I’ve solidified myself as someone who is unapproachable.”

You laugh at that. “Hey, you didn’t scare me off that easily,” you say pointedly. The two of you continue walking side by side as you push a bit further. “What about Esther?”

Joel suddenly whips his head to look at you as if you spoke another language. “Esther? What about her?”

“Oh come on Joel,” you say with a playful roll of your eyes. “She’s always staring at you, trying so desperately to get you to talk to her. She seems cute—nice enough.”

You’ve seen her around before and spoken to her. She was… fine. Pretty, though. An older woman, closer to Joel’s age, whose voice was a bit too high-pitched with a smile that was a bit too fake. You first picked up on her advances to Joel at the bars when she’d come sit beside him at the counter, leaning her body a bit too close to his to get him to look at her. He never did.

Your mention of Esther comes with a tinge of distaste in your tone, one that Joel doesn’t seem to miss as one corner of his lips quirk up just a bit before he shakes his head. “No chance in hell darlin’. She reminds me too much of the PTA moms I’d have to deal with at Sarah’s schools. Gonna be a big pass from me on that front.”

As you take in the information while nodding, an odd sense of relief falls off your shoulders. Something in you has you not wanting to drop the topic just yet. “So… there’s no one you got your eye on?”

You ask the question while looking at him, still walking side by side down the sidewalk, and see him turn his head to meet your gaze. His mouth parts open slightly as he looks down at your lips, his expression indicating he has a response.

“Hey there!”

At the sound, a chill runs down your spine as the two of you quickly spin your bodies around to see six men across the street a couple stores down, slowly walking closer to you. The one in the front and center appears to be older, with a handgun stationed at his hip, and a wide smile spread on his face. Two of the men stand on one side of him while the other three stay on his other side. Some are younger than the others, but each is seen holding shotguns and assault rifles in their hands positioned in front of them.

Joel angles his body slightly in front of you, shielding their view of you as much as possible as he hisses, “Stay behind me.”

Complying, your hand slowly goes to rest on your own gun stationed at your hip as you take one step back to stand half-behind Joel. You watch him as he grips his assault rifle slung around his neck a bit tighter.

The group settles about twenty feet away from you before the man in the middle speaks up with the same disturbing smile, making you realize it was him who spoke up in the first place.

“You guys from around here?”

Resting your left hand on Joel’s back for comfort, you feel his body tense up further and see a slight tick in his jaw as he clenches it repeatedly, gritting out in a monotone voice, “Just passin’ through.”

The man waits for a few seconds to see if Joel will continue speaking before saying, “We don’t usually get many people come by here, so… it’s nice to see some friendly faces after looking at so many dead ones.” The words slip past his lips in an unsettling saccharine tone. “You two have a community of your own?”

Joel doesn’t respond verbally, and instead gives a single shake of his head, lying to the group so as to not let them know anything about Jackson.

His smile falters for a moment before widening again. “You know, we got a settlement about a couple hours to the west… you two are more than welcome to come with!” His eyes trail away from Joel to settle on you before he adds, “We got plenty of women so your missus won’t feel too scared.”

The moment he looks at you to speak to you directly, you feel Joel shift in his feet for a moment before a low growl leaves his throat that’s only loud enough for you to hear. Voice thick and gruff, he responds, “We’re alright. Again, just makin’ our way through.” It’s clean. Final. Leaving no room for argument, but it doesn’t seem to satisfy them.

A younger one from the group speaks up, eyes on you over Joel’s shoulder. “Now, my mama raised me right, so I can’t in good conscience let a beautiful young lady go on her own when I could help her.” His eyes trail over Joel’s form before smirking. “Can’t imagine an old man like you is able to take… proper care of a woman like that in a world like this.”

The words insinuate something darker that has bile rising in your throat. Your palm on Joel’s back has you able to feel his reaction—his body tensing before practically vibrating in anger. Looking up to eye his profile, you see his jaw clenching and moving as he grinds his teeth together. From your view, Joel’s eyes can be seen shifting between the group frantically as his mind races with what the best move is.

Somehow, the group seems to realize his intentions before you do as you see them all grip their weapons tighter. At the same moment, Joel quietly spits out a sharp go to you. You waste no time at all as you immediately move to duck behind the abandoned car for cover that is parked to your right while you hear shouting before the men begin to shoot in your direction. You feel Joel’s hand on your back as he throws you both to the ground—the two of you pressing yourselves low against the side of the car.

The sounds of gunshots stop for a moment as you hear them walking closer to your position. You look at Joel with a panicked expression to see a focused look on him, but not before you see a flash of fear in his eyes when he looks at you.

Frantically, he looks around before he settles on one of the stores a few feet to the right of the car. You follow his gaze to notice that, in their attempt to shoot you two, the men had shot up the coffee shop you had gone into earlier—the glass windows shattered as shards of glass line the sidewalk below. Joel looks back at you for confirmation and you give him a single nod, knowing his plan without any words spoken between the two of you. He jerks his head in the direction of the café, instructing you to make a run for the shop as he peeks over to the car to cover you from the men.

The place was further down from where the men were approaching from, allowing more distance to be created between them. Joel and you use the mailboxes and old bus stop benches for cover as you each take turns shooting at the men as you move. Making your way into the opening created from the broken windows, Joel makes sure to stay close behind you as you run in, the protection allowing you to duck behind the counter and bakery case before he jumps over to sit behind as well.

The continuous shooting as you two ran now stops. A voice you recognize as the first man who had spoken, the one who you assume is their leader, calls out to you both. “Oh come on, now. We don’t want to hurt you guys! Just want to make sure you both find your way out safely.” His voice drips with malice at the end, causing another bone chilling fear to course through you.

Fear begins to wrap a hand around your throat and causes you to lose focus. You look at the wall in front of you while breathing erratically, trying to swallow down the panic and think of something. Joel nudges your shoulder to grab your attention, the contact briefly snapping you out of your thoughts. He gestures to your weapons that you both hold and nods in the direction to the group outside. You give your own nod of understanding, and he takes a deep breath while looking at you before you both take turns to poke your bodies out and shoot off a few shots to the group.

In the time you spend out of cover, you notice they are spread out around the front of the shop, surrounding you while using their own forms of cover.

The ordeal goes on for what feels like an eternity–the two of you only getting one man down in the process. Joel drops down next to you for cover again before cursing quietly. He looks around the shop and leans his body to look past you. Getting your attention, Joel leans in close to you to quietly rush out a command. “M’gonna go sneak around the side to try and catch ‘em off guard. You keep shootin’ them from the front to distract ‘em, alright?”

No time to debate, you simply nod in agreement and Joel wastes no time to crouch down and crawl his way behind the counter and back his way around. You lift your body to peek over the tops of the counter and fire off a few more shots at them before dropping back down. In that time, Joel’s plan succeeds by surprising them with the angle and getting down one of them in the process. More shouting is heard from the men, alerting you that Joel killed the one he snuck up on.

Two down, you tell yourself. You can do this.

The back-and-forth continues. You fire off a couple shots at them, take cover when they shoot at you. Inevitably, you knew someone would have to make a move that caught more off guard.

Thankfully, you’re able to take one more down and soon after, Joel takes his own down from behind one of the cars. You do a mental scan of the group, remembering who was a part of it and which ones would be left. Thinking over it, you realize that only two would remain—the younger one who couldn’t have been much older than a teenager, and the leader of the group who you haven’t heard from or seen him show himself as much as the others.

Angling your head a bit, you look to find Joel coming up on the younger one. The one who had made a comment about you.

Joel shoots him in the kneecap before swiftly kicking the gun out of the kid’s hand. A sharp cry of pain is heard from the boy as he begs for mercy. Looking through the foggy bakery case, you try to squint to see a better view of what was happening. What you find is the sight of Joel kicking the boy’s head back with the butt of his gun, repeatedly smashing it into his skull. The twisted sounds of bones breaking fill your senses, mixed in with garbled cries of pain and pleading words spoken from the boy.

You peek over the counter once again to fire out a shot in hopes that the sound makes the leader’s presence known, but you’re met with the soft click of the gun signaling you are out of bullets.

Dropping back down, you curse and force yourself to not panic but fail as you reach into your jacket pocket with shaky hands trying to find your spare ammo. In the process, you don’t hear the crunching sound of glass close to you until you feel a tight grip on your arm as you’re forced to a standing position. A sharp yelp leaves you from the movement and your eyes widen when they settle on the figure that grabbed you.

“Looks like you’re caught now, princess,” he sneers.

The leader of the group gives you a sick smirk and snarls as he yanks you out from behind the counter after taking your gun and throwing it off to the side. You desperately try to fight against him, wriggling your body to free yourself from his grasp and run away, but he just presses your back deeper into the front of his body. Locking his left arm in front of your chest with a bone-breaking grip, he drags you out onto the street a few feet away from Joel.

He’s still straddling the boy as he beats him far past death, seemingly distracted as he gives no indication he heard or noticed what happened. The realization that his right ear had been facing the coffee shop hits you, understanding why he wouldn’t hear above the sounds of his fist driving into the boy’s face.

The leader calls out to Joel with a wave of his knife before pressing it against your throat and applying enough pressure for you to feel the sharp edge dig into your skin, alerting you if you move too suddenly, it would slice you. In a desperate attempt to keep the knife away from you, you keep your left hand gripped on his arm across your chest and your right hand holding his wrist that holds the knife to your throat—hoping you could use the force to escape if his grip loosened in the slightest.

At the call, you see Joel straighten up. His head whips around as he looks wild and confused, before his eyes settle on yours and you watch his entire body freeze in an instant.

You don’t take your eyes off him as you try not to let panic consume you, trying to use Joel’s presence as a source of comfort, but you aren’t stupid. You are aware that there is little that can be done from Joel right now without triggering this man to hurt you in some way. What causes your composure to falter, is you can tell that Joel realizes it too.

Joel raises his hands slowly in front of him, his rifle still slung around his neck but the handle of it loosely held in his hand as he holds it out and away from his body.

“Let her go.”

The tone in Joel’s voice is one you haven’t heard before, one that makes you shudder. It’s a mix of pure blind rage, combined with complete fear, all while his eyes never stray from yours. Not once.

The man laughs disturbingly. “You think this is a fucking discussion? We just wanted to talk, and you killed my fucking men.”

You feel the grip from his arm wrapped around your chest tighten, simultaneously applying more pressure with the knife held in his other hand. You feel nauseous—bile rising in your throat for what seemed like the hundredth time today as you feel his body behind you press further into yours.

Joel seems to notice the action as he looks down quickly to the lower half of your body before flicking his eyes up to the man, a sickening snarl on his face. You see his body twitching from anger despite the distance between the two of you, noticing the way his hand’s grip on his gun tightens.

The man brings his face against the side of yours, his nose pressed against your temple as you feel his breath fanning your neck. Side-eyeing Joel, he says, “Can’t say I blame you, though. I mean if I found something this pretty in a world so ugly, well… I wouldn’t want to let it go either.”

He looks between you and Joel, a smirk in his voice as he snickers. “It’s a good thing I’m willing to share.”

You try to slow your breathing back to a steady pace, desperately trying to come up with a way out of this situation. You know that it would be hard for Joel to make a sudden move without something happening to you in the process, and you can tell from his body language and from how well you know him that he realizes it too. But you can also see, feel, the anger in him and his growing impatience.

Your eyes flick around the scene before you to figure something out. Out of the corner of your eye, you focus on the way the man holds the knife to your throat. His right arm is held up and out, and the knife is long enough to cover your whole throat. His grip on the handle makes it so his hand is not parallel to your body, but rather it is held just above your shoulder. Noticing the detail, you think of a plan.

God, you hope this will work.

As if he could hear your thoughts, Joel breaks eye contact with the man and settles his gaze back onto yours, his eyes softening in the slightest when they meet your own. You flick your eyes down to your grip on the man before very slowly taking your index finger you have on the man’s right wrist, and make two light taps on the back of his hand—the action so delicate that the man doesn’t notice. But Joel does.

The movement catches Joel’s eye instantly as he’s hyper aware of every single part of your body at the moment, making him look at the hand holding the knife. The furrow between his brows twitches in understanding, a movement only you would catch, before he locks eyes with you again.

Silent words pass between you in mere seconds, and you know Joel understands what you need him to do. His jaw clenches briefly, a sign that tells you he isn’t happy with the plan, and he quickly looks back to the man’s hand before his eyes flick between both of yours, a sudden nervous look in them.

The two of you understand the risk, but both know there isn’t another option.

Gritting his teeth, Joel moves with a swiftness as he tightens his grip on his rifle and positions the weapon to aim. The movement is so sudden that the man has no chance to process what is happening before Joel shoots once at the back of the man’s hand that holds the knife.

You only feel a small sharp sting followed by relief as the bullet grazes the top of your shoulder instead of completely penetrating your skin as it goes through the man’s hand.

He yells in distress as he pulls his right hand off your throat and drops the knife in shock. The moment makes his grip on your chest loosen, allowing you to rip his left arm off you and elbow him in the stomach before throwing yourself forward. In the same moment, Joel reaches for you and catches you by your forearms to try and break your fall as you land on the ground from exhaustion.

Seemingly satisfied with your immediate safety, Joel begins walking over to the man that sits on the ground screaming in pain and repeatedly cursing, “You fucking bitch!”

His face shifts into one of fear when his eyes lift up to the sight of Joel marching towards him, whatever expression on Joel’s face makes him scramble to try and get up to run. Before he gets the chance, Joel reaches his cowering body and uses the toe of his boot to kick the man in the chin, sending him laying back down on the ground with another curse and blood rushing from his nose and mouth.

You stay on the ground, hands digging into the pavement behind you as you watch Joel tower over the man before climbing on top of him. Joel reaches forward to wrap his left hand around the collar of the man’s shirt and raises his right hand, balled into a fist, and brings it down onto the side of his face repeatedly.

Your senses are consumed by the violence before you. All you can focus your eyes on is the violence before you. All you hear is the disturbings sounds of the man wailing in pain, bones crunching, and Joel. His snarls and grunts fill your ears as he proceeds to slam his fist into the man’s face for what feels like forever.

Eventually, you stop hearing the sounds of pain coming from the man who had almost killed you. You realize he’s dead, but Joel doesn’t stop.

Eyes unable to be taken off the right side of Joel’s body over his body, you watch as Joel begins to alternate between fists as he continues beating him—only using his dead body as a vessel to let out pure anger and adrenaline at this point. The sounds of impact become more wet as blood completely covers the dead man’s face, Joel pounding into him relentlessly with the occasional sounds of bones crunching still occurring. You didn’t even know there were so many bones in the face to break.

Time passes, you aren’t sure how long, before Joel’s movements slow down to a stop. You think he only stops because his body is exhausted as you hear his harsh breathing and watch the rapid rise and fall of his chest. His fists twitch as if holding himself back from continuing, and you look to see the knuckles on both of his hands are covered in deep bruises along with blood. So much blood, covering his hands, arms, and splatters of it on his face.

This is what Maria had meant that first day you were here. What Joel was capable of.

As if he entered his body again, Joel seems to freeze. Perhaps he was lost in the violence and forgot you were there. Maybe, with the right side of his body facing you, he didn’t hear your labored breathing. You watch him slowly stand up off the now dead body, hovering over it as he looks down with disinterest. He turns and begins to walk over to you silently, his head angled downwards as he extends a bloody hand to help you up.

You take it, your fingers wrapping around his usually warm and calloused palm that now is wet and sticky with blood. Allowing him to pull you up, you try to duck your head to look at him, but he has his eyes trained on the ground since he stopped punching.

“Are you okay?”

The words come out broken through his hoarse voice, the question being the first thing he’s said in however long he was killing that man. His eyes don’t raise past your waist, still not making eye contact with you directly as his face is etched in a deep frown.

You just want him to look at you.

You nod your head for a second before speaking up, your own voice sounding so small—the effort of speaking being almost painful. “Yes.”

Joel doesn’t seem satisfied with your answer as he opens and closes his mouth for a second, his frown deepening even more before he harshly shuts his eyes for a moment.

“Did they–” The words sound as if they are being forced out of his throat, his voice catching and a choked sound coming out as he spoke. “Did he… did he touch you?”

“No,” you respond softly.

Joel nods slowly before looking around at the aftermath of the fight.

Why won’t he look at you?

After a few moments, Joel clears his throat and his voice breaks slightly as he says, “Sound could’ve attracted clickers. We better head back to Jackson. S’gonna get dark soon.” The words are factual, said with no real rush in them, as if he’s forcing himself to move on. He gestures towards the horses down the road behind you, walking past you for a few steps. You stand there, staring at the barely recognizable dead body ahead of you before you turn around and call out.

“Joel?”

Your voice cracks at the name and you watch as his movements halt, turning his body half towards you with his eyes still firmly fixed on the ground. All he gives you is a hum of acknowledgement before you take one hesitant step towards him, seeing him tense up and take an unconscious step back. The action makes a crack split in your chest.

“Joel,” you repeat, voice barely above a whisper. “Can you please look at me?”

Hearing the tremble in your voice, Joel slowly, yet carefully, lifts his eyes to yours. Seeing his brown eyes finally making contact with yours makes you take a shaky breath in. The same eyes that always look at you with so much warmth in them that it envelopes you in him. You feel so small at the moment, not knowing how to tell him what you want.

He studies you for a moment, his own breathing stuttering when he makes eye contact with you. His frown deepens at first until he sees something in your eyes that makes his hardened face soften into relief, as if he read your mind and could hear the thoughts you desperately wanted to convey.

You aren’t scared of him, as he feared. As he has feared, for almost two years. Fear that if you saw every side of him, you would recoil with disgust. Completely pulling yourself away from him and looking at him like a monster.

In that moment, he realizes you don’t fear him. You need him.

He lets out what must have been a breath he was holding in since the two of you heard the stranger’s voice for the first time, his entire body sagging before launching himself forward in your direction. The moment Joel moves toward you, you impatiently step forward too and throw yourself into his arms.

You wrap both of your arms as tight as possible around his waist, eyes screwed shut and burrowing your face into his chest. Smelling sweat, and blood, and him. His own arms wrap around your back, somehow holding you tighter than you were holding him, as if he wanted to feel every inch of your skin against his own. He brings his right hand to hold the back of your head, pushing you even further into him before resting his face against the top of your head and letting his eyes fall closed at the feeling of you safe in his arms.

The comfort somehow makes you want to crumble further, the freedom to be more vulnerable causing a sob to escape your throat. You try to stifle the sound but Joel already heard it, rubbing the back of your head with his thumb as he moves to dip his head into the crook of your neck and breathes you in deeply.

“I got you, darlin’. Always.” he whispers against your neck.

With those words, you let everything out.

The name he’s called you for months now somehow hits you harder than it ever has, making your knees buckle as the exhaustion and loss of adrenaline seems to catch up to you. You feel Joel adjust his grip to hold you tighter and keep you up, mumbling against your skin, “M’not gonna let you fall.”

His touch and his words provide you more sturdiness and protection than you have ever felt—more than you thought was humanly possible.

Your sobs and panicked breathing eventually even out into sniffles as you focus on the rhythm of his heartbeat that you faintly hear with your ears pressed against his chest. You stand there holding each other for what feels like too long, yet also not long enough. When you feel more calm, you begin to loosen your hold and pull away, but not before Joel’s grip on you tightens just a bit more before letting you pull yourself away first.

You lean only inches back from him, eyes trained on the base of his neck as you feel his breath on your mouth. He brings the hand that was on the back of your head over to gently cup your cheek, rubbing his thumb underneath your eye to wipe away tears and the tenderness of his touch has your eyes falling shut. You feel him lean his forehead against yours for a few seconds before he pulls back enough to place a gentle and lingering kiss to your forehead.

Taking a step back from you, he moves his grip to place one on your waist and another on your upper arm. His eyes move across your face, taking in every detail before he breathes out to say, “We gotta go home, darlin’.”

His words cause you to snap back into reality as he was right. The sun had begun setting and it would be a long trip back to Jackson—you two had to leave now. It didn’t stop the small part of you that wished you could stay in his arms for the rest of your life.

You turn your body to head down the street when you feel him slip his hand into yours, squeezing tightly, before leading you over to your horses.

Déjà vu is a funny feeling. It’s something that people tend to forget just how odd of a sensation it is.

The blinding white lights that make your head pound intensely. The sterile smell of the hospital room. The hushed voices between the medical staff as they poke and prod you. Your own dissociative state as you sit silently, eyes unfocused on the wall in front of you. It’s all eerily similar to what you remember as your first day in Jackson.

All you want to do is go home and go to sleep for as long as humanly possible.

Joel and you had made your way back to Jackson, arriving close to midnight, you think. Due to how far you two had gone, it got dark fast. You had spent the ride back feeling Joel’s eyes on you at any chance he could get, but you had just stared straight ahead, too exhausted from the events that just occurred. About an hour in you remember Joel had called out to you, offering for you to ride on his horse sitting behind him so you could rest and use his back as support. His offer was due to his notice that your eyes had started fluttering shut more and more often, worrying him further on your current state. You declined, knowing that him having to steer his own horse while holding onto the reins of yours as she rode beside would only make the journey go slower.

You just wanted to be home as fast as you could.

Once arriving back to town, you found Maria, Tommy, and a few other leaders in the town waiting at the gates restlessly. Your absences had made the others worry something was wrong, and they seemed prepared to head out in search of you two.

You vaguely remember shouting. Tommy’s face growing alarmingly concerned at the sight of the state you two were in. Maria’s own body sagging with relief at the fact you two were alive before matching her husband in his concern once her eyes scanned over your form. You had felt hands grabbing you, bringing Joel and you to the doctor quickly to get you both checked for injuries.

Since riding into Jackson, Joel hadn’t seemed to have taken his eyes off you now that he didn’t have to focus on the road ahead. You faintly recall his sounds of protest when the doctor had separated you two into your own rooms—Joel only succumbing to their efforts when Maria laid a firm hand on his chest to hold them back. “We’re giving her a female doctor to check her over, and I’ll sit with her the whole time. I promise.” Her words brought Joel a tiny bit of peace before becoming nauseous at the need for their decisions regarding you.

A hand touching your shoulder brings you back to reality for a moment, causing you to flinch at the sudden touch. Looking up, you realize the doctor was speaking to you with Maria behind her and looking over her shoulder to watch your reactions.

“What?”

The memory of your first day arriving here comes back to you once again when you speak, remembering the overwhelming feeling you had so long ago. The feeling of being underwater while drowned-out voices echo around you and try to grab your attention.

The doctor sighs before looking at Maria, not impatiently, but knowingly. “I’ve checked her thoroughly. Besides the small wound on the top of her shoulder from the bullet, she doesn’t seem to have any other injuries. Some bruising, sure, but I mainly think she’s just overwhelmed.” Her voice drops to a whisper as she leans closer to Maria, intending for you to not hear what she says. But you do. “The mental signs of infection are most likely due to the trauma.”

She talks about you like you aren’t there. Like you aren’t human.

The question that races through your mind, the only question you care for the answer to, comes out of you. “Where’s Joel?”

Maria turns her attention to you when she hears your voice croak out the words. She gives a sad smile before replying, “Don’t worry honey, he’s just outside talking with Tommy right now. He’s alright, too…we figured you’d want your space–”

“I want Joel,” you say, leaving no room for argument in your tone.

Her eyes soften in understanding and she gives a small nod before the doctor opens the room to head out, Maria following her out. She leaves the door open a bit, allowing you to hear the hushed, broken sentences from Tommy and Joel—the door angled so you could see Joel leaning close to Tommy to whisper, their words fading in and out.

“...Where do you think they…”, you hear from Tommy first.

“Don’t know. Can't be too close. We were so far out and…”

“... Could be on their way if they see… Just like David was…”

David? Who was David?

“No, no… made sure they couldn’t follow…”

You wish they would speak up louder so you could hear more of what they were saying.

Then, in a weaker voice, you hear Joel say, “It happened again, Tommy… I couldn’t protect her, I couldn’t–”

Their conversation is interrupted as Maria walks up. You see Joel’s body language straighten out and tense up as he looks to her with stoicism. It isn’t until you hear your name being said in the mix of words that you see Joel’s head snap in your direction before he takes quick strides to get to your door.

The moment it opens, his eyes are alert—worried. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

You shake your head. “Nothing, just… wanted to see you. Make sure you’re okay too.”

His features soften, his round eyes so heartbreakingly beautiful that you forget about what happened for a single moment and only focus on him.

“Yeah, I’m alright, darlin’. Doc said you’re cleared. They patched up your shoulder and everythin’.”

You nod, not caring much for the state of your injuries as you can only focus on one goal. “Can we go home now?”

Joel nods without hesitation. “‘Course we can,” he says, walking towards your chair. His hand seems to hover over your back, wanting to guide you but knowing you had been jumpy to anyone touching you the whole time you were here. You take the initiative to lean your body into his when you stand up, giving him a silent cue that his touch was welcome—craved, even. You hear a small sigh of relief leave his mouth as he wraps his arm around your back, holding you close to him as he guides you both outside the building.

You catch Tommy and Maria speaking in hushed tones outside the front door of the hospital before stopping when they see you two. They both look down to Joel’s arm around you—Maria with a firm look on her face, lips tight and brows twitching together, while Tommy offers a more softer and sympathetic look. “You guys let me know if you need anythin’, alright?”

Joel gives a nod of acknowledgement to his brother before Tommy comes over to pat his shoulder, leaning in as you hear Tommy whisper to him. “Take care of your girl, alright, big brother?”

The words don’t impact you as much as they might have before today, letting you know that you aren’t completely there, but they seem to affect Joel as you hear him take a sharp inhale of breath before giving a single nod in response.

It’s a short and silent walk to your house until you turn onto your walkway. Joel leads you over to your door as you reach into the inside of your jacket to take out your house key in the pocket there. Your hands uncontrollably shake as you try to get them, but your struggle is stopped not long after by the feeling of Joel’s hand gently laying on top of yours.

You look up to meet his eyes, seeing his eyebrows pushed together and up a bit as he gives you the same tender look he’s given you, and only you, all night whenever he looks at you. “Let me,” he softly commands, taking over to reach into your pocket. As he grabs the key and opens your front door, he still supports your body with his other arm as you lean into his side.

He gently helps you into your home before closing and locking the door behind him while you just stand there, numb, and looking around the entryway. When he finally turns around to look at you, he’s met with the sight of your back, unmoving, and his worry only grows.

Slowly walking around to stand in front of you, he lifts his hand to carefully brush away stray pieces of hair that have fallen in front of your face, as if he’s done the action a million times. You look at his chest, yet stare at nothing in front of you as your eyes continue to stay unfocused. Noticing this, Joel begins to frown as he feels a lump in his throat—a pain stabbing him in his chest.

He brings his hand that brushes your hair away to cup your chin, delicately guiding your head upwards to try and get you to focus on him. It seems to do the trick as your eyes meet his, blinking repeatedly to adjust your eyes to your surroundings.

The sight of you more focused eases Joel’s worry a bit. You lift your eyes to his and watch as he smiles sadly. “There she is. Missed ya.”

You become aware of how you’ve been acting. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to–”

Joel cuts you off with a shake of his head before speaking to you with sincerity in his voice. “Absolutely nothin’ you need to apologize for, darlin’. Just want you alright is all.”

You numbly nod your head, watching as Joel straightens up to look over to your staircase leading upstairs. “How about you go up there, take a shower, and get ready for bed. I’ll give you some space if you want and head home to do the same before I–”

The thought of being alone makes you frantically shake your head, eyes wide as you begin rambling. “No, please don’t leave. I don’t want to be alone, please just–”

Surprised worry appears on Joel’s face as he places his hands on your arms to steady you and bring your attention back on to him, ducking his head down to level his eyes with yours once again. “Hey, hey,” he hushes soothingly. “I’m gonna come right back, make you some food to eat ‘til you fall asleep, okay?”

It’s not enough. You shake your head again. “Please don’t go yet… you can use my shower before I do and then we can eat. I have plenty of spare towels if you’re okay with that?”

Joel pauses for half a second before giving you a smile in response. “‘Course I can, darlin’. Let me go home to grab some clothes, then I can get washed up here and we can eat before you sleep. That sound alright with you?”

His suggestion is the most logical, so you nod in agreement. It doesn’t stop you from standing at your window and watching him as he walks across the street to his house, only to stare at his door waiting until he comes back out. The lights go on and off as he seems to move about the house before he comes back out shortly. Seeing him again has you letting out a breath of relief, taking no hesitation to swing open your door before he is even fully on your side of the street.

The sound of you opening the door has his steps faltering for a brief moment, his movements pause until continuing to make his way inside—a small bag over his shoulder that you assume is filled with a change of clothes.

You hover close to him as you watch him cross the threshold and remove his shoes at the front of your door. He gestures upstairs with a nod of his head. “You take the first shower, okay?”

You try and argue, suddenly feeling bad about making him stay here with you, but he just shakes his head at you. “Nope, I’ll be alright ‘til you’re ready. I can start preparin’ some hot food for you so it’s nice and fresh for when you’re done. Take your time, okay?”

Nodding to him, you slowly make your way upstairs, turning at the top to see him watching you until you reach your bedroom. You then hear the sounds of him walking into your kitchen—the clanging sounds of pots assuring you he was still here.

Your body moves like a zombie. Your motions are on autopilot as you walk into your bathroom, turning on the shower to let it warm up before beginning to undress. Once completely stripped, you look at the pile of clothes that now lays on the bathroom tile—what looks like every inch of it covered in blood and fully ruined. You stand there for a few seconds too long, simply looking down and glaring at it as if its presence disgusts you, before deciding you would throw it out in the morning. Or maybe even burn it.

As you turn to step into the shower, you make an effort to avoid your mirror at any cost, forcing your legs to lift and settle into your position under the stream. The hot water burns your skin, a feeling you relish in that moment as you wish it would rip your skin off and allow your body to start over. You grab your various soaps and begin washing your hair, your body, your face—ending up scrubbing relentlessly in every spot you can possibly think of until the skin burns raw, the dried blood that was left on you far gone.

You aren’t sure how long passes after you finish removing the filth of the day from your body, but you stay standing under the water and let it cascade over your body—your arms folded across your midsection as you tilt your head down to stare at the drain as it turns from red to clear.

A knock on your bathroom door pulls your attention, followed by a call of your name. “You okay in there?”

It takes you a second to find the strength to speak before you’re able to call out a response. “Yes,” you reply, the broken sound of your own voice shocking you.

There’s a short pause before you hear Joel respond. “Alright… just wanted to let you know that the food’s ready, so you can come down whenever you’re done.”

Surprise hits you for a moment. “How long have I been in here?”

With a layer of worry in his tone, Joel calls out, “Uh, just lil’ over an hour… Why? Is somethin’ wrong?”

You shake your head before you realize that he can’t see you. “No… I’ll be out in a moment.”

You hear him say to take your time, but you already turned off the water and step out, beginning to dry off and put your pajamas on.

Once finished, you open your bathroom door expecting to see Joel standing in your bedroom. In his absence, panic begins to build inside you and has you calling out his name hurriedly before you see him poke his head into your bedroom door out of the corner of your eye. You turn to face him fully and sigh with relief, realizing that he was just standing outside in your hallway.

“Sorry,” he sheepishly responds. “Just wanted to give you some privacy.”

You shake away his apology, feeling ridiculous for your reaction in the first place, and move to grab the clean spare towels you have in your cupboard and hand them to him. “Here.”

He gives you a polite smile before taking the pile of folded cloth into his hands, adjusting his grip to pick up the bag he brought here that was leaning against the wall outside your room.

“You go head downstairs and start eatin’. I’ll join you when I’m done. Should be only ten minutes, I promise.”

You nod and let him walk past you into your bathroom, closing that door behind him.

For a moment, you stand in your bedroom doorway and look in the direction of your staircase. Hovering for a moment while fidgeting, you feel unsure of what to do with yourself until you decide to sit on your bed and wait there for him. The sounds of him turning the water on and moving around brought you a bit of peace, and you end up staring at the clock to watch the hands tick by while you wait for him.

He was right about the time as you hear the water turn off only twelve minutes… and thirty-seven seconds later—your eyes never straying from the moving lines on your clock until you hear shuffling, assuming he’s getting dressed before the bathroom door opens.

Joel comes out with his head bowed down as he runs a towel quickly through his hair, wearing black sweatpants and a soft looking navy blue T-shirt. He takes two steps out of the bathroom before his head raises back up to see you sitting on the bed waiting for him with your legs folded beneath you.

He jumps slightly, not expecting you to be there, and looks out your bedroom before turning back to you with a confused expression. “Thought I told you dinner was ready?” He calmly says, no judgment or accusation in his tone.

You look down at your hands you’d been fidgeting with in your lap, picking at your fingernails. “I… I wanted to wait up here for you.”

He blinks once. The confusion stays with him for a second as he processes your response, until his face shifts into warm understanding. “Okay. Let’s go down to eat.”

The moment he steps away from the bathroom door, the bright bathroom light he had shielded you from with his body no longer lays on you. When you stand, Joel takes a step towards you to help you up but freezes once he sees you under the light, his face hardening.

Confusion and worry consume you for a moment, but clarity strikes you when you see his gaze trained below your face. Due to the dim lighting of your house, and the fact your clothing up until now was covering most of your body, Joel had not yet seen the extent of your injuries that you avoided staring at in the bathroom.

His eyes stay glued to the brushing on your arms for a few seconds before they lift up to the bandage on your shoulder. His focus travels to your throat where you assume a long thing cut laid there from the knife that was pressed against you.

Still looking at your throat, you watch Joel’s top lip twitch before he swallows his emotions harshly. “C’mon,” he mutters softly, placing his hand on your shoulder and guiding you gently downstairs.

Reaching the kitchen, you see a pot of stew sitting on the now-off stove with two bowls next to the stovetop and a large ladle placed against the side of the pot. Joel pulls out a chair for you at your kitchen table, letting you sit before he goes over to fill up the two bowls with the food, coming back over to place them down in front of your respective spots before going to grab some water from the fridge.

You both settle into your seats and begin to eat silently, the only words spoken being a quiet thank you from you for him making you something to eat. He brushes off your appreciation lightheartedly, as if his sentiment was as natural as breathing and nothing worth being thanked for. The sounds of silverware clanking against the ceramic bowls mixed with the domestic nature of the two of you eating together in silence is enough for you a sense of safety and comfortability to wash over you, no words needing to be shared to fill the quiet.

When you finish your bowl, Joel moves to take it to the sink as he was done with his own a few minutes before, and starts to wash and put away everything. You watch his back silently as he moves, thinking you hear a very faint sound of humming coming from him, but it’s too quiet for you to be sure.

As he dries the last bowl left, you quickly rush out a question you've had on your mind since coming home.

Joel turns to face you, looking confused and making you realize you had spoken too quietly. You wait a few moments as he turns the water over, drying his hands on your dish towel and turning his body to face you directly as he leans back against the sink counter.

You clear your throat and look at the ground as you repeat your question. “Can you sleep here tonight?”

His lack of response for a few seconds fills you with shame, feeling stupid for even asking. Trying to rectify the embarrassment, you begin to ramble out more words with your head angled towards the floor. “I just… I don’t really want to be alone tonight. I know the couch is not the most comfortable thing to sleep on, so if you don’t want to I completely understand, I just–”

“Yes.”

The sound of his voice responding to you makes you shoot your head up to look at him, eyes wide as you hadn’t expected him to agree. Making eye contact with you, you see a sure look in his eyes mixed with… relief?

Did he want to sleep here tonight, too?

Mouth parted in a small “o” shape, you slowly nod. “Okay… um, I have some spare pillows and blankets in my bedroom closet. Let me go get them for you and I’ll set you up on the couch.”

Joel wordlessly nods, walking into the living room as you quickly make your eyes upstairs to grab the items. In your room, your eyes glance at the clock hung on your wall to see it was 2 am. Your body seems to snap back into its previously exhausted state as you realize how long the day has been—Joel’s presence since you arrived home seems to have distracted you from the reality of the toll your mind and body took on today.

You make your way downstairs to find Joel watching you carefully as you walk up to him and hand him the pillows and blankets. He takes them with a hum of appreciation before he begins to set up his space for the night.

The sight of him fluffing the pillow onto one end of the couch and stretching the fabric of your quilt across the narrow cushions has you wince. The guilt of making him, as big and broad as he is, spend the night on your cramped couch grows in you.

As he finishes his movements with a final flick of his wrist to throw one end of the quilt at the end of the couch, you open your mouth to tell him he can go home. Somehow, despite his back being towards yours, he turns to look at you before you can even speak, only to immediately say, “I want to be here.”

Your mouth flutters open and closed after he speaks with such confidence, momentarily stunned at the timing of your thoughts. Or perhaps he knew what you were going to say without even seeing that you had wanted to speak.

You give him an attempt at a smile, your lips barely curling up in one corner, something that takes a bit of effort as you think you haven’t done it since before your run in earlier. You seem to be proven right when you see Joel’s shoulders sag with relief at the sight, grateful to have some emotion be shown out of you.

You look around the room, unsure how to say goodnight, while also not wanting to be away from him. He seems to notice your hesitancy, because he nods his head in the direction of your staircase. “Let me get you to bed, darlin’.”

Assuring him you can do so on your own, you shake your head and begin to protest. He carefully reaches his hand out to hold one of your hands as his eyes focus on you and speaks with the same confidence from before. “I want to.”

With that, you allow him to walk up with you to your bedroom—Joel opening the door for you and guiding you inside. You make your way over to your bed and watch with slight awe as Joel reaches over to pull the covers back, allowing you to slip in. The action makes your cheeks flush, and you become grateful for the darkness in the room as you crawl into bed and settle beneath the covers. You look at the lamp that sits on your dresser in the corner of the room before eyeing Joel nervously. His gaze follows yours to look at the lack of light with furrowed brows.

“Could you… um…” you trail off, gesturing towards the lamp with your chin. He understands your request and walks over to turn it on so that a dim warm light fills your room.

Embarrassment fills you for a moment, feeling like a fucking child who just woke up from a nightmare and needs their light on to sleep through the night. Maybe that’s what today was, you think. One big nightmare, and you’ll wake up tomorrow feeling normal again.

Logically, you knew you would recover. Having had these encounters in the past before, you always compartmentalized the experiences and moved on—forcing yourself to bury the complexities of your emotions in order for you to be able to keep going both physically and mentally. Today, though, you found yourself feeling safe in terms of your reactions. Joel’s patient and gentle nature with you makes you feel free enough to not need to keep it all in. For once, you could let yourself rely on someone else to be there for you.

As Joel makes his way back around to you, he sits on the edge of your bed beside you to begin adjusting the blankets until they cover you more properly. Satisfied with his effort, he rests one of his hands on top of yours that lay on your stomach overlapping each other. His eyes lift to yours with such warm intensity that it makes your heart skip a beat. You can’t recall a moment where anyone has ever looked at you with so much emotion and care in their eyes.

The two of you simply gaze into each other’s eyes for a minute before Joel breaks the contact by leaning forward slowly, slow enough for you to stop him if you wanted, but you don’t want to. His lips press a lingering kiss to your forehead, a deep inhale leaves his nose before he pulls back.

“Goodnight, darlin’,” he says as he stands and begins to walk backwards out of your room, eyes never leaving your face.

“Goodnight, Joel.”

You watch him leave your room and notice how he keeps your door partly open so that you can see him walk down the staircase, deliberately leaving your dim staircase light on to give you more comfort.

reblogs and comments are appreciated! i hope you all enjoy <3 follow @writtenbynic and turn on notifications for updates!

a/n: sorry for the emotional rollercoaster, and posting it after episode 6. feeling masochistic. 🏷️: @dendulinka6 @suzysface @koshkaj-blog @orcasoul @emmasveinyahhdih @thatoneperson38747 @silksepia @orodaeh @ithinkimokeei @emnull0 @warriorkarol @luvwanda @pascal-mynightlyobsession @grayandthyme @crlsummer @ashleyfilm @darling-imobsessed @tjohn63

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #tmh series

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catrianaghvst · 2 days ago

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Biker!Simon x reader

Leather and Late Nights

It always starts with the sound of the engine. That deep, rumbling growl echoing down the street long before you see him. You know it’s Simon before he even turns the corner. The way the neighborhood dogs go quiet and your heart starts doing that stupid little thing in your chest like it’s never heard an engine before.

And then there he is. Matte black helmet under his arm, skull balaclava tugged down just enough to show the smirk that’s all for you.

“Miss me?” he asks, voice low and a little gravelly from the ride. He always says it like a joke, but something in his eyes dares you to say yes.

You roll your eyes, like usual. “How would I even notice you were gone with all the chaos you left behind?”

He walks past you, slow, with that usual swagger—equal parts soldier and sinner—and drops his gear by your front door. His leather jacket creaks as he shrugs it off, revealing the black long-sleeve underneath that hugs his frame a little too well. You don’t look. Not too obviously.

“You say that,” he mutters, stepping close, “but you looked real lonely in those texts.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Not flatterin’,” he says, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His gloved hand lingers against your cheek just a second too long. “Just observin’.”

He smells like motor oil, steel, wind, and something undeniably him—danger and comfort wrapped up in one impossible package. That mix you can’t help craving even when you swear you’re over it.

You lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms. “So are you here to stay, or is this another ‘in and out before dawn’ mission?”

His gaze flicks to your lips, then your eyes. ��Maybe I’m hopin’ you’ll convince me to stay.”

There’s always something unsaid between you two. Something simmering. He’s never one for big declarations, but he shows up. Every time. Even when he shouldn’t.

And that’s the thing with Simon. You never really know where it’s going. One night it’s a bottle of whiskey, your legs draped over his lap while he sharpens a combat knife and tells you half-truths about the desert. The next, he’s gone without a word, nothing but tire marks and the smell of his cologne left behind.

You never ask too many questions. He’s the kind of man who lives in shadows, and you—fool that you are—keep leaving the light on for him.

He tilts his head. “Well? You gonna let me in, or am I sleepin’ on the bike tonight?”

You pause, watching him in the fading sun. The smirk, the scars, the weight in his shoulders that never seems to lift.

Then you smile.

“I’ll put on the kettle,” you say, stepping back into the house.

He follows without a word, booted feet thudding soft and certain on the hardwood. Like he belongs there. Like he always has.

#simon ghost riley #call of duty modern warfare #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley cod #simon riley imagine #biker boyfriend #simon ghost x you

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yo-ri-su-ki · 1 day ago

Note

Hello, how are you? This is my first time here and I would like to know how to make a request if it is okay and if you feel comfortable.

I'm wondering how Vergil would react to Reader, who is half human and half angel, coming to him and asking for help combing her wings, since they are heavy and she keeps them inside her body as a tattoo on her back. But she uses them in battle to help with agility and combat. However, she can't keep them in a hurry for too long because the feathers get tangled and often get knotted. She keeps them hidden because she has suffered from people who have tried to pull or even rip off her wings. She opens and combs them and is liberating, but there are places she can't reach and everyone in the DMC building left. However, not everyone...

Thank you and have a good weekend 😊☺️

Unfurling Feathers

Vergil Sparda x Female!Reader

An: URGHHH THIS IS AN AMAZING IDEAAA I SHOULD'VE THOUGHT OF THISSSSS

The hum of the city outside the Devil May Cry building faded into a dull murmur, muted by the thick walls and the lingering weight of a long day. The clang of weapons being cleaned had gone silent. Nero had left hours ago with a grin and a joke about getting drunk before Kyrie dragged him home. Lady and Trish had followed, bickering about who had the highest demon body count this week.

You were alone.

Or so you thought.

Steam curled in wisps around you, the hot water from the shower doing little to ease the tight ache in your back. Your fingers trembled slightly as they hovered above the base of your neck, where the inked tattoo stretched across your shoulder blades in the shape of folded wings. The dark design shimmered faintly, alive with hidden magic, pulsing with the desire to unfurl.

You drew a steady breath and whispered the command.

The tattoo rippled—then burst outward in a sudden, silent motion. Feathers, long and glowing with subtle gold, blossomed from your back like petals from a sealed bud. The weight of them hit you like a second spine. Always heavier than you remembered, always aching with the effort of staying hidden inside flesh and ink.

You exhaled shakily.

Stretching them felt like stretching parts of yourself that weren’t meant to be seen. Not here. Not anymore.

You stepped into the lounge slowly, towel tucked tight around your body, your wings half-draped behind you. Each movement stirred a fresh tangle in the feathers. Your hands worked at the knots carefully, trying to untangle the ones you could see—brushing, tugging, whispering soft apologies when one snapped under your fingers.

You couldn’t reach the worst parts. The ones near the top. The base. The inner curve.

Frustration burned behind your eyes.

You used your wings in battle for speed, evasion, sudden aerial bursts that gave you the edge in combat—and every time, they ended up matted. Twisted. You never had time to properly tend to them. You couldn’t. People stared. People touched. Some even tried to rip them out.

You clenched your fists at the memory. The feeling of claws, chains, greedy hands—

Footsteps.

Your heart stopped.

Vergil stepped into the doorway, Yamato glinting faintly at his hip, his long coat dusted from whatever training he had just finished. His silver hair was loose at the tips, slightly mussed in a way that should’ve been impossible for someone so controlled. His sharp blue eyes landed on you—and the wings.

You froze.

Neither of you spoke.

His gaze didn’t travel down your body, didn’t flinch at your half-state of dress. He only stared at your wings.

You opened your mouth, hesitated. “I… I didn’t think anyone was still here.”

He blinked slowly. “The others left. I remained behind to meditate.”

Of course he did.

You swallowed hard. “I… I know this is strange, but—”

“You are in pain,” he said plainly.

You stiffened.

“It’s not… nothing I can’t handle,” you lied, brushing at another knotted feather that made you wince.

“You cannot reach the base.” He took a step closer, voice quieter now. “May I?”

You looked at him, stunned. Of all people, you had never imagined asking Vergil for help with something so… personal. Your wings were a part of your soul. You had only ever let one person touch them before—and they had betrayed you.

But Vergil didn’t move any closer. He waited, eyes unreadable.

You nodded.

He gestured for you to sit on the couch, and you did, folding your wings forward slightly to allow him access to the tangle of feathers near your shoulders.

His touch was… unexpected.

Gentle. Deliberate. Not clinical, but precise. As if he understood instinctively what not to do. He combed through with fingers like blades dulled to velvet, smoothing through the feathers, loosening knots with slow, practiced care.

“I have read that angelic feathers are sensitive to both pain and memory,” he murmured. “They store remnants of emotion. Is that true?”

You nodded slowly, voice soft. “Yes. Some call it a curse.”

“A burden, perhaps.” His fingers paused on a particularly thick knot. “But not a curse.”

He worked in silence for a while, untangling each section with unwavering patience.

“…You’ve done this before,” you said finally.

“I’ve trained with beings who had wings,” he replied. “Long ago. I learned how they function. What they carry.”

His hand brushed the base of your wing, and you flinched. Not from pain—but something deeper. An echo of fear.

He stilled.

“I won’t harm you.”

You looked over your shoulder. He wasn’t even looking at your body. Just the feathers. As if they were something sacred.

“I know,” you whispered. “I just… don’t let anyone see them, usually.”

“Why?”

“Because when they do, they try to take them.”

Vergil was silent.

Then, very softly: “Fools. They see only beauty. Not the strength it takes to carry them.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

He resumed combing, slower now. With reverence.

Minutes passed. You felt your heart beating too fast, your wings lighter than they’d been in months. Your eyes prickled.

When he finally stopped, your feathers were smooth. Gleaming. You hadn’t realized how much pain you’d been in until it was gone.

“Thank you,” you said. “I didn’t expect… I didn’t think you’d help.”

He stepped back. “You did not ask anyone else.”

You blinked.

“I was the one you trusted.” His eyes met yours. “Do not doubt the wisdom in that.”

You turned fully now, your wings folding behind you with a grace that surprised even you.

Vergil’s gaze lingered.

Not on your body.

On your wings.

Then—so softly you barely heard it—he said, “They are… beautiful.”

And he left the room before you could ask if he meant just the feathers.

Or all of you.

You didn’t see him for three days.

Not that you were keeping track. Not that it bothered you. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But every time you walked past the lounge, you remembered his hands—how they’d moved through your feathers like he wasn’t afraid of touching something sacred. Like he understood that pain could be quiet, that softness could be armored.

You still felt the ghost of his touch when you stretched your wings, still found your breath catching when you thought of the way he’d said beautiful.

You should’ve said something. You should’ve asked what he meant.

But Vergil was Vergil. Elusive. Sharp-edged. As unreadable as a locked gate to an old library filled with ancient regrets. You didn’t pry. You didn’t beg. But something had shifted. And you weren’t sure if he felt it too.

---

The fourth night, you found him on the roof.

Moonlight silvered his coat, and the wind tugged gently at his hair as he stood there with his eyes closed, arms crossed, Yamato glowing faintly at his side.

You stepped forward quietly.

“You always train in the dark?” you asked.

He didn’t turn around.

“It is quiet up here.”

You took a breath, stepping beside him. “Thank you again. For helping me the other day. I never got to say that properly.”

He opened his eyes. “You already did.”

“Yes, but…” You hesitated. “Not like this. Not face-to-face. I don’t… usually let people see me like that. Not just the wings. The rest of it.”

His eyes flickered over to you.

“And what is the rest of it?”

You looked at the stars. “Vulnerability. Trust. Needing help.”

His silence stretched, but it wasn’t cold.

“…You are not weak for needing someone,” he said finally. “Strength and solitude are not the same.”

That surprised you.

“I thought you believed the opposite.”

Vergil turned to face you fully now. “Once, perhaps. But solitude becomes a cage when you build it high enough.”

You couldn’t stop the soft sound that left your throat. It wasn’t pity. It was recognition.

You let your wings bloom again, this time slow, deliberate. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. His gaze remained steady as they unfurled beside you, stretching wide into the night air. The wind caught in them, and for a moment, you felt weightless.

You saw his fingers twitch faintly—like he wanted to reach again. Like he remembered.

“…Would you like to touch them again?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

His expression didn’t change, but you saw the faintest trace of tension leave his shoulders.

“If you’ll allow it.”

You stepped closer.

He reached out.

And this time, he touched them not with caution—but with something like familiarity. His fingers brushed gently through the outer feathers, curling slightly where they caught in the breeze. You shivered, but not from the cold.

“They’re warmer tonight,” he said softly.

“So is the moonlight,” you replied.

His hand lingered, then rested just at the joint where wing met shoulder. It was a place no one had ever touched before—at least, not without pain. But here, now… it felt like trust made flesh.

“Have you ever flown?” he asked.

“Not in a long time.”

He stepped behind you, close enough to feel the heat of his body along your spine. “Then let me watch when you do.”

You turned your head slightly. “You want to see me fly?”

“I want to see you unbound.”

Your breath caught.

Vergil’s hand left your wing then—but his fingers brushed against your own, a silent echo of what might come later.

---

Some time later…

You find a letter left in your room, sealed with his calligraphy—neat, sharp strokes of ink:

“I find myself dwelling not on your power… but on the peace I felt, combing your wings in silence. I do not understand it. But I want to. If you are willing.”

You reread it three times.

Then you smiled.

You were falling.

And he was beginning to reach.

The next morning, the rain had passed, and the sky cracked open into soft gold.

You stood on the same rooftop where Vergil had trained nights before, your wings extended, your bare feet curled against the cool stone. The city below moved on in its usual noisy chaos—unaware of the weight pressing on your shoulders. The ache in your back had faded, soothed by his touch, by his words.

You hadn’t flown in years.

Not since the last time you were hunted.

But Vergil's words echoed in your chest, deeper than marrow:

“Then let me watch when you do. I want to see you unbound.”

And for the first time, you wanted to be seen.

---

He didn’t speak when he joined you. No footsteps. Just a familiar shift in the air, a presence at your back that brought calm instead of fear.

You turned slightly. “You came.”

“I said I would.” His eyes roamed the curve of your wings—not with hunger or awe, but with a kind of reverence, quiet and grounded.

You looked out toward the sky, jaw tight. “It’s been a long time.”

“I know.”

“What if I fall?”

He stepped closer.

“Then I will catch you.”

The words were simple.

But they settled inside you like truth.

You stepped to the edge. The wind brushed your face, curling in your hair, dancing between feathers that now gleamed from careful untangling.

You exhaled.

Then you leapt.

For one terrifying heartbeat, you dropped.

Then—your wings caught.

Not as smooth as they used to be, not yet—but strong. They beat once. Twice.

Then the air lifted you.

The world tilted away as you rose into the sky.

Wind rushed past you like laughter. The sun hit your face and filled your chest with something like joy—and something dangerously close to freedom. You circled once, then twice, higher now, your wings responding like second nature. You laughed—a sound you hadn’t made in too long.

Below, Vergil watched.

He stood still, head tilted up, the faintest trace of something like awe softening the hard line of his mouth.

You swooped low, flying over him in a gentle arc. Your shadow passed over his face—and for just a second, your eyes met his.

And he smiled.

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cold.

It was quiet. Almost reverent.

You landed gently moments later, stumbling slightly—but he was there instantly, steadying you with one hand at your back, the other bracing your arm.

“You flew,” he said softly.

“I did.”

You looked up at him, breathing hard.

“I didn’t think I could anymore. Not really.”

He studied you with something unreadable in his eyes—then leaned in.

And kissed your forehead.

It was brief. Chaste. But deliberate.

You felt your breath catch.

“I am glad I was here to witness it,” he said. “Even angels deserve to remember their sky.”

Made by @yo-ri-su-ki, do not copy or translate my work! Reposts and likes appreciated!! Also if you like this post and want to see more like this, consider following!!

An: TYSMM IM SORRY I COULDN'T MAKE IT SOONER, AS I SAID I'M VERY SICK!! THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING LOVE YOU MWAAAH

#devil may cry #dmc #yo ri su ki #fanfic #heh...#vergil x reader #what...#dmc vergil

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s4pphicghost · 1 day ago

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— sleepover <3

au powder x fem reader; pure fluff! no cws, hope you enjoy ♡ (sorry for mistakes, feel free to correct me!)

it's common for you to hold hands, hug many times a day, have weekly sleepovers and spend most of the time together. even light kisses on the cheek have been slipping between you for a while now — neither of you thought about it for too long, giving friendly gestures an unfriendly coloring. at least, she didn't think about it, as you assured yourself.

Powder grabbed your hands tightly, her eyes burning with a mischievous blue flame.

"you'll stay the night, right? I bought the eyeshadow, remember? that cherry shade! Vander gave me a couple of coins so I..."

this smile is more alive and dazzling than a newly born star. and a thousand of your entranced glances, opening other worlds in your head at every sight of these soft stretched lips and bared teeth, was not enough for you to get used to the warmth that was physically reflected in your body each time.

"of course… I promised, didn’t I?”

you faintly smiled back. the blue-haired girl was slightly shorter than you, and you didn't want to admit, but even such a small height difference seemed oddly adorable to you.

Powder (oh how she loved to do it), impulsively pressed you to herself, in usually unexpected — although, you should’ve gotten used to it by now — but such a comforting and sincere embrace.

“I’ll be waiting”

like a spring flower opening its delicate petals from the rays of the warm sun, her warming presence and such amazing calmness, trust in the whole world, made you cast aside all doubts and insecurities. it seemed even criminal — in her accepting gaze and soul-kissing smile to be embarrassed by your own sincere feelings. and still, you could not imagine actually confessing to her, overcoming your overwhelming fears. you only wanted one thing — to be a mirror of her soul, at least for a moment, to show her full beauty through your eyes — so innocent, naive, even though having gone through so much anger and injustice of the real world...

you always loved to see Powder like this — in large home t-shirts hanging from her small figure, with her blue hair gathered in a low disheveled bun, and tired, but incredibly beautiful deep blue eyes, and this tender look that she always generously bestowed on you in such intimate moments.

your knees were rubbing against each other — or rather, she deliberately initiated physical contact. you were lying on her messy bed, the new eyeshadow had long been lying open and forgotten on the table — she tried it on herself and made you give in to her requests to put some on you. she loved to share almost everything with you — delicious treats, clothes that had long seemed to belong to both of you (just divided into two different houses), sunny days filled with ringing laughter and even burdensome nights, when it was hard to just be, but being in your presence always gave her hope.

through her homely and thin from frequent wear t-shirt and the fabric of your nightgown, you could feel her steady heartbeat. you held her by the waist, not really pressing her to you, but just holding her in place without much effort, unlike her — one hand on your back, the other — a little closer to your waist, but she hugs you tightly, holds you close for 16, 17, 18 heartbeats seconds, and still doesn’t let go — your head is already boiling with thoughts, the almost dissipated sweet floral scent of her perfume fogs up your head, and you are on the verge of lowering your head to her shoulder, when she slowly pulls away, with a soft and slightly embarrassed smile — a sight rarely seen in other circumstances.

"I still can't believe they’re officially dating," she sighed, looking at the ceiling. if you were honest, you lost the thread of her thoughts quite a while ago, just watching the smooth rise and fall of her chest, the way her lips part and touch when she says the words. no, this feeling is not new at all. it feels like you've known her your whole life, even though you've only been friends for a couple of years. you started noticing intimate details about her a couple of months ago.

“sorry what were you talking about?" you whispered, lifting your head a bit so she could look at you. her eyes reflected the soft light from the window, causing the burgundy-purple glittery eyeshadow to shimmer unnaturally. a familiar and melting smirk graced her face.

"again? listen, are you sure you're friends with me... willingly?"

a soft chuckle fell from her pinkish-peach lips after her sarcastic reproach. she knew that you valued your friendship very much, she didn't doubt it for a moment and was forever grateful for your presence and efforts. and its not like she was actually annoyed by your lack of attention..

"this is the third time today."

the girl moved a bit, gently hugging you around the waist, pressing you even closer. you held back a sigh of unexpected sensitivity. you couldn't utter a word, not being able to come up with an easy excuse. Powder's gaze was directed out the window as you tried to get your thoughts in order. she felt like the soft warming sun breaking through the clouds after a cool, damp night. like the soothing sensation of loose, oily balm on dry, chapped lips.

"listen... can I ask you something rather... personal?"

your eyes seemed to widen for a millisecond, not even halfway through the last word. luckily she couldn't see it... not waiting for your answer (she was only asking out of politeness), Powder continued.

“do you like someone? romantically"

her eyes, now looking straight into yours, pierced your heart and soul. you knew that question would come soon, you really were bad at playing the role of a person who hides their true feelings perfectly.

although you may have known, you were definitely not ready, both mentally and physically. you still hadn't come up with an answer to that question...

it was hard to keep so many things under control at once — the rate of your breathing, the ‘confident’ relaxation of your body, the look in which she wouldn’t notice a drop of embarrassment. oh no, but you forgot one thing — you’ve been silent for a while now.

her smile widened sweetly.

the small, unnatural laugh cracked and died away. Powder averted her gaze.

"because I... thought it was just some platonic sympathy, but..."

her lips twitched in a forced smile before her teeth viciously sank into her lower lip. no, these lips exist only for the softest kisses! — your thoughts screamed. your brain did not even bother trying to process the information spoken by the blue-haired girl.

"when you laugh, look at me like this... no, it's something.."

Powder seemed so... different. complete opposite of the girl who talked incessantly with the enthusiasm of a child who had just learned to talk, confidently doing ridiculous and sometimes even risky things. oh no, the creature in front of you has the thinnest skin, the most tender heart and the most fragile soul of all that you’ve ever met.

"I want to wake up with you in my bed. I want to fall asleep with your warmth..."

your heart stopped for a eternity second. you had been looking at her face for at least half a minute, but it was as if you couldn’t really see anything. only an involuntary twitch of your hand brought you back to her disordered bed. her blue, ocean-deep eyes read every strain of your facial muscles. the girl's breathing was uneven and clearly audible to you.

"sorry.. I guess im kinda slow," you exhaled with a broken laugh, "do you mean..."

her voice sounded deeper and cut off the thread of your knots of thoughts

"sorry, this is probably a bit harsh. I'm not forcing you to answer this in any way now, I just wanted you to know, I guess..."

your heart was beating too loudly, the echo seemed to even drown out her voice. it was unnerving to meet her gaze, but what could you do when every cell of your body felt so alive, so real? it was difficult to pull out at least one of the millions of thoughts swiftly leading a round dance in your head.

“you.. I always felt like I was just imagining things when you... well, me too-“

her sweet, warm laugh dissolved the rest of the words on your tongue. her arms wrapped around your shoulders, foreheads connecting with a soft thump. your eyes could only recognize the smile that was so easily ingrained in your memory, always being the last thing you thought of before going to bed and the first thing in your head in the morning.

“god, I was so scared.. I thought I would never confess just out of fear”

unable to say a word, you pressed yourself against her, hugging her tightly. your fingers slid over the thin fabric of her shirt, feeling every vertebra. the girl’s body twitched with goosebumps running across her skin, but she did not pull away. burying her nose in your shoulder, inhaling your scent, she spoke, her voice lightly muffled.

“I’m so tired of thinking about this alone.”

“you never thought about this alone, trust me. but the silence was truly devouring.” you gently laid her down next to you. of course, you had hugged before — a thousand times. and in her bed, too. but at this moment, it felt like more than just your intertwined bodies; the embrace warmed more than just the top layer of skin — the warmth pierced right through.

“I’ll wake up in your bed tomorrow. and every morning after that."

im sorry this took so long for no reason ;-; hopefully it was worth it!

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sweet-pea-channie · 13 hours ago

Text

Yours, Elsewhere

Azriel x female!reader

Summary: A mission gone wrong hurls Azriel into a parallel Velaris. There, he meets a woman who knew him intimately in her world. As they search for a way to send him back, grief tangles with growing affection. He teaches her how to breathe again; she shows him a version of himself he never knew could exist. But the Cauldron is cracking, time unraveling. He must leave—or risk destroying everything.

Warnings: grief, past death of a loved one, emotional angst, mentions of trauma, memory loss, canon divergence. Bittersweet but healing.

Word count: 11.6k

A/N: I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of soul-deep connection, something that survives even across worlds. Writing this fic was a journey of emotion, comfort, and quiet hope, and I truly hope it resonates with you. Also, English is my third language, so thank you for your patience with any little mistakes along the way. I’m always learning, and I’m just grateful to be able to share this story with you. Thank you for reading 💙

The spell left her fingertips just as he vanished.

The witch’s lips moved in a frantic whisper, the ancient incantation torn from her throat like a last breath, desperate and reckless. Magic sparked blue at her hands, arcing like lightning across the broken altar stones. It twisted into the air, weightless and burning, then launched toward the night sky.

But Azriel was already gone.

He didn’t see the light flare behind him. Didn’t hear the way the wind screamed as it bent around the surge of power.

His wings beat once, powerful and sure, and then the shadows took him.

Velaris.

His destination shaped itself in his mind, rooftops glistening with dew, the scent of citrus and moonflower in the air. The shadows wrapped around him like silk, folding the world inward and then outward until the mountains welcomed him home.

His boots touched stone.

He exhaled slowly, the winnow sliding off his skin like a second breath. Easy. Clean. Just like always.

The balcony beneath him was familiar, high above the Sidra, at the top of the House of Wind. The air was sharp with pine and river mist, a spring breeze curling over the tiles.

He glanced up. And paused.

The stars were wrong.

Only slightly. Barely noticeable. But Azriel had flown these skies long enough to know every constellation, every shift in the heavens, they were old friends, silent sentries. And now, the stars blinked like strangers.

Frowning, he stepped forward, shadows curling idly at his heels. The door was unlocked. Odd. He stepped inside. The House was quiet. Too quiet.

Not in the peaceful way it usually was but empty. Hollow. As if no one had passed through in days. No scent of food, no lingering traces of Cassian’s boisterous laughter or Feyre’s paint-streaked energy. Just silence.

Azriel reached for the bond. Rhysand.

No answer. He stilled.

He pressed harder, pushing through the mental link, summoning the familiar pulse of his High Lord's mind.

Rhys. Come in.

Nothing. Like throwing a stone into water that didn’t ripple.

He tried again Cassian? Mor? but each attempt came back with the same flat silence.

A cold unease began to thread through his chest. The shadows responded immediately, rising like smoke along his shoulders, alert and watchful.

Something was off.

He launched into the skies again, this time gliding silently over Velaris. It looked... untouched.

The buildings were the same. The Sidra still shimmered like liquid silver beneath him. People walked the streets below. But when he dipped lower, he saw the way they looked up.

Saw the expressions that bloomed across their faces. Not awe. Not fear. Shock.

One woman clutched her child tighter to her side, eyes wide as she watched him pass. A group of males at a café stopped mid-conversation, staring. One stood abruptly, knocking over his chair, his mouth falling open.

Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter. He landed in an alleyway behind the familiar stretch of the Rainbow, his feet hitting cobblestone with barely a sound.

He turned toward the street, and froze. A shop window reflected him.

His armor, his blades, his shadows, all exactly as they should be. But behind him, in the glass, Velaris was... different. Too bright. Too sharp. Like the color had been turned up just a little too high.

He blinked. Turned. The illusion held.

No, he thought. Not illusion. Not glamour. This is real.

The truth whispered through him like a crack in the foundation. He was home. But something was wrong with home. The streets felt narrower here.

Or maybe it was the way people kept staring, some openly, some with barely concealed glances over shoulders, as if they’d seen a ghost and didn’t want to be rude about it.

Azriel kept to the shadows. He’d just rounded the edge of the Rainbow when he heard the gasp. A sharp inhale, half-shocked, half-sucked through clenched teeth.

He turned.

She stood beneath the awning of a flower stall, a spray of wild violets clutched in one hand, her other frozen mid-reach.

Human. Or maybe half-Fae. Familiar enough to recognize the expression on her face: recognition slammed into disbelief, then sank quickly into pale, careful confusion.

She didn’t speak at first.

Azriel gave her a cautious nod, not slowing his stride.

She took a step toward him. "That’s not funny."

He stopped. "I beg your pardon?"

She stared. “Who put you up to this?”

Azriel tilted his head, shadows coiling tighter around his boots. “No one put me up to anything.”

Her hand trembled, still gripping the stems. “You shouldn’t wear his, I mean, your armor. That’s... sick. Even for Cassian.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said evenly. “Who are you?”

Her brows drew together, uncertain now, brittle. “This isn’t funny,” she said again, softer this time. “Is this some sort of cruel Solstice prank?”

“I don’t play pranks.”

“No, he didn’t either,” she whispered. “Not like this.”

Something in her eyes shifted. The anger cracked, just a hairline fracture and beneath it, something raw flickered into view. Fear. Or maybe hope.

She dropped the violets.

Azriel stepped forward instinctively, but she flinched, then shook her head, waving him off like she couldn’t bear to be helped.

“This has to be a mistake,” she muttered. “Or... or a glamour. Are you-? No. You can’t be...”

She looked up at him again, really looked, and he watched her decide something.

“You need to come with me.”

Azriel hesitated. “Why?”

She didn’t answer, just turned on her heel.

“I don’t follow strangers,” he called after her.

She paused at the corner. “You’re not following a stranger.”

She looked back. And for a moment, her expression softened not quite fond, not quite grief-stricken, but edged in something that made his stomach twist.

“You’re following a friend of hers.”

Azriel’s wings rustled. “Her?”

“She’ll know what to do with you.” A beat. “Or... what’s left of her will.”

He didn’t like the sound of that.

But the shadows, ever attuned to unspoken truths, whispered go.

So he followed.

────────────

The children were covered in paint.

It wasn’t entirely her fault. The sun was warm, the breeze soft, and after a long week of rain and restlessness, she had promised them something fun. So the easels were out, brushes flying, water cups sloshing precariously on the garden stones.

Y/N knelt beside a little girl with wild curls and green streaks on her cheeks, helping her mix blue and white into a swirl of sky.

"Like this?" the girl asked, tongue between her teeth in concentration.

"Perfect," Y/N murmured, smiling. "That looks just like a cloud before it rains."

Laughter bubbled nearby. The world, for once, felt light enough to hold.

So she didn’t notice the footsteps at first. Or the quiet tension just beyond the garden gate. Not until a shadow crossed her canvas.

She looked up.

Her friend stood there, a strange expression on her face. Breathless, like she’d been running, though the walk from town wasn’t far. And behind her, half in the sun and half in the shade, stood a male Y/N hadn’t seen in a very long time.

Everything stopped.

The paintbrush slipped from her fingers. Her breath caught on the edge of his name, but she didn’t say it. Couldn’t.

He looked the same.

The armor, the blades, the face she’d memorized long ago. The face she still saw in dreams, the one she sometimes whispered to when sleep clung too tightly. But there was something missing. No recognition in his eyes. No quiet pull between them. Just… calm. Measured wariness. And then there were these things... shadows?

He wasn’t hers.

Not really.

Her friend stepped aside, watching her carefully.

Y/N rose slowly, brushing her hands against her apron out of habit, though streaks of dried paint still clung to her palms.

Azriel’s eyes followed the motion.

She didn’t speak. Not at first. She just stared.

And he stared back.

One of the children tugged on her sleeve. “Miss Y/N? Is that the scary man you told us stories about?”

A huff of laughter slipped from her friend, almost hysterical. Y/N managed a breath.

"No, sweetheart," she said quietly. "He’s not scary at all."

Azriel tilted his head. “You know me.”

She swallowed, forcing her eyes to stay dry. “Not you, exactly.”

He looked down for a moment, then back at her, something almost apologetic in the tilt of his brow.

"I'm not supposed to be here, am I?"

She took a step closer, heart pounding, unsure what to do with it all. The sight of him. The voice. The way her body recognized him even if he didn’t recognize her.

"No," she said. "But you're here all the same."

The breeze picked up, rustling through the garden. The scent of lilac and paint and spring.

She didn’t cry. Not yet.

But the world felt suddenly too full, and too empty, all at once. "Come inside," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "We need to talk."

And he followed her, just like he used to. Even if he didn’t know why.

Y/N kept her voice steady as she called over to the other caretaker, a soft-spoken male named Tarian who’d been helping with the younger ones that day.

“Arios, would you mind staying a little longer? I need to step away for a bit.”

He glanced up from where he was braiding daisies into a toddler’s hair, his expression gentle but curious. His eyes flicked briefly to the male standing behind her, then back. He didn’t ask questions. Just nodded once.

“Of course. Take all the time you need.”

She offered a grateful smile she didn’t feel, touched a child’s shoulder in passing, and turned.

“Follow me,” she said without looking back.

Azriel obeyed in silence.

The garden gave way to the winding path toward the cottage she used for art and quiet reading. It was set apart from the others, tucked between climbing roses and silver-barked trees. Each step she took seemed more uncertain than the last, but her posture stayed rigid, collected. Just enough to keep from unraveling.

Azriel’s eyes moved over everything as they walked.

The cobblestones here weren’t the same. Laid in a different pattern, slightly darker in hue, almost as if the rain had never stopped soaking into them. The flowering vines on the archway above them curled in unfamiliar directions, lavender in color where they should have been white. And the House of Wind, though distant, didn’t quite look like itself either. The cliffs cradled it too tightly. As if the mountains had shifted just enough to close their grip.

Velaris. But wrong.

Beautiful still, but subtly off. A painting that someone had copied from memory rather than life. Familiar and foreign in the same breath.

He could feel the magic in the air too. Not buzzing. Not screaming. Just trembling softly at the edges of everything, like a note held too long on a string.

His shadows had quieted, uncertain of what to guard against.

He studied the woman in front of him. She moved like she was trying not to feel. Like her heart had shattered and she'd pressed the pieces back in place with nothing but breath and willpower. She wasn’t crying. But the tension in her shoulders said she could, at any moment.

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice low but clear.

She didn’t stop walking.

“Absolutely not,” she said.

Her voice didn’t shake. It didn’t need to. The words landed like a stone in his chest.

Azriel let the silence stretch. Not empty. Not awkward. Just necessary. He understood grief. He lived in the shadows of it.

But this was something else. This was her past colliding with his present. And whatever version of himself had once belonged to this world, it was obvious that he had belonged to her.

And now, somehow, so did the weight of his absence.

They reached the door to the cottage. She paused with her hand on the knob, inhaling slowly, the breath catching like a thread snagged on glass.

She looked at him, truly looked. Not at the armor or the blades or the shadows, but at his face. Like she was trying to find something in it. Or make peace with the fact that she wouldn't.

Then she pushed the door open, stepped inside, and let the light swallow her.

Azriel followed.

And for the first time since arriving, he felt the world shift slightly again. Not the magic. Not the timeline. Just his own heart. Something had cracked open.

And he didn’t know yet whether it was meant to be sealed again, or stepped through.

The door clicked softly shut behind them.

Inside, the air was warm with the faint scent of paint and clay and something citrus-sweet, orange peel maybe, left out in a little bowl on the windowsill. Children’s drawings lined the walls, some framed with pressed flowers, others curling at the corners from age or love.

Azriel stood just inside, uncertain of the space but unwilling to impose.

Y/N moved slowly. Not towards him, but toward the shelf where the water pitcher sat. She poured herself a glass with steady hands. Didn’t offer one. Didn’t look at him. Just needed something to do.

Azriel let the silence hold for a moment before speaking.

“I don’t think this is my world,” he said quietly.

She glanced at him, then back at her glass.

“I figured.”

He nodded, stepping forward. The wooden floor creaked faintly beneath his boots. He stopped a few paces from her, careful not to cross whatever invisible line she needed right now.

“There was a mission,” he said. “We were tracking a rogue spell-weaver. A witch who’d been bending too many old laws. I...” He exhaled slowly. “I might’ve said the wrong thing at the wrong time. I made her angry.”

Y/N set her glass down but didn’t drink from it. “And?”

“She was casting something. Ancient magic. I interrupted her. I thought I’d stopped her in time.” He gave a small shake of his head. “But something must have hit me. Something… twisted.”

She finally looked at him then, brows slightly furrowed. “You’re saying she sent you here?”

“I think so,” he said. “Not on purpose, maybe. But the spell left her hands just as I winnowed. I landed in Velaris. But not mine.”

He looked toward the window, out at the sky that wasn’t quite the right shade, at the garden path that curved too gently.

“I knew the moment I saw the stars. They’re wrong here. Familiar, but rearranged. Like someone shuffled the sky when I wasn’t looking.”

She said nothing for a long beat. Then, softly, “You’re a Shadowsinger there?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“And who… who do you work for?”

Azriel’s mouth twitched slightly. “Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court. I’m his spymaster.”

Her breath caught. He could hear it, even with the distance between them. She looked down at her hands, fingers curling in against her palms.

He took a half-step closer. “I didn’t catch your name,” he said, his voice gentler now. “May I ask?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Swallowed.

Then, almost to herself, she said, “Your voice is exactly the same.”

Azriel went still.

Her eyes flicked up to his. “The way you speak. It’s like… like he’s standing here.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t know how to.

She closed her eyes briefly, as if the air itself had become too heavy.

“My name is Y/N,” she said finally. Quiet, but clear. “I used to mean something to you. I mean, to him. In this world.”

Azriel let the weight of it settle between them.

“I believe that,” he said.

Azriel’s eyes lingered on Y/N’s face, on the way she held herself just a little too still, like one wrong move might shatter the fragile calm she’d built around her.

“If you don’t mind,” he said carefully, “could you tell me more about this place? This version of Velaris. Is Rhysand the High Lord here too?”

Something shifted in her expression. Not shock. Just quiet confusion.

“Rhysand,” she repeated, as if tasting the name for the first time. “I’ve never heard that name before.”

That struck deeper than he expected. He kept his face impassive, but inside, a slow ripple of unease moved through him. Rhysand had ruled for centuries. If no one here knew his name…

“Then who rules the Night Court?” he asked.

“Lord Tharanis,” she said. “He’s been High Lord since before I was born.”

The name meant nothing to him. Not even a whisper of familiarity. Another piece of the puzzle that proved it beyond doubt, this world wasn’t just a copy. It was a divergence. A different thread entirely.

Y/N must have seen something in his face, because she stepped away from the table and crossed to one of the nearby shelves, tracing her fingers over the spines of a row of books without reading any of them.

“There’s a witch who lives near the cliffs on the eastern side of the city,” she said. “She studies old magic. Real old. Quiet about it, but good. We could ask her to help. Maybe she’ll know how to get you back.”

Azriel caught the way she said it. We. But the tone didn’t hold warmth. It was kindness, not invitation. She wanted him to leave.

He watched her closely now, the subtle tension in her shoulders, the way her hand paused over a small ceramic sculpture on the shelf but didn’t pick it up. She didn’t want to look at him again.

He took a step closer, his voice soft. “Are you afraid of what might happen if I stay?”

Her gaze stayed fixed on the shelf. “No.”

“Then what is it?”

Silence.

Then she turned, slowly. Her eyes met his, clear and unwavering.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said. “But you’re not supposed to be here. And… part of me keeps waiting for him to walk in.” She didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. “And he won’t.”

Azriel didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Her voice was steady now. Empty of drama, full of weight.

“My Azriel died,” she said. “Years ago. Not in battle. Not in glory. Just a quiet thing. Magic sickness. He didn’t even tell me until it was too far gone. He thought he could protect me from it.”

Her breath shivered at the edges.

“And he’s been gone long enough that I stopped dreaming of him. Until today.”

Azriel exhaled, low and slow. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Y/N gave the smallest nod, then sat down on the edge of a low bench, hands resting on her knees.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” she admitted. “You’re not him. But every time I look at you, my chest forgets that.”

Azriel lowered himself into the chair across from her. No armor between them now, no title. Just two people caught in something too large to name.

“I’ll help you find a way home,” she said again, quieter this time.

But Azriel wasn’t sure if she meant it for his sake, or hers. Maybe both. And maybe neither of them knew what it would cost when the way opened.

────────────

The room was small but clean. Simple linens on the bed, a chipped blue vase on the windowsill with a few sprigs of dried lavender tucked inside. The shutters creaked faintly in the wind as Azriel stood at the window, arms folded, staring out at the river.

The Sidra glittered under the early evening light, silver and shadowed, the current moving slow as syrup. In his Velaris, it danced faster. The curve of it was a touch different too, this one bent around a cluster of buildings that shouldn't exist. The skyline was off by inches, by centuries. He couldn’t stop cataloging it.

His shadows whispered around him, brushing the walls, curling through the corners of the room like restless thoughts. They brought him details he hadn’t asked for. The smell of something baking three floors below. The hushed footsteps of a couple arguing in the hallway. The flick of a candle being snuffed out in a room across the street. And whispers — always whispers — carrying scraps of names, old magic, things his mind could barely catch before they slipped away.

But he couldn’t focus.

He watched the light shift on the water, caught between the golden pull of sunset and the first hints of stars above. Stars that didn’t belong to him.

How many versions of Velaris were out there? How many Azriels? In this one, he had lived. Loved. And died.

He turned away from the window, ran a hand through his hair, let his fingers drag over his jaw.

He’d seen grief in Y/N’s eyes, coiled tight under her calm. But what haunted him more was the way she looked at him, like her heart didn’t know how to tell the difference yet.

He wanted to ask her. Everything. What he had been like. What he’d done. What they’d been.

But some part of him worried that asking would crack her open, and he wasn’t sure she’d ever put herself back together again.

Still, the questions clawed at him.

He needed to know. If not from her, then from someone who hadn’t loved that version of him with their whole chest.

His mind returned to the woman from earlier, the friend who’d brought him to Y/N in the first place. Sharp-eyed. Suspicious. Protective. She knew more than she’d said.

And if he and Y/N were going to visit the witch tomorrow afternoon, then this was his only chance to find answers before everything shifted again.

Azriel strapped his knives back onto his belt, out of habit more than necessity, and cast one last glance toward the Sidra.

The sky was deepening, thick with color. A world of strangers, and one familiar soul. He slipped into the shadows. And went looking for the truth.

Azriel found her near the edge of the old market, tucked behind a row of shuttered stalls. She stood alone by a railing that overlooked the Sidra, arms crossed tightly as she watched the river move in silence. The lanterns from the lower paths cast flickers of gold against her dark coat.

He didn’t try to be stealthy. He wanted her to see him coming.

She did.

“You’re not exactly subtle,” she muttered, her gaze flicking to his armor, his shadows, the stillness in the way he moved.

“I wasn’t trying to be,” Azriel said, stopping a few steps away.

She exhaled, jaw set. “If you’re looking for Y/N, she’s not here.”

“I came to talk to you.”

She hesitated. “Why?”

“Because I need to understand what this place is. What he was.”

The muscles in her arms tightened where they crossed. “You don’t get to dig through his life like it’s a map back to yours. He wasn’t a version of you. He was someone… And that someone was married to her.”

The moment the word left her mouth, her expression shifted, a slight widening of her eyes, as if she’d only just realized what she’d said.

Azriel’s voice was quiet. “Married?”

She flinched but didn’t deny it. Didn’t backtrack.

“Yes,” she said. “Since they were hundred-twenty-four.”

His breath caught. The word sat in his chest like a stone, unfamiliar and too big to ignore.

She watched him carefully. Noticing, perhaps for the first time, the way he didn’t quite stand like the Azriel she knew. How he held tension in his body like it was armor. How the shadows around him didn’t just cling — they listened.

“You really don’t know anything about this world, do you?” she said, softer now.

“No,” Azriel admitted.

And then, slowly, like the weight of his surprise had unlocked something in her, she began to speak.

“They grew up together. Their fathers were old friends, your father was a smith, hers a spice merchant. They were just… always around each other. Always in each other’s orbit. You used to tease her for stealing fruit off your plate. She used to braid flowers into your hair when you fell asleep in the fields behind her house.”

Azriel listened in silence, the image unfolding before him like a story written in a hand he almost recognized.

“He became a soldier,” she said. “Not a Shadowsinger, he didn't have those shadows. Just a fighter. Loyal. Brave. A little reckless, when it came to her.”

Azriel’s hands were still at his sides, but his knuckles had gone pale.

“He loved her,” she went on. “More than anything. He was quieter than most of the other males we grew up with. Thoughtful. Steady. But gods, when he looked at her…”

She trailed off, blinking fast.

Azriel said nothing. There was something raw sitting in his throat, but he didn’t know what name to give it.

“They were married under the spring cherry trees,” she added after a moment. “I stood beside her. I watched him shake when he kissed her.”

He closed his eyes briefly. The breeze off the Sidra caught the edge of his coat, pulling it slightly. His shadows stayed close, hushed, as if mourning someone they’d never met.

“He died nine years ago,” the friend said finally. “It wasn’t his fault. But it didn’t matter. She hasn’t been the same since.”

Azriel’s voice was barely above a whisper. “And now I’m here.”

She looked at him again, really looked, and for the first time, her eyes softened. “You’re not him,” she said. “But you’re not nothing either.”

Silence stretched between them, and Azriel breathed through the ache of it.

“I don’t want to hurt her,” he said.

“I know,” she answered.

And they stood together at the edge of a world where two lives had almost, impossibly, collided.

Y/N shut the door behind her, turned the lock with trembling fingers, and let her back fall against the wood.

For a long time, she didn’t move.

Velaris was quiet beyond the window, the kind of stillness that always came after the children's laughter faded and the lanterns blinked to life across the Sidra. But the city felt foreign now. Tilted somehow. Too sharp in its familiarity. Like someone had redrawn the lines of everything she'd learned to live with.

She pressed a hand to her cheek and felt the tears that had dried there. She hadn't even noticed when they'd fallen.

Slowly, her feet carried her into the room that used to be theirs.

The walls were warm with the same soft blue he used to say reminded him of summer skies. Her fingers brushed the edge of the dresser, skimming over the old glass bottles and the cluster of pressed flowers still sealed in a frame.

She reached for the drawer beneath the bed. It groaned softly in protest. And there it was. The painting.

A small canvas, edges frayed from being held too many times. A portrait, clumsy, rough-edged, painted on a spring afternoon years ago when the breeze kept stealing her brush and he wouldn’t stop laughing. She’d made him sit still for it, half-scowling, half-grinning. His hand was on hers in the picture, even though she’d never meant to paint that part.

She cradled it in both hands now, sinking slowly to the floor, her back against the side of the bed. Her forehead pressed to the edge of the frame.

He looked so young in it. And now he was standing in her world again. Breathing again. Looking at her with the same eyes but none of the memory.

She had told herself she was fine. That she could handle this. That helping him find his way home was the right thing to do.

But the truth hit her like a blow to the ribs. He wasn’t her Azriel. Her Azriel was gone.

Gone in a way that left the world quieter. In a way that had hollowed out parts of her she’d never been able to refill. And now this new one, this stranger who wore his face and spoke with his voice, had stepped into her life like the echo of a dream she’d spent years trying to forget.

It was too much.

Her hand curled around the bottom of the frame, and her breath hitched.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to breathe around you.”

A shadow slipped through the crack beneath the door.

She didn’t see it. Didn’t feel the gentle shift in air as it moved, curious, cautious. It hovered in the corner of the room, keeping its distance like it understood grief by instinct alone.

She pressed her face into her knees, shoulders shaking.

“I miss you,” she whispered. “I miss you every day.”

The shadow watched, then slipped back through the wood and stone, weaving between alleys and eaves, past flower boxes and lit windows, all the way across Velaris.

It found him at the inn, standing at the window again, still staring at the stars that didn’t belong to him. And when it reached him, it didn’t speak. It didn’t have to.

He felt the truth curl against his ribs as the shadow touched his shoulder, cold with the ache of her.

She was crying.

And somehow, the sound of it broke something open in him too.

────────────

The sun was warm where it filtered through the trees, casting soft shadows across the cobblestone walk. Azriel stood near the gate of the care station, wings tucked in, hands clasped loosely behind his back as he waited.

He didn’t have to turn when he felt her approach. The shadows told him before her footsteps ever reached the stone.

Y/N’s pace was steady, but her shoulders were a little higher than usual, her chin set with quiet resolve. Her eyes met his as she stopped beside him, and for a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.

Then Azriel offered a soft, “How are you doing today?”

She looked at him for a long moment, then gave a small, honest smile. “Coping,” she said. “But… it’s hard. Seeing you like this. Every time I look at you, my heart forgets, for just a second, and then it remembers all over again.”

Azriel nodded, gently. “That makes sense. I'm sorry you have to go through this all."

She glanced at him sideways, searching. “And you? How are you doing in a world that doesn’t quite know you?”

His mouth lifted slightly. “Figuring it out as I go. Trying not to get too attached to the wrong sky.”

That surprised a breath of laughter out of her, small, but real.

“I thought maybe,” he said, “you’d feel better if I distracted you a little.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” she admitted, her voice softer now.

They fell into step, walking side by side down the shaded street that led toward the edge of the city.

“You mentioned a High Lady,” she prompted after a pause. “You really have one in your world?”

Azriel nodded. “Feyre. She’s my High Lady, and Rhysand’s mate.”

Y/N blinked, eyes wide. “You have a mated High Lady?”

“We do,” he said. “And she earned it. She was mortal once. Human. Fought through war and death to save our kind. Rhysand gave her the title because she earned her place beside him. Not behind. Not beneath. Beside.”

Y/N shook her head slowly, clearly captivated. “I’ve never even heard of a female high ruler. In our court, the males still hold the bloodlines. Always have.”

“Feyre shattered that,” Azriel said with quiet pride. “And she didn’t do it alone. Mor helped guide her. Amren too. Powerful females, each in their own way.”

Y/N’s brows lifted. “You’re surrounded by strong women.”

He gave a faint, rueful smile. “That’s an understatement.”

The wind stirred as they turned onto a narrower path lined with stone lanterns.

“I think I would’ve liked your Feyre,” she said after a moment.

“She would’ve liked you too,” he said. “She sees people. The quiet strength in them. The ache they carry. She would’ve seen yours right away.”

Y/N looked at him then, really looked, and for a brief moment, the weight behind her eyes eased.

Ahead, the path curved upward toward the rise of a mossy hill. At the top stood a narrow building nestled in wisteria vines, its windows darkened with age, a carved raven perched over the lintel.

“She’s in there?” Y/N asked.

Azriel nodded. “I can feel the wards already.”

They stopped at the base of the hill.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Are you?”

She took a breath that trembled slightly. Then nodded.

And together, they climbed toward the witch who might hold the answers, and the thread that would lead him home, or unravel everything they’d just begun to hold.

The climb slowed as they reached the top of the hill. The weight of the city seemed to fall away behind them, replaced by the heavy scent of moss and wildflowers. The air was cooler here, still enough that the faint rustle of leaves sounded like a secret waiting to be shared.

Azriel glanced at Y/N. She stood a few steps ahead, shoulders squared but tension visible in the tight set of her jaw, the way her fingers curled lightly at her sides.

He shifted, shadows flickering softly around his ankles, a quiet reminder of the darkness he carried and the light she tried to protect.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly.

She looked back, surprise flickering in her eyes, but her voice was steady. “I don’t know any other way forward.”

He nodded, stepping closer, feeling the subtle tremor in her breath. “Whatever happens in there, I want you to know...”

She cut him off with a small, sad smile. “You already know. It’s not the witch I’m afraid of. It’s what comes after.”

Azriel’s fingers itched to reach for hers, but he held back. “Then we face it together.”

She swallowed, eyes drifting to the carved raven above the door. “I’m not sure if I’m brave enough.”

“You’re braver than you think,” he said, voice low enough that only she could hear.

They stood side by side, the silence stretching between them like a fragile thread. Azriel’s shadows curled protectively, sensing her fear, her hope, and the impossible bond that held them here, tangled between loss and the chance at something new.

Y/N took a shaky breath, and without another word, she lifted her hand and knocked.

The door creaked open slowly, revealing a dim interior that smelled of damp stone, dried herbs, and something older, the scent of magic that had been rooted there long before Velaris rose around it.

The witch was already waiting.

She stood at the center of the room, pale hair swept into a thick braid, her eyes the color of moonstone. Everything about her felt quiet and vast, like a pond with no surface ripple — but Azriel felt the power gathered beneath her skin like coiled smoke.

“You’re not from here,” she said before they even stepped inside.

Azriel inclined his head. “No.”

She gestured them in, and the door shut behind them with a breathless hush. Y/N hovered just behind him, silent, wary.

“Explain,” the witch said, voice like frost curling up a windowpane.

Azriel took his time. He told her about the mission. The witch he’d cornered. The way she screamed in an old tongue as she’d vanished into shadow. The spell that had struck as he was winnowing away. And the moment he landed in Velaris only to find that the stars were wrong and nothing quite fit.

The witch listened without interrupting. When he finished, she moved to the shelves lining the curved wall, fingers gliding over jars and scrolls like she already knew what she’d find.

“That’s weaving magic,” she murmured. “Time-threading. Ancient. Nearly extinct.”

Azriel’s brow furrowed. “You recognize it?”

“Barely,” she replied. “It’s old enough that even most witches have only read about it in theory. Which means the one you angered was exceptionally trained… or dangerous beyond sense. Or both.”

Y/N swallowed, watching the way the witch’s shoulders tightened.

“So what does that mean?” she asked quietly. “Is there a way to undo it?”

The witch turned, scroll in hand. “Maybe. But not quickly. This kind of casting unravels space around it, rips a hole through layered time. You’re not just misplaced, Shadowsinger. You’re displaced. And you’ve dragged the thread of your world with you.”

Azriel stilled. “What are you saying?”

The witch looked at him like a storm just waiting to form. “The Cauldron can only bear so much. When a being slips through timelines like this, especially one bound to another world, another rhythm, the strain begins to tear at the core of everything. Realms blur. Boundaries weaken. If you stay much longer, the damage could become… irreversible.”

Y/N’s breath left her in a slow, unsteady exhale.

The witch's voice dropped lower. “One wrong soul in the wrong timeline is a ripple that doesn’t end. Eventually, the Cauldron cracks. And if that happens, it won’t be just you or this world that falls. The entire weave could collapse, all timelines, all lives. Every version of you. Every version of you and her.”

She didn’t have to gesture toward Y/N for the words to land like a blade.

Azriel’s voice was quiet. “Can you fix it?”

The witch hesitated. “I can try. I’ll need time. And help. I’ll reach out to every coven that still remembers the old languages. But we’re not talking about days. You have to be ready when the moment comes, and it will come suddenly. We may only get one chance.”

Azriel nodded once. “Understood.”

The witch gave him a long, unreadable look. Then turned her gaze to Y/N.

“I don’t need to ask how much it hurts to see him,” she said. “But I do need you to understand that if you keep trying to hold him here, even with your heart, the cost might not stop with you.”

The silence that followed was heavy. The kind that broke bones.

Y/N didn’t speak as they left the witch’s house. Not at first.

But when they reached the edge of the hill, with Velaris spread beneath them like a world pretending to be whole, she finally whispered, “You really do have to go.”

And Azriel, who had watched the edges of her tremble and steel themselves with quiet dignity, didn’t argue.

He simply said, “I know.”

The sun had shifted lower by the time they made their way down the hill, painting Velaris in a watercolor haze of lilac and pale gold. The path was narrow, flanked by wild heather and whispering grass, the city glittering below like a dream waiting to be remembered.

Y/N walked beside him in silence, gaze flicking to the horizon, her jaw tight with thought.

Azriel didn’t speak. He could feel the tension in her steps, the storm moving behind her quiet eyes. It was a familiar silence, but not a comfortable one. This wasn’t the silence they’d shared in the witch’s house, filled with fear and consequence. This one was quieter. Raw. Human.

“I know it’s dangerous,” she said suddenly, voice low, like she wasn’t quite ready to admit it out loud. “I know you shouldn’t be here. I understand what’s at stake, what could break because of this.”

He glanced at her, but she kept her eyes forward.

“And still,” she breathed, “some part of me was hoping you could stay. Just a little while longer.”

Azriel’s heart thudded against his ribs. He said nothing, waiting.

Y/N shook her head, her voice thinning with guilt. “It’s selfish. I didn’t even think about… Oh gods...” she stopped walking and turned to him, wide-eyed. “Is someone waiting for you back home?”

Azriel blinked. Then slowly, gently, he said, “No. No one like that.”

She looked away, swallowing hard, but not before he saw the flicker of relief that passed through her features. Relief and shame.

“My family,” he added, softer, “my court. They’ll be worried. But they can wait a bit longer… if staying here means I might help you heal.”

Y/N’s lips parted, but the words didn’t come. Her throat bobbed with the effort to speak.

“I won’t force anything,” Azriel went on. “While we wait for the witch to find a way back, it’s your choice. If you want me to stay away, I will. If it’s easier to forget I’m here, I’ll disappear into the city and you won’t see me again until it’s time.”

She looked at him now. Fully. The grief in her eyes shimmered, but so did something else. Something fragile and reaching.

“But,” he said, the barest trace of a smile curling at the edge of his mouth, “if you think maybe… maybe we could spend some time together, even just as strangers, I’d like that too.”

Y/N stared at him, and then, slowly, her lips curved into a faint, wistful smile.

“There were things,” she whispered, “my Azriel never had time for. Little things. I always told him we had forever.”

Azriel took a breath, feeling the tightness in his chest ease.

“Then let me do them with you,” he said. “I have time.”

The city glowed warmer below them now, the river catching the last light of day.

Y/N nodded once, more to herself than him. “He never got to learn how to paint. Or dance without armor on. Or ruin a cake recipe just because he always wanted to.”

Azriel chuckled, a low, quiet sound that made her eyes brighten.

“I’m excellent at ruining recipes,” he said. “That one I’ve already mastered.”

Y/N laughed — and it cracked something open.

They kept walking.

This time, they walked slower.

────────────

The next day dawned pale and bright, the kind of morning that smelled like clean air and promise. Velaris stirred gently to life as Azriel made his way to the care station, a small satchel slung over one shoulder, shadows curling lazily along his collar like drowsy cats.

The children spotted him first.

Cries of delight broke out across the garden as a handful of small figures dashed toward the fence, little hands waving, eyes wide. Y/N stood under the canvas awning that shaded the painting tables, her apron already dotted with a dozen different colors. She looked up, and despite everything — the pain, the weight of yesterday — her smile came easily.

“You came,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

“I said I would,” Azriel replied, glancing around. “Besides, I’m here to ruin your art supplies.”

“You’re about to be in a lot of trouble,” she warned playfully, already handing him a paintbrush.

The table was covered in bright pots of color, paper curling in the corners from the morning breeze, little hands dipping brushes into everything at once. Azriel found himself seated between two wide-eyed children, both whispering about how tall he was.

“Are you a warrior?” one of them asked.

“Sometimes,” he said, lips twitching.

“He’s going to paint with us today,” Y/N said from across the table. “Be nice.”

Azriel dipped his brush into something bright pink and started dragging uneven strokes across his page. Purposefully clumsy, exaggeratedly bad. The kids giggled with delight as his “painting” became a lopsided blob with what might’ve been wings.

“This is terrible,” Y/N said, leaning over his shoulder.

“I warned you.”

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

He didn’t reply.

Her voice lowered. “You’re better than this, aren’t you?”

He looked up, surprised to find her gaze already waiting for him. Calm. Patient. A little amused.

Azriel sighed. “A little.”

“Then paint something real.”

He blinked. “Real?”

“Something that reminds you of home.”

The children were still lost in their own work, but Y/N had settled across from him now, eyes steady, hands stained blue at the knuckles.

Azriel picked up a clean sheet, silent for a long moment. Then he began.

His brush moved slowly, deliberately this time. Thin strokes forming shadows first, not harsh, not frightening, but soft, layered darkness like the kind that gathered under quiet trees. Then came the mountains, sharp and proud, painted in indigo and deep green, rising in the distance.

A sky filled in next. Not just blue, but dotted with constellations, each one placed with careful reverence.

At the center, a single stone balcony, draped in ivy and overlooking a silver river. There were no people. Only light. Stillness.

Y/N didn’t say a word while he worked. She watched, hands folded in her lap.

When he was done, Azriel set the brush down and sat back.

“That’s the House of Wind,” she said quietly.

He nodded once. “It’s where I feel most like myself.”

She looked at the painting for a long time. “It’s beautiful.”

His voice was soft. “Thank you.”

There was a quiet between them, warm and full, not the silence of absence, but of something being gently built. In the background, a child was explaining to another that Azriel’s first painting was definitely a dragon.

Y/N smiled. “Tomorrow, you’re baking.”

Azriel raised a brow. “I’m what?”

“Ruining a recipe,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Like you promised.”

He chuckled, a low sound that stirred something in her chest.

“All right,” he murmured. “But only if you help me clean up the disaster.”

Y/N leaned her chin on her hand, watching him.

“Deal.”

Azriel wiped his hands on the edge of his tunic, smirking faintly at the streaks of paint across his skin. Most of it was probably from the children, but some, he admitted, was definitely from him.

“Should I help clean this up?” he asked, glancing at the mess of paper, drying brushes, and tipped-over jars of color.

Y/N had already started stacking the unused paper. She looked up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“No, you don’t have to. You’re a guest.”

“I insist,” he said simply.

She hesitated, then laughed under her breath. “You’re very stubborn, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

With a small shake of her head, she handed him a cloth. “Fine. Wipe the brushes gently. We try to save them as long as possible.”

Azriel took the cloth, his hands deft and steady as he followed her instructions. They moved quietly beside each other, the easy rhythm of shared work wrapping around them. For a while, it felt almost ordinary. Light spilling in through the awning, soft laughter still trailing across the yard.

Then, suddenly-

“Miss Y/N!”

A small voice broke across the space.

One of the children, a little boy with untied boots and paint on his chin, came barreling up to them. His eyes were wide, worried.

“It’s Lyla,” he panted. “She fell. Her knee’s bleeding. She’s behind the swings.”

Y/N’s face changed instantly — concern replacing ease. She set down the brushes and knelt to the boy’s level, brushing his curls back gently.

“Is she crying?”

He nodded. “A little.”

“Good job coming to get me,” she said, squeezing his shoulder before rising and heading off across the garden.

Azriel watched her go. The way she crouched beside the small, crumpled shape near the swings, her hands soft as she checked the child’s knee, her voice low and steady. The boy hovered near them the whole time, guilt in every line of his little frame. She pulled him close too, one arm wrapping around each sibling as she whispered something only they could hear.

Azriel didn’t know what it was, but both children clung to her like roots to soil.

He didn’t look away.

Not when she kissed the girl’s forehead. Not when she helped them both stand. Not when she walked back across the grass with her braid loose and her cheeks a little flushed from the sun.

“She’ll be all right,” Y/N said as she reached him again. “Nothing serious. A scrape and a fright.”

“You’re good with them.”

She gave him a small smile. “They’re easy to love.”

Azriel’s mouth twitched. “So are you.”

She froze just slightly. He looked away, but the words lingered between them, soft and unthreatening. Like a truth neither of them needed to acknowledge yet.

“I should let you go,” she said gently. “You’ve spent enough of your day here.”

Azriel’s brows lifted. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”

Y/N tilted her head. “You really don’t?”

He shook his head once. “Not until the witches find a way home. And even then…” He looked around at the garden, the half-dry paintings, the swing swaying slightly in the breeze. “I don’t mind being here. Not at all.”

Something in her chest eased. Not everything. But something.

“I could tell them a story,” Azriel said then. “If they’re tired. Something from my world. I could… make it sound like a fairy tale.”

Y/N studied him for a long moment. “You know any stories with dragons and starlight?”

He gave her a rare, small smile. “I know one with a High Lady who turned a battlefield into a blooming field of moonflowers.”

The surprise in her eyes turned to delight. “Go on, then. They’ll love that.”

Azriel turned toward the group of children now gathering under the big tree near the edge of the garden. The sun had shifted again, dappling light through the leaves, and as he sat down in the grass, a dozen eager faces leaned closer.

He looked back once, just briefly.

Y/N stood nearby, arms crossed loosely, watching him.

For the first time in a long time, in either world, Azriel let himself settle.

────────────

The wind howled low through the canyons of Velaris, carrying with it something strange, a pulse beneath the air, as if the city had drawn breath and forgotten how to exhale.

In a dim, windowless chamber beneath her ivy-covered cottage, the witch worked.

Scrolls lined every surface. Spellbooks lay open to pages so brittle they nearly crumbled beneath her hands. Runes flickered along the floor in fading gold, ancient symbols drawn in circles of salt and powdered quartz. Candles burned with sickly blue flames, their wax dripping sideways, as if gravity itself was beginning to tilt.

Her fingertips trembled. She had felt it again. The Cauldron.

Not in a dream, not in a vision, but in her own bones, a thunderous crack of power, distant but real. Like a ripple through the ocean of time itself. One timeline brushing too close to another, dragging its weight behind it.

She dropped the crystal she had been scrying with. It shattered.

“Damn it,” she hissed, rising to pace the circle.

Magic swirled in the corners of the room, uneasy. The Cauldron did not like to be tampered with. It hated interference, especially from mortals who meddled with the delicate weave of fates not meant to cross.

And yet… someone had done just that.

A witch. Skilled enough to rip one Azriel from his thread and toss him into the wrong tapestry.

And now, the Cauldron was fraying. Not yet breaking. But it would. Soon.

She raised her hands again, whispering the tracing spell. The map of timelines floated before her, glowing strings dancing in the air. One line flickered, silver and pulsing. Azriel’s.

It crossed where it should not.

“I need more time,” she murmured, eyes scanning a dozen different volumes, trying to remember where she had last seen the binding rite. “Just a little more…”

Outside, the wind shifted again, dry and sharp with something like heat. Magic was unraveling. And if she couldn’t fix it… The worlds would bleed.

In the meantime, Velaris held its breath in quieter ways.

The sun filtered through clouds like gold poured from a pitcher, softening the sharp edges of the city. Along the Sidra, the river murmured to itself, weaving through stone bridges and glass-lit walkways as if it had never heard of timelines or cracking Cauldrons.

At a quiet corner café by the water’s edge, Y/N sat across from Azriel, a half-eaten slice of honeyed pear tart on the plate between them.

Azriel had no idea how she’d convinced him to try it, only that the moment she wrinkled her nose and said, “You’ve never had this before?” he’d already agreed. Her smile had done most of the work.

Now, he sipped warm tea from a delicate mug far too small for his hands, letting the sweetness linger on his tongue. The sun caught in his hair, in the curve of her cheek as she laughed at something he didn’t know he’d said quite that funny.

He didn’t think about the witch’s warning. Or the ripple he felt in his shadows earlier that morning. Not right now.

“You’re staring,” Y/N said, her voice light but not teasing.

Azriel blinked, caught. “Just listening,” he said softly, and her expression flickered with something warmer than the sun.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly shy. “To what?”

“The river. Your laugh. Everything.”

That earned a softer smile. Not the kind she gave the children or her friend or even the strangers in the market. This one was quieter. More uncertain. Like she didn’t quite know where to put it.

Their plates sat between them, a shared little mess of tart crust and berry stains.

Azriel leaned back slightly, watching the boats drift past on the Sidra, their sails bright against the water. His wings were folded, his shadows quiet.

“How do you do it?” he asked after a pause.

“Do what?”

“Live like this. After everything.”

Y/N stirred her tea, eyes on the rippling water. “Some days I don’t. Not fully. But then… the sun still rises. The children still laugh. And someone has to be there to hear it.”

Azriel looked at her for a long time. Then, with a faint smile, he said, “I’m glad it’s you.”

Her gaze met his, steady and unsure at once. “And I’m glad you’re here.”

Azriel set his mug down, fingers brushing the rim once before he leaned forward slightly, voice soft in the lull between river sounds and city life.

“You know, back home,” he said, “Feyre, the High Lady, she painted stars on the ceiling of her house. Said they reminded her of hope. I never really understood that until I saw them in the dark once. Alone.”

Y/N smiled faintly, resting her chin in one hand. “And do they remind you of hope?”

Azriel’s gaze lifted to the river, to the way the light danced like silver thread along the surface. “They did,” he said. “Still do.”

But her eyes weren’t on the river.

They had fallen to his hands, gloved as always, even in the warm air. The fabric was worn, the seams faintly frayed at the knuckles. But where the glove slipped back from his wrist, she could just make out the beginning of raised skin. Scars. Twisting like old fire, etched deep and permanent.

Her Azriel didn’t have those scars.

She wondered how far they went. Up to his knuckles? His fingers? Were they from a battle? A punishment? A childhood that had taken more than it ever gave?

She didn’t ask. It wasn’t hers to know, not yet. And maybe not ever.

But something in her chest ached anyway, because she could feel how heavy it must be. Whatever weight those gloves hid, it pressed into the silence between them like an old bruise.

Azriel had noticed her glance. He always noticed.

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift to hide. He only lifted the cup again, held it steady between those gloved hands.

Y/N looked up quickly, catching his gaze.

“I won’t ask,” she said, the words barely above a whisper. “But… I see you.”

Azriel stilled.

And then, with a quiet breath, like the softest exhale of his shadows, he nodded. “Thank you.”

They didn’t speak again for a while. Not because there was nothing to say, but because something deeper was already being understood.

Y/N sat with her legs tucked beneath her on the bench seat, a smile playing at her lips as she watched a little boy toddle past with a string tied to a stick, his makeshift dragon clattering behind him across the cobblestones.

“He reminds me of my brother,” she said suddenly, gaze drifting.

Azriel looked over from where he was peeling apart a croissant. “You have a brother?”

“I do,” she said, still smiling, though there was a soft melancholy to it. “He's in another court now. Duty called him. But before that, he was a terror. In the best way.”

She turned toward him, chin resting on her hand. “We used to sneak honey cakes from the summer festivals. Hide them in the garden under the old peach tree and pretend we were squirrels storing food for winter. Of course, we’d eat them all by sunset. I always had the crumbs on my face, and he never took the blame. Not once.”

Azriel chuckled quietly. “Did you get caught?”

“Every time. My father pretended not to know, but he’d bring out extra sweets at dinner. Said something about growing appetites.” She paused, her eyes twinkling. “That peach tree is still there. Overgrown and wild, but every year, it blooms just the same.”

Azriel watched her as she spoke — the way her hands moved, how the sunlight caught in her hair, how her voice lightened as the story unfolded. There was something brighter in her now. A part of her that had been submerged in grief when he first arrived, now slowly surfacing.

She didn’t look fragile anymore. She looked real. Whole, in a new way.

He smiled, quiet and genuine. “You loved him.”

“With everything,” she said. Then, after a breath, “Like I loved him.”

Azriel’s expression shifted, softening even more. “You’ve been smiling more,” he said.

Y/N glanced at him, caught off guard. “I have?”

He nodded, his shadows curling lazily along the floor beneath the table. “You laugh more too. The children said so yesterday.”

She leaned back, exhaling slowly. “I didn’t think I would, again. Not like this.”

Azriel didn’t say anything, but his gaze stayed steady on her.

She looked down at the tea in her hands, fingers tracing the rim of the cup. “It’s strange, isn’t it? That you could come here by accident and still... somehow bring light back with you.”

Azriel swallowed, the words landing like a weight and a gift all at once. “Maybe it wasn’t an accident.”

Y/N looked up at him and for a moment, the world around them slowed. The rustle of leaves. The breeze off the water. The soft laughter of someone nearby. It all hushed.

“Maybe not,” she whispered.

They sat in that quiet together, the sun warming their skin, and the scent of fresh bread and citrus between them.

And though neither of them said it aloud, they both knew, something was shifting. Not just timelines. But hearts, too.

The moment the breeze shifted, Y/N knew. It was as if the day exhaled, soft and cool, suddenly too still. The scent of citrus faded, replaced by something ancient and electric, like a storm not yet seen but already felt in the bones.

Azriel noticed it too. His shadows straightened, alert. Then, without warning, she was there.

The witch stepped out of the air beside their table, her robes dark and shimmering faintly with threads of starlight. Her face was as calm as the Sidra behind them, but her presence brought with it something colder. Final.

Y/N’s heart clenched.

She stood quickly, nearly knocking her tea. “It’s time, isn’t it?”

The witch nodded once. “Yes. I’ve found a way.”

Azriel rose more slowly, his jaw tightening as he faced her. “You’re sure it will work?”

The witch’s eyes glinted, old magic whispering in her voice. “As sure as I can be. But there’s no room for delay. The threads of your presence here have begun to fray the structure of this realm. I can feel the Cauldron straining, one more crack, and it won’t be this world that breaks.”

Y/N felt her breath catch in her throat.

It was happening.

It had always been coming, but hearing it aloud, seeing the truth in the witch’s steady gaze, it tore the air from her lungs.

Azriel said nothing for a long moment. Then he looked at Y/N.

He didn’t reach for her. Didn’t need to. The look in his eyes was enough. She tried to hold herself steady. Tried to breathe. But the witch’s words echoed inside her.

It’s time.

He was leaving.

Azriel turned back to the witch, voice rough but steady. “How long do we have?”

The witch considered. “A few hours. Sunset.”

Sunset.

That left so little, and somehow, far too much.

Y/N forced herself to nod. Her fingers trembled slightly at her sides, but her voice was level. “Where do we need to go?”

“I’ll find you again,” the witch said. “I just needed to give you warning. You’ll know when.”

She stepped back into the wind, and with a rustle of her robes and a flicker of violet magic, she was gone.

Silence fell again over the café.

The world kept moving. People still passed by, unaware that anything had changed. But for Azriel and Y/N, the day had shifted on its axis.

The end had a shape now. And it was coming fast.

The sun had begun its slow descent, casting the Sidra in liquid gold. The river flowed gently beside them, quiet and endless, its surface glittering like stardust.

Y/N walked beside Azriel in silence, her fingers brushing occasionally against the edge of his cloak. The breeze tugged at her hair, and for a while, all they did was walk, as if they could outpace time itself, if they didn’t speak, if they just kept moving.

But Azriel felt it in her. The way her shoulders curled inward just slightly. The soft tension in her breath. Her sadness folded itself neatly around her like a second skin.

And he felt it in himself, too. That ache.

Not the sharp pain of battle wounds or the burn of shadows in his blood, but something quieter, heavier. A kind of loss that hadn’t happened yet but had already taken root.

He glanced at her, then away. “You’ve helped me more than I ever expected.”

She looked up at him, lips parted as if to protest, but he kept going, voice low. “I came here thinking I’d just disrupted something. That I’d landed somewhere I didn’t belong. And I did. But it’s not just that.”

The shadows at his back stirred gently, like they, too, were listening.

“You’ve reminded me what gentleness looks like,” he said, his voice a near whisper. “You reminded me that healing isn’t just survival. It’s... softness. It’s letting yourself laugh again.”

Y/N’s eyes shimmered, but she kept walking.

Azriel stopped. She did too, a step later, turning toward him slowly.

“If there was a way,” he said, voice barely above the hush of the river, “I’d take you with me.”

The words hung between them, fragile and impossible.

His gaze dropped, and he exhaled softly. “But I know it wouldn’t work. It’s not that kind of magic. It’s not that kind of story.”

Y/N smiled. Not because she was happy, but because she wanted to give him something kind. Her eyes, though, they told the truth. They ached. They mourned.

Still, she stepped in close. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

Her arms came around him, quiet and certain, and she pressed her cheek to his chest. Her hands flattened against his back, holding him there, like maybe she could memorize the feel of him before he was gone.

She inhaled, deeply, taking in his scent, the leather and pine, the faint trace of wind and steel and something only he carried.

Azriel hesitated only a moment before his arms wrapped around her too. Firm, steady, as if he could hold this second in place forever.

Neither of them spoke.

The Sidra flowed beside them, patient and unknowing. The sun dipped lower. And the minutes they had left slipped quietly by, wrapped in silence and warmth and the weight of everything that would never be said.

The witch emerged from the dusk, her presence silent but heavy with ancient power. Her eyes, gleaming with stars and secrets, settled on them both. There was no urgency in her voice, only a steady certainty as she said, “It is time. You must return.”

Azriel’s gaze shifted slowly to Y/N, searching her face as though trying to etch every curve, every unspoken word into memory. The shadows curled protectively around him, but the strength in his eyes softened with something almost like sorrow.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward, his fingers trembling just slightly as they traced the gentle line of her cheek. The skin was warm beneath his touch, grounding him in this impossible moment.

He leaned in slowly, closing the space between them with a kiss oh her cheek, soft and reverent, a whisper against her skin. The kiss spoke of gratitude and regret, of all the stolen moments and all the things left unsaid.

“Thank you,” he breathed, voice raw with feeling. “For everything. For this.”

Y/N’s breath caught, and for a moment the world seemed to hold its breath with them. Her hands twined in the fabric of his cloak, reluctant to let go, desperate to keep hold of this fragment of a life she never thought she’d have.

His eyes searched hers once more, filled with a fierce tenderness, before he stepped back, shadows rising like dark wings around him, cloaking him from the world.

The witch raised her hand, fingers weaving a silent spell, and a pulse of violet light rippled outward, wrapping Azriel in its glow. The air thrummed with the power of the Cauldron itself, fragile and fierce.

In the blink of an eye, Azriel was gone.

Left behind was the fading warmth of his kiss, the faint scent of leather and pine hanging in the quiet evening air, and Y/N — standing alone by the Sidra, holding onto the echo of a goodbye that still felt impossibly too soon.

────────────

The familiar hum of Velaris pulsed all around him—the distant laughter of street performers, the soft murmur of the Sidra’s waters, the gentle clinking of glasses from nearby taverns—but Azriel felt strangely untethered, like a ghost wandering through his own city. The days since his return blurred together, a fog swallowing his memories whole. Rhys and Cassian had told him he’d been gone for over a week, vanished without a trace, only to reappear as if nothing had happened. But inside, Azriel knew something had changed.

There was a quiet, steady warmth beneath the surface, something healing, gentle, like a balm on old wounds he hadn’t realized were still raw.

Today, he was helping Feyre move canvases and crates into her art studio, the smell of fresh paint mingling with the scent of spring rain drifting through open windows. Feyre’s laughter was bright and easy, her presence grounding him even as a restless pull tugged at his chest.

His gaze drifted across the bustling town square just as he set down a heavy crate. And there, among the crowd, he saw her.

A fae, standing with an effortless grace that made the sunlight catch in her hair, turning it to molten gold. She was looking not quite at him, but through him, as if glimpsing into places only shadows could reach… a spark of recognition he couldn’t place, like a forgotten song playing just beyond hearing.

Azriel didn’t understand why his heart quickened, why his hand lifted almost instinctively in a hesitant wave.

The fae’s eyes widened, and then a soft, almost knowing smile curved her lips. She returned his wave before slipping quietly into a nearby shop, disappearing before he could reach her.

His hand dropped slowly, confusion settling over him like a shadow.

He didn’t know who she was. He couldn’t remember her.

But the pull, the silent thread connecting them, was undeniable, aching beneath his skin like a promise he couldn’t yet understand.

"You've been quiet all day," she said, her voice low and knowing. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

Azriel blinked, distracted. Across the square, he could see her through the glasses of that shop.

Feyre followed his gaze, then looked back at him, her brow furrowed. "Az?"

"I... I don’t know," he murmured, almost to himself.

"You don’t know what?" she asked.

But he couldn’t answer. The feeling was too strange, too sharp. His heart thudded in his chest, and before he could stop himself, the words left him like a breath, half-formed and distant.

"I need to go."

"Go where?"

But he was already walking away, crossing the street without looking back, the hum of Feyre’s concern fading behind him.

She had disappeared into a shop moments before, but he knew. He didn’t know why. Didn’t know how. But he knew.

The bell above the door chimed softly as he stepped inside. The world quieted, holding its breath.

And then, there she was.

Closer now. Real. Solid. Her eyes widened, the same as before, but now with something else behind them. Something fragile, something infinite.

Azriel felt it again, deep in his chest. That pull. That thread. It trembled between them like spun gold.

She tilted her head, voice tentative, soft. “Do I... know you?”

He hesitated for a breath, then offered a small smile, one that felt strange and familiar all at once.

"I’m Azriel."

A beat of silence. Then she returned his smile, something in her gaze breaking open.

"I’m Y/N."

Their names, shared again for the first time. A beginning carved into the end.

And somewhere, just beneath the surface, the thread between them tightened.

Not remembering. Not yet.

But knowing, somehow, all the same.

#azriel #azriel acomaf #azriel acotar #azriel acotar series #azriel fanfic #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #acotar #acotar series #a court of thorns and roses #rhysand acotar #rhysand #feyre archeron #rhys acotar #acotar fic #acotar fanfiction #cassian acotar #shadowsinger #azriel fic

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laceandlipstick · 1 day ago

Text

touch me like you mean it | a.s

ROTS!anakin skywalker x f!reader

MDNI

word count: 2.9k

summary: haunted by his past, anakin discovers comfort in your forbidden touch

warnings: SMUT, dirty talk, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it), multiple orgasms f!receiving, fingering f!receiving, heavy bionic arm mention, anakin yearning, confessions of love, forbidden romance, fluffy aftercare, let me know if i missed any!

a/n: this is my first anakin/star wars fic ever and it was inspired by @sudsnribbons she recently got me into anakin and i can never go back anyways i hope u all enjoy!!

The Jedi Temple always had a way of making you feel cold.

Despite the Coruscant sun filtering through its high windows and the polished stone warmed by thousands of footsteps, there was an emptiness in the air that training and discipline could never fill. It was silence masquerading as peace. And you—barely a Jedi, no longer a Padawan—were beginning to see the cracks in the Order’s perfectly composed exterior.

And then there was Anakin Skywalker.

He wasn’t a crack. He was a rift.

The first time you met, he had just returned from a campaign in the Outer Rim. His robes were scorched, hair damp with sweat, eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights. You were in the Archives, studying doctrine you were no longer sure you believed in. He passed by you—then paused.

“You’re not just reading that,” he said, voice low, tinged with amusement. “You’re trying to believe it.”

You looked up, startled. His gaze pinned you. Not unkind, but sharp. Intimate. Intrusive.

You didn’t respond. He smiled anyway.

“Don’t worry,” he said, walking away. “I don’t believe it either.”

You should have let it go. But that one sentence lodged in your chest and stayed there like a live wire.

Since then, he’s been everywhere.

In the Temple, brushing shoulders in hallways. On missions, volunteered for with what he insisted was coincidence. His presence charged the air around you. He didn’t flirt—Jedi weren’t supposed to. But there was something far more dangerous than words.

A glance held too long.

A breath caught in his throat when your fingers brushed.

The way his hand hovered at your lower back, never quite touching—but gods, you wanted it to.

And tonight, the line between restraint and surrender is thinner than ever.

⸻

The war is quiet, for once. You’re both stationed on a Republic cruiser, en route back to Coruscant after assisting with negotiations on a neutral system. Anakin had done most of the talking—charismatic, unpredictable, disarming even when he was furious. You just stood beside him, your voice calm, your force presence grounding his.

You’re in your quarters now. The lights are low. You haven’t slept.

A knock.

You hesitate, heart racing.

The door slides open and there he is—hair a tousled mess, dark robes loose around his shoulders. There’s a tension in his jaw, a heat in his eyes that doesn’t match the calm expression he tries to wear.

“You’re awake,” he says softly.

You nod. “So are you.”

He glances down the hall as the door closes behind him, sealing you both in quiet.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs.

“I know.”

He takes a slow step forward. You don’t back away.

“You feel it too,” he says. Not a question.

Your pulse thrums. “It doesn’t matter.”

His hand—the real one—lifts and brushes your cheek with such care, it shatters the wall of silence between you. “It does to me.”

His voice is rough with restraint. The force trembles faintly around him, echoing his unrest.

“Anakin…”

His name on your lips pulls a soft groan from his throat. His head dips—close, so close, but he doesn’t kiss you. He hovers.

“I dream about you,” he whispers. “When I’m gone. When I’m in battle. Every time I close my eyes.”

You can feel the heat of him, smell the dust of the stars and war clinging to his skin. Your body aches for him like a song with no words.

“You’re a Jedi,” you say, but even your voice is trembling.

“I’m human,” he replies. “And I want you.”

The words hit like a tidal wave. You gasp softly, the sound swallowed between your bodies. His bionic hand, usually hidden beneath a glove or sleeve, is bare. The metallic sheen of it catches in the low light. It rests at his side—still, but alive with tension.

Your eyes drop to it.

He sees.

And for the first time, Anakin Skywalker looks… uncertain.

“It’s not just a weapon,” he says, voice low. “Not with you.”

Your fingers reach for it, hesitating only once before brushing against the cool metal. His breath hitches. You trace the edge of his palm, slowly, reverently.

“Then show me what else it can be,” you whisper.

He swallows hard, jaw clenching.

He doesn’t move for a long moment—then steps back.

“Not here,” he murmurs. “Not rushed.”

You stare at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I want you,” he says, as if it physically hurts him to admit it. “But I don’t want to take. I want you to give.”

Your body feels lit from within, but your heart stutters.

He’s always been intense. But this is different.

“Then take your time,” you say, voice barely audible.

He looks at you like he’s drowning in everything he shouldn’t feel—but he’s not letting go. Not this time.

He brushes your cheek again, and this time he does kiss you. Soft. Lingering. Like a promise sealed with heat and desperation.

And when he leaves—just for now—your lips are still tingling, your body thrumming, and you know this tension won’t hold much longer.

⸻

Three days pass.

Three days of war briefings, close quarters, and the kind of silence that vibrates with everything unsaid.

Anakin doesn’t touch you again. Not in the hallways, not during missions, not even during quiet conversations shared over rations and datapads. But his eyes never leave you. They follow you like shadows: watching, wanting, waiting.

You can feel the tension winding tighter each day—until it finally snaps.

It happens late at night, when the ship is running on low power and everyone’s settled into uneasy rest. Your quarters are too small for the way your body tosses beneath thin sheets, haunted by the memory of his mouth on yours.

A soft chime.

You don’t think. You answer.

He slips in without a word, his cloak shed in one motion. The door seals behind him, and for a breathless moment, all he does is stare at you. Hair mussed. Shadows under his eyes. Chest rising and falling with a rhythm that speaks of war—not the one outside, but the one inside him.

You whisper, “Anakin…”

He crosses the room in three strides and kisses you like a man starved.

No pretense. No delay. His hands—flesh and metal—wrap around your waist, anchoring you to him as his mouth claims yours with a force that steals air and thought. You whimper into the kiss, your hands fisting in the fabric of his tunic as he walks you backward, bumping gently into the edge of the bed.

He pulls back—just far enough to speak. His voice is a growl.

“Tell me to stop.”

You don’t. You can’t.

You arch up to kiss him again, nails dragging lightly down his chest, and that’s all he needs.

He groans, deep and guttural, and suddenly he’s everywhere—mouth mapping your neck, hands exploring like he’s trying to memorize every inch. His flesh hand pushes up your tunic, the warmth of his palm a contrast to the chill of metal as his bionic hand slides up your bare spine.

The first full contact of it makes you gasp.

It’s cold, precise—and somehow just as reverent as flesh. It follows the curve of your spine with shocking delicacy, each joint moving fluidly like water over skin. The sensation is overwhelming. Alien. Erotic.

He watches your reaction carefully. “Too much?”

You shake your head, heart thundering. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

The bionic hand cups the back of your neck, tilting your face so he can kiss you again, deeper this time. His tongue explores your mouth with hungry strokes, matching the rhythm of his thumb—cold, calloused, metal—brushing over your pulse point.

You moan into his mouth.

He breaks the kiss to pant against your jaw. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me…”

Your hands find his shoulders, pushing the robes off slowly. Beneath, his body is heat and muscle and scars. But your fingers move to the base of the bionic arm—where metal meets skin. You touch the seam gently.

He shudders.

“You hate it,” you say softly.

He freezes.

“No,” he breathes. “I hate what it represents. But you…” His forehead touches yours. “You make me feel like I’m more than what they made me.”

The ache in your chest is almost worse than the ache between your legs.

You guide his bionic hand down your torso, pressing it over your breast, your nipple already hard beneath thin fabric. His breath catches. His fingers twitch, adjusting pressure.

He’s learning you.

The hand shifts—fingers spreading, curving, applying pressure with maddening precision. It’s like being touched by a machine programmed to worship you.

You grind into him with a needy moan, your body begging.

“Anakin, please—”

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, settling you on the bed. His knee nudges between your thighs, his body covering yours, and you’ve never felt so consumed.

But even now, even while trembling with want, he pauses.

“You can stop this any time,” he whispers. “You say the word, and I walk out that door.”

You look up at him—his wild hair, flushed cheeks, lips swollen from your kisses. His body is tense above you, like a dam about to break.

And you whisper, “Don’t you dare.”

His mouth crashes into yours again, and this time, there is no holding back.

Anakin’s weight settles over you, his heat pressing into every line of your body. His kiss deepens, bruising and wet, his tongue claiming every soft sound you make. You arch into him, desperate for contact, for friction, and he gives it—his hips pressing into yours, clothed heat grinding against the aching center between your thighs.

“Force,” he gasps against your throat. “You feel… you feel like—”

You cut him off with a kiss, panting. “Touch me. I need—I want—Anakin, please.”

The last thread of control inside him snaps.

He pushes your tunic up and over your head, baring your chest to the chilled air. His eyes drink you in like he’s memorizing, worshiping, burning.

“Maker,” he breathes, running his real hand down your side—soothing, grounding—but it’s the bionic one that moves with intent. The sound of shifting metal is soft, intimate, as the arm flexes above you. It moves with uncanny precision, brushing your nipple with the pad of his thumb, adjusting pressure when you gasp and arch into the touch.

Every motion feels calculated—deliberate—but not detached.

“Does it feel good?” he murmurs.

You nod, breathless. “More than good.”

He smiles against your skin, mouth warm as it trails lower, nipping at your sternum, then dragging his tongue down between your breasts. The bionic hand explores further—cool metal gliding over your ribs, down your belly, to the band of your pants.

“Let me…” he starts, voice raw.

You lift your hips before he finishes the sentence. He slides the fabric down slowly, savoring every inch he reveals. When you’re bare beneath him, he just… stares. Like you’re something sacred.

His human hand cradles your thigh. The metal one trails from your knee to the inside of your leg. He spreads you with inhuman strength masked by delicate control.

You shiver. “You’re staring.”

“I’ve imagined this so many times,” he confesses hoarsely. “But I never thought it would feel this… real.”

Then he moves.

His metal fingers slide down to your center, parting your folds with aching precision. His index finger—cool and deliberate—presses slow circles against your clit. He watches your face, absorbing every twitch, every gasp, every moan as his pace adjusts.

You choke on a whimper. “Anakin—”

“I know,” he says, voice shaking. “I know. Let me take care of you.”

His middle finger sinks into you.

The sensation is unreal—hard, smooth, and perfectly curved. It’s not the warmth of flesh, but something different. Something more intense. He pumps slowly, curling just so, brushing against your inner walls with devastating accuracy.

“Oh—Force—”

“That’s it,” he pants, eyes dark. “Let me feel you like this.”

You writhe beneath him, hips chasing each stroke. He adds another finger—his hand strong enough to stretch you without pain. You’re slick and pulsing around him, your moans getting louder with every thrust of those bionic fingers.

You clutch at the sheets. “I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he whispers, mouth brushing your ear. “Let go. I want to feel you come apart around my hand.”

You do.

The orgasm hits you like a shockwave—tightening every nerve, arching your back, mouth falling open in a wordless cry. His fingers don’t stop until your legs shake, until you’re trembling beneath him like a live wire.

When he finally pulls away, your thighs are wet and twitching, your chest heaving.

He kisses your temple. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

But you’re not done.

Your fingers fumble with the clasp of his belt. “I want you now.”

He freezes as you tug his pants down. His cock springs free—hard, flushed, thick and pulsing. You look up at him through your lashes, then down at his length, reaching for him. He gasps when your hand wraps around him—soft skin to skin.

“You’re perfect,” you whisper.

He groans. “I’m not. But… I am yours.”

You tug him closer. “Then show me.”

He slides into you slowly, with reverence, both hands braced beside your head. His bionic arm supports his weight with ease, letting his flesh hand stroke your cheek as he sinks deeper.

You both moan—finally, finally joined. The stretch is intense, but you take him easily, your body greedy for his weight, his heat, him.

Anakin rests his forehead against yours. “You feel like home.”

And then he moves.

His hips roll, thrusting into you with smooth, deliberate pace. The tension between you builds again—sweat, panting, the wet sound of bodies moving in perfect sync. His mouth finds your neck, your lips, your jaw—desperate and scattered.

“Say my name,” he begs, voice unraveling.

“Anakin,” you gasp. “Anakin—yes—”

He thrusts harder, deeper. His bionic hand grips your hip, holding you in place. It’s too much and not enough. You’re drowning in him. He groans your name like a prayer, like a curse, like a man whose soul is already half lost.

When you clench around him, tight and close to the edge, he loses control.

“Gonna come—can’t—stars, I—”

“Come inside,” you whisper. “Please. I want to feel you.”

He growls and buries himself to the hilt, trembling as his orgasm rips through him. You feel it—his cock pulsing, his breath stuttering, your name a broken chant on his lips.

You come again just from the sound of it.

This one is quieter, deeper, your body clinging to his, pulling him closer. You ride it together, shaking, crying, gasping.

And then… stillness.

You don’t know how long you lie there with him, tangled together in the dark.

Anakin hasn’t moved. His breath fans warm against your shoulder as he presses soft, barely-there kisses to your skin—each one more like an apology than a reward. Your fingers rest in his damp hair, gently carding through the curls at his nape, grounding you both in something too real to name.

The war, the Temple, the galaxy—it all feels very far away.

Only this exists now. This moment. This impossible, forbidden peace.

He shifts just enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded, lashes long and dark against his flushed skin. He looks younger like this. Less like the war hero. Less like the Chosen One.

More like a man who’s just been loved.

“…Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly.

Your lips curve. “No. You were perfect.”

His brow creases, and his gaze flicks toward the bionic hand still curled gently against your thigh. He flexes the fingers experimentally—checking, calculating. “I tried to be gentle,” he murmurs. “It’s… hard. Sometimes I forget it’s not like my other hand.”

You take it in both of yours.

His breath catches.

You guide the metallic fingers to your lips and kiss the cold knuckles—one by one. “You didn’t forget. Not once.”

He swallows thickly, the tension in his shoulders softening like melting ice. He doesn’t say thank you—but the way he closes his eyes as you cradle the prosthetic says everything.

Silence settles between you again. Not heavy this time, but tender.

He lays down beside you, pulling you into his chest. The sheets are barely tugged over your hips. His skin is warm against yours, his heartbeat fast but steady beneath your ear.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” he whispers eventually. But he’s still holding you.

“I know.”

“Jedi aren’t supposed to love. Not like this.”

You tilt your head to look up at him. “Do you?”

He hesitates.

Then—his thumb brushes your cheek, gentle as a breeze. “I think I always have.”

Your chest tightens.

You reach up and touch his face, your fingers tracing the scar beneath his eye, the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth.

“Then let’s not pretend it didn’t happen.”

He nods—slowly. “Okay.”

You lay together like that for a long time, limbs entangled, breath synchronizing, bodies soft and sore and utterly spent. His nose brushes the curve of your shoulder as his hand—his metal one—moves to stroke your side in slow, featherlight lines.

Not passion now. Not hunger. Just presence.

His voice is rough with sleep when he says, “I don’t want this to be the only time.”

You smile, lips brushing his. “It won’t be.”

He kisses you then—slow and sweet, like there’s no war to return to, no council to defy, no fate hanging over his head like a blade. Just you. Just this.

When you finally fall asleep, wrapped in him, the galaxy fades into nothing.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Anakin Skywalker dreams of peace.

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dreamersparacosm · 22 hours ago

Text

jeon jungkook - if we were us (part one)

warnings ; none

prompt ; in which life gives you and Jungkook one more chance to hold on.

note ; AH. IT'S HERE. i won't lie, finding where i wanted this story to start was extremely difficult and took me way longer than i want to admit. but after 2939393 cups of coffee and 393949 emhen inspirational quotes i made it. i have never been more excited about a piece of writing in my life!! for context, i began writing when i was 12 and have written numerous works over 200k words, but once i got to college, diverted to only one-shots and shorter fics to give myself time to live. now that i'm way too old to be on this app, i have time on my hands to actually enjoy writing stories and it both terrifies and excites me if you could see the notion file i have on this story you'd prob understand my anxiety a little more. on the bright side though, this is basically me signing a contract to stay on tumblr for at least another 6-8 months (or however long this story will take to complete.) all this to say, this story is incredibly nuanced and every character has flaws, trials, tribulations, yada yada. i hope your world is just as chaotic, devastating, exciting and messy as theirs. this is for all the lovers in the world who want a second chance. may it be sweeter than the first.

playlist here

series masterlist here

wc ; 3.9k

[YOUR POV]

You’ve always liked the rain.

There’s something oddly comforting about it. The quiet hush of the droplets. The way it softens the edge of the world, but follows no pattern to its madness.

Pretty much all your firsts have happened in the rain.

The first time you were dropped off for a playdate without crying, your shoes squelched against the pavement, raincoat sticking to the backs of your knees. The first time a friend hugged you was in middle school, outside of a 7-Eleven. The sky had opened up without warning, and you both laughed through it, soaked to the bone. Your first kiss was under a shared umbrella that kept tipping sideways, clumsy and warm and like two puzzle pieces that wouldn’t fully fit together but gave the illusion they might for a moment in time. He tasted like cherry gum and a thunderstorm that was gone too quickly.

The rain reminds you of beginnings. Unlike endings, they require no permission. They simply appear, uninvited, leaving behind fertile ground for whatever comes next.

Morning light creeps in between the cracks of the blinds. A familiar heaviness weighs your eyes down, the air in the room cold in the way it always is when it rains outside. You shift slightly beneath the comforter, legs stretching out until your toes hit the edge of the mattress. Behind you, his arm tightens instinctively around your waist.

You feel a soft groan rumble against your spine, breath fanning the back of your neck. Your body pauses its movement for a second, suspended between comfort and obligation.

Outside, the rain taps against the window louder now. A familiar sound that makes you want to follow his actions and bury yourself into the thick sheets, pretend you have nowhere else to be.

You really don’t want to get up. Clearly, neither does he.

The pads of his fingers shift against your hip, digging into the bare skin. You can’t help but smile a little, even though it’s tired and small.

“Joonie,” you murmur, voice thick with slumber. “I need to get up.”

That earns you another groan. A little louder, more dramatic. His face presses into your shoulder. “Mm. Five more minutes,” he mumbles. “World won’t end if you’re late.”

You want to believe him, but the kids in your class would say otherwise.

You appease him, stay for one more breath. Maybe two. Normally, you wouldn't give yourself the extra grace. But it’s raining and beginnings are easier this morning. Plus, your boyfriend seems to be the human version of a teddy bear right now and you’re finding it quite endearing.

Five more minutes, that’s what you give yourself. You don’t look at the clock or count the seconds. Time slips past slowly as you turn over and press your face into the side of his, kissing his cheek, jaw, the patch of skin just below his ear that’s always so soft.

He doesn’t react much besides a sigh. His hold on your waist loosens as he recognizes your signal, your quiet touch that says you’re getting up.

You slip out of bed carefully, trying not to shake the mattress too much. His t-shirt is bunched around your hips, creased and bunched from sleep. When you stand, it falls low to your thighs, brushing against your skin.

The hardwood floor is cold under your feet. Rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand, you drag yourself back into consciousness the best you can at 7 AM in the morning.

You cross the room, flip the bathroom light on and begin your routine. It’s nothing glamorous, but when you work with children all day, this is the one part of the day you get to yourself. The version of you that isn’t constantly giving, fixing or soothing. Some mornings, it’s the only thing that keeps you sane.

Your reflection in the mirror blinks back at you, fogged at the edges by the sleep still lingering in your expression. Halfway through brushing your teeth, you hear the creak of the mattress followed by the shuffle of feet across the floor.

Namjoon appears in the mirror, hair poking in ten different directions, leaning against the doorframe like his weight is too heavy to carry upright at this hour.

“You look serious,” he teases.

You glare at him sarcastically through the mirror and shrug, mouth full of minty toothpaste.

“Deep thoughts?” he asks, stepping closer. He places a warm hand on your waist, his thumb dragging lightly across his shirt you’re still wearing. “Existential crisis already, and it’s not even 7:30, baby.”

You hum in acknowledgement around your toothbrush, raising an eyebrow. He presses a kiss to the side of your head.

“What does your day look like?” he questions, reaching around you to grab the floss on the counter.

You spit the foamy paste, wipe your mouth with the sink water. “I’ve got this new lesson plan I’m trying out. I’m hoping it lands well but knowing my kids, they’re going to make a mess.”

“Mess?” He cuts the piece of floss.

“We’re using paint to help solve math problems.” Not your best idea. In hindsight, it sounded like it would heal your inner child but in practice, it’s definitely going to end with you cleaning paint off your jeans for the next two weeks.

“Sounds exhausting,” He leans into the mirror to see his teeth better.

“And you?” You meet his eyes in the reflection, smiling briefly.

“Mm,” he pauses to run the floss between his teeth before speaking. “Work call at 10. Then coding a shit ton of our new website features. Jin also asked me to look at paint samples with him, which will take approximately four more hours than it needs to.”

You snort out a laugh, “That’s what you get for agreeing to help with his kitchen.”

“Thought I was being a good friend,” he throws out his floss, grabbing his toothbrush out of the holder. “Kinda also wanted the free lunch.”

“Jin already thinks you’re a great friend, baby,” You splash some cold water on your face, trying to liven up your skin. “You know that.”

You’ve known Jin since college. He was always loyal — the kind of friend who showed up with takeout boxes when you were sad, who knew your exam schedules better than you did, who cracked your shell before others even brought out the hammer. You don't talk everyday, but when you do, it always feels like you’re picking up mid-conversation.

Back when you and Namjoon were just hooking up, seeing where life took you, you introduced Jin to him. He was overprotective like an older brother in a sitcom, side-eyeing Namjoon between bites of ramyeon. Now, the two of them argue about kitchen appliances like they’re married and have a shared spreadsheet for wine recommendations you’re not allowed to edit.

Sometimes you wonder if Namjoon fell in love with Jin and you were an afterthought.

Namjoon chuckles while putting paste on his toothbrush, “He better. I sat in his house for two hours last week listening to him talk about that new guy he’s seeing and I… heard things no one should have to hear.”

“I thought we agreed not to talk about Jin’s sex life with him,” You poke his side as you lean against the sink, watching your boyfriend with amusement.

He spits out the toothpaste, waving the brush in the air animatedly. “You agreed. I tried to agree and got roped into it anyway.”

Rolling your eyes, you push yourself off the sink with your palms and go, “Breakfast?”

He nods at you, and you disappear down the hall, arms wrapped tightly around your body to block off as much of the cold air as possible.

Your mornings have always been trivial. Insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe. You move on autopilot: pan on low heat, fridge door creaking open, eggs gathered in one hand, butter in the other. The coffee machine gurgles in the corner. His favorite mug — the one with the chipped rim and the ugly cartoon bear on it — is already out on the counter. You know he likes his eggs over easy, toast not too burnt, coffee with a splash of creamer.

You barely think about these things anymore.

It’s not like he ever asked you to be this way in the morning. Never said a word about it, or gave any sort of hint, never played helpless in front of the stove. But it was an invisible task that folded in on your routine without ever being discussed.

It’s what love looks like, you remind yourself. The quiet dig of learning each other’s habits, small sacrifices piling up like layers beneath your feet.

It doesn’t bother you. You like to give. You remember birthdays without setting calendar reminders, refill the Brita before it’s empty. And it’s not that people don’t love you back. You're just always a few steps ahead, already halfway into caring before anyone else even notices there was something to do.

Namjoon walks in as you’re cracking the eggs, eyes still droopy with sleep. He’s no longer shirtless, now in his forest green hoodie he always wears when he works from home, which these days, appears to be more often than not. He yawns into his fist before grabbing two plates from the cabinet and setting them down beside you.

“You beat me to it,” he taunts, gently bumping your hip.

You hum, flipping the eggs with the new spatula his mom got you last week. “Didn't know it was a race.”

He chuckles, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “I was gonna offer. Technically, last week, I made the coffee.”

“Mm. The machine made coffee, baby. You pressed the button.”

He doesn’t respond to you.There’s not much more to say to that. Instead he leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek. It almost feels like punctuation. Like a period that stops any other words from leaving your mouth.

He’s quiet for another second, then breaks the silence in the air, “We still good to go to that baby shower on Sunday?”

You vaguely remember him telling you about his coworker’s pregnancy. All you know is it was an event that showed up on your shared calendar in the kitchen, circled in red and scrawled in messy handwriting.

You nod as you plate the eggs, “Yup. Two o’clock, right?”

“Precisely.” Namjoon runs a hand through his unruly dark brown hair. “Seo-yeon mentioned something about a bouncy house?”

“A bouncy house?” you repeat incredulously as you hand him his plate. “At a baby shower?”

“She said the baby can’t use it but the adults should still have fun.” He shrugs like it makes perfect sense. Seo-yeon, his coworker at the tech startup he works for, has always been an eccentric female. You’ve met her a handful of times, but that was more than enough to understand why Namjoon refers to her as an ‘old soul.’ A bouncy house at her baby shower doesn’t even crack the top ten on the list of things that surprise you.

You giggle under your breath, passing him the plate. “If you catch me in the bouncy house, just know I had one too many mimosas.”

Namjoon rounds your tiny kitchen table, settling down in the chair. “Do we need to bring anything?”

You hesitate for a moment. You don’t really have the heart to tell him you went down to the market last week to pick up a blanket and bear set for her. But you know if you dodge the question, he’ll ask again in a few days. “I already got the gift.”

You hear him start to chew, fork scraping against the plate. “Cool. Thanks, baby.”

You think he’ll ask you what you got Seo-yeon, but he doesn’t.

You walk over to the coffee machine, pouring out the dark liquid into your respective mugs. Splash of cream for him. Three sugars and milk for you. You set his cup in front of him, ceramic clinking softly against the table, before heading back to the countertop and retrieving your own plate and mug to match.

When you settle in front of him, he peers into your mug. “I don’t know how you drink that.”

To further prove his own point, he takes a sip, immediately wincing. “God,” he mumbles. “That’s not coffee. That’s dessert.”

“I like it sweet.”

“Offensively sweet.” He deposits your mug back down on your side of the table as if quarantining a biohazard. He’s a broken record at this point, always reminding you that one day, you’ll get a cavity from how sugary you prefer your drinks. Like a ghost that haunts every breakfast table discussion about your choice of beverage.

“Well.” You tuck a piece of toast into your mouth. “Not all of us are fueled by burnt beans and overpriced creamer.”

He laughs at that, the sound ricocheting across kitchen surfaces. He’s always been easy to talk to, to sit beside in the stillness of early mornings where the world hasn’t quite remembered it exists yet.

“One day, I’m going to get you to drink black coffee,” he teases. “Whatever it takes.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” you laugh as you cut up another piece of your eggs.

“You still doing the bug project with your kids?” he asks, and you feel a wash of gratitude for the change in conversation topic.

You nod, sighing, “Day three. Which means today’s the day someone accidentally steps on an ant farm and cries about it like it was their childhood pet.”

His mouth curves upward, eyes crinkling, “Weren’t you the one who said this year’s class was your most emotionally stable?”

“They are,” you insist around a mouthful of toast. “However, they did stage a protest yesterday when I tried to throw out a dead butterfly. Held a moment of silence and everything. I’m pretty sure they’re building it a grave out of popsicle sticks.”

Namjoon nearly chokes on his eggs. “I’m impressed.”

“You should come by sometime. Meet the little fuckers who take up all my time.” You’re half-joking, half-not. The last (and only) time he visited your classroom was the holiday party where you first met, when he was someone else’s reluctant plus one. You often watch other teachers partners’ appearing at classroom doors, bearing lunch and casual affection.

He shakes his head. “I barely survived kindergarten on my own.”

Between bites, he adds, “Got that deployment to push through today. Something’s breaking in the new UI, but I can't tell if it’s the framework or the entire infrastructure.”

You blink at him, chewing thoughtfully. “Wow. Sexy.”

“I know,” he smirks. “Almost as sexy as your bug project.”

You place a hand over your heart, sarcastically swooning. “God, nothing gets me going like scalable infrastructure.” Words harvested from his work calls — incomprehensible things you say without understanding the origins.

He lifts a hand in mock warning. “You better pray I don’t start talking about data streams before you finish breakfast.”

You snort, taking another sip of your coffee. “Enjoy your precious code. I’ll be elbows deep in glue and paint by 9 AM.”

Namjoon finishes his coffee before you do, setting the mug on the sink. When he passes, he kisses your temple, hand grazing your back like water over stones, “Have a good day, baby.”

You nod, already pushing your chair back once your eyes catch on the kitchen clock’s accusatory hands. “You too.”

He disappears down the hall towards his makeshift home office, leaving behind the scent of coffee and the cologne you bought him last Christmas. You stay at the table a second longer. Long enough to sip what’s left of your coffee, now lukewarm and overly sweet. Long enough to listen to the rain tapping against the windows like it’s trying to say something you can’t make out.

Long enough for you to wonder when sweet started tasting like something you needed to apologize for.

“An iced mocha latte? Did anyone order the iced mocha latte?”

Your favorite barista's voice rings throughout the quaint coffee shop, bystanders perking up in hopes of hearing their order called. Everyone collectively deflates when they see a frantic woman barrel past apologetically, reaching for a drink that clearly isn’t theirs.

You don’t bother lifting your head up. Poor Jiwoo. She’s been manhandling the coffee shop by the school you work at since the day you started, and she might be the only barista who understands how much sugar you typically prefer in your coffee.

If she ever leaves the shop, you’re pretty sure you’d have to transfer school districts out of grief alone.

You prefer to leave early for work, leaving ample time to collect your candied coffee, run through your lesson plan, and gossip with the other teachers for at least ten minutes in the lounge.

Unfortunately, today, you might have to exclude the gossip session you enjoy so much. A tragedy in three acts.

There are two new students starting today, and while you normally enjoy fresh faces in the classroom with different personality types to tame, you already have your hands full between the bug project and the ‘paint your 2+2’s’ activity you very ill-advisedly volunteered to lead.

“Hey, [Y/N],” Jiwoo solemnly leans over the counter where you're perched, waiting patiently as any good samaritan does if they don't want their coffee spat into. Her hair is frizzing at the edges, apron already stained. “I’m so sorry for the wait. Normally I put a rush on yours, but this Monday is really kicking my ass.”

She looks so stressed you almost want to go back there and put on an apron, maybe start whipping up some Iced Americanos.

“It’s no problem,” you wave her away. “You know I always come way too early.”

She gives you an appreciative smile, rushing back to the counter to take more orders. You turn your back to the crowd, enjoying the view outside. There’s a few kids clutching their mother’s hands, businessmen holding briefcases while fighting with umbrellas, a teenage boy hopping puddles like he’s in a video game. Against the windowpane, the rain sticks to the glass, slowly sliding to make space for new ones.

“Hi, can I get an iced vanilla latte?”

You’re close enough to the counter that you’ve started eavesdropping on other’s orders without meaning to. Honestly, an iced vanilla latte sounds pretty good. You once got an iced caramel macchiato before 9 AM though, and you were vibrating like a tuning fork until your last kid went home at 2 PM. The girl’s voice is distressed as she taps her card against the reader, probably running late to work now from the long line.

“Hey, can I get a black coffee? Hot?”

The second voice is different.

It’s a man’s. Can’t be older than mid-30s. It’s lower, calmer. Unrushed. Like honey poured over gravel.

Everything in your body stops functioning.

It’s as if someone snipped the film reel mid-scene. The cafe around you doesn’t gradually fade. It’s replaced by a silence so loud you can hear your own blood rushing through your veins. The clink of cups, the hiss of the milk steamer, the shuffle of feet becomes background collateral, dissolving into white noise.

Your hands clench around nothing. Lungs forget their one job. Your heart reverberates against your ribs like it’s trying to signal an emergency to anyone within radius.

No, that second voice is a voice you haven’t heard in ten years but would recognize in a burning building.

The second voice is a voice that has set up permanent residence in your bone marrow, lingering even after you thought you’d evicted every last trace of him from your system.

You don’t dare turn around.

You stand there, statue-still, staring out the rain-streaked window as if memories don’t curl up and hibernate in your throat, waiting for precisely this moment to wake and stretch.

Your eyes close for a brief second.

When you open them again, the world outside continues its persistent motions. But you, you remain perfectly still, a pause button pressed in the center of the city.

Seoul is a big city. You’re 32 now and far too old to believe in ghosts.

He wouldn’t be here. He made that very clear a decade ago.

You hear another voice begin to recite their order. He’s probably off to the side, somewhere in the shop that is now dwindling down the number of patrons inside as work hours creep up on the clock. You’re too scared to breathe, to even glance one foot in the other direction.

Your eyes instead train ahead on the bag of coffee beans untouched on the counter.

“Iced coffee, three sugars and milk?” Jiwoo comes running over to you, a triumphant grin on her face as if she just defeated the morning rush. “God, I’m so sorry for the wait. Yours is on the house next time.”

“No, it’s no problem,” You lean over and pat her hand, like you’re trying to prove your heart hasn’t actually stopped and you’re still a live human, even though it feels like it might.

You shuffle over to the side station where the honey, tiny wooden stirrers, and other small distractions meant to keep your hands busy are. You grab a few napkins for yourself. You can’t trust your grip right now. In the distance, Jiwoo rattles off some other orders you can’t make out. One of her coworkers comes rushing in, red-faced and apologetic.

You glance up at the clock on the wall. 8:30 AM. You’ve made great time despite the numerous coffee mishaps. And clearly, you need to sit in your chair and take a moment to yourself, because you’re now hallucinating the ghost of college’s past, and it’s too early to do that.

You stir in some honey into your coffee. Taking a slow, deep breath, you turn a half-step with coffee in tow.

And then, because the universe has a spectacular gift for comedic timing, you collide with someone.

Your shoulder meets theirs, your cup shifting in your hand and sending a small wave over the lid’s edge.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry—”

Your eyes are already tracking the damage, focusing on white sneakers now marked with a small splash of brown. Nothing ruinous, but your body finds itself crouching, napkins in hand, some deeply ingrained instinct to make things right taking over.

“No, it’s okay,” the voice says.

It’s the second voice. Gentle. That same calm.

You know this voice the way you know the road home in the dark, the way plants know to grow toward sunlight.

Slowly, you lift your gaze upwards.

He’s older, of course. More settled into himself. The lines around his eyes weren’t there before, shoulders carrying the weight of ten more years of living. His eyes stare into yours, somehow still reading every inch of you despite the decade-long gap.

Reality blurs at the edges. The rain against the window falls silent. The coffee shop with its morning bustle recedes. Your heart hangs suspended from one beat and the next. The napkins fall to the floor, your wobbly legs struggling to stand upright.

On a rainy Monday morning, where beginnings are endless, your ex boyfriend from university, Jeon Jungkook, stands in front of you holding a cup of black coffee in his right hand.

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