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capuccinodoll · 2 months ago

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— A haunted body, part one: "When I close my eyes, it feels like home" ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (jackson!joel x f!reader)

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— Chapter summary: After the Millers saved your life, you became something of a miracle. Now you’ve been given a second chance, and the sweetness of your new home is overshadowed by the coldness of one of them: Joel. Unfortunately for him, Tommy assigns you to work by his side, as the assistant he claims he doesn’t need. wc: 7.1k

A/N: I hope you enjoy this one. I haven't been able to get this man out of my head since season two came out, and I just had to write it. Consider it my love letter to Joel Miller.

Don't forget to let me know your opinion in the comments, it helps me a lot! <3 (TAG LIST OPEN)

Jackson, 2027. Morning. The edge of winter.

Snow lay heavy and whole across the landscape, pressed onto the earth. It hadn't melted yet.

Joel rode next to Tommy along the eastern patrol route, their horses’ hooves muffled in the thick frost. It was their third day in a row covering the outer line. Last week’s storm had forced them to stay close to the center of town, so they were making up for it now, filling in the gaps. The sun was bright and high, but not enough to soften anything.

They were already on their way back when Tommy spoke.

"The sun feels warmer today, doesn’t it?” he said, squinting at the horizon. He wanted Joel to say yes.

But Joel didn’t answer. He kept his eyes forward, where the snow caught the sunlight and bounced it straight into his eyes. His face was raw from the cold, red across the cheeks and the bridge of his nose. It hurt, but he didn’t complain.

He shifted in the saddle, nudged the horse ahead with a quiet click of his tongue.

Then, he saw something, just a break in the white that didn’t belong.

He signaled with a small gesture. Tommy followed his line of sight.

There, off the side of the road, nestled in the folds of snow, was a shape that could have been anything. A boulder, a fallen log. But Joel felt it before he could explain it; something old and hardwired in his gut.

He approached cautiously, letting the horse come to a stop a few feet away. There was a stiffness in his chest.

Tommy saw it too, and was already reaching for his rifle.

Joel had his out first.

They dismounted in unspoken agreement, boots crunching against the crusted snow as they stepped closer.

A woman.

She was lying on her side, half -covered as if the weather had tried to bury her and nearly succeeded. Her skin was raw, her mouth pale and parted. There was a slash of red across her side, staining the snow like spilled paint.

Joel crouched beside her. He took off his glove, hand bracing against the cold. With the back of his fingers, he brushed snow from her face. Then, he pressed gently at the side of her neck, feeling for movement. For warmth. Anything.

There it was; pulse. Faint, but there.

And then, he looked closer.

His eyes traced her face first, then the curve of her jaw, the slope of her neck, stopping just below the place where his fingers rested.

It landed in him like a stone in deep water.

He jerked back, breath caught in his throat. As if something had reached up from the ground and grabbed him.

Tommy noticed.

“What is it?” he asked. “Joel?”

“She’s alive,” Joel said quickly. “Not infected. We need to get her up.”

Tommy hesitated, glancing between Joel and the woman. He didn't ask questions. Just helped lift her, following Joel’s lead.

They wrapped her in a thick blanket Joel pulled from his saddle. She felt light. Or maybe it was adrenaline that made her easier to carry.

They positioned her on Joel’s horse, her head resting against his chest, body attached to his.

The ride back wasn’t quiet. Wind cutting sharp between their shoulders, not gently at all, and Tommy had opinions he couldn’t keep to himself.

Joel didn’t say much.

Jackson. Hospital. An hour later.

Bare walls, warm lighting, faint smell of antiseptic. The room was small.

The woman lay on a gurney in the center, surrounded by too much space for someone so still. Joel and Tommy had left her there.

When Maria entered, she didn’t speak right away. Two volunteer doctors followed behind her, both of them already pulling on gloves. Ron and Gemma were old enough to hold a few years of experience before the pandemic started. They were efficient, enough at least.

Maria stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed tightly over her chest, watching as they moved around the woman; checking her breathing, cutting away the frozen fabric of her clothes, revealing skin that looked cold to the touch.

She didn’t look old, but not extremely young either. Maybe around thirty, or older. It was hard to tell under the rough effect of winter.

They were searching for wounds, for the hidden things the snow might have masked. Her skin was bruised in places, pale in others. The slash across her side had started to clot, the blood a deep, dark red now. She hadn’t stirred once. No flinch. No flicker behind the eyelids.

Still, she was breathing.

They had checked her at the gates for infection (protocol, as always) and she had passed. No bites. No spores. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except that she wouldn’t wake up.

Tommy stood against the wall, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Joel didn’t say anything. He was near the window, watching the light catch on the frost-covered glass. He was quieter than usual, but nothing that couldn't be blamed on the tension in the room.

“I have no idea how she's still alive ,” one of the doctors murmured to no one in particular, his voice too quiet for comfort.

Maria spoke. “You did good,” she said, eyes moving first to Tommy, then resting on Joel.

Joel didn’t respond right away. He nodded once, barely, and didn’t meet her eyes.

He turned and walked out a minute after that. And outside, the snow had hardened under the afternoon sun; boots pressed into it, leaving uneven prints as he moved away from the building.

Jackson. Hospital. One month later.

Dr. Hale placed the chipped teacup back on his desk. The surface beneath it was scuffed, wood worn smooth in places by years of use. He exhaled and raised his eyes to meet yours.

You were perched on the edge of the gurney. The fabric beneath you was stiff and clean. Your legs hung just above the ground, not quite steady.

“Well,” he began, “you’re officially discharged.”

Your body didn’t react. You just nodded, eyes fixed on the lines etched deep across his face. He was a nice man. Something about him reminded you of your grandpa John; extremely white hair, clean shaved with a thin mustache and really dark warm eyes. Funny enough, his voice was similar too.

“Everything looks good,” he continued. “There’s no sign of neurological damage. Your kidneys are doing what they should. Muscle tone’s coming back. You’re going to feel weak for a bit, specially in the cold, but that’s normal, okay?”

You nodded, even though you weren’t sure what exactly normal meant anymore.

He reached for a sheet of paper, started scribbling something without lifting his head. His hands were large, knuckles like knots, fingers marked by time and use.

“Eat well,” he said. “As much as you can. Rest. Come back in two weeks. And please��don’t go wandering around in the snow again. I’m not dragging you in a second time .”

You let out a soft laugh— small, startled by its own presence. “I promise.”

He stood then, with more ease than you'd expect from a man in his seventies. His height was solid, his frame still holding together in the way of someone who had decided long ago not to fall apart just yet.

He extended a hand toward you. His palm was dry, warm.

“Good job surviving,” he said. “Not everyone can say the same.”

And he was right.

You knew survival hadn’t been something you did , not really. You hadn’t fought through the cold. You hadn’t rescued yourself. You had been unconscious for at least an hour before anyone found you.

Joel and Tommy Miller had pulled you out of the snow. That was the truth.

When you were brought in, the prognosis wasn’t good. Severe hypothermia. Dehydration. Hypoglycemia. A really bad combination that didn’t leave much room for recovery. But they acted fast. Someone always did, in places like this. You had no memory of those first days. Only what they told you after.

You spent three days in intensive care. Five more in a shared ward. And somehow, you walked away with no permanent damage. No brain trauma. No infections. No organ failure. A miracle , someone had said. You weren’t sure if you believed in those.

After you were discharged, you didn’t have anywhere to go. So they found you a place.

The Rowells. An elderly couple with quiet voices and a spare room, took you in. Isabella, the wife, had met you in the hospital. She made tea the day you moved into their home. She told you stories about the town and her life before the pandemic. But she didn’t ask about your past.

You spent three weeks there, mostly horizontal. Reading when your eyes let you. Sleeping when you could. Waiting for your body to feel like yours again.

Tommy stopped by more than once. At least once a week, always with a bag of something— fruit, or socks, or gloves he claimed Maria had made. Sometimes she came with him. They never stayed too long. But they stayed long enough.

You knew other people had arrived in town recently . It made their visits feel even more meaningful. They'd chosen to make room for you in a life already full of demands, and you were grateful for that. For all of it, to be honest.

“You’re becomin’ a bit of a celebrity ‘round here, you know that?” Tommy said, voice light as he leaned back in the worn kitchen chair, a cup of tea balanced in his hand.

It was late afternoon, sun folding softly across the window of the Rowells' house. The place smelled faintly of cinnamon and woodsmoke, a smell you now started to link with being safe. Just cinnamon, Isabella making cookies or just throwing it around the room in the name of good fate.

You sat across from him, the chipped rim of your mug pressed to your lower lip, hands wrapped around it to soak up the heat.

You lifted your brows. “ Oh, yeah? Why?”

He grinned. “They talk about the woman who survived the snow. There’s a whole myth formin’. Some folks think it’s a miracle your fingers didn’t fall off.”

You laughed. “That’s dramatic.”

“I ain’t sayin’ it ain’t,” he said, chuckling. “But you gotta hear ‘em. They’re convinced. You know how many people ‘round here’ve lost toes? A few’ve lost more. And you—nothin’. Not even frostbite. You’re lucky.”

You looked down into your tea, watching the pale swirl of milk settle.

“Well, you saved me. You and your brother. If you hadn’t shown up, I’d be a frozen corpse halfway to town. A popsicle.”

Tommy made a sound between a sigh and a laugh. “A popsicle?”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

“Well,” he said, tipping his cup toward you in a mock toast, “you’re resilient. That’s somethin’. Not many people survive that long in the cold, and with a wound? Actually, a few folks started callin’ you Snow. You know, mysterious stranger from the mountains, almost mythic.”

You laughed this time, an actual laugh, not the tight, polite kind. “Snow? Seriously?”

He shrugged, playful. “It’s catchy. Plus, the fact that no one’s seen you outside in a month adds to the intrigue.”

And he wasn’t wrong.

Four walls, three meals a day, hours spent under blankets or seated near a window watching the sky shift. That had been your life since arriving in Jackson.

Recovery wasn’t linear. Some days you could walk for twenty minutes. Others, the cold made your joints ache and your stomach turn. But mostly, you stayed in. You rested. You waited to feel like someone again.

You cleared your throat gently. “I’ve been meaning to ask... do you think I could talk to your brother sometime? I haven’t had the chance to thank him.”

Tommy paused. The change in his expression was small but you caught it.

“Joel?” he asked. “He ain’t come by?”

You shook your head. “No. Was he supposed to?”

“Nah,” Tommy said, slowly. “But I told him where you were stayin’. Figured he might stop in.”

You nodded. “Right. Well... maybe he’s busy.”

There was a moment of stillness between you. Not awkward, exactly.

Tommy broke it gently. “When you feel ready, we can move you into your own place. Maria picked it out a couple weeks back. She’s been fussin’ over it, puttin’ up curtains and whatnot.”

Your lips parted in surprise. “Really?”

He smiled. “Yeah. I didn’t wanna say nothin’ ‘til you were feelin’ better. It ain’t huge or nothin’. Two bedrooms, one bath. Just a short walk from the dinin’ hall.”

A warmth started to rise in your chest. “That sounds... amazing.”

He held up his hands, feigning innocence. “Look, I ain’t sayin’ Maria plays favorites. But it’s a good spot. We figured you’d like it.”

You looked at him, and for a second something inside you softened. Something big, and real, and deeply grateful.

“Tommy, I haven’t had a home in a long time. Years, honestly. Decades, if I’m being real. You could’ve given me a shed and I’d still be grateful.”

He laughed, leaning back in his chair again. “Well, it’s a few steps up from a shed. I promise.”

You smiled. For the first time in weeks, it reached your eyes.

“When you’re ready,” he said, setting down his mug, “just say the word.”

Jackson dining hall. Two weeks later. Morning.

The sun was pouring through the high windows of the dining hall, catching in the steam that rose from bowls and mugs like vapor snakes.

The space hummed with life. Forks knocking against ceramic, chairs scraping over wood, conversation happening all at once and everywhere. Someone laughed in the far corner. Someone else said pass the salt.

The smell of beef stew lingered in the air and there was fresh bread, too. You could tell from the way the scent curled gently toward you. You closed your eyes and breathed in, letting the feeling settle in your chest.

You let yourself pretend, just briefly, that none of this had ever happened. That the world you knew had not ended. That you were somewhere safe, and always had been.

For a moment, with your eyes closed, it felt like home.

Jackson did that to you. It had a way of disarming your fear without making a spectacle of it. The town felt safe, like it had grown roots and decided not to move again. There was kindness here. You saw it in the way people nodded to each other on the street, in how they stayed at the market stalls just to talk. No one looked over their shoulder while they walked. That was new.

You’d adjusted quickly, maybe more quickly than you expected. There was no guilt in that, though sometimes it hovered on the edges of your comfort like a shadow. Was it normal? This comfort? Feeling safe after all of it?

But what else were you supposed to do? The bed they gave you was soft. The sheets were clean. You weren’t used to softness like that, not anymore, but you learned. You remembered how to fold your clothes. How to run a hot shower. How to breathe without urgency or fear or just...

The little things were the most disarming: soap that smelled like coconut, almond oil on your skin, a room that belonged only to you. A window that opened onto a street lined with planters and signs carved by hand. No smoke. No screaming. Just laundry on lines and children running between houses.

People were kind, too. Curious but never invasive. Last week, a few had approached you while you waited for your turn at the bakery or wandered back from the stables. Their questions were gentle: How’d you get here? Were you alone? Your answer didn’t change. A long walk, a bad fight, then nothing. You didn’t remember much after that.

No one pressed. That was something you respected deeply about this place. Everyone had their own version of silence, and they honored it in each other. Everyone was dealing with their own trauma, their own losses. And maybe that was the truest form of community you’d ever seen: understanding when not to ask.

They didn’t use your name. Not most of them, anyway. The Rowells did. Maria did. But everyone else, even Tommy, called you Snow . It had started like a joke, or a placeholder, and then it stuck. Not in a cruel way, it was never said with ridicule. If anything, it sounded like reverence.

You didn’t mind. After everything you’d lost, being called Snow felt oddly generous. A reminder that you were still here. That whatever had happened before you collapsed in the snow wasn’t all that you were now. Yeah, kinda ironic, right?

And maybe, deep down, you liked it.

Now, you were starting to feel something close to settled. It was subtle, the shift, more like a softening than a transformation, but it was there.

The past week had been spent tucking small pieces of yourself into the new house: hanging the spare coat on its hook by the door, folding the same blanket each morning and placing it neatly at the end of the bed. A ceramic bowl filled with dried flowers sat on the windowsill now. It wasn’t anything extravagant, but it looked like someone lived there.

You had energy again. Not from adrenaline or necessity, but the steadier sort that allowed you to move . You were sure, so sure, that you were ready to work. To use your hands for something other than holding a warm mug of whatever or steadying yourself against the edge of a table.

You’d brought it up with Maria and Tommy earlier in the week, suggested helping out where needed. They listened carefully, as they always did. Tommy even nodded. But then Maria had tilted her head in that gentle, assessing way, and said something about letting yourself land fully first. Letting your bones catch up to your heartbeat. They didn’t say the word, but you could feel it hovering: fragile. Not quite visible, but not quite gone either.

This morning, though, everything felt lighter. There was sun pouring through the cracks in the clouds, the snow retreating like it had finally grown tired. Go away. Spring was arriving in slow and nice intervals, a bud here, a patch of green there. Yup.

You put on the oversized wool coat Isabella gave you and walked to the dining hall with a loud purpose. Your legs didn’t tremble the way they had that first week.

Inside, the room was already full. Comforting noise, the human kind.

You moved along the edge, scanning for an empty seat, then slid into the corner of a long table, your tray balanced carefully in front of you. A bowl of stew. A heel of bread. And beside it, a small plastic container with a lid, something you'd packed yourself.

You weren’t eating yet. You weren’t even hungry, really.

You had seen him come in just before you.

Joel Miller.

Tommy hadn’t told you much about him, only what directly concerned you— that Joel had seen you first, out there in the snow. That he’d been the one to check for your pulse.

Beyond that, he remained a quiet, distant presence. He hadn’t visited while you were in recovery. He hadn’t said a word to you in passing. But you had seen him, more than once. Standing outside the stables. Walking the main road. Always looking ahead, always looking elsewhere. And each time, you waited for him to glance in your direction (just once) so you could approach him. But he never did.

And well, you only knew the basics. That he was 60 years old, and had a daughter. Not much else.

And yet now, here he was, seated alone at a small table against the wall. His elbows rested heavily on the surface, fingers laced together, eyes fixed on the plate in front of him.

You took a breath. Not a dramatic one, you thought.

Then you picked up your tray in one hand, and the small plastic container in the other.

You moved toward him. And while the rest of the room continued on around you, the sound seemed to soften. Distance insulated in its own quiet.

He didn’t look up when you reached his table, though you had the distinct feeling he’d known you were coming from the first step you took in his direction.

His eyes stayed on his plate. Still, you stood there, a small, polite pause between you.

“Hi,” you said quietly. “Joel?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just a flicker of acknowledgment; his eyes lifting to yours for the briefest moment, then dropping back to the plate in front of him.

“Yeah. Hi,” he said, rough, gravel settled into each syllable, like something scraped across the floor.

Up close, his eyes were darker than you remembered. You’d only seen him from a distance before, shadows moving across his face as he passed on the street. Eyes far away.

You swallowed, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth.

“I made these for you,” you said, setting the small plastic container down in front of him, careful not to let your fingers brush the edge of his tray. “They’re cookies. I baked them this morning. I’m not amazing at it, but... Isabella told me they turned out okay.”

Joel looked at the container, then back at his plate. He didn’t reach for it.

“Already got food.”

Your smile stuttered a little, but you held onto it. A sort of half-grin, the kind you give when you’ve already committed to being nice and just don’t want to withdraw it too soon.

“Yeah, no, of course,” you said. “I just thought, maybe, maybe you might want something sweet. And I wanted to thank you. For saving me. Tommy told me you were the one who—”

“You’re welcome,” Joel said, this time looking up fully. His eyes found yours and held, not unkind.

And then, nothing.

He looked away again, like the conversation had already happened and ended.

You waited.

A beat.

Then another.

He didn’t speak again.

“Would it be okay if I sat?” you asked, your fingers brushing the edge of the opposite chair.

Joel hesitated. “No, sorry.”

“Oh,” you said, clearing your throat. The sting of it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted, voice softer now. “Don't thank me. It’s done. We helped you. You’re safe. That’s enough.”

You nodded, eyes suddenly too aware of how exposed you felt standing there.

You reached for the cookies, unsure whether to leave them behind or take them with you, not wanting to look like you were withdrawing a gift, but not wanting to leave something that wasn’t wanted either.

And then the sound of a chair scraping broke the silence. Sharp and clumsy. You turned toward the noise.

A girl was sitting next to Joel now, energy filling the space immediately. She was watching you with curiosity, her expression open.

“Hey,” she said, grinning. “You’re the almost-dead girl.”

“Ellie,” Joel muttered, giving her a sideways look.

“It’s okay,” you said, laughing softly. The tension needed somewhere to go, and humor was a better place than most. “I guess that’s one way to introduce me.”

“Joel hasn’t said much,” she continued. “Just what everyone already knows. You’re like a miracle. Good thing you didn’t die.”

You let out another laugh, lighter this time.

“Yeah,” you said, glancing back at Joel. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. “Good thing.”

You hesitated for one more second, hoping he might say something else. But nothing came.

“Well, I should go,” you said, feeling the warmth rush to your face. The kind of warmth that comes with feeling out of place.

You reached for the container and picked it up again. The cookies. And then you turned away, walking back through the sea of tables, wishing you could shrink down into something smaller.

Two days later, on a gray afternoon.

Brushed steel sky, low and unmoving clouds. Wind was carrying a chill that felt out of place for spring. Like the season was unsure wheter it had permission to stay. Crisp hair, not cold, but cold enough to stink when it touched your cheeks.

You had thought about this a lot. More than you were willing to admit. Replaying the last conversation in your head, trying to see it from all sides.

Maybe you should’ve said less. Maybe he’d had a bad morning. Maybe he didn’t even mean to come off that way. You hadn’t been able to stop circling the maybes. But you kept arriving at the same conclusion: you had nothing to lose by trying again.

You stopped in front of his house.

You’d seen it before from a distance. It was a modest place, sturdy- looking, with a front porch that looked like it had been swept recently. There was care in it.

Mrs. Rowell had told you Joel was good with repairs.

“He rebuilt our staircase,” she’d said once, while pouring tea. “You can check them, he did a really good job.”

Now, you approached the door of his house with a basket in your arms, wrapped in a clean cloth that fluttered slightly in the breeze. Inside: warm bread, still soft, and a handful of cookies. The same kind you’d made before. Something simple, not too much, something you would’ve given to a neighbor in another life.

You hesitated on the porch. One breath, and then another. And then you knocked.

Footsteps padded toward the door. A pause, and then a voice, lighter than Joel’s, quicker.

“Who is it?”

It wasn’t him.

The door opened.

Ellie.

Her face lit up the second she saw you.

“Hey, Snow,” she said, with the easy familiarity of someone who had already decided to like you.

You smiled, though it wasn’t exactly a smile but more like the shape of one.

“It’s actually…” You told her your name, your real name, the one people hadn’t used much in Jackson.

“Oh— shit. Sorry,” she said quickly, her eyebrows folding together in a sincere expression of guilt. “Didn’t mean to—yeah. I didn’t mean to make it a thing.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay. Really. I don’t mind the nickname. People started using it and it just sort of stuck, right?”

Ellie nodded, stepping aside a little, her hand still gripping the door.

“That’s probably for the best. Would be kind of hellish if everyone called you something you hated.” She looked at you then, expectant, as if waiting for you to say something back. But the silence stretched longer than she anticipated, and she shifted on her feet. “ Oh— shit. Sorry. Did you, um, want to come in?”

Your eyebrows rose gently. “Oh, no. No, it’s not that. I just…” Your voice trailed off, unsure for sure. You looked at the basket in your hands like it might explain for you. “I was hoping to talk to Joel. If he’s around. If that’s even—” you exhaled, a little frustrated at yourself, “— if that’s okay.”

Ellie tilted her head and squinted slightly.

“He’s not here. Went out about an hour ago. Why, though?”

“I brought this,” you lifted the basket. “Just to thank him. Nothing else.”

She watched you for a few seconds and then, she nodded, casual again.

“If you want, you can stay till he gets back. Or, I mean, I can give it to him .”

You hesitated.

“I’ll wait a bit,” you said finally. You glanced down at the basket, then up at her. “Do you like cookies?”

Ten minutes later, the two of you were sitting on the front steps of Joel’s porch while the basket sat between you like a third guest.

For some reason, you hadn’t stepped inside. It felt too intimate, too much like crossing into a place you hadn’t been invited, at all.

The air was crisp, sky still overcast. Every so often, a breeze tugged at your hair and made you pull your arms tighter around yourself.But Ellie didn’t seem to mind the chill. She was working her way through a cookie, eating it in small bites.

Every now and then, she’d offer up a scrap of conversation, something about the newest group of people who had arrived in Jackson, about how one of them had apparently tried to barter using a broken guitar. You listened, grateful for her easy way of speaking, the way she didn’t seem to expect anything profound from you.

You nibbled on a cookie, not really hungry, just needing to do something with your hands.

Another ten minutes passed.

Then... footsteps, pressed fully into the ground, not rushed, but not quiet either.

Ellie stopped mid-sentence. You both turned your heads toward the sound.

It was Joel.

He was carrying a stack of firewood in both arms, his shoulders set in a way that made him look like he’d been holding tension. His boots were caked with drying mud. And he didn’t see you at first; his eyes fixed somewhere ahead.

When he finally did notice you, just a few steps from the porch, he didn’t flinch or startle. But he didn’t smile either.

He let out a quiet exhale. Just a sound that suggested he was tired.

Without saying anything, he dropped the firewood next to the porch, and the logs landed with a dull thud, some rolling gently before coming to rest against one another.

Beside you, Ellie was still chewing, still holding the half-eaten cookie in her hand.

“Hey,” she mumbled.

You tried to sound lighter than you felt.

“Hi, Joel.”

Joel looked at you, his expression drained, same tired steadiness you’d seen at the dining hall.

“Told you it was okay,” he said.

You parted your lips to answer, but he cut in before the words could form. “What’re you doin’ here?”

Next to you, Ellie didn’t say anything. But you could feel her stillness, the way her energy retreated slightly.

You stood, brushing the back of your jeans with one hand, lifting the basket with the other. Both hands wrapped around it like an offering you weren’t sure would be accepted.

“Just wanted to drop this off,” you said. “For you. For Ellie too. It’s just bread and some more cookies. I thought maybe—”

“Don't have to thank me again. What I did... anyone would’ve done the same.”

You let out a breath through your nose, a soft sound, half amusement, half disbelief. “That’s not true.”

His eyes narrowed, confused or unconvinced.

“You found me in the snow, barely breathing,” you said. “You didn’t know me. You could’ve walked away. A lot of people would’ve. In this world... yeah.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there, jaw tight, eyes focused on something just over your shoulder.

“I’m not trying to make it into more than it was,” you said, softly now. “I just needed to say thank you. You saved my life. That means something to me.”

There was a long pause. Joel shifted his weight, then let out another breath, a heavier one.

He looked at you for a long beat. Then, finally, he nodded. It was so slight you might’ve missed it if you weren’t paying attention.

“I know,” he said. “And it’s okay. Really.”

Before you could think of how to respond, he stepped forward. His hand reached for the basket, and you instinctively pulled your fingers back so he wouldn’t have to touch you.

He took it, eyes flicking briefly to the cloth over the top.

“’Thank you,” he said. “We’re square. That’s it. You don’t need to come back.”

He turned away and stepped up onto the porch, his boots leaving faint marks on the wooden boards.

His back was to you now as he reached for the door. But before opening it fully, he glanced back, just barely.

“Ellie. Inside.”

Ellie looked between the two of you. Her eyes lingered on you for a second, something unsure across her face.

“See you around,” she said, smiling, then she walked past Joel and into the house.

You gave her a small nod, your smile returning like a reflex.

Just before he stepped inside, Joel turned slightly, his profile outlined by the doorway.

“Thanks for the bread,” he said. “And the cookies.”

He disappeared inside, and the door clicked shut behind him.

You stood there for a few seconds longer than necessary, long enough to feel the cold pressing in against your coat. Then you turned around, hands now empty, and started back down the path.

You walked home.

Jackson dining hall. Four days later. Early morning

The dining hall was already halfway full and outside, the light was still thin and cold. You couldn’t wait until this was over.

Maria was seated across from you, posture confident, comfortable. Her hands were wrapped around a chipped white mug, steam rising from her tea and across her face.

“I just don’t think you’re quite ready for that kind of thing,” she said, watching you carefully over the rim. “And it ain’t about capability, necessarily. It’s about not risking further injury. If you really wanna do heavier tasks later, the best thing you can do right now is keep healing.”

You rested your forearms on the table, fingers clasped.

“I am healed. Really. I feel strong.”

Maria set her mug down with a faint clink. She smiled, not unkindly, but with tempered amusement.

“All right, what are you imagining?”

The question lit something inside you, like a switch being flipped. You sat up straighter.

“I’m a fast learner,” you said. “I mean, I don’t know everything, obviously, but I pick things up quickly. I’m not great in the kitchen, but I’m willing to learn. Or I could help at the hospital. I’ve had some first aid training, and I’d be happy to learn more. I could assist Dr. Hale, even if it’s just basic stuff. Triage. Organizing supplies.”

Maria tilted her head slightly, studying you.

“I just don’t want to be idle,” you continued. “I want to contribute. I’ve come out the other side of all this, and I don’t take that lightly. My body’s not perfect, but it’s holding up. I’m good at staying focused. I know how to be useful. And I'm really good following orders.”

As you were speaking, Tommy appeared beside Maria and slid into the chair next to her. He nodded at you in greeting, already catching the thread of the conversation.

“Good at followin’ orders, huh?” he said, raising an eyebrow, arms folding across his chest.

You didn’t waver. “Yes. Very good.”

He gave a short laugh, exchanged a look with Maria—half teasing, half impressed.

“Well,” he said. “That’s good to hear. I might have somethin’ in mind for you.”

An hour later, you were folowing Tommy.

The building stood tall and unassuming on the outside, like it had been stitched into place. It was two stories high, and smelled of sawdust and coffee.

Inside, the floorboards creaked beneath your boots as you stepped in behind Tommy. Two men passed you near the entrance, one with a clipboard in hand, the other rattling off a list of supplies; nails, paint, tools, you heard.

The space downstairs was broad. Three closed doors lined one side, and a narrow staircase climbed the other. You barely had time to take it in before Tommy was already ascending, and you trailed behind him, heart tapping against your ribs. Not from the stairs, not really.

The upper hallway was quieter. A couple of the doors were open, and you could hear soft conversations, the rustle of paper, someone laughing behind one of them.

You glanced in as you passed, catching glimpses of tools and shelves and people.

At the end of the hall, the last door stood open. Tommy didn’t wait.

He knocked, three times, confident against the frame, then stepped inside before any invitation came.

You followed him without thinking. Without preparing yourself.

The room was spacious but spare. A large window covered nearly the entire far wall, framing the outsides of Jackson like a photograph. Through it, you could see the main path leading into town, a stretch of trees, the slope of the road, and people moving. It looked quiet.

To the left of the room, Tommy had already made his way toward a desk. Your eyes shifted instinctively to the man standing behind it.

“Joel,” Tommy said, and your attention snapped.

He was bent over a wide sheet of what looked like hand-drawn map, the paper creased and worn from use. He wore a thick vest over a flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled past his elbows, exposing strong forearms dusted faintly with dirt or graphite. There were glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and something about that startled you more than it should have.

Behind him was a whiteboard, and written in marker across the top were the words "Current Patrol Leads."

At first, he only looked at Tommy. His face lit up briefly, a short-lived smile across his mouth. And then, he turned his head toward you.

And the smile vanished.

“What’s wrong?” Joel asked.

Tommy grinned a little. “Bringin’ you some help.”

Joel’s brow creased immediately. He didn’t glance at you. “Help for what?”

Tommy tilted his head. “Unless I been hallucinatin’, you’ve been complainin’ every other day about how much you’re jugglin’ on your own.”

“Well, you are hallucinatin’, then,” Joel said flatly.

“She needs work,” Tommy continued, undeterred. “And you need someone. She’s capable, pays attention, follows instructions. I figured the arrangement might make sense.”

You didn’t speak. You weren’t sure you trusted your voice. You stood still, fingers curled against your sides, trying not to fidget.

Joel’s eyes found you, and the weight of that stare felt like being pressed between two panes of glass. Still, you didn’t look away

“What exactly’s she supposed to do?” he asked, now turning to Tommy again. “She ain’t strong enough.”

A flicker of frustration crossed Tommy’s face. He exhaled, slow through his nose, then said, “She ain’t here to lift beams. Delegate some of the admin work. Supply logs, shift schedules, volunteer lists. The kind of stuff you keep puttin’ off. She can help organize, maybe join you when you walk the sites, keep things movin’.”

Joel scoffed, a dry sound in the back of his throat.

“An assistant?” he asked, like it was a punchline.

Tommy nodded, amused. “That’s one word for it.”

Joel kept his arms crossed. His posture was rigid, but not angry, more like reluctant to entertain an idea he didn’t come up with himself. His eyes didn’t drift back to you. Not yet.

“Joel,” Tommy pressed, softer now, the name carrying insistence.

“Tommy,” he said, mimicking his brother’s tone.

“Joel.”

Joel blinked once, like he was trying to clear something from his head. “Ain’t there somewhere else she’d be more useful?”

“She could be useful here,” Tommy said, shrugging. “You got too much on your plate and you know it. Let her help, even if it’s just for a while.”

Joel sighed, the sound almost lost beneath the quiet hum of the building. His eyes finally moved (just briefly) to you. And then away again.

He looked at his brother, jaw set like he was chewing the words before letting them out.

“All right,” he said at last. “She can give it a shot. But she’s out the moment this stops workin’.”

Tommy turned to glance at you. “So? What d’you think?”

For a moment, you didn’t say anything. The room didn’t feel like yours to speak in. There was a tightness in your chest that made speaking feel like too much effort. It was difficult not to notice the way they had been talking about you, like you were a very complicated favor being negotiated.

“I can work somewhere else,” you said finally. “It’s fine.”

You didn’t wait to see their reactions. You turned and headed for the door. You barely registered the muffled conversation behind you, Tommy’s voice again, firm.

Your hand brushed against the banister as you descended the stairs. And outside, the air greeted you with a sharp inhale, and you stopped for a second to breathe it in, like it could steady something inside you.

Now that you’d left the room, now that you had space to think, it became painfully obvious that you’d misread everything. Joel hadn’t just been tired that day you showed up at his porch. It hadn’t been a matter of timing. This wasn’t about mood.

It was about you.

Whatever the reason, he didn’t want you around. Not at his house. Not at his workplace.

You started walking, unsure where you were headed exactly, only that you needed to keep moving. The ache in your chest hadn’t gone away, but it dulled with each step.

Then you heard someone behind you.

“Hey,” Tommy’s voice called out, catching up. You turned to see him approaching.

“Don’t mind Joel,” he said as he reached you, tone lighter than it had been upstairs. “He’s had a rough couple of days.”

“It’s okay,” you said, shaking your head. “Really. I can find something else.”

“He said yes.”

“He didn’t mean it.”

“He’s just—being difficult. That’s all,” Tommy insisted. “It’s nothin' to do with you.”

You pressed your lips together, unconvinced. There was too much evidence to the contrary.

Tommy tipped his head toward the building. “Come on. Let me show you around, get you familiar with what you'll be doing.”

And with that, he turned back without waiting for a reply, leaving you with little choice but to follow him.

Back inside, Joel was seated now. He looked up when you entered, blank expression, and removed his glasses and set them down beside a notepad.

Tommy gestured toward the empty chair across from Joel’s desk.

“Make yourself comfortable.” He looked at Joel directly. “Joel,” he added, like a warning dressed as a goodbye. “See you later.”

You watched him disappear down the hallway. And then, slowly, your eyes returned to Joel.

He looked larger somehow from that angle. Seated, yes, but his frame still imposing. His arms rested on the desk in front of him, the fabric of his shirt creasing at the elbows. His shoulders were drawn forward in a way that made him seem both powerful and fatigued. Strands of grey curled behind his ears, his hair unkempt. His eyes were pretty dark, settled somewhere near yours, but not quite on them.

“You can use the other desk,” he said after a moment, gesturing vaguely behind you with a tilt of his head.

You turned. The desk leaned awkwardly against the wall, cluttered with a mix of papers, boxes, and what looked like layers of dust. It didn’t seem like anyone had touched it in weeks.

You glanced back at him. “You don’t want me here.”

Joel didn’t respond to that. Instead, he leaned back, arms crossing over his chest as his gaze shifted to the window beside you.

“You can get set up after we move that stuff,” he said, voice low, almost to himself. “Most of it’s junk. I kept it there thinkin' I’d want everythin' within reach while we were workin'. Guess that didn’t pan out.”

You said nothing. The silence grew between you. He wasn’t looking at you anymore, but after a beat, he glanced your way.

Your hands were folded tightly in your lap. A quiet sigh escaped your nose. You could feel the static in the air between you, that feeling of someone growing less patient with every second.

You looked out the window, just to break the contact. He exhaled audibly.

“You should get a feel for the job first—” he started.

“I’ve done this before,” you cut in, meeting his eyes. Not defensive. Just a fact. “A few years ago. Lists, schedules, checking inventory. I’ve done it.”

He didn’t move. “You don’t know how things work 'round here.”

“I’ll learn.”

Joel nodded, more to himself than to you. “Good.”

He stood up in one motion, the chair scraping against the floor as it slid back. You watched him cross the room, moving toward the coat rack without any sense of urgency. He grabbed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

“I’ll send someone to walk you through how we do things. In the meantime, clear off that desk. Just—don’t throw anythin’ away yet.” His voice was still flat, businesslike. Then he turned slightly at the door, barely lookin’ over his shoulder. “Got it?”

You nodded. “Got it.”

He didn’t answer, didn’t say goodbye. He just opened the door and stepped out, leaving it open behind him.

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seraphrelic · 2 months ago

Text

⟡ 𓂃 ࣪˖ WARMING SILENCE — Anakin Skywalker x reader.

SUMMARY: A routine mission. A cold desert. Just you and him, alone with the silence and the stars—and the Jedi code hanging somewhere in between.

A/N: happy star wars day!! i wanted to get this out for this special day <3 reblogs appreciated !

WARNINGS: no explicit content, mutual pining, comfort/fluff, canon-typical violence (mentioned)

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That morning, you’d been assigned a mission — nothing unusual. Just a routine retrieval, or so they said. Some Force-sensitive artifact supposedly hidden deep within one of the deserts of Thalos, a planet known for its burning atmosphere by day and breezy, humid winds once dusk settled in.

You hadn’t thought much of it. You packed light. Maybe too light. Now, hours later, the sun had vanished behind the dunes, and you were beginning to feel the consequences of that decision.

Anakin was a few feet up ahead, hiking up the trail of some sand hill, his lightsaber hilt glistening under the moonlight from beneath his cloak, ready for any unwanted attention. It was crucial to stay prepared, especially in unfamiliar settings such as these.

He was a Jedi most people looked up to, you weren’t any different. Despite the both of you being closer to age than the others, it still felt like he had more experience, was always more capable, equipped.

Over time, you’ve definitely felt the temperature dropping, which would’ve been normal, considering it was nightfall already, but this was rapid, something you weren’t well dressed for, the Jedi uniform you adorned slowly failing your expectations to keep you warm.

Anakin, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, felt a little helpless, noticing the way you’d occasionally attempt to wrap your clothes around your frame a little tighter in an attempt to keep warm.

“The top of that hill might be better for the night,” he said, casually motioning to the sand rise just a few feet ahead. “Less wind.”

Your eyes shifted from his expression to where he was motioning, a rather good spot to settle down for the night, with also a great view of the general area incase of any danger lurking, nodding in agreement.

As the both of you continued to hike just up ahead, a certain questioned lingered in your mind. Of course, it wasn’t unusual for Jedi to be paired up together for missions, but it was just you and Anakin this time.

No clones, nobody. Normally, it would be a compliment, it gave the impression that your abilities were trusted, refined enough to handle the mission without backup. But with Anakin… it felt different.

Not unsettling, just — heightened. Like every word spoken, every glance exchanged, was louder in the silence between just two people.

And now, with the wind picking up and the sky deepening into violet, the quiet between you didn’t feel so professional anymore.

The hike wasn’t long, but the slope made each step feel heavier than it was. The sand shifted beneath your boots as you followed Anakin up the hill, the last stretch steep enough to force a small breath from your lips.

At the top, it leveled out into a narrow plateau, just wide enough for two. From here, you could see the dying sunlight bleeding along the horizon, casting long shadows across the dunes. Anakin gave a slight nod, like this spot would do.

Without needing to speak, the two of you began collecting what little the terrain offered — dried brush, scattered driftwood from earlier supply crates or half-buried remains of old campfires. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to coax a small flame to life.

Soon, a faint fire crackled between you, its flickering light softening the sharpness of his features. You sat across from each other, knees drawn in, the warmth not quite reaching your fingers.

“Thalos isn’t the worst planet we’ve been to,” Anakin muttered, adjusting a log with his boot, his gaze still focused upon the igniting flames in front of him.

“What was?” Your attention flicked toward him at the sound of his voice, suddenly curious, reminiscing past missions.

“Felucia, definitely. Swamps, giant mushrooms, that putrid smell—never again.” Anakin complained, followed by a chuckle that left his lips, the sound almost lost in the crackling of the fire.

He was right, it wasn’t the most pleasant experience you’ve had during a mission, but then again, missions weren’t supposed to be luxurious, especially for Jedi. You were taught to endure, to adapt.

But something about the way Anakin said it, the casual frustration in his tone, the ease with which he let it go — made it feel like more than just a mission to him. Like he wasn’t just talking about a planet; he was talking about what it meant to be here, with all the messiness and discomfort it brought.

But even so, being a Jedi was an honorary act, a constant balancing act between duty and sacrifice. It wasn’t about luxuries or comforts — it was about pushing aside those desires for something greater, something nobler.

And yet, there were moments like this, where the quiet of the desert and the flickering flames made you question if the balance was worth it.

You glanced at Anakin, his profile half-lit by the fire, and wondered if he ever thought about that — how much of himself he had to leave behind, how much of his own humanity had been swallowed up by the Jedi code.

He’d never admit it, but you couldn’t help but wonder if, like you, he sometimes felt the weight of it all.

“You’re shivering, Y/n,” Anakin’s voice spoke up once more, his full attention now focused fully on you.

He caught you by surprise, not expecting him to notice your subtle shivering from the planet’s temperature dropping.

“No, I’m fine, really.”

He gave you a look — one of those quiet, skeptical ones he did so well, the kind that said he didn’t believe a word of it. His gaze lingered for a second longer than it should have, before he wordlessly shrugged off his cloak and extended it toward you.

You hesitated. “Anakin…”

“It’s not up for debate,” he said simply, tone softer now, but firm in a way that made it hard to argue. “Just take it.”

Not being left with any more room to argue, you reluctantly took the cloak from him, looping it over your shoulders, the warmth almost immediate. His scent remained on it, faint, but still noticeable, familiar.

He didn’t say anything as you wrapped it around yourself, just watched for a second before turning his gaze back to the fire, his lips faintly curling into a smile.

You didn’t say anything either. But for the first time that night, the cold didn’t seem so harsh — and neither did the silence.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

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rhenuvee · 11 months ago

Text

Playing Animal Crossing New Horizons with HSR Men

Warnings: ugly villager slander, established relationship (can be platonic or romantic)

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

Argenti: Your fellow knight of beauty grows quite fond of the game, immediately finding the freedom of creativity in decoration endearing. He always gives you compliments on your OOTD, and takes screenshots whenever you design a new area on your island. Argenti gave himself the gardening job- spending his bells on red rose seeds. He gets proficient in following the flower guide, and is very proud of himself if he ever gets a golden rose on your island. He loves the villagers, finding them each very cute, and even beauty in the "ugly" villagers. "Did you see the villagers wearing the red rose on their head? I must say I am flattered they love it so much. Though, I am more happy that they appreciate the beauty of our island." He enjoys documenting the beautiful places in your island with photos <3

Aventurine: From the beginning he points out the fact that Tom Nook is a capitalist, which makes you roll your eyes thinking he thinks this game is silly. However, it is quite the opposite as it doesn't take him long to get out of his home loan debt and is somehow extremely lucky. It's unfair to you that he could just log in on any given day and have the best deal for turnips. However because you are his favourite he says he’s willing to buy you whatever you want, he guesses. He happens to be able to catch rare species like the Coelacanth, and it infuriates you but you really can't be if it's helping the museum. "445 bells per turnip, sounds like music to my ears~" "What's that? You want this violin? Well I guess I could spare you a few bells... is one million okay?"

Blade: Let's not kid ourselves here- it takes a lot of convincing and help from Silver Wolf to get him to even be in the presence of Animal Crossing. He says he would much rather stand and look at the wall (SW: "You already do that everyday"). Eventually he sits himself next to you, and listens to your giddy rambling about what to do in the game while he puts on a serious face not saying anything. After the preliminary tutorial/startup gameplay, he finally says, “…why is this rat harassing me for money.” However, the loans aren't the worst but the villagers chasing him down are. He purposely ignores them and grumbles when you tell him to answer ):/. He prefers to watch you play, but because he sees you smile and laugh at his sarcastic comments, he thinks it's not so bad.

Boothill: He's definitely down to try it out, but he ends up being a bit of a troll. He doesn't really mind cute/ugly villagers, until he judges them for what they say. “That’s right, (y/n) did catch all those fish.” “Did he just ask me if he could call me Muffin.” “WHAT DO YOU MEAN I GOTTA PAY ANOTHER LOAN?!!?” Yeah… he quickly feels the grindy-ness, complaining that Tom Nook was working him like a forkin’ dog. A little bit of comical rage, but he won’t lie he is enjoying it. He also asks if there are any guns and he is disappointed, so he opts for the net. He's a little rough and rowdy, but he does it in style. That being said, he 100% spends his extra bells on a cowboy outfit.

Dan Heng: He agrees instantly- aw :(. He knows you (and March) have been begging him to play. He’s is fairly good at it- gets out of the tent quickly, masters catching creatures, a nicely organized house… He’s quite resourceful too, chopping down trees and going to mystery islands to farm the heck out of it. The villagers love him, both of you often seeing them run to him with the little sparkly flowers. And even though he's normally serious, you can't help but fawn over how sweet he is with the villagers. "...She wants to call me Shmoopy, do I-" "YES." Villagers asking him to catch a fish? He's immediately on it. He remembers their names and treats them like real people :(

Dr. Ratio: "Is it educational?" Bro is such a nerd. You deadpan at him, and sass him for expecting this to be IXL or something. He is also one to get through the tutorial part easily. You expected him to be overly critical of the game, but he finds appreciation in the museum: both the creatures and the art. Is it a farfetched idea that I think he'd know how to tell the reals and fakes right off the bat? "Do you really think Da Vinci spilled coffee on his work?" At least it saves you the troubles of wasting your bells and getting a fake. I think your island would not be a mess, and would have at least a few statues (you know the ones) which add his touch to it.

Gallagher: Honestly he's happy as long as he gets a little area for himself. Kind of a wild card this one- somehow calm and chaotic at the same time, and it's puzzling because how is he doing such weird things with a straight face? Trolls the villagers quite a bit (he's lucky ACNH villagers are nice) by hitting them with a net (just once though) and giving them different catchphrases every time they ask. "Why is Bob saying 'spaghettini' at the end of his sentences?" "Um, because I thought it'd be funny? Also I'm kinda hungry so-" "Gallagher ):/" Despite the randomness, he is wholesome at times. He is also one to compliment your new outfit, and stargaze with you on the new area you decorated.

Gepard: He's busy so you weren't expecting too much from him, but he takes pride in having a well-rounded island. He gets so excited when he catches a new species that you don't have yet- what a cutie. Also goes full throttle when there's a bug-off or fishing tourney. Despite being a video game, I feel like there will be some way he messes up taking care of plants. The flowers overgrow, the turnips rot, and he doesn't understand why the trees aren't growing? But with some tips from you along with your island designing skills, your island rank moves up and he is BEAMING. "Zucker asked about you." "...he did?" "Mhm, he asked how you were doing, and said he saw you laying out pathways on the island."

Jing Yuan: He finds it so cute when you ask him to play. Lowkey like Blade where he likes watching your happy expressions when playing. He's happy that this game provides him a way to relax while not getting bored. Secretly an enjoyer of villager drama: "Wolfgang wants to apologize to Audie with this present. What happens if I don't deliver it?" "Again? Ah, just give it to her quickly." "...what if I don't." "...Jing Yuan." Oddly I feel like he'd enjoy the group stretching (what an old man), and encourages you to join. Like the "Dozing General" he is, there will be times when he's inactive and gets the bed head.

Luocha: You weren't expecting him to enjoy the game, but he's surprisingly willing to be resourceful. His storage is full of materials, which you scold him for because this is the reason for his empty undecorated house. But he always has things you need so you can't exactly complain. Also one to be pretty smart with managing bells and resources, able to maximize their worth. When the island gets visitors like Label or Flick, he has items ready. "Luocha... where did you get that coat?" "This? It's a designer piece, from Miss Label." I'd say he does have a sense of beauty in design, so thankfully your island is gorgeous.

Sampo: Sympathizes with Redd like a true scammer. "Aw look, he just needs a bit of money to get started... he even gave us a 'cousin's discount'." However, a rivalry starts with Redd when Sampo's first art piece turned out to be fake (scammer gets scammed moment). He asks if he can be the salesman that he's supposed to be. When villagers run up to him to offer bells for an item he has, he accepts thinking it'll get him a deal along the way. Unfortunately friendship gets you nowhere in terms of home loans. I'd say he's pretty good with the turnip stonks, so there's a balance. Also TRASH ISLAND. I'm sorry, but your man is a hoarder, "But what if I need this?" (Literally me.)

Welt: When you ask him to play he asks why the animals are crossing. He finds the style and characters are so cute, and he can see why you enjoy it. This is definitely a way he gets in touch with his "youthful" side. He loves the creative freedom in the game, even getting indecisive about how to design your island, and thinking of what outfit to wear. He once made a simple t-shirt for fun, but was surprised when he saw a villager wearing it. It'd be so cute and funny when he learns new emotes- and he just spams them with a straight face. Not gameplay related, but I feel like in his free time he'd draw you both in villager form <3.

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail fluff #honkai star rail imagines #animal crossing #animal crosing new horizons #acnh #hsr imagines #argenti x reader #aventurine x reader #blade x reader #boothill x reader #dan heng x reader #dr ratio x reader #gallagher x reader #gepard x reader #jing yuan x reader #luocha x reader #sampo x reader #welt x reader

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fairymusings · 1 year ago

Text

Rain and Redemption

Tamlin x Reader

Synopsis : After fleeing your home in the Court of Nightmares you seek refuge in the wild and unattended lands of the Spring Court. You are certain that you will remain unnoticed and can finally begin living a free life. After a year alone in the feral woods of Spring you stumble upon a most surprising beast, one who had been rumored lost forever.

Pairings : TamlinxReader

a/n : this one is for my tamlin girlies! i’m so excited to write this piece and i hope you guys enjoy. don’t get me wrong i love all my other acotar men but he’s been lingering in my mind lately. slight rhys slander but nothing that isn’t true <3 (pls do not demolish me in the comments)

Warnings : mentions of cruelty and torture, suggestiveness, tamlin being possessive (but in a good way)

... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ..

The forest crawled with many creatures. Some were benevolent while others sought flesh and blood. A year in the Spring woodlands had taught you much; survival chiefly, but it had also shown you strength from within that you had not known was there. The wherewithal to remain largely unscathed in such a dangerous environment was not cheap. Yet the perils of the forest did not compare to the cruelty of your home. You’d fled from the Court of Nightmares just over a year ago and headed straight for the Spring Court. Your plan to escape had been neatly designed. After the war with Hybern you knew that the southern territory was largely abandoned by its High Lord and sneaking into its territories would be your best bet at remaining hidden from your family and from the High Lord that ruled over them.

Over the years you had grown to detest the High Lord of the Night Court. His backwards notions of ruling fairly would have been laughable if they had not cost you so much. His love for the City of Starlight had left you and your people completely disregarded. Mostly left to manage yourselves, cruelty and violence soaked into the hearts of those who resided within the mountain. The reputation of your court was enough for Rhysand to deem all of you little more than the dirt under his finely crafted boots. After 50 years of growing up in such circumstances you’d had enough. Perhaps one day you’d return to uplift your people, to tell the pompous Lord exactly what his arrogance and misplaced judgment had cost you all. For now, you sat upon a moss covered log and removed your leather pack.

It had been a long day of traveling. Recent naga attacks had driven you from your previous shelter and further into the dense woods. The afternoon sun was quickly setting and you’d need to find new lodging before it slipped beneath the horizon. Taking account of your provisions, you deemed it safe enough to take a large swig from the water canteen stored in your pouch. After twisting the cap back on tightly, you shrugged on your pack and set off again to find a place to sleep.

It did not take long until you found a cave hidden amongst the brush and trees. Pulling back a branch you entered and surveyed the dimly lit cavern. Aside from a few discarded animal bones it seemed largely unoccupied. Whomever had been here before was long gone by your observation. Deeming it fit for the night you began preparing to settle and sleep. The latter caught up to you before you knew it, the fatigue of traveling getting the better of you. You slept hard and heavy until a crunch from just outside the cave jolted you awake. Flinging your eyes open you scanned the entrance to find a hulking shadow of a creature peering in. There was not enough light to reveal the nature of this being, as you had not started a fire in an effort to remain unseen. The giant figure took a step forward and you slammed your eyes shut, heart racing. Slowly and silently you reached for the dagger strapped to your hip but did not unsheathe it yet. Taking slow steadying breaths you monitored the creatures movements with only your sense of hearing. It seemed to take two tight circles and flop onto the ground, as if it too were exhausted. Daring to peek one eye open you confirmed your suspicions and saw the shadow of the massive thing taking deep, slumberous breaths as if it had paid you no mind whatsoever. Loosing out a silent sigh you thanked the mother for whatever amnesty she had granted until your lids grew heavy once more and sleep reclaimed you wholly.

Your eyes did not reopen until dawn cracked through the leaves and streamed into the cave. You moved a hand to shade your eyes from the light and slowly blinked them open. It was then you remembered you had not slept alone last night. Your gaze landed onto what seemed to be an oversized wolf curled up on the rock floor not three feet away from you. Your heart began its quickened pace once more as you silently turned away from it to sling your pack across your head and shoulder. Standing as quietly as you could you braced yourself to turn back around and make your escape. Yet when you faced the creature once more it was already on four giant paws, its eyes locked onto you. You sucked in a silent scream and took a step backwards against the wall of the cave, flattening your palms along the cool rock. Your eyes had locked onto a fierce pair of green ones that seemed to bore into your very soul. Quickly remembering what you had learned you averted your eyes and looked down at the ground. Ever so slowly you shrank down the wall until you had come into a full crouch. You had long since figured out that if you could not best something it was better to make yourself small and hope it would deem you unworthy of its time.

Yet the wolf took a step forward, and then another. Out of your peripheral vision you could tell it was lowering its massive head towards you. It took two long inhales then nudged forward once more. You knew it was foolish but you couldn’t help your curiosity as you lifted your head to gaze at the beast once more. Its emerald eyes were locked onto yours, almost as if it were a conscious being. You didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. It shifted once more, this time onto its hind legs to sit and then again to lay its enormous body down in front of you. Then as if trying to convey its docile nature the wolf let out a quiet whine. You weren’t entirely sure this was all real. It must have devoured you whole and you were now in the midst of some delusion brought on by death. Yet your heart continued to beat rapidly and your lungs still drew in panicked breaths. The wolf had not broken its eye contact and now looked up at you from its lying position.

Deeming your situation already lethal you cast your better judgment to the wind and let out a whisper. “Hello,” you said to the beast. It cocked its head slightly as if in greeting and curiosity. “I’m sorry I invaded your cave,” you said trying to tame the shaking in your voice, “I didn’t know it was occupied.” The wolf lifted its head ever so slightly and parted its giant mouth to reveal dagger like canines. “You invaded more than my cave, little nightingale,” it rumbled in a voice so deep it rattled your bones.

You were sure now that you were hallucinating. Your face was the picture of pure shock as you beheld the speaking creature. You sputtered and stammered, reaching for something to say. “You speak?” was all you could squeak out. The wolf remained lying down but lifted its head an inch further. “Yes,” it replied in that thick tenor. You managed the courage to straighten slightly and surveyed its lethal figure. The matted coat, the pronged horns that crowned its head, the striking green eyes that observed you in turn. It clicked just then. “You’re Tamlin,” you said, not exactly a question. The wolf blinked once, twice. “Yes,” he replied once more. You couldn’t believe it. You had heard the tales of a fallen High Lord who had bound himself to his beast form and hidden away in the woods. You’d just never expected to behold him, let alone engage in conversation with him.

You stumbled for your words again but managed to get out, “I- I’m sorry for intruding. On your cave and your lands. I needed…” Your ability to articulate a sentence evaded you entirely as you beheld him. “It is no matter to me,” he spoke, “not anymore.” There was a deep sadness that dripped off his words and you felt a tear in your chest. Without your permission, your body moved your hand up and onto Tamlin’s fur coated head. Your fingers threaded into the soft fleece and rested there for a moment. He stayed completely still. It took a few heartbeats to realize what you had done, what you were still doing. You retracted your hand, choking out an apology. Tamlin did not deign to respond. Instead he lowered his head back down and this time laid it right into your lap.

... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ..

He must be out of his mind, he thought. Yet he could not tear himself away from your gentle touch as you once again began your exploration of his fur. How long had it been since he had been touched? How long had it been since he had even seen another conscious life form? He breathed in your scent, that of lilies and hyacinths. It was polluted with the smell of the forest and survival. He had noted your thin figure before closing his eyes and relishing your touch. He noticed the dirty clothes, the grime under your nails, and the tangles in your hair that made you look wild and untamed. He pondered your presence in the Spring Court as you moved your hand to caress the other side of his head. He knew he should kill you. What other reason would a Night Court citizen be doing in his lands other than to spy and destroy him further. The thought had him opening his eyes once more, but he did not move from under your touch. “Why, little nightingale, have you come to my lands?” he grumbled softly. The sigh that escaped your lips was a heavenly sound. “I could not stand another minute in that court,” you responded to him continuing your exploration across his fur. He contemplated your words before prodding again, “But why come here of all places?” He watched you consider his question from his position on your lap until you let out a small laugh and said, “It’s the only place where I felt I would be safe.”

Something that had been long asleep in him awoke at your response. Here? Safe? With him? After everything that had happened in the last 53 years under Amarantha’s reign, the war with Hybern, and destruction of his court he could not fathom that anyone in all of Prythian could possibly feel safe here. “These woodlands are not safe, nightingale,” he said. You snorted in response to his implication. “I don’t know, my Lord, I’ve faired quite well this past year. Still all in one piece, see?” You removed your hand from his fur to gesture to your own figure. He immediately missed the feeling of your touch. It took a great deal of restraint not to nuzzle your hand back to its original place on him.

Instead he rose from your lap and stood to his full height, his head barely grazing the top of the cavern ceiling. You rose with him wringing your hands at his size. “You’re not safe here,” he repeated, “come.”

... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ..

A command. One that reverberated through you to your very core. You did not hesitate to follow him out of the cave and into a clearing beyond the brush. “Climb up,” he instructed. You paused only a moment until you realized he meant for you to ride atop his back. He lowered himself ever so slightly as you hiked yourself into his massive wolf form. “Hold on, little nightingale,” he commanded once more before beginning a slow trot away from your shared cave.

The trek had been mostly contended silence. The two of you only spoke in question and response when the curiosity became too much.

“Why did you leave home?” he asked.

“I grew wary of the cruelty of home and the misjudgments of my High Lord,” you answered.

“Why have you disappeared for so long?” you asked.

“I am not fit to be a ruler at present,” he responded.

The hike had been a few hours long until you broke from the cover of the forest into an expansive clearing with endless rolling hills. The grasses had overgrown and if you hadn’t been astride on his back your figure would surely disappear into the thickets. He continued his pace as he came upon a behemoth of a building. Its size was dazzling but its condition was ruinous. Vines had almost completely overtaken the walls, creeping into shattered windows. The gardens surrounding the manor were in complete disarray, growing this way and that. He stepped over the overgrowth with his giant paws and took you up a grand staircase leading to two massive wooden doors. Gently he nudged them open with his snout and stepped foot in the place he once called home.

... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ..

He didn’t know exactly how long it had been since he had been to the manor. Before this morning he’d had no intentions of returning any time soon. He was not worthy to reside here, not worthy to call himself High Lord. The ruin he had left it in had his ego twisting from embarrassment, but he had to get her to safety. He did not know where the urge had come from, did not understand his draw to this intruder. It had been a long time since he’d had a task, a purpose. While the feeling was still foreign it was anything but unwelcome. He lowered himself once more once the two of you were safely inside and relished once more the feeling of your touch before you slid off his back and onto the marble entryway flooring. Tamlin observed as you marveled at the interior. Your eyes ravenous, soaking up every inch of this new environment. “It’s horrendous, I know,” he spoke lowly, “but you will be safe here. Safer than in those woods by yourself.” You turned your too thin figure toward him and spoke, “It’s marvelous.” He pushed down the small hint of excitement at your words and simply said “You can wash up and change clothes in the third room to the left past the dining room. I will find something to eat for the night.” With that, he turned and stepped outside the manor once more with a new task in his mind.

... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ..

You followed his instruction, finding a room that was mostly untouched by claw marks and destruction. Although dust had settled upon almost every surface, it was nice to be sheltered by four walls again. The room you entered was clearly meant for visiting courtiers, with a four poster bed, a generous armoire, a tall looking glass, and connected was a spacious bathing room. The stale air in the room was unfamiliar as you had grown accustomed to fresh air and gentle spring breezes. Your first order of business was to pry open the ornate window across the room. Your second order of business was to strip completely nude and fill the giant tub with enough water to wash a bear. The spout shot out a few violent buckets of water before finally clearing the air from its pipes and finding a steady stream. As the tub filled you nosed into the cabinets to find a few bottles of soap and oils. Sure they were a few years old, but it was better than lakes and creek water. You savored the warmth of your bath as it relaxed tense muscles and lulled you into bliss. It was only when the water grew chilled that you pulled yourself out and searched for any clothing to don before the High Lord returned from his hunt. You’d found little in terms of prudence but the silk nightdress would work for the evening. It had been a long time since you’d thought about such courtly things as how much skin was showing. Growing bored in the chamber waiting for Tamlin you walked into the main hall and began exploring.

... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ..

He strode into the manor as silently as he could. Tamlin held the dead deer in his lethal jaws and gently set it on the black and white marble before shifting into his fae form. It felt unfamiliar to stand on two legs instead of four. His shrugged off his discomfort and headed straight for his abandoned quarters to find something to dress in. The last thing he needed was you stumbling upon his naked, dirt covered figure. Tamlin made quick work of putting on bland pants and a light tunic. He didn’t even bother buttoning it completely before making his way to the room he’d directed you towards. He knocked once at your door and heard nothing. He started to call out your name then quickly realized you had not yet given it to him. Knocking once more he paused, listening for a sign of you behind the door. More silence. He pushed open the door and saw that you were not there. After looking in the bathing room to find it empty as well his heart began to quicken. It was happening again. How could he have been such a fool? Of course you wouldn’t want to stay here. Who would? His estate was in complete shambles and he himself was no better. His breathing was erratic, his chest pumping up and down as he began his downward spiral. Then he heard a sound. His head snapped toward the door as he heard a melancholy music coming from elsewhere in the manor. He followed the melody to where he found you sitting in front of the grand pianoforte. The keys were out of tune, but the quiet song was still lovely. He could do nothing but stand and stare in utter shock that not only had you stayed, but you were freshly dressed in Spring Court attire and playing music in his home. He watched as your hands traveled gracefully upon the ivories. The sound of your song was like a breath of life into the tomb of the manor. His state of silent admiration was only interrupted by the end of your song. You let out a content sigh and rose from the bench, turning and meeting his eyes.

... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ..

The sight of him. You had not yet known the High Lord of Spring in his fae form. He was utterly gorgeous. Your eyes devoured him as if they were starved. His tunic was unbuttoned and revealed a generous portion of his muscled chest. It was then you remembered the thin nightgown you had thoughtlessly wrapped yourself in. You knew he was fae, but his wolf form had almost made you forget that he was also a male. A beautiful, stunning male. You quickly tore your eyes from him and found a spot on the ground to study as you greeted him, “My Lord.” He let out a breath as if he’d been holding it, “My Lady.” Your eyes flicked up to his at that. A faint smile ghosted his lips and his face was the picture of relief. “I’m sorry if I overstepped, I got bored waiting for your return.” He let out a quiet laugh and took a few steps to approach you. “That’s quite alright, little nightingale, I’m just happy to see that you’re still here.” It was your turn to laugh. What a ridiculous comment! Through a snort you said, “Where else would I go?” His smile grew and he offered you his hand. “Good point. I found us something to eat. Care to join me?” You stepped forward to meet him, his towering figure and scent overwhelming your senses. Yet you took his hand and returned the smile, gazing up at him. “I would love nothing more.”

#tamlin x reader #tamlin acotar #tamlin #acotar #acotar imagine #tamlin imagine #acomaf #acowar #acosf #a court of thorns and roses #a court of wings and ruin #a court of mist and fury #a court of silver flames #tamlin redemption arc

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peachplumjuice · 2 months ago

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Meet Your Match

Remmick x fem!reader fic

Summary: You are a bit of a loner admittedly, but you are NOT a damsel in distress. With a mother who practiced traditional spiritualism from her homeland and a father native to the land you call home, you’ve heard tale of vampires. So, when one starts to show up around your cozy little slice of home on the outskirts of the woods—you know just what to do with him.

Potential smut warning: not in this but if I continue there ABSOLUTELY will be lmao (I’m just a girl)

Yall i am not trying to edge anybody i just dont know if anyone will read this lmao, if you want more I’ll write more mkay :)

This is my first fic so liek, if there are mistakes no there aren’t!

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The sun is just starting to lower behind the distant mountain range on the western horizon. You watch as the rays of warm golden light refract scattered beams onto the river. They paint the flowing water in a kaleidoscope of color as it passes your calves, licking them with cold.

Woven cloth skirt tied up around your hip to keep from the frigid water, you look over the few portly fish you’ve managed to trap against the rocks and finesse into your basket and hum with satisfaction.

Yes, this’ll do for tonight.

And if you flay the meat and dry it properly, it will make an excellent dried snack for your travels on horseback.

Your skin is warm from the sun of the afternoon, and you relish in the sensation of it before stepping out of the river and onto the soft bank.

There, you wrap up your catch and sling your fishing basket across your chest where it rests snugly against your shoulder blades. Home isn’t far, and your spirits are high.

The late spring time is beautiful in Mississippi. Sunlight heats up the towns like hot plates, but here in your own little piece of land on the edge of the forest it warms things just right.

The air is jumping and lively with moisture, but the buzzing gnats have only just started to emerge. It’s the sweet spot of the season.

Swish in your walk and a soft song on your lips, you make your way home.

A trek you’ve made many times, it requires almost no thought. Your legs are strong, and muscle memory carries you in between ancient redwoods and over rich land.

By the time you make it home the last bit of sunlight has kissed the horizon.

It feels right to move this way, guided by the sun and moon and the light, just as your mother did-and hers before.

What you have isn’t much, but it’s yours. Your little dwelling is more than enough. Before your birth, your father had built and fortified it himself with broad tan hands you had loved so much to hold as a child.

They were always riddled with cracks and blisters from long days of labor, but you never minded.

Seze, your broodish mare, chuffs at you as you pass her. She’s snout deep in the grass behind your home, chestnut brown tail flicking behind her, back twitching in an attempt to keep the unruly flies away.

“Always such attitude for me huh-”

You stop to greet her, laughing starkly as she presses her wet nose into your hair and begins to nibble your exposed curls.

Gently swatting her away, a wide smile curls the corners of your lips.

You release your basket from and set it down by your unlit hearth and the smoothed redwood logs laid out around it.

The cicadas are singing now, and the sounds of a wet Mississippi night lay heavily over you like a heavy blanket.

Shoot, need my knife to get to work on dinner.

The thought broaches your mind and you have every intention of grabbing your trusty flaying knife from inside. With long strides you come up on the threshold, back facing the darkened tree line.

Just as you move forwards and press through the beaded chains lining the entrance, you hear it.

“Howdy there ma’am”

A man’s voice, dripping in Mississippi southern charm, scares the living soul out of you.

Startled and entirely taken off guard, you turn on your heels.

Heart rate through the roof, a hand clutching your racketing heart, you lock eyes with your unexpected visitor.

He’s. . .not what you expected by his voice alone. His pale skin has an almost luminous quality in the fresh moonlight. He’s tall but not impressively so, about your height perhaps, with hair that could be sandy blonde or pitch black with the way it’s washed out in moonlight.

You can’t quite tell.

However, there are two things that strike you right away.

The first–you don’t get unexpected visitors.

You’re at least a ten mile trek from the nearest big town on foot, and nestled right up against the river in a way that makes you purposefully undetectable to most.

The second, his eyes are entirely wrong.

Wrong, not in the sense of brown or blue, hazel or green.

Like a predators, they’re darkened with black and you swear that under the moonlight they almost glow. A halo of red illuminated in the darkness. Blood red like the sweetest fruit and the freshest sin.

As most white men in the nearby towns do–he’s dressed in a crisp white shirt and dark brown pants, suspenders and all.

Too clean, too proper for these woods.

“Well that’s my bad miss, I truly didn’t mean to scare you. Jus stumbled upon this lovely home of yours by happenstance.”

He steps out from the tree line with his arms up in a casually familiar gesture that does absolutely nothing to lower the raised hairs lining your arms and legs or slow your racing heart.

Unclenching your fists, you swallow your apprehension and answer him.

“Is that so?”

Your voice is stern and even, you give nothing away.

Unsure of what to make of him just yet, your eyes follow him with every movement.

The blood of your ancestors is singing through your veins with warning.

The humming of the night has gone deathly quiet all of a sudden. Your breath quickens and your pulse begins to thud deeply behind your ears.

“Now please, forgive me here ma’am. I had no mind to frighten you.”

His voice washes over you, sickly sweet and thick like syrup. The longer he speaks the more his southern charm feels almost artificial. You can’t place it, but you’ve lived in Mississippi all your life–and something ain’t right with the way this white man curls his a’s and tightens up his t’s.

Hand over his heart, he steps forward again, closing the distance between you slowly, cautiously.

This close, maybe 50 or so feet apart, you notice the way harsh way light reflects off his teeth as he smiles a charming, toothy grin. Clearly attempting to soothe you out of your better instincts.

He’s handsome, in an imperfect yet pleasing way.

The type of face that feels strong of character.

The kind that feels easy to love.

Yeah, I know better don’t I?

Instinctively, your arm shoots out straight in front of you with an open palm.

“Right there is far enough, thank you.”

This time your voice has an edge, a warning. You couldn’t keep the fear from tinging your voice this time. The threat in the air feels palpable now.

In the back of your mind there are racing thoughts, memories of old times when ancient beings with inhuman forms and red eyes used to drown people in fear.

Of how they used to be capable of cunning manipulation with their slick words. Of how achingly beautiful they could be. And oh, how wicked.

“Woah there, no need to be afraid. I’m not here to cause ya any harm miss. . .?”

He trails off in that almost impeccable southern twang, arms still raised, looking at you expectantly.

Simultaneously, you realize the evident coincidence of his arrival and the waning presence of the sun.

Oh he’s good.

His gaze is greedy underneath all of that charm, like a cat watching a Canary–envisioning the swift kill and the sweet reward.

You have no intention of answering him.

Don’t give anything away.

Inside, you know your father’s absolute clunker of a shotgun is loaded and waiting, just across the threshold.

You know your twin colt pistols are stashed underneath your bed, and that your hunting arrows can be coated with poison in less than 30 seconds under duress.

The rest of the cooking knives are small but useful in a pinch, but there’s one in particular that could get the job done.

Focusing your attention on him keenly now, you speak.

“I think it’s best if you get on now, it’s late and I’m sure you’re aware it’s a long way back to town.”

Your words come out at a measured pace, sticking your meaning with every word.

“Ah that’s not very nice now is it? It’s quite a ways back to town and I’m tired as a damn dog.”

The facade begins to drop, just a little. Is that desperation slipping into his tone?

You notice how he’s managed to edge a few more feet forward, his eyes lock onto you with a sharp hunger that burns through his unsuspecting demeanor.

He must be starving .

Realizing the severity of your situation, you hedge your bets. Pulse thrumming, palms sweating, you make your decision.

Ah, fuck it.

“Leave now. You’ll get no blood from me tonight, demon.”

As your voice carries over to him, the distance between you suddenly feels all too small.

Like somehow he’s compressed it with sheer will.

The air crackles with tension, a bead of sweat drips down the back of your neck.

Bowing his head, you feel yourself startle all over again as this stranger starts to laugh.

It starts as a deep chuckle, rolling into a loud boisterous laugh. Under different circumstances you might’ve even found the sound attractive.

Not in these ones.

Shaking with the effort of it, he slowly raises his head to meet your eyes.

Razor sharp teeth crowd his mouth with a deadly grin, saliva dripping from his lips, eyes burning red and black as night.

Somehow still so unearthly handsome.

“Oh darling, I’m not just here for blood”

Fuuuuuuck.

#sinners #remmick #remmick x reader #sinners fic #sinners 2025

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theconstantsidekick · 28 days ago

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Thunderbolts* ft. Static (4) | b.b

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader, Tony Stark x Stark!Reader (siblings), Natasha Romanoff x Stark!Reader (flirtationship)

Genre: pretty fun until the end, honestly

Summary: So they are gonna go help Bob, fine. A team up, or whatever. But considering the people involved in said team up all have some kinda history with Y/n Stark, wife of Bucky Barnes—nothing goes all that well.

(These scenes incorporate y/n, codenamed—Static, into the pre-existing story as a character without making drastic changes to the plot or mythos. All the major plot points from the MCU remain in place with the addition of the reader as Static, who is not only a Stark but also enhanced. Whatever events from the canon aren’t mentioned, take place without much change.)

Warnings: SPOILERS FOR THUNDERBOLTS*, Cursing, mentions of murders and assassinations, mentions of violence, mentions of past trauma, mentions of death, gets pretty dark at the end

a/n: TIME SKIP BABYYY

Thunderbolts* ft. Static (3) | Series Masterlist | Static: Get, Set, Glitch | Captain America: The Winter Soldier (ft. Static) | Static Verse Masterlist

They’re still arguing when they spill out of the abandoned garage—like some ragtag, emotionally repressed conga line of trauma and unresolved issues.

“Of course you are powerful!” Alexie yells, jogging to keep up. “Yo—you can make weapons out of nothing!”

Y/n walks ahead, Bucky beside her—not out of leadership, but pure, shared desperation to get away from the noise behind them.

Yelena and Walker trail just behind, while Ava brings up the rear—quiet, calculating—as Alexei keeps orbiting the group, shouting compliments like they’re insults.

“You can teleport,” Yelena adds, deadpan.

“You’ve logged more field time than most registered superheroes,” Ava chimes in.

“And you can fly,” Walker says, a smile tugging at his voice.

Y/n catches the grin forming on Bucky’s face.

She shoves him.

It does nothing to stop him.

“I’m not saying I’ll come out of this fight crying and pissing myself,” she mutters. “I’m just saying—if we are fighting your friend Bob? Tie your damn shoes.”

Now that they’re out in the open, Y/n tries her best to shift focus to the scorching Utah sun burning down on her skin. It’s a desperate attempt—really—to distract herself from how close Bucky is walking beside her. From the smell of his cologne. The heat radiating off his body. The exact weight of his presence in her peripheral vision.

And the spectacular curve of his goddamn ass.

“You are a soldier of Mother Russia! You can take on Bob!” Alexei declares behind them, like he’s auditioning for a propaganda film.

She wipes the sweat off her forehead. “If by take him on you mean hold my own? Sure. But that’s about it.”

Alexie groans, loud and dramatic. Then he mutters something in Russian that is better left untranslated.

Nobody responds. They’ve all silently agreed that ignoring him is the best tactic.

The group clusters into a loose circle just outside the garage, with Alexei pacing around the outskirts, still muttering.

“Do we know where Val is keeping Bob?” Yelena asks, squinting at the horizon.

Bucky plants his hands on his hips, and passes a short but noticeable glace towards her. “The old Avengers building.”

Ah.

Y/n’s stomach twists.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. Her entire body tenses at the mention.

That building used to mean home. Family.

But that was a long time ago. Now it’s just another evil lair for the dollar-store Cruella De Vil.

She can feel Bucky trying to look at her, check up on her. She can tell he wants to say something. But she can also tell he doesn’t think he has the right to anymore.

“Then we need transport to New York,” Walker says, before tossing a look at Bucky. “Seeing as you blew up ours.”

Bucky gives him a deadpan stare. No apology. No reaction. Just Bucky.

“And quickly,” Y/n cuts in. “I’m presuming you had backup coming in?” she asks, turning to Bucky.

He exhales. Loudly. Like he forgot that part. “Yeah.”

“Can you tell them not to?” she says, one brow raised.

Another exhale. This one quieter. “... Yeah.”

He steps off to make the call.

And yeah, of course her eyes follow him.

Fucking motherfucker. She can’t help it. Okay? She can’t.

He’s dressed in all black—his favorite goddamn leather jacket, pants that fit like they were stitched by angels, and that walk. That walk that says troubled past, but excellent in bed.

So yes, Y/n takes a moment to savour the view of her ex–not-ex husband walking away.

Sue her.

“You’re checking him out,” Yelena says, grinning.

“He’s my husband. It is my God-given right,” Y/n replies without missing a beat, still not looking away.

“But you’re separated?” Ava says—half-question, half-judgment.

Y/n whips her head around. “Not on paper. So back the fuck off.”

She turns on her heel and stalks toward the back of the garage, in search of anything with wheels.

“I wasn’t—I didn’t—!” Ava stammers, following. “I like the two of you together!”

“Oh, come on. You checked him out too,” Walker says with a smirk that begs for a slap.

“I saw it,” Yelena confirms, falling into step beside Y/n.

“It’s the Winter Soldier,” Ava says defensively. “It’s pretty unavoidable!”

“I heard that!” Y/n calls back.

“It doesn’t mean anything!”

Luckily, the universe throws them a bone—they spot a dusty, dented old moving truck parked right behind the garage.

Walker immediately checks the tires. Yelena ducks into the passenger side, looking for keys. Ava uses her intangibility to phase into the cab and pop open the back.

Y/n walks up to the driver’s side, open the door, leans in. She looks around and mutters, “If I hotwire another car this week, I swear I’m charging a fee.”

“It might be your lucky day” Yelena says, pulling the keys out of the glove box with a triumphant smile.

Yelena throws her keys and she smiles back as they get back out and assemble near the truck.

“They say never meet your heroes,” Alexei says from directly behind her.

She jumps.

Just slightly.

Alexei’s voice is low. Uncharacteristically quiet. Almost like he’s trying to hurt her with it. “The Great Static,” he continues. “Nothing more than a loser and a traitor. You’re a disgrace to the Motherland.”

Unfortunately for him, it has zero effect other than her face morphing into pure and utter confusion. “Why the fuck does he keep calling me that!?” she says to the rest three, arms flailing.

Yelena shrugs. “He’s got a flair for the dramatic.”

“You were trained by Hydra to be a ruthless warrior and then you betrayed the country that saved you!” Alexie states. “That makes you a traitor!”

“I wasn’t trained by Hydra,” she bites back. “I was tortured.”

Alexie shakes his head, like he’s admonishing a small child. “No,” he says. “No. You were trained by Hydra—you were created by them.”

She pulls a face. “I’m an alien, Alexie. Unless Hydra played intergalactic matchmakers and made my parents fuck—they didn’t create me.”

Walker rolls his eyes.

Ava smirks.

Yelena snorts.

“That is a very nasty way to talk about your parents,” Alexie scolds.

“Well, I don’t think they mind all that much—on account of being dead,” she bites back.

Alexie ignores her completely. “As—as for the matter of your origin—Hydra gave you a home.”

“I had a home—in Madripoor!”

He keeps going, unbothered by her interjection. “They gave you purpose.”

“My life’s purpose cannot be assassinations.”

“And they gave you,” his voice rises now, more and more with every word, “the opportunity to become part of Mother Russia! And we accepted you!” He stares her down, voice lowering, “But you betrayed us.”

There’s a beat. She stares at him, dumbfounded.

“None of what you just said, makes any fucking sense!” She bursts out. “I don’t understand why people make this mistake but Hydra wasn’t Russian. Hydra was a predominantly German organisation—no! Actually, that is not a fair assessment. Hydra was a predominantly Nazi organisation!” She knows she’s kinda losing her shit but at the same time she can’t help it. She’s lost her shit, alright? This is a touchy fucking subject. “An—and yeah! Yeah! Sure. They moved their base to Russia after the war, but that was mostly because what the fuck else were they gonna do? That wasn’t loyalty—it was survival. The only thing Hydra ever cared about was destabilising governments so they could infiltrate said governments!”

Alexie shakes his head, clearly in denial. “No. No.” He says. “No. Not with Russia. Hydra worked for Russia.”

“Sure. Hydra loved Russia so much, they sent me to help the USSR… transition leadership. You know, gently—with a heart attack.”

All heads turn to her immediately.

“Did you—”

“You didn’t—”

“You assassinated Stalin?!” Walker blurts out.

Funnily enough, Alexei seems like the only person not shocked by the reveal.

“Of course it was you,” he says, with the tone of a deeply disappointed dad. “You were the best assassin to ever exist. Hydra made you powerful—and you betrayed us. How could you?”

Y/n wants to scream. “Hydra didn’t create me—they tortured me!”

“No, they did not,” Alexei snaps back, firm in his delusion.

“Yes, they did,” Bucky says, suddenly at her side.

His voice is even. Too even. But Y/n knows him—knows what tension sounds like under that quiet. This isn’t casual for him. Not even close.

“You don’t know that!” Alexei insists, as if sheer denial could make it go away. “How could you know that?”

Bucky looks him square in the eye. “Because I was the one who tortured her.”

Silence. Heavy. Immediate.

He says it like it’s just another fact—but she hears the weight underneath. Feels it. It presses between them like a bruise.

Alexei stares, stunned. “But—that—it can’t be true!”

“It is,” Bucky says, then turns to her. “They used it as a story. Propaganda. Something to keep the rookies in line.” Alexei visibly bristles at the word rookie. Yelena rolls her eyes and shoves him back a step before he can interrupt. “They said they created you, so all your achievements were theirs by proxy… Martyr if you died on the mission and—”

“A traitor if I escaped,” Y/n surmises while rolling her eyes.

Bucky nods silently, short and succinct before turning to the rest of the group, “Now that we’re done with that—shall we hit the road?”

There are soft nods from the crew—all apart from Alexie who keeps muttering about how he cannot believe the new revelation he’s been made to face. At least, Y/n can sympathise with that. Hydra always had a way of making you confront realities you never really wanted to.

“That our ride?” Bucky asks, watching them walk over to the truck, talking amongst themselves.

She stands next to him, looking at them, wondering how she ended up here. “It’s not much, but it’ll do.”

Bucky nods as she hands over the keys to him. He accepts, their hands brushing only for a second.

He gulps. “No windows,” he notes. “We put them in the back, you and I can go in the front.”

She’s just about to agree when—

“I call shotgun!” Alexie shouts, getting in the passenger seat.

Bucky and Y/n turn to each instantly.

She smiles.

“No—Y/n! Come on!” Bucky pleads, desperate.

Her smile widens before she schools her features, putting on a fake sort of seriousness. “Look, I know we aren’t exactly the most law-abiding group of superheroes—but we are not heathens, Bucky! We cannot ignore the edict of ‘calling Shotgun’.”

He stares at her, eyes narrowing.

But then he gives in, lips curving up at the sides a little before he’s flat out smiling. He throws his head back in some sense of defeat. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

She looks toward Alexei, who’s grinning like a kid on a rollercoaster. Mischief lights up her face. “He’s gonna talk your damn ear off, Bucky. Bet your perfect little ass, I am.” …Shit!

She didn’t mean to say it.

Really, she didn’t!

She absolutely did not intend to tell her husband that his ass is perfect. Why would any sane person ever do that? Hush, no.

It just—it slipped out. Okay? Because, okay, he’s in all black, jacket zipped just right, playing the reluctant hero thing to perfection—and that is, unfortunately, her exact brand of heartbreak.

So fuck! It slips out. For what it’s worth, he doesn’t seem to mind.

He winces in clearly mocking sympathy. “I’d take that over the alternative any day.”

She turns to him instantly. “The alternative being?” He just smiles then jerks his chin toward the back of the truck,“Being trapped in a metal box without any windows… with those two.”

They look over—Walker and Ava chatting with Yelena, who’s already perched inside like a tired assassin Barbie.

Realization dawns. Y/n groans. “Fuck.”

He’s laughing then. “You forgot about that, didn’t you?”

Y/n smacks his arm lightly. “Don’t be a dick.”

He tries—mostly just pretends to try—to stop, but only seems to manage stifling it into a grin. “You wanna switch places?”

“And be called a traitor the whole ride?” she shoots back. “Nah, I’m good.”

“He’s just… misinformed,” Bucky offers, voice softer now.

She shrugs, not sure how to respond. “Thanks though,” she mumbles, glancing at him briefly. She's referring to the way he stepped in back there—cut through Alexei’s madness and stood by her. Not that she needed it, exactly. But still.

“No,” Bucky dismisses, shaking his head. “You agreed to help out with this... Bob situation—”

“It’s not like I had much of a choice after Yelena pulled the ‘Dead Natasha’ card,” she interjects, voice light even if her heart rips at the words.

He rolls his eyes. “I am trying to thank you, Y/n.”

Oh.

The word lands in her chest with a little thud. She hadn’t expected that. Not from him. Not now. “Um… yeah,” she replies, suddenly awkward. “Least I could do.” She shifts her weight from one foot to another. “Besides, like I said—I’m not sure how much help I’m actually gonna be.”

He doesn’t let her deflect. Not this time. Instead, he snorts, disbelieving. “Either way,” he says, “I’ll owe you one.”

One?

Her spine straightens just slightly.

Something about that—that—hits her wrong. Needles her.

She lets out a sharp breath of a laugh. Not amused—not even close. “One?” she echoes, disbelieving.

He turns, a frown tugging at his face. “What—”

“You think you owe me one?” she interrupts, eyes narrowing.

His mouth opens slightly. Confusion written all over him. She’s fully facing him now, and yeah—he looks a little worried. A little terrified. Which, good. Because he should be.

“I don’t—what—what’s happening?” he stammers.

“You owe me more than one, Barnes. Try somewhere in the range of a hundred,” she clarifies, arms folding tight across her chest.

And then he’s catching up. Of course he is. He’s not stupid—just emotionally constipated.

He turns on her, scowling. “God, I’d almost forgotten how much you love to blow everything out of proportion! Thanks for reminding me, Y/n! Real fucking helpful!”

She steps into him, spine straight and fire licking up her throat. “Let me remind you of something else while we’re at it: we had a deal. You get to play the perfect husband in public—smile for the cameras, cash in on that Stark clout, let your approval rating ride our wedding ring—and in return?” Her voice slices through the air. “You were supposed to show up for Morgan.”

He flinches.

Of course he does.

“Y/n—”

“No,” she barrels on. “That was the fucking deal. And surprise, surprise—I’m the only one who kept up their end! You think I like pretending to adore you in front of a bunch of wrinkly-ass senators who want to talk about Tony’s legacy and my powers like they own both? I hate it. I told you I’d hate it. And you dragged me into it anyway. You selfish jerk!”

“That is not fair—”

“What the fuck do you know about fair, Bucky?” Her laugh is cold, sharp, all blade and no safety. “You disappeared on her. You promised once a month, minimum. And what do I get instead? Her sitting on the curb, waiting like she’s Hachiko or something—asking me why Tinman doesn’t come anymore.”

He flinches like she’s slapped him. Hard. But he recovers fast—visibly forces himself to. “Are you being intentionally dense,” he grits out, “or have you actually lost your goddamn mind?” His shoulders are square now, rigid. His fists clench and unclench at his sides. He looks her dead in the eye, his eyes swimming with—fuck—with guilt and pain and rage and hurt and… love? “I am the man who murdered her father’s parents, Y/n. I am the Winter Soldier.” Or maybe she just caught her own reflection?

Who knows?

Better yet, who cares?!

“Yes,” she says, flat as steel. “And you’re also the man that married her aunt… You’re also James Buchanan Barnes. My husband.” The words land, right where she wanted. His jaw tics. She watches him blink slow, like it might soften the blow. “She’s your niece—whether you like it or not.”

His silence is heavy. He shifts his weight, swipes his palm down his thigh like he needs to ground himself. Her words linger between them like smoke from a blast.

It’s hard for him. She’s hit him a little too hard. She knows that. She can practically see the bruise on his heart, like she’s got x-ray vision.

Finally, he manages, “When she grows up and finds out what I did—”

“She’ll hate you for it.” Y/n says it softly, but it’s a sledgehammer to the gut. Her throat tightens, but she doesn’t let it show. “There’s only two ways this goes—she’ll either forgive you or she’ll hate you… and then forgive you…” He looks at her then, properly, like he might fold. Like he wants to fold. “But,” she presses on, voice shaking just enough to expose her heart, “If you keep doing what you’re doing, you’ll never get to find out. Eventually she will give up waiting on the curb.” Her hands curl into fists at her sides, not out of rage—but restraint. “So, if you’re done—really done—then tell her. Don’t make her wait for you.”

She steps back a fraction. Her chest is heaving and she doesn’t even realise it until she breathes again, voice low and final—

“But if you’re not done? Then stop being a goddamn pussy and grow the fuck up, Congressman.”

She doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a parting glance. Just turns and walks off toward the truck.

“You alright?” Yelena asks as she approaches.

Y/n gives her a flat look. “No,” she says, tone painfully obvious. “We were ten steps away. You heard every word. Why are you pretending you didn’t?”

Yelena shifts where she sits, legs swinging awkwardly off the edge of the truck bed. “I thought it’d be the… nice thing to do.”

Y/n snorts. “You suck at nice.”

Yelena pulls a face and shrugs. “Well, you suck at pretending you don’t still love him.”

Just enough for Ava to glance down, nudging a pebble with the toe of her boot like it suddenly needed her full attention.

Walker lets out a low whistle—not loud, not smug. Just… something to fill the space. He crosses his arms and stares out at the desert like he’s the only adult in a room full of drama. He isn’t, but he’ll pretend.

Yelena doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look away either. Just swings her legs off the truck bed, one at a time, eyes fixed somewhere between annoyed and… concerned? Hard to tell with her.

No one speaks. But no one leaves either.

For a moment, they’re all just there, suspended in the kind of silence that isn’t comfortable but isn’t breaking apart either.

Fuck this, she thinks to herself.

Drawing in a breath she straightens her spine. “Alright, okay.” She plants her hands on her hips. “Here’s the deal—if we don’t get this show on the road in the next 30 seconds, you all will have to fight off Val’s Malaysia-made Superman without me.” She looks around. “So… chop, fucking, chop.”

No one rushes. But they move.

Not together. Just... adjacent.

Close enough.

Walker, Ava, Yelena and Y/n in the back, while Bucky drives with Alexie in the passenger seat.

Lunch is barely edible and painfully awkward. Y/n chews in silence. Ava scrolls nothing. Walker eyes everyone like they’re the problem. And Alexie—Alexie will not shut up. He launches into a relentless monologue about Soviet glory, KGB valor, and how the Winter Soldier once bench-pressed a tank. Yelena, halfway through her fries, finally snaps.

“Please shut up before I strangle you with this napkin,” she mutters.

It works.

Later, as the truck rolls forward, Y/n lifts her hand and slices open the air. A portal blooms—pink and luminescent, pulsing like a living bruise. Bucky drives them in without a word. Inside, gravity is an opinion. The skies ripple, peach and lavender, and the roads glow faintly beneath the tires. Ava is the first to crack the back door open, curiosity overriding caution. Yelena and Walker follow. The world outside is staggering—slow-moving islands, upside-down cities, birds with ink-streak wings. Even Alexie can be heard gasping from the front.

When they finally slide out the other end, somewhere on the outskirts of New York, the group quietly shuts the truck doors again.

Ava and Walker sit opposite Y/n and Yelena respectively.

“Neat trick,” Walker comments. “You’ve come a long way from not even being able to glitch yourself.”

Y/n doesn’t miss a beat. “I’d ask if the serum made you a bigger asshole,” she replies, “but unfortunately—I knew you before it.”

Walker blinks, flabbergasted. “I meant that as a compliment.”

“That absolutely could not have been a compliment,” Ava says flatly.

“It was!” Walker insists, indignant.

“Then you’re very bad at giving compliments,” Yelena chimes in, wearing a mocking smile.

“Or maybe you’re just, you know—lying?” Y/n offers with a smile, sweet as venom.

Walker groans. “It was a compliment.” He exhales hard, trying to collect himself. “I know I’m not exactly your favorite person ever since Marrakesh—”

“Do not bring up Marrakesh,” she cuts in, sharp and lethal. “Or you’ll be dead before you finish the sentence.”

Point taken.

Walker pivots—barely. “I was in the shit,” he confesses slowly, enunciating every word. “I was in the shit and Valentina told me that sharing intel was the only way to get back in the good graces of the government. She told me it was for recruitment… I—” He pauses, like the words that will come next haunt him day and night. “I didn’t know… I didn’t know that it would lead to what ended up happening in Marrakesh.” He looks at her then, meets her eyes for the first time as he says, “And I am so fucking sorry.” Then he looks away. “I never would’ve said anything if I’d known. I may be a lot of things, but I am not evil.”

Perhaps it’s the broken look in his eyes that she’s seen in the mirror so many times, or maybe it’s just the awfully overt display of inadequacy that gets to her. But get to her, it does.

“I know,” she tells him. “I know—which is probably the only reason why you still get to bitch and moan around like this.”

He turns to her instantly, eyes wide.

Was that a threat? His face asks with scrunched up eyebrows.

She raises her brow. That was just a fact and you know it, she conveys.

He rolls his eyes, slumps back, accepting the point without argument.

“But that’s not why I think you’re an asshole,” Y/n adds casually, because she’s bored and chaos is her hobby.

Walker perks up immediately. “The Flag Smashers? Look—I know what I did wasn’t right.” He gets a twin glare from Yelena and Ava but keeps going. He carries on regardless. “But that was mostly the serum and this crushing weight of having to live upto the Captain America name, and you know—having to watch my best friend die in front of my eyes! I’m not saying it justifies what I did and I know everyone thinks all these are just excuses but it’s all I’ve got, okay?” He’s pretty red in the face by the time he’s done talking.

“Walker,” she calls out after a beat. “I tried to end the world when my brother sacrificed himself to save it. There are people out there who can judge you for what you did after Lamar died, but I don’t think any of ‘em are on this truck.”

Ava and Yelena raise their brows, curl up their lips in silent but noticeable agreement.

Walker throws up his hands like a frustrated child. “Then why do you hate me?”

“I don’t,” she says plainly. “If I did, you’d know.”

“How?” He asks.

“You’d be dead,” Yelena replies absently, still focused on biting a jagged edge off her nail like this conversation bores her. The deadpan delivery makes Y/n crack a smile.

“Okay then,” Walker sits up straighter. “Why do you think I’m an asshole?” He amends the question.

“Because you said that I could have saved my brother if I had just tried hard enough, which gave me a panic attack.” A beat. And then, “Oh and that was before the serum.”

Walker throws his head back and groans while Yelena and Ava dissolve into cackling laughter.

“You are such an asshole, Walker,” Yelena says between giggles, nudging his boot with hers.

“Absolutely massive,” Ava snorts. “Top ten, easy.”

“I was under a lot of pressure,” Walker tries to defend, hands up, palms out—but even he doesn’t sound convinced.

“All I hear are farts from an asshole,” Yelena sing-songs, biting back a grin as the truck shakes with their collective laughter. Walker sighs deeply, enduring it like a martyr, head bowed in dramatic resignation.

When it quiets down, Ava's voice cuts through the silence—soft this time. “I’m sorry too, by the way.” Y/n looks over, brows knitting slightly. “For Marrakesh,” Ava she clarifies.

Y/n shrugs as replies, “Valentina tricked you as well. You had no clue what you were signing up for.”

Ava looks a little shocked at the revelation that Y/n was privy to this piece of information.

And you know what? Fair.

Three years ago, Y/n might’ve been offended at the doubt in Ava’s expression. But three years ago, she hadn’t paid the price yet. She’d been soft then—softened by the bliss of falling in love with Bucky fucking Barnes. She’d let herself slip, and Marrakesh had made her pay for it.

Not anymore.

Now? She’s back in the game, sharper than ever. With the kind of intel she’s collected, she probably knows more about this ragtag truckload of misfits than they know about themselves.

“I still want to apologize,” Ava insists. “Not just for the result—which was, obviously, catastrophic—but because it ended up breaking up my favorite superhero it-couple.”

Y/n lets out a short, dry snort. “We didn’t break up over something that simple.”

The laughter cuts off like a switch. Even the hum of the road outside seems to dull. The shift is instant—an invisible fog settling between them. She feels it press against her ribs, heavy and cold.

“We didn’t break up because of Marrakesh.” Her voice is lower now. Stripped of armor. She doesn’t glance toward the front seat, doesn’t need to—she knows he’s listening. Of course he’s listening. Every muscle in her body feels it.

She stares ahead, eyes fixed on nothing. “We didn’t break up because we lost a kid. No, no, no…”

The silence that follows is thick—thicker than grief, thicker than guilt.

Yelena finally breaks the stillness, her voice small, almost a whisper. “Then?”

Sas swallows. Her mouth tastes like rust—like old pennies and something sour that’s lived too long inside her. Guilt sits at the base of her throat, sharp-edged and familiar. She feels it every time she thinks about Marrakesh. Every time she looks at Bucky.

“We broke up, because we lost a kid… and Bucky blames me for it.”

Find the Static Verse Masterlist here.

now that you have some context about the breakup, static x bucky nation, how we feeling?

@mirandastuckinthe80s @rattyfishrock @jeyramarie @yourbane @yikesdrama

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fairyhaos · 7 months ago

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yeoubi. // TEASER

여우비 (yeo-u-bi) : noun. literally “fox rain” — when sunlight filters through rainfall, creating a golden shower.

PAIRING : vernon x f!reader

INFO : east asian historical fantasy(ish. i kinda made up my own mythology), fox demon!vernon, silver!vernon, immortal!witch!yn, fluff, magic, strangers to lovers

TEASER WORD COUNT : 1.1k (full fic ~15k)

FIC WARNINGS : blood mention, injuries, slight discrimination against yokai, cursing

SYNOPSIS : living as a magic, immortal healer in a rural, human mountain village means most of your existence has been rather peaceful. that is, until one cold winter when an injured yokai stumbles into your life; and though everyone else is terrified of him, you take him in, nurse him back to health, and show the others that some demons aren’t that scary after all. (...and maybe, just maybe, you end up falling for the pretty fox yokai too.)

NOTES : for the @camandemstudios winter with you collab! send an ask or reply down below to be put on the taglist, or sign up for the full collab taglist here <3

Some minutes later, as you’re sitting on a log on the path to catch your breath, Hansol comes back down the mountain to meet you, settling down by your side.

“It’s so quiet,” he whispers. The air around you is lit with a faint glow, courtesy of a visibility spell you conjured so you wouldn’t fall flat on your face as you walked. It makes Hansol’s face look golden as he smiles at you, eyes shining. “Everything is so quiet out here. I can hear the animals.”

You smile back, finding joy in how relaxed he looks. “Doesn’t that make it noisy?”

Hansol shakes his head, and then looks away from you, ears cocked to the side, listening. “No. This is like a familiar buzz of noise, so familiar that it becomes silent.” He looks back at you again, smiling. “Down in the village, it’s so noisy because of all the people, but up here, it’s all gone.”

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” you say with a smile, and Hansol nods so quickly that you laugh, endeared. “I’m glad. You can go off for a bit, if you want, and I’ll wait for you here.”

Hansol beams. “Okay.”

And like that, he’s off, nothing more than a faint swish of a silver tail before he disappears once more.

He doesn’t come back to you for some time, not until the weak sunrise begins to peek its head above the horizon. You’re not too worried, though: somehow, you know that he will come back to you, though you can’t find ears nor tail of him while he’s gone.

It’s incredible how much you’ve come to trust and believe in Hansol, though he’s only been with you for several weeks. But even though he’s been so reserved, anxious and afraid at times, it’s clear how earnest and gentle he is, and something in your chest tightens and then relaxes with happiness whenever you see him smile. He’s just so—genuine, and you really like that about him.

There’s a rustle in the evergreen bushes to your left, and his silver head of hair pops out, golden eyes shining when he sees you.

“Hey,” you greet, the moment you see his face. “Are you gonna come over?”

Instantly, he stands up, hops over the bush and makes his way over to you. His footfalls are light, looking like he’s dancing over the snow before he settles next to you once more, looking like he never left your side.

“Hey,” he says. “There are so many rabbits in these mountains, you know? Like I’ve never seen so many rabbits gathered in one place before, because normally they get killed by hunters or there’s just not enough food in that area to sustain so many. It’s actually insane how many rabbits you have up here.” When you just smile, his eyes widen, ears pricking upright. “Oh, is it you? Do you do something to help them stay alive? With your magic and all that?”

Hansol then launches into a flurry of questions for you, so eager and animated that it surprises you a little, before melting your heart.

You’re no longer surrounding yourself with the visibility light, but Hansol is still glowing, looking so alive with cold-dusted cheeks, shining eyes, wind-fluffed hair and the frost dusting the tip of his nose, which must have accidentally happened when he’d gotten too excited and lost control of his magic.

Hansol’s positively lit up, now he’s surrounded by all this nature. He must’ve been so cooped up and nervous before, when he was just in your house, barely anything to do. Now he’s healed, and outside, and you can tell that being out of the house is where he’s meant to be.

“It’s not me,” you admit after Hansol’s finished conjuring up crazy theories. “Well, kind of. I messed around with the mountains about eighty years ago and did something by accident so we get a lot more winter flowers than normal. The rabbits love eating them, so we get a lot of them too.”

“Oh,” Hansol says, amazed. “That makes so much sense. I saw so many flowers. I thought that was a little bit weird, but I just chalked it up to Mother Nature having fun, or something.”

You laugh. “Yeah. I guess Mother Nature was having fun,” you say, gesturing to yourself, and Hansol grins too. His eyes crinkle as he does so, pearly white fully visible, and goodness, even his big, bright smile is as cute as he is. You’ve never seen him smile this widely before. It’s… pretty.

Even though he’s all warmed up to you now, even though it’s clear he trusts you, it’s obvious he’ll always be most at peace out here in the big, wide world.

His gaze slides away from yours, looking at something behind you, and he gasps.

“What is it?” You turn to look back, trying to find what had caught his eye, but Hansol doesn’t respond. He jumps up, diving into the bushes without a word.

A moment later he emerges, and in his hands is…

“A daffodil?” you say, amazed. “What’s this doing here? Spring is very, very far off.”

“I guess it’s because of you,” Hansol says, handing you the flower.

You accept it gratefully, tracing the edges of its buttery yellow petals, such a warm, golden colour in your hands, in stark contrast to the cold white of the snow around you. It’s so pretty, so pristine, and it’s amazing it managed to survive in the freezing winter temperatures. Must be due to your magic, like Hansol said.

“It looks like you,” Hansol says suddenly, and you look at him in surprise.

“Really? How?”

“You look like spring, to me,” he says. The frosted tip of his nose looks pink, as do his cheeks. A decidedly warmer, blushier pink than they’d looked before. “All warm and gold and pretty. Like the daffodil. And I…” He pauses, and then seems to change his mind, shutting his mouth and blinking at you like he wasn’t about to say anything else.

You smile, so endeared that you’re practically glowing with it. “Thank you,” you say, touched, and look back down at the daffodil in your hands before raising your eyes to the definitely-blushing yokai once more. “That’s so sweet.”

Hansol shrugs, a little bashful, before standing up abruptly.

“I’m gonna go find the rabbits again,” he says, and before you can even reply, he’s disappeared.

You laugh, breathing in the crisp air and then releasing it in a sigh, feeling warm all over despite the cold. You shake your head, fond. Hansol is just so…

Goodness. What are you going to do with him?

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fr0stf4ll · 7 months ago

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A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 3

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 4k

Trigger warning; Blood, pain, injuries.

notes; Hello everyone! Thank you so much for the comments on the previous parts. I'm so happy that you’re enjoying this story (because I personally am, lol). Don't hesitate to give feedback, as I'm trying to improve overall! I have uploaded all of my stories on AO3 if any of you are more comfortable reading on the other platform. Also, my requests are open if any of you are interested. It's vacation time for me, so I have more time these days. <3 See you soon and enjoy part 3!

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Weeks had turned into a comfortable rhythm, each day drawing you deeper into the heart of your new responsibilities. Winter’s chill still lingered outside, but within the clinic’s halls, warmth and purpose filled the air. Madja had constructed a careful routine—mornings spent reviewing patient logs, afternoons dedicated to meeting the healers who operated throughout Velaris and beyond, and late afternoons or early evenings tending to those who required care. You found yourself adjusting more easily than you’d anticipated, the constant hum of healing magic and quiet conversation making the place feel more like home with each passing day.

Your old room at the hostel now felt like a distant memory. Within a week of settling in, Madja gently insisted that you take the apartment above the small clinic—originally her own workspace and resting spot. At first, you hesitated, still feeling like an outsider who had just returned, but Madja’s firm yet kind encouragement made it clear that this was part of the transition. Now, the apartment’s modest rooms welcomed you each evening: a simple bed with a soft quilt, a desk cluttered with your notes and sketches, and shelves lined with medical texts and herb guides. There was a small window overlooking the Sidra, and sometimes at dusk you’d watch the lamplight glitter on the water, heart at ease.

Costa, your horse, had been entrusted to a capable ostler in Velaris—an Illyrian female who handled the animal with gentle expertise. Knowing Costa was well-fed and groomed, free to stretch his legs in a stable yard not far from the city’s edge, soothed the restless part of your mind. You missed riding, missed the quiet hours of travel with Costa’s steady hooves on unknown roads, but for now you needed to be here, grounded and ready to step fully into Madja’s role.

You’d met most of the healers who had worked under Madja’s guidance—some younger than you, bright-eyed and eager, others older, with steady hands and calm smiles. They greeted you politely, some with curiosity and others with measured caution, as if trying to understand what this new change meant for them. Madja still hovered at your shoulder during these introductions, offering subtle nudges of reassurance. Gradually, you learned their names, their specializations, their quirks. You discovered who excelled at mending broken bones, who shone at delicate surgeries, who possessed the gentlest bedside manner for frightened children. Each person became a piece of a larger tapestry, one you would soon be charged with overseeing.

In between these professional duties, you’d also been summoned to meet with the High Lady, Feyre, on several occasions. These meetings were less formal than you expected—Feyre seemed determined to put you at ease. She asked thoughtful questions about your travels, your impressions of the healing wards, and the ways you might improve the system Madja had built. Often, Rhysand or one of the other Inner Circle members would be present—Cassian slouching in a chair with that easy grin, Azriel standing quietly near a window, shadows at his shoulders. The High Lord listened intently, violet eyes calm, while Feyre nodded, her hand sometimes resting lightly atop a stack of parchment filled with notes.

They all gave the impression of patient confidence. They trusted Madja’s choice, and by extension, they trusted you. That trust both comforted and weighed on you. You were determined not to disappoint them, not to squander the opportunity to shape Velaris’s healing corps into something more agile, more prepared. If war truly loomed on the horizon—whispers still lingering in the court’s quieter corners—then every ounce of skill and knowledge you possessed would be needed.

Evenings found you often at your desk, reviewing patient charts by lamplight. Sometimes Madja would join you, a mug of herbal tea in hand, and together you’d discuss strategy and staffing. At other times you’d work alone, jotting down improvements to the triage system or ways to store emergency supplies more efficiently. The silence of the small apartment felt companionable rather than lonely. You were home, after all these years, in a place that recognized your abilities and gave them purpose.

One morning you awoke early, pushing open the window to let in a crisp breeze. The scent of bread baking somewhere below drifted up, and you smiled. Outside, Velaris shimmered under pale winter sunlight. The city no longer felt quite so strange or distant. You were beginning to know its streets again, to navigate its corners without hesitation. In the stillness, before the day’s demands rose up to greet you, you allowed yourself a small, private moment of contentment.

You had found your footing, a rhythm that matched Madja’s measured guidance with your own growing confidence. Soon enough, Madja would step back fully, leaving you to guide these healers through whatever trials awaited. The thought no longer filled you with anxiety, but with a quiet resolve. You were ready—or at least you would be, by the time Madja’s gentle presence receded from your daily life.

For now, you cherished these weeks of transition: the gentle hum of voices in the clinic halls, the scent of fresh bread and simmering broths, the steady beat of your heart as you prepared to carry on the legacy of a healer who’d believed in you from the start.

It was late—well past the hour when the clinic’s final lamp should have been dimmed. Yet, there you were, hunched over a desk scattered with patient files, sketches, and half-finished notes on new salves. Outside, snow whispered against the windowpanes, muffling the night sounds of Velaris. The quiet calm of your small workspace was broken abruptly by a fierce pounding at the clinic doors.

You startled, heart lurching into your throat. Who would come at this time? Without hesitation, you rose and hurried down the corridor, slippers slapping softly against the floor. Approaching the door, you called, “Who is it?” But another series of urgent knocks answered you first.

Flinging it open, you found Cassian standing there, breathing hard, eyes wide with panic and urgency. He said nothing at first, just grabbed at your arm as if to anchor himself. The wild look in his gaze told you something was terribly wrong. Already, you could feel the adrenaline surging, steeling your nerves.

“I need you,” he managed, voice tight and rough. “It’s Azriel.”

You didn’t waste a second—no words of reassurance, no questions. Instead, you spun on your heel, darting back into the clinic’s supply room. Your hands moved with practiced speed, snatching up a medical bag and stuffing in gauze, vials of herbs, antiseptic solutions, and needles for suturing. You threw in a few carefully sealed packs of medicinal leaves, even a small jar of pain-relief tonic. Whatever you might need, because you didn’t know what awaited you.

“Come,” Cassian urged, voice raw. He led you out into the cold night, scarcely giving you time to close the door behind you. Before you knew it, he had scooped you up in a practiced motion and launched into the air. The sudden whoosh of icy wind shocked your lungs, but you clutched your bag tighter, keeping your head low and trusting Cassian’s strong arms and powerful wings to carry you safely. The moonlit panorama of Velaris rushed beneath, a blur of snowy rooftops and dim, golden lights.

Within moments, the House of Wind’s silhouette rose against the starry sky. Cassian landed hard, not bothering with a gentle approach. He half-dragged you inside, footsteps echoing down silent corridors. You found yourself nearly running at his side, alarm thudding in your chest. You followed him through winding halls, the hush of the night fractured by his ragged breathing and the frantic scuff of boots on stone.

He burst into the living area and there, on the massive table that usually served as a gathering place for the Inner Circle’s quiet talks or strategic meetings, lay Azriel. One glance at him and your stomach clenched: his wings—those powerful, graceful wings—looked shredded, raw gashes marring the membranes, blood staining the wood beneath him. Deep cuts scored his arms, his chest. He was breathing, but it was shallow and uneven, face drawn tight with pain.

Rhysand and Feyre hovered nearby, their eyes filled with worry. The High Lord’s jaw was clenched, hands fisted by his sides as if struggling to maintain composure. Feyre’s face was pale, knuckles white where she gripped the table’s edge. Neither dared approach the wounds, knowing to leave it to you.

You didn’t hesitate. “Clear some space,” you ordered, voice firm. Your professionalism took over, pushing aside the horror and fear. You dropped your bag on a nearby chair and quickly rolled up your sleeves.

Azriel’s half-lidded eyes flicked toward you, recognition and relief mingling with agony. His teeth were clenched hard enough to crack. You met his gaze steadily, letting him see that you were here and you would help. Cassian took a shaky breath and stepped back, giving you room.

“Tell me what happened later,” you said sharply to anyone listening, as your fingers deftly opened your medical kit. “For now, we stabilize him.”

A hush fell. The High Lord and High Lady stepped back, trusting you implicitly. Azriel’s shallow breathing and the soft drip of blood became the only sounds. You placed a hand gently near one of the deep cuts, already planning how to close the wounds, which salves to apply first, how to handle the delicate membranes of those damaged wings.

“Azriel,” you said softly, your voice calm and sure, “I need you to hold on. I’m here now.”

He gave an almost imperceptible nod, and you began working, every movement precise and determined. This was what you had trained for, traveled for, returned home for—moments like this, where skill and resolve would mend what cruelty had torn.

“Azriel, drink this,” you said firmly, pressing a small vial to his lips. He tried to turn his head away, but Rhysand and Cassian held him steady, their expressions grim. With a trembling swallow, Azriel took the tonic, his face contorting as the bitter taste hit his tongue. The mixture would dull the pain, buy you precious minutes to work.

You spared no time waiting for the tonic to take full effect. Turning abruptly, you called out to Feyre, voice steady and certain despite the chaos. “Open the windows and doors—all of them,” you ordered.

A flicker of confusion passed over everyone present. Feyre hesitated, eyes darting from you to Rhys, who gave a subtle nod. Then she darted across the living room, unlatching windows, throwing open doors. The chill of the night air swept in, carrying scents of snow and starlight. The House of Wind sat high above Velaris, offering nothing but open sky and a tapestry of stars. The moon hung low and bright, and its silver light spilled across the table, across Azriel’s bloodied form.

Cassian’s grip tightened on Azriel’s arm as the spymaster struggled feebly. Azriel let out a ragged hiss of pain, trying to curl in on himself. You reached out, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, meeting his gaze with steady determination. “Hold him still,” you directed, and Rhysand and Cassian complied, pinning him just firmly enough to keep him from thrashing as you worked.

The sudden openness, the influx of night air and celestial glow, began to make sense. You lifted your hands above Azriel’s body, fingers spread, eyes focused. The moonlight brightened, as if drawn closer by your intent. It pooled onto the table, over his torn wings and deep gashes, shimmering faintly. With careful, precise motions of your hands and a calm, centering breath, you guided that gentle lunar glow.

A thin thread of silvery radiance wound down from the sky, through the open spaces, into your hands. It took on a living quality—like a liquid beam of starlight. Guided by your focus and your will, it slipped into the wounds that needed attention most urgently. You could feel the damage through the magic, each ragged edge of flesh and shredded membrane translating into a sensation of raw, quivering energy beneath your palms.

Your eyes narrowed as you directed the moonlit thread along the worst injuries first—carving a path from torn wing membranes to a deep slash near Azriel’s ribs. Under that gentle illumination, blood flow began to slow, tissues knitting just enough to prevent him from bleeding out. His breathing, ragged moments before, evened fractionally, each breath less desperate than the last.

Everyone watched in stunned silence. Rhysand’s eyes, wide with a combination of shock and relief, met yours briefly as you worked. Cassian’s knuckles were white where he gripped Azriel’s shoulder, but he dared not speak. Feyre stood by the open window, the night breeze stirring her hair, eyes reflecting amazement as she realized what you had done.

You had brought the very light of the cosmos into your healing—the moon and stars aiding your skill. Focused entirely on Azriel, you guided that pale, silvery essence along lacerations, coaxing flesh to mend, halting the most life-threatening bleeding. Each moment counted, each movement of your hand coaxed more life back into him, steadied his pulse, strengthened the tenuous hold he had on consciousness.

And so, amid the hush of the night and the quiet gasps of onlookers, you let that quiet moonlight flow from your fingertips. If any doubts remained about why Madja trusted you, why you had returned at this critical time, they dissolved into silver luminescence and slow, steady healing.

“Turn him over,” you instructed, your voice steady despite the rapid pace of your heart. You had stabilized Azriel enough that he was no longer on the brink of collapse, but if he couldn’t use his wings, he might never fly again—an unthinkable loss for an Illyrian warrior. Rhysand and Cassian exchanged a glance, then moved together, careful and deliberate, rolling Azriel onto his stomach.

Your breath misted in the chill air drifting from the open windows, but you barely noticed it. All your senses were focused on the damage stretched before you. His wings—those proud, powerful wings—were torn and ragged, membranes frayed, the framework bruised and bleeding. Gently placing your palm near a particularly deep tear, you summoned the silvery light again, coaxing it along the rips and gashes. The quiet hush of the room pressed in, everyone mesmerized by the shimmering moonlight threading through your fingertips into Azriel’s wounds.

Bit by bit, you restored what had been brutally disrupted. You couldn’t make it perfect, not instantly, but you could ensure that he would heal, that flight would remain possible. Rhysand and Cassian kept him still, muscles taut with the effort of not jarring his injuries. Feyre stood watchful by the open window, letting in the night’s gentle glow. Her features were tense but hopeful.

When you had done all you could, you nodded once, giving them permission to turn Azriel back onto his back. His breathing was steadier now, his expression more tranquil. The moonlight’s touch lingered over the last of the cuts on his chest and arms. Methodically, you sealed them, coaxing bleeding vessels to close, torn muscle to knit. The worst damage handled, you eased back, allowing the faint star-born thread of light to dissolve, the connection with the celestial glow fading as you willed it so.

Azriel’s lashes fluttered, a quiet groan escaping him. His eyes opened briefly—heavy-lidded, hazy with pain and exhaustion. In that fleeting moment, your gaze locked with his. Something passed between you then—something warm, startling, and utterly unexpected. In the hush, as if the world had paused, you felt a golden thread snap taut between your hearts. Your breath caught, shock flaring through your veins. You knew the stories, the descriptions passed in hushed whispers: the feeling of a bond, a mate. And here it was, sparking in a place of blood and moonlight, in the eyes of a wounded warrior who had nearly died under your hands.

Your heart hammered in your chest. Azriel’s eyes drifted shut, too weak to question what he’d seen in your startled expression, and he slipped into a healing sleep. But you stood there, rattled. Him—your mate. How could this be?

Rhysand’s voice broke the silence, cool and concerned. “Y/N? Is he all right?” He must have seen the shock in your eyes, the subtle tremor in your posture.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to regain composure. The weight of that discovery pressed down on you, but you could not falter now. Azriel needed rest, treatment, not confusion. “Yes,” you managed, your voice calmer than you felt. “He’s stabilized. We need to bring him to his room, clean the wounds properly, and apply salves. The stitches and light will hold, but he’ll need careful monitoring.”

Cassian and Rhysand relaxed visibly at your words. Feyre approached, the night breeze stirring her hair. She considered you with quiet sympathy, not fully understanding your reaction but trusting you nonetheless.

“Very well,” Rhysand said, relief tempered by careful pragmatism. “We’ll move him now. Show us what you need.”

You nodded, forcing a small, reassuring smile. Inside, your heart still thundered, grappling with this new reality. Azriel—your mate. There would be time later to make sense of it, to examine the golden thread that had just woven your fates together. For now, you steadied your trembling hands, prepared your supplies, and focused on the healer’s work still ahead.

With Azriel finally settled into his bed, the soft glow of faelight illuminating the room, you stepped back and surveyed your work. Now that he was washed free of grime and old blood, you had been able to apply the final ointments and bandages, each touch carefully measured. He was stable now, breathing steadily. But every time your fingertips brushed his skin—no matter how clinically—it felt wrong, as if you were crossing some invisible boundary. A patient, nothing more, you reminded yourself sternly. Yet the memory of that golden thread you’d sensed earlier lingered, unsettling your calm.

Rhysand and Cassian stood quietly by, the heavy pieces of Azriel’s armor piled in a corner, their expressions grim and distant. Feyre lingered near the doorway, arms folded, her face etched with concern. At last, with Azriel’s wounds tended and his feverish warmth easing under your skilled hands, you turned away from the bed and walked out of the room. The door clicked softly behind you, sealing the sleeping spymaster safely inside.

In the hallway, Rhysand, Feyre, and Cassian were waiting. The tension was nearly palpable, a silent acknowledgment of the danger that had brought Azriel to this dire state. You drew a steadying breath, mind still whirling with the revelation of a mate bond—one you could not, would not, address now. Instead, you focused on the immediate concern: understanding what had happened, what threat had caused such injury.

“So,” you said softly, meeting their eyes in turn. “What actually happened to him?”

The three shared a look—one that you, even as an outsider to their inner circle, could interpret as worry and anger mingled. Rhysand stepped forward, his posture poised, voice low. “Koshiev’s menace grows,” he began, each syllable measured. “We’ve been hearing whispers: new alliances forming, old enemies sharpening their blades. Azriel was gathering intelligence, trying to confirm rumors we’d caught in the shadows.”

Feyre’s gaze lowered, her jaw tightening. “He found what he was looking for, it seems. Reports suggest he managed to spy on someone—one of Koshiev’s allies or agents. But the enemy must have suspected something. They lured him in, set a trap, and ambushed him before he could escape.”

Cassian’s wings rustled restlessly. He crossed his arms over his chest again, scowling. “He was alone,” he growled. “We couldn’t send a whole team without risking alerting them, and now we see the price of that risk.” There was a note of self-reproach in his voice, frustration that they hadn’t prevented Azriel’s misfortune.

Rhysand inclined his head, the blue of his eyes darkening with resolve. “We still don’t know the full extent of their network, but this attack proves they’re bolder than we thought—and dangerously organized. It’s another sign that the threat Koshiev poses is not distant or hypothetical. It’s here, inching closer to our borders, to our people.”

You absorbed this quietly. The room felt colder, as if the open window had let not just fresh air in, but the weight of the coming storm. So that was it: Azriel’s blood on your hands because he’d tried to protect these lands from a greater horror lurking in the shadows. Your jaw tightened; you knew now more than ever that Madja’s warning of a future conflict wasn’t idle.

Feyre cleared her throat, drawing your attention. “Your swift action saved him,” she said softly, gratitude flickering in her eyes. “Without you… I don’t like to think what might have happened.”

Cassian nodded, grim acceptance in his stance. “We owe you a great deal,” he added, quieter than usual.

Rhysand’s face was serene but serious. “You’ve proved yourself beyond measure tonight,” he said. “Though I regret that such a test came at all.”

You inclined your head, acknowledging their thanks without lingering on it. There would be time for gratitude later. For now, what mattered was that Azriel lived, and that you knew—however unexpectedly—the depth of your new responsibilities. A mate, a looming war, a court depending on your skill and leadership. The path forward would not be simple, but you’d chosen to return to the Night Court for this reason: to heal, to help, to protect. Even if your own heart trembled at what fate had just revealed.

“I’ll prepare more medicine and check on him through the night,” you said at last, voice steady. “We’ll keep him stable, and with rest and care, he’ll recover. As for what comes next… we’ll be ready.”

Your words hung in the hush that followed, a quiet vow that all of you, together, would face whatever darkness Koshiev and his allies chose to bring.

Back in the living room, the tension that had filled the air began to dissipate as Azriel’s rescue shifted into a task of careful aftercare. The others lingered quietly while you settled yourself at a low table, spreading out your supplies. You’d taken a pouch from your bag, emptying it of tools, salves, and ground herbs that would form the next ointment for Azriel’s wounds. With measured concentration, you started mixing ingredients, mortar and pestle working in a rhythmic hush.

Feyre moved closer, her presence calm and unobtrusive. She knelt beside you, watching your hands as they skillfully combined powders and oils. Her gaze trailed to your face, and when you met her eyes, there was genuine admiration there. “What you did back there,” she said softly, voice laced with honest wonder. “That was… remarkable. I’ve never seen healing like that before.”

As if summoned by her words, Rhysand approached, standing behind Feyre, arms lightly folded. “I must agree,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “We’ve had healers here for ages, but none who channel the stars, the moon, or the sun into their craft. The way you drew that moonlight… it defied expectation.”

You inhaled slowly, organizing your thoughts before answering. It was natural that they’d be curious—this was your secret, your gift. “I can heal using the power of the celestial bodies,” you explained, keeping your voice low and measured. “The moon, the stars, the sun—they lend me their energy. When I open the spaces around us, letting their light spill in, I can coax that light into wounds, encourage flesh to knit and blood to still.”

You paused, stirring the ointment gently. The mixture took on a faint floral scent, the herbs reacting perfectly to the warm oil. Feyre’s eyes widened slightly at your explanation, her lips parting as she tried to imagine the scope of such power.

“Does it work every time?” Rhysand asked, tilting his head. The question was not accusatory, merely curious. He understood power and its limits as well as anyone.

You offered a small, wry smile. “So long as the sun, moon, and stars exist, I can tap into that energy. But it’s not effortless. It costs me a great deal of strength to channel their light in that way. Healing major injuries like Azriel’s wings or deep lacerations drains me quickly.” You pressed the pestle harder, grinding a stubborn clump of dried leaf into powder. “I must be careful not to overreach. Exhausting myself completely would help no one.”

Feyre nodded slowly, as if turning the idea over in her mind. “It’s a rare gift,” she said, voice full of understanding. “I’m sure Madja knew what she was doing when she asked you to return.”

A hum of agreement escaped you. “She trained me to harness it in more subtle forms, originally. But my travels—my time in other lands—taught me to focus it more precisely, to use it in dire circumstances.” You allowed yourself a brief glance back toward the corridor where Azriel lay resting. “Tonight was certainly dire.”

Rhysand’s expression softened, and he exchanged a meaningful look with Feyre. “We’re grateful you were here,” the High Lord said quietly. “Not just to save Azriel, but to show us what this court’s healers might achieve under your guidance.”

Your chest tightened, a mixture of pride and responsibility blooming there. “We’ll need all the strength we can gather,” you replied. “If Koshiev’s threat is as real as you’ve warned, I can’t afford to hold back.”

Your words lingered, and for a moment, all of you silently acknowledged the uncertain future—a world where any advantage might tip the scales. In the stillness, you returned your attention to the ointment, gently scooping a bit up to examine its consistency. Perfect, you decided, and let your shoulders relax a fraction.

“I’ll come back in a few hours to apply this to Azriel,” you said quietly. “I need to return to the clinic—dawn is approaching, and I must be there when the other healers arrive. He should remain stable for now, but if anything changes, please bring word to me immediately.”

When you returned to the clinic, the world seemed to tilt sideways. The door shut behind you with a soft click, muffling the distant hum of Velaris just awakening to dawn. Inside, the quiet halls that had always felt comforting and safe were now suffocating. A hollow ache pulsed in your chest, and before you could even set down your bag, you sank to the floor, knees hitting the hardwood with a dull thud.

Your heart thundered in your ears. He was your mate—Azriel, the spymaster you had saved in a frantic blur of blood and moonlight. The knowledge pressed down on you with unbearable weight. You wanted to cry, to scream, to lash out at the absurd cruelty of fate. You wanted to vomit, as if emptying your stomach might purge the confusion from your veins. You wanted to slap yourself, to break free from this overwhelming tangle of emotions.

How had this happened? You’d returned to the Night Court to take up Madja’s mantle, to heal and guide, not to be shackled by some golden bond you’d never asked for. You’d only wanted to help him, just as you would have helped anyone bleeding out on that table. Yet in that single, unexpected glance, the world had changed—his fate entwining silently, irrevocably with yours.

A sob lodged in your throat. You pressed trembling fingers against your eyes, as if darkness and pressure could hold back the tears. Every thought spun wildly: you were a healer, not some love-struck fool, not someone who had time or space for this destiny you never sought. But a mate. A mate was no small thing, no bond easily ignored.

Your breathing came in ragged gasps. You had just promised Rhysand and Feyre that you would return, that you would apply the ointment to Azriel’s wounds in a few hours. By then, he would be more stable, perhaps even conscious. Would he sense the bond too? Would he look at you differently? Or would he remain blissfully unaware, leaving you alone in this torment?

Your shoulders shook with silent tears. You drew in a shuddering breath, trying to reason with yourself: you were strong, capable, trained to face agony and death. Yet this… this you had not trained for. The golden thread bound you to a future you had never planned.

Minutes passed, or maybe hours—time lost meaning as you knelt on the clinic floor, trapped in your own swirling thoughts. Eventually, your tears slowed, leaving you hollow and raw. Outside, the city stirred. Healers would soon be arriving, expecting you to open the doors, to lead them through another day of caring for the ill and injured.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself upright. You would bury this secret for now, lock it away until you found the words or the courage to face it. Azriel was alive because of you. Your duty was to keep him healthy, to keep everyone healthy. The matter of mateship—of love, destiny, or whatever name this bond took—would have to wait.

Steadying yourself, you rose, wiped the tears from your cheeks, and breathed deeply. No matter the chaos in your mind, the clinic needed you. You would open these doors again, greet the other healers, and carry on. Somehow, you would find a way to reconcile the golden thread strung between your heart and Azriel’s. But not now. Not yet.

For now, you would endure.

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midnight-shadow-cafe · 2 months ago

Text

This Means Something

Pairing: John “Soap” MacTavish x Reader

Warnings: Pure fluff, domestic setting, mild language

Author's Note: Masterlist 3 is in the works!! (For now the link will still be Masterlist 2) and I promise I’m trying to put the 3rd Masterlist out asap!!

Summary: Soap takes you to his cottage in the Scottish Highlands for some well-earned rest. It’s quiet, cozy, and full of moments that feel like forever.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

You wake to the sound of rain, soft as whispers against the roof.

Not the harsh, unforgiving kind that slams against windows and shouts across rooftops, but the gentle drizzle of the Highlands. It hums like a lullaby, steady and slow, mingling with the crackle of the fireplace and the distant bleating of sheep in the fields.

The room is dim, but warm. Amber firelight dances across the wooden walls, flickering in gentle waves as the logs shift and pop. The scent of burning pine and something sweeter—honey, maybe—lingers in the air.

You’re curled beneath a patchwork quilt, head nestled into the broad chest of John “Soap” MacTavish. He’s still half asleep, one arm slung low across your waist, the other tucked behind his head like a pillow. His dog tags are cool against your cheek, and every deep, slow breath he takes rumbles beneath your ear.

He smells like pine and the lingering sharpness of his shaving soap. There’s a tiny scar along his collarbone, the one you always trace without thinking. You do it now, fingertips brushing softly along the pale line, and he stirs.

“Keep doin’ that,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep and that low Scottish accent. “Gonna think you’re tryna wake me up for a different kind of mornin’.”

You smile and press a kiss just under his jaw. “You wish, soldier.”

He chuckles, eyes still closed. “Always.”

The cottage is his — a tucked-away retreat that barely shows up on maps. Nestled between two hills with a field of golden heather behind it and a winding gravel path in front, it’s a place you’d only find if you already knew it was there. One floor, timber walls, stone fireplace, and a kitchen that smells like sugar and spice every time he touches it.

“Tea?” he asks, stretching like a cat as he peels himself away from you.

You nod, watching him pad barefoot across the wooden floor, plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips, a black thermal shirt clinging to his back. He’s got messy bedhead, sticking up in wild angles like he just survived a hurricane. Still — or maybe because of that — he’s stunning.

The rain taps against the window above the sink as he moves around the kitchen. His movements are methodical, practiced. Kettle on. Two mugs ready. One spoon of honey for him. Two for you. A splash of oat milk. A grumble when the tea tin almost falls off the shelf.

You wrap the quilt around your shoulders and watch from the armchair, sinking into it like it’s hugging you back.

“I don’t know how you make it taste better,” you murmur, taking the mug he brings over.

He flops down beside you on the oversized chair, pulling you into his lap. “It’s the love I add when you’re not lookin’.”

“Oh, is that it?”

He nods solemnly. “Secret Scottish recipe. Been passed down for generations. Only works when you’re makin’ it for someone who’s too good for the likes of me.”

You roll your eyes, snort, and kiss him on the nose.

Later, you find yourselves out on the porch, wrapped in matching wool blankets, mugs now filled with something stronger than tea. The rain’s slowed to a fine mist, and the landscape looks like a postcard — soft green hills rolling into the horizon, clouds caught in their crests like cotton clinging to the earth.

Soap leans into the railing, shoulder brushing yours.

“Y’ever think about leavin’ it all behind?” he asks suddenly.

You glance at him. He’s not smiling, not frowning either. Just looking out at the land like it might answer him.

“What, the military?”

He nods once.

You take a breath, your voice soft. “Do you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. A crow calls in the distance. The rain has left the trees slick and black, the bark glistening.

“I think about this,” he says finally. “Mornings like this. Wakin’ up with you. Tea. Fire. Nothin’ screamin’ in my ear except maybe you when I forget to do the dishes.”

You bump his side with your elbow. “Charming.”

“I mean it,” he says, turning to face you. His eyes are blue-gray like the storm clouds above, but soft — so soft — when they settle on you. “There’s a thousand places I’ve been that meant nothin’. But this…”

He takes your hand. Rough fingers, calloused and warm.

“This means somethin’.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “It means everything.”

By nightfall, the rain has passed and the sky splits open into a sea of stars.

You’re both back by the fire, Soap lying on the rug now, head in your lap. The radio plays something old and low, like a tune from a dream you only half remember.

“I’m gonna build a fence tomorrow,” he murmurs.

You run your fingers through his hair. “A fence?”

“Aye. Keep the sheep outta the tomatoes.”

“You don’t grow tomatoes.”

He grins up at you. “Not yet.”

You shake your head, laughing. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it.”

You lean down and kiss him slowly, thoroughly, feeling his smile against your mouth.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I do.”

And there, with the fire low and the stars above, the war and the world feel miles away.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

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greenwitchcrafts · 7 months ago

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December 2024 Witch Guide

New Moon: December 1st & December 30th

First Quarter: December 8th

Full moon: December 15th

Last Quarter: December 22nd

Sabbats: Yule: December 21st-January 1st

December Cold Moon

Also known as: Aerra Geola, Drift Clearing Moon, Frost Exploding Trees Moon, Heilagmanoth, Hoar Frost Moon, Little Spirit Moon, Long Night's Moon, Moon of Popping Trees, Moon Before Yule, Moon When the Dear Shed their Antlers, Oak Moon, Snow Moon, Winter Maker Moon, Wintermonat & Wolf Moon

Element: Fire

Zodiac: Sagittarius & Capricorn

Nature spirts: Snow Faeries, Storm Faeries & Winter Tree Faeries

Deities: Athena, Fates, Hades, Hathor, Hecate, Ixchel, Minerva, Neith, Norns, Osiris & Persephone

Animals: Bear, deer, horse & mouse

Birds: Robin, rook & snowy owl

Trees: Cedar, evergreen, fir, holly & pine

Herbs: Bay, cinnamon, English ivy, frankincense, mistletoe, myrrh & sage

Flowers: Chamomile & poinsettia

Scents: Cedar, cinnamon, frankincense, ginger, lilac, myrrh, nutmeg, patchouli, pine, rose geranium, rosemary, saffron, violet & evergreen

Stones: Aquamarine, bloodstone, cat's eye, garnet, jacinth, obsidian, peridot, ruby, serpentine, topaz, turquoise

Issues, intentions & powers: Dedication, devotion, love, peace, prosperity & strength

Energy: Alchemy, darkness, endurance, death&rebirth, higher education, reaching out to others, religious, spiritual paths, travel & truths

This full Moon has also been called the Long Night Moon (Mohican), as it rises during the “longest” nights of the year, near the December winter solstice. This name is doubly fitting because December’s full Moon shines above the horizon for a more extended period than most full Moons.

• This December is unique because there will be TWO new Moons. This is called a Black Moon.

A Black Moon is a special kind of New Moon, just as a Blue Moon is a special kind of Full Moon. Neither are astronomical terms; both are catch phrases for an unusual lunar calendar occurrence. For this reason, the definition of a Black Moon can vary and may refer to:

-The second new Moon in a month. This is the definition of Black Moon that’s used most often & it’s the most common. It occurs once every 29 months.

-The third new Moon in a season of four New Moons. Every season (spring, summer, fall, winter) has 3 months & 3 new Moons. However, occasionally (every 33 months), there is a season with 4 new Moons. In this case, the third New Moon is called a Black Moon.

-When there are NO new Moons in a month. This can only happen in February since it’s the only calendar month that is shorter (28 days) than the lunar month. When there is not a new Moon in February, there will be two new Moons for both January & March. It’s a rare occurrence (every 19 years or so) and the next one isn’t until 2033.

Yule

Known as: Alban Arthan & Winter Solstice

Season: Winter

Element: Earth

Symbols: Baskets of clove studded fruit, decorated evergreen trees, evergreen boughs, gifts, gold pillar candles, holly, mistletoe, poinsettias, wreaths & Yule logs

Colors: Gold, green, orange, red, silver, white & yellow

Oils/Incense: Bayberry, cedar, cinnamon, frankincense, myrrh & pine

Animals: Bear, boar, deer, pig, squirrel & tiger

Birds: Eagle, goose, kingfisher, lapwing, robin & wren

Stones: Alexandrite, bloodstone, blue topaz, cat's eye, citrine, clear quartz, diamond, emerald, garnet, green tourmaline, jet, kunzite, pearls & ruby

Angel: Auriel

Food: Caraway cakes, cookies, eggnog, fruits, gingerbread, ginger tea, nuts, pork, spiced cider, roasted boar, roasted chicken, turkey & wassail

Herbs/Plants: Bay, bayberry, blessed thistle, cedar, cinnamon, evergreen, frankincense, holly, ginger, ivy, juniper, mistletoe, moss, myrrh, oak, pine, rosemary, sage, valerian & yellow cedar

Flowers: Chamomile & yarrow

Trees: Birch, cedar, chestnut, fir, holly, juniper, oak, pine & yew

Goddesses: Alcyone, Aphrodite, Ameratasu, Bona Dea, Brighid, Cailleach Bheur, Demeter, Diana, Fortuna, Frau Holle, Frau Perchta, Frigga, Gaia, Great Mother, Kolyada, La Befana, Idunn, Isis, maat & Tiamat

Gods: Apollo, Attis, Baldur, Bragi, Devak, Dionysus, Divine Child, Green man, Janus, Hel, Helios, Holly King, Horned One, Horus, Lord of Misrule, Lugh, Mabon, Marduk, Mithras, Oak King, Odin, Ra, Saturn & Surya

Spellwork: Earth magick, happiness, harmony, love & peace

Issues, Intentions & Powers: Darkness, divination, light, messages/omens, purification, rebirth, renewal & transformation

Activities:

• Set up & decorate a Yule altar

• Clean, organize & cleanse before decorating your home

• Make witch’s balls to hang on your tree (protective & pretty!)

• Decorate & bless & Yule tree

• Stay awake until dawn to observe the cycles of nature

• Give gifts to your family & friends

• Donate your time or helpful items to charity

• Collect snow for winter/ snow magic

• Go caroling

• Hang mistletoe in your doorways

• Make Wassail

• Prepare a Yule Log

• Host a Yule feast

• Craft your own decorative wreath or garlands with oranges, cinnamon & pine

• Decorate your house with Yule colored candles

• Welcome the Sun

• Go on nature walks & leave offerings to nature

• Meditate & reflect on the passing year

“Yule” comes from Old English geol, which shares a history with the equivalent word from Old Norse, jól. Both these words referred to a midwinter festival centered around the winter solstice, which traditionally marked the halfway point of the winter season. After the solstice—the shortest day of the year—the days again begin to grow longer, so it’s thought that Yule was a celebration of the re-appearance of the Sun &the fertile land’s rebirth.

• The celebration of Yule is one of the oldest winter celebrations in the world. Ancient people were hunters & spent most of their time outdoors. The seasons & weather played a significant part in their lives. The customs & traditions associated with it vary widely. Scholars have connected the original celebrations of Yule to the Wild Hunt, the god Odin & the heathen Anglo-Saxon Mōdraniht (“Mothers’ Night”)

• Some believe it marks the rebirth of the Sun (the God) from the Earth (the Goddess) & the cold days of winter will soon begin to wane. The Goddess is seen in her virgin Maiden aspect

In towns and cities throughout Sweden during the Christmas season, large goats are constructed out of straw. It is thought that the tradition originated in ancient times, perhaps as a tribute to the god Thor, who was said to ride in a chariot pulled by goats. In Sweden the goat came to be associated with the Christmas celebration & the Yule goat is now considered by many to be a companion or counterpart to Santa Claus.

This connects to ancient proto-Slavic beliefs where the Koliada (Yule) festival honors the god of the fertile sun & the harvest. This god, Devac (also known as Dazbog or Dažbog), was represented by a white goat. Consequently the Koliada festivals always had a person dressed as a goat, often demanding offerings in the form of presents. A man-sized goat figure is known from 11th-century remembrances of Childermas, where it was led by a man dressed as Saint Nicholas, symbolizing his control over the Devil.

Related festivals:

•Christmas- December 25th:

An annual festival commemorating the birth of Jesus Christ as the son of God. For Christians, believing that God came into the world in the form of man to atone for the sins of humanity rather than knowing Jesus's exact birth date is considered to be the primary purpose of celebrating Christmas.

Hanukkah-December 25-January 2nd:

A Jewish festival commemorating the recovery of Jerusalem & subsequent rededication of the Second Temple at the beginning of the Maccabean Revolt against the Seleucid Empire in the 2nd century BCE.

Hanukkah is observed for eight nights & days, starting on the 25th day of Kislev according to the Hebrew calendar, which may occur at any time from late November to late December in the Gregorian calendar. The festival is observed by lighting the candles of a candelabrum with nine branches, commonly called a menorah or hanukkiah.

Kwanzaa-December 26th-January 1st:

An annual celebration of African-American culture, culminating in a communal feast called Karamu, usually on the sixth day. It was created by activist Maulana Karenga, based on African harvest festival traditions from various parts of West & Southeast Africa. Kwanzaa was first celebrated in 1966.

A Kwanzaa ceremony may include drumming and musical selections, libations, a reading of the African Pledge & the Principles of Blackness, reflection on the Pan-African colors, a discussion of the African principle of the day or a chapter in African history, a candle-lighting ritual, artistic performance & finally, a feast of faith (Karamu Ya Imani).

Saturnalia- December 17-23rd:

An ancient Roman festival and holiday in honour of the god Saturn, The holiday was celebrated with a sacrifice at the Temple of Saturn, in the Roman Forum & a public banquet, followed by private gift-giving, continual partying & a carnival atmosphere that overturned Roman social norms: gambling was permitted & masters provided table service for their slaves as it was seen as a time of liberty for both slaves & freedmen alike.

A common custom was the election of a “King of the Saturnalia”, who gave orders to people, which were followed & presided over the merrymaking. The gifts exchanged were usually gag gifts or small figurines made of wax or pottery known as sigillaria. The poet Catullus called it “the best of days”.

Other celebrations:

Feast of Epona- December 18th:

Eponalia is the feast day of Gaulish Goddess Epona, the Divine Mare & in the time of the Roman Empire

Epona is known to be one of a very few Gaulish deities whose names were spread to the rest of the Roman Empire. This seems to have happened because Roman cavalry units stationed in Gaul followed her & adopted her as their Patroness. This may have started because many of the cavalry troops were conscripted from Gaul as they were superb horsemen. From Gaul the Romans took Epona with them including to Rome where She was given her own feast day on the 18 December. They worshipped her as Epona Augusta or Epona Regina & invoked her on behalf of the Emperor. She even had a shrine in the barracks of the Imperial Bodyguard.

Hunting of the Wren-December 26th:

A traditional custom carried out on the Isle of Man on St. Stephen’s Day. It consists of groups of people going around villages and towns singing and dancing a traditional song and dance around a decorated wren pole.

The earliest and most common folklore story accounting for the origin of hunt the wren tells of a fairy/enchantress/witch whose beauty lures the men of the Isle of Man to harm, for which she is chased and is changed into the form of a wren. It is therefore in punishment for her actions that the wren is hunted on St. Stephen’s Day

Sources:

Farmersalmanac .com

Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines

Wikipedia

A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs

Encyclopedia britannica

Llewellyn 2024 magical almanac Practical magic for everyday living

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nilsavatar · 5 months ago

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DAY 23 BITING - Part 4

Parings: Neteyam x Fem!human

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3

Genre/Warnings: fluff, ANGST, introspective, delicate themes (hibrid pregnacy, political and ideals conflict). All characters are AGED-UP. This the sequel of the @layla2-49 request used to fullfil the promp day 23 of lunakinktober 2023

Summary: Following the unexpected pairing that occurred at the Tree of Souls, after connecting as only two Na'vi normally could, Celeste and Neteyam entertain a clandestine relationship. Several times they have discussed coming out, but the girl is too prey to her insecurities as a human to do so. It is Eywa who will decide for both of them with a disconcerting revelation: they have conceived a hybrid child.

Word Count: 4,5k

Masterlist - Request a fic

In the bioluminescent glow of Pandora’s night, Jake Sully stood at the forest's edge, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. The vibrant nature around him buzzed with life, yet an unsettling turmoil brew within him. As olo’eyktan of the Omatikaya and Toruk Makto, he had faced countless challenges, but none as perplexing as the transformation unfolding before him.

Celeste, a human who had become an integral part of their clan, was undergoing a metamorphosis that defied all understanding. Eywa had blessed her union with his son, yet the consequences were unprecedented. To say that the news of Celeste’s pregnancy sent shockwaves through both the scientists and the People would be an understatement. A tawtute woman carrying the offspring of a Na’vi? It was far beyond imagination. The avatar bodies—engineered through terrestrial brilliance, blending both genomes in just the right sequence to function under Pandora’s conditions—were compatible with the natives. Little Socorro was only human, though—kind of. Her body was changing, adapting in ways that blurred the lines between Earthborn and Pandoran.

The man’s mind raced with questions in the nighttime peace, hugging his half-sleeping wife in one of their occasional getaways from responsibilities and worries. Though this one was hard to forget even for an evening. “This isn’t like what happened to us,” he said, suddenly, breaking the silence of sweet slumber, thinking about Spider’s sister seated in the shade of their kelku, her hands resting on her growing belly. “I was logged in my avatar when we mated. I was Na’vi, physically. But her? There’s no scientific explanation.”

After the commute at the Tree of Souls, the clan split in two. Some supported the child as a sign of mutual prosperity, a miracle meant to exist in the balance of the world. Others, however, labeled it an ill omen, a violation of the natural order, feared what they couldn’t understand.

“It is not natural.” “Eywa may have allowed the union, but this... this is wrong.”

Jake had heard it all before. The same fright, the same resistance to change that had nearly torn the Omatikaya apart when colonizers first came back to Pandora. But this time, he got that fright. Because deep down, beneath his duty as olo’eyktan and his instinct to protect his family, he felt it too. As wild as the perennial torment that the two sides of his very identity instilled in him.

“There is no scientific explanation for Eywa,” Neytiri stated, her voice serious, resolute just as it always was when faith and Na’vi culture were at stake. It was a conviction he has never fully embraced. The need to rely on science, on logic, on the knowable, was an earthly instinct he could never entirely cast aside. That lifeline—the belief that there was a reason behind everything, something demonstrable, classifiable, repeatable—was still a part of him. Neytiri might have agreed that there was a universal design, but her understanding of it was vastly different from his. Less analytical, less tangible than the laws of physics and biology, but to her, no less real. Perhaps, in some ways, even more so.

“It’s as much a mystery as Kiri conception.” “Not of the same scale, though.” “We must trust the Great Mother nonetheless.” Jake exhaled, rubbing the back of his head. “Trusting her is one thing. Convincing the People...”

He was right. There was division among them. Leadership weighed heavily on his tired shoulders, and the safety of his loved ones, of Celeste and the baby, depended on the decisions he would make in the coming months. As the night creatures sang their melodies, Jake took a troubled breath, seeking clarity. The path ahead was shrouded in uncertainty, and for the first time in years, he felt the sting of doubt piercing his resolve. This wasn’t just about Celeste; it was about what she was becoming and what it would have meant for all of them. He knew Pandora. He had lived, fought, loved, and lost for this world. And he knew that when the Great Mother acted, it was always on purpose, even when it felt like uncharted territory.

It started subtly; Celeste first noticed it in quiet moments—when the dizziness from exertion subsided faster than it should have, when her heartbeat, once erratic in Pandora's dense atmosphere, slowed into a steady rhythm, perfectly in tune with the nature around her. Insects that normally avoided humans drifted closer during her strollings in the forest, as if sensing that she was no longer a regular alien walking in their world. Plants reacted to her touch, sending a pleasant tingling along her fingertips. Gradually, her senses were heightening beyond the limits of her species. She could hear animals weaving through the luscious vegetation, their calls reaching her feeble ears in way they never should have.

But then, the changes became undeniable She didn’t need the mask anymore.

The moment had come without fanfare. Celeste sat at the edge of a clearing, absentmindedly sketching in her notebook as the sun warmed her skin. Tuk sat beside her, both watching Neteyam train a small group of young aspirant warriors—the few still permitted to learn under their prince’s guidance. A shadow passed over Celeste’s face, the weight of guilt settling deep in her stomach, more and more pungent. Tuk, noticing, gently patted her forearm.

“Hey, don't think about it.” Cel forced a smile, though it did nothing to brighten her tired expression. “They would have signed farce papers to train with him first. Now, half the clan despises him, and the other avoids him out of fear.” “He is still the heir to the throne.” “How much longer?” she asked, her voice tight with distress. ��Tsentey's faction is gathering more support every day. If they grow into a majority, it could mean exile for you. It could...” She trailed off, her fingers instinctively tightening over the slight swell of her belly. A tear caught the sunlight before she quickly lifted her head, blinking it away. “Sorry, Tuk-Tuk. I didn't mean to upset you.” “I'm old enough to listen to you if you need me.”

Celeste glanced at her, a genuine, grateful smile breaking through the tension. Tuk—still so small, yet already so mature. The rhythms of the clan left little room for childhood. By fourteen or fifteen, many had already completed Iknimaya and faced the Uniltaron—the Dream Hunt—to find their spirit animal and take their place as adults among the Omatikaya. Tuk’s own rite of passage was approaching fast, and for sure, growing up amid the ongoing conflict with the Sky People had only accelerated that process. Yet, she was still, indeed, a child. And Celeste wished she could protect that innocence just a little longer.

“Don’t worry for me,” she said with a sly grin. “Rather tell me about Enyetan.” The young woman arched a brow, giving her a suggestive look that made the teenager blush furiously. “Don't you start too!” Laughter bubbled from the sister-in-law's lips, warm and unrestrained. The sound carried across the clearing, reaching the ever-attentive ears of her mate, who couldn’t help but smile at the rare moment of lightness in the chaos of their lives.

What no one noticed, however, was how the energy in that laughter was off—wavering, unsteady. That day, the mask felt suffocating, the air too heavy and humid against her face. Suddenly, her breathing grew shallow, her throat constricting more at every second, intense heat searing through her airways. Panic should have set in; the desperate scramble for the emergency rebreather strapped to her belt. But it didn’t. The familiar choking weight of asphyxiation never came. panic. Instead, she felt light. Open. She gulped, and the air flowed freely into her lungs.

Pure. Fresh. Alive.

Her hands trembled as she hesitantly removed the exo-pack, bracing for inevitable. She expected her vision to blur, her throat to seize, the raw, toxic atmosphere of Pandora to set her lungs ablaze. Nothing happened. She inhaled deeply. No torturous pain, no giddiness. Just... oxygen filling her chest with an ease she had never known. Cool and sweet, like taking a true breath for the first time. The world around her looked brighter, colors deeper, sounds richer, the pulse of Eywa’s life clearer in her mind.

When she turned, Tuk was staring. “Cel...” she called with big, round, unblinking eyes. “Your mask.”

Neteyam, mid-correction a boy’s stance with a bow, snapped his head in their direction, froze in place; a rare crack in his usual aplomb. Lo’ak, across the clearing, nearly dropped his spear as he strode over with a grim intensity, eyes flashing with disbelief. “Are you insane?” he blurted. “Put that back on before you drop dead!” It was only then, as every pair of eyes locked onto her, that the human girl realized what she had done. Her breath was even, her chest rose and fell without resistance. She just shook her head, equally disoriented, “I... don’t need it.”

Neteyam was at her side in an instant, his large, calloused hands cupping her beautiful face, his lemon-gold eyes scanning hers with an unreadable mix of trepidation and alarm. “How?” The question wasn’t directed at her so much as at himself, as he looked at her with those giant orbs that characterized him in moments of extreme concentration. Pupils blown wide to the point they almost covered the entire iris. An adaptation response to threat, to enhance vision, to assess danger, to track an escape. His entire frame was on high alert, wired for protection. To keep his mate safe from something that was beyond unfamiliar, though.

This was odd.

For months, he had wrestled with sleepless nights and unshakable guilt. Gilt for giving in to his urges, for silencing reason when he should have resisted. No matter how much he loved Celeste, no matter how natural it had felt to surrender to his feelings, he should have held back. Instead, he had let desire eclipse caution, and now, she was paying the price. Inside, a sick weight settled in his gut, he felt lousy. He had failed at the one thing he had been trained for: protect. Maybe Tsentey was right. Maybe he wasn’t fit to lead. the leader of his people. How could he secure the clan if he couldn't even take care of his woman?

She reached for him, her fingers wrapping around his shaking hand, her respire hitched. “It’s the child.” Because what else could it be? What other options could explain what was going on with her?

Silence fell, thick and heavy. She could see the thoughts written plainly across their faces—the shock, the unease, the dread they didn’t dare voice. The training had come to a standstill. Stiff postures, atonic stares. Lo'ak and Tuk, who had been watching open-mouthed, exchanged a glance, their usual roguery absent for once.

A student’s voice, when it came, was quiet but edged with something serrated. “This has never happened before.” “Shit,” Lo’ak exhaled, running a palm down his face. Neteyam's ears darted back at his brother’s reaction, tail lashing once before forcing himself to regain composure. Then, gently, he pressed his forehead to Celeste’s, his long fingers sliding down to cover hers over their unborn child. He tried—desperately—to ignore the whispers around them, the same echoing in the back of his mind, threatening to surface. “Isn’t this amazing, tìyawn (love)? I can finally admire you all day without this horrible mask hiding your beauty.”

Celeste giggled at his ridiculous, love-drunk words, and for a fleeting minute, her preoccupations faded. Neteyam had always possessed this quiet strength—the ability to lift the weight off others’ shoulders, to remind them of the light even in the darkest moments. But it was also his greatest flaw. He carried too much. He took on burdens that weren’t his, stretched himself thin until he was on the verge of breaking.

Still, as he pressed their entwined hands against the gentle swell of her belly, warmth spread through her—not quite human, not quite Na’vi, but something in between.

There was content for a while, the nice, peaceful fondness of being in her lover's embrace. But it didn’t last. An acute sting twisted through her abdomen. She doubled over with a cry, her breath coming in ragged bursts. “What is it?” Neteyam asked urgently, his hand instinctively landing on her baby bump, aggravation evident in both his expression and voice. She couldn’t respond; the dull ache so severe it prevented her from speaking. The sensation wasn’t just pain—it was movement. Not the ordinary flutters of a fetus developing in the womb, this was deeper, stranger, as though something resonated within her. Not far away, the plants pulsed in time with her heartbeat, their faint radiance glinting like distant stars. Celeste clutched her stomach, feeling something under her skin shift.

Kiri, who had been meditating high in the green canopy, sat upright. “It’s happening,” she whispered, her yellow eyes as large as a lemur’s.

By sunset, Celeste was in the ambulatory unit, surrounded by meds. The air soupy with tension; the sterile, white walls felt oppressive, nothing like the vast, living jungle or the cosy, homely ambience of Hometree. She sat on the examination table, palms firm over her tummy, mind reeling while they ran test after test, talking in hushed tones laced with both awe and fret.

The weight of the exo-pack she had worn her entire life was gone, yet the air in the lab had never felt stifler. Norm and Max worked in quiet urgency, moving between holo-screens displaying her vitals, their brows furrowed. The data didn’t make sense, her heart rate had slowed, more like Na’vi's than a human's. Her oxygen saturation was perfect—too perfect—the high carbon dioxide levels in the Pandoran atmosphere should have been affecting her, but they weren't. The ultrasound showed something incredible. She had developed wichow—the specialized organs, similar to kidneys, that allow natives to extract oxygen for their bloodstream from Pandora’s otherwise toxic air. A natural filter. A biological unfeasibility for her, still there it was.

Then there was the genetic scan. And that was when everything changed.

“This is phenomenal,” one doctor exclaimed, rubbing her temples as she stared at the results. Adjusting her glasses, she leaned closer to Max. “Her DNA is evolving. Look at his—her respiratory system has adapted to filtrate Pandora’s atmosphere, but it’s not solely adaptation. It’s... transformation.” She turned to the patient, her eyes filled with both scientific fascination and deep concern. “Your body isn’t just compensating for the pregnancy, Cel. It’s rewriting itself.” “What does that mean?” Neteyam’s reassuring grip on her shoulder stiffened while she shuddered. Max didn’t sugarcoat it. “The fetus isn’t a simple hybrid,” he explained, voice calm but dour. “It's triggering changes in you. Something in its DNA is interacting with yours in a way we’ve never seen.” She swallowed hard, “I’m... mutating.” Jake's words came out through clenched teeth, his jaw tight enough to snap. “That’s why she can breathe out there.”

Neytiri stood rigid near the door, her narrowed eyes fixed on the glowing monitors. She didn't fully grasp the science behind the data plashing across the screens, nor the theories the experts were debating. But of one thing, she was totally sure: they had entered unknown territory. There were no answers here, no precedents. And the deeper they went in, the more question marks and anxieties sprung up. The creature Celeste was carrying was extraordinary in every sense of the term; not yet born, and already it was reshaping the world around it. This child—this impossible child—was changing everything from its very core.

But Celeste could see the unspoken fear in her eyes.

Kiri, who had insisted on coming, stood by her bestie’s side, her yellow orbs bouncing between the readings and her own intuition. “My nephew is part of both worlds. And now, so is Cel,” she stated softly. Spider shook his head, still baffled, struggling to wrap his mind around the unsettling reality. “That’s not how genetics works.” The future tsahìk observed her friend with a grave look. “Nawna Sa’nok’s touch lingers on you,” she declared, pressing a cool palm on her forehead.

Spider’s expression darkened, memories surfacing of all the times he had found Kiri lying in the middle of the wilderness, lost in a trance, nature beating around her. The way plants reacted to her touch, how she had tamed her ikran with freakish ease, how she swam through the currents, breathing underwater without any training as if she had always belonged to them. “You have felt this way before, haven’t you?” he asked, voice aloof with realization. Kiri nodded. “Not like this,” she admitted. “But yes. I have felt a... pull. A connection.” Her glance glimmered to her friend’s stomach. “It’s like Eywa’s energy is flowing through her.” Neteyam’s jaw clenched, his hold on Celeste’s stronger. “Is she in danger?” His sister’s lips pressed together into a thin line. “Was I?” she retorted, her words heavy with meaning.

“She’s not you.” Spider rubbed things in, rough, blunt, unable to conceal his growing agitation for his twin'. “Yet she has been chosen exactly as I was. As my mother was.” “Your mother was an inanimate body in a fucking tank! She wasn't risking anything.” His remark was harsh and cruel, the tone leathery with frustration, but Kiri didn’t flinch. She knew he didn’t mean to hurt her. If anything, he had always been one of the few who had stood by her, defended her when others doubted. But just like everyone else in that room, Spider was terrified. As much as it hurt on a par with an anvil, she could find it in her heart to justify him. Celeste reached for him, squeezing his hand with one of hers while the other rested on her hip. The warmth inside her, the link she felt deep in her bones, was changing her at a fundamental level.

“Will I survive this?” she finally asked, voice barely above a whisper. The medical team couldn’t answer that question; the entire ordeal was new to everybody. Neteyam tensed beside her. Jake and Neytiri exchanged glances, the weight of precariousness dense between them, the pressure in the unit mounting at any second.

Truth settled over them like a murky, noxious fog. Neytiri’s ears flattened, her tail rolled dolefully around her leg as if seeking comfort in making herself small. One hand clamped against her chest, the other tentatively sought her husband's touch, resting on his contracted arm. His fist was clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white, his other hand raking through his dreadlocks as he inhaled noisily through his flat nose. They had never shown such vulnerability before, or at least not at this magnitude. As parental figures, as leaders of the Omatikaya, they had always carried their burdens with quiet strength—as their firstborn son had learned to do. But now, stripped of that armor, their fear was palpable.

This only made Neteyam even more nervous. His whole frame was taut, trembling on the verge of exploding. His eyes, wide, glassy, shimmered with unshed tears, perfectly round and reflective like polished stones. He was there, present among them, but his spirit was somewhere far away. Cel—the love of his life— could have died, and no one could have stopped it. And for what? A child they never needed? A future they never chose? Why was Eywa doing this? Why them?

Their love was already complicated—strained by their incompatible species, haunted by past pain and resentment, burdened by the expectations of his status. He had thought he could cast it all aside, that he could embrace the reward the Great Mother had granted him. But that gift came with conditions—conditions so heavy that, had he known them in advance, he might have turned away. Yet none of it mattered. He would sacrifice his own happiness if it meant keeping Celeste safe.

In the fragile months after they had first come together, he had offered nothing but solace and praise. He had consoled when she was in distress, lifted her up when she doubted herself, encouraged her to trust her decisions—even the reckless ones as this one. But now, standing at the precipice of something unknown and terrifying, he could no longer do the same. He wished, more than anything, that he possessed the human gift for lying. At times like these, it would have proven useful—even if only to convince himself that everything would be fine, that at the end of this impossible journey, they would be happy. The three of them. Three, not two. Not just him and the baby. Not just him alone. Imagining a life without her was unbearable, and he refused to linger on the thought.

For a brief moment, once the initial panic had subsided, he had even allowed himself to believe that what was happening was beautiful. A miracle. Celeste could now breathe Pandora’s air—something that would surely help her through the long months ahead. But now, with this new revelation, he could no longer meet her gaze with comfort. Those warm, sweet, frightened, yet fiercely brave eyes searched his for reassurance. He had none to give.

Na’vi do not lie. And he would not offer false hope for something that, deep in his heart, frightened him so terribly.

As agitation grew, Norm reluctantly stepped forward and stroked his foot with the caring and kind manner of an uncle. “Look, we need more tests before we jump to conclusions. Right now, the priority is monitoring Cel’s condition. If your genome keeps reconstructing at this rate, we have no idea where it will end.”

The days blurred together in a haze of tests, scans, and restless nights where Celeste lay awake, feeling her body shift in ways she couldn’t see but knew were happening. The lab’s artificial lights felt oppressive, suffocating. The sterile environment clashed with the instincts waking inside her. She craved the jungle, the open air of Pandora—she needed to feel the earth beneath her feet, to hear the hum of life all around her. But every time she voiced this, Jake or Neytiri would exchange wary glances, and Neteyam would grip her hand a little tighter, unwilling to risk anything.

The fear in his eyes was worse than anything else. But the changes weren’t waiting for permission.

She no longer needed the exo-pack to breathe, that much was obvious. But it wasn’t just that: her lungs had changed. Max’s latest scans confirmed it. “They’ve elongated,” he said, adjusting his glasses as he stared at the results. “Your oxygen absorption rate has increased. You’re breathing like a Na’vi now.” Celeste touched her ribs absently while taking a deep breath from the inhaler—one designed for avatars and natives alike. She had already felt it. The deep, instinctual way her chest expanded when she inhaled, the effortless intake of Pandora’s air as if she had been born for it.

And her skin, once the soft beige of an Earthborn, had begun to repigment in tone—a faint iridescence beneath the surface was spreading, veins shimmering faintly in dim lighting. It wasn’t full bioluminescence like the Na’vi, but it was close.

Then there were her senses. At night, she could see in the dark. Not just in the way humans adjusted to low light, this was different. Colors took on a richer depth, details sharpened beyond what should have been possible. Smelling the lightest traces of the rainforest that clung to Neteyam’s skin, the sticky whiff of the cerulean paint his brother painted his body with, the pungent tang of disinfectant in the lab, once a mild annoyance, now felt nauseous. Scents she had never detected in the past. And her hearing—she could pick up sounds that no one else in the lab could. Conversations whispered in corners, the rustling of fabric from another room. She didn’t tell anyone, but she could hear the low, rhythmic hum of the planet itself when she closed her eyes. It was overwhelming.

And the baby—the baby was growing fast. Too fast. At just four months, she already looked closer to six. The doctors were baffled, worried. The hybrid nature of the child seemed to be accelerating everything as if her body wasn’t just adapting—it was rushing to keep up with whatever the baby needed.

Neteyam never left her side. She felt his hands on her belly every night, felt the quiet reverence in his touch as he whispered to the child in Na’vi, his forehead pressed to hers in silent devotion. But she also felt his dread. The terror that she would slip away from him. That she would become something unrecognizable or disappear entirely.

Celeste stared at her reflection in the sterile glass of the lab’s observation window, barely recognizing herself. Her fingers trembled as she traced the outline of her cheekbones. Were they more angular than before? It wasn’t just weight loss. The structure of her visage was subtly shifting—her features elongating ever so slightly, her eyes taking on a faint amber hue that had not been there before.

And her hair. It had thickened, the strands darkening from their usual color to something richer, a shade closer to the inky black of the People. When she moved, the fine strands caught the light in strange, reflecting tones of deep violet and green—pale but unmistakable.

The changes weren’t just superficial. Her senses were growing keener by the day. She could hear Jake and Neytiri talk outside the room, even through the sturdy walls. She could smell the faintest traces of the jungle that clung to Neteyam’s skin, scents she had never been able to pick up before. The stench of disinfectant of the compound, once lightly noticeable, now felt almost insufferable.

Then there was the most undeniable proof of her metamorphosis, the most disturbing change—her queue.

the way her body responded to Pandora’s energy. She could feel the pulse of the world in a way that made her dizzy. When she stepped outside, the very air around her seemed to hum against her skin. The plants, the ground, the very life of the moon—it was as if she were beginning to tap into something bigger, something she had never been meant to connect with as a human.

And the most undeniable proof of that was her queue. It had appeared three nights ago. Celeste had woken in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, her entire body burning as if feverish. Neteyam sprang into action immediately, pressing a damp cloth to her forehead, whispering soothing nothings as she gasped through the strange, intense sensation of her own body warping itself. When the pain finally ebbed, she had felt it, something pulling at the base of her skull. A tendril-like appendage forming, hidden beneath her thickening hair. It wasn’t fully developed—not yet—but the sensation was undeniable. A strange tingling at the back of her neck, as though her body was forcing her into something closer to the Na’vi.

The moment Neteyam realized, his eyes had gone wide, caught between stupor and scare, his hand trembling as he brushed over the barely formed kuru. He exhaled shakily, his gaze raw, almost reverent. “You’re not human anymore.”

Taglist: @minnory @faith2155 @stardream14 @akari-rosefield

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dustmusings · 11 months ago

Text

make it feel better

Rex x F!Reader

word count: 4.3k

description: when scouting a new planet, you fall into a bed of flowers that you understand the effects of all too well. Captain rex is the only person around and the only one who can help you.

warnings: NSFW (18+) minors begone! sex pollen/aphrodisiacs, oral (f! recieving), pinv sex, almost voyeurism not really, some reader masturbation, swearing, little bit of praise, non-established relationship

a/n: okay so this is the first ever proper smut I've posted and I'm SCARED. do not judge me pls and thank you <3 I haven't seen any sex pollen with Rex so I thought I'd try my hand at it

The sun was only just clinging to the horizon as you made your way back to the ship, taking a shortcut through the forest. You and Rex had been scouting for a new, and safe, planet to move to, where the small rebellion you were a part of could operate without detection. This one had been uninhabited, and so far proved to be a solid contender. You had come along because of your in depth knowledge of various flora and fauna across the galaxy, and Rex deemed you the most qualified to ascertain whether or not the planet would be suitable. He also enjoyed your company but he wasn’t going to tell you that.

You and Rex had known each other for many years, as you were somewhat of a consultant to the jedi in the war. Your knowledge of different cultures and languages throughout the galaxy proved most useful, and you often became an intermediary between the Republic forces and the primitive beings you encountered. A lot of your time was spent in the field, which was where you met Rex.

The 501st had been part of a relief mission to Abednedo, where you were required for translation purposes. The Abednedo mostly spoke basic, but it was their written language that proved difficult for the Republic to understand, and with you understanding the Republic’s supply logging system, they opted to have you catalogue the supplies rather than teach the Abednedo to use it.

Rex had been uneasy around you initially, with you being someone from outside of the GAR, but he quickly warmed to you when he saw how well you integrated with the rest of his brothers. That was part of the reason that you joined his band of rebels in the first place - you definitely had a soft spot in your heart for the clones, and even more so for Rex.

Your feelings for Rex had grown steadily. Naturally, you found him to be handsome when you first met, his closely cropped blond hair making him stand out among his brothers, but your attraction for him really set in when seeing him on the battlefield, taking down almost a whole wave of droids with only two DC-17s and his own sheer will.

Though that was years ago. Now, you found yourself harbouring deeper feelings for him, feelings you had been reluctant to admit to yourself.

When Rex had found you after the end of the war, sending you a message on your encrypted comm channel, you felt like you had finally hit a stroke of luck. The transition from the Republic to the Empire was turbulent for you, to say the least. The Empire had uses for your intellect, but you had quickly become disillusioned with the whole regime when you realised the deception that they covered up in every corner of their reach. Rex had all but saved you from the Empire, and for that, you’d always be grateful to him.

Meeting him again after the end of the war, when you hadn’t seem him in some time, was like a breath of fresh air. You had never been exceptionally close with him, no closer than you were with any of the other clones at least, but upon seeing his tired and haggard figure on the other side of the hangar, you couldn’t help but speed over to him and embrace him in a tight hug. He had chuckled and returned the embrace, commenting something about ‘understanding the feeling’.

Since then, the dormant feelings you had previously harboured for him only grew. You worked closely with him, spending most of your days by his side in the command centre, helping however you could. It was an inescapable fate that you would fall for him, and now here you were, living out that very fated feeling. You had no indication from the Captain as to whether he felt the same way, and so you kept it close to your chest, electing to not tell him.

Rex had gone back to the ship to comm the others, to say that this planet you were on could be the one, while you had stayed out to investigate a few final things. The water from the natural springs was drinkable, and the small bug you had captured carried no known diseases, and so you were satisfied that this planet would do nicely. You commed Rex and let him know what you were coming back, not waiting for an answer before you switched it off. It didn't really matter whether he heard you or not, you'd be back soon.

It was dark in the forest as you cut through, but it was just bright enough to see where you were going. Mostly.

You found yourself disproved when your foot caught on a tree root and you were sent tumbling forwards with a small yelp. Thankfully, there was a thick bed of flowers that cushioned your fall, so the pain from the impact dissipated quickly. You stood and brushed yourself off, but immediately felt your nose itching, and before you knew it, you were sent into a sneezing fit. You had sneezed at least ten times before you lost count, and you stumbled forwards, resting yourself against a tree when you came to a clearing.

The orange tone of the sky cast a gentle golden light over you as you caught your breath. The sneezing subsided, but as you breathed deeply, you realised that something felt wrong.

You felt your insides burn hot, the heat spreading through your body like a wildfire. An uncomfortable feeling settled in your stomach, but it quickly twisted into a heavy pain. You doubled over, holding your stomach as it cramped up and sent shockwaves through your system.

You dug your hand into one of the pouches on your belt urgently, pulling out the small torch you carried with you. You switched it on and shined it over the bed of flowers that you had just landed in, and inspected their yellow petals and purple centre, your eyes going wide.

Fuck.

You knew exactly what flower these were, you had studied them and their effects in your time at University on Coruscant. You knew exactly what was going to happen to you, and you almost wish you didn't.

Aphrodisiacs.

You dug your heels into the ground in frustration as you threw your head back into the tree, your eyes screwed shut. The burning in your stomach was quickly transforming from a small flame to a full blown bonfire.

Somehow this was typical. This planet was so close to being perfect, and now you had to go and trip into some flowers that would cause you a pain so sensual you'd be driven out of your mind. It had to be you, didn't it?

As you were writhing against the tree, contemplating if you could really get yourself off right here, you heard your name being called and groaned quietly. Why did he have to come looking for you right now?

You tried your best to stay quiet, listening to him calling out to you and hoping that he wouldn't find you, but then he came through the treeline, his eyes finding your struggling form.

“What's wrong?” He darted over to you, at your side in an instant, and you instinctively flinched away from him. His gaze was filled with worry.

You we're clearly in some kind of pain, your skin damp with sweat and a deep blush across your cheeks.

He reached out for you as he called your name, and you moved away again, having to look away from the man that you desired fiercely at any other given moment, but especially this one.

“Rex” You breathed out, trying to keep your voice steady, “Please don't touch me”

“Why?” He asked quickly, “Is it your skin?”

“It's… everywhere, it's not going to go away, It hurts, it hurts so much” You spoke, though you weren't sure your words were even coherent.

“What hurts?” He asked more urgently, trying to get a read on the problem the best he could without touching you.

I can't tell him. I just need to get him away.

“You need to leave. Go back to the ship and wait for me” You pant.

“What? No, let me help you” He knelt down beside you, his hand itching to reach out and comfort you, “What can I do?”

“Nothing. Please go away” You begged, but he didn't understand what was going on at all. For all he knew, you could be asking him to leave you to die here.

“Please let me help you”

You let a small moan escape your lips, one hand stifling it and the other gripping at your clothes to resist from touching yourself right in front of him.

“Rex please go away” You said desperately, your head now in your hands and gripping at your hair to try and distract you.

“I can't! I can't leave you like this, are you crazy?” His voice was so exasperated, and you ground your teeth together as you shook your head in defiance.

“I need you to leave, now. Plea-” You were cut off by your own whimper escaping your lips.

The pain in your core was becoming unbearable. While you knew you couldn't die from this drug, you knew the only solution was to satisfy the intense desire that it gave you, but you would've taken death before pleasuring yourself in front of Rex.

“Cyar'ika let me help you” He said softly, coming closer to you again.

“Please don't call me that” You practically whined, your body acting without permission and splaying out of the floor, twisting back on itself.

“Tell me what's wrong” He ordered firmly, and you felt your desire for him only spiral further.

“The flowers” You exhaled, “They're making me… hot”

“Hot?”

“Yes, hot” You gritted through your teeth, your hand playing with the top button of your trousers. You had to relieve this pain soon before it became worse.

“What can I-”

“Just leave Rex!” You hissed, the pain becoming blinding, “Please leave” You were on the edge of tears, your frustration nearly matching your arousal. You continued begging, different sentence formations that included the words ‘leave’, ‘please’ and ‘Rex’ tumbling from your mouth in a last desperate attempt.

“Cyar'ika” Rex grabbed your chin, forcing you to look up at him, and another whimper escaped you at his touch, “I'm not leaving you”

You whined, “If you don't leave I-” You couldn't finish the sentence.

“You'll what?”

“I need to- you can't be here” You said already unbuttoning your trousers with shaking hands.

“Why not? Cyare you're not making any sense”

You'd were finally at your limit, the pain driving you insane.

“It's an aphrodisiac Rex!” You screamed, hands tightened into fists to hold yourself back.

Rex froze, “Oh”

“Yeah. Oh” You mustered up a desperate chuckle, curling up in a ball on the floor.

“What should I-”

“I don't know. I don't know, you just need to get out of here before I do something I regret” Your words tumbled over each other as you spoke.

He touched your shoulder lightly, and when you moaned at the simple gesture, he understood how bad it really was.

“Rex, leave!” You screamed at him again, your hand finally finding its way past the waistband of your underwear.

Rex immediately averted his eyes, “I'm just going to be over there, I don't want to leave you here like this”

“Whatever! Just do it!” You said, a loud moan escaping you as you fingers found themselves running easily through your slick folds.

Rex quickly moved away from you. The sounds of your moans spilling from your lips were driving him crazy, but he was also overwhelmingly worried about you. He wanted to help you, but he knew that wasn't something he could really do without… well, fucking you. The idea alone was working him up, and the sound of your moans growing more and more frustrated had his cock hardening and pressing into his codpiece uncomfortably.

“It's not working” You cried out and removed your fingers from working your clit to pull your top off, trying to at least ease some of the heat. You were at your wits end, your thoughts all blurred together.

“Rex!” You shouted helplessly, “Please come here!”

Rex ran back over to you in a flash, the sight of your body sprawled out on the floor making his heart beat out of his chest.

“It burns” You choked out, tears spilling from your eyes, “It hurts so much”

“Maybe I could help?” He suggested, letting his emotions get the better of him.

“Help?” You said in a disbelieving laugh, “Are you going to fuck me yourself Rex?”

The silence was so loud.

You looked up at him, standing above you, and his expression was absolutely flat.

“You're serious?” You practically gasped, and he just nodded.

You brought yourself onto your knees and cradled your head in your arms, mumbling under your breath. “Maker, this is so fucked up, I can't believe this is happening. I can’t-”

Rex interrupted your ramblings as he knelt down in front of you, placing his hands on your arms to take them away from your head. You looked up to him desperately, and you could see the pity in his eyes.

“Rex it hurts, it really hurts” You whispered, the pain continuing to burn into you.

“I know” He said soothingly, “I'm going to help you, okay? I'll make it feel better”

You whimpered, your breathing calming just the tiniest bit.

“Is that okay?” He asked, getting a confirmation that this is what you wanted from him.

“Yes” You breathed out, any shame now escaping you, “Please help me”

With that, Rex took you up in his arms, and darted back the short distance to the ship. He set you down on the bunk in the back area and pulled off your trousers and underwear in one swift motion. The sight that greeted him drew a deep groan from within his throat, but he was hesitating.

“Rex please” You begged in a strangled moan, needing to feel him immediately.

“I'm sorry Cyar'ika, I just didn't think it would happen this way” He said honestly.

“Wha-?”

Before you could even ask what he meant, his tongue found its place between your legs. You cried out, the pain in your stomach melting away into pure pleasure. He was eating you out as if it was his last meal, as if he hadn't eaten in weeks. It felt so incredible, and yet, your head still felt foggy, and your pulse was elevated to an unhealthy rate. Even as he worked at your clit, the sensation of him sucking and biting feeling divine, given straight from the maker, you knew it wasn't enough.

“Rex I need-” You began, your words getting caught in your throat.

“Tell me what you need Cyare” He hummed against your pussy, “Anything”

Your hips bucked, “I need more, I need you” You panted.

“I'll need a little bit more than that I'm afraid” He said, and you looked down at him to see the slight teasing smile curling his lips.

“Please don't make me say it” You whined as he licked a stripe from your entrance to your clit.

“Come on Cyar'ika, tell me” He cooed, his hands gripping at your thighs tightly.

“I need your cock! I need you inside me Rex! Please” You finally admitted, and felt Rex hum against your core.

“See that wasn't so hard was it” He rumbled.

He placed a kiss to your clit before he moved away, and you shuddered, feeling the pain begin to twist at your core once more. Rex made short work of his armour, his dexterous fingers working the clasps quickly, his brain on autopilot as he looked down at you writhing beneath him. He then slipped off his blacks and his cock finally sprung free. You moaned as you saw it, throwing your head back onto the bunk and trying not to think about how wrong this was.

“See something you like Mesh’la?” You knew Rex was smirking, you could hear it in his voice. It only drove you more insane.

“Shut up and fuck me Captain” You hissed, which pulled a deep groan from Rex.

He chuckled slightly as he replied, “Yes Ma’am”

He lined himself up with your entrance and looked up to you for confirmation, taking your face in his hand to make you look at him. You could see the question in his eyes, and behind all of your blinding arousal, your heart fluttered at the careful actions of the man you were undoubtedly in love with. You nodded.

“Please” You sounded so pathetic, and Rex brushed his thumb across your cheek tentatively.

“I’ve got you Cyare, don’t worry, I’ll make it better”

He breached you entrance and the moan that escaped your lips was the most sinful sound he had ever heard.

“Oh Rex” You whimpered sadly, and he stopped his movements to check that you were okay.

“What is it?” He rocked his hips back and then forward very gently, earning another moan. “What is it Mesh'la?” He whispered.

“I'm sorry” You whispered

“Why are you sorry?” He frowned, and pushed your hair from your face to get a proper look at you.

The pain burned hot inside you, but you needed to say this.

“You shouldn't have to do this, I'm so sorry”

“Cyare, I can stop if you don't want me to do this, I can let you finish yourself”

“No!” You said quickly, too quickly, “I mean-” You were floundering to find the right words but Rex just pressed a soft kiss to your temple.

“You don't need to say anything” He said gently and pushed deeper inside you, his cock now fully sheathed within you. You moaned gently at the sensation of the stretch, and it was music to his ears, “I'm going to fuck you now, and we can forget about it later okay?”

“Okay” You breathed out unsteadily.

He started to pick up the pace and it was heavenly. The feel of his cock dragging along your walls was divine, and if this was any other time it would have been perfect, but right now, you needed more.

“Rex, please-”

“Tell me Cyar'ika, what do you need?”

The underlying feelings that you already harboured for Rex were spilling into your words before you could stop them.

“Please, I need it harder, faster. Fuck me like you mean it Rex, please”

“Won't be a problem” He said breathily before he began pounding into you, and you could already feel the familiar coil tightening in the pit of your stomach, replacing any pain that once inhabited it. Rex slid his arm around you, arching your back so he could hit the deepest possible spot within you.

“Fuck” You hissed.

“That feel good?” He panted out, and you nodded hastily. Rex tutted slightly, “Use your words Mesh'la, tell me how it feels” He said, dragging his lips across your neck, leaving small markings behind as his teeth nipped at you.

“Fuck Rex, it feels so good. Please don't stop, I need you” You were whispering, as if it were a secret you didn't want to tell.

Rex groaned loudly, burying his face in your neck, “Say it again”

“Which part?” You said letting a small smirk onto your face at his reaction to your words. You knew exactly which ones he wanted to hear.

He looked up at you in disbelief of your teasing at this moment, then pressed his forehead into yours, slowing down his pace and making you whimper at the loss of intensity, “Tell me you need me”

You had no problem saying something as true as that. “I need you Rex, I want you” You emphasised, your eyes burning into his from a mere hairbreadth away.

He groaned, the distinction between the two phrases not lost on him. He quickly resumed his punishing pace, pulling away from you slightly to watch you. You felt the coil pull taught within you, just waiting to snap. You weren’t certain if the drug had something to do with it or not, but you had never been wound up to an orgasm so quickly by anyone else before.

“Stars, just like that” You moaned, eyes closing and head pushing back into the bunk.

“Fuck, look at you” Rex breathed out, “You’re so beautiful taking my cock like this”

The words hit you in the very centre of your being, and without thinking, you grabbed the back of Rex’s neck and pulled him in to your lips. His hips stuttered for one second, but then he was groaning into the kiss, his hips snapping to yours even harder, his fingers holding you down with bruising strength. You didn’t care at all. The idea of having his hands imprinted into your skin only sent you careering towards your orgasm.

“Rex I'm gonna-” You couldn’t even get the words out.

“That's it Mesh'la, let go, cum for me”

His words tipped you over the edge, the coil snapping suddenly and harshly, filling your system with intense pleasure. Rex wasn't far behind.

“Where-”

“Inside, please. I want to feel you Rex” You scraped your nails down the back of his neck as he rode you though your high.

“Kriff, you're going to be the death of me Cyar'ika” He mumbled, hooking his lips with yours as he snapped his hips to your one final time, spilling all of himself inside.

You both took a second to come down from your highs, breathing heavily against each others lips. The more your breath returned to normal, and the burning inside of your limbs subsided, the more the dread crept in.

Rex slid out of you without saying a word, without looking at you. You whimpered slightly at the loss and covered you mouth out of embarrassment. He left the room and your thoughts instantly spiralled out of control.

He’s never going to speak to me again. He’ll never look at me again. I’ve ruined everything. There’s no way we can just move on from this. I’m never going to be able to forget this. He’ll never look at me the same.

A moment later, Rex returned with a damp towel and knelt on the floor, placing a hand on your knee. “Open” He said gently, a kind smile across his lips as he guided your legs open to clean you up. You couldn’t look at him, opting to lay your head back and stare at the ship’s ceiling.

“Rex, I’m so sorry” You said quietly, tears pricking at the edges of your eyes.

“Don't be, I'm just glad I could help you” He replied, as sweet as he always was, and you felt the tears spill, running silently down the sides of your face.

Everything's ruined.

When he finished cleaning you up, Rex noticed your despondent expression and tear stained face and grabbed your hand tentatively.

“What are you thinking Mesh'la?” He asked, his deep voice exceedingly smooth.

“This isn't what I wanted, it shouldn't have been like this” You stared up blankly, blinking hot tears out of your eyes.

Rex's heart started beating faster, “Did I hurt you?”

“No!” You sat up, looking into his eyes, “It's not that it's-”

He brought a hand to cup your cheek and his thumb gently caressed your cheekbone, wiping some tears from under your eye, “It's what?”

You took a deep breath. Now felt like both the right and the wrong moment but you were past caring, your dignity was already laid outside in the bed of flowers that started this whole mess.

“I- I actually like you Rex, I might even love you, and now…” You looked down to your lap, shaking your head, “Now I've ruined everything. I'm just sorry” You buried your face in your hands, feeling ashamed of your actions, even if they weren’t entirely your own.

“Hey, hey” Rex pried your hands away from your face, “Cyar'ika look at me”

You raised your gaze to look into his eyes, your head still angled down as if it would stop the confrontation.

“You haven't ruined anything okay? Its not your fault, I-” He smiled a little, “I like you too, might even love you” He mimicked the way you had said it and your heart stopped.

“You do?” Your eyebrows pinched as you stared into his amber eyes, seeing only admiration and honesty swimming in their depths.

“Yes” He placed his hand on your cheek, “It's like I said, I didn't think it would happen like this”

“Oh, that's what you meant” You said plainly, and he chuckled at your expression.

“Yeah” He said, gently rubbing your thigh, “I'm sorry, I should've told you before all of this happened” He said, some kind of guilt creeping across his features.

“It’s okay” You took his face in your hands, “Thank you Rex, for helping me”

A smirk grew on his face, “Anytime”

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